by Joe Keenan
“No, ’fraid not. We have an agent here and other job offers and we mean to take them.”
“Oh, trust me, hon,” said Sonia with a vinegary snicker, “those offers are gonna go away real fast.”
“Are they?” Claire turned to Stephen. “I notice Gina didn’t come along today.”
“Leave Gina out of this,” he said sharply.
“It seems to me you’re the one leaving her out. She doesn’t know, does she?”
“Of course, she knows,” said Diana a shade too quickly. “She was too upset to come with us.”
Claire said, “Then you won’t mind my calling her to offer my condolences? She gave me her cell number so we could share thoughts about the script.”
“You keep away from her!” warned Stephen.
“You haven’t told her. And you don’t intend to. She’s a bit of a loose cannon, your Gina. Not the brightest bulb on the marquee and not exactly the soul of discretion. She told me all about your aunt’s memoir and her fear that Lily might rehash the malicious, ‘ completely unfounded ’ rumor that you’ve slept with men. You’re terrified that if she finds out she’ll divorce you and tell anyone who asks why. She might even write a book of her own.”
Sonia was incredulous to the point of apoplexy.
“Are you threatening my client?!”
“Sorry, love, was I not being clear? Yes, I’m threatening your client and frankly, you truculent toad, I have every right to. How dare you presume it’s our duty to safeguard your reputations even as you blacken ours, firing us and telling the whole town we’re plagiarists!”
“But you are plagiarists!” said Sonia triumphantly.
“And your client did fuck an Oscar! And if you smear us, his wife will hear about it.”
“That’s telling ’em, Claire!” shouted Gilbert.
Stephen shot me a look of pleading disbelief as though he were being mugged and I was a nearby patrolman tending to my nails with an emery board.
“Believe me, Stephen, this wasn’t my idea! Claire’s her own woman!”
He wheeled on her, his face a mask of aggrieved astonishment.
“So you’re just going to destroy my marriage?!”
“No, you are,” parried Claire, “if you don’t call off your pit bull and let us finish our work.”
“Right!” said Gilbert. “It’s time you people stopped blaming your problems on us. It’s not our fault!”
“Fuck you!” spat Stephen. “It was you two that dragged me to the damn spa!”
“For a massage! You’re the one who decided to throw an open house in his ass!”
“And just what,” added Claire, “were you planning to do about ‘Glen’ here? Do you really want to pull your spy out now, just when Lily’s getting to the good stuff? Or do you have the Olympian gall to imagine Philip will go on doing your dirty work after you’ve dragged him through the mud? Honestly, have you people thought this through at all?”
It was clear from Stephen’s and Diana’s expressions that they had not, recent events having consigned Lily’s memoir to the back burner. I sensed too from the vexed glance Diana gave Stephen that she saw Claire’s point. They could hardly fire me off Project A, permit Sonia to skip rope with my entrails, and still expect me to provide cheerful service on Project B. And while Cavanaugh the Screenwriter could be liquidated without consequence, Cavanaugh the Mole remained a crucial asset.
“Look, Sonia,” sighed Stephen, “maybe we’re letting our emotions get the better of us.”
“YOU DO NOT NEED THESE PEOPLE!” shouted Sonia, beside herself at the thought that her scimitar might rust, unused. “We can get someone else to ghost Lily’s book!”
“Not if we warn her, you can’t,” said Claire.
“ More threats!! Jesus, Stephen, are you gonna let these traitors, these nobodies, blackmail you?”
“There’s a difference,” said Claire, “between blackmail and self-defense. Which, I believe,” she added, glancing toward the foyer, “we’re about to see illustrated.”
A throat cleared and the rest of us, startled, turned toward the foyer.
“I’m glad everyone’s here,” said Moira with a placid smile. “Saves so much trouble.”
I SUSPECT MOST OF you will concur by this point that a little Sonia goes a long way, so I’ll spare you the volcano of vitriol she disgorged on learning that our visitor was the proprietress of Les Étoiles. Moira did not interrupt or try to defend herself. She listened with the patience of a lass who has long known that one’s victims like to get these things off their chests and the experienced villainess does not take them personally. When Sonia had finally barked herself hoarse, the rest of us agreed it might be best to hear what Moira had to say.
Moira rose and addressed us with infuriating warmth, as though she were not the depraved architect of our misery but some benevolent grief counselor to whom we’d turned for succor.
“First I want you all to know...I get it. You’re angry, you’re scared, you’re freaked out. All totally valid emotions. You feel like your whole world’s coming to an end. But, here’s the headline—it’s not. So lighten up! I don’t blame you for what you’ve done—”
“Blame us?! ” Diana snorted incredulously.
“I’m talking now. I mean, assaulting me in my own hotel, stealing my car. I was plenty mad about that. But, hell, you were mad at me too, and if we can’t put all that behind us and move on, then where are we? I’ll be taking my car back of course. As for the laptop”— she chuckled, ever the good sport—“I don’t expect you’ll be handing that over. Or the disks. You’re not idiots. But neither am I.
“Did you really think those were my only copies—just what was on the laptop and those disks? Or that I kept everything I had in the office where Kim could steal them if she got greedy, leaving me with nothing? Trust me, kids, I have backups of everything. Or don’t trust me.”
She reached into her Hermès bag, removed a DVD, and tossed it to Stephen.
“Take a look at that, then ask yourself if I’d be giving it to you if it were my only copy. And in case you’re wondering, yes, Oscar’s on there. So, nice try, kids,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “but I’m still driving the car.”
Stephen, who, from his expression, wouldn’t have cared at this point if the car were being driven by Thelma and Louise, stared bleakly at the disk on his lap. Sonia, her spent bile duct having replenished itself, lumbered to her feet and began frothing in injudicious proximity to Moira’s face.
“You snotty bitch! You will hand over EVERY COPY or I will rip your FUCKING HEART right out of your chest! ARRGH!” she added, for Moira had just pepper-sprayed her.
“I’ll KILL you for that!” roared Sonia. She lunged blindly at Moira, who calmly sidestepped her, then, applying the sole of her Manolo to Sonia’s ample fanny, sent her crashing chins first into a Bang & Olufsen subwoofer.
“Honestly, Stephen,” sighed Moira, distastefully eyeing her crumpled foe. “You should really consider hiring someone who can calm down and just take a damn meeting.”
“You vile woman!” wailed Diana. “How can you do this to my son?”
“I haven’t done anything yet. And forgive my frankness, but you of all people should know what a woman has to do to get ahead in this town.”
Diana, stiffening at the suggestion that her success could be ascribed to anything save diligence and prayer, glared at Moira, then helped Sonia to her feet.
“So,” said Claire, “is that what this was all about? The spa, the boys, the blackmail? All just your slimy little way of jump-starting your film career?”
“Sorry, I missed that. Did the plagiarist say something?”
Claire glowered briefly at Moira, then shot me her “Have-Ithanked-you-today?” look. Meanwhile Moira, back in therapist mode, sat beside Stephen, her manner earnest and comforting.
“I know how painful this is for you. You think your whole career is ruined. But it’s not. It’s going to go on, stronger than ever. And I
’m going to be part of it. That’s been my whole purpose, my dream from the beginning — to be in business with you.”
“Dream is right!” said Diana with woozy hauteur. “My Stephen would never make a picture for the likes of you!”
“He already has, dear,” noted Moira.
“If you show a single person one frame of that defamatory —!”
“Let her talk, Ma!” snapped Stephen.
“Thank you, Stephen,” Moira said and proceeded to outline the future they would share.
They would become partners. They would, effective immediately, form a company called Finch/Donato Productions. It would be headquartered at Pinnacle, which, at Stephen’s insistence, would permit them to greenlight at least three pictures a year with Stephen starring in at least one every other year. The partnership would be totally equal profitwise, Moira not being the least bit greedy. And, as it was already in preproduction, the company’s first feature would be The Heart in Hiding.
“So, what do you say, partner?” Moira smiled, extending a hand to shake. Stephen just stared at it, aghast at the thought of forming a public alliance with this grinning pathogen.
“I have a production company.”
“Dissolve it.”
“If you think for one goddamn INSTANT —!”
“Oh, shut up, Sonia!” said Moira. “If you want Stephen to keep you on you’d better learn a little respect for his partners. Because he is going to say yes.” She returned her high beams to Stephen. “We both know it. I mean, ask yourself, where do you want me? Outside looking in, or working beside you, totally invested in your success? Think how much easier you’ll sleep knowing I’d never do a thing to harm you since your loss would be mine. That’s called security, Stephen, and it is my gift to you. Trust me, in six months you’ll be glad this happened— I plan to be one hell of a partner! You have to admit I’m pretty darn resourceful. What I want I get. And now all that skill, all that drive, will be working for you—so smile already!”
She extended her hand again and this time Stephen meekly shook it. Moira, beaming like a pageant winner, exuberantly embraced her prey, who numbly addressed Gilbert and me over her shoulder.
“Thanks for the introduction, guys.”
“Don’t mention it,” chirped Gilbert, the second Bloody having dulled his ear for subtext.
“This is so wonderful!” gushed Moira, as though the deal had been struck with the utmost mutual delight. She then pulled a document from her bag and gave it to Sonia. “Here’s the press release. Oh, and if any of you have plans for Thursday, cancel ’em — I’m throwing a launch party at the spa!” She then produced a star-studded guest list, saying she felt confident that despite the short notice, most of those on it would not miss the chance to wish Stephen good luck on his exciting new venture. She bade us farewell and practically skipped out to the foyer, turning at the door.
“Please have the script for The Heart in Hiding messengered to me. Oh, and Claire, love—you and the boys should call me Monday. Say threeish?”
“What on earth for?” snarled Claire.
Moira bared her teeth in a smile.
“My notes, silly.”
Nineteen
THREE DAYS LATER THE ACADEMY AWARD nominations were announced and Stephen, as had been universally predicted, scored a Best Actor nod for his performance in Lothario. I did not speak to my beloved, who failed, to my chagrin if not surprise, to return my congratulatory call. Even had we spoken I wouldn’t have dared ask to what extent his happiness over the honor had been blighted by the irony recent events had bestowed on it, or by the article that graced the front page of Variety the very same morning.
Titled “Finch Perches on Donato’s Shoulder,” it ran as follows:
Stephen Donato, widely seen as a shoo-in for an Oscar nom, announced plans today to shutter his successful production company, Monogram, and form a new company in partnership with Moira Finch, widow of the legendary producer Albert Schimmel.
Finch, who has no producing credits, is best known as the proprietress of Les Étoiles, the Bel-Air spa that has found favor with some of the town’s biggest names, Donato among them. “The minute I met Moira I knew she was an extraordinary person,” said Donato. “We got to talking and it was obvious Albert had taught her everything he knew about filmmaking. I was blown away.”
Finch said she’d coaxed Schimmel out of retirement and the pair were developing several projects at the time of his death. Stunned by her loss, she shelved the projects and opened Les Étoiles. “Then one night Stephen asked me what Albert and I had been working on and he just immediately connected with the material.” The clincher for Donato came when he attempted to option a novel he’d admired, only to find Finch had recently acquired the rights. “That’s when I said, ‘Whoa, this is fate! We are totally meant to be in business together.’ ”
“Stephen has an amazing eye for talent and Moira Finch is a true visionary,” added Donato’s publicist, Sonia Powers.
Finch/Donato’s maiden effort will be The Heart in Hiding. The World War II drama, which also stars Donato’s mother, Diana Malenfant, and wife, Gina Beach, will be a coproduction with Pinnacle Pictures and Bobby Spellman’s My Way Productions.
THE PREVIOUS MORNING MOIRA had messengered hundreds of invitations to her impromptu launch party and, thanks to Stephen’s nomination, nary a single available star declined to attend. Given the place we now occupied in Stephen’s affections I was initially surprised that our lowly trio was invited as well. Then I realized it was Moira’s party, not Stephen’s, and that in her view nothing perked up a coronation so much as having one’s subjugated foes on hand to bear witness.
Claire, unsurprisingly, declined to attend. Claire, in fact, wanted nothing further to do with the lot of us or The Heart in Hiding, condemning me to write the second draft with only Gilbert’s “assistance.” I begged her to reconsider but her rebuff was blunt and withering.
“Are you mad? ” she asked hotly. “Work for Moira? Take her notes? ‘Yass, Miss Finch, no, Miss Finch’? I’d sooner seek work as a carnival geek! I’d sooner emcee cockfights! I’d sooner clean toilets— nay, portable toilets!— or apprentice myself to a rat catcher before I’d spend one minute answering to that gloating succubus! Do not, please, ask me again!”
It was just as well for Claire that she skipped the party since she’d have ground her teeth to powder watching Moira’s elaborately stage-managed apotheosis. For starters there was the guest list, which was hardly less glittering than the Oscars themselves. The decor too would have given her ample cause to wish she’d worn her night guard. How it must have maddened Stephen to see that Moira had already designed their company’s logo and had it reproduced on napkins, bunting, and a huge bas-relief wall plaque. The lead time required to fabricate these items served as a constant galling reminder of how long and confidently Moira had presumed she’d come to own him.
One of the things that most vexes us bitter alumni of Moira University is the depressing fact that those whose pelts she has not yet harvested invariably find her delightful. She’s quite pretty in a peppy young Mary Tyler Moore sort of way and, when she chooses to be, relentlessly charming. She’s a diligent researcher and expert flatterer; her praise never sounds like the star-struck effusions of a mere fan but the carefully weighed opinion of a savvy insider. (When extolling a performance she always speaks gravely of its “layers.”)
I’d once watched her turn a roomful of cold-blooded mafiosi into fawning admirers but I’d never seen her play a crowd as adroitly as she did on the night Les Étoiles lived so gloriously up to its name. She realized early on that the best way to meet Everyone was to lasso herself to Stephen. Then as each grandee approached to offer congratulations, he was compelled to introduce her, citing again the high esteem for her that had prompted their partnership. Moira, who can blush at will (and has never done so any other way), would then make droll, self-deprecatory jokes before lavishing praise on the Star, placing special emphasis on ab
ilities or past projects the Star felt had been unjustly neglected. Minutes later the Star would walk away, marveling at the acuity and sweetness of the woman who’d just fled him away in her Potential Victims pool.
My invitation had said “plus guest” and it had occurred to me what a treat it would be for Billy Grimes. To actually hobnob with Stephen was his highest aspiration, and when I invited him over the incline press he shrieked and kissed me in a manner that raised eyebrows even in a West Hollywood gymnasium.
Not having spoken to Stephen since Saturday’s debacle, I was understandably nervous about how he’d receive me. I spent my first hour there ogling the celebs and sipping champagne to bolster my courage. Finally, at what seemed a good moment, I dragged Billy over to Stephen and Moira, who’d just bade farewell to Dustin Hoffman.
“Phil-ip!” sang Moira. “So glad you could come! Mwah! Who’s your friend?”
I introduced Billy, who promptly began babbling to Stephen in exactly the manner I’d prayed he wouldn’t. To make matters worse, he produced a camera from his jacket and asked if he could have a picture with him.
“Have we met?” asked Stephen, dimly recognizing him.
“I tend bar at your mom’s restaurant. Gosh, I’m so sorry my dad was such a dickhead that day!”
“Oh, right,” said Stephen, his smile looking genuine for the first time all evening. “You’re Rusty’s son.”
“Guilty as charged!” replied Billy with a honking laugh.
Stephen patted the sofa next to him. Billy gave me the camera, then sat beside his dream man, who draped an arm suggestively around his shoulder and abruptly kissed his cheek on “Cheese!”
“Wow! Thanks!” gushed Billy, who suddenly had cause to wish he’d worn baggier pants. “I think I’ve got next year’s Christmas card!”
Stephen grinned. “Be sure you send one to your dad.”
I smiled too even as I wondered if it was quite wise for Stephen to be goading the DA just as he’d acquired a partner of more than passing interest to the vice squad. I shot him a wry yet cautionary look. The gaze he returned was crushingly aloof and I shuffled morosely away like a puppy that’s just soiled the sisal.
