My Lucky Star (24 page)

“Heat?” I asked, mystified.

“When my picture opens —
Guess What, I’m Not Dead.
I met Shawna, our wardrobe girl, at the Liquor Locker yesterday. She’d seen a rough cut and raved about my performance, especially
my death scene. ‘Awesome,’ she called it! Mark my words, Glen, this picture will open a lot of doors for me! So who should
we send it to first? Spielberg or Scott Rudin?”

“I
S SHE OUT OF
her fucking mind?” howled Stephen when I reported this exchange to him.

“I’m sorry. I really thought that argument might work.”

“Hey, it was only your first try. Just keep at it, wear her down. I’m counting on you, Phil.”

“I know. And I won’t let you down, Stephen.”

“I know you won’t,” he said, his voice a caress. “Smooth guy like you can find a way to get anything he wants.”

“Anything?” I asked, weak-kneed.

“Anything,”
he replied, his tone so lubricious as to pass beyond the realm of innuendo into that of contract law.

I
T WAS MID
-D
ECEMBER
by this point, the holidays fast approaching. Stephen got his Christmas gift a week early when the Hollywood Foreign Press,
that bafflingly respected assemblage, bestowed a Golden Globe nomination on him for his performance in
Lothario
. I longed to congratulate him in person but he and Gina had flown off to spend the holidays in Aspen. I knew I would not
see him again until the New Year, by which time I hoped to have bent Lily to his will.

I’ve always been a bit of a sap for Christmas and looked forward each year to celebrating the season with my cheery if perennially
cashstrapped circle of friends. I never minded, in fact rather sentimentalized, our meager traditions — the cheerfully tacky
decorations, the thrift-store presents, the disgracefully affordable “champagnes.” Though I still look back on those customs
with a misty eye, I can tell you flat out that nothing spells “holiday cheer” like a whopping paycheck and a spendthrift mogul
for a host. The holidays passed in a pleasant blur of pricey gifts and Dom Pérignon and my only care in that festive week
was that my hard-won progress at the gym would be undone by Maddie and Max’s overabundant buffets.

On the afternoon of their hot-ticket New Year’s Eve party, Claire arrived late for our writing session. It was clear from
her elegant new coiffure that she’d come straight from the salon and clearer still that she had fresh gossip to share. Her
eyes glinted and her smile was the twisty one she only wears when savoring the taste of a secret.

“Gosh, ma’am,” I said, “you want some fries with that canary?”

“Sit down, boys. You’re going to love this! I was just at Umberto getting a new do —”

“And quite a fetching one.”

“Yes,” concurred Gilbert.
“Très quelque chose.”

“
I thought so. Anyway, I’m sitting bored to tears under the dryer when I pick up this Beverly Hills newspaper—just some society
rag for the plucked and privileged set. But I’m leafing through it and just guess, me laddies, whose picture jumps out at
me?”

“Stephen’s?” I said, having him much in my thoughts.

“Nooooooo,” she teased. “Not Stephen...”

“
Who?”
pleaded Gilbert, who can dish out the suspense when delivering gossip but can’t bear it when anyone else does. Claire paused
for effect, then adopting an arch, clipped Bette-Davis-when-crossed voice, said, “Little. Miss.
Moira. Finch!!”

“No!”
I said, my stomach lurching like an old washing machine. “Yes! She’s
living
here!”

“
Moira?”
gasped Gilbert.

“In LA?”
I exclaimed, all but slapping my cheeks in an effort to feign surprise.

“Yes! And get this—she’s just opened some posh new spa!”

“Wow!” marveled Gilbert. “Who’d have thought it?!”

“Not me!”

“There was a whole article about it,” said Claire, breathlessly summarizing the basics regarding Moira’s tragically brief
marriage, her failed attempt to launch a film career, and her subsequent decision (shaming in Claire’s eyes) to become a full-time
star-pamperer.

“So,” she concluded with a diabolical smirk, “when shall we go?”

“
Go?”
I repeated, my tummy now well into the spin cycle. “Go where?!”

“To her spa of course.”

“Why would we do that!” yelped Gilbert.

“Well I grant you it’s a bit small, but isn’t there a part of you that would love to pop by and let the little minx know how
well we’re doing?”

“No!” I replied.

“No part at all!”

“And you’re right —it
is
small.”

“Childish,” agreed Gilbert.

“Prancing in there just to gloat!”

“I’ve never seen this side of you, Claire. I can’t say I like it.”

“Success,” I declared loftily, “is its own reward.”

“
Excuse
me?” said Claire, no doubt recalling the many parties we’d attended of late wearing our “Ask-me-what-I-do” buttons.

“Anyway,” I said, switching tactics, “it’s not as if she’ll give you any satisfaction. You’ll say, ‘Nyah, nyah, we have a
cool job’ and she’ll say, ‘Nyah, nyah, I have a cool spa.’ ”

“A total wash!”

“And you’re out the cost of a facial.”

“If you even trust her to give you one.”

“Good point!”

“Probably use napalm.”

“Yeesh!” said Claire. “All right! It was just a thought.”

It was not often Claire found herself peering up at the high ground to see us waving down at her, and the experience was clearly
disorienting to her. She asserted primly that if we could rise above the impulse to taunt an old foe with new fame she could
certainly do so as well. Gilbert and I exchanged a furtive glance of relief and the workday commenced.

We’d just begun the screenplay’s third act and hoped to be finished by the time Stephen returned home for the Globes in two
weeks. Our hopes of managing this were given a boost by Lily, who announced she’d be taking the second week off to embark
on a press tour for
Guess What, I’m Not Dead.
This struck me as odd since the film didn’t open till February and, given Lily’s less than scorching celebrity, it was hard
to imagine Miramax shelling out for premiere tickets, let alone a junket. I suspected that Monty, in his infinite benevolence,
had engaged a publicist and was discreetly footing the bill.

Claire was delighted when I suggested we start working mornings as well, sans Gilbert. This greatly enhanced our productivity
and we finished a day ahead of schedule at around noon. Gilbert stirred himself an hour later and feigned pique at finding
there was nothing left for him to do. But when he read the final pages he offered his customary benediction:

“Perfect. Just what I was going to suggest.”

It may seem odd to you, given our scorn for the source material, but we were actually quite proud of our adaptation. We considered
the structure solid and the pacing brisk, and were especially pleased with the dialogue, not a line of which was borrowed
from Ms. Gamache. True, the plot retained a certain core gooeyness we could not have expunged without exceeding our mandate.
But we knew the key roles would be played by Stephen and Diana, and if anyone could spin goo into gold they could.

Stephen returned the next day. We knew he wouldn’t read it that weekend as the Globes would be monopolizing his attention.
We held a little viewing party and invited a few friends, including Billy, who screamed the place down when Stephen won. We
were pretty delighted ourselves. It not only cemented his shoo-in status for an Oscar nod nine days hence but also ensured
that he’d be sitting down to read our script in that sunny, all’s-right-with-the-world mood an actor only feels when he’s
just basked in the spotlight while crushing four fellow thespians’ dreams. This expectation was borne out on Tuesday when
he called to offer his verdict.

“
Incredible
job, guys,” he said warmly. “Really, really great.”

For the next five minutes he showered us in superlatives, citing favorite lines and scenes he couldn’t wait to play. While
Gilbert and I writhed joyfully on the couch like dogs having their tummies rubbed, Claire wore the more tentative smile of
a girl waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it did, it landed with the softness of a slipper.

“There are a few places where things could be a little sharper. I see some trims too. But we’re talking minor stuff. By and
large it’s fantastic and I want to give you guys a reward for doing such a great job.”

“A reward?” said Gilbert, with unseemly eagerness.

“Here’s the deal. Gina and I are going nuts with all this craziness lately—”

“You mean with the Globes and Oscars and all?” I asked.

“Right. Fucking relentless. So we decided to get the hell away. Just Friday through Monday. And we’d like you guys to come
too. We can relax, have some laughs, and find a few hours to talk about the next draft. Sound good?”

“Sounds great!” I said, my mind percolating with images of Stephen and me lying side by side on a tropical beach, his eyes
boring into mine with a look that says “Ever do it under a waterfall?”

Gilbert boisterously echoed my enthusiasm and even Claire seemed giddy at the prospect of flying off to some jet-setter’s
paradise with movie stars for hosts.

“So,” asked Gilbert, “where are we going? Cabos? Your place in Hawaii?”

“No. We’re not actually leaving town. We’re just checking into Les Étoiles for a few days. Friday at four, okay?”

C
ALM DOWN!” SAID
M
OIRA
, with a maddeningly carefree laugh. “What a pair of sissies!”

“It’s important!” barked Gilbert into the phone.

“Claire would
kill
us!” I chimed in from the kitchen extension.

“Gawd! I have never understood why you two let that sanctimonious cow intimidate you. But, if you don’t want her to know you’ve
been here, fine, I won’t mention it.”

“Or any of it!”

“Especially
Casablanca!!
”

Moira’s laugh was even more abrasively merry.

“So she doesn’t know I tumbled to that?”

“No, and if she found out she’d quit on us!” I said.

“So promise you won’t say anything!”

“Okaaay! Gawd! I won’t squeal on you to Mommy.”

As we hung up it struck me that Stephen or Gina might just as easily mention our prior visit. How could we ask them not to
without confessing our reason for doing so? Gilbert, displaying once more his flair for impromptu deceit, suggested we say
that we felt guilty for not having invited Claire to join us and feared she’d be hurt if she found out. This seemed a serviceable
ruse and I left a message on Stephen’s voice mail begging his and Gina’s discretion.

T
HREE DAYS LATER AS
we barreled down Sunset toward Bel-Air, I struggled to maintain a calm, chatty demeanor even as my emotions teetered wildly
between girlish exhilaration and icy dread.

The exhilaration stemmed from the prospect of spending three nights under the same luxurious roof as Stephen. How I wished
Lily hadn’t left for her damned press junket! Had she stayed I might have found some means to sway her so that I could now
declare my victory to Stephen and claim my rapturous reward. But though I’d not yet earned the full tumescent measure of his
gratitude, I had hopes nonetheless of wangling some small down payment.

These thrilling thoughts of stolen kisses kept getting elbowed roughly aside by more worrisome ones concerning Claire and
her old nemesis. What possible good could come of their meeting, especially when Claire had no idea what awful power Moira
wielded over us? We’d done what we could to ensure her continued ignorance, but three days was a long time and I was much
troubled by the smile Claire wore as she gazed dreamily out her window. It was a cool smile and more than a touch smug and
I knew that Moira, on beholding it, would feel a powerful impulse to erase it. I resolved to seek Moira out as soon as we
arrived to remind her of her promise and beseech her not to be goaded.

As we pulled up to the spa’s imposing facade, a broad-shouldered bellman wearing a Les Étoiles–logo polo shirt hastened to
greet us. While another linebacker took charge of our bags, he escorted us into the majesty of the lobby.

I hoped at first that Moira’s sudden and daunting prosperity might quell Claire’s impulse to swank her. Why attempt one-upmanship
against so extravagantly armed a foe? Claire, alas, did not see things this way.

“Wow!” said Gilbert, gaping at a vast floral arrangement crammed with blooms so exotic as to still be awaiting classification.
“Nice little place she’s got here.”

“Yes,” I agreed heartily. “Sure puts our digs to shame.”

“She married it,” sniffed Claire, “and the husband kicked off eight months later. I’m guessing strychnine.”

“Well,” I said, “however she got it, you have to admit she’s done well for herself.”

“If you ask me,” replied Claire, and there was that damn smile again, “doing well for herself would have meant snagging a
place like this, then being able to keep it up without asking the public in for back rubs.”

We signed in and followed our smiling escort to the adjoining second-floor rooms Moira had arranged for us. I barely set foot
in my own before wheeling round and peering down the hall to make sure Claire had entered hers. The hall was empty so I sprinted
back down to the front desk and, finding it momentarily deserted, nipped behind it and through a door marked PRIVATE.

I found myself in a small office with three desks, its cramped untidiness strikingly at odds with the splendor of the lobby.
At one of the desks a frowsy woman with a nimbus of blond hair and two raccoons’ worth of mascara was on the phone, reciting
room rates in an improbably posh accent. I saw that a door behind her was marked M. FINCH and informed her of my need to speak
to Moira immediately. She said that Moira had stepped out. Doubting her veracity, I said, “I’ll wait,” and hustled past her
before she could stop me.