Flavor of the Month (57 page)

Theresa O’Donnell squinted at the screen in the sitting room adjoining her bedroom, trying to make the double images converge into one. She reached for the glass of lukewarm vodka, neat, that sat at her elbow on the low table next to her chaise longue. Kevin entered the room, looked at the clear liquid in the glass, and was about to say something. “Sit down and shut up,” Theresa growled before he could open his mouth. Since Kevin had been dumped by Lila, Theresa had inherited him. He lived there, kept her glass full and kept her company, much to the disgust of both Robbie and Estrella. Well, Theresa had no choice about keeping Kevin on. After all, he knew her secrets. Fuck Estrella. It didn’t matter even if Estrella left. She’d still have her two little girls.

She turned to the wooden figure beside her on the sofa. “Do we have to do this?” Candy asked.

“It’s
so
boring!” Skinny chimed in.

“Oh, now, you sound jealous!” Theresa admonished, but she smiled. “After all, she
is
your sister.”

“She’s a coldhearted bitch!” muttered Skinny.

“Language, please! Unless you like the taste of soap.” Still, Theresa smiled, until the show began and Lila’s face appeared. Then the smile disappeared.

Theresa stared at Lila’s image on the screen for the third week in a row. Lila, a star. This was not good news, not good news at all. It made her look old—it could make her look bad.
Now
what’s going to happen to me? she wondered. Doesn’t the little bitch think about anyone but herself? Who’s going to hire me now, when it has become so public that I have a daughter Lila’s age?

Jesus, and on television. Television was over, finished. Everyone knew that, except maybe Marty DiGennaro. And Lila. It would
never
be the same again, not like it was in the days of Theresa’s show, and
Lucy
and
The Honeymooners
and Ed Sullivan. Theresa marked the death of the medium from the day she and Ed had left the tube. It was downhill from there—a vast wasteland of no-talent trash. Trash and PR.

The build on this show had been ridiculous. In a place famous for hype, they had outdone themselves. Mother of God, there wasn’t a magazine or newspaper that wasn’t running some story or other. And not wholesome pieces, either. Not ones like she used to do.

“She looks like a tramp,” Skinny said.

“So do the other two,” Theresa agreed.

“But they’re famous tramps,” Candy taunted.

“If I hear another nasty word like that from you, I’m calling in Mr. Woodpecker!” Theresa threatened. But what Candy said was true. Lila was famous. So were the other tramps, who costarred. And when the fame became so big that every little detail of their lives would become public, what was Lila going to do then?

“I told her to stay out of the business. I told her, but she didn’t listen.” Theresa looked over at Kevin, who returned her look, then shrugged, as if reading her mind. Theresa drained her glass and held it out to him. Wordlessly, Kevin stood up and took it, refilled it from the bottle on the dresser, and returned it to Theresa.

“They’re calling her one of the three most beautiful women in the world,” he said to Theresa.

“Sweet St. Joseph! She’ll be America’s sweetheart. They’ll be saying that next. The loveliest girl in the world.” Like mother, like daughter, Theresa thought, and laughed bitterly at her private joke, then almost choked on her drink. Perhaps she was being too harsh, too bitter. There must be a way she could use this to her advantage.

Maybe that’s it
, she thought. Ride her wave. Maybe a mother-daughter show. Perfect! This show can’t last. There’s nothing to it. No singing, no dancing. After she bombs in this, I’ll help pull her back up on top, rescue her with
our
show.

“Don’t worry, girls,” she told Candy and Skinny. “This won’t last. And I have a plan.”

They could begin rehearsing tomorrow, brush up a few old routines, maybe develop some new ones. She could get Robbie to choreograph a dance routine or two.

“Forget about plans,” said Kevin bitterly. “She don’t need you no more.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Theresa snapped. “She’ll come crawling when she realizes she can’t get through this without me.”

“She will!” Candy shouted.

“Kevin, get out of here,” Skinny added. “We want to watch this alone.” Kevin rose and, shaking his head, slowly left the room.

Theresa settled back to observe the rest of the show. Maybe things would work out for the best after all.

Dobe sat in the television lounge of the Wayfarer Hotel in Edmund, Minnesota, watching the screen in silence. Sitting next to him was a John Deere salesman from St. Paul. The front-desk clerk, leaning against the door jamb so he could hear the phones if they rang, was engrossed in the show unfolding on the TV.

Dobe put his fingers to his lips, afraid that his delight would cause him to smile, and cause people to ask what he was grinning at. When you were on the grift, it was best not to call attention to yourself. But it was hard not to grin back at the pretty blonde on the screen. Sharleen was radiant, lighting up the room, making him feel young again. He was as happy as a father could be for his daughter. Good girl, he said to himself. You done it. I’m proud of you, kid.

The salesman leaned toward Dobe and whispered, “Look at the tits on that blonde.”

Dobe looked him straight in the face; his smile faded. “Watch out, mister. You’re talking about a lady,” he said. Then Dobe turned his eyes back to the screen.

Brewster Moore sat across from the television, its screen flickering in front of him. The three women were incredibly beautiful, picked for their looks more than for their talent. But Dr. Moore knew that Mary Jane had always had talent. Now, thanks to him, she had beauty as well.

He watched her image on the screen closely. Was it professional or personal? he wondered. Her letters to him seemed excited, but they also had an edge of sadness, telling not only of her success but also of her loneliness in her new life. And Brewster Moore, divorced now five years, knew something about the loneliness Mary Jane wrote about. Like her, he had his work, but, unlike her, he knew his work would never quite be enough.

He had to force himself not to write too often to Mary Jane. That would not be right. He had created her looks; now it was up to her to create her new life. And he could not play a part in both. People wanted to forget his work once it was done. She didn’t owe him anything, and she wouldn’t want to be reminded of his services. Patients rarely did. But at least he had her letters.

Now he couldn’t take his eyes off Mary Jane Moran—Jahne Moore, he corrected himself. My handiwork, he thought. My Galatea.
I
made her, not God. Of course, he could never say those words out loud to anyone. His triumph was a lonely pleasure. But delicious nonetheless.

After all the reconstructions of burn victims, of the children with nature’s defects, of faces that, despite all his skill, would never even approximate the norm; after all the Park Avenue matrons insisting on premature face lifts, after the models with perfect noses who wanted them to be a bit
more
perfect—Jahne Moore was unique. An achievement of perfection, appropriate and complete. Beautiful. Rewarding. Brave.

A woman he could love.

Neil Morelli owned nothing except the clothes in the closet and the thirteen-inch color TV he had bought from a guy at the club who was selling hot Korean TVs for fifty bucks. Well, he hadn’t actually bought it yet, since he still owed the guy twenty dollars.

He had no money, no car, no friends, and nowhere to go. He had a stinking job driving a cab. But he had his television, and while that was on, Neil could feel he was still connected to the world. It was Sunday night, but it could have been any night in the week. The calendar didn’t mean much to him anymore. All he needed to know was when
Seinfeld, Evening at the Improv
, and that show with Paul Provenza were on. So he could envy and hate them. But tonight he was making a special effort to watch the show all the assholes at the club had been carrying on about for weeks. He would never admit it to anyone tomorrow, but tonight he was going to watch
Three for the Road
for the first time. Just to see what the fuck everyone was going nuts over, the guys at the taxi garage especially.

Not that it was a hard show to watch, Neil soon saw. Three gorgeous girls, all with great tits and legs, romping around right before his eyes. And all that sixties shit. Love beads. Bell bottoms. Moby Grape. He was lying on his open sofa-bed, and had the television on a chair next to him. For this show, he had pulled the set up real close to his face, so that he wouldn’t miss anything. Actually, this was the closest thing to a date that Neil had had in a long time. He felt his dick get hard as the show progressed, and he tried to fantasize which one he would fuck, if he gave them the chance.

He still hadn’t decided by the end of the show, although he had begun to stroke himself, and was close to climaxing. Then the credits began to roll. Neil always was on the lookout for newcomers. Three kids had managed, against the odds, to break into the business big time. Well, good for them. He watched their names roll. Sharleen Smith, Jahne Moore, Lila Kyle.

Wait a minute. Lila Kyle? Neil knew who she was; he had researched her for his routine. She was the double-dynasty kid,
both
parents stars. He felt his dick grow limp in his hand, his frustration now fueling his rage at another Nepotism Squad target. She must have got the job through connections. Her mother got it for her. She got a free ride; he, Neil Morelli, got nothing.

You fucking cunt, he thought. I could kill you.

If
politics
makes strange bedfellows, just think of the couplings Hollywood creates. Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Madonna and Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson and Brooke Shields. Madonna and Warren Beatty. Michael Jackson and Diana Ross. Madonna and everyone else
.

On the surface, Marty DiGennaro and Lila Kyle would seem as unlikely and ridiculous. But given their backgrounds, there was a certain symmetry to it. Both were loners. Both had spent their childhoods in darkened rooms staring at movies. In fact, both had stared at some of the same movies. Both Lila and Marty loved
Birth of a Star,
and if one had a mother who had been featured in it, it enhanced everything for the other
.

So despite Marty’s plain face and unimpressive build and Lila’s glamour and leggy height, the two shared more than most odd couples in L.A
.

And when did a beautiful woman on the arm of an ugly, shorter, older, but powerful man ever look out of place in Hollywood?

Marty DiGennaro sat back in his limousine, his feet up on the folded seat in front of him, savoring the moment. Everything was better than good. The reception of
3/4
was great. He’d just heard that the Network was renewing for the next thirteen episodes. Monica Flanders was ecstatic. Their new cosmetics line was already profitable. And, on top of it all, Lila Kyle had accepted his invitation to dinner. In fact, she had accepted so unexpectedly that he hadn’t had time to really plan. Unusual for a control freak like Marty. How many times had he asked her out? It seemed like every day since they’d started shooting the series, and always the answer was the same. A frigid “No, thank you.” Then, just like that, she accepts. Go know.

Maybe it had just sunk in that he had done what he said he’d do: he’d made her a star. In just a month, the show had captured an unprecedented audience. You couldn’t go by a magazine stand or a variety store without seeing the girls’ pictures everywhere. So why question his luck? Or her motivations? He was too excited. Excited like he used to be as a little kid waiting for the Joan Crawford movie to begin. Or Myrna Loy. Or Merle Oberon. The other kids watched TV on Saturday for the cartoons. Not Marty. He was into beauty. He couldn’t wait for his star of the moment to light up the old Dumont television screen as the
Early Show
began.

His star of the moment was definitely Lila Kyle. Only she was
real
—flesh and blood—not some color emulsion on celluloid. From the moment he met her, he knew she was different, special. She was Hollywood royalty, after all. A combination of the grandeur of the old stars and something altogether new and contemporary. At the end of the day’s shoot, he couldn’t get her out of his mind: her smoldering red hair, her narrow waist, the long, long legs that seem to start at her neck. He would catch himself staring at her while he was setting up a shot of Jahne or Sharleen, when his attention should have been on them. And the craziest part of it all was, she didn’t seem to care that he—Marty DiGennaro—was paying so much attention to her. In fact, she didn’t even seem to notice. Not that he needed that, but, let’s face it, when you offer an unknown a chance of a lifetime, you expect a little something, a little appreciation. Not a fuck, necessarily. He wasn’t into power fucking. But gratitude, respect, friendship, warmth. Lila gave him zip.

And the most amazing part was, he didn’t think it was an act. She wasn’t playing coy, hard to get, as his first wife had. Lila was simply cool. Cool as they come.

She hadn’t seen him, except on the set. Tonight, she had agreed to have dinner with him, just the two of them, but then she asked that they not go out. She had smiled warmly; she hated crowds she said. She just wanted to talk. Every other chick he knew, when he took her out, wanted not only the hottest spot in town, but also the hottest
table
in that hottest spot. Women wanted to be
seen
with Marty DiGennaro. One bitch had even brought her own photographer to the restaurant to record the momentous occasion. But not Lila. He couldn’t figure her out. And that gave Marty DiGennaro a hard-on.

He had one now, as he finalized plans for the evening. He had his office on the phone. Staci, his secretary, had taken care of most of the details, in her usual unflappable way, but Marty wanted to do
something
, put his own imprint on the evening, as it were. This wasn’t just another date with just another starlet. He gave Staci a few comments, then hung up, but he was too restless to do nothing. Instead, he picked up the car phone and began to dial numbers. The first was to his florist.