Flavor of the Month (101 page)

“Tighter cutting will help,” Sam began. “It’s too slow. And if we refocus on the love story…”

“Piss on the love story.” Adrenaline was pumping through April’s body. She’d been in this spot before, but each time it felt new. Each time it felt as if this time,
this
time, she wouldn’t be able to pull it out and she’d lose it all. Lose the money, lose the job, lose power, lose face. But, just as she had each time before, she felt the solution dangling only slightly out of reach. She only had to be smart enough not to blind herself to it, and to be brave enough, once she saw it, to try for it, and strong enough to make it happen. Goldwyn could do it. Selznick had done it again and again. Capra, despite that motherfucker Harry Cohn, had triumphed. Please, she prayed, more to that pantheon of those dead heroes than to some Yahweh Hebrew-school God, please, let me see the way.

“I want to see the dailies. Every one. Every take. I want to see the out-takes. I want to see every fucking millimeter of film you’ve shot, and I want to see it forwards and backwards.
Everything
.”

Jahne returned home—well, back to her empty house—alone after the long day of work. This season,
3/4
was not going to be a picnic. Jahne was overworked and lonely, and Sam was as busy as she was, wrapped up in postproduction. Apart all day, seeing him only at night, both of them exhausted—this was real life, but it felt more like a nightmare. Sam had told her to trust him—trust him about the script, about her performance, about his loyalty and love—but she seemed less and less able to do so. It felt as if each night was a trial, and each day she’d shift through the evidence and her suspicions.

Sam had promised tonight that he’d join her later. She set the table, and put out some of the dinner that her housekeeper had left.

She ate some salad and half a cup of cottage cheese, then showered and got into bed. She’d have the rest of her dinner later, when Sam got back. The cat curled up in her armpit, purring. “You didn’t have a good day, either?” she asked it, as it began to knead her arm, preparing to sleep. Jahne fell asleep to its soothing mechanical hum.

It was later, much later, when she awoke. She didn’t have a watch on, and there wasn’t a single clock in the new house, except for the one on the oven timer. Jahne pushed the cat aside, rose, and paced the empty, darkened living room, afraid to find out just how late Sam was. It was like the night on location when April had shown up and Sam had never come to her. This must be how it begins, she thought. The lateness, followed by the lies, followed by the arguments, followed by the accusations and the denials. She was stupid and childish to think that this time it could be different, that this time he would not only love her but be faithful. She had let this happen to herself. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t trust him, that she wouldn’t love him. She had promised Mai the same thing. Oh, if only she could talk to Mai!

But what good would that do? Mai had told her what kind of man Sam was and what kind of danger she was in. But she hadn’t listened. She had chosen this foolish movie despite her agent’s warnings. She had alienated Marty DiGennaro, as well as Monica Flanders and Sy Ortis. She had probably messed up her career.

She looked around her at the lofty, darkening room. It was like a tomb, and she hated it. Perhaps La Brecque and his people had vetted it, perhaps there was an alarm system and a patrol to check on her, but she felt like a target here, exposed and alone. Without Sam, she hated to be in the house. She passed by the dining room, saw the set table. By now the salad had wilted on the plates, and the ragout would be vile. She shivered and climbed up onto the sofa, wrapping herself in the throw that draped its back. Time seemed to crawl by. It must be past one. He hadn’t called. Perhaps he simply wouldn’t show up. Perhaps she’d never hear from him again. Like with Michael McLain. After all, the movie was finished, except for some looping. Maybe she was no longer necessary.

When she heard him at the security gate, she knew her anger was mixed pathetically with relief. Then there was the sound of his car on the gravel, his footsteps on the walk, his key in the lock. She sat, motionless, and listened as he called out her name softly and walked down the hall. He must have checked the bedroom, then the kitchen. At last, he stood in the archway to the living room, where she could see him.

“Oh, here you are. I’m sorry it went so long,” Sam said as he walked into the room. He seemed haggard, the circles under his eyes darker than ever. “We just had a lot we had to go over.” He looked at Jahne and he winced. “Why are you sitting in the dark? You’re angry, aren’t you?”

“You’re hours late, you didn’t call, and you ask me if I’m angry?”

“I’m sorry, babe. I forgot to call from the office, and then the goddamned car phone wouldn’t work. It just kept cutting out. I figured by then that I’d be here in a little while anyway.”

“There are pay phones.”

“Oh, Christ, Jahne! In L.A. no one but a junkie uses a pay phone! Give me a break. I’m really getting crushed out there! I have a lot on my mind. I admit it was rude and thoughtless, and I’m sorry, but it’s not like we were going out or anything.”

She stood up. “No, we weren’t going out. We were just going to have dinner and make love. Nothing worth telephoning home about. And now dinner is ruined.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I had a quick bite with April.” She saw him wince again as he realized that what he had said would worsen her mood. He sighed. “Jahne, you don’t seem to understand the pressure I’m under. It’s not going to be easy to finish this movie the way we both want it to be finished. I have to stay on good terms with April. We simply had a lot to talk over, a lot of planning to do.”

“What else did you do with April?” she asked. “Let’s just get the cards laid out on the table. You’re not playing solitaire, you know. This is at least a two-person game. Or is it a
ménage à trois?
”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jahne. April is the
producer
. Don’t you understand that?”

“Don’t you understand that I’m not stupid and I’m not blind? This time, I won’t close my eyes while you humiliate me in front of…” She stopped and turned away from him, biting her tongue. Sam had never humiliated Jahne Moore, she reminded herself. He had humiliated Mary Jane Moran. She strode across the wide, empty floor to the window, staring out into the darkness. She felt him come up from behind her. She didn’t turn to him.

“When have I ever lied to you?” he asked, his voice husky with hurt. “When did I ever humiliate you?”

She wheeled to look at him. “Don’t tell me that you haven’t slept with April Irons.”

“Jahne, I told you. That was long ago.”

“I want the details. When did it begin?”

“On my first trip out here. She was trying to buy
Jack and Jill
, and I was holding out because I wanted to direct it.”

On his first trip out to L.A., she thought. He was sleeping with Mary Jane—with me!—in New York, and April Irons in L.A. She remembered his apologetic phone calls to her in that dingy New York walk-up. Had he called her from April’s bed?

“Well, it seems you didn’t hold out for long.”

“It was a complicated situation, Jahne. I wanted to sell the play, but I also wanted to direct it and get a part in it for a friend. I had never negotiated for those stakes. I won a couple of hands, and I lost one. We sealed the deal in bed. It was all very heady. You know, the limos, the palm trees, the ass-kissing. Feeling that for the first time in your life you’re at the very center of the universe. For once, I was sought after; for once, I had the power. I don’t know. Maybe I thought an affair would give me some leverage. It didn’t.”

All that time he was commuting, she thought. Comforting me, fucking April Irons. Commiserating with me, but sealing his deal in bed with her. Using jet lag as an excuse not to make love. And at the time I blamed myself. She felt her face flush. She wanted to slap him, to hit his face over and over and over. But how could she ever explain?

“Get out,” she whispered. “Get out right now.”

April spent most of two days and three nights watching all of the film. Calling it a bomb would be polite. If she had the choice between releasing
Birth of a Star
or
Hudson Hawk
, she’d go with the Willis movie. After all,
he
had a mother who would pay to see it. Both Jahne Moore’s and Michael McLain’s parents were dead. And so would she be, if something wasn’t radically altered.

For a moment, only a moment, she thought of the great pleasure it would give Bob LeVine to fire her. She threatened him and his job security. He’d love to return her to the subworld of indy producers. She shivered. Christ, it did sound like the title of a horror movie.

Well, the hours of shit that she’d been watching was a horror all right. Michael’s performance was angry, even when it shouldn’t have been. And Jahne Moore was simply another beautiful face. She read her lines intelligently, but, somehow, the two together made nothing happen.

The film kept running, but April closed her tired eyes. She rubbed the lids, careful not to stretch the skin further. She’d had an eye job only two years ago, and didn’t want to go through another for at least five more. In the darkness, with her eyes closed, she could hear both the dialogue and Seymore’s snores.

Actually, the dialogue sounded pretty good, she thought. Then she opened her eyes, saw another take, and closed them again. But once again, the dialogue sounded good. It sounded…hot. Well, anger was as good a sexual fuel as any, and there had been plenty of anger on the set. Too bad they’d been filming a love story instead of a Schwarzenegger vehicle. What she needed was Mankiewicz to doctor this up. To keep the heat. Too bad he was dead.

She stopped, held herself absolutely still. What was it that Mankiewicz had said? Something about the first guy who found a way to show fucking on the screen would become a billionaire. Or was it Goldwyn? Well, it didn’t matter. She kept her eyes closed and simply listened. And then the idea came, slipping in as if it had always been there. The little chill that accompanied it, the thrill, the metallic taste in her mouth. Yess!

Carefully, like tonguing a very sore tooth, she felt her way around it. There was risk. But they had always seen this film as a way to contemporize a great old love story. Well, they just hadn’t gone far enough! This was the nineties, for God’s sake. It was time. Let’s show the world a tender love story—a violent, tragic one—and let’s show the lovers on the screen. Not porno actors, but stars you knew, stars you loved, real stars making love on the screen. Not a slap and a tickle, a quick frontal shot, but the real thing. Okay, a little soft focus here and there, but let’s give the people what they want. Let’s have every woman in the audience wet, every man stiff as a board. And so what if Michael was getting old? They’d use a body double, they’d fake it, they’d cut and intercut.

And she thought they could get both audiences: the young ones that would go to a movie half a dozen times,
and
the aging boomers. Yes. Kids, gonads pulsating, would take their dates. Twice. After all, Jahne Moore was their biggest wet dream. While the boomers would feel nostalgia. The women had made Michael a teen idol twenty years ago, and the men had watched him as a role model and had grown old with him. There was life in the old dog yet. And, by extension, in them. They’d eat this up. And everyone would go home and rip one off. Then, later, what would it do in home-video release? Oh, my God! What wouldn’t it do?

It all worked. It sounded great! Of course, it required a certain amount of daring. Not since
Last Tango in Paris
had a major star done sex. Even Michael Douglas in
Basic Instinct
had held back more than a little. But McLain was desperate. And afraid he was losing it. It would have stud appeal. April knew she could sell it to him.

It was Jahne Moore who might prove a problem. April smiled. The body-double clause that had cost her so much legal time and effort! Sy Ortis’ stupid clause! It would allow her to cut and splice anything she wanted to. Why, she could have the body double dress like a chicken and bark like a dog if she wanted. And if the close-ups showed Jahne Moore’s face, well, that was the magic of Hollywood. Of course, it might upset Miss Moore, or Sy Ortis, or Marty DiGennaro. Maybe it would lose the bitch her Flanders Cosmetics contract. It might even upset Sam to see what looked like his girl spread-eagled on the screen. Good thing she, April, had retained final cut. Sam could take it or walk, she couldn’t care less. Her smile broadened as she stood up.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “I have an idea.”

After she threw him out, two days without Sam, two nights alone, were more than Jahne could bear. She walked through her days, an automaton, and sat up for the nights. What had he done to her, and what had she done to him? She got a copy of
Great Expectations
and read again about the mad Miss Havisham and her heart-cold ward Estella. Then she lay in bed and sobbed. Who had she avenged? What had she proved? How and why had she done this to herself? At last, hopeless, she called him on Friday, and he asked her to come over to his place on Saturday night.

They spent the evening together, making love as if they’d been separated for years, not days.

She agreed that she’d been irrational, that what was in the past was over, and that she believed him when he told her there was nothing between him and April. She went to sleep in his arms, the only way she could sleep now without waking with nightmares, always of the past.

But, like a crusty scab, the past was something she could not stop herself from picking away at.

Now, this sunny Sunday morning, Sam lay stretched across his living-room sofa. He looked exhausted. She knew postproduction was not going smoothly. Still, they would have this quiet time together.

Sam put his hand into his pocket and held it out toward her. “I have something for you,” he said, and when she saw the glittering in his hand she thought, for a moment, of Michael McLain’s gift. But this was no diamond. It was a key, Sam’s key.