My Lucky Star (9 page)

“Great idea!” said Gilbert. He then explained that the script was, alas, trapped on his computer back in New York. He’d only
brought one print copy to LA and this he’d given to Bobby. He told Josh to call Bobby and ask him to make copies for the stars.
Josh shortly reported back that he’d spoken to Bobby, who claimed to have misplaced the script.

“
Misplaced
it?!” raged Gilbert. “What kind of bullshit is this?!”

Josh found it fishy as well and took it as a sign of Bobby’s faltering faith in us. Gilbert implored Josh to arrange a meeting
with Stephen and Diana. If “rapport” was such a key criterion for their choice of writers, couldn’t we at least be given the
chance to establish one?

More calls were exchanged and then Max, bless him, intervened. He phoned Stephen and Diana’s agent and said that while he’d
certainly understand if they ultimately decided to go with more seasoned scribes, he’d consider it a personal favor if they’d
at least meet with the gifted newcomers who’d first been offered the job. An hour later Josh called to inform us that Diana
and Stephen would receive us at eleven a.m. two mornings hence.

Gilbert hung up, then, snagging a beer from Claire’s minibar, plopped onto the couch, looking drained but pleased at a job
well done. “Whew,” he sighed. “Was that a close one! For a while I thought we were goners!”

Claire just stared at him, her exasperation tinged for the first time with something like pity. “Exactly what do you imagine
just happened?”

“I saved our jobs, that’s what.”

“
Excuse
me?”

“Oh, all right,” he allowed, “we may not be
officially
in yet. But our foot’s in the door and I can handle things from there.”

“At least we’re still in the running,” I said, prompting Claire to favor me with an equally patronizing stare. She formed
a little megaphone with her hands and shouted across the room.

“We are NOT in the running! They’ve offered us a
courtesy
meeting purely to avoid offending Max. Period. There’s not a chance in hell they’ll actually hire us.”

“They might,” said Gilbert, miffed. “I’m a damn good salesman.”

“You’re an unscrupulous, self-deluding jackass. Do you have the remotest idea how out of your league you are? Those two can
snap their fingers and get any Oscar winner in town to hold his nose and write this for them. How do you plan to make them
choose
you?
Not by waving
Casablanca
at them — even you know better than to try that stunt again. Face it, it’s over, and a damn good thing if you ask me.”

“Well, then,” sneered Gilbert, “since you’re so positive I can’t
possibly
get us the job, maybe you’ll agree to a little wager?”

Claire eyed him warily, then asked what he was proposing.

“Simple. If I get us the job, you’ll stay and help us write it.”

“And if —excuse me,
when
— you don’t?”

Gilbert smiled and shrugged, inviting her to name her price.

I’d expected Claire to dismiss Gilbert’s wager as childish posturing not worthy of a serious response. To my surprise she
seemed to be considering it, pondering what she might extract from Gilbert in the event, inevitable to her, that we were passed
over. She frowned pensively at her half-packed suitcase, then addressed Gilbert in a crisp businesslike tone.

“Get me a job.”

“That’s what I’m planning to do.”

“No, a
real
job. Something at the studio. An assistant job, anything. And one for Philip if he wants one. Have your mom ask Max. He can
certainly arrange it.”

Gilbert, who’d sooner have asked Max for a quickie than an assistant’s job, asked Claire why she’d request so menial a post.

“It’s called being realistic, a concept that I know is, like ‘honesty,’ completely beyond your ken. We can’t expect Max to
make us execs just because our feelings were hurt. But he can find us something that’ll pay the rent.”

“You want to stay here?” I asked, amazed.

“What’s my alternative? Crawling home in defeat two days after I’ve boasted to Marco that I’m the toast of Hollywood? I can
do without that humiliation, thank you. Better for us to stay here, get day jobs, meet people, and work on a new spec—without
this one’s invaluable assistance.”

I said that sounded like a plan to me and she extended a firm hand to Gilbert.

“Is that a deal? You’ll do that for us?”

“Oh, absolutely,” smiled Gilbert.

“You won’t renege or forget?”

“You have my oath. And you won’t renege on us either? If I bring home the bratwurst, you’ll stay and pitch in?”

Claire rolled her eyes and placed her hand on an imaginary Bible. Her voice dripping with sarcasm, she spoke the words she
would so often and bitterly repent in the days ahead.

“No, Gilbert, my angel, I will
not
renege. If Diana Malenfant (worldwide box office to date, two billion dollars) and her little boy Stephen (six and a half
billion) should say, ‘Who needs David Koepp or Steve Zaillian for our big reunion picture? Get us Gilbert Selwyn and his plagiarizing
chimps!’ then yes, yes, yes, my love, I will stay here and write the damned picture with you!”

Gilbert smiled, serene as always in victory.

“You heard her, Philly. She promised.”

T
WO DAYS LATER
G
ILBERT
and I found ourselves sitting in his convertible, timorously eyeing the majestic wrought-iron gate beyond which, at a point
not visible from the road, stood the Bel-Air manse of Diana Malenfant.

We were alone. Claire had refused to accompany us, declaring it beneath her dignity to grovel to two self-important stars
for a job she didn’t want and which they hadn’t the slightest intention of giving her. This had been fine by Gilbert, who’d
feared that if she did come she’d find some way to sabotage us.

Gilbert pressed the intercom button and a metallic voice asked our names. He supplied them and after an unnervingly long pause
the gate swung open. I did not imagine that any house lying at the end of so long and stately a drive would do much to lessen
my anxiety, but I was still unprepared for its sheer intimidating grandeur.

Maison
Malenfant was a three-story beaux arts pile that appeared to have been designed with an eye toward formal events like lawn
parties and treaty signings. The architect had been instructed to pay tribute to Diana’s aristocratic French forebears. His
suspicion, entirely correct, that she possessed no such forebears had not prevented him from rolling up his sleeves and doing
her bogus ancestors proud.

The resulting edifice boasted a regal entrance with curved stairs flanked by two rather petulant stone lions. Centered above
this on the second floor was a large ornate balcony, ideal for waving to peasants while keeping an eye peeled for approaching
tumbrels. From each side of this homey entrance there extended the house’s two vast wings. In designing these the architect
had not stinted on soaring French windows giving onto still more balconies, nor had he neglected to adorn these with cherubs
and cornucopias of stone produce. As I stood, awestruck, taking the place in, Gilbert nudged me sharply.

“Close your mouth. It’s a
house
for Chrissake! We need to look confident in there, not like a couple of rubes who’ve never seen a mansion before.”

We mounted the grand stairs to the front door and rang the bell. Once more we were made to wait an unsettling length of time,
during which we could dimly hear shouts and doors slamming somewhere deep within the house. At length the door opened and
a white-jacketed houseman beckoned us into an opulent foyer with a marble floor and a central flower arrangement the size
of a hot air balloon. The houseman, a thin bespectacled man, had the besieged, jittery look of a servant whose mistress, cranky
on a good day, has just received unflattering news from her talking mirror. It seemed clear from this and from the look of
discreet sympathy he gave us that, as if enough factors weren’t already working against us, we had come on a Very Bad Day.

“I’m afraid Miss Malenfant’s a bit... behind schedule this morning. It may be a while before she can see you.”

Gilbert checked his watch. “Well, Katzenberg’s not till three. We can wait.”

The fellow handed us off to a second functionary, a uniformed maid with darting eyes. She led us up a grand curved staircase
to the second floor, then down a wide hall hung with tapestries. These appeared at first glance to be frayed and ancient but
on closer inspection proved to depict Diana herself in scenes from her most famous movies. Gilbert and I exchanged a look
of wonder. We could see a movie star displaying photos of her screen triumphs—but
tapestries?
The maid showed us to a room halfway down the hall, then hastened back downstairs with the carefree gait of a battlefield
medic.

The room was a library and a pretty damned nice one. It was two stories high with a forest’s worth of oak paneling and rows
of leather-bound books no less impressive for having been purchased by the yard. The surfaces were laden with objects chosen
to belie the youth of the money that had purchased them—antique globes, clocks, and busts of great thinkers. Diana’s two Oscars
were on display, but she’d consigned them to a corner shelf as though to demonstrate how lightly she viewed her accolades,
a gesture somewhat undermined by the life-size portrait of her that hung over the fireplace. It depicted her in a period gown,
raptly reading a book. I wondered if this portrait of Literary Diana was something she’d commissioned specially for the library
and if the kitchen had a painting of Culinary Diana with her clad in a toga contemplating a pot roast. Then I realized the
picture was a prop from
Tomorrow Be Damned
, an overripe epic in which she’d portrayed the mistress of Alexandre Dumas.

“Catch that one?” I asked.

“The first half.”

“
Quelle
stinker.”

“Be sure to say that.”

We heard another door slam somewhere in the distance, followed by the unmistakable voice of Diana. She seemed to be reading
someone the riot act, though the only phrase we could make out was a shrill, “I said NO!” This was followed by another thunderous
door slam.

“Do you get the impression,” asked Gilbert, “that all is not well today chez Malenfant?”

I concurred and wondered aloud if all this turmoil might leave our hostess in a less receptive frame of mind than that in
which we’d hoped to find her.

“Now, now,” said Gilbert, tenaciously clinging to optimism, “you heard the butler. He said we’d have to wait awhile. By the
time she gets around to us this may all have blown over.”

No sooner had he voiced this hope than we heard another door slam, followed by the clacking of heels advancing our way down
the hall. We turned just as the library door was flung open by Diana herself.

The great lady wore a tan cashmere lounging outfit, fluffy white mules, and no makeup whatsoever. The lack of it exposed a
sea of freckles I’d never imagined lurked beneath the invariably creamy complexion she displayed on film and in public. It
was startling to see those large, famously smoldering eyes as devoid of enhancement as those of a mackerel.

She obviously hadn’t expected to find us in her library. She stopped short, regarding us with consternation as though we were
burglars. Good lord, I thought, had we not even been
announced?

Gilbert, immune to the paralysis that had gripped me, sprang suavely to his feet.

“Miss Malenfant! How lovely to meet you. I’m Gilbert Selwyn and this is my partner, Philip Cavanaugh.” This produced little
change in her expression, so he gamely continued. “We’re the writers Bobby Spellman hired to adapt
A Song for Greta.
You graciously consented to see us.”

This seemed to prompt some vague recollection. Her lips parted slightly and she gave a little nod. “Thank heaven,” I thought,
“she remembers us! There’s hope!”

“All right,” she said, baring her teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile. “I’ve
seen
you. Now get the fuck out of my house!”

I
T WAS NOT, YOU’LL AGREE
, the most auspicious beginning for a partnership. But a partnership was forged that day, albeit a far stranger one than we
could ever have anticipated.

Now don’t get annoyed, please, but before I share with you the details of the arrangement Gilbert and I entered into that
day, I feel a certain duty to pause and provide a spot of background on Diana, Stephen, and their storied clan. I know most
of you will heave an irritated sigh, the information being as familiar to most readers — especially, let’s face it, mine —
as the news that Elizabeth Taylor has had many husbands and Jodie Foster has not. Why bother, you ask, to stop and rehash
what everyone surely must know? And I see your point.

But what of the gay Amish teenager?

What of this poor youngster—let us call him Amos—who returns each night to his stark little room, weary and glamour-starved
after a long day of furniture making and barn raising? He waits patiently for his family to fall asleep, then cautiously lights
his candle and removes this volume from beneath his mattress. (Don’t ask how he got it. Gay teenagers, even Amish ones, have
a way of laying their hands on things.)

He has read avidly up to this point, but for the last chapter or so a question has gnawed at him. “Who,” he keeps asking,
“are these Malenfants? How came they to be so grand? Be they like this Streisand woman friend Seth keeps whispering of behind
the schoolhouse? Do they play all the day and never eat porridge? And the menfolk — be any of them like me and, I think, Seth?”

It is for the sake of young Amos and his gossip-deprived brethren that I now outline the basic saga of the Malenfants. The
thousands of you who’ve read (and the hundred or so who’ve written) whole books about them may feel free to skip ahead to
the next chapter.

T
HE
M
ALENFIANT SHOWBIZ DYNASTY
began in 1938 when an exotic dancer, Mrs. Lotte Kurnitz (stage name Lotte Funn), met Claude Malenfant, a French-Canadian
vaudevillian best remembered for his pioneering use of bear traps in a juggling act. Sparks flew, as did Lotte’s husband,
and soon the pair were married. Lotte promptly produced a baby girl (some say
very
promptly) and a year later a second daughter was born. Though each of the sisters, Diana and Lily, maintains firmly that
she is the younger, we do know that both are several years older than Monty, the baby of the family.