Flavor of the Month (50 page)

“Just yes. Yes,” he murmured. God, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Had she led him on? She hadn’t meant to. She didn’t hardly know him. He moved his head down to her breast, his lips on her nipples, on her belly. She tried to stop him, but she was falling into the dream again. The stars spun over her head. She felt as if she were floating over the city.

Michael tugged at her pants, bringing them down over her buttocks. Oh, God, what was he doing? His head was still down there, his lips now moving lower, lower down, down. Sharleen felt her nipples harden, released from her shirt, exposed to the air. Michael reached up and pinched each slightly, so gently that the pleasure made her move her hips.

Sharleen closed her eyes briefly. She felt tears well up in them and spill onto her cheeks. What was she doing? What was he doing to her? Everything continued to spin. She opened her lids and saw Michael stand, silhouetted in the starlight. He dropped his pants, then pulled off his shirt in a slick, single movement. He didn’t mean to do it—to do
that
—right out here? She had to tell him to stop.

“The driver. Jim. He can see us. Stop. Please.”

Michael said quietly, “No one can see.” Then he was on her again, moving her legs apart, already moving his hips rhythmically.

“No,” she said, “please.” But it was too late.

“No one can see anything,” Michael told her, just as Jim silently pulled the infra-red camera from the glove box of the Rolls.

Parties may just be parties in other places, but in Hollywood—or Holmby Hills, to be exact—a party is never
just a
party. It’s a place to see and be seen, a place to make contacts, make deals, and make out. And if Hollywood has always been famous for its parties, the choicest, the fanciest, the most exclusive, was Ara Sagarian’s Emmy party, held on the night of the annual television awards. Originally, it had been a party where the most select movie actors and actresses hooted with derision at the doings on the small screen. But for years now, the small screen had been too important to hoot at. Still, this party was the place where Hollywood let its hair down, so exclusive that no journalists were ever allowed. It was the hot ticket, and no one who was anyone ever admitted to being in town and not invited. It was the only important party that I, Laura Richie, was never invited to
.

Ara, despite his courtly manners and exquisite
politesse,
winnowed the guest list mercilessly. Joan Collins had been dropped long before
Dynasty
was. Burt Reynolds was no longer invited. After all, an A-list party only remained A-list if no one but the
crème de la crème
attended
.

But like all rules. Ara broke this one for the singular exception of Theresa O’Donnell. For twenty-two years. as long as he had hosted Emmy parties, Theresa had been invited. Because although her star had waxed, waned, and then waxed and waned again, she had been Ara’s first big star. And despite the booze, the pills, and the paranoia, she was still a legend. She was his talisman, his good-luck charm, and she showed the world (and his clients and potential clients) that Ara Sagarian was loyal to
his
clients. But now that he was no longer representing her and not inviting her he felt guilty—terribly, terribly guilty. Ara based lots of his self-worth on knowing he was both a gentleman and loyal in a land of locusts
.

But he had, at last, been disloyal to Theresa. That was undeniable. His only excuse was that, despite his age, despite the stroke, despite the disability, Ara still wanted to play—he still wanted to be not just
in
the pack but in the lead. Still throwing the most exclusive parties, still representing the biggest stars. And he knew he had been slipping. His stable was aging. He felt he’d
had
to take the chance with Lila Kyle
.

Neil Morelli lifted the last of the trays of canapés from the caterer’s van and brought them into the kitchen. The fat guy in charge kept referring to a clipboard and barking orders to the swarm of waiters and chefs. All the asshole needed was a fucking whistle, Neil thought. Neil resented having to take this job, not that he didn’t need it. Since the show had been canceled, he’d lived hand-to-mouth, using up his last few dollars licking his wounds. Now, totally broke, he had to take whatever he could get. Because Sy Ortis wasn’t getting him anything else in the Industry; Christ, Sy still wasn’t even getting his fucking calls, or at least he wasn’t answering them. So Neil threw himself back on the old survival jobs of all players who are “at leisure”: driving a cab, waiting tables, and trying again.

This one, working for Table d’Hôte, wasn’t the worst. At least he wasn’t slinging hash in some public place, making himself a spectacle, humiliating himself in front of everyone. These were private parties: rich orthodontists, corporate lawyers, and the usual crowd of Orange County Reaganites. Stiffs.

It wasn’t until the caterer had pulled the van full of waiters into the driveway of this one that the honcho told them whose house they would be working tonight. Ara Sagarian’s Emmy party. Jesus. Tears nearly filled Neil’s eyes. He’d been reading about this party in the columns since he was a kid. He used to gobble down the pictures of celebrities around the pool—all laughing, all perfect. His dream was to join them. Join them as an equal. He—Neil Morelli—should be on the other side of the table. That’s what he had come to this town for, to be waited on, not to be a waiter. He stood at the kitchen door, paralyzed, not sure he could force his legs to cross the back-door threshold.

“Hey. You with the nose. Move it. Grab a tray,” the fat guy yelled.

When Sy Ortis called Jahne and invited her to Ara Sagarian’s Emmy party, she’d been surprised. “Strictly business,” he quickly explained. “You got to be out and about now.” Jahne was being talked about, but she was still an unknown to everyone outside the Industry and many inside it, too. So she said yes, though she could barely stand Sy. Sy might be handy for introducing her around, but it was clear that he also had disadvantages as an escort. Ara had been polite but cool to him. Of course, who
could
like Sy Ortis?

She was nervous about this, her debut in the Hollywood social scene. But Sy insisted, and he promised they’d come late and leave early. Now, with butterflies in her stomach, she turned to him. “Who would you like to meet?” he asked her smoothly. “Cher? Keanu Reeves? Hey, Michael Keaton is over there by the bar. He hasn’t come to a party since Batman returned.” Jahne smiled. “No? How about Crystal Plenum?” Jahne’s smile disappeared. Take it easy, she told herself.

“No thanks,” she said.

“So who, then?” Sy asked. Jahne looked around. An enormous man, at least six and a half feet tall and well over three hundred pounds, stood at poolside. It must be Marvin Davis. Jeff Katzenberg stood at the bar. a circle of people around him. And was that tall, old man David Lean? No, wasn’t David Lean dead? Jahne’s head spun. Before Jahne had a chance to answer, Sy took her arm. “Oh, here’s somebody you
must
get to know.” Sy walked up to a tall back and tapped the man’s elbow. “Michael, say hello.”

The man turned, and Jahne found herself staring up into the blue, blue eyes of Michael McLain. He smiled at her, and she couldn’t help smiling back. “Any friend of Sy’s is someone I’d better watch out for,” Michael said. Then he extended his hand to hers. “Hi. I’m Michael McLain,” he said.

“This is Jahne Moore. She’s doing the new Marty DiGennaro show that premieres this coming season.”

“Oh? Is Marty doing a TV show? What is it about?” Michael asked her.

She began to explain, and found him surprisingly easy to talk to, after she got over the undeniable weirdness of standing beside a man-sized Michael McLain. Not that he was exactly tall. She had her highest heels on, and Michael McLain only reached to her ear. After years of seeing him only in ten-foot-high close-ups on the screen, it was a difficult adjustment. No wonder people always thought movie stars were shorter in “real life” than they were on the screen. Still, other than his height, Michael McLain stood up fairly well. He was still very handsome, and if his neck was a little crepey and his eyes set in a few lines, it didn’t bother her one bit. They chatted pleasantly for a few minutes.

“I was sure the two of you would get along,” Sy said as he drifted away. “But watch out for him, Jahne. He eats girls like you for breakfast.”

“Only if they
want
to be eaten, Sy.” Michael smiled, though this time the smile didn’t move up to those incredible blue eyes.

Crystal Plenum adjusted the fall of her signature white wrap on her equally white shoulders and walked into the big room ahead of her husband. That was part of their understanding. Entrances were
always
made alone, just as exits
never
were. She heard the stir she made, the slight pause and then the increase in the ambient noise, and smiled as her husband came up behind her. “Wayne,” she said softly as he approached, “don’t leave my side for
one minute
. And make sure and say everybody’s name. You know how I get.” Crystal was terrible with names, but knew how important it was in this town to be able to put a name with a face. People liked to be recognized, no matter who they were—or weren’t. And they really liked to be recognized by a star. Plus, it kept her from wasting time on the unimportant people at parties. Although, Crystal knew, there were
no
unimportant people at
this
party. Except, of course, for the spouses.

Last year, Ara had neglected to send her an invitation. She’d told everyone she was going to be in New York, and then holed up at the Hotel Bel-Air instead. But now
Jack and Jill
had been lauded by the critics and was doing good box office for a woman’s picture. She was up for a New York Film Critics
and
a Golden Globe. There was definite Oscar talk. The gamble she’d taken—playing her age, looking like shit, and trying to act—had paid off. Everyone would be kissing her cellulite-free ass tonight! She was on top again.

And she’d have to keep Wayne a while longer. Right now, she had to focus on prolonging the roll and starting her next film before she cooled off. A divorce, especially from a husband who was also her business manager, would be costly and distracting. She wondered if she’d get a
People
cover the way Joan Lunden did, because Wayne would sure stick her for a pile of alimony. She should never have let him manage her in the first place. Well, if it came to that, she never should have married him. There would be time for a divorce later.

“Crystal,” Ara said, limping toward them, dragging his stroke leg, his hand extended to her, “how kind of you to come.”

“Ara Sagarian,” Wayne said quickly in a whisper.

“
Him
I know, Wayne,” she told her husband, annoyed. Maybe she
could
afford a divorce this year.

Turning to the approaching small man, she said, “Thank you for having me. I’m honored to be here, Ara. I couldn’t be more pleased if I were winning an award
myself
tonight. Except not a
television
award, of course.” They both laughed.

Paul Grasso hunched in the dark in the back seat of the taxi. Across the way, the drive to Ara Sagarian’s house was lit by tiny twinkling lights and peopled by parking valets and the beautiful invited guests. He looked down at his tux, wrinkling into a pathetic mess as he sat and sweated in the warm darkness.

“Pathetic” was definitely the word for him. Pathetic that, after thirty years in this town, twenty years as a
player
, he was passed over by an old, half-crippled queer. What was Ara saying? That Paul Grasso was no longer worthy of an invite?

Paul knew that if his access to the people that matter was cut off, he could fold his tents and go home. And he had no intention of folding anything. If any folding was going to go down, Ara could take his invitations, fold them five ways, and put them where the moon don’t shine.

But now the moon
was
shining. Just one more thing against him. Because Paul knew he
had
to be at the party. He owed too much money and needed work too bad to risk letting the word get out that he had been overlooked.

He watched and waited for his opportunity. The underbrush at the Fred Wiseman house was thick—more a jungle than a garden. Well, he’d have to use it to his advantage. Because the Wisemans’ property was next to Ara Sagarian’s. He hoped it wasn’t patrolled by dogs.

Cautiously, he got out of the taxi and dismissed the driver. He didn’t know how he’d get home, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Stealthily, he moved into the underbrush that ran along the dividing line of the two properties.

Paul Grasso was not the only bitter, excluded person left in the darkness that night. In Bel Aire Theresa O’Donnell sat in the musty bedroom that was reserved for Candy and Skinny. She didn’t speak to them or for them, but merely sat, motionless as the two puppets, and as empty.

April Irons wordlessly handed her empty glass to Sam Shields, and looked around Ara’s vast, crowded living room while her escort went to fetch her a fresh one. They were negotiating on the new film she was producing, the remake of
Birth of a Star
. Wait until Marty DiGennaro found out! She knew he loved the thing. Maybe she’d introduce Sam Shields, as the director of the remake, to Marty. He’d eat his liver! But Sam would probably ass-kiss. April didn’t feel the need to give her protégé entrée to absolutely everyone.

Her eyes stopped when, across the crowded room, she spotted a handsome man with Kikki Mansard, the new girl in town, on his arm. When his own eyes met hers, she beckoned with an exaggerated motion of her index finger for him to come.

He pointed to himself and mouthed, “Me?” April nodded her head up and down, deliberately. The man began to walk toward her, his hand on Kikki’s back, guiding her. April shook her head and watched the man whisper to his date, then continue toward her, alone.

“April, you flatter me,” Michael McLain said, and raised the tips of his fingers to his lips. “But don’t you want to meet Kikki? She’s doing the Dino De Laurentiis thing.”