Flavor of the Month (55 page)

“You’ve already got some good parts,” he said, with a joking Groucho Marx leer. She laughed and felt another wave of gooseflesh. Surely this was an invitation. Oh, God! She felt like a schoolgirl.

She rose and walked to the window, looking down on the sparkling lights. “Isn’t this view beautiful?” she asked, as she watched the lights of the city glow like a carpet of giant fireflies.

Michael came up behind her, but he didn’t touch her, he didn’t push. “You like it, it’s yours,” he joked.

“No, it’s nobody’s,” Jahne said, still peering out at the lights. “This town is like water. You can hold on to it only so long; then it drips right through your fingers.”

Michael turned her gently so that she faced him. “A little cynical for someone so young, and so new to Hollywood. There was a time starlets trembled at this sight. Like it was a dream come true.” He sipped some of her wine and made a face. It wasn’t very good. “Are you a cynic, Jahne? Or are you very wise?”

Jahne thought about it for a moment. The air was electric between them, but they were talking like a bad movie script. “A little of both, probably,” she said. “What about you? Do you still tremble? Or are you wise?”

He put his hand on her arm. It was warm, so warm, and she could feel him tremble. God, Michael McLain was trembling for her! For
her
. Surely he couldn’t fake that. She didn’t move away. “The trappings of stardom don’t make me tremble anymore. No, what turns me on is talent. Raw, driven talent. Like yours.”

“You know,” Jahne said, looking into Michael’s eyes, “I want to believe that Michael McLain thinks I’m talented. That here I am, of all the girls in town, and Michael McLain is telling
me
I’m talented. And that it turns him on.” Jahne shrugged and took a step away, breaking the current between them. “It’s nice to hear and all that, but, come on, I’m not the first starry-eyed new-girl-in-town you’ve said this to. And you’ve never even seen my work. So how would you know?”

“I never lie about talent,” Michael said. “Why would I? To get a woman to sleep with me? I don’t need to lie for that.”

Jahne thought of Sam and his line about getting her a part in his movie. She shivered.

Michael kept looking into Jahne’s eyes. “You’re one of three truly talented women that I have met in twelve years. I won’t name the other two—chivalry forbids it—but, trust me, Jahne, you have talent. I saw you at the Melrose Playhouse.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “A
unique
talent. And a very old soul.”

“Michael,” Jahne chided, moving her head away. “Next you’ll be telling me we knew each other in a previous life.” But she was touched that he’d actually seen her perform.

Michael laughed, his charming, deep, baritone laugh. “I guess I mean you’re very mature. Special.” There was a silence between them for a moment; then Michael leaned across and kissed her. Jahne didn’t respond, except to run her tongue gently along her lips afterward at the sensation that lingered when he moved away. This was fun. Maybe dangerous, but fun! It had been so long since she could talk, really talk, to a man. Since Sam, she realized. Too long.

Jahne knew then that she had already made the decision to sleep with Michael. He seemed considerate, and gentle, and interesting. And he kissed nice. But what about the scars? Would he be repulsed? Just how sophisticated was he?

Jahne lifted her hand and placed it behind Michael’s head, drawing him closer. This time, she kissed him, first gently, then more insistently. He responded, holding her hard against his chest. Slowly, his hand moved down her back, dipping into her dress.

She pushed him away, very gently. “Michael, wait. I’ve been in an accident. I have some…well, some scars.”

He laughed. “Who doesn’t have scars in this town?” he asked, and drew her back toward the sofa. “You’re very beautiful. No scar can mar that beauty,” he whispered as he began to undress her.

The dress, Mai’s beautiful creation, fell to the floor in an inky black cloud. Jahne took a deep breath and then, in the gentle but frightening light of the living room, she began to peel off the bodysuit. She was ungraceful, she knew, but Michael was fumbling with his own clothes. Only then did he turn to her. What would he say?

He said nothing. He simply reached across the gulf between them and ran his fingers lightly over the scar at her groin, then to the two that ran up the center of her breasts. His touch was as light as a breeze. She wondered if he could yet see the scars under her arms, or what he would say about the ones under her buttocks and along her inner thighs. No one could mistake them for accident scars: they were too symmetrical, too perfect. She trembled, waiting for his reaction.

But he merely took her hand and drew her to the sofa. He paused and took out a condom, slipped it on, then pulled her onto the couch, covering her with his own warm body.

As she lay naked beneath him, she began to shiver. “Please, this is the first time anyone has seen me since…” she whispered, and paused. How could she ever explain? She took a breath and it sounded like a sob. “I’m afraid about how I look.”

Michael raised himself on his elbows and looked down, scanning her breasts again with his eyes, tracing the thin scars, from nipple to chest wall, with the tip of one finger. He finally looked in her eyes, after examining her. “Beautiful,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

A television premiere is nothing like a movie premiere, Jahne thought as she slipped into her old terry robe and padded barefoot to the TV. For her network premiere tonight, there was no dressing up, no theater with spotlights searching the sky, no arrival of stars, directors, producers, agents. There was no live coverage by reporters. Just as well, Jahne thought. As it was she was nervous enough. Because this, tonight, would determine her future just as surely as Dr. Moore’s scalpels had.

Tonight, for the first time, all of America was going to get a chance to tune in to
Three for the Road
, and all the time and money, all the effort, imagination, sweat, technical tricks, the hours of waiting, the moments of acting, all the makeup, the lighting, the musical scoring, all the stitches made by Mai, all the stunts—all the work was going to be applauded or rejected by the public.

Some of the crew, she knew, were getting together to watch. But she had not been invited. Was it because she had broken up with Pete? Was there resentment that she had dumped one of their own? Or was it simply that the Hollywood caste system was taking hold? Had anyone already heard she was dating Michael McLain? Did they think she was acting like a starlet? Did they feel that she thought of them as nothing more than techs? She felt—she hoped—that she had never been a snob, that she liked and respected the crew. But did they like and respect her? She couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that, the closer the show came to its debut, the more distant the crew had become.

Except for Mai Von Trilling. Thank God for Mai. Jahne felt Mai was her only friend in Hollywood. Well, in the whole world right now, except perhaps for Dr. Moore and little Raoul. The old woman had a way about her that charmed Jahne. Tonight, Mai had suggested that she join Jahne to watch the show, and Jahne had gratefully accepted. Somehow, watching her television premiere all alone with ten or even twenty million people had seemed unbearably lonely.

There was a knock at the door, and Jahne jumped up to get it. Mai stood on the doorstep, a brown paper bag in her arms. She looked Jahne over, taking in the old robe and still-wet hair. “I didn’t know ve vere goink formal,” she said dryly, and walked past Jahne into the living room. As always, she wore the white sweatshirt and soft black cotton pants that seemed, with her immaculate white Keds, to be her trademark.

She set the bag down on a low table and pulled out a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. “Napoleon and Josephine liked this. Of course, I am only speakink from hearsay. Even I am not
that
old.” She looked about the room. “I don’t suppose you have champagne flutes?” she asked. Jahne shook her head. “Just as vell I brought these, then.” Mai smiled and pulled out a pair of impossibly graceful blown-glass flutes. “But an ice bucket? This even you must have.”

“
Even
me?” Jahne asked, smiling as she went to get the Lucite ice bucket and filled it with cubes. “Am I such a barbarian?”

“Everyvun under forty is a barbarian. I vas, too.” Mai pulled a second bottle of the champagne out of the bag. “Do you think I grew up drinking vintage French vines? I, the daughter of a tailor? It vas my beauty that let me into the club, und then it took a decade or two to learn vat vas vat. Vell, at least
I
learned. Gloria Svanson vas
alvays
a barbarian.”

Jahne had to giggle at the disapproval. But “Two bottles, Mai?” she asked. “Very extravagant!” How much did vintage Veuve Cliquot cost? she wondered. Could Mai afford it? She knew she could not offer to pay for one: Mai was proud.

“Vell, how often do you make your national debut? Next time, ve’ll be more conservative.” Mai sat down stiffly while Jahne put one bottle into the refrigerator and the other into the ice bucket. Carefully, she peeled off the lead seal, exposing the cork.

“Shall I open it now?” she asked. Mai looked at her watch and nodded. “Ve haff six minutes before the show starts. Shall ve drink a toast?”

Shyly, Jahne nodded. She twisted the wire basket off the cork slowly. The cork released with a low pop, the bottle smoking from the top. Mai held the two glasses while Jahne filled them quickly, before a drop was spilled.

“Neatly done,” Mai complimented her. “But I alvays think it is sad ven vimmen must open their own champagne. Don’t you?”

Jahne nodded, and couldn’t help thinking of Michael. It would have been nice if he could have come over, but since Wednesday he hadn’t called. She felt both excited by and ashamed of her night with him. Had she just been another conquest? Or did he mean it when he said he’d call? He had seemed so warm, so sincere. She wasn’t sure how she felt about
him
, but she knew she wanted him to like
her
.

She turned to Mai, who seemed settled and ready, watching a commercial for the new Buick Skylark, with a minute to go. If the show worked, if it was good, Jahne might yet get to have the career she dreamed of, a worthwhile career. If not…she shook her head.

“It starts!” Mai hissed, and the screen went dark. The music began: heavy bass back beat, and then Martha and the Vandellas beginning the first verse of “Dancing in the Street.” A red thread snaked across the screen, moving to the musk, followed by a dozen, and then a hundred more. Then a white thread joined, also pulsing to the driving beat. It, too, was followed by hundreds of other white threads. Superimposed over that came an image of a woman rider on a motorcycle. Then another joined her. Finally, there were three. Behind them, the threads now covered the screen, and it became clearer now: they made the alternating stripes of the flag, red and white, with a blue-black patch in the upper left-hand corner. Then the camera moved out, focusing first on Lila, then Jahne, and lastly Sharleen. Crimson, Cara, and Clover. Their names appeared under their faces. Now, though the flag remained in the background, it became clear that it was hair, the mingled hair of the three girls, blowing and twisting, incredibly long, dancing to the Motown music. Then the title appeared,
THREE FOR THE ROAD
, spelled in tiny white stars.

The program opened with noise, with quick cuts of chaos. It was the antiwar-demonstration sequence they had shot in Bakersfield. Marty had made sure everything was perfect, and it did look almost like documentary footage to Jahne, until she herself appeared on the screen. But Marty used the cuts, and then a sort of psychedelic smear where one cut bled into another, so that it looked like no documentary Jahne had ever seen. It was sixties content with a nineties edge. Jahne watched as her character, Cara, met Crimson for the first time, on the steps of the courthouse. Then they were confronted by the cops and dragged off to jail. Their dialogue came off well, she thought. Next there was a black-and-white montage, the fingerprinting, the I.D. photos. It reminded her a little of
A Hard Day’s Night
, but, once again, with an updated edge. The show had its own style. It was unique.

“It’s good,” Mai said at the first commercial break.

“I think so,” Jahne agreed. Was it good enough to be popular? Was it
too
good? Would it go over the heads of the audience? She could see how Marty was making a serious statement about a better, more hopeful era, and yet simultaneously exploiting their looks, youth, and sex appeal. She and Mai watched in silence.

Using a single camera to shoot, shooting film, not video, working mostly on location rather than in the studio, focusing on the stunts, the fabulous special effects, it all seemed right. Jahne knew that each episode cost over a million dollars. They already had the first eleven done.

Well, she had nothing to be ashamed of. The show had quality. But it did feel kind of sad, just she and Mai sitting there in the dark. She wondered if anyone she knew would watch the show; if people in New York, or even high school classmates from Scuderstown, would tune in.

The phone rang. She looked at Mai. “No one has my home number,” she said. It wasn’t exactly true: Michael McLain did, and so did Sy and Marty. Mai shrugged. The phone trilled again. Jahne reached for it.

“You are great. So is the show. But you are the best thing on it.” It was Sam’s voice. Jahne felt her hand, holding the receiver, begin to shake.

“Thank you,” she managed to say.

“This is Sam Shields. I hope I’m the first to congratulate you, and also the first to offer you a new job.”

Jahne looked over at Mai. Could Mai see how disturbed she was? She took a deep breath. Had he been serious, back on the terrace at April’s? Or was this just another stupid come-on?

“Are you interested?” he asked. “It’s for a remake of
Birth of a Star
. I think you’d be perfect for the female lead. Would you consider it?”

“Call my agent, Sy Ortis,” Jahne managed to tell him. “Let me take a look at the script, and then we’ll let you know.”