My Lucky Star (34 page)

“Oh, shut up, Sonia!” said Moira. “If you want Stephen to keep you on you’d better learn a little respect for his partners.
Because he is going to say yes.” She returned her high beams to Stephen. “We both know it. I mean, ask yourself, where do
you want me? Outside looking in, or working beside you, totally invested in your success? Think how much easier you’ll sleep
knowing I’d never do a thing to harm you since your loss would be mine. That’s called security, Stephen, and it is my gift
to you. Trust me, in six months you’ll be
glad
this happened— I plan to be one hell of a partner! You have to admit I’m pretty darn resourceful. What I want I get. And
now all that skill, all that drive, will be working for you—so smile already!”

She extended her hand again and this time Stephen meekly shook it. Moira, beaming like a pageant winner, exuberantly embraced
her prey, who numbly addressed Gilbert and me over her shoulder.

“Thanks for the introduction, guys.”

“Don’t mention it,” chirped Gilbert, the second Bloody having dulled his ear for subtext.

“This is so wonderful!” gushed Moira, as though the deal had been struck with the utmost mutual delight. She then pulled a
document from her bag and gave it to Sonia. “Here’s the press release. Oh, and if any of you have plans for Thursday, cancel
’em — I’m throwing a launch party at the spa!” She then produced a star-studded guest list, saying she felt confident that
despite the short notice, most of those on it would not miss the chance to wish Stephen good luck on his exciting new venture.
She bade us farewell and practically skipped out to the foyer, turning at the door.

“Please have the script for
The Heart in Hiding
messengered to me. Oh, and Claire, love—you and the boys should call me Monday. Say threeish?”

“What on earth for?” snarled Claire.

Moira bared her teeth in a smile.

“My
notes
, silly.”

T
HREE DAYS LATER THE
A
CADEMY
A
WARD
nominations were announced and Stephen, as had been universally predicted, scored a Best Actor nod for his performance in
Lothario.
I did not speak to my beloved, who failed, to my chagrin if not surprise, to return my congratulatory call. Even had we spoken
I wouldn’t have dared ask to what extent his happiness over the honor had been blighted by the irony recent events had bestowed
on it, or by the article that graced the front page of
Variety
the very same morning.

Titled “Finch Perches on Donato’s Shoulder,” it ran as follows:

Stephen Donato, widely seen as a shoo-in for an Oscar nom, announced plans today to shutter his successful production company,
Monogram, and form a new company in partnership with Moira Finch, widow of the legendary producer Albert Schimmel.

Finch, who has no producing credits, is best known as the proprietress of Les Étoiles, the Bel-Air spa that has found favor
with some of the town’s biggest names, Donato among them. “The minute I met Moira I knew she was an extraordinary person,”
said Donato. “We got to talking and it was obvious Albert had taught her everything he knew about filmmaking. I was blown
away.”

Finch said she’d coaxed Schimmel out of retirement and the pair were developing several projects at the time of his death.
Stunned by her loss, she shelved the projects and opened Les Étoiles. “Then one night Stephen asked me what Albert and I had
been working on and he just immediately connected with the material.” The clincher for Donato came when he attempted to option
a novel he’d admired, only to find Finch had recently acquired the rights. “That’s when I said, ‘Whoa, this is fate! We are
totally meant to be in business together.’ ”

“Stephen has an amazing eye for talent and Moira Finch is a true visionary,” added Donato’s publicist, Sonia Powers.

Finch/Donato’s maiden effort will be
The Heart in Hiding.
The World War II drama, which also stars Donato’s mother, Diana Malenfant, and wife, Gina Beach, will be a coproduction with
Pinnacle Pictures and Bobby Spellman’s My Way Productions.

T
HE PREVIOUS MORNING
M
OIRA
had messengered hundreds of invitations to her impromptu launch party and, thanks to Stephen’s nomination, nary a single
available star declined to attend. Given the place we now occupied in Stephen’s affections I was initially surprised that
our lowly trio was invited as well. Then I realized it was Moira’s party, not Stephen’s, and that in her view nothing perked
up a coronation so much as having one’s subjugated foes on hand to bear witness.

Claire, unsurprisingly, declined to attend. Claire, in fact, wanted nothing further to do with the lot of us or
The Heart in Hiding
, condemning me to write the second draft with only Gilbert’s “assistance.” I begged her to reconsider but her rebuff was
blunt and withering.

“Are you
mad?
” she asked hotly. “Work for
Moira?
Take her notes? ‘Yass, Miss Finch, no, Miss Finch’? I’d sooner seek work as a carnival geek! I’d sooner emcee cockfights!
I’d sooner clean toilets— nay,
portable
toilets!— or apprentice myself to a rat catcher before I’d spend one minute answering to that gloating succubus! Do not,
please, ask me again!”

It was just as well for Claire that she skipped the party since she’d have ground her teeth to powder watching Moira’s elaborately
stage-managed apotheosis. For starters there was the guest list, which was hardly less glittering than the Oscars themselves.
The decor too would have given her ample cause to wish she’d worn her night guard. How it must have maddened Stephen to see
that Moira had already designed their company’s logo and had it reproduced on napkins, bunting, and a huge bas-relief wall
plaque. The lead time required to fabricate these items served as a constant galling reminder of how long and confidently
Moira had presumed she’d come to own him.

One of the things that most vexes us bitter alumni of Moira University is the depressing fact that those whose pelts she has
not yet harvested invariably find her delightful. She’s quite pretty in a peppy young Mary Tyler Moore sort of way and, when
she chooses to be, relentlessly charming. She’s a diligent researcher and expert flatterer; her praise never sounds like the
star-struck effusions of a mere fan but the carefully weighed opinion of a savvy insider. (When extolling a performance she
always speaks gravely of its “layers.”)

I’d once watched her turn a roomful of cold-blooded mafiosi into fawning admirers but I’d never seen her play a crowd as adroitly
as she did on the night Les Étoiles lived so gloriously up to its name. She realized early on that the best way to meet Everyone
was to lasso herself to Stephen. Then as each grandee approached to offer congratulations, he was compelled to introduce her,
citing again the high esteem for her that had prompted their partnership. Moira, who can blush at will (and has never done
so any other way), would then make droll, self-deprecatory jokes before lavishing praise on the Star, placing special emphasis
on abilities or past projects the Star felt had been unjustly neglected. Minutes later the Star would walk away, marveling
at the acuity and sweetness of the woman who’d just fled him away in her Potential Victims pool.

My invitation had said “plus guest” and it had occurred to me what a treat it would be for Billy Grimes. To actually hobnob
with Stephen was his highest aspiration, and when I invited him over the incline press he shrieked and kissed me in a manner
that raised eyebrows even in a West Hollywood gymnasium.

Not having spoken to Stephen since Saturday’s debacle, I was understandably nervous about how he’d receive me. I spent my
first hour there ogling the celebs and sipping champagne to bolster my courage. Finally, at what seemed a good moment, I dragged
Billy over to Stephen and Moira, who’d just bade farewell to Dustin Hoffman.

“Phil-ip!” sang Moira. “So glad you could come! Mwah! Who’s your friend?”

I introduced Billy, who promptly began babbling to Stephen in exactly the manner I’d prayed he wouldn’t. To make matters worse,
he produced a camera from his jacket and asked if he could have a picture with him.

“Have we met?” asked Stephen, dimly recognizing him.

“I tend bar at your mom’s restaurant. Gosh, I’m so sorry my dad was such a dickhead that day!”

“Oh, right,” said Stephen, his smile looking genuine for the first time all evening. “You’re Rusty’s son.”

“Guilty as charged!” replied Billy with a honking laugh.

Stephen patted the sofa next to him. Billy gave me the camera, then sat beside his dream man, who draped an arm suggestively
around his shoulder and abruptly kissed his cheek on “Cheese!”

“Wow! Thanks!” gushed Billy, who suddenly had cause to wish he’d worn baggier pants. “I think I’ve got next year’s Christmas
card!”

Stephen grinned. “Be sure you send one to your dad.”

I smiled too even as I wondered if it was quite wise for Stephen to be goading the DA just as he’d acquired a partner of more
than passing interest to the vice squad. I shot him a wry yet cautionary look. The gaze he returned was crushingly aloof and
I shuffled morosely away like a puppy that’s just soiled the sisal.

Max and Maddie arrived to the delight of Gilbert, who, aping Moira’s strategy vis-à-vis Stephen, pinned himself to Max like
a wrist corsage. He then passed the night happily chatting up the A-list, all of whom were duly apprised of his pivotal role
in bringing the happy honorees together.

If Max was disgruntled at having been strong-armed into a deal permitting Stephen and his newbie partner to greenlight three
pictures a year, he betrayed no sign of it. And Maddie was even more ebullient than usual, delighted by her former daughter-in-law’s
sudden but no doubt well-deserved success. I overheard her gushing to Stephen, who was standing with his new Siamese twin
in a group that included his mom, Bobby, and George Clooney.

“Boy, ain’t life something! First my Gilbert comes out here and writes a script so good Bobby Spellman hires him to write
one for you guys. Then he introduces you to Moira and bang, just like that you’re partners!”

“Astounding,” agreed Stephen.

“I’m so happy Moira and Gilbert have stayed friends. They used to be married, you know. They were nuts about each other but
one day Gilbert woke up and realized he was gay. Kinda sticky, ain’t it, when the man doesn’t figure that out till after he’s
married?”

Diana turned her sympathetic gaze to Moira.

“How immensely trying that must have been.”

“It was, Diana,” said Moira, with a stoic little smile. “But all that really mattered to me was that Gilbert be happy.”

“How teddibly generous of you.”

I have in the course of this account displayed a certain cattiness regarding Diana’s dramatic abilities. But her performance
at the Finch/Donato launch party convinced me that, the occasional flight of hamminess aside, she is the greatest American
actress of her generation. Stephen, faced with a similar challenge, acquitted himself competently but could not entirely subdue
a certain manic quality that those who noted it ascribed (accurately enough) to Oscar jitters. But Diana’s fears for her son
and passionate loathing of Moira were completely undetectable beneath her amiable and gracious veneer. It is no small task
to clutch a viper to your bosom all night while pretending it’s a puppy, but Diana pulled it off with remarkable aplomb.

B
ENEATH THE WAVES OF
admiration on which Moira happily surfed that evening there ran an undercurrent of gossipy speculation as to why Stephen
had hitched his wagon to a woman of such limited experience. Some smelled an affair, a theory bolstered by Gina, whose anxious
glances at the new partners inspired many a whispered comment. There were, however, a number of gentlemen present who more
accurately surmised why Stephen now found himself yoked to Moira. These men, many with wives in tow, had been to Les Étoiles
before and sampled its more furtive pleasures. They gathered in corners, exchanging looks both knowing and leery, for if Moira
had stung Stephen, might she not do the same to them? In the days that followed, most of these skittish fellows wisely kept
their counsel. A few though could not resist airing their suspicions, and when word of this reached Moira they received photographic
reminders that discretion was its own reward.

M
ONTY, OF COURSE
, knew what was what the instant he read the
LA Times’
coverage of the party.

“Blackmail, plain and simple,” he declared as we waited for Lily to stir herself. “My emotions, I confess, are mixed. On the
one hand it saddens me to see that a woman I’d admired and trusted to uphold the madam’s sacred code has betrayed it so basely.
And for what? A movie deal! Common, I call it.

“On the other hand, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow. Don’t mistake me—I love Stephen as a dutiful uncle should,
but his ego’s gotten quite out of hand lately. His head, always a tad swollen, has taken on the proportions of a zeppelin.
It’s good to see him brought to heel now and then. Builds his character. Be frank, Glen — did Moira confide her nefarious
scheme to you?”

“No! Never! And I don’t work for her anymore. She fired me.”

“Ah,” he said, eyebrows levitating. “So the rumors are true?”

“Rumors?”

He explained that an acquaintance of his had recently visited Les Étoiles and requested the services of Hans. He was informed
that Hans no longer worked there. Requests for Adrian, Rudolfo, Sven, and Horst met with the same response.

“She’s fired the lot of you. She’s gotten what she wanted and now she’s gone respectable.”

It was the first I’d heard that cock was off the menu at Les Étoiles, but it certainly made sense. Having achieved her dream
of mogulhood, why would Moira jeopardize it by continuing to peddle boys on the side, risking arrest while giving new customers
cause to intuit the roots of her partnership with Stephen? Far better to close shop and let the whole enterprise fade into
oblivion. Tongues might wag for a while, but the story would eventually recede into legend. In time it would be just another
showbiz myth, one laughed away as easily as that of the gerbil once said to have met its maker in Richard Gere’s bottom.