Glitter Baby

  “Michel disappeared from the clinic. Alexi wanted to know if he’d contacted me.” Belinda clipped her earring back on. “It must be obvious, even to your father, that he gave away the wrong child. My daughter is beautiful and successful. His son is a homosexual weakling.”

  Michel was Belinda’s son, too, and Fleur lost her appetite. As much as she still resented him, Belinda’s attitude felt wrong.

  Several months ago, gossip had surfaced that Michel was engaged in a long-term affair with a married man who was well-known in Parisian society. The man had suffered a fatal heart attack after the disclosure, and Michel attempted suicide. Fleur was accustomed to the open homosexuality of the fashion world and couldn’t believe the fuss everybody was making. Alexi refused to let Michel return to his Massachusetts school and locked him away in a private clinic in Switzerland. Fleur tried to feel sorry for Michel—she did feel sorry for him—but some ugly, unforgiving part of her found a terrible justice in Michel finally being the outcast.

  “Aren’t you going to eat the rest of your salad?” Belinda asked.

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  The stench of Dick Spano’s cigar filled the projection room, along with a lingering onion odor from the rubble of fast-food containers. Tonight Jake was watching two weeks’ worth of rushes from the back row. As an actor, he never did this, but as a fledgling screenwriter he knew he had to see how his dialogue was working so he could think about what might need to be rewritten.

  “You nailed it there, Jako,” Johnny Guy said in response to the first exchange of dialogue between Matt and Lizzie. “You’re one hell of a writer. Don’t know why you waste your time with those New York theater types.”

  “They feed my ego.” Jake kept his eyes on the screen as Lizzie began to kiss Matt. “Damn.”

  The men watched one cut after another of the kiss.

  “It’s not bad,” Dick Spano offered at the end.

  “She’s on the right track,” Johnny Guy said.

  “It sucks.” Jake finished his Mexican beer and set the bottle on the floor. “She’s okay up to the kiss, but she’s never going to be able to handle the heavier stuff.”

  “Stop being so negative. She’ll do fine.”

  “It’s not in her to handle Lizzie. Fleur’s feisty, and she puts up a hell of a good front, but she grew up in a convent, for God’s sake.”

  “It wasn’t a convent,” Dick said. “It was a convent school. There’s a difference.”

  “It’s more than that. She’s sophisticated, but she isn’t worldly. She’s traveled all over the world, and I’ve never met a kid her age who’s so well-read—she talks about philosophy and politics like a European. But she seems to have been living her life inside some kind of glass bubble. Her handlers have kept a tight rein on her. She doesn’t have any ordinary life experience, and she’s not a good enough actress to hide that.”

  Johnny Guy peeled the wrapper from a Milky Way. “She’ll come through. She’s a hard worker, and the camera loves her.”

  Jake slumped in his seat and watched. Johnny Guy was right about one thing. The camera did love her. That big face illuminated the screen, along with those knockout chorus-girl legs. She wasn’t conventionally graceful, but he found something appealing about her long, strong stride.

  Still, her odd naïveté was a far cry from Lizzie’s manipulative sexuality. In the final love scene, Lizzie had to dominate Matt so that his last illusions about her innocence are ripped away. Fleur went through the motions, but he’d seen women go through the motions all his life, and this kid didn’t ring true.

  It had been a long day, and he rubbed his eyes. This film’s success was more important to him than anything he’d done. He’d written a couple of screenplays, but they’d ended up in the wastebasket. With Sunday Morning Eclipse, he was finally satisfied. Not only did he believe an audience existed for thoughtful films, but he also wanted to play a part where he could use more than two facial expressions, although he doubted he’d ever win any awards for his acting.

  It had happened so fast. He’d written his first play in Vietnam when he was twenty. He’d worked on it in secret and finished it not long before he was shipped home. After he’d been released from a San Diego military hospital, he rewrote it, then mailed it to New York the day he was discharged. Forty-eight hours later, an L.A. casting agent spotted him and asked him to read for a small part in a Paul Newman Western. He’d been signed the next day, and a month later, a New York impresario called to talk about producing the play he’d sent off. Jake had finished the film and caught a red-eye east.

  That experience marked the beginning of his hectic double life. The producer staged his play. Jake received little money, but a lot of glory. The studio liked his screen performance and offered him a bigger part. The money was too good for a kid from the wrong side of Cleveland to turn down. He began to juggle. West Coast for money, East Coast for love.

  He signed on for the first Caliber picture and began a new play. Bird Dog buried the studio under an avalanche of fan mail, and the play won the Pulitzer. He thought about quitting Hollywood, but the play had earned less than half of what he could get for his next picture. He made the picture, and he’d been making them ever since, one after the other. No regrets—or at least not very many.

  He returned his concentration to the screen. Despite the way he teased Flower Power about being a glamour girl, she didn’t seem to care much about her appearance. She didn’t look into a mirror unless she had to, and even then she never spent an extra second admiring herself. Fleur Savagar was more complicated than he’d expected.

  Part of his problem with her was that she didn’t look anything like the real Liz, who’d been petite and brunette. When he and Liz had walked across campus, she’d needed to take two steps to his one. He remembered looking up into the stands when he was playing basketball and seeing her shiny dark hair caught back with the silver clip he’d bought her. All that naïve, romantic bullshit.

  He couldn’t handle any more memories or he’d start hearing Creedence Clearwater and smelling napalm. He headed for the door. On the way, his foot caught the empty beer bottle, and he sent it crashing into the wall.

  The morning after her arrival in L.A., Belinda waited at the back of the soundstage while Fleur was in makeup. Finally she heard his footsteps. The years slipped away. She was eighteen again, standing at the counter of Schwab’s drugstore. She half expected him to pull a crumpled pack of Chesterfields from the pocket of his uniform jacket. Her heart began to pound. The slouch of his shoulders, the dip of his head—a man is his own man. Bad Boy James Dean.

  “I love your movies.” She stepped forward, neatly blocking his path. “Especially the Caliber pictures.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

  “I’m Belinda Savagar, Fleur’s mother.” She extended her hand. As he took it, she felt dizzy.

  “Mrs. Savagar. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Please. Call me Belinda. I want to thank you for being so nice to Fleur. She told me how you’ve helped her.”

  “It’s hard at first.”

  “But not everyone is kind enough to ease the way.”

  “She’s a good kid.”

  He was getting ready to move away, so she set the tips of her manicured fingers on his sleeve. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but Fleur and I would like to thank you properly. We’re tossing some steaks on the grill Sunday afternoon. Nothing fancy. Strictly Indiana backyard cookout.”

  His eyes skimmed over her navy Yves Saint Laurent tunic and white gabardine trousers. She could see he liked what he saw. “You don’t look like you’re from Indiana.”

  “Hoosier born and bred.” She favored him with a mischievous look. “We’re lighting the charcoal around three.”

  “I’m afraid I’m tied up Sunday,” he said, with what sounded like genuine regret. “Could you hold that charcoal for a week?”

  “I just might be able to do that.”


  As he smiled and walked away, she knew she’d done it exactly right, the same way she’d have done it for Jimmy. Cold beer, potato chips served in the bag, and hide the Perrier. God, she missed real men.

  The following weekend, Fleur glared down at her mother. Belinda lay on a lounge at the side of the pool, her white bikini and gold ankle bracelet glimmering against her oiled body, her eyes closed beneath oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses. It was five minutes past three on Sunday afternoon. “I can’t believe you did this. I really can’t! I haven’t been able to look him in the eye since you told me. You put him in a horrible position, not to mention me. The last thing he wants to do on his only day off is come here.”

  Belinda spread her fingers so she could tan between them. “Don’t be silly, baby. He’s going to have a wonderful time. We’ll see to it.”

  Exactly what Belinda had been saying ever since she told Fleur she’d invited Jake for a Sunday cookout. Fleur grabbed the leaf net and marched to the edge of the pool. It was bad enough she had to watch how she behaved around Jake all week. Now she had to do it on Sunday, too. If he ever suspected she had this dumb crush on him…

  She began skimming the pool for leaves. What had started as a tiny crush was getting bigger by the day. Fortunately she was smart enough to know this didn’t have anything to do with two hearts beating as one. What it had to do with was sex. She’d finally met a man who made her go weak-kneed with lust. But why did it have to be this man?

  No matter what, she wouldn’t act stupid today. She wouldn’t stare at him, or talk too much, or laugh too loud. She’d ignore him, that’s what she’d do. Belinda had invited him, and Belinda could entertain him.

  Her mother tilted up her sunglasses and eyed the snagged seat of Fleur’s oldest black tank. “I wish you’d change into one of your bikinis. That suit is dreadful.”

  Jake stepped through the open French doors onto the patio. “Looks good to me.”

  Fleur dropped the net and dived into the water. She’d worn her old black tank so Jake couldn’t lump her in with all those other women who drooled over him. Lynn called it the “Koranda Sex Effect.”

  She touched the bottom, then came to the surface. He was sitting on the chaise next to Belinda. He wore baggy navy swim trunks, a gray athletic T-shirt, and a pair of running shoes that had seen better days. She’d already discovered he was only neat when was in costume. Otherwise he wore more ragged jeans and faded T-shirts than any man should own.

  And he looked great in every one of them.

  As he tilted back his head and laughed at something Belinda said, Fleur felt a flash of jealousy. Belinda knew exactly how to talk to a man. Fleur wished she could be like that, but the only men she found it easy to talk to were the ones she didn’t care about, like the actors and wealthy playboys Belinda and Gretchen wanted her to be seen with. She had almost no practice talking to a man she wanted to impress. She dived under again. If only she could have had her first lust-crush when she was sixteen like other girls. Why was she always such a late bloomer? And why did her first crush have to be on a famous playwright–movie star who had women hanging all over him?

  She surfaced again in time to see Belinda swing her legs over the side of the chaise. “Fleur, come entertain Jake while I get a cover-up. I’m starting to burn.”

  “Stay where you are, Flower. I’m coming in.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, and dived into the pool. As he surfaced at the far end and swam toward her, she watched the play of muscles in his arms, the way the water streamed over his face and neck. He put his feet down next to her. His crooked-tooth grin was irresistible, and something inside her ached.

  “You got your hair wet,” he said. “I thought New York glamour girls only looked at the water.”

  “Shows how much you know about New York glamour girls.” She dived under, but before she could get away, a hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. She sputtered to the surface.

  “Hey!” he said with fake outrage. “I’m a hotshot movie star? Girls don’t swim away from me.”

  “Maybe not ordinary girls, but hotshot glamour girls can do a lot better than an egghead screenwriter.”

  He laughed, and she made it to the ladder before he could stop her.

  “Not fair,” he called out. “You’re a better swimmer than I am.”

  “I noticed. Your form stinks.”

  But it didn’t stink bad enough to keep him from climbing up the ladder right after her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Flower Power, but you don’t seem all that happy to see me today.”

  Maybe she was a better actress than she thought. She picked up a towel from a chair and wrapped herself in it. “Nothing personal,” she said. “I had a late night.” Because she’d stayed up reading his plays. “I’m also a little worried about the scene I have with you and Lynn tomorrow.” More than a little. She was panicked.

  “Let’s go for a run and talk about it.”

  She’d been running nearly every day since she came to L.A., and he couldn’t have suggested a better way for her to work off some of her nervous energy. “Good idea.”

  “Mind if I steal your little girl for a while?” Jake called out to Belinda, who’d just returned to the patio wearing her lacy cover-up. “I need to make room for those steaks.”

  “Go ahead,” Belinda replied with a gay wave. “And don’t hurry back. I’ve got a new Jackie Collins I’m dying to cuddle up with.”

  Jake made a face. Fleur smiled and hurried inside to change into shorts and running shoes. As she sat on the side of the bed to tie her laces, the book she’d been reading dropped to the floor. She looked down at the page she’d marked just that morning.

  Koranda holds his personal mirror up to the faces of the American working class. His characters are the men and women who love beer and contact sports, who believe in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage. In language that is frequently raw and often funny, he shows us the best and the worst of the American spirit.

  A critic in the next paragraph said it more plainly:

  Ultimately Koranda’s work is successful because he grabs the country by the balls and squeezes hard.

  She’d been reading Jake’s plays as well as a few scholarly articles about his work. She’d also done some research on his social life, which wasn’t as easy because of his obsession with privacy. Still, she’d discovered he seldom dated the same woman more than a few times.

  She met him at the end of the driveway where he was stretching his hamstrings. “Think you can keep up, Flower, or should I get a stroller for you?”

  “That’s so weird. I was getting ready to bring out a wheelchair.”

  “Ouch.”

  She grinned, and they took off at an easy trot. Since it was Sunday, the army of gardeners who kept the unused front lawns of Beverly Hills immaculate was absent, and the street looked even more deserted than usual. She tried to think of something interesting to say. “I’ve seen you shooting baskets by the parking lot. Lynn told me you played in college.”

  “I play a couple of times a week now. It helps clear my head to write.”

  “Aren’t playwrights supposed to be intellectuals instead of jocks?”

  “Playwrights are poets, Flower, and that’s what basketball is. Poetry.”

  And that’s what you are, she thought. A dark and complicated piece of erotic poetry. She had to be careful not to trip over her feet. “I like basketball, but it doesn’t exactly fit my idea of poetry.”

  “You ever hear of a guy named Julius Erving?”

  She shook her head and picked up the pace so he couldn’t accuse her of holding him back.

  He altered his rhythm. “They call Erving ‘The Doctor.’ He’s a young player with the New York Nets, and he’s going to be one of the best. Not just good, you understand—but one of the best basketball players who ever lived.”

  Fleur mentally added Julius Erving to her reading list.

  “Everything the Doc does on the court i
s poetry. Laws of gravity disappear when he moves. He flies, Flower. Men aren’t supposed to fly, but Julius Erving does. That’s poetry, kiddo, and that’s what makes me write.”

  He suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if he’d revealed too much about himself. Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw the shutters slam over his face. “Let’s pick up the pace,” he said with a growl. “We might as well be walking.”

  Not because of her. She shot ahead of him and cut over to a paved bike path, stretching her legs and pushing herself. He caught up with her, and before long, patches of sweat had broken out on both their T-shirts. “Tell me about your problem with the scene tomorrow,” he finally said.

  “It’s kind of…hard to explain.” She was out of breath, and she sucked in more air. “Lizzie…seems so calculating.”

  He slowed the pace for her. “She is. A calculating bitch.”

  “But even though she resents DeeDee, she loves her…and she knows how DeeDee feels about Matt.” She filled her lungs. “I can understand why she’s attracted to him—why she wants to…go to bed with him—but I don’t understand her being so calculating about it.”

  “It’s the history of womankind. Nothing like a man to break up the friendship of two women.”

  “That’s crap.” She thought of her earlier stab of jealousy toward Belinda and didn’t like herself for it. “Women have better things to do than fight over some guy who probably isn’t worth anything in the first place.”

  “Hey, I’m the one who’s defining reality around here. You’re only the mouthpiece.”

  “Writers.”

  He smiled, and she fortified herself with more air. “DeeDee seems more…complete than Lizzie. She has strengths and weaknesses. You want to comfort her and shake her at the same time.” She stopped just short of saying that DeeDee was better written, even though it was true.

  “Very good. You read the script.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I have to play the part, and I don’t understand her. She bothers me.”

  Jake picked up the pace again. “She’s supposed to bother you. Look, Flower, from what I understand you led a pretty sheltered life until a couple of years ago. Maybe you’ve never experienced anyone like Lizzie, but a woman like that leaves tooth marks in a man.”