Heart of Glass (11 page)

By three o’clock—just twenty-four hours ago—the call he’d been praying for had actually come. The role was his. The pay would be ten thousand dollars and he should report to the Palmdale set today.

That was when the tears had flowed. He tried not to think about the part of the bargain that would come later, in which he had to start a seduction of Sam’s gold-digging stepmother.

But the worst-case scenario—in which Jackson found out Parker had hit on his wife and got Parker blacklisted from Hollywood for life—wasn’t far from his mind, which had to be part of the reason he was sweating as he stood under a blue tent canopy on the
Ben-Hur
set, dressed in a white Roman toga, about to shoot his first scene. In it, Marcus would help Judah Ben-Hur dress for the climactic chariot race.

He’d been messengered the entire script the night before, and he’d read it through twice. It was the year A.D. 1. Judah Ben-Hur, after years of being imprisoned by the Roman procurator Messala, now had the chance to defeat him in a chariot race. Parker had read his own scenes so many times that he had not just the lines but the stage directions memorized. He could see the pages in his mind’s eye.

EXT. CHARIOT GROUNDS—RACE PREP AREA—DAY

MARCUS, NOSAN’s son, enters and bows to BEN-HUR, who is checking the condition of his horses.

MARCUS

If I might be of service . . .

BEN-HUR

What is it, Marcus?

MARCUS

I would be honored if you would allow me to help you prepare for the race, sir.

[BEN-HUR turns and looks askance at MARCUS.]

BEN-HUR

Why would you, a Roman and the son of a Roman, choose to help the Jew?

MARCUS

Because, good sir, I have my own brain and my own heart. I have seen your goodness, even after all that they have done to you. I make my own choice, to be here, now, with you.

[BEN-HUR sees something true in the youth’s eyes. He takes MARCUS by the shoulders, then embraces him.]

BEN-HUR

I would be honored, Marcus.

That was the entire scene. But a two-shot with Jackson Sharpe—and an emotional one at that—was exactly the jump-start Parker’s career needed. Who knew where it could lead? This was the kind of scene that could end up an Oscar clip. He could be watching it on TV next February. Hey, he might even be at the Kodak Theatre for the awards, with the rest of the
Ben-
Hur
cast, cheering Jackson as he was called to the stage. This was his big break. He’d waited eighteen years for it. He would
not
blow it.

Since Jackson was directing as well as starring, he sat behind one of the cameras with his director of photography, assessing the lighting, wearing a tunic similar to Parker’s, though more ornate.

A curvy assistant with a riot of curly black hair spouting from a ponytail on the top of her head came over and asked Parker if he needed anything—sparkling water, protein shake? He shook his head. And then, finally, he saw that Jackson was ready. He stepped out from behind the camera. His makeup was touched up, lint removed from his tunic, and his hair rearranged into Caesar-style bangs. Parker had the same haircut—he’d been shorn in the hair trailer at five-thirty that morning, after a fantastic breakfast at the craft services trailer and tent.

Because, good sir, I have my own brain and my own heart . . .

“Places, everyone!
Ben-Hur
, scene forty-three, take one,” called the second assistant director. He held a slate in front of the camera so that the scene could be easily identified.

“Quiet, please! Quiet on the set!” shouted a blond dreadlocked PA. That cry was picked up all around the set, until no one at all was talking. It was so quiet, in fact, that Parker could hear the sound of the horses breathing and whinnying.

And . . . action!”

He mounted a small crest to where Jackson brushed one of the horses that would be pulling his chariot. Then he fed the other one a carrot.

Marcus. I am Marcus. Not Parker.

“If I might be of service?” he asked Jackson.

Jackson turned.
Wham
. Parker felt the unexpected full force of the man’s movie-star charisma.

“What is it, Marcus?” Jackson asked.

“I would be honored if you would allow me to help you prepare for the race, sir.” Parker felt Jackson’s eyes look him up and down, as if he might be carrying a dagger under his tunic. Jackson/Ben-Hur had to be thinking that Marcus might be an assassin. It was a novel interpretation, but thrilling.

“Why would you, a Roman and the son of a Roman, choose to help the Jew?” Jackson asked.

“Because, good sir, I have my own brain and my own heart. I have seen your goodness, even after all that they have done to you. I make my own choice, to be here, now, with you.” Parker bowed slightly. If Ben-Hur was afraid that he might be a killer, it seemed the right thing to do.

Jackson came close to him and looked him in the eyes. Then he embraced him with a show of love and respect. “I would be honored, Marcus.” “And . . . cut!” The assistant director ended the scene. “Okay, back to one. We’ll do it again. Same thing.”

As he went back to “one,” meaning the place at the bottom of the swale where he’d started out the scene, Parker thought the scene had gone quite well.

They ran the scene four times, until Jackson was happy with his work. “That’s a wrap!” called the AD. “Set for scene fifty-six! Thank you, Marcus!” “Nice job,” some people called to him as he strode off the set. Parker had no idea whether or not they meant it. Suddenly, he felt just like another small-part actor. They probably didn’t even know his real—“Can I have your autograph?” a voice squealed.

He turned. There was Sam, grinning wildly in Diesel jeans and an aqua silk Stella McCartney shirt. “You kicked ass in that scene with my dad. I was watching on the monitors.” She motioned to the producers’ tent over to the left, where the film’s financiers could watch the shoot and listen though headphones.

Parker was thrilled. “You watched the whole thing? And you really think it went okay?” “I’m telling you, you were great. The camera loves you.” Parker felt so relieved that he threw his arms around Sam and gave her a huge hug. “How can I ever thank you for this?” he whispered.

“You know exactly how,” she whispered back. He smiled. Tit for . . . well, for tit. Although touching Poppy’s was more than he hoped he’d need to do. At any rate, he was ready to fulfill his part of the bargain.

She took his arm as they walked across the set toward the so-called base camp, where everyone associated with the film parked their cars. “Day after tomorrow, you’re shooting again, right?” “That’s the schedule. Two more scenes. Starts early in the morning, like 4 A.M. They’re supposed to finish by six—” “Perfect. Because my dad’s throwing a party at our place. Turns out a few people who are doing cameos—Tom Hanks, Jean Reno, Maria Bello—won’t be around for the official wrap party next month. So he figures it’s the least he can do. There’ll be a zillion people. It’ll be a great opportunity.” “You mean—” “Hells, yeah. Come over and get to work. Let’s see what the Stepmother from Hell is really made of.”

Toga, Toga

“M
iss Sam? Would like some help with your toga?”

The new maid, Marcella, stood at the door of Sam’s twelve-hundred-square-foot suite. “Come on in and call me Sam.” She reached around but couldn’t seem to grasp both sides of the belt at her waist. “Could you just fasten the belt in the back for me, Marcella?” “Surely, Miss—I mean, Sam,” she said softly. Marcella tightened the fabric belt that had come with the toga, which gave the black silk material some shape. It fell in graceful folds to her ankles, with a slit up one leg, which was just about as much of her thigh as Sam planned to expose, thank you very much.

It had been Poppy’s idea to make the party in honor of the cameo stars in
Ben-Hur
a toga party and hold it at her father’s estate. Because of course the newly svelte, Bodhi-yogafied post-baby-weight Poppy would look fabulous in a sheer toga.

“Great.” Sam smiled at the maid. “Thanks for the help.” “Anything else?”

“Just welcome to my father’s house. And good luck.” “Thank you.” Marcella slipped out of her room. That afternoon a small army from Party Central, Fleur Abra’s newest party-planning venture, had turned their backyard—if you could call four acres, complete with pool, tennis court, putting green, and koi pond a “backyard”—into a virtual Roman coliseum.

Of course, everyone was supposed to come in a toga. When she’d invited him, Sam had had a hard time explaining the concept of a toga party to Eduardo, but being the good sport that he was, he’d said he’d rent something from a costume shop. God knew Los Angeles had plenty of those. And tonight would be the night Parker would start making his move on Poppy. Sam couldn’t wait for Poppy to expose herself as the cheater that Sam knew her to be.

Sam eased herself to the center of her three-way, full-length mirror and checked out the rear view.

“Sam? You look amazing!”

Dee practically flew through the open doorway. She wore a darling pink toga the size of a postage stamp, sandals that laced up to her knees, and a garland of fig leaves around the crown of her head.

“So listen,” Dee said, perching her tiny butt on the edge of Sam’s green marble vanity. “Jack couldn’t come. There’s some kind of crisis at Fox on some new reality show, and he’ll be there until midnight at least. Does the name Marshall Gruber mean anything to you?” “Is it a rare African disease?” Sam moved to her silver tray of perfumes and decided on a limited-edition Prada that hadn’t yet been released to stores. “Is Marshall Gruber curable?” she asked, as she sprayed her pulse points.

Dee giggled. “It’s a person. The guy from Ojai who was my chaperone at prom?” she prompted. “Tall, skinny—” “Oh yeah. Napoleon Dynamite. The one you ditched so you could run off with Jack.” Suddenly it all came back. Marshall had been the comic relief of an evening that hadn’t ended comically. “He hooked up with someone on the beach right? Skye, maybe? I was pretty polluted—” “I think it was Skye, but whatever. Jack and I were already . . . busy.” “Which is kind of out there, considering you had just met the guy.” “Yeah, but who
doesn’t
get wild on prom night?” Dee asked rhetorically. “Besides, for me and Jack it was this instant thing. You know. A thunderbolt of love.” “Or else you’d been locked away in the funny farm for so long that anything male looked good.” “Oh no,” Dee insisted. “Jack and I are the real thing. Anyway, Marshall will be driving Aaron Steele down from the Ojai Institute. Did you ever meet him? Aaron, I mean, not Marshall.” Sam shook her head. “I don’t think so. His father used to be a good writer and then he lost it. I think it happened when he wrote that tell-all book dissing everyone in Hollywood—like they were going to work with him after that.” “Do you know if Skye will be here?” Sam grinned. “Skye plus Marshall equals you alone with Aaron?” she figured. “What about how you and Jack are soul mates?” Dee sighed. “I don’t know. I think my soul might be expanding its horizons. So? Skye?” You’re in luck. She is.” “Miss Sam?” Marcella appeared once again in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“
Señor Eduardo está aqui.
He is waiting downstairs for you.
En la biblioteca.
In the library. Also, your father wishes that I tell you the guests are arriving and the party is beginning.” “
Muchas gracias
, Marcella. And
por favor,
Marcella. Please, lose the ‘Miss’ thing with me. Really. It makes me nervous.” “Okay, Miss—I’m sorry. Okay, Sam.” Marcella fled. Sam and Dee spent the next five minutes touching up each other’s makeup, and then they went downstairs together. Sure enough, they found Eduardo waiting in Jackson’s teak-paneled library. He looked elegant in his rented classic white toga.

Eduardo kissed Sam’s hand. “You are ravishing.” “Oh!” Dee cried. “That is so romantic. Jack never tells me I’m ravishing.” “That’s because he is an American,” Eduardo explained.

“He would sound ridiculous. The party is under way. Shall we?” He offered both Dee and Sam his elbows.
“Mujeres y caballeras? Con migo, por favor.”

Sam and Dee took his arms; they wound their way through the house and down the steps from the deck to the backyard. The party had indeed begun. There were hundreds of people in various togafied states of dress and undress in the backyard.

“Dee! There you are!”

A guy Sam had never seen before jogged over to Dee and hugged her. He wore a white bedsheet knotted at one shoulder. Had to be Ojai Guy. Only someone without access to a costume shop would make a toga out of a sheet. He was tall and well built, with the perfectly naturally blond highlighted hair of a surfer.

“Is it really you or am I dreaming?” the guy asked, staring at Dee.

“It’s me,” Dee replied. “And I’m so glad you’re here. Sam and Eduardo, I want you to meet my friend Aaron Steele. Aaron, this is Sam Sharpe. She’s kind of our hostess, or at least her dad is. And this is her boyfriend, Eduardo Muñoz. He said Sam looked ravishing.” Aaron laughed and shook Eduardo’s hand. “I thought I was the only one who could say stuff like that.” Dee shook her head. “Nope. You’re American. You’d sound like an idiot.” “I’m not American. If you asked my dad, he’d tell you I was from Mars,” Aaron joked. “Sam, it’s great to meet you. I think your father paid for my father’s Bentley.” Sam laughed. She knew exactly what Aaron was talking about. Jackson had asked the immensely talented and immensely egotistical James Steele to do uncredited rewrites on two of his pictures—he’d gotten high six figures for about a week’s worth of work.

“Aaron! Aaron! The deal is that you have to be in my line of sight at all times.” Marshall came loping over to them. Now that she saw him and heard his distinctive high-pitched voice, Sam remembered Marshall only too well. His Adam’s apple was so large he looked as if he’d swallowed a Ping-Pong ball, and he was the only guest in sight not wearing a toga. Instead, he sported plain black trousers and a hideously tacky short-sleeved white shirt with a single chest pocket. There was no misidentifying him, either—around his neck hung a name badge identifying him as MARSHALL GRUBER,