“Be sure to look after yourself, sweetheart,” Richard said, squeezing her hand. “Anything you need—call me. You know I’m always here for you. Day or night.”
“I hate good-byes,” Lara said, giving them each a quick hug and jumping in the car. She didn’t look back as the car left the driveway.
Her loyal assistant, Cassie, met her at Nice airport. Cassie was an overweight woman in her mid-thirties who bore a fleeting resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor in her Larry Fortensky years. She’d worked for Lara for six years and made sure everything went smoothly. Today she was anxious to get Lara on the plane to Paris, where they would make a connection to New York.
“I’m tired,” Lara said, yawning.
“You don’t look it.”
A man from the airline fell all over himself to help them aboard. Another airline representative met them in Paris and escorted them to their Air France flight to New York. Lara settled into her first-class window seat. Cassie handed her the script of The Dreamer and a large plastic bottle of Evian water.
“Thanks,” she said, taking an unladylike swig. “If I fall asleep, don’t wake me.”
“Not even for food?”
“No, Cassie, especially not for food!”
A businessman across the aisle was stretching his neck to get a better look at her. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer and came over. “Lara Ivory,” he said, his middle-aged voice filled with a mixture of awe and admiration.
“That’s me,” she said brightly, knowing exactly what he would say next.
She was right. “You’re far more beautiful in the flesh,” he managed.
She smiled, dazzling him—even though it was still morning and she had on casual clothes and hardly any makeup. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Cassie ran interference, placing her considerable bulk between Lara and her admiring fan.
He took the hint and returned to his seat.
“Civilians!” Cassie muttered.
Lara wondered what it would be like to go out with a civilian. The only men she came in contact with were connected to movies—actors, producers, directors, the crew. She’d met Lee while working on a film. Richard had set up their first date. Lee had been painfully shy, a condition not helped by being thrust into the limelight as her boyfriend. They’d spent a year together, mostly at her house in L.A. She’d known two months before the breakup that the end was coming. There was no passion left in their relationship, and Lee clearly wasn’t happy living in her shadow. Plus she was being tracked obsessively by a stalker, which made him crazy. Eventually they’d agreed to part, amicably, and she hadn’t heard from him since.
“The steward wondered if he could get your autograph,” Cassie said.
“Sure,” she replied. “Tell him to come over.”
A few minutes later, the steward—a gay guy with impossibly long eyelashes and gentle eyes, knelt beside her seat. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Ms. Ivory,” he said in reverent tones. “Only my friend would draw and quarter me if I dared to come home without your signature. Is it a terrible imposition if I ask you to sign his book?”
“Of course not,” she replied, with a faint smile. “Do you have a pen?”
“Right here,” he said, fumbling in his pocket.
“What’s your friend’s name?” she asked, taking the blue leather-bound book from him.
“Put ‘To Sam, the man of my dreams.’ ”
Graciously she did as he requested. Some stars wouldn’t sign autographs at all, others made their fans pay for it. Lara felt privileged that she got asked. Being a movie star was a big responsibility—people looked up to her. She remembered seeing Demi Moore on David Letterman once, stripping down to an almost nonexistent bikini. At the time, Demi was the highest-paid female star in the world, and it seemed so dumb that she would get up and blow her image in front of millions of viewers, becoming just another babe with a body. Of course, she’d redeemed herself with a stellar performance in G.I. Jane, but was that enough?
Lara slept most of the journey, waking half an hour before their arrival in New York. She’d hoped to get to L.A., to spend a few days at her house, but there wasn’t time. Three frantic days of costume fittings and interviews in New York, and then she had to leave for the house the studio had rented for her in the Hamptons. Cassie had flown in several weeks earlier to check the place out. “It’s absolutely your style,” Cassie had assured her. “Very Martha Stewart—comfortable, with a pretty garden and beach access. Oh yes, and you’ll love this. It’s extremely private.”
Cassie knew her well, when she wasn’t working she loved seclusion. Parties and nightlife were not for her.
A limo took her straight to the St. Regis Hotel, where she was booked into the Oriental Suite—courtesy of Orpheus Studios, who were in charge of her for the next seven weeks while she shot The Dreamer, a light comedy about two divorced people who meet, fall in love, fall out of love and finally get together for good. It was a contemporary piece, a welcome change from Richard’s film, where day after day she’d been locked into excruciatingly uncomfortable period gowns. She’d loved making the movie—hated wearing the clothes.
Her costar in The Dreamer was Kyle Carson—a bankable star who’d recently separated from his wife of seventeen years. Lara had met Kyle briefly at several industry events, and he’d seemed attractive and charming. She hoped his recent separation hadn’t changed him.
The director was Miles Kieffer, an old friend, who’d directed her in her first movie.
The hotel staff greeted her with welcoming smiles, remembering her last visit. She was gracious to everyone, it wasn’t in her nature to be otherwise.
The manager personally ushered her upstairs to the sumptuous suite, making sure she had everything she required.
She often reflected on the strangeness of her life. Limos and rented houses, first-class travel, everybody ready to grant her slightest whim. It was understandable that movie stars grew to believe their own publicity and in their own importance. They were so protected and cosseted that reality ceased to exist.
She’d been thinking about Nikki’s project and wanted to read the book. She called out to Cassie, who was in the bedroom, busily unpacking for her. “Do me a favor, Cass,” she said, wandering into the room. “Call Barnes & Noble and have them send over a copy of Revenge.”
“It’s done,” Cassie said, heading for the phone.
The book arrived within the hour. After eating a light room-service dinner, she sat down to read.
She read way into the night, finally falling asleep with the book in her lap. She awoke early, and at 9:00 A.M. New York time, called her agent in L.A.
“Quinn,” she said. “Is it true I’m booked for the next three years?”
“You’re as busy as you want to be, Lara,” Quinn replied, struggling to wake up. “I could have you working steadily for three, four, five years—take your pick.”
“What if I felt like making a small, low-budget movie?”
That really woke him. “Why would you even consider such a thing?” he asked, alarm creeping into his voice.
“Could I do it?” she persisted.
“It’s possible.” A pause. “Is there something I should know about?”
“Not right now.”
“Good,” he said, relieved. “Can I go back to sleep?”
“You certainly can.” Thoughtfully she replaced the receiver. Quinn was an excellent agent, but like most agents, his prime interest was making money.
She pictured his face if she told him she wished to do Nikki’s film.
And if the script turned out to be as powerful as the book, there was a strong possibility that’s exactly what she might do.
CHAPTER
6
THEY FORMED A GROUP IN the corner of the room—two casting women, the male director and a female producer. Joey concentrated on the women. One by one, he made eye contact with them, giving each a powerful stare—penetrating looks that signaled If this we
re another time—another place—I’d like to fuck you until you screamed for mercy. Women could always read his silent looks; it worked every time.
The female producer—Joey found her pretty in an older bimbo kind of way—cleared her throat. He knew she must have humped some poor schmuck to get this gig. Maybe she was even married to the geezer.
The two casting women were opposites. One young, one old. One fair, one dark. One short, the other tall. What they had in common was that they were both unattractive. No matter. He gave them the treatment anyway.
The director was a white male, apparently straight, married, with a shiny gold wedding ring to prove it.
“Are you prepared to read?” the female producer asked.
Joey nodded, glancing briefly at the pages he’d been studying in the waiting room. Then he placed them, typed-side down, on a table and performed the scene from memory, with the younger casting woman reading the other role. He gave it his best, and when he was finished he knew that he’d managed to impress them.
The older casting woman lowered her spectacles, staring directly at him. “Weren’t you in Solid?” she asked.
“S’right,” he responded, pleased she remembered.
“That was—”
“Six years ago,” he interrupted, saying it first so it didn’t seem as if he had anything to hide.
“What have you done since then?” asked the director, twisting his wedding ring as if he wanted to wrench it off his finger.
“My mother got sick,” Joey said, turning on the sincerity full voltage. “Hadda go home and look after the family.”
“I’m so sorry,” gushed the female producer, playing with a strand of stringy, blond hair. “I do hope she’s better now.”
“No,” Joey replied in his best little-boy-lost voice. “She uh . . . died. I stayed to see my little sister through school.”
“That’s so caring you would do that,” exclaimed the younger casting woman, hungry eyes coming on to him.
“Well . . .” he said modestly. “Now I’m back, an’ I gotta get my career goin’ again.”
“This is a very small role,” warned the director.
“Can’t expect the lead every time,” Joey quipped.
“Nice reading,” said the female producer.
“Thanks for coming in,” said the director.
“We’ll be in touch with your agent,” said the older casting woman.
Joey knew dismissal when it was staring him in the face. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get hired. They liked him. He could tell.
He exited the office with a jaunty swagger. Outside, in the waiting room, were a dozen young actors sweating their turn. “Don’t bother,” he informed them, cracking his knuckles. “I nailed it.”
Nothing like making them feel insecure.
Three days later he got the part.
“It’s decent money,” Madelaine informed him. “Three days’ work spread out over two weeks’ location in the Hamptons—they’ll pay for your hotel and a reasonable per diem. Don’t let me down, Joey.”
“Would I do that, Maddy?” he asked, his tone innocent.
That night he satisfied her in bed, sending her to sleep with a smile on her face. He’d slipped a Halcion into her decaf cappuccino, causing her to sleep so soundly that she was unaware of his going when he left the apartment.
He roamed the streets restlessly, finally going into a strip club and paying a cheap-looking girl with large, silicone-enhanced breasts to perform a private lap dance. She did nothing for him. She was a whore. He hated her. Why did he keep on punishing himself with fast, cheap sex that meant nothing?
He took a cab back to Madelaine’s apartment and eased into bed beside her. He thought about the nights ahead of him, before the shoot started. He’d never had a relationship that meant a damn thing. Never. In this life you had to use or get used. Sex was power. That was it, and that was all.
He lay on his back, eyes wide open, unable to sleep.
Sometimes the screaming in his head was so loud it was impossible to live with.
• •
Madelaine took out insurance and paid for Joey to go to an acting coach. Even though he’d let her down once, she was so pathetically grateful to have him back, she convinced herself he would never leave her again. Somehow she managed to ignore the nagging voice of her subconscious that kept assuring her he would.
Patsy Boon, Joey’s acting coach, was a big, brassy Australian blonde who favored billowy caftans and addressed him as “sweetie”: “Do it this way, sweetie.” “Never slouch, sweetie.” “Pitch is everything, sweetie.”
Patsy chain-drank tea and spent half her time in the bathroom, but she gave him confidence. He hadn’t acted in six years and he needed the reassurance that he could still do it.
Of course he immediately charmed Patsy, and she soon offered extra coaching for free.
By the time he set off on location, he felt pretty secure and ready to deliver a worthy performance—one that might get him noticed and back on track. Fuck it. He had no time to waste.
As soon as he arrived in the Hamptons, Madelaine called. “What’s the hotel like?” she asked.
“Small, nothin’ fancy.”
“I thought I might come down for the weekend—spend a couple of days.”
“That’d be great, Maddy.”
No. It wouldn’t. He didn’t want the cast and crew knowing he was schtupping an old bag. Even worse—an old-bag agent. They’d all think she’d gotten him the part. Truth was, she hadn’t. His talent had gotten him the part. His presence.
He was smart enough not to put her off, though. At the last minute he’d think of something to keep her safely in New York.
He was supposed to go straight to the wardrobe trailer and get fitted for his clothes. Instead he took a stroll around, getting his bearings. Parked behind the hotel were the huge mobile movie trailers, lined up like a long circus procession. Clothes, makeup, camera equipment, props, lighting, the stars’ trailers and a scattering of trucks and cars driven by union men who sat around swapping dirty jokes and playing cards. Joey checked out the names on the stars’ trailers. Kyle Carson. Lara Ivory. One of these days maybe his name would be on the side of a trailer. Joey Lorenzo. That would be a day to make him proud.
After exploring, he went back to his room and took a shot of vodka from the minibar. It wasn’t like he had a drinking problem, he simply wanted to be as relaxed and charming as possible when he hit the set.
The truth was he wanted everyone to love him.
CHAPTER
7
“I WANT TO READ THE script before anyone else,” Lara said, holding the phone away from her ear as Roxy, her hair person, attempted to streak her hair, folding thin strands of honey-blond locks into skinny strips of tinfoil.
“You loved the book that much?” Nikki exclaimed excitedly.
“Couldn’t put it down. I was up all night reading. I look like Quasimodo today.”
“Yeah, sure,” muttered Roxy. “In a freakin’ pig’s ear.” Roxy was a Brooklyn girl with razor-cut bright red hair, a skinny body and several fierce-looking body piercings. She’d done Lara’s hair on three movies, and they had a congenial working relationship.
“I should have something I’m happy with soon,” Nikki said. “Maybe I’ll deliver it myself, spend a day or two.”
“Will Richard allow you to do that?”
“Allow me!” Nikki said, laughing. “Are you serious? Besides, when we get back to L.A. he’ll be shut in the editing rooms eighteen hours a day—you know what he’s like when he’s finishing a movie.”
“Yes, I remember,” Lara said, recalling many long and lonely nights.
“I’m completely psyched you like the book!” Nikki said.
“It’s very empowering.”
“True story. I met the woman it happened to; she’s a real survivor.”
“Get me a script as soon as possible,” Lara said. “If it’s as strong as the book, we’re
in business.”
“Oh, wow! This is crazy.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause there’s no way we can afford you.”
“How about scale and a piece of the action?”
“Quinn would never let you do that.”
“I spoke to him this morning.”
“You did?”
“He may think he controls my career—the truth is, I’m in charge.”
“Tell me about it,” Nikki said knowingly. “Everybody imagines you’re this delicate little flower, but underneath the sweetness lies a heart of stone, right?”
Lara chuckled. “Right.”
“And talking of your stony heart, you’d better find someone to date on this movie. You’re definitely in need of thawing out.”
“How many times must I tell you?” Lara sighed. “I’m perfectly happy on my own.”
“In that case I’m buying you a vibrator for your birthday.”
“You’re vulgar, you know that?”
“What’s vulgar about a vibrator? It’s better than a man any day, and vibrators don’t give you any shit. They’re reliable, always on time and you don’t have to look your best.”
Lara laughed and hung up.
“Did I hear the word ‘vibrator’?” Roxy asked, skillfully folding tinfoil.
“My friend Nikki,” Lara replied. “All she’s interested in is fixing me up.”
“Nikki . . . Nikki . . . isn’t she the costume designer who married your ex-husband?”
“That’s her.”
“Jeez—you’re understanding,” Roxy said, rolling her eyes. “I got two exes, an’ if I see either of ’em walkin’ down the street, I cross over to avoid ’em. They’re both bastards. One of ’em was screwin’ my sister—an’ the other one I caught wearin’ my best black dress along with my gold evening shoes. How’s that for balls of steel?”
“I’m sure you handled it perfectly.”
“You bet! I raced into Bloomingdale’s, charged five thousand bucks’ worth of designer clothes on his credit card, then divorced the cross-dressing sonofabitch.” She shrieked with laughter. “I wasn’t around to see his face when he got the bill—gotta hunch he’s still payin’ it off.”