My Lucky Star (12 page)

The stars’ stunned and admiring silence was at last broken by Diana.

“Well,” she drawled prettily, “aren’t you a clever boy?”

“I’ll say!” marveled Stephen. “You would actually
do
that?”

“Happily.”

“Just imagine,” purred Diana. “Our own private pipeline into Lily’s diseased imagination.”

“That’s one smart friend you’ve got there!” remarked Gina to Gilbert, who responded with a small, curdled smile such as Iago
might have mustered for Othello Appreciation Day.

Stephen asked how I could be certain I’d win the ghostwriting job. I’d already considered this obstacle but pretended not
to have, the better to dazzle him with my improvisatory brilliance.

“Hmm,” I murmured, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps —”

“Don’t bother,” pounced Gilbert. “I’ll take it from here. What we need, Stephen —”

“I can manage, thanks!”

“— is someone close to Lily who’s greedy and who’d go for a bribe.”

“
Exactly
where I was heading. A friend, perhaps, or an agent —”

“Her manager.” This from Diana. “Lou Perlmutter.”

“Weaselly?” asked Gilbert.

“He’d steal the freckles off a child star.”

“Perfect!”

“So!”
I said loudly, determined to regain control of my presentation, “I contact Lou—”

“He doesn’t say a word about
you
people, of course.”

“I should think that was obvious. I say I’m an aspiring writer—”

“— who
adores
Lily —”

“Her biggest fan and I’d be grateful if he’d recommend me for the job. I offer a bribe —”

“— which Lou, being Lou, takes.”

“Then I meet Lily, lay it on with a trowel—”

“And voilà! We’re in!” concluded Gilbert, bowing like a proud magician—as if the rabbit had so much as glimpsed the interior
of his own hat!

“I love it!” Diana said gleefully. “Using her own vanity against her. Just what the vengeful cow deserves.”

“So you think she’ll hire me if I flatter her enough?”

“Please! Tell her you like her movies and she’ll
adopt
you.”

“Gawd, we are so lucky you two showed up here today!” twanged Gina, and Stephen, to my delight, hastened to concur.

“I’ll say. You’re like the goddamn cavalry!” As he said this he reached over and squeezed my shoulder, triggering an erection
so swift it was nearly audible.

“Selwyn and Cavanaugh, at your service,” chirped Gilbert, saluting buffoonishly.

“I’m just happy I can help,” I said, striking a more modest tone. “I mean, I admire you all so much. And when I see someone
trying to exploit you—your own family yet—well, it’s an honor to help defend you.”

My words, I could see, had touched the stars.

“How veddy kind of you,” said Diana in that warm, quasi-British voice she reserves for period dramas and acceptance speeches.

“We really appreciate it,” said Stephen, his gorgeous eyes boring like some divine augur into mine.

“And we want you to know,” vowed Gilbert, “that Philip’s ghostwriting won’t interfere one bit with our work on the screenplay.
There are three of us, after all, and Claire and I will be writing away during the hours Philip has to give to Lily.”

It is impossible to know Gilbert without periodically wishing to disembowel him with a grapefruit spoon, and I’ve never felt
the impulse as keenly as I did in the moment following this demand. For it
was
a demand, however artfully disguised as a promise, and while this sailed over Gina’s head with ample clearance, it was not
lost on Stephen or Diana. Their eyebrows arched ever so slightly and their smiles turned cool and inscrutable. What had mere
seconds ago been the tenderest lovefest now felt more like a poker game and a none too friendly one at that.

Had he lost his mind? Couldn’t he grasp as I did that Stephen and Diana knew we wanted the job badly and were on the verge
of offering it in gratitude for my heroism? By twisting their arms he’d accomplished nothing but to annoy them and make my
offer seem less generous than calculating.

“By the way,” he added lightly, “we want to be careful who we mention this ghostwriting business to. If the wrong person got
wind of it—a disgruntled ex-employee, say—they might tip off Lily and spoil everything.”

“Holy fuck!”
I thought, utterly beside myself.
“Now he’s THREATENING them?!”
For clearly the remark was meant to warn them that if they passed over us then stole our idea we’d rat them out to Lily.
The stars did not fail to grasp this (excepting, of course, Gina, who nodded gravely and said, “Good point”).

“Oh, yes,” said Diana with lethal coyness. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“You’re right, Gilbert,” said Stephen, sounding for the first time like his debonairly dangerous Caliber character. “We should
all be careful what we say.”

Stephen and Diana exchanged a freighted glance as though conducting a telepathic debate. Should they banish us for our effrontery?
Or should they accept as reasonable the terms Gilbert had laid so discreetly on the table? It was an excruciating moment and
seemed to last longer than
The Iceman Cometh.
At last Diana shrugged and stared languidly out the window, leaving the decision to Stephen. He turned to us, his face maddeningly
unreadable.

“So... you guys know Bobby?”

“Oh, yes,” I croaked, my throat having gone very dry.

“Wonderful guy!” said Gilbert.

“We love Bobby,” said Gina.

“And he, uh, offered you this job? Before we got involved?”

“Yes, he did,” I said. “We had a really great meeting.”

“He
flipped
for our spec. By the way, what’d you think of it?”

“We haven’t seen it.”

“Really?” frowned Gilbert. “Make a note to send them one, Philip.”

Gina changed the topic to
Greta,
asking how we’d liked it. I perjured myself with gusto. She echoed my sentiments, then pointed to Stephen.

“This one, he just went
nuts
for it. Didn’t you, hon?”

He leaned forward in his chair. The move caused his gym shorts to ride up, exposing another inch of his thighs, which were
tan, powerful, and, as thighs go, oddly expressive. He spoke in a quiet, heartfelt voice with none of the coolness he’d displayed
following Gilbert’s gauche finagling.

“I think it’s an astonishing book. By the time I got to the end, I was weeping.”

“Me too,” I said, truthfully enough.

“The themes are so... universal.”

“Yes. Resonant.”

“Morality. Conscience. Courage. Growth. Transformation.”

“They’re all in there.”

“That struggle to find the humanity inside you and...”

“Push it along.”

He continued describing the book’s powerful effect on him, and the more I listened to his deep, masculine yet strangely musical
voice, the more ashamed I felt at my own more cynical response to it. How shallow I’d been! How snide and flippant not to
have grasped the story’s richness and beauty simply because its author, a woman of the loftiest aspirations, had an adjective
problem. Stephen hadn’t missed it, and this glimpse into his deeper, more soulful side left me more besotted than ever. Here
was no brainless Hollywood hunk. Here was a man of vision, a passionate and sensitive idealist, and I prayed with all my heart
that he might someday instill these noble qualities in me, preferably via fellatio.

“You’re right. It’s a magnificent book,” I declared, my admiration now unfeigned, “and we would consider it an incredible
honor to help you bring it to the screen.”

I could see from their faces that this sincere, appropriately humble petition had gone over much better than Gilbert’s vulgar
machinations. Stephen in particular looked relieved to see that at least one of us was a like-minded artist and not just another
Tinseltown careerist. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and gazed out the window. After a moment he said, “Well, if Bobby thought
you were right for it, who are we to second-guess him? Let’s do it.”

“We’re hired?” I asked in joyous incredulity.

“Yes.” He smiled. “Congratulations.”

Gilbert, never restrained in victory, leaped to his feet with an exuberance Roberto Benigni might have found unseemly.

“Thank you!”
he cried. “This is great! This is fantastic!”

“We really do appreciate this,” I said, my warm professionalism a welcome contrast to Gilbert’s jejune display.

“I am so glad this worked out!” said Gina, clapping her hands like a little girl. “I have to say, Stephen didn’t think it
would.”

“Well,” he amended gallantly, “we hadn’t met you guys yet.”

“And we were only doing
that
as a favor to Max.”

Stephen let this pass with the wan smile of a man long inured to his consort’s leaden faux pas. He extended his hand to me
and I clasped it, exerting as much pressure as I dared.

“I’m really looking forward to this,” I said, flashing my most winning grin.

“Me too, Philip,” he said, smiling back.

As I gazed into those exquisite eyes, no effort at restraint could conceal the adoration shining in my own. Stephen, as though
in response, gave my hand an extra little squeeze, and as he did an astonishing thing happened. His smile changed subtly;
it became slyer, more playful, a discreetly salacious look such as a Rat Pack member might have bestowed on a showgirl whose
husband was inconveniently present. The look came and went in the merest instant, yet I was sure I hadn’t imagined it.

I felt as though my stomach had just been invaded by several dozen hummingbirds, all waving sparklers. What had
that
meant? Was it a come-on? A tease? A joke? Should I acknowledge it?
How?!
A wink was too obvious, but a little squeeze or a well-chosen double entendre might—

“Stephen!” cried Gilbert, hip checking me aside, “I can’t wait to get started!”

Stephen released my hand (Reluctantly? Surely reluctantly?) and shook Gilbert’s. I moved on, first to Gina, who pecked me
on both cheeks (
her
I got a kiss from!), and then to Diana.

“I’m
so
pleased,” she said, adopting once more her plummy thanks-for-the-statuette voice. “I’m sure you’ll do a marvelous job.”

“I can’t tell you how excited we are to be working with you.”

“Please. It is we who are excited. Such a thrill to discover fresh talent.”

Then, as if it were the most inconsequential afterthought, she added, “Oh, and that other business? With my sister...?”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Do that.”

A
S WE DROVE BACK TO THE
Chateau Marmont in the glorious midday sunshine, our mood was so jubilant that I chose at first not to dampen it by chiding
Gilbert for his ill-judged and nearly ruinous bargaining tactics. But his long-winded odes to his own deftness, combined with
his somewhat perfunctory acknowledgment of my vastly more pivotal contribution, compelled me finally to speak.

“Just do me a favor, genius, and don’t play hardball with them again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Putting the screws on them. They didn’t like it.”

“What do you think got us the job?”

I voiced my opinion that they’d been only moments away from offering us the job in gratitude for my daring and brilliance
and that his cheeky maneuver had come perilously close to derailing the whole thing. His reply was a cascade of merrily derisive
laughter.

“Poor naive Philip! Do you really suppose they would have just
given
us the job? Out of the goodness of their hearts? If that was your plan it’s a damn good thing I was there!”

The problem with my scenario, he explained condescendingly, was its failure to take into account the stars’ notorious egomania
and stinginess. Diana in particular was renowned for possessing a sense of entitlement that made Faye Dunaway look like a
Carmelite. Many were the stylists, decorators, and couturiers who’d been confounded by her apparent conviction that to garb,
feed, or in any way assist her was so heady an honor as to require no additional compensation.

“You heard her bitching about that dumb painting—how pissed she was that they asked her to pay for it! She’s like the fucking
queen. She doesn’t expect to pay for anything. Including us spying for her.”

“Us?”

“Trust me, as far as she was concerned, it was thrill enough for us to be doing a Great Star’s dirty work. It was up to me
to make it clear, in my usual diplomatic fashion, that we either got what we came for or it was no dice. And say what you
like, sweetie, it worked.”

“All right,” I countered, “maybe Diana’s a self-important old skinflint, but I still think Stephen would’ve come through for
us.”

“Oh, puhleeeze! Just because you’re in
love
with him —”

“I’m not in love with him.”

“Of course you are. I am, you are, everyone is. And if I thought there was the tiniest chance I might get me some Stephen,
trust me, I’d be all over it. But I don’t because a.) that’s not a closet he’s in, it’s a goddamn bunker and b.) I don’t think
he likes me. If you want to dream the impossible dream, be my guest, but jeez, try to be a little more subtle. If you’d drooled
any more they’d have billed us for the carpet.”

I had no intention of discussing my feelings for Stephen with a lad who lacked the purity of heart to comprehend them. I changed
the subject, allowing that Gilbert’s coercion may have been a necessary evil and that it was perhaps the combination of gentler
and tougher approaches that had won the day.

“Exactly. It was the classic maneuver,” said Gilbert. “The old good writer, bad writer.”

With this I declined to argue.

C
LAIRE TOOK THE NEWS
like a Frisbee to the head, gaping at us in pained astonishment.

“
Please
tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope!” said Gilbert, lolling smugly on her couch. “We’re in, toots.”

“But, I don’t—! I mean, it’s . . .
how?”
she sputtered. “We just hit it off,” I said. “We liked them, they liked us, they liked our take on the book — which by the
way isn’t half so bad as we’ve been making it out to be.”