Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  At last, his breathing calmed. The frozen trendies still sat there, useless as tits on a monitor. He turned to Milton, still nervously licking his lips. “Milton,” he said. “These girls are gonna be big. Enormous. They’ll be on the cover of TV Guide and People, they’ll be on Tonight and Arsenio and Letterman. They’ll host Saturday Night Live. And that’s just for starters. If everything goes right, they’re going to be a fuckin’ industry. So I want them new and fresh. No nudes in Penthouse. No past jobs as weather girls in Kankakee. No porno, no agents, no bounced checks, no husbands, no problems. New and clean, so we can tie ’em up nice and neat. So, Milt, don’t insult my intelligence. Don’t piss up my back and tell me I’m sweating. Get me some new faces.”

  Sy turned and walked to the door, then spun on his neat little foot at the doorway. “Because, if you don’t, Milt, Paul Grasso will.” Sy saw Milt wince at the mention of his ex-partner, now his bitter enemy. “You’ve got till Tuesday.”

  “I’ll do it,” Milt assured him, but Sy was already down the hall.

  If Sy Ortis had been the bully of the meeting at Glick’s casting office, he knew he was about to be bullied at his next one. But in a lineup that included Les Merchant, the head of the Network; Brian O’Malley of Banion O’Malley, the largest advertising firm in the world; and Monica Flanders and her son, Hyram, he knew he was the smallest fish. He shrugged. One could do worse than be a guppy in that pond. There would not be a person in the room whose net worth was under fifty million dollars.

  And there was nothing Sy respected as much as money. Thinking of the raw power of—say—fifty million dollars made him almost weak in the knees. Someday he’d have a net worth of that, and then he wouldn’t take shit from anyone. Not that he had to take much now.

  Sy, as usual, was on time, but, surprisingly, so was everyone else. The difference between big business and show business: big business had the discipline to keep to schedule. Sy smiled as he shook hands around the table. No one smiled back. Another difference.

  The meeting was being held at the L.A. conference room of Banion O’Malley, and Sy was there to represent his client Marty DiGennaro. Both had decided it was best this way. After all, the deal had been consummated, but it was best to keep both the sponsor and the Network happy for as long as possible. Anyway, today the pressure was off Sy. It was Merchant’s and O’Malley’s dicks on the table. Sy almost smiled at the thought as he took his seat.

  “Well, gentlemen. And Madame Flanders, of course,” Brian O’Malley began. He was a big Irishman, his bulk carefully disguised by a Savile Row suit, his chins almost camouflaged by the Turnbull and Asser shirt he wore. Monica Flanders, the object of the meeting, who must be in her eighties, made a dismissive gesture. O’Malley nodded. “I think you’re going to like what you see.”

  “We better,” Monica Flanders said, and looked to her son, the president of her international cosmetics firm. He nodded. Les Merchant, a tall man with a huge head of white hair, cleared his throat. Sy had been told that today was only a formality, that Flanders Cosmetics was in, and that Hyram had sign-off power. But he could see everyone sweating, in case the old puta didn’t approve.

  “Well, you know the demographics,” O’Malley continued, and as he spoke a wall behind him lit up, as if from within, and a bar graph in glowing neon colors was projected onto it from some invisible source. “We are looking at a more and more fragmented female market, with the largest segment the aging baby boomers, flanked by two smaller segments of makeup-buying women: the menopausal and older, and the younger, teen-to-thirties segment.”

  He turned himself to look at the chart, and as he did so, the “menopausal and older” bar disappeared. “Discounting the older women, who are largely either brand-loyal, limited by shrinking purchasing power, or taken out of the consumer market by disease and death, we have the lion’s share in the other two segments.”

  Sy noticed Monica Flanders wince when O’Malley mentioned death. Now her son spoke. “Brian, the lion’s share means everything, not the biggest piece. Anyway, we know all this.”

  “Yes. But the point is that the aging-boomer market has been lagging in its purchase of cosmetics, although their spending has increased somewhat on anti-aging-care products. While the youth market has simply not had the purchasing power of the boomers at their age. This has spawned the need for narrow, expensive, targeted print and television campaigns, increasing per product-line cost-of-sale.”

  “Brian, may I remind you that narrowly focused campaigns were something you sold us almost a decade ago?” Monica Flanders said.

  “And for a good reason. There was no alternative. But what if I told you there was a way to reach forty or fifty million women, week by week, in both the youth and boomer markets, with a single campaign?”

  Monica Flanders wrinkled up her face in impatience and disgust. “I would say you were crazy. DAUGHTERS DON’T BUY THE SAME LIPSTICK AS THEIR MOTHERS.”

  “But what if I told you they would?”

  “Gentlemen, I’m an old woman, but I know my business. Brian, how many shades of lipstick does Revlon produce?” The man paused, then shrugged. “One hundred and seventy. Their best seller is Wine With Everything. Estée does ninety-five. Their best seller is Starlit Pink, but ten years ago it was Rosewood, and fifteen years ago it was ‘Frosted Apricot.’ Even Chanel has to make sixty-eight colors. Because the nature of the market is fragmented. AND DAUGHTERS DON’T BUY THE SAME LIPSTICK AS THEIR MOTHERS.” Monica Flanders stood up. “Hyram, would you call for the car?”

  “Mother, wait just a moment more. Please.”

  Monica looked at her balding, paunchy, sixty-two-year-old son and shrugged. Silently she sat down again.

  “Mrs. Flanders, what if there was a show, a weekly television program, that attracted a huge female audience of both young females and the aging boomers? What if we could put together a program whose demographics guaranteed both groups?”

  “If wishes were horses, most people would be buried in horseshit,” she said. “The youth market watches young people. 90210. And the older market watches movies of the week. Or forty something. Or the fat housewife.” She shuddered at the thought of Roseanne Arnold, pulling her aristocratic shoulders together around her ears like the ends of an ermine stole.

  “What if there was a show that featured young women…”

  “Boomers wouldn’t watch it,” she said flatly.

  “But what if it were set in the sixties, when the boomers also were young?”

  She sat, still and silent for a moment. For almost half a century, Monica Flanders had been selling beauty to American women. She had started by cooking creams in her own kitchen and now had a lock on almost a third of the annual six-billion-dollar market. She knew what worked, what didn’t, and still had the best ear for naming new products in the business.

  For the first time, Les Merchant spoke. His Network had been losing audience to cable and Fox for the last ten years. But in this project he saw a resurgence for the Network. He was ready to gamble everything on it. Still, for something of this size he needed a powerful partner. Hyram had already agreed, in principle, to sponsor the show, but Les was no fool, and he knew he needed Monica’s full support. “Monica, think of it. A quality project, with beautiful young girls. To make the older women long for their youth, and the younger ones long for beauty. Exquisite girls, irresistible girls, Monica.”

  She hated to be wrong, but she hadn’t gotten this rich by being stupid. She sat, silent and still, the only movement in the whole room the blink of her eyes. She sat for a minute—then two. Then three. No one spoke. Probably they didn’t dare to breathe. “It could work,” Monica acknowledged, dipping her ancient head. Despite the surgeon’s art and the expert maquillage, she resembled nothing so much as a tiny painted monkey. A very powerful painted monkey. O’Malley smiled, and Les Merchant continued.

  “We have an exclusive. Marty DiGennaro will direct. A million and a half budgeted for each episode. And new talent.”
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  “How many girls?”

  “Three. They are hitchhiking cross-country.”

  “I want a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. I want exclusive three-year contracts with each for print ads. They model the new line. We won’t pay more than five hundred thou for each modeling contract, but we add smoke so we can tout them as million-dollar deals. We do a new line. We include both makeup and skin care. The girls wear nothing else, on camera or off. And no hitchhiking. It’s trashy. Put them on motorcycles. That’s sexy. Plus, we get the male audience. We sell them the fragrances for their girlfriends at Christmas.”

  “What fragrances, Mother?” Hyram asked.

  “The new fragrances. Named for the three characters. What the hell are their names?”

  “Cara, Crimson, and Clover,” Sy volunteered.

  “Perfect.” Monica grinned.

  “But, Mother! The cost! Developing and launching three new scents in a year! I never planned…”

  “If you don’t have the time, Hyram, I’ll do it,” Monica snapped.

  Les smiled at Brian O’Malley. “Shall we show you some storyboards?”

  “Show Hyram. I’m tired.” Once again she stood up. She began to push away from the table, her age-spotted left hand clutching her gold-topped cane. But she stopped for a moment and turned back to them. “We have approval on the leads. No drug addicts. No whores. Clean. Get them from Canada if you have to. I understand they still have some virgins up there.”

  Then she turned her Chanel-clad tiny back on the men and left the room.

  2

  After Jahne picked her one suitcase from the luggage carousel at LAX, she headed toward the rental-car counters. In her purse she had a little less than six thousand dollars of the money she had received from Albany. May as well get the cheapest deal I can, she thought. In New York, a car was an expensive luxury, and in her years there, she had gotten out of the habit of owning one. But she knew, here in L.A., it was a requirement. She moved toward the group of businessmen standing at the Budget counter.

  “Here, let me help you with that.” A tall, gray-haired man in a blue suit and a deep tan moved to help her with her bag.

  “Thank you,” she said, and she flashed the smile that she found now worked so well.

  “Bob,” the executive said to his companion, ahead of them in line, “let the lady through.”

  “Oh, it’s really not necessary.” She played it as Audrey Hepburn had in Breakfast at Tiffany’s—ladylike but knowing. A woman stood in front of her, also waiting for the attention of the rental-car clerk. She was a dumpy woman, stuffed into a size-fourteen sage-green suit. It was not a good color for her.

  “Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked Jahne.

  The dumpy woman whined. “I was here first,” she said, and shot a look of deep dislike at Jahne.

  “Yes, she was,” Jahne agreed.

  Reluctantly the clerk turned to the piqued woman. “Have you a reservation?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said smugly. “We’re all out of cars except for customers with confirmed reservations.” The woman stomped away to another counter.

  Then, with a smile of relief, the clerk turned back to Jahne. “Now, how can I help you?” he asked her with a smile.

  “I guess you can’t,” Jahne said. “I wanted a car, but I don’t have a reservation, either.”

  “What kind of car did you want?” he asked.

  “The least expensive,” she admitted.

  “Well, for you I just may be able to find one of our specials. How long will you need it?”

  “Two weeks would be fine,” Jahne said, and despite her guilt, she flashed him another Audrey Hepburn smile.

  The Star Drop Inn had only two advantages: the room was clean, and it was only $286 weekly, paid in advance. It was one of those modular buildings that looked as if it had been dropped onto the black tarmac that surrounded it. The gray-haired old woman at the front desk had told Jahne it was a no-frills kind of place, and she certainly had not been lying. Jahne’s room, number 29, was ten feet by nine feet, with room for two twin beds, a built-in shelf for a nightstand between them, a hanging rack in the wall across the way, and a television riveted to a bracket that was chained to the wall. There was also a fiberglass bathroom not much bigger than an unopened coffin. But it was clean and it did have double locks on the door. It seemed to cater to transients and tourist families mostly, but there were no fights and not much noise at night. Also, she had noticed a nice-looking, long-haired blond guy that lived in Room 28. She could do worse, she supposed.

  Jahne lay on one bed, the other one covered with copies of Daily Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Weekly Variety, and several other trades. She sat with a pen and legal pad that she had bought for $1.29 at the Jiffy Mart on the corner; on one side of the page she listed every audition, open call, or look-see; on the other she wrote notes to herself about what they were looking for. It was odd, after all her years of reading the trades, to be focusing now on those casting notices looking for young, attractive ingenues.

  It was thirsty work, and she longed for a cold soda or beer, but there wasn’t even a vending machine at the Star Drop Inn. She’d walk across the hot parking lot to the convenience store in a minute. The page was almost full, although Jahne expected little from cattle calls and the like. Still, she had carefully arranged a pile of head shots and attached résumés to the back of each. Before she left New York, she had spent almost two thousand dollars of the precious Albany money on a photographer, and she had to admit he had done a brilliant job that justified every penny. Her mane of dark hair emerged from a backlit drop behind her; her face appeared perfect. Even now she stared, mesmerized by the picture. If she couldn’t get in to see people, at least she could leave this calling card behind.

  She turned the page of The Hollywood Reporter. Ratings for all the season’s new television shows were listed. Quickly, she looked up All the President’s Chakras, Neil’s show. Once again, it lagged at the bottom of the long list. She sighed. She’d watched it a few times, but it was almost too awful; she could see the desperation in Neil’s eyes during each close-up. It was ironic that he and Sam were the only two people she knew out here, and it was impossible to call either of them—one because he loved her, and the other because he didn’t.

  There was a knock at the door, and she jumped. She looked quickly to see if the chain lock was up. It was, and she went to it, grateful for the protection. She opened the door slowly. Outside, the tall, blond man from next door stood awkwardly leaning against the wall. “Hi, I’m Pete Warren,” he told her. He held up a beer. “Want one?”

  “No thanks.” He looked like a nice kid, twenty-two or -three, with the kind of beautiful teeth you seemed to see only in California.

  “Hey, no strings attached. It’s just an extra beer,” he said. He handed it in through the crack and turned away. “See ya,” he said. His shoulders were broad, and she could see his back muscles move under the T-shirt he wore.

  “Thanks,” she remembered to shout at his back, then shut the door. Gratefully swigging the Coors, she wondered if Pete Warren ever would have noticed Mary Jane. Certainly not, she decided. The beer was a good omen. But being pretty and young-looking might only be enough to get a cheap car rental and a free beer. Drinking again from the bottle, she wondered if any of the casting agents and assistant producers would notice her on her rounds. She patted the head shots for luck and hoped so.

  If the last two years—and all that preceded it—had been like a nightmare, this felt like a dream. L.A. was so sunny after the darkness of New York—the beach, and the boardwalk in Venice, and the nonstop sun. But the main difference was her. She was so L.A.—with her heels on she was tall and slim and perfect, except for a few gray hairs. Just waking up felt great. Getting dressed felt great. Putting on her makeup felt great. Aside from the occasional itching of her scars, she felt wonderful. Hopeful.

&n
bsp; And that, really, was the difference. In L.A. there was hope.

  Jahne established a kind of pattern to her days. Each morning, she drove to the track at the junior high school and ran three miles, then came back, to the Star Drop, showered, threw a banana, skim milk, and brewer’s yeast into her blender, and drank it while she applied her makeup. Then she dressed and spent the morning following up every lead she could. At one o’clock, she’d either go to Dim Sum and eat the lunch special at the outdoor café, or she’d stop at Chin Chin and have their shredded chicken salad. And in both places she only had to wait ten minutes or less. Men would come to sit beside her. They’d make her offers: offers to buy her lunch, to take her out to dinner, to introduce her to their agent. They’d offer to show her Malibu Colony or their condo or a part of their anatomy. In a way, their offers shocked her. Not because she was a prude. It was simply getting used to all the attention. Although she had always presumed that her looks had affected her life, she knew now that they had ruined it. When you were young and beautiful, everything was easy. For the next ten years, at least, she would never have to eat another meal or have another drink alone.

  All she had to do was do her face, find a crowd, sit down, pick out a man, and stare at him till she caught his eye. With eight out of ten, she noticed, all it took was a smile to get them to come to her. She perfected a look: a sort of pouty “You-know-what-I’m-thinking-about” expression that hooked them like trout. Then there was one out of the ten who needed a serious look, not a smile. She started to be able to pick them out. They usually wore black.

  There was the one man in ten who didn’t respond at all, but she figured there had to be a few gays and honest married men in the crowd. She didn’t take it personally. After all, after years of starvation, L.A. was a feast!