Two waiters, balancing silver trays that reflected the candle glow onto the cut-crystal glasses, passed among them, delivering an astonishing array of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Jahne stepped down the three steps into the living room and was greeted by a dark, painfully thin woman in an ivory satin dress—April Irons, Jahne was sure. “Jahne, I’m so glad you could come,” April said, extending her hand. Jahne smiled, thanked her, and turned to introduce Michael McLain.
“Mike. Nice to see you. Didn’t take you long to find new talent,” April said. Michael smiled.
“If you don’t mind, we’re going to go in to dinner right away. I have a film to screen afterward that I think you’ll like. Is that okay?” April asked.
“Of course,” Michael said, and turned to Jahne. “All right?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” Jahne agreed, and the three of them crossed the polished floor to the dining room. Michael helped her into her seat. April began to make introductions. Not that the guests needed them. All were world-famous. Jahne almost had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Then she saw him.
He had arrived late, took the three steps down to the living room in one bound of his long legs, and moved easily, graceful as ever, to the single empty seat.
Jahne didn’t drop her glass, or her jaw. But she stared. She stared at Sam, her Sam, drinking him in. And it was as if there had been no time, no pain, no operations, no new name, no new career, no triumph at the Melrose, no Marty DiGennaro, no television show. It was as if time had stood still.
And she wanted him as badly as ever.
Fame
“Remember when Pinocchio goes to Stromboli, and Stromboli convinces him to be an actor? And Pinocchio performs a little bit, and Stromboli puts him in a cage? Well, that’s a lot like what it’s like. You want to do this, and you’re completely fascinated by the dream. And you get there. And suddenly you’re in a cage.”
—BETTE MIDLER
“There are photographers who sit in their cars outside my house all day long who frighten me.”
—JULIA ROBERTS
1
Haven’t we all wondered what it would be like to take our place among the stars? Not just as an observer, the way I, Laura Richie, have, but actually as one of them. Not to be tolerated, as a reporter is, or condescended to as a fan, but to be welcomed as an equal.
What does it feel like to sit down to dinner with a dozen of the most famous and most beautiful and most talented people in the world? What is it like to have Elizabeth Taylor—never “Liz”—call you by your first name, to have Cher ask you to pass the butter, to have Warren Beatty smile at you and ask about your work as if he’s really interested? Before, Jahne was on the fringe. Tonight she was at the epicenter.
Jahne experienced it all for the first time but she couldn’t focus on any of it. Instead, she focused on trying not to make a fool of herself over Sam Shields. She kept her eyes away from his, she kept her head turned the other way, toward Michael McLain, and Elizabeth and Larry, and April Irons.
What if Sam recognized her? Of course, she was completely different now—not just her looks, but the mannerisms she’d adopted, the way she moved. She was certain that she played the part of Jahne Moore well. But no one had ever known her as well as Sam. Surely he could see through her performance, and what if he did? Would he give her away? Would he despise her?
Her heart was beating so hard, so fast, that she was sure Michael, at her left, could hear it. It was almost all that she could hear, the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her flesh had gone clammy, and she felt herself begin to sweat.
She tried to lift the crystal goblet of water by its stem, but her hands were shaking too hard. She glanced around the table to see if anyone had noticed, and clasped both of her hands in her lap. Only April was looking at her, but April just smiled and nodded her head. “Where are you living, Jahne?” she asked.
“Birdland,” she explained. “Off Oriole.”
“Have you bought that place?” Michael asked.
“No. I’m only renting,” she managed to say.
“Is security good there?” Goldie asked.
They began to talk about security—and the relative benefits of Malibu versus Bel Air versus Holmby Hills. Jahne listened as they complained about costs; she wondered if any of them had bodyguards. “Well, I was always happy at the Beverly Wilshire,” Michael said. “I let the hotel worry about security. Best in the world.”
“That doesn’t work with children,” someone said dryly. “A hotel suite isn’t a home.”
“It was for me for ten years.”
“You needed the revolving door,” someone cracked, and they all laughed. For a moment, Jahne wondered if they were laughing also at her—she must look like Michael’s latest conquest. Well, she supposed that was better than looking like the professional fix-up they actually were. She looked around and saw that Sam Shields had his eyes on her. She turned away.
“You need a gated community,” April was saying. “To be safe, and especially if you have kids.”
“Oh, isn’t that a bit paranoid?” Sam asked. His voice sounded better than ever—rich and deep, with that New York sharpness. “I mean, after New York, this is child’s play. I’m in the canyon, and I love it.”
“Isn’t that what Sharon Tate said?” Michael asked.
“It isn’t paranoid,” April said. “Now, Barry Diller had a twenty-four-hour security guard watching his parking space at Fox. That was paranoid.”
The conversation went on around Jahne. She could barely manage a bite of her shrimp-mousse starter, and did little better over the Dover sole and asparagus. For once, she wouldn’t have to worry about her diet: she’d choke on a crumb. The plates were beautifully, artfully arranged, the fish set in a frame of asparagus, the gold rim of the dish sparkling along with the gold rim of the crystal goblets, of the gold-chased sterling candelabra. She stared at the plate, trying to listen to the conversation as it ebbed and flowed. They’ll think I’m mute, she told herself. I must say something.
She lifted her head. The talk had gone from security to real estate and then back to security again.
“Since I moved out of the Beverly Wilshire, I use La Brecque,” Michael was saying.
“He’s expensive,” one of the others murmured.
“Yeah, but he’s the best. And we are talking about our lives,” Michael said.
“Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?” Jahne heard Sam say. She still didn’t dare to look at him, only in his general direction.
“You want to talk melodrama?” Michael asked. “I’ve had a guy in prison writing me death threats for seven years. He blames me for breaking up his first marriage: his wife was a fan. Since he killed his wife and was sentenced to twenty years, he swears he’s going to get me. Shouldn’t I be nervous?”
All of the people at the table murmured sympathetically. Sam cleared his throat. “I guess as long as he’s in prison you’re fine.”
“Well, he was almost paroled last year. La Brecque keeps stuff like that under control. He presented the letters to the parole board. He had other testimony, too. He neutralizes things. As much as he can. Anyway, writers and directors don’t know about this stuff—it’s only us actors on the front lines who know.” Michael turned to Jahne. “Is your place secure?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Nobody has ever bothered me.”
“Well, I hope that never changes, but I wouldn’t count on it. When does your show premiere?”
“Next Sunday.”
“How exciting for you!” Elizabeth said kindly.
“How has it been going?” April asked.
“Well, I don’t have anything to compare it to,” Jahne admitted, “but I think it’s going well.” God, couldn’t she say something clever? Couldn’t she be witty, if not charming? Well, at least she did sound like an authentic twenty-four-year-old ingenue, she realized.
“I’m sure you’ll be a big success.” Kurt smi
led, and Goldie nodded.
“All of the key indicators are there—after all, Michael is dating you,” April added. There was another murmur of laughter, and Jahne felt confused again. Annette nudged Warren and they both giggled. But Jahne could see no malice on these faces. Though they were joking, it was not at her expense. They were complimenting her, including her. She smiled.
Dessert was a lemon-and-mint sorbet. The conversation turned to the next AIDS benefit, and then the guests stood to take coffee in the living room. But Jahne needed a moment to herself. She headed out to the terrace. As she walked through the living room toward the open arches, she felt her legs tremble. The dress, its raven-blue-and-black taffeta falling so beautifully to the ground, rustled.
“Masterful.”
It was Sam’s voice, a low murmur at her shoulder. Jahne felt herself pale. She turned to look at him. Was he talking about her new incarnation? Had he seen through her already?
“Masterful,” he repeated. “The dress and your hair. A perfect match. Both so simple and exquisite.”
He was close to her. She could smell the clove of his aftershave and that sweet, warm scent his breath always had when he drank wine. It was hard to believe that here, in this warm night air beside her, stood the man she’d last seen more than three years ago in the dank, gray winter of New York. Here he was, the man she’d thought of, dreamed of, longed for, and tried to forget. Here he was, and he had followed her, sought her out, was standing at her side. She felt herself tremble. Was it with rage, or desire, or fear? It was dark on the veranda, and he stood very close. How much of her could he see?
“So, you live in Birdland,” he said. She remained silent. “I always thought of myself more as the Benedict type.”
“Arnold or Canyon?” she asked sweetly.
Jahne heard laughter in the living room, and Michael’s voice protesting. “We better join them,” she said, and took a step toward the light.
“Have you ever thought about films?” Sam asked her.
She stopped and turned to him. How could she tell him that she used to, before she spent all her time thinking about him? She looked away, across the terrace, to the exquisite espaliered fruit trees in the garden. The balcony railing had ivy tied to it with raffia training cords, as if it were playing some sort of vegetable bondage game.
“Someday, perhaps,” she told him. A breeze began to rustle the trees. She felt it raise her flesh into goose pimples, and waken the whispers of Mai’s wonderful dress.
“There’s a part I’m casting in a movie that you might be right for.”
She laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. Was that the line he’d used on Bethanie and all the others? Well, hadn’t he cast Mary Jane before he bedded her?
“Yes, and I am Marie of Roumania,” she said, quoting Dorothy Parker.
He laughed in turn. “I know it sounds like the oldest line in Hollywood, but it’s true.”
“I’m very involved with Marty DiGennaro right now,” she said.
“And with Michael McLain?” he asked.
God, what was going on? He was flirting with her. And now what would she do? How many times would she let herself be hurt by this man? There was no way this was a good idea. She heard more laughter coming from the brightly lit room where the others had gathered. She could see the sparkle of crystal and the light of the chandelier reflected in the pool. Sam stood beside her, his own face obscured by the darkness.
Get away now, she told herself sternly. Get away and stay away. This time, don’t let anything start; stop the damage before it begins.
“That’s really none of your business,” she told him, and she left him there in the dark.
Michael McLain helped her into his car, deftly sweeping her trailing hem into the sedan before he slammed the door. He’d obviously had lots of practice. Then he circled to his side and got in.
Now that the ordeal of the party was over, Jahne felt as if she were waking from a dream, the very best dream of her life. But now her beauty, her achievement, her future weren’t going to dissolve with her awakening. She was desirable, she was successful, and she could control her destiny. What could be better than this—having blown off the man who hurt you, and now sitting beside this idol, this movie star, driving through the Hollywood Hills in a Rolls convertible? Jahne took a deep breath. She hadn’t just survived. She’d triumphed. She felt intoxicated, higher than she had ever been on wine or grass.
“Thank you for taking me,” she said to Michael. “It was kind of you.”
He laughed. “My pleasure,” he said. “But you must be new in town to be so polite.”
“Well, I know Sy asked you to do this, and I…”
“I owe him. Which, by the way, is just how Sy likes it.”
She smiled.
“So, how’s it going for you. Are you exhausted?”
“Yes!”
“Typical. Marty will work you to death, he’s such a perfectionist. And Sy will keep throwing supermarket openings at you if you’ll do them.”
Jahne laughed. “Well, I hate to say no right now. I mean, a year ago at this time, I couldn’t get arrested.”
“Oh, yeah. The good old days.” He took his eyes off the road and smiled at her. He had a nice smile.
“It’s really the Flanders Cosmetics stuff I hate,” she admitted. “I’m an actress, not a model or a saleswoman. But I couldn’t get the part without agreeing to the hookup.” She sighed. “The sessions take hours. I pose till I hurt.”
“I’m sure the money doesn’t hurt,” Michael said. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We all had to struggle to survive. Even Elizabeth sells perfume.”
When they pulled up to the house, she found herself inviting him in. He shrugged, nodded, and took her hand as they walked to her door. She felt almost stunned by the feel of his hand in hers. She opened the door, then switched on lights.
“Sit down. I’ll get a bottle of something,” she said.
“Don’t take too long. I like looking at you,” he told her.
She felt attracted to him, undeniably. The cute smile wrinkles around his eyes, the long lines that made a parenthesis around his full, sensuous mouth. Well, he was a grown-up, not a boy like Pete. And certainly in Sam’s league. Maybe way past it. He was age-appropriate. Despite her streamlined exterior, she was, after all, approaching forty. And he must be over fifty. He had been a movie star she’d always had a crush on, and now he was sitting on her sofa, desiring her. He was Hollywood royalty—he was accepted in the highest circles by everyone.
“I like you,” Michael said simply, echoing her thought. “You’re nice. I’ll bet you could be very nice.”
She felt the compliment. Michael McLain had had every beautiful woman in Hollywood for the last two decades. Hadn’t they joked about that over dinner? And now he wanted her. In a way, it was almost like an invitation into a very exclusive sorority: the beautiful women’s club.
She took out the chilled bottle of white wine she kept for guests, grabbed two glasses, and joined Michael on the sofa. Her ego was dancing the tango, but she was also aroused and curious. His hand had been so warm, and his skin looked as if it had more blood flowing under it than other people’s did: it was a delicious flushed brown color. What did it feel like to make love with Michael McLain? Wouldn’t it be the perfect antidote to Sam? Because she was determined not to fall under Sam’s spell again. She had spent more than three years banishing thoughts of him, not allowing herself to daydream of him. She would not weaken now. She looked at Michael and imagined his lips on hers.
But then reason, or morality, or fear intervened. Are you going crazy? she asked herself. She didn’t even know him. What about AIDS? There was no such thing as casual sex anymore. This was the nineties. And Michael had been far from discreet in the past. Did she want her private life smeared across the tabloids? Worst of all, what about her scars? Making love with Pete, in complete darkness, was one thing, but Michael wouldn’t settle for that. What was she thinking
of?
“What are you thinking of?” he asked her, and she found herself blushing.
“I was thinking how comfortable it feels to sit here with you,” she lied, because she felt a lot of things—excited, sexy, nervous, titillated, flattered, unreal—but none of them were “comfortable.”
“Women say that to me all the time,” he laughed. “I think it’s because they’ve seen me on the screen, so they’re used to looking at me.”
She laughed. “Is that true?”
“I’m not joking,” he laughed back. “You’ll see. Once your show comes out, people will feel that they know you personally. They’ll come up to you on the street and call you by name. They’ll get your private phone number. They’ll write to you. They’ll dream of you.”
“That’s a spooky idea,” she agreed. She felt the hair on her arms raise with gooseflesh. “But I’ve always felt that, despite the disadvantages, fame is a valuable commodity—something you could use as a chip. Trade it for power and control over your life. Once I’ve risen out of obscurity, I hope I can use it to get some feature work. To get some really good parts.”
“You’ve already got some good parts,” he said, with a joking Groucho Marx leer. She laughed and felt another wave of gooseflesh. Surely this was an invitation. Oh, God! She felt like a schoolgirl.
She rose and walked to the window, looking down on the sparkling lights. “Isn’t this view beautiful?” she asked, as she watched the lights of the city glow like a carpet of giant fireflies.
Michael came up behind her, but he didn’t touch her, he didn’t push. “You like it, it’s yours,” he joked.
“No, it’s nobody’s,” Jahne said, still peering out at the lights. “This town is like water. You can hold on to it only so long; then it drips right through your fingers.”
Michael turned her gently so that she faced him. “A little cynical for someone so young, and so new to Hollywood. There was a time starlets trembled at this sight. Like it was a dream come true.” He sipped some of her wine and made a face. It wasn’t very good. “Are you a cynic, Jahne? Or are you very wise?”
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