Girl in the Mirror (26 page)

Because there was no doubt that her acting was pure genius. Either she was the best damn method actor she’d ever seen or the woman was really sick. And Joel didn’t let up on her. He shot the scene first in master shots, then moved in for closer angles, mostly of Charlotte, but several of Leonardo DiCaprio’s expressive face as well. The two worked magic together as the ill-fated lovers. But Joel wanted blood, and from the pallor on her face, it looked like he was getting it. No one believed for a moment her agent’s line about her having allergies. When the character coughed and choked during her death scene, even her bodyguard stepped forward, his dark, unreadable eyes sharply focused on his charge. What was the story there? Vicki wondered.

“Wonderful! Cut. Print,” called Joel, beaming. The cast and crew clapped and cheered, as happy with the performance as the culmination of the scene. It had been a long day for everyone. Godfrey had to practically be carried back to her trailer by that hunk of a bodyguard. No one was allowed access to the star. Vicki was determined to get her story, however. The Godfrey woman mesmerized her.

“Hey, Joel!” she called out, trotting after the famous director. “Vicki Ray, from ‘ET.’ Any comment on the film? Or your star?”

The tall, thin, enigmatic director turned to scowl at his PR director, a sensitive-faced man with Ralph Lauren glasses and long, curled hair. Vicki had already run him over with her determination. The poor man cringed under the director’s stare.

“Tell her I’ll see her and everyone else tomorrow at four.”

“What? You want enough time to get Charlotte Godfrey on a plane out from Paris?”

The press knew that the producers of
Camille
didn’t want anyone to have access to their star until the advanced press releases came out. Editors were working on the clips before they even tackled the film. The push was on to get the “coming soon” excitement rolling as soon as possible.
Camille
was a winner; everyone could smell it. The producers, and Joel, wanted it out in time for the holidays—and the Oscars. Such was the way of blockbusters.

“Come on,” Vicki Ray prodded. “Just one quote.”

Schaeffer stopped and turned, his face tight. The PR man stepped forward, blocking her. For a minute Vicki thought she’d blown the interview. But then Schaeffer’s eyes sparkled with pleasure and he waved away the assistant.

“I’m going on the record as saying that Godfrey’s performance was nothing short of genius. Better than Garbo’s. No, wait.” He paused, glanced at his PR man, then a wide, self-satisfied smile eased across his face.

“You can tell them for me, Garbo lives.”

Garbo Lives! ran the headline of
Variety
when the early publicity rushes came out. Talk of an Oscar nomination was already on everyone’s tongues by the time Charlotte reached California.

Freddy’s protective blackout and her penchant for privacy was perceived as merely a publicity ploy to recreate Garbo’s reclusiveness, stirring the paparazzi into a feeding frenzy. The PR people at Miramax were thrilled with the comparisons with Garbo and played along, lip-synching Freddy’s prepared press releases that Godfrey was a natural recluse.

“Well, yes,” they conceded. “If the press insisted on comparison, Godfrey did prefer her privacy. Like Garbo.”

As she traveled home, Charlotte wore an ill-fitting black velvet top, a baggy black skirt with a fringe hem, red sneakers and enormous black sunglasses. Freddy arranged for her to be met by cars so that she never had to wait in public. This was customary, but he laughed at her perpetual dark glasses, telling her that she was defeating her purpose. She looked more like a star in this get-up than if she’d worn furs and silk scarves. Charlotte didn’t see the point of telling him that her eyes were photosensitive now and she needed the protection.

She dismissed Freddy at the airport, insisting that she ride alone in the limousine from the L.A. airport through the winding hills to her home. Freddy had been insistent but Charlotte was firm. She would go home alone.

A trail of cars filled with photographers that rammed cameras in her face without any mercy followed her, but soon she would slip behind the tall, layered stucco walls that now surrounded her home and gardens. Freddy had insisted that the whole place get wired up. Electronic eyes and ears sensitive to body heat and motion made her house and gardens an impenetrable fortress. It was necessary, Freddy said, what with all the crazy fan mail she’d been receiving. Who knows what a stalker might do? She had called him eccentric, but now she silently blessed him.

The driver approached the secluded entry, made more so by the foreboding, heavy iron gates and intercom station. She focused on the lush hydrangea vines climbing along the stucco walls rather than the red blinking light of the sensors. The gates swung wide. She slid down her window, and as the car moved forward she caught the scent of jasmine from her garden. She was home. This small house on the cliff had come to mean so much to her, especially now that Michael had transformed it for her into this multileveled, open-space retreat overlooking both her lush garden and the valley below. It was a love letter from him to her.

She stepped out from the long black limousine, not waiting for the chauffeur’s assistance, anxious for him to be gone. As soon as he settled her luggage in the house, she excused him, sighing in relief when she saw the heavy gates close behind the car. At last. Blissful solitude. No one was here to tell her where to stand, what to wear, prompt what she said. She was free from what was referred to as her entourage: Freddy, her agent, her personal maid, her hairdresser, her secretary, her press agent. Free from the badgering of her New York financier, her lawyer and her business manager. All of them doing their jobs. None of them concerned about her. None of them friends or loved ones.

A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull, a signal she recognized now that a killer headache was not far behind. She’d have to take more painkillers soon. Perhaps when she ate. She’d feel better now that she was home, she felt sure. That’s all she needed. To be alone in her home. She breathed in the sweet scent of her garden in the warm June breezes. How good it felt to be out of the trailer, out from the lights. In her own house.

Her house. The change was amazing. She had spent so little time here since the renovation, she barely recognized it. Once inside, she was confronted with the dramatic garden views that Michael had made possible. She took a deep breath and smiled.

“Melanie?” she called, but there was no reply. All was quiet. She dropped her purse and short white gloves on the front secretary, then sifted quickly through the mail set aside for her. Nothing from Michael.

She sniffed and caught the scent of Melanie’s Shalimar. The whole house smelled of her. Looking around, she noticed that scattered here and there…everywhere…were Melanie’s things. Her collection of assorted crystals and delicate Herend china filled the shelves of Charlotte’s étagère. The romance novel she was reading lay half opened on the sofa. There was very little in the house that indicated Charlotte even lived here.

In her bathroom she unpacked her toiletries, washed the voyage off her face and applied creamy moisturizer to her dry skin. She’d call her masseuse tomorrow. Ah, yes, she thought, rubbing the back of her neck. Some jasmine-scented oil and Ruth’s magic fingers digging out the tension was exactly what she needed.

Michael had designed vaulted ceilings and huge windows in the luxurious bathroom so she could open her windows to the garden while she soaked in the whirlpool tub. Bobby had joined in the project, too, painting sweet, chubby cheeked putti on the ceiling that peeked over at her with wide eyes and pointing fingers. He’d thought it was so amusing—just like the great murals in the pope’s bathroom.

She dripped a few droplets of Joy perfume into the water, adding some to her neck and her wrist, over her sore joints. She closed her eyes, remembering the night he’d kissed all the small, secret places she had applied it on her body. How long had it been since he’d kissed her? Since they’d made love? Could it really have been four months?

The sweet-scented vapors filled the room. Suddenly she felt sick. Very sick. Moaning, she hurried to the apricot-colored toilet and slipped to her knees before it, just in time. The past months of filming, the eight-hour plane trip, the two painkillers and her loneliness for Michael emptied out into the porcelain bowl.

Melanie knew the moment she entered the house that Charlotte had returned. One of her crazy operas was blaring from the speakers, her twelve pieces of matched Louis Vuitton luggage blocked the foyer and the scent of Joy and bath crystals permeated the house. She broke into a wide grin of delight and, after tossing her briefcase and purse into a jumbled heap beside the luggage, vaulted through the living room.

“Charlotte!” she called out. “Welcome home, sweetie! Charlotte? Where are you?”

When she walked into Charlotte’s bedroom suite she paused but saw no one. She was about to leave when she heard the sound of retching in the bathroom.

“Oh, sweetie, what’s the matter with you?” she crooned, rushing to her side and holding Charlotte’s thin, racking shoulders as she heaved. Charlotte’s thinness alarmed her immediately. Her shoulders were little more than bones protruding through pale skin. Her hair was limp and without its customary luster.

When Charlotte leaned back against her, spent, Melanie wiped her mouth and face with a cool cloth, then helped her to her feet. When Charlotte stood, Melanie was stunned at the full sight of how much weight she’d lost. She hurried to wrap a shivering Charlotte in a thick terry cloth robe and helped her to the bed.

“I’m going to kill that Freddy.” In her breathy voice, even a threat sounded sexy. Charlotte wanted to smile but couldn’t. She felt boneless, muscleless. She slumped back into the pillows and closed her eyes. Deep, dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her cheekbones, already prominent, rose high and stark over gaunt, hollow cheeks.

“It’s not his fault,” she replied. “He hovers over me like a mother hen, even hired a personal bodyguard in France for me. Had a press blackout…he did everything he could.”

“I’m going to get you something to eat.”

“No, no,” Charlotte moaned. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”

“What? Are you anorexic or something?”

“No, no. It’s not that.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Oh, yes. Many. No one seems to know what’s the matter with me. Except a therapist.”

There were not many people she could admit this to. Other than Michael, there was only Melanie. “One psychologist said I’m suffering from an emotional disorder.” She released a chuckle that was part laugh, part cry. “In other words, he thinks I’m nuts.”

“You’re the most balanced person I’ve ever met. Little Miss Cheerful. That’s a crock if you ask me. Anyone can see you’re malnourished. All you need is a few home cooked meals.”

“Spoken like a chef.” Charlotte pried open an eye and smiled at her friend.

Melanie had changed much more over the past several months. Gone was the tight, sexy, garish clothing. Gone, too, was the heavy makeup, brassy blond hair and high heels. Melanie had cut her hair, and now the soft, golden brown locks were styled in a soft bob that flattered her round face. She’d gained weight, too. At least ten pounds, filling out her soft, flowing pants and sweater in flattering curves. She looked like a woman who no longer needed to flaunt her outer beauty, having found it within.

“So, enough about me,” said Charlotte. “Tell me about what’s going on with you since I’ve last seen you. How’s school?”

Melanie beamed and flopped down on the bed beside her. “Great. More than great, actually. I love my classes, love going to school, love waking up every morning. It’s probably as much
that
as skill that makes me really good at what I’m doing. My friend Junichi is just waiting for the liquor license and he’ll be ready to open his new Japanese restaurant. We’ve done so much since you’ve been gone. The dock’s been spruced up real good, and Junichi designed some wonderful Japanese-looking tables and chairs so people can nibble sushi outside and look at the sunsets. I know it’s going to be a success. The stars and planets are all in alignment. And people are already knocking on the windows while we’re working, asking when we’re going to open for business. You’ll be our first customer, of course.”

“Of course. I can hardly wait. I’m just glad I didn’t miss the opening.”

“What do you mean, miss it? We wouldn’t have opened till you got here. You’re a partner.”

“A silent partner.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re spending a lot of time with Junichi. Outside of business, that is.”

Melanie’s brows gathered and she grew cagey.

“We’re just good friends. And he’s very sexy. No big deal.”

Charlotte raised her brow.

“Well, okay, there’s a possibility he’s a big deal. He’s very special. Different from anyone else I’ve ever known. He treats me different, too. You know, he opens doors for me, takes my arm when I cross the street, puts his hand on my waist when we stand together. Little things that shows he cares. The kind of thing I see Michael do for you all the time. Every girl dreams of finding someone who loves her like that.”

“And you’ve found that with Junichi?”