Flavor of the Month (105 page)

He still had not called. And she had been stupid enough to think that time would allow a healing, would allow him to join his love for Mary Jane to his love for her today. But did she want him to? Did she still want a man so selfish, so narcissistic, that he could only see her through himself? She thought again of his immense nerve, thinking that she had done all of this for him and to him. What an ass!

Yet a small doubt had entered her mind. She’d done it to grab a chance, a last chance to succeed on her own terms: to act, to pursue her career, her craft, her calling. Or had she?

Lying in bed, sleepless night after night, she was tortured by the idea. Had she done all this to get Sam back? Or to get back at Sam? Both ideas appalled her. She’d never imagined herself so needy, or so angry, that she’d go that far for either love or revenge. But maybe she had.

She roamed the big, empty house at night, lights off. The rooms felt empty, so empty. Tomblike. Oh, she could play Aida, bricked into the grave alone. That was how abandoned she felt. But abandoned by whom?

Over and over, she felt herself drawn to the mirrors in her dressing room. There, at the marble counters that were pristine and cold as a mortuary table, she stared at her own face, at the face she had bought. A face Sam said he had loved.

The face had given her power—power over Pete, and power enough to get the Melrose Playhouse part, power to be selected by Marty, power to entrance Sam. But what real kind of power was it, the power that these lips, this nose, the line of this jaw had given?

It was only clear to Jahne how very powerless she was after the breakup with Sam and the resumption of
3/4
. It was clear that things had changed on the set. What little weight her opinion had earlier carried was now completely usurped by the new closeness between Lila and Marty and the ill will her absence for the beginning of the season had bred. As far as
Birth
went, since the scene with Sam, Jahne had clearly been cut out of the editing process. It wasn’t only that her calls were not returned and her services no longer needed; Jahne Moore couldn’t even seem to get a screening of her own film. It was incredible. The International offices informed her that both April Irons and Sam Shields were unavailable: both were out of the country. She called Seymore LeVine and got the same stonewalling, tried Sam’s number at his house. No answer, no matter what time of day or night she called. She left no message. What was the use? It was all out of her control.

Lila, on the other hand, appeared to be in complete control. Jahne’s part was even stupider (and smaller) than before, while Lila stole almost every scene, got every punch line and every close-up. Sharleen walked through her part humbly, but Jahne found it humiliating. And Sy Ortis was no help. No help at all.

“What can I tell you?” he wheezed into the phone. “You made your bed. Marty doesn’t appreciate ingratitude. You screwed him with
Birth
, now he screws you. What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me how I can get a screening of
Birth of a Star
, for God sake!” Jahne snapped. “I don’t have a clue to what’s happening.”

“You’re not alone. Apparently it’s in big trouble.” His voice was heavy with satisfaction; his silent “I told you so” hung in the air. A part of Jahne knew that he was right, had been right all along, but for all the wrong reasons. I’ll fire him, she thought, but the idea of getting a new agent when
Birth
bombed frightened her. No one but a hungry bum would want to pick her up then, and if Sy was also a bum, he was at least a well-connected,
powerful
bum.

“I guess you were right, Sy. Meanwhile, try and get me a screening,” was all she said before she hung up the phone.

Jahne felt as if she were falling apart. For once, she didn’t have to worry about her diet: she couldn’t eat. Slipping into her jeans, the ones Mai had sewn for her, she found they gapped at her waist. There were hollows beneath her cheekbones, and darkness under her eyes. And still she hadn’t heard from Sam, had seen nothing of
Birth
.

On the set, Pete approached her one afternoon. “Are you okay?” he asked. They hadn’t spoken in months, except for “hello” and “good night.” She looked up at him from her folding canvas chair; he was as young and simple and straight as he’d always been. I must really look bad if he’s noticed, she thought.

“Not so great.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t work well.

“Can I do anything to help?” he asked. She had to turn her head away from the kindness.

“No. But thanks.” She watched as he started to walk away, and then it occurred to her. “Pete. Wait. Isn’t your dad a projectionist?” she asked. He nodded. “Do you think he could get me a screening?”

You might say that Jahne Moore walked into the screening room for
Birth of a Star
a virgin. Two hours and ten minutes later, both her eyes and her cherry had been popped. She watched herself—or someone cut and pasted to appear to be her—fucked half a dozen times in as many positions and costumes by a younger, slimmer Michael McLain. She watched what appeared to be her right breast, ten feet wide on the screen, squeezed by his hands in close-up. She watched what appeared to be her nipples inflate, watched his lips surround them, watched her own face in close-up react to the sensation. She watched as she appeared to kneel to take it doggy style, her perfect ass a heart-shaped invitation. She watched as a leg—supposedly
her
leg—reached up around Michael’s neck and caressed his cheek, only to be joined by her other, first framing his face with her calves, then opening wide as a protractor to accommodate him. She saw the sheen of sweat on her arms, her back, her thighs, the dampness on a perfect curl of what was represented as her pubic hair.

She sat beside Pete in the private screening room and she saw the film that
Birth of a Star
had become. It broke all the boundaries between “popular entertainment” and “soft porn.” And it wasn’t soft at all. It was a film that she had not made, yet her face was up there, the illusion of her body was there for everyone to see: to see and watch her being made love to, watch her achieve orgasm, watch her be violated. Watch her capitulate. How had it happened? she wondered. How had it happened to
her
?

She felt actually dizzy. The beauty of Laslo’s photography, the lush music, the perfect settings, all of it cushioned this violation. But a violation it was. How had they even managed to do it? It certainly wasn’t either her own scarred body or Michael’s aging one up there. What tricks had April and Laslo and Sam resorted to?

Pete shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside her. He cleared his throat. Once he whispered, “God!” Then he was silent. She wondered if he had an erection. She didn’t want to know.

Then a small thrill of horror passed over her, like an exquisite chill. How many men would get a hard-on from this? How many men would jerk off to her image? How many strangers would fuck her in their minds, in the privacy of their own homes? One of La Brecque’s warnings sounded in her ears: “You can’t seem accessible. It’s the accessible ones who get killed.” Well, how accessible was a woman who was publicly fucked? And how would she get any respect in the community? How would she ever graduate to real acting jobs, the kind she craved? How would she even show her face? How had this happened?

She thought Sam had loved her. But this, this was not love. This was rage, betrayal, and rape. She stared at the moving images on the screen.

At last the horror ended. The credits rolled as Michael’s character walked into the waves. Pete’s father must have flicked on the lights from the control booth. Pete looked over at her, blinking in the glare.

Jahne stood up, reached for the arm of the chair, and vomited onto the vacant velvet seat before her.

“So what do you want to do?” Howard Taft asked Jahne. Howard was the best entertainment lawyer in L.A., and the most expensive.

“Sue them. Stop them. Get the film burned.”

“Fine. So what do you
really
want to do?”

“
Sue
them.
Stop
them.
Get the film burned
.”

“Miss Moore—Jahne—that’s all well and good, and I know all about artistic differences, but we’re talking International Studios here. We’re talking April Irons. We’re talking
Bob LeVine
. We’re not talking about people who roll over nicely when hit with an injunction. Not that we could even
get
an injunction.”

“Why not? They…”

“Your contract clearly states that…”

“But I didn’t know they would do
this
. Don’t I have a right to control my own face, my body…?”

“Not according to your contract. You requested the body double. You insisted on secrecy and no credit for the body double. They’re doing that. You can’t sue them for keeping to your contract.”

“But then who
should
I sue?”

“Your agent, I would say. But not if you want to work again.” Howard took off his steel-rimmed glasses, removed a spotless white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and began to wipe the lenses carefully, his kind gray eyes watching her all the time. “Listen, I’d love to take your money. And there might be some, some…
softening
of the final cut that I could wangle, but a suit, I promise you, would be costly,
and
disastrous to your career…”

“Fuck my career.”

He paused, shocked. And there was very little that shocked a Hollywood attorney. He licked his lips, clasped his hands together on his perfectly clear desk. “Well, I can see you feel strongly now, but later your feelings may change. This suit would be longer and more costly than Cliff Robertson’s. Worse than Art Buchwald’s. The studios cannot afford to give up their right to use your image. You clearly signed the body-double agreement. And suing on this would end your options…”

“I don’t need those kinds of options.”

“…and would ultimately accomplish nothing. April Irons and a squad of bankers put fifty million dollars into this film, and you cannot stop it from…”

Tears rose in Jahne’s eyes. The feeling of powerlessness that she had been trying to deny again swept over her, draining her energy, leaving her weak and helpless. She began to cry. “Then there’s nothing I can do?” she whispered.

“Here,” Howard said, extending his hand, his immaculate handkerchief still in it. “You can wipe your nose.”

When Jahne left Howard Taft’s office, she was too enraged to go home, too angry to stand still. She felt if she didn’t keep moving she might hit something or break something, or even explode. Perhaps she had no legal options, but she had personal ones. She got in her car and began driving.

She was breathing hard by the time she reached the canyon road. She snorted at herself. L.A. makes you soft, she thought, but she felt anything but. She felt harder than she had in her life, hard as steel, as a diamond, and just as ready to cut. If he was here in L.A., she’d find Sam. If he wasn’t, she’d…She pulled into his driveway.

She found Sam’s key, buried deep in her bag. Why did women, why did she, shlepp around so much crap? Makeup, hairbrush, comb, mirror. The burden of being a woman. She tried, quietly, to fit the key in the lock, but her hands shook. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and, with both hands, managed to slide in the key, turn it, and open the door.

He was there, thank God, and he appeared to be alone. Not that she gave a rat’s ass. He could be going down on April Irons while Crystal Plenum was giving him head and she wouldn’t care. Not anymore. He was alone, though, lying on the sofa, a washcloth over his eyes, a script lying open on his chest. Some fresh hell of a movie for some new woman he would ruin.

“You lousy piece of shit!” Jahne screamed.

He jumped up from the sofa, threw the script or whatever it was he was reading aside. “Jesus! Oh, Jesus, Jahne. Mary Jane. Oh, Jesus. You frightened me! Listen, I know what you’re going to say…” He was breathing like he’d run a marathon. Good. She’d scared him. Fine. She wanted him scared.

“No, you don’t, you lying cocksucker.”

“Hey.” He stood there, breathing hard, his hands extended in a palm-down, Buddha-calming-the-waters gesture. “No need for…”

“Don’t you
dare
tell me what there’s a need for
or
how to behave. You’re a lying bastard.”

“You’re the one who lied! I…”

“I’ve seen it.”

He had the grace to pause for a moment. She watched as he tried to slow his breathing. Old actor’s trick. Fuck him and his tricks. “Jahne, I had no choice. The film hadn’t come together. I’d failed April. I failed
you
. This was the only way to get to roll the dice again. And it works, Jahne—Mary Jane—” He fumbled for a moment. “Once you get over your, your…”

“Disgust?”

“Surprise. Once you get over your
surprise
, you’ll
see
it works. The way I directed you…”

“Directed me? You
pimped
me. You pimped me as if I were a twenty-dollar whore. Now don’t insult my intelligence by telling me I’m going to like it! And it wasn’t
me
you were directing. I wasn’t informed or involved with any of this. It was a couple of body doubles, Michael McLain, and a tube of K-Y Jelly!”

“What good would it have done to ask you? You wouldn’t have agreed. And we were not exactly in the negotiating mode.”

“We aren’t in that mode now, either.”

She had to pause for a moment as she felt her anger drain out of her. She dropped her bag to the floor and, in her weakness, would have sat down. But she didn’t want to be weak in front of him. She wanted to be strong, angry, and scary. She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. She began to walk toward him, and was gratified to see him back away. “You betrayed me, and, like a fool, I blamed myself. The first time, back in New York, I thought, if I’d been prettier, or kinder, or sexier, or more understanding, you wouldn’t have run off with Bethanie, sold my part to the highest bidder, and never even bothered to speak to me again.” She had circled him around the sofa. He continued to back away. “I blamed myself! But what’s your excuse now? Now I
am
prettier and kinder and sexier. So what the fuck reason have you got for betraying me
this
time? You know I wanted to be a serious actress. You know how important this picture was to me, to my career…”