by Jane Heller
My own career took an interesting turn shortly after my mother’s appearance on Jack’s show. Mickey called to say that Hal Papush, a director of small, independent films, was casting a new comedy and wanted me to come in and read for the part of a woman who steals the parking space of the main character.
“It’s not a big part, kid, and they don’t have much of a budget, but it’s something,” said Mickey.
“You bet it’s something,” I said, delighted by this development. “How did he hear about me?”
“According to his assistant, he saw you in Pet Peeve and remembered your spunk. Like I said, it’s only a scene, maybe two, but it puts you back in the ball game.” Back in the ball game indeed. So Pet Peeve wasn’t a noose around my neck anymore, in spite of Jack Rawlins’s review.
I went and read for the role of the parking space thief and, miracle of all miracles, snagged the job. It occurred to me that the fact that I was Helen Reiser’s daughter probably nudged the director into hiring me, but I didn’t care. I was thankful for the part, ecstatic to have it. Unfortunately, my ecstasy was tempered when my mother called one night, sounding oddly girlish, and hit me with stunning news.
“I’m in love,” she announced, following several seconds of giggles.
“What do you mean?” I said, because my mother hadn’t used the “L” word in connection with any man but my father, not for my entire adult life.
“Oh, Stacey, I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure. But now I am sure. Victor loves me and I love him.”
“Who the hell is Victor?” I said. It was true that since my mother had become as famous as Madonna, I didn’t see or speak to her as often as I used to, but she had never even mentioned that she was dating anyone, never even mentioned that she was in the market for a man.
“He’s a catch, that’s who he is,” she cooed. “He’s smart and rich and sooo handsome, and he treats me like a queen. Oh, and he’s terrific in the sack.”
“Stop!” This was crazy. My mother had never talked about sex before, except to warn me not to have it without a ring on my finger. She may have been vocal about other subjects, but when it came to sex, she was so uptight she’d wouldn’t even say the word out loud; she would spell it, as in: “I heard Gloria Marx’s daughter had s-e-x with her tennis pro.” And now here she was, extolling her new boyfriend’s prowess in the bedroom? “What I mean is, I think you should slow down and start from the beginning. How did you meet this guy?”
“Through Arnold. Well, not really through Arnold. I was sitting in the waiting room at Arnold’s agency, and Victor was sitting there, too, and we struck up a conversation.”
“Is Arnold his agent?” I asked.
“No. Victor was there to see one of the other agents. Oh, Stacey, it was straight out of a movie. Pure magic. He approached me in that waiting room, very much the gentleman, and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Ms. Reiser, but I get a bang out of your television appearances. You’re so unique.’ I was flattered, naturally, and said, ‘I don’t mind the intrusion at all.’ Then he introduced himself and we continued talking and before I knew it he was inviting me to lunch.”
“Does this Victor have a last name?”
“It’s Chellus. Victor Chellus. He’s in his late sixties— sixty-seven, I think—and he’s retired.”
“From what?”
“Oh, my, he did a little of everything, from the sound of it. He was a producer, a real estate developer, an investor in different businesses, and who knows what else. Everything he touched turned to gold, judging by the mansion in Beverly Hills. And to think that he could have any woman in Hollywood and he picked me. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Amazing” wasn’t the word for it. “Suspicious” was. Not that my mother didn’t have her charms. But, as I’ve said, the men in this town tend to go for women my age or younger. It wasn’t the norm for one of them to fall head over heels for a matronly midwestem sixtysomething like Mom, no matter how successful she’d become. Not unless he was broke.
“You say Victor has money?” I asked, feeling yet again that my mother and I had swapped roles. In the old days, she was the one who’d quiz me about the state of my boyfriends’ finances.
“I told you, dear. He lives in an enormous house in Beverly Hills. He has staff, he has limousines, he even has his own movie theater right off the living room with a chaise that converts into a bed. The first time we made—”
“When do I get a look at him?” I cut her off before she could utter another syllable about s-e-x. I was having enough trouble absorbing the romance part.
“Whenever you say,” she replied. “I’ve told him all about you, of course. He feels as if he knows you.”
“Well, he doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. Which is why I don’t think you should rush into anything here, not until I’ve checked him out.”
She laughed. “So you’re the mother now, Stacey? You don’t trust me to bring home a good one?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mom. It’s just that your life has changed dramatically since your first Fin’s commercial. You’ve become a household name. People want things from you, want to hang around you, and their motivations might not be legitimate. I’d hate to see you get taken in by—”
“Oh, so you don’t think a man could want me for me?”
“I didn’t mean that, Mom. I meant that you’re not in Cleveland anymore. People in Hollywood aren’t always what they seem.”
“Stacey, Stacey. Don’t be such a party pooper. Listen to your mother and be happy about this. You’ll meet Victor and you’ll love him as much as I do. Maybe he’s even got a handsome young friend for you. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Incredible. Not only had my mother eclipsed me in the professional arena; she had now outdone me in matters of the heart. In meeting this Victor person, she’d been able to accomplish what I hadn’t: she’d found a man to love. Yes, she had a boyfriend and I did not, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t suck.
Still, she’d urged me to be happy for her, and I would certainly try to be. It was entirely possible that Victor really was the gem she’d made him out to be, in which case I would be the quintessential Miss Congeniality around him, nothing but supportive and encouraging of their relationship.
But if he was a bad guy, I’d nail him to the wall.
fifteen
I had a good excuse for not meeting Victor just yet. I was rehearsing for and then shooting my one scene in Money, the arty little comedy directed by Hal Papush. Since the film’s budget was about six cents, I didn’t get to do any traveling—we did my scene on Highland Avenue in the Hancock Park section of L.A.—but it felt great to be in the company of actors again, great to be among the technical people, great to be working.
The star of the film was an Australian actor named Alex Hart, and he was funny and sweet and very generous to me, complimenting me on my approach to the scene, offering suggestions, making me feel as if I were truly engaged in a collaborative effort.
Basically, my part called for me to parallel park my car into the space that Alex was simultaneously backing his car into, for our cars to collide, and for us to storm out of them and hurl obscenities at each other, with him ultimately turning on the charm and convincing me not to call the police. What my character didn’t know was that Alex’s character was in the midst of a jewelry heist and that my character was fouling things up for him. Anyhow, the scene went well and Alex told me to stay in touch, and as I packed up for the day I was in excellent spirits.
Before going home, I lingered on the set to chat with Hal Papush, the director, who was friendly to me in spite of the fact that he was the big cheese and I was an actress with only a handful of lines. At one point, I said, just fishing around for a little positive feedback, “So, Hal, your first look at my work was in Pet Peeve, the Jim Carrey movie?”
He had lots of people vying for his attention at that moment, and so when he replied, “I never saw Pet Pee
ve,” I assumed he was merely distracted and not focusing. Mickey had told me that the reason Hal had asked me to read for the film was precisely because he’d seen me in Pet Peeve. I remembered the conversation clearly.
I tried again. “Hal, you did see Pet Peeve. You—or maybe it was the person who does casting for you—said to my agent, Mickey Offerman, that you thought my performance had spunk.”
He glanced at me, eyebrow arched. “You’ve got me confused with somebody else.”
Strange. “But if you didn’t see me in Pet Peeve, why did you hire me for Money?”
Before he could answer, one of his assistants commandeered his attention briefly. When he was free again, I posed my question once more.
“I hired you because you’ve got friends in high places,” he said with a wry smile.
I tried to process this. So he hadn’t seen Pet Peeve but had hired me because someone had asked him to? Someone with clout? Someone with the same last name as mine, perhaps?
Yup. That had to be it. He’d hired me because of my mother, not because of my work. Well? What was I supposed to do? Cry about it? Make a stink? Demand that he unhire me? Of course not. So my mother had exerted her newfound power and gotten me a break. Maybe Arnold was Hal’s agent as well as hers, and she’d asked him to call in a favor to his other client. As I said, I’d suspected it was something like that, deep down. I was the daughter of America’s Most Famous Mother now, so there were bound to be times when I’d be riding her coattails. But you know what? I was finally at the stage where I accepted the situation instead of resented it. Yes, I was grateful for the job, very grateful, even if it did come through her. “It was sweet of my mother to intervene on my behalf,” I said, as much to Hal as to myself.
“Sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
Was he distracted again? “I meant that I’m okay with having my mother pull some strings for me,” I said. “I realize how lucky I am to have ‘friends in high places,’ as you put it.”
He laughed. “I’ve seen your mother do her thing on television, and I think she’s outrageously funny—a total original—but she’s not the one who whispered in my ear about you.”
“No?” Now I was really confused.
“No, it was Jack Rawlins. For whatever reason, the guy loves my films and enjoys helping me discover new talent. When he heard I was making Money, he suggested I get in touch with your agent.”
Jack? Jack Rawlins? I felt my heart explode, so unprepared was I for this bulletin. So he was the one who helped me land the job? The ambitious little prick actually did me a favor?
I tried to act cool, to not hyperventilate, but I was caught off guard and had a zillion thoughts running around in my head and couldn’t—
Oh, wait I got it. Yeah, I understood it now. When my mother was a guest on his show, she must have let it slip—despite my begging her not to—that I had encouraged her to schedule the appearance. In response, he must have figured he owed me one. This was just the favor for favor he’d talked about, the one-hand-washing-the-other business. Well, at least he’d kept his part of the deal, I had to give him that. “So Jack called you—what?—like a few weeks ago? Right after my mother was a hit on Good Morning, Hollywood?”
“Hey, as I said, I think your mother’s a riot, but I have no idea when she did Jack’s show. He called me about you a while ago. He told me he’d had drinks with you the night before and that you were someone I should take a look at.”
Jack had called Hal Papush the day after I’d thrown the ginger ale in his face? Before my mother had even done his show? What was that about?
“Uh-oh. I just remembered that I wasn’t supposed to tell you all that,” Hal added with a semi-embarrassed chuckle. “Jack specifically asked me not to mention that he was the one who gave me your name.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, and I blew it. Oh well.” He shrugged, as if betraying confidences is no big deal, which, in Hollywood, it isn’t. “So what’s the story with you two? Does he have the hots for you or something?”
The hots for me. Right. “No, no. It’s not like that.” Then what was it like? Jack had not only given Hal my name but asked to remain my anonymous benefactor. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I was definitely intrigued.
I decided to write Jack a thank-you note. I figured I could control what I’d put down on paper much better than I could control what I’d say on the phone, so it seemed like the best course of action.
I was appreciative in the note, as well as apologetic about my behavior at the Four Seasons, and I expressed a desire for us to bury the hachet and be friends.
The very day I mailed the note, I received one from Jack.
How odd, I thought when I opened it. Talk about being on the same wavelength as another person.
It, too, was a thank-you note. Apparently, my mother had let it slip that I was the reason she had done his show, but she’d led it slip to Jeanine, her publicist The little tidbit had only recently made its way from Jeanine to one of the show’s producers to Jack himself, which was why he was writing to me at this late juncture to thank me.
He was appreciative in the note, as well as apologetic about his behavior at the Four Seasons, and he expressed a desire for us to bury the hachet and be friends.
“On the same wavelength” was an understatement! We had used the identical language in our notes, the identical tone, too. The combination of the similarity in our approaches and the timing of them was more than intriguing. It was downright thrilling.
When Jack received my note, he called, laughing. “I think it’s official: we must have been separated at birth.”
“Right. The nurses dubbed us the Thank-You-Note Twins before they sent us to live with different families,” I said, laughing, too. I also noticed that he had placed the call himself, instead of having Kyle, his assistant, handle it, and I took that as a sign that we had moved into new territory.
“Well, I, for one, am glad the separation’s over,” he said. “How about dinner Saturday night?”
This Saturday night? Well, I should say I’m busy, I thought. Play hard to get. Let him think I’m declining dinner invitations by the dozens. “I’d love to,” I said instead.
“Great. Should I bring a change of clothes or am I safe from another drink in the face?”
You should bring a change of clothes, I thought, my mind leaping instantly and wildly into a fantasy in which Jack Rawlins took me to dinner, brought me home, made love to me, and spent the night. Had such stirrings been there, lurking inside me, from the very beginning of our “relationship”? Or was I newly turned on by the fact that he had shown me such kindness? “You’re safe,” I said. “No more temper tantrums. You’ll be getting the Good Stacey as opposed to the Evil Stacey.” I wondered suddenly about the redhead, the one he’d been cutesy with at Cornucopia! Were they dating? Was his interest in me purely professional? Or did he find me as attractive as I found him, now that we were no longer mad at each other?
“Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing whichever Stacey shows up,” he said in a rather husky, suggestive voice that answered my questions without my having to ask them.
sixteen
In spite of the passionate and often X-rated images that danced in my head (Jack rushing over with a huge bouquet of flowers, Jack declaring his undying love for me, Jack ripping off my clothes before we even made it into the bedroom), I was determined to take this one slowly— this relationship, this romance, this professional association that had grown personal. In the past when I’d meet a man who held the promise of genuine boyfriendhood, particularly after a long dating drought, I would hurl myself into the relationship, just jump right in, regardless of the possible consequences. I was too willing, too eager, too dumb, and the result was always the same: the “I love you, Stacey” would be followed, three months or so later, by the “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Stacey.” I was like roadkill when it came to men. I’d never
see the tractor trailer coming.
But this time it would be different, I vowed, as I got ready for my dinner with Jack. I would be available and open and responsive, but I would not rush things. If my mother wanted to hurry love, that was her business.
“You look great,” said Jack when he arrived at my door to pick me up.
Swell, I thought. He kicks off the evening with a compliment and I’m not supposed to rush things? He was the one who looked great, by the way. He looked great, smelled great, had great teeth. I’d never noticed the last one before, never been as close to him as I was at that moment.
“Thanks,” I said and invited him in. I had spent as much time spiffing my place up as I had spiffing myself up. My mother would have approved. “Can I get you a drink?”
He pretended to flinch, protecting his face with his hands. “Come on. You promised.”
“I meant a drink drink, silly. Scotch, isn’t it?”
“It is. I’m flattered that you remember.”
I remember almost everything about you, I thought, trying to rein in my hormones, settle myself down. It amazed me how my grudge against Jack had so suddenly and unexpectedly turned to—what? Lust? Infatuation? Respect? Gratitude? All of the above? Or was I kidding myself? Had I felt something for him right from the beginning, when he’d sauntered into Cornucopia! and we’d sparred for the first time? Or had the feelings surfaced at the Four Seasons when Jack had let down his guard and told me about his childhood, and was that why my subsequent angry reaction that night had been so over the top? Because my humiliation was more about my attraction to him than it was about his wanting my mother on his show?
I fixed Jack’s drink and a glass of wine for me and brought them out to the living room, where he was inspecting my collection of videos.
