Now, before he started the action, he had to straighten Lila out. He walked wearily up the stairs to her. “I already have you in the center,” he said to her. “I have you ahead of the other two. But I can’t have you alone. You are the center of the wedge, but I need you to let them be in the frame. Please, Lila!”
Lila tossed her hair. Since their aborted dinner, she’d been particularly cool to him. “I’m not cutting them out,” she huffed. “Can I help it if they can’t keep up with me?”
He sighed. She was an enormous pain sometimes, but here—at the improbable setting of the Pasadena Library, at the end of the day during the time of special light they call “magic hour”—she was breathtakingly beautiful.
He looked over to Jahne and Sharleen, both being powdered by Makeup. “You ready?” he asked. Sharleen nodded, but he could see she was rattled. He sighed again. Marty needed to get the shot tonight—he was already over budget and couldn’t afford the ungodly expensive Steadicam for another day.
“You look great, Sharleen. Now, just come down the stairs, and when you get to the bottom, turn to me and give the line. Okay?”
Sharleen nodded, silently.
Lila looked at the director with annoyance. What was he babying Sharleen for? Marty was one of Lila’s assets, although sometimes Marty lost his focus, gave too much camera time to Jahne or Sharleen, or too much attention. Since their dinner, Lila knew she would have to put things into balance again. Give Marty a threat or a promise of something, a jerk on the leash. Marty had been too patient with Sharleen as she flubbed her lines through the multiple takes. Lila needed to let Marty know she was someone to be dealt with. Remind him what he just might get from her in return for his…devotion? Well, attention, at least.
“How many times does the hillbilly have to blow a line before we’re allowed to go home?” Lila asked, loudly. “I have a date.” Let Marty chew on that for a while.
“Just hit your marks, okay?” Marty asked wearily, without admonishing Lila.
“Sharleen isn’t just a dumb blonde,” Lila said, emboldened. “If she dyed her hair brown, you know what they’d call it?”
The rest of the crew had gotten tired of Lila’s relentless put-downs of her costar. But the Steadicam operator, new to the set, fell for it. He looked at Lila questioningly.
“Artificial intelligence,” Lila said, and laughed.
Now that the day’s shooting was, at last, finished, Lila flounced to her car. Sharleen had, predictably, blown her line one last time; they’d lost the light and had to wrap for the day. Lila smiled. She didn’t look forward to her long drive from Pasadena to Malibu, or her date tonight. But she had to do it. She knew word of who she was dating would get back to Marty. This was the way to treat a man. At least, she thought it was.
Lila didn’t really like to think about it, but when she did she recognized that most of the men that she had grown up around were homosexuals. Her father was, or was bisexual—or probably omnisexual, if there was such a thing. Apparently his rule was, if it moved, fuck it. She knew about the famous statutory-rape case with the thirteen-year-old. Of course, that had been before she was born, but she’d seen Aunt Robbie’s scrapbooks, and the clippings were as complete as only a compulsive Virgo queen could make them.
Not that she’d spent much time around her father. He and the Puppet Mistress had divorced when she was a newborn. He’d shown up every now and then, but the PMS had custody, of course. Anyway, Lila hadn’t really known him, homo or not.
But she had known Robbie, and all those other gay men who hung around the PMS. There was her hairdresser, Jerry, and for a long time there was Theresa’s business manager, Sammy Bradkin, and then Bobby Meiser, her second business manager, and there was Ron Woodrow, her third business manager (the PMS had trouble with business), and Alain Something-or-Other, that totally hopeless, lisping cameraman, and the photographer whose name Lila couldn’t remember but whose idea of a hot time was to sit up all night and watch the PMS cry. And of course there had been Kevin. Disgusting, lying Kevin. He was still hanging out at her mother’s, Robbie said. Lila shuddered. Well, she was sick of them all.
But she had inherited one. Now it seemed that Robbie himself was switching his attention from Theresa to Lila. Where the action was. He was nothing but a fame junkie, totally beat, and Lila knew it. Almost as bad as Kevin, and always snooping. She could barely manage to keep him out of her shrine room. He had taken to saying “we” when talking about how Lila had gotten on the show. As if he had done something. Other than give her a bed, what had he done for her career? Sending her to George, for God’s sake? Humiliating her at Ara’s? What the fuck had he done? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. She had done all her own work. Aunt Robbie was getting confused. And getting to be a pain in her ass. If Lila weren’t sure that Robbie would go running back to the PMS the minute she sent him packing, she would have shut the door on him months ago. But she wouldn’t give the PMS the satisfaction.
So, anyway, Lila admitted, she had grown up around a bunch of queers. And all of them were “Uncle” Jerry, or “Uncle” Bobby or “Uncle” Somebody-or-Other—except, of course, for “Aunt” Robbie, who was way too much of a queen to allow himself to be called “uncle.” It wasn’t surprising that those were the men that she was most comfortable with. She supposed that’s why she said yes to Kevin: on some level, she knew.
Not that she approved. The thing about gays was that they were always thinking and talking about sex. It was so boring, for God’s sake. Sex was something she didn’t like to think about, much less talk about. Lila thought it was all mildly repulsive as well as ridiculous. Think about it: putting a flesh tube from one body into a flesh canal of another. She shuddered. Lila knew that more than almost anything she wanted to be sexy, but that less than almost anything she wanted to have sex. And with gays it seemed as if having sex was the main thing in life—like 90 percent—and they fit the rest into the 10 percent they had left over.
Of course, she realized, her perception could be a little, well, skewed or something, because of all the nutsiness with the PMS. And she’d been to shrinks since she was eleven, so it wasn’t as if she were stupid. She had hoped everything would change, once she grew up and had a place of her own. But now being on the set, in real life around heterosexual men, didn’t really seem that different from being with the gays. Well, they acted different, of course, but they all just wanted to fuck. It was only that now they wanted to fuck her.
She could see it in their eyes. Lila divided heterosexual men into two categories. One was the men like Marty and Michael McLain, who loved women so much, and wanted to be with them, and noticed everything about them. How they dressed, how they smelled, how they moved, even how they thought. That type might as well be homo, as far as Lila was concerned. They made her sick. Then there was the other type, the guys like Sy Ortis and that fat worm Paul Grasso, who talked about tits and beaver but really only liked making deals and hanging around with a bunch of guys. Come to think of it, that type was like homos, too. They were all homos.
The whole thing gave her a headache, one of those sick migraines, if she thought about it too much. So she didn’t, because all she had to know was one basic fact: men were generally useless, and she hated them. She hated the gays and the straights, she hated how they talked, how they walked. She hated how they were hairy, how they thought they owned the whole fucking world, how they blotted her out, how, even when they wanted her, they made her feel like nothing. She didn’t trust one of them. She feared them all. And she hated them all, even Robbie, even Marty. Especially Marty. There was no doubt in her mind: Lila hated men.
The thing was, no matter how much she hated men, Lila knew she hated women more.
Her mother most of all, of course. That went without saying. But now, on the set, Lila’s hatred had taken on a broader focus, you should excuse the pun. Working with Jahne and Sharleen had given her daily practice in woman-hating. Up until this show, Lila had never had much contact with wom
en. Theresa wasn’t exactly what you would call a woman’s woman: she had no “girlfriends.” Nor was she a man’s woman, considering the males she surrounded herself with.
So, it wasn’t difficult for Lila to understand how she’d gotten to be this way. Weird. A loner. It was realistic, really. Why have anyone close enough to compete? Only Candy and Skinny, and Lila still hated them. Estrella had been the only real female around when Lila was growing up and living in the Puppet Mistress’s house, but she didn’t count. A Mexican, and a servant.
Now Lila had two women, her own age, beautiful, very close: too close for comfort. She wasn’t used to the smell of women, seeing their beauty every day, right there, in her face. It made her nervous. It made her angry. Because Jahne and Sharleen—while no competition—were a presence. A presence that others saw, considered, sought opinions of, fawned over. Not Marty so much—right now Marty was the only one who counted on the set, after Lila—but the others.
Thank God, Marty was giving Lila all kinds of special attention. Well, that was the way it should be. As far as she was concerned, the other two dummies could look out for themselves.
For most of Lila’s solo scenes, she knew all eyes were on her. But for the group scenes, when all three women were in front of the camera, Lila felt—almost heard—the clicking of eyes and camera as they went back and forth from Lila to Skinny to Candy, back and forth, as if there weren’t enough to look at. As if Lila weren’t enough.
So Marty, as director, was the key. Lila couldn’t control what people did with their eyes, but she could control what the camera lens focused on. She could control that by controlling Marty.
Lila had known, since the night she’d met him with Paul Grasso, what drove Marty. Beauty, of course. And talent, but not as much as beauty. What tipped the scales for Marty—compelled Marty—and what Lila traded on—was elusiveness: being always just a little out of reach, promising but unattainable. Wasn’t that the essence of beauty? She had the mystery that Sharleen and Jahne lacked. It was the tantalizing that Marty—and so many men like him—relished. Merle Oberon, and all the other old-time actresses that Lila knew Marty worshipped. Jennifer Jones. Paulette Goddard. And Theresa O’Donnell. Lila knew what they all had in common.
They could not be possessed. They teased. As she would tease. For Lila, it was easy. She had no intention of delivering anything of herself, except on camera. And she had every intention of making Marty believe otherwise. Lila had perfected that talent, that magic. She’d watched her mother, and her mother’s old films. She was smart enough to know that she should use every asset she was given. In that respect, she knew she was smarter than the other two. They were so middle-class, so open, giving too much. They didn’t understand how to hold something back. She would be the one who succeeded, big-time.
Now she wondered if Robbie’s stupid gossip was, for once, trustworthy. If it was true that Michael McLain was doing a Ricky Dunn film, and that he also was being considered for the lead in Birth of a Star. Well, she’d find out over dinner with him tonight. Her earlier refusals just made him try harder. And if seeing her name linked with Michael’s made Marty try harder, all would be well.
Michael McLain sat across from Lila in the vast, high-ceilinged dining room of the Beverly Wilshire and smiled. Lila noticed the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, which spread, weblike, into his temples. His skin was still good—well, it would be, since she knew for a fact he has two facials a week from Gydia—but she wondered how much longer it could hold out. Jesus, how old was he, anyway? She imagined having to kiss him on camera and felt her stomach turn. But maybe the part was for Ricky Dunn’s girlfriend. At least he was no wrinkle-bunny. Well, even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t hurt her to costar with Michael. After all, she was savvy enough to appreciate the benefits of a slip yoke like this one. He had been a great star of the past, and she planned to be a great star in the future. If kissing him was a necessary rung on the ladder, she’d kiss him.
“My, my, my. You’re a big girl now, Lila. How long has it been since I saw you last?”
Oh, Christ, was this going to be another one of those old Hollywood walks down memory lane? A remember-the-party-at-the-Nivens’-that-Christmas bullshit rap? She didn’t mind pulling out the nostalgia for Marty, but with Michael she had expected something a little hipper. She reminded herself that he could help her cross over from TV to features, and flashed him her biggest smile. “Not since I was six, or maybe seven. It was my birthday party, I think.”
“Really?” She could see him back off that. She had to hide her own smile. Like Theresa, he was one of those Hollywood mummies who wanted to exploit old times and connections while denying how very old they were. Well, Lila knew how that game was played. Just be positive about the connection, but hazy about the time. So she smiled at him. “You used to come over to our place a lot,” she purred. “I really missed you when you stopped coming around.”
“Your mom still live in Bel Air?”
Christ, everyone knew she did. The estate was still the hottest piece of property in town, even if the house was a tear-down. “Like she’d ever leave, except feet first. No, Theresa’s still there, but I’m in Malibu. I live in Nadia Negron’s house. She starred in the silent-film version of Birth of a Star.” Let’s get the subject back on track, she figured.
“Really? Where? I lived in Malibu for a while.” And before she had a chance to get him onto the subject of Birth, he launched into some long story about the seventies, Steve McQueen, some grotty house party and mescaline on the beach. Real old-fashioned stuff. Mega-lame. She tried to nod at the right places. She knew that, if she blinked a lot, it kept her eyes wet and made them shine. That usually helped. Finally, it was over.
“I guess those were the days.”
Michael cleared his throat. Shit! She’d made him feel old again. Well, Jesus, he was. She smiled, then ran her tongue over her teeth. She would have to do some makeup time here. Get Michael all comfy again. The waiter brought their blackened fish and twinkled confidentially at both of them, like he wouldn’t be feeding any conversation he overheard to the columns tomorrow. Still, Lila smiled.
“So, you really knew Steve McQueen?” she asked, opening her eyes wide.
10
“You think I don’t know people are laughin’ at me? ’Cause I don’t know how to talk and I don’t know how to dress or anything like that?” Sharleen asked, teary-eyed. “I know they are, but I just try to ignore it. It’s what my mother told me to do when the girls in school made fun of me.”
Jahne nodded, handing Sharleen another tissue. Out of pity, she had followed her back to her trailer after the Steadicam sequence finally wrapped. It was the first time they’d spent any time together alone.
“You know, it might be easier for you if we could run lines together.”
“Run lines? You mean practice? Just us two?”
Jahne smiled at the girl. “Not practice, Sharleen. Rehearse. Actors call it ‘rehearsal,’ but if you are only rehearsing the dialogue, then we call it ‘running lines.’”
“Would you do that for me? But no. That would be too much trouble for you.”
“I’d love to, Sharleen. I could use the rehearsal myself,” Jahne lied. “Anyway, who else makes fun of you?” She was feeling guilty for her own private jokes about Sharleen.
“Well, Lila, of course. Look what she did back there. She gets me all flustered. I know she don’t mean nothin’, that she’s just nervous herself, but I get upset over it. I try so hard. Every night, I read my lines over and over. I practice them out loud, too. Dean helps me. I know he’s slow, but I guess I’m almost as dumb as he is. I know everyone on the crew hates to do it again and again, but I get so confused. And I’m so tired. It seems like I’m workin’ or takin’ lessons all the time I ain’t sleeping. It don’t help when Lila rags me.”
“Yes.” Jahne nodded grimly. “She does make fun. But she hates both of us. Try not to take it personally. Who else bothers you?”
“I don’t get it.”
“From The Beverly Hillbillies. Remember her?”
Jahne nodded. Of course. Barry Tilden was a bitter, funny, middle-aged gay guy. But he shouldn’t have mocked Sharleen before the crew. She was becoming the scapegoat.
“I know people think I’m ignorant, and I am. But I’m not deaf, dumb, and blind,” she sniffed.
“No, you’re not,” Jahne agreed, handing her another Kleenex. “And you’re not seven years old anymore, either. You’ve got some power. Do you know, if Barry Tilden insults you, you could get him fired?”
Sharleen lifted her head up, the long, lovely fringe of silvery blond hair falling away from her face like a white wimple. Despite her reddened eyes and her tears, Sharleen’s face was still beautiful. Jesus, Jahne thought, she’s even gorgeous when she cries. “Oh, I could never do that!” Sharleen said. “He’s a wage earner. Why, he might have children to feed.”
“Two Shih Tzus, more likely,” Jahne said dryly. “Anyway, the point is not that you would get him fired, but that you could if you wanted to. You’re important to this production. All the cast and crew’s jobs count on you and me and Lila. So no one should be making fun of you. You really could get them fired, just by telling Marty or Sy that you want them off the set.”
“Have you ever been fired?” Sharleen asked, her voice lower, calmer, and almost ominous.
Jahne, lying, shook her head.
“Well, I surely have. And nothin’ feels worse than losing a job when you got rent to pay and groceries to buy.”
Jahne smiled at Sharleen. “You’re a very nice person,” she said. “But, now, I’m not saying you should get Barry fired. Just let him know you know you could do it.”
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