Flavor of the Month (27 page)

She was aware she had slept. Or had blacked out. She opened her eyes once again, and now knew she was in her hospital bed. The pain was still there, but she knew that someone would do something about that soon, just as soon as she let them know she was awake. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t move a muscle. Not yet.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. “Hi, you want to wake up now? Come on, Mary Jane, wake up. How are you feeling?” The voice kept talking; she was being called to arousal, the nurse intent on getting her fully out of the anesthesia. Mary Jane tried to cooperate. “Water,” was all she could manage to say. She also wanted to say “pain,” but could only squeeze her eyes closed. The nurse understood, and Mary Jane blessed her as she felt a prick in her side and then—slowly, slowly—the pain ebbed. And Mary Jane felt fine. Her last thought, before she was gone again, was that she’d got one down and only eight more operations to go.

The incisions itched like crazy. But when the bandages came off, Mary Jane had a stomach as flat as a teenager’s. She stared at it, fascinated. Was that her flesh? So smooth, so tight, so taut? She forgot about the pain, the cost, the knowledge that her excess flesh had been cut off and discarded somewhere.

Instead she simply contemplated her own brand-new navel.

The breast lift and reduction—mastopexy—seemed the worst, though actually Brewster Moore assured her that the pain in healing would be far less than the abdominal incisions had caused. “We’re not cutting muscle, only fat. You have plenty of breast tissue; it is simply attached too low to your chest wall.”

“I find this talk very titillating. Get it?”

Dr. Moore groaned. “Mary Jane, that is the most obvious pun I ever heard. Now, tomorrow Dr. Wright will make a new pocket of skin, higher up, fill it with tissue, and reattach the nipples centrally…”

“Reattach the nipples? You mean you
cut off my nipples?
”

“Yes. I thought you understood that. From the material that Dr. Wright reviewed with you.” Dr. Moore sighed. “She should have told you. But the scars are almost completely hidden in the areolae…”

Mary Jane felt a wave of nausea. “But when they reattach them, do they work? I mean…” She stopped, embarrassed. “Will I be able to
feel
anything?”

“Well, you certainly won’t be able to nurse, but sensation sometimes returns. But in my opinion the nerves do not regenerate. It’s an important consideration. I thought you understood about it. Of course, you must decide if the sacrifice is worth it. And some women have reported
increased
sexual pleasure after the operation, because, I think, of their increased pride in their appearance. You know, the mind is the most important sexual organ.”

“It’s not my
mind
you’re operating on, doctor.”

“I know that. And I hope you know that I do appreciate how…courageous you’ve been.”

“Hey, it’s the kids like Raoul and Winthrop, or the ones who’ve lost half a face to cancer, who are courageous. But I appreciate the thought. And I’ll make you a deal: Dr. Wright can cut off my nipples if she gives me perfect breasts and you’ll give me a nose like Mai Von Trilling’s.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mary Jane,” he laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned to leave.

“Oh, and doctor? About those nipples.” He turned to her, his face concerned as always. “You
will
be sure that Dr. Wright remembers to put them back, won’t you?”

Hi there, Laura Richie here. While Mary Jane was struggling through her pain in New York, I bet you forgot all about me, back in Hollywood. No surprise. Hollywood is used to short memories. Nothing ever stands still. In this town, everyone in the business is either on the way up or on the way down. Like sharks swimming through the ocean, none can afford to stop. And, like sharks, all of them operate on hunger and fear. Hunger and fear are the fuels that generate the Hollywood agent-client relationship. The young up-and-coming starlets covet and fear agents as if they were gods in the pantheon known as Hollywood. Agents can make or break careers
.

But fear is a two-way street. Once they have become established as talents and celebrities, stars have been known to drop their agents in favor of even more powerful brokers. Every agent fears being dropped
.

Lila could smell that fear in Ara Sagarian’s reception room, and hoped that it was not hers. There were half a dozen other young people scattered around the room, one more beautiful than the other, each clasping a portfolio while thumbing through the latest issues of
Variety
. Only losers had to wait, and she hated waiting. But Lila was sure none of them had appointments with Ara. She guessed, too, that these were the flotsam and jetsam of the Industry, who regularly made the rounds of agents’ offices, hoping each time for that brief five-minute interview that could result in an acting job, a walk-on role, or even that coveted prize: representation.

Because in Hollywood an actor without an agent is an actor without a chance.

“Miss Kyle?” the young secretary said, as every head in the room turned to Lila. “Mr. Sagarian will see you now. Will you follow me, please?”

Lila smiled, as if she expected to be treated specially, and picked up her bag from the floor next to her chair. She tossed it over her shoulder as she followed the woman down the long, deeply carpeted hall. The walls on either side were lined with scores of framed, signed photographs. As Lila glided by, she was able to pick out Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Lucille Ball, Duke Wayne, Joan Crawford, and a dozen others. “To Ara,” began each autograph.

“There’s your mother’s picture, Miss Kyle. It was a promo shot for
Birth of a Star
.” Lila recognized the shot. She had seen it dozens of times before, in her mother’s house. That and hundreds of others of her mother papered the walls of the Puppet Mistress’s library and den. “This is Mr. Sagarian’s suite,” the secretary said, and rapped gently on the rosewood door.

Lila was nervous, but reminded herself that Ara Sagarian was not what he had been. He wasn’t representing Sinatra or Davis or Wayne or Crawford or Ball now. Some of his clients were retired, and the other half were dead. He needed fresh blood, but not the blood of those losers waiting in the lobby. He needed a Madonna, a Tom Cruise, a Lila Kyle. A superstar, or someone with the potential to be one. He needed Lila Kyle. At least that’s what she told herself.

“Come in, come in,” Ara called out, as the door was opened and Lila stepped through it. How long had it been since she had last seen him? Five years? Ten? She wasn’t prepared for the figure that came limping toward her. Once tall, even powerful, Ara Sagarian now was stooped and shorter. His left arm hung loosely by his side; his left leg dragged after his right. The left side of his mouth was partially paralyzed, and the words of his greeting sounded muffled. Everything about him seemed reduced from what Lila remembered. Of course, I was young then, and maybe he wasn’t as big and as strong as I remember. But he’d certainly shrunk. And it looked like he’d had a major stroke.

“Mr. Sagarian, how kind of you to see me. I know how busy you are.” Lila walked briskly toward him, her hand extended.

Ara shook her hand, then dabbed a linen handkerchief at the trail of drool that escaped from his mouth. His pencil-thin mustache was wet, too. “Not at all, my dear. I’m delighted to see you again. I haven’t laid eyes on you since, let me see, you must have been seven or eight years old, and you performed a skit with your mother and her puppets at a party at her home.” He looked at her appreciatively. “You’ve been busy growing up since then,” he said. “Come sit over here.” Ara indicated a seat on the loosely cushioned sectional sofa, and settled himself back into the plush down pillows.

“How is your charming mother?”

“She’s very well, Mr. Sagarian. She sends you her love, of course. She’s
so
grateful that you should take the time to talk to me about my career. As Mother says, if you can’t get Mr. Sagarian to represent you, you’re not in show business.”

“Please, call me Ara. We’re practically family. Now, what career is it that I’m to help with?” he asked, and wiped his mouth again.

“I’m an actress,” she said, and suddenly felt very young. God, she
had
to make this happen. “That is, Mother tells me I’m a born talent, and has been pushing me for years to get into the business.” Lila patted her skirt nervously in place and continued. “So I finally gave in. And here I am.” Lila flashed her brightest smile.

“Here you are, indeed. And very beautiful, I might add. Now, what would you like me to do for you, my dear?” Ara asked.

Lila faltered. All the bravado she had felt on her way over here was slipping away. He was, despite his stroke, despite his age, so, so…so sure of himself. So courtly. She wasn’t prepared to have to spell it out for him. He had to know what she wanted, and it certainly wasn’t a date. Was he playing with her? She felt a flash of anger, but tried to stay calm.

“Well, I…I wanted to ask you if you would take me on as a client. You see, I was thinking of starting in television, but really I’m more interested in a career in movies.” She rattled off a list of fake credits, though she’d never spent a minute before the camera.

Ara knitted his brows. “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time, Lila. I’m not taking on any new talent. This is nothing personal. I haven’t in years, in fact. Had I known that was the purpose of your visit, I could have saved you the trip. But perhaps I could help you in another way. Maybe I could refer you to another agent?”

Lila was near panic. This was not going as she had planned. And she didn’t want a referral to some has-been or wannabe agent out of the William Morris mailroom who had no more contacts than she did. Maybe flattery would work. “But I don’t
want
another agent, Ara. I want
you
. Mother always said you understood the artistic temperament better than anyone else in town, better than any director.” Lila dropped her eyes, as if to keep him from seeing her tears of frustration and disappointment. “I want to work with
you
, Mr. Sagarian.”

“I’m sure you’ve given this a great deal of thought,” Ara said, “and that your mother has prepared you for some of the pitfalls to such a career. But let me give you the history of an acting career in Hollywood. It goes like this: ‘Who is Glenn Ford?’ ‘Get me Glenn Ford.’ ‘Get me a Glenn Ford type.’ ‘Get me a young Glenn Ford.’ And then, ‘Who is Glenn Ford?’ I know that sounds a little cynical, but that’s the way of this world.” Ara wiped his drooling lips once again. “You’ve seen what your mother had to do to get on top and stay there as long as she did—as long as she has. Surely you don’t want to have to go through that for the rest of your life?”

Oh, Christ, he wasn’t going to start with fatherly advice now, was he? Why couldn’t he just shut up, wipe his mouth, and send her over to Spielberg or Frears or even Robert Altman, for God’s sake? She took a deep breath. She’d just have to lie. “It seems my mother has wanted this for me long before I wanted it for myself. I’ve been trained for the life by the mistress of the business.”

“So, your mother is completely behind you on this?” Ara asked, raising his brows. “She’s convinced you have the talent and the perseverance to handle such work?” Ara used his handkerchief once again before continuing. “Funny, I don’t remember. But my memory isn’t what it was. You see, I have great respect for Theresa’s opinion. In the old days, she could pick talent like no one else. I have her to thank for the discovery of several very important talents I handle. It was Theresa who sent Marilyn to me,
and
James Dean. So, if Theresa thinks you have it, I would reconsider my decision. Of course, she must show a mother’s favoritism, but she’s no dummy. I’m old, and I haven’t been well, and I’ve considered retirement. But perhaps, just one more time…” He paused.

Lila began to relax. What the hell. He was buying the lie, and she knew, if he sent her out for just one go-see, she could get a part, a foothold. She smiled. “Mother is one hundred and fifty percent behind me on this. We’ve spent many hours discussing the pros and cons of my decision, and she has been uncommonly candid with me about the business.”

“Then excuse me while I make a quick phone call, Lila,” Ara said, as he reached for the telephone on the coffee table in front of them.

Lila’s heart jumped in her chest. Jesus Christ, could it really be this easy? she thought. He’ll make one phone call, and I’m on my way? Whom will he call? Coppola? Sherry Lansing? Barry Levinson? Lila thanked all the gods of fortune and fame that she felt lurking over her shoulder, and stifled a smile of triumph.

Then she heard him speak. “Good morning, Estrella. Ara Sagarian here. May I speak to Miss O’Donnell?” He looked over at Lila and smiled a tiny, tilted smile, then wiped at the corner of his mouth once again with the handkerchief.

Lila stopped breathing for a brief moment. Oh, shit!

“Theresa, darling. How are you? I haven’t seen you since my unfortunate hospitalization. It was so nice of you to come to visit. No. No. Not at all. But guess who I have sitting next to me at this moment, thanks to you.” Ara listened for a moment, then continued. “Why, Lila, your daughter. Thank you for sending her to me, darling. I think I can help her.”

Lila watched as Ara’s expression changed while he listened intently to Theresa’s side of the conversation, his expression becoming grave. Lila felt the blood rush to her face and her stomach tighten. Oh, God! What was the Puppet Mistress saying? She shouldn’t have come here. She shouldn’t have listened to Robbie!

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, my dear. I must have misunderstood. By the way, I will be seeing you at my Emmy party, won’t I?” He paused again, nodded. “Good. It wouldn’t be a party without you.”

Ara hung up the phone and got to his feet. He stumbled over to his desk and opened the top drawer, removed a small vial, and took out a pill. He poured himself a glass of water from the silver carafe on his desk and swallowed the pill. Then he turned to Lila and finally looked her in the eyes.

“It should be very clear to you, Miss Kyle, that I was not born yesterday. You almost sent me up shit river without a paddle. Not only did your mother
not
send you to me, but she is decidedly
against
your choice of careers.” Ara walked slowly around his desk to his chair and sat down. “She also believes that you have problems of an emotional nature that would prohibit you from ever living a public life. And that you don’t have a shred of talent, and no experience. That she has begged you to go on to college, to pick some other career. But, frankly, none of that bothers me as much as the fact that you lied to me.”