Trading Up (75 page)

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Craig hadn’t heard, but the words were like music to his middle-aged ears. It wasn’t, he thought, like he could do anything in particular about it (he was too afraid of Lorraine for that), but simply the
possibility
that revived him . . .

“That’s too bad,” he said smugly, not sorry at all.

“It is and it isn’t,” Janey said, with a shrug of her shoulders, indicating that life went on. “How long are you staying? I’ll be here for at least a week,” she said, thinking about the lunch at Candi Clemens’s house. “We should get together . . .” Craig had considered leaving the next day, but he reminded himself that he didn’t have anything pressing in New York, and Tanner had told him to stay as long as he liked—a month if he felt like it. And why shouldn’t he? he thought. It was fun being away from his wife, the weather was beautiful, and now that Janey was here . . .

“I might be around for a few days,” he said, not wanting her to know that he had changed his mind in order to see her. “As long as Tanner doesn’t kick me out . . .”

“Tanner?” Janey asked in surprise.

“Tanner Cole,” Craig confirmed. And unable to prevent himself from taking the opportunity to impress her, he added: “I’m staying with him.”

“Are you?” Janey said, trying not to appear too excited. But her mind was a whirlwind of possibilities . . . As Craig’s “good friend” from New York, she’d have every excuse for coming around, and how much better it would be for Tanner Cole to see that she wasn’t just some beautiful bimbo, but a woman who had weight, a woman who kept company with important intellectuals, like Craig Edgers . . . And now that she had Comstock Dibble in her back pocket (and, hopefully, Candi Clemens as well), there was no reason why she shouldn’t revive their project. It would be the perfect pretext under which to see Craig, and if they met at Tanner’s house, she was sure to run into him, and it would all appear perfectly innocent . . .

Glancing across the room at Tanner, she decided that the more she saw of him, the better she liked him. If she was going to have him, however, she would have him completely, and to do that, she mustn’t give in too easily. She reached over and touched Craig’s arm. “I know this is probably a sore subject,” she began sympathetically, “but Comstock and I have worked out our differences, and he even says he’s going to produce the screenplay I wrote.” Craig looked confused at this information, but she decided to ignore his bewilderment, and quickly went on: “I’m going to see him this week, and I’d like to bring up the project again.” She smiled mysteriously, and reminded of her brief conversation with Magwich, and his glee at the fact that she hadn’t signed a contract, added, “I have some leverage over him. And if he’s not interested,” she continued, “I know the head of a big studio who might be.” She sat back on the couch, satisfied with her own hubris. It wasn’t all entirely 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 401

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accurate, but instinct told her that this was the way one did business in Hollywood, and she was determined to succeed. But before Craig could congratulate her on her plan, Magwich appeared and handed her a drink.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said, eyeing Craig with curiosity. Janey motioned for him to sit down. “This is Craig Edgers,” she said smoothly. “Craig and I were just discussing a movie project we’ve been working on in New York . . .” And suddenly, as if Janey Wilcox were both his guardian angel and his muse, Craig Edgers got lucky. Magwich Barone, who considered himself superior to Hollywood riffraff as well, was one of the few people who had actually read Craig’s book in its entirety—all 532 pages. With the appropriate amount of awe in his voice that is so satisfying to an author, especially one like Craig Edgers, he gasped,

“
The Embarrassments,
right?”

“That’s correct,” Craig said, obviously pleased.

Magwich leaned across Janey in his eagerness to talk to Craig. “Your portrayal of a middle-aged man in search of his inner youth was just devastating,” he said. “I could barely leave my house for three days . . .” Craig emitted an appreciative laugh as Janey sat back and smiled. Looking from one man to the other, she thought about how gratifying it was to put people together, bringing pleasure—and potentially business—to both parties. And if, in the meantime, the result was that they were both impressed with her for having such connections, that didn’t hurt either . . .

She looked across the room, hoping to catch Tanner Cole’s eye (and it wouldn’t hurt if he saw her in the midst of such company, either), but instead, she was nearly taken aback by a startlingly familiar face. Standing by one of the French doors leading out onto the balcony was none other than Bill Westacott . . .

Bill! she thought. Bill was just the man she was longing to see, and now, as if in fulfillment of her earlier desire, he was here. Had he sensed that she’d been thinking about him? she wondered. And then, hearing her siren song, had he come running?

She looked from Magwich to Craig. Magwich was in the middle of comparing Craig’s writing to that of the French author Flaubert, while Craig sat swilling his drink, nearly bursting the seams of his plaid flannel shirt with self-importance.

They had all the signs of two inebriated men who think they’ve found a kindred spirit, and wouldn’t miss her at all. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and stood up.

Bill’s eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched her make her way over to him. “Bill!” she cried with genuine delight.

“Hello, Wilcox,” he said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. He turned his back to the room, shielding her body from the crowd, as if he wanted her all to himself.

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drink as his eyes bored into hers. “Magwich Barone seems pretty keen, and he doesn’t give everyone the time of day . . .”

Bill sounded slightly envious, Janey noted—a sign that Magwich must be an agent worth having. “He says he wants to be my agent,” Janey said coyly, remembering how much fun it was to bait Bill, “but I’m not sure. What do you think?” But Bill only laughed. “Come on, Wilcox,” he said. “You know me too well to try to get away with that trick. You’ve never taken advice from me or anyone else . . .”

“I told him,” Janey said, with one of her conceited little whispers, “that I wanted to be the head of a movie studio someday . . .” Bill laughed with glee. That must have really flummoxed old Magwich, he thought; he was probably guessing that Janey had no more ambition than being a game show host. “And what did he say?” Bill asked.

“He told me that I should act dumb at first,” Janey said, frowning. “But really, I’m not sure I can . . .”

She was already getting the act down, Bill thought, and then realized this wasn’t entirely accurate. She had always had the act, he thought; the problem was she’d lacked the stage on which to play it . . .

Until now.

“Janey,” he said, unable to suppress a grin. “I’m sure you can do anything you want, including play dumb . . . By the way,” he said, casually changing the subject.

“How’s the screenplay? I heard Comstock Dibble’s going to produce it. Did you finish it after all?”

“Oh God!” she exclaimed, feigning displeasure. “Does everybody in Hollywood know about it?” She wriggled uncomfortably, and Bill was suddenly reminded of those languid afternoons they’d spent on the beach two and three summers ago, making love. She was so beautiful then, and so full of life (and misperceptions, of course, which at the time had driven him nuts), he had genuinely been crazy about her. What a fool he was for letting her go, he thought. He should have divorced his wife and married her, for back then, he’d known that she was in love with him, too . . .

“Okay, Bill,” she said, sighing in resignation. She sounded slightly annoyed, but he saw that there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You were right.” And when he raised his eyebrows at her, she bit her lip. “I didn’t exactly finish the screenplay,” she continued with an impish shrug. She leaned closer, to whisper in his ear. “I only wrote thirty-three pages. But the crazy thing is that it doesn’t seem to matter.

Everyone thinks I wrote a screenplay. And now I’m not sure what to do . . .”

“You’ll figure it out,” he said hoarsely, taking a step back to stare into her eyes.

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The sight nearly broke his heart. Maybe it was all the trouble she’d had, but suddenly, he saw that she had grown. She was a woman now . . .

He had to turn away.

As he did so, however, he saw Tanner Cole’s eyes sweep the room in search of her, and out of the corner of his eye, he spied her answering gaze . . .

And suddenly he knew their conversation was over.

“Oh Bill,” she said. She reached out and touched his face, and he leaned his head into her palm, holding her eyes with his. In that instant, all their knowledge of each other—all their rivalries and resentments, their desires and aspirations—

seemed to pass silently between them, and all was forgiven.

And at last, as if finally allowing herself to bask in the glory of the evening, she said, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

She moved away, slipping out the French doors and onto the balcony. He had seen her do this trick a dozen times at parties, separating herself from the crowd in order to attract a man. At one time, he might have made fun of her, he thought, but he suddenly found he no longer had the desire to fault her.

He turned back and looked around the room. The crowd—movie stars and producers, screenwriters and agents, with a couple of makeup artists and personal trainers thrown in for good measure—had reached that frenzied moment when everyone knows the party will end soon and they have yet to accomplish what they came for. Hollywood, Bill thought sardonically, was American enterprise at its best—at its greediest and most ambitious, at its pettiest and most unkind. But that wasn’t entirely true, he corrected himself. For there was legitimate talent—brilliance even—and the real reason why Hollywood still existed, why it kept grinding away, was that underneath the glitter was a genuine desire to do good. No one really set out to make a bad movie or a bad TV show; most people, he thought, longed only to be great. And if they didn’t always succeed, if they fell short of the mark, wasn’t that simply the penalty for being human? And as he glanced over his shoulder, watching Janey as she made her way out to the balcony to stand alone, he was filled with both fear for her and pride—pride in the way that she’d picked herself up and had taken a few baby steps to get ahead. She could be ridiculously stupid, he thought, but like most people, her only real flaw was being her own worst enemy. A trait that, he reminded himself, he might be accused of having . . .

And for a second, he thought about following her.

But then he stopped himself. Let her be, he thought. Let her enjoy the moment. Her success that evening was big, but it was a Hollywood success—sudden, magical, and overwhelming—designed to eventually destroy the soul of the unsuspecting recipient. In the future, there would be plenty of time for disappoint-18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 404

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ments, for the discovery that you’d been betrayed, for the sinking realization that while one day you were “hot,” the next day you were frozen, and no one would take your phone calls . . .

And out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tanner Cole heading out to the balcony.

He wasn’t going to compete with a movie star, he thought wryly. Not now, anyway.

Janey had a new journey now, and one, he thought with sudden relief, that didn’t include him. And as Tanner Cole passed by, he felt like saying, “Good luck, man . . .”

But naturally, he kept these thoughts to himself. And as he glanced back at Janey, poised on the balcony, he had a feeling that Hollywood would soon discover she couldn’t be broken so easily. She seemed to have a spirit and hope in her that just wouldn’t die . . .

And standing with one hand on the railing, Janey arranged her body in a three-quarter position, facing the panorama of lights below. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scented night air, knowing that she was creating the image of a lovely young woman who was lost in thought . . .

But this time, she really was lost in thought, she realized. She belonged here . . .

Everything about the evening told her that she’d finally found her place. And opening her eyes to take in the view, she suddenly gasped and took a step back in joy.

From her vantage point high in the Hollywood hills, the twinkling lights of Los Angeles lay spread out beneath her like a golden carpet, welcoming her.