Flavor of the Month (98 page)

He loves me, but it doesn’t feel like I’m there. Or maybe it’s more that he’s not. When he touches my face, it’s not
my
face. Well, what I mean is, of course it’s my face, but it’s not the face I had before, when he didn’t love me.

In a way, it felt as if each caress were a blow. Each time Sam stroked her face, he might as well have slapped it. Each time he traced her profile with a loving finger and marveled at her perfection, she trembled under his hand as if he wielded a weapon. How could it be? she asked herself over and over. He
is
what I want. He is what I
always
wanted, and now I have him. At last, I am loved.

But, somehow, some part of her couldn’t take the love he so openly offered. It was clear to her that Sam adored her. She saw, firsthand now, what she used to observe other women receiving. She remembered her New York friends Chuck and Molly, and how Chuck had been almost sick with love for Mol. She thought of all the pretty girls, the actresses and dancers she had known, and their ardent lovers, men who followed their women with hungry eyes, who seemed drawn to them like pins to a magnet, doting. And she remembered her envy, and how bitter it felt to know that she would never be in their sorority, that she had never inspired, and would never inspire, that kind of passion.

She thought, then, of Neil. Mary Jane’s one conquest. Yet his desire had shamed her—even sickened her, in a way. She felt that he had only loved her out of desperation and loneliness. He had so few other options that being “chosen” by Neil had felt to her like a condemnation, not a compliment. It was official acceptance into the Losers’ Society. It was admitting that not only were you unlovely but you accepted the fact and would lie to yourself as you settled for another such as yourself, another awkward, funny-looking, unlovely person. Your lie would be that you truly loved one another, but the truth was that you had run out of choices, time, and hope.

But was that perception true? Or had it come from her own self-hate? Hadn’t Neil been the man who truly knew her, who really approved of her? Who accepted her true self?
She
had been the snob, she had been the one afraid of a plain mate.

She had escaped that fate, she told herself fiercely. Mary Jane, that unlovely lump of a woman, was dead, and Jahne Moore should now lie beautifully, gracefully, beside her handsome, lanky, successful lover and luxuriate in his caresses. She was one of life’s winners now, and if she had had to purchase the spoils, they still belonged to her, the victor. The past was dead, the present could be delightful, and the future even more promising. Why did it all feel so empty? She just had to get over Mai’s death and her own morbid attitudes.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was having a breakdown of some sort. Too bad she couldn’t do it in the privacy of her own home. Now over two hundred people depended on her mood, her looks, how she’d slept the night before. This morning, Jerry, in desperation, had daubed Preparation H under her eyes to reduce the swelling. Every one of her pores was discussed, like NASA scientists studied moon craters. And Sam depended on her ability to concentrate, to emote. But she couldn’t do it, for chrissake. She seemed almost paralyzed, split into two or more selves. Was this schizophrenia? Or, for a person who had been, still was, two people, was it normal? And what was any normal person’s reaction to the pressures she was under?

Each night, when Sam made love to her, she’d cry. At first, he was touched, and tears came into his own eyes. But it had been over a week now, and her tears continued. Lovemaking, the only thing she had found comfort and release in, had become a nightmare of tears.

And Michael was making each take an absolute nightmare. It was becoming almost impossible to stand on her mark beside him, let alone act as if she worshipped him. She despised him. She’d never seen a man be so petty about a rejection. Of course, she reminded herself, she’d never had the luxury of rejecting a handsome man before. But his nastiness was way out of proportion. After all, it was
he
who had deceived
her, he
who had not told
her
about Sharleen, or Lila. Why should
he
hate
her?
He’d cheated on her, dropped her, and insulted
her
. Why had he been surprised by
her
slap?

Well, whatever his reason for hating her, he did, and it was scary. He did small things to trip her up, odd line readings that threw her off her cue, movements that prevented her from hitting her mark. And now that she was so fragile; now, since Mai’s death, he was even more heartless. This morning, he had called her a “puffball,” alluding to her swollen face.

But the scariest thing of all was this feeling she’d get with Sam. When he looked at her, when he’d reach out and stroke her. She’d look at his face—the very look she had longed for, that look of adoration, of love—and she’d feel…jealous. Then the tears would begin. It was crazy. She’d feel jealous of Sam’s feelings for her, Jahne. Because now that she, Jahne, had his love, she still wanted it for Mary Jane.

God, it was crazy. Had Mai’s death unleased all this, or was it the pressure of the shoot, or was it the affair itself? Oh, God, whatever it was, it wouldn’t let her sleep at night, wouldn’t let her relax. It left her so tired that she could barely concentrate.

Jerry, her makeup man, was sitting in the alcove by the mirror, smoking a cigarette and waiting to do what he could for her. She put down the pen and picked up another Mounds bar. She had begun to have a craving for candy: this after almost four years of going without any desserts or sugar. But the craving was irresistible. Each bite seemed a comfort. Until, of course, she tried to struggle into one of the costumes that Mai had worked so hard on and found the zipper stuck. She knew she’d gained at least five pounds. It shouldn’t matter—it wouldn’t matter in normal life—but the camera was merciless, and every bulge, even the smallest, would show.

Mai had worked so hard on each piece, perfecting the lines of every one, camouflaging the tiniest imperfections. Now, Jahne realized, she was ruining Mai’s last work. Was she doing it because she was angry at Mai for dying? Or because she was so desperate for comfort? Whatever the reason, she was driving both Wardrobe and herself crazy.

She finished the last bit of the Mounds bar and licked the dark chocolate off her fingers. She picked up the letter to Brewster again.

I’ve been so tempted to tell Sam everything, but I don’t know that it would improve anything for me, and it might make things worse. I suppose what I want is not a change in Sam’s present behavior but a change in his past. I want him to have loved me then like he loves me now.

Too bad you couldn’t do surgery on the inside of me as successfully as you did on the outside.

Oh, it was impossible! Jahne crumpled up the letter, threw it in the wastebasket along with the envelope from Dr. Moore’s last note. She’d write to him later, when it made more sense, when
she
made more sense.

There was a knock from outside the trailer. “They’re ready, Miss Moore,” Joel’s annoying little voice called. Jahne walked out to Jerry.

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she told him grimly.

Minos Paige stood outside the trailer. He was wearing a dark-blue jumpsuit. Over the left-hand pocket it read “Cinema Sanitation” in orange chain stitch. He waited until Jahne Moore was called to the shoot, then knocked politely on the trailer door. “Sanitation,” he said. “Can I vacuum up now?”

The makeup guy let him in. Minos carefully began to Hoover down the rug, then wiped all the visible surfaces of the trailer. The silly-ass makeup pouf sat there the whole time. So Minos just emptied the wastepaper basket into his big plastic garbage bag and walked out the door.

Later, in the van, he had the time to go through the rumpled tissues, the candy wrappers, the unpleasant flotsam and distasteful jetsam, until he found the gold: the envelope, postmarked New York, return address Dr. Brewster Moore.

Lila snapped up the phone on the first ring. For the new season of
3/4
, she had not only snagged the lead, she had a new trailer with three phone lines. Phones that, unfortunately, never stopped ringing.

“Miss Kyle, I’m sorry to bother you, but you got a visitor out here.” It was Security, at the front gate of the lot.

She waited. “And I’m supposed to guess who it is, right?”

“Oh, no, ma’am…It’s Minos Paige…I woulda gone through your secretary, only the guy says I should call you direct. Seeing as how I seen him around before, I figured it was all right. I mean, he ain’t no fan or wacko, you know? He says he got business…”

“Send him to me,” she said, and slammed down the phone. She held her hand on it for a moment, trying not to get too excited. Paige knew not to come to the studio unless he had something really big. Otherwise, he was to send his reports to her at home. Lila sat down at the vanity table and began to brush her hair—long, slow strokes. She started to braid it, changed her mind, and disentangled it again, then resumed the methodical brushing.

“Yes,” she said to the knock on the door, and turned to face it when Minos walked in. He waved a manila envelope in his hand, and smiled. “It took you long enough,” she said.

Minos dropped his hand and the smile. “It’s only been a little over a month, Miss Kyle.”

“I mean from the front gate. What did you do, go on the studio tour?” She held out her hand for the envelope, but Minos turned and sat down without being asked, holding the envelope on his lap. Okay, we’re going to play some games now, Lila thought. She was in no mood, but thought again of the possible contents and smiled. Officially, she would be judged for the Emmy by last season’s performances, but she knew everyone would see the new show before voting. And now, if there was some juicy stuff to take some of the shine off the other two…“It’s been a very long day, Mr. Paige. You must forgive me. Would you care for something to drink? Coffee? Perrier?”

“No, thank you. I figured you’d want to hear all this in person, so that’s why I came to the studio. Don’t worry. I haven’t worked this lot in a while, so not very many people would recognize me. So few old-timers left.” He settled himself more comfortably in the chair.

This is where I get the bit about how hard he had to work, and how his fee barely covers it, Lila thought. Well, he better have something, or else this creep is out on his ass for wasting my time. Lila leaned forward, her elbows on her crossed legs. “What have you got?” she asked, still smiling.

Minos smiled back, evidently very pleased with himself. “What do you want first? The good news, or the very good news?”

Goddamn him! “This isn’t a surprise party, for chrissakes. Spit it out.”

Minos got the picture. “Jahne Moore,” he said, looking down at a small notebook he’d flipped out of his pocket. “Real name, Mary Jane Moran. Born in Scuders-town. New York, September 22, 1958. She was…”

“What?
When
was she born?”

Minos jerked his head up, then looked back at his notes. “September 22, 1958. In Scuders—”

“Jesus Christ! That makes her…” Lila thought for a moment. “That would make her almost
thirty-eight years old
. You got that all wrong.” Lila sat back, folding her arms across her chest. Minos said nothing, just opened the manila envelope, reached in, and took out a sheaf of papers. He handed Lila the first one. “Exhibit A,” he said, a smug look on his face.

Lila took the photocopy from him. It was a birth certificate, all right. For Mary Jane Moran, born September 22, 1958, Scuderstown, New York. So what? “But how do you know this is Jahne Moore?” she asked, handing back the photocopy.

Minos shook the rest of the typewritten papers in the air. “High school diploma, yearbook with picture, nursing-school diploma, unemployment book from New York City, depositions from kids she acted with in some church-basement theater workshop…”

“For Mary Jane Moran. But what about Jahne Moore?” Lila was having a hard time holding in her excitement, and her fear. “What do you have on
Jahne Moore?
”

“A legal name change and deposition from a lawyer in Albany. Pissed off over some probate deal that’s soured on him. But wait, it gets better. Interview and files from a nurse in a plastic surgeon’s office in New York. It seems our Jahne Moore is a real Cinderella. She got ahold of some money and had herself done over. The grandmother died just before this, so maybe from her. Had herself carved head to toe. Took two years. According to this nurse, she went from an ugly, overweight mouse, to a twenty-four-year-old sexy beauty. Money can do that for you.” Minos paused, his expression changing. “Speaking of money, I’ve taken the liberty of promising this medical source a large payment. Seeing as how the
National Questioner
would outbid you if they knew about it, I put you out on the limb. Not by name of course.”

Lila snatched the nurse’s deposition from his hand and scanned it hungrily. Medical records. Pictures! Befores and afters! It was all here. “She went to this plastic surgeon, Dr. Moore? Was she related to this doctor?” Lila asked Minos.

“No. Nurse says she probably had the hots for him, though. Who knows, maybe they traded tit for tat, you should excuse the expression. He was her Henry Higgins. You know, like in
My Fair Lady
. Anyhow, the nurse showed me the records.” Minos kept talking while Lila devoured the typewritten pages. “Made her appointments as Mary Jane Moran. That was her biggest mistake. She shoulda started with the alias
first, then
the surgery. Typical amateur. His records even show her present name and address right here in L.A.” Minos handed Lila a folder. “So,” he said, “that’s the ‘good.’ Ready for the ‘very good’?”

Lila didn’t have to answer, couldn’t answer. There was something better, juicier than
this?
She tried to digest it all, but realized that she couldn’t. Not right now, at least. Just take it all in for now, she told herself. Then decide what to do. Slow down.

Lila could smile without forcing it. “Minos, I’m impressed. Now the ‘very good.’” She settled back to listen, although she was sure he couldn’t top this. Jahne Moore, carved like a duck out of a piece of soap. Soap melts, she thought, then brought her attention back to Minos’ words, which now, strangely, had a very calming effect on her. This must be how alcoholics feel after their first drink in a long while: peaceful, like the world is really okay. “I’m ready,” she told him.