Scruples Two

by Judith Krantz

  Redford and Nicholson wouldn’t lose. They would easily laugh their way through such massively ridiculous miscasting … no more than a glitch for each of them, not even that. But Vito! Vito had had the power to stop the exchange of parts as soon as it started. Vito could have fired that criminally insane Siegel boy, replaced him with any competent nonentity, and the picture, as written and originally cast, would have been a classic, a huge moneymaker for all of them.

  Ah, Vito, you persistent overreacher, you’ve finally made the fatal mistake for which Hollywood will never forgive or forget you … your first major picture, your first giant chance, your opportunity to lock in the success of your fluke Oscar, and you’ve screwed it up totally. No one in this town will fail to be delighted by your failure. Haven’t you been asking for it for a long, long time? Susan Arvey mentally crossed Vito Orsini’s name off the list of people with whom she intended to get even. There was nothing she could do to him that he hadn’t done to himself.

  Would Curt, she wondered, ever openly acknowledge that she had been the one to insist on the cross-collateralization, that she had seen the iceberg that sank the Titanic in time to save the ship? Possibly he would never give her the credit due her. It was late in life to realize you’d married a man as nonvalidating as your father, but there was no help for making such a classic mistake.

  Still and all, she was one up on Curt for two or three years—maybe four—and he knew it. When you resort to assuring each other how good the music had been after a screening, you’ve touched bottom. As Susan Arvey moved happily toward sleep she wished that her father, that blindly chauvinistic old bastard, had been here to listen to her performance tonight. But no, he was probably too busy turning over in his grave. In his day you could have bought a huge chunk of L.A. with thirty million dollars. And in his day he had.

  5

  Maggie MacGregor shoved her desk chair back on its rollers and put her legs up on her littered desk. The weekly meeting to plan her show was over; her executive producer, her line producer, her assistant producers, her writers and the rest of the drifting flotsam and jetsam who seemed necessary to the network to make the show work every week, had gone, taking their ceramic mugs and leftover doughnuts with them.

  Alone for the first time in hours, Maggie forgot the show they had all been busily planning, and considered the most important fact of the meeting. Not one person had so much as mentioned The WASP, not even in passing.

  The picture had not yet received a single review, not even in the Hollywood trade papers, whose reviews appear before those in the daily newspapers. Full-page newspaper ads had been appearing for two weeks, and first-run movie houses had been showing WASP trailers for several months. The picture was scheduled to open in three days in eight hundred theaters across the country and nobody, not the lowest of gofers present at the meeting, seemed to have heard of its existence.

  She would have sworn, Maggie thought, that none of her staff was capable of tact, but obviously she was mistaken. They had been supremely tactful, a roomful of people managing to totally ignore the presence of the decaying corpse of an elephant in their midst, an object that weighed a ton more than all of them put together and produced a frightful stench.

  Of course, if they had been great actors, they could have dared to just mention the picture in passing, lightly, as if it had no connection to her, but lacking that much talent they had wisely opted for blindness. Had they all gathered together before the meeting today and decided how to behave? They must have, she realized, for not one of them had put a single toe wrong, and such discipline from her usually irreverent and unruly troops was unthinkable unless it had been planned. In these meetings nothing was sacred, the lowest and most scurrilous of industry rumors were treated as ordinary fodder, there was no star big enough to inspire their respect, no potential story too scandalous or vulgar for them not to consider it within their territory.

  Maggie had assumed that they had all known about her and Vito for many months, probably longer, most likely since the beginning, since no such secrets could remain hidden to the people who worked for her, people who had been trained by her. Her own wide, well-established spy network, which stretched into every corner of the film business, would have reported on her to them—it was a matter of course. What she hadn’t realized was that the news about The WASP had circulated so widely without a single industry screening.

  If it had just been a disappointing but nevertheless iffy picture, bound to garner some bad reviews and some good ones, a picture that many people would go to see because of the cast and the lavishness of the production, regardless of conflicting reviews, The WASP would not have been taboo as a subject of conversation, not even if Vito and she had been married.

  Her people had worked for her too long to think that Maggie would be offended by their speculation on the future of such a picture, in fact they would have been busily presenting ideas to help give the film some positive publicity.

  Therefore their silence meant that it was even worse than she had thought. “ ’Tis ill talking of halters in the house of a man that was hanged.” Wasn’t that the way it was put? Who would think to find such delicacy among her staff? So Vito’s picture was indeed going to be The Turkey That Ate Hollywood, and the news was out.

  Maggie was surprised, but only at the depth of the lack of surprise she felt. Being in love with Vito hadn’t turned her brain to sweetbreads. She’d listened to his vivid stories of his conflicts with that parade of writers and directors, convinced that Vito, as she had always known him to, would somehow make it all come together in the end. Preproduction problems were as normal to making a movie as burping is to bringing up a baby.

  But when he had told her of the exchange of leading roles, she had had to turn away to conceal her shock. Later that evening she had managed to say, very casually, that she couldn’t imagine Gone With the Wind with Rhett Butler played by Leslie Howard and Ashley Wilkes played by Clark Gable.

  “That wouldn’t have worked, Maggie,” Vito had agreed. “But this isn’t the same thing, not at all.” And that had been his only response, for his passion for what he now thought of as his own idea had been too blinding to make him even stop to consider her warning.

  Was it then, Maggie wondered, as she listened to the silence of the building in which everyone but she had left for lunch, was it then, at that moment, that she had started to fall out of love with Vito?

  Probably. She knew herself well enough to be fairly dispassionate. She was nothing if not self-protective. She could never have lasted in this business, she could never have come as far as she had, if she hadn’t consistently guarded her ass.

  Love was a luxury she really shouldn’t let herself afford in her job, but she had decided to indulge herself when Vito and Billy came unstuck. It was too wonderful to pass by. Love was like one of those great dresses that you knew was far too expensive, a dress you knew you wouldn’t get enough wear out of to justify the price, a dress you knew you should leave in the store for some other sucker—but bought anyway because life was too short and you’d regret it forever if you didn’t.

  She could afford to fall in love, overpriced item though it was, but she couldn’t afford to be linked to a loser. She had two publics, Maggie told herself: the television audience who wouldn’t know or care if Vito Orsini fell flat on his face, and the important circle of insiders in the industry, who would respect and fear her much less than they must, when they learned that she and Vito were still together in spite of The WASP and the reception it was going to get.

  Thank God, Maggie told herself, Vito had never suggested marriage. She might have accepted, and where would that leave her now? She shuddered, thinking of women who had to keep smiling through, women who were forced to be loyal, come what may. That particular line of work was not, never had been, for her. Thank you very much indeed, but she wasn’t bucking for the Mrs. Norman Maine Award.

  Maggie dialed the New York office of the network, reaching the direct lin
e of the powerful vice-president of the network and director of television specials, Fred Greenspan, who had just returned from the perquisite of his own leisurely Manhattan lunch, almost as long as the dinners enjoyed by Romans. Within ten minutes they had worked out a series of shows she would do from Manhattan. There were enough films being shot on the streets of the five boroughs of New York to keep her busy for months. When would she be ready to start?

  “Gosh, Fred, you know me … once I get an idea I can’t wait to get at it. Let’s see—I can pack this afternoon and grab the red-eye tonight. So send a limo to meet the plane, okay? I’ll be on it. Dinner tomorrow? Why, Fred, I’d adore it! You promise not to talk shop? I’ll hold you to that, Fred. I know you’ve always had a funny little itch for me … but I bet you’re still not ready to do anything about it.”

  Gigi sat in the chintz-cushioned bay window of her room with her best friend, Mazie Goldsmith, both of them cross-legged, both of them in deeply relaxed jeans and faded T-shirts with their enviable and honorable history displayed by their well-washed tattiness, like the battle standards of forgotten regiments. They were eating steadily through a plate of the special triple fudge brownies with fresh coconut icing that Gigi had just baked on a Saturday afternoon in mid-April.

  Mazie and Gigi had fallen into a routine that suited Billy and the Goldsmiths. On most Friday nights they slept over at the Goldsmiths’ Brentwood house, where Mazie’s father, a highly placed MGM executive, invariably gathered a small group and screened a new movie in his projection room, followed by a buffet supper and another movie, very often a classic or a foreign film. On Saturday morning the two girls drove over to Billy’s and spent the day there. Mazie slept over, leaving on Sunday in time to rejoin her family for dinner.

  Mazie Goldsmith was a girl who one day, to any adult’s eye, would turn into a classic brunette beauty, although nothing could possibly convince her of that now, with her awkward height, her extra fifteen pounds of baby fat, and the thick glasses she was too squeamish to trade for contact lenses. Mazie got excellent marks, almost as good as Gigi’s, and the two had picked each other out as kindred souls in the crowd the very day Gigi started at Uni.

  Gigi, at seventeen and in the middle of her junior year of high school, had grown two inches since she had arrived in California, so that she was now five feet four. She retained all the delicacy of form that had made her seem wispy at first sight, but there had been a subtle transformation in the way she held herself. Her determinedly straightforward stance, which had once seemed a defense against her smallness, now announced itself as downright self-confidence. Although she never thrust herself forward in any group, her upright carriage, the compact directness of the way she unconsciously stood and moved, attracted attention she didn’t notice.

  In whatever casual position Gigi arranged herself, she formed a vital and memorable pattern, like a dancer who can’t sit or stand without grace. Her brown hair, which Sara’s scissors had continued to experiment on until her close, straight cut, with its slight outward flare, had reached perfection, was streaked with the vivid tones of a variegated marigold, hues that ranged from downright orange to deep terra-cotta. Gigi had learned to use brown pencil to darken the light hairs of her strongly pointed eyebrows, and she skillfully coated black mascara on her long but invisible lashes. Now her eyes, shadowed under their deep lids and dark lashes, inspired instant curiosity. People who met Gigi found themselves drawing closer in involuntary curiosity so that they could determine the color of her leaf-green irises. Her eyes were eloquent yet artless, her glances still shy, still unaware of the uses of coquetry. Her clear, creamy skin betrayed her emotions, for she flushed easily. She had more than a touch of the theatrical about her, and the sleek 1920s flapper look, which Billy had first recognized as a potential for her to grow into, had been accentuated charmingly. Gigi seemed to command a reservoir of laughter so that even when she was serious she carried the perfume of mirth on her lips.

  On this particular afternoon Gigi and Mazie had decided that it was still too damp and cool to drive down to the beach, too early to start the math homework they were supposed to be doing together, too much fun hanging out together to bother phoning around and finding out what everybody else was planning for tonight. All of their many friends went around in packs; no girl went out alone with a boy on a date; a bunch of males and females from Uni would just gravitate together on the weekends, summoned by the jungle drums of the adolescent world.

  “I felt my dad getting a little uptight last night while we watched the uncut version of Last Tango in Paris, he hadn’t expected it to be so hot,” Mazie mused. “Our being there made him nervous, but what could he do, once it had started? Send us out of the room in front of everybody and ruin his record with the ACLU? He gave me a worried look when the lights went up, but Mom was cool.”

  “Didn’t you think it was terrific?” Gigi asked. “I did.”

  “I’m not sure I exactly followed it entirely, there were some obscure moments.… but Brando’s butt … hmm … well, what about Brando, Gigi, does he make your team?”

  “Absolutely. The first team, the Dream Team.”

  “You’re absolutely sure? That picture’s seven years old and he’s gained a ton since then. He’s the Godfather now. You can still change your mind,” Mazie offered generously.

  “Maze, if you don’t want to see Brando’s equipment, you have not a shred of genuine curiosity, we’re talking one of the great beauties of all time here, one of the great actors, one of the great personalities, forget his weight, forget his age, think of his essence.”

  “Remember, you’re only allowed ten nominations to the Dream Team, Gigi.”

  “Well, he’s made the cut on mine. Yours?”

  “Take it easy, I’m thinking it over. Maybe … maybe Belmondo. After Dad screened Breathless I began to obsess about him. He’s seriously sexy, he has crazy bedroom lips … wouldn’t you take Belmondo over Brando?” Mazie inquired seriously, her dark eyes squinched up behind her glasses.

  “Nope,” Gigi was quick to reply. “I can perfectly well imagine Belmondo’s stuff so I don’t have to waste space for him on my team. I’ll bet anything he’s your basic, well-hung—bien pendu?—hunk, if the French have a word for hunk. Why don’t you put him on the second team?”

  “Ah, the second team,” Mazie said, lighting up. She took off her glasses and unfurrowed her brow. Mazie loved to make nominations for the second team because they didn’t commit her as deeply as the Dream Team. For the second team you could nominate a man who might turn out to have a disappointing penis without worrying too much about what other penis you were losing the opportunity to choose. Like a picky collector in an antiques shop who has finally made that difficult first purchase and now starts to look around with liberated avidity, Mazie felt freed to plunge into a Dream-Team nomination. “Woody Allen,” she announced.

  “Just a minute, Maze, just one little minute,” Gigi objected. “Woody Allen’s been on my Dream Team for months. You can’t suddenly want him too, that’s not fair.”

  “Why not? You’d still get to see it first. You wouldn’t have to tell me anything.”

  “Oh, sure. I could take a good long look, maybe even a Polaroid, and then I’d keep the information a secret from you. What kind of crummy friend would that make me?” Gigi looked laughingly at her ever-rational companion and offered her another celestial brownie.

  “You mean you’d share? You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Sure, I’d share. Think how much more we could enjoy his movies if we knew the ultimate truth, what really is there underneath those rumpled boxer shorts he’s forever walking around in? There’s got to be a reason he never wears Jockeys.”

  “But sharing isn’t in the rules,” Mazie objected.

  “Listen, this game was my original idea, so I’m making up a new rule today, a sharing rule, it gives us each double opportunities.”

  “But isn’t the point to have to narrow it down? To agonize?”


  “Maze, you take it too seriously, you’ve got to loosen up. We’re never going to get to see their stuff anyway, so why not be greedy? Let’s get going. I’ll take Sinatra. Dream Team.” Gigi snapped her fingers triumphantly at Mazie’s expression of horror.

  “Good God, Gigi, they’re getting older and older with you! Is this some sort of gag, or are you just being perverse?”

  “Historical interest.” Gigi looked as superior as Gloria Steinern, as she tried on Mazie’s glasses. “Maybe Ol’ Blue Eyes has an ol’ blue dick. Remember, in his youth hordes of women would have killed for it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll take Richard Nixon, in that case, I can be weird too.”

  “That’s beyond weird, Maze, I don’t advise it, I really don’t. I’ll pretend you never said Nixon,” Gigi said generously.

  “Okay. And I won’t count Sinatra. Now down to business. Dustin Hoffman, I wanna see Dustin Hoffman. Dream Team.”

  “Me too, ever since The Graduate. We’re sold solid on Dustin Hoffman. He’s a double Dream Team if there ever was one, a gotta-see,” Gigi agreed. “But moving on into the world of fiction.… Norman Mailer?”

  “Never! Not even on the fifth team.”

  “I was just testing you. He’s not on the playing field, not even a water boy, him and his sacred sperm.”

  “Philip Roth?”

  “No argument,” Gigi said. “Except that it’s a totally banal choice, it’s too obvious. And once you’ve read Portnoy you’re on such familiar terms with his horny horror that it’s lost the charm of novelty. A wasted vote. I wonder if old J. D. Salinger is still in business?”

  “Oh, Gigi, stop! The man’s a hermit!”

  “Yeah, but he could write. Golden oldies, Maze. Oldies but goodies.”