My Lucky Star

  “How will you even know it’s my kid under that kinky fucking mask?!”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Billy. “I only had the mask on when I first walked in. I pulled it off right away so Stephen would know it was me. From then on I had it off the whole time.”

  Billy turned and beamed at his once and future lover.

  “Right, hon?”

  “Of course, dear,” muttered Stephen, somehow managing a wan smile. Gilbert, Monty, and I discreetly exchanged a wry glance, for we knew that beneath the smile he was positively seething with resentment.

  One understood, of course. If there’s one thing self-important film stars loathe it’s reshoots.

  Epilogue

  THOUGH I HAVE SPARED FEW KIND words in this account for my rival Gina, I must concede that at close of day, when there was nary a centimeter between our backs and the wall, she proved herself one heck of a good sport. She did, of course, display a pardonable lack of enthusiasm when first asked to wait patiently in the wings while her husband was humped to a fare-thee-well by a gilded bartender, then enter on cue to reprise her role as a clueless cuckold. But once Claire had helped her grasp the full ghastliness of the alternatives, she relented and signed on for the remake. She did, however, inform Stephen that the magnificent diamond-and-sapphire choker she’d been loaned for the Oscars would not see the inside of Buccellati again.

  Securing Gina’s cooperation was but one of several hurdles that faced Finch/Donato Productions’ freshman effort. Ricky the masseur had to be located and bribed handsomely to reprise his role, sans the sex this time. The most daunting challenge though was the one posed by Rusty’s unfortunate possession of an audio copy of the original. It meant that the new production had to be lip-synched to Monty’s copy, and lip-synched flawlessly, as any mistake would expose it as a redo. So our little band of players had to speedily memorize not only the dialogue but the precise timing of it as well.

  Stephen and Diana, seasoned pros that they were, rose masterfully to the challenge, and Claire and I, after much rehearsal, acquitted ourselves competently. Gina, by contrast, was quite undone by the whole lurid undertaking and teetered constantly on the brink of maudlin hysterics. The lip-synching defeated her entirely, especially at the point where she had to banter lightheartedly about Stephen’s keen longing for an Oscar. Claire finally solved the problem by blocking the scene with Gina’s back to the camera.

  There was concern as well over Billy. We’d scripted a brief coda for him and Stephen in which they ruefully acknowledged the madness of their affair and vowed to break it off. Billy had only acted once before when, as a sophomore in high school, he’d assayed the role of Bud Frump in the musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, delivering a performance that landed him firmly in the chorus for the remainder of his career there. We took heart though from his more nuanced work in Rusty’s office and hoped that the presence of cameras would not unnerve him.

  OUR SHOOT BEGAN AT two a.m. Saturday on what was arguably the most closed set in film history. We rolled sound and began with Ricky’s now PG-rated massage. Stephen’s moans sounded less libidinous when heard against the visual of Ricky digging an elbow into his shoulder blade. Ricky backed off on cue, teasingly informing Stephen that someone he’d be “glad to see” would be taking over. He then opened the door to Oscar, whose costume was now accessorized with little gold shorts. His predecessor, you may recall, had entered exposed and ready for immediate boarding. We felt this priapic approach was out of keeping with the remake’s more romantic tone and, worse, made Ricky look like a pimp and not, as we preferred, like some discreet and worldly sexual concierge. We carefully timed Stephen’s stoned burst of laughter to come immediately after Oscar removed his mask, revealing Billy’s smiling face. Ricky withdrew with a continental wink and only then did the shorts come off.

  Though Stephen had to stay in sync with the sound track, Billy’s lack of dialogue permitted him more leeway to reinterpret the role. The first Oscar, in keeping with his featureless mask, had performed like some exotic sexbot. Billy was more tender, kissing Stephen as often as the sound track allowed. The most crucial difference though was that Billy, unlike his forerunner, knew he had exactly six minutes and twenty-two seconds before pencils down and if he meant to finish he’d better bear this in mind. Finish he did, bringing Stephen to climax as well, as he has since remarked on times without number.

  “Fear not! Cavanaugh’s here!” I mouthed, bounding up from below stairs and tossing a towel to the panting and red-faced Stephen. Billy took his place under the table, Stephen rolled tactfully onto his stomach, and I admitted Gina. Her performance, seen only from behind, required little of her beyond some appropriate hand gestures; her face, unseen by the camera, scowled ferociously at Stephen even as she uttered endearments to him on the sound track. Diana entered and flawlessly re-created her drunken outburst; Claire arrived next, discovered Oscar, and escorted the ladies out.

  That was where Grimes’s audio ended. I stayed behind to apologize to Stephen and Billy for my unseemly presence, explaining that I’d been hiding from the libidinous Monty. I left and then Stephen and Billy played their brief touching farewell, a scene for which Billy had no problem summoning real tears.

  Moira yelled, “Cut!” then retired to her sanctum to view the results and mix the sound. Stephen and his kin fled the spa with nary a goodbye, a move that was highly if absurdly disappointing to Billy and me.

  “What were you expecting?” Claire asked incredulously. “A wrap party?”

  The three of us and Gilbert retired to the bar for a much-needed drink while Moira burned a DVD for us (no doubt making several backups for personal use). Gilbert and I delivered the disk to Monty just after five a.m. We screened it and agreed the performances and timing were first-rate. Though I, for understandable reasons, will always prefer the original version, I could not deny that the new finish gave it a poignancy the Cavanaugh ending had lacked.

  Monty had instructed an old friend in Key West to FedEx him a note reading:

  Dear Monty,

  Thanks again for loaning me this very special movie! I part with it most reluctantly and only wish I had the technology to make a copy for my personal library. What a cutie little Oscar is! Do you know him? Do visit soon.

  Love,

  Trevor

  This arrived in Los Feliz shortly after ten a.m. Monty barely had time to open the FedEx pouch and insert the disk before Hank Grimes, who’d been watching the house, barged in to seize it. Hank, we presume, then screened it, comparing the audio to Rex’s tape, and reported to his brother.

  That afternoon Rusty held a press conference. He began by apologizing to Stephen, his family, and colleagues for any embarrassment they’d suffered during yesterday’s “deplorable circus,” vowing again to find and discipline the tipster who’d alerted the media. He said that Stephen and Moira, far from being targets of a criminal investigation, were the innocent victims of an extortionist who’d spread false and malicious rumors about them and Miss Finch’s spa. The extortionist had then fabricated “evidence” to support these rumors and mailed it to Stephen with a demand for thirty million dollars. Rusty’s office had examined this so-called evidence and determined it beyond doubt to be a computer-generated forgery, which would not be released to the press out of respect for its intended victims. In closing he vowed to spare no effort in finding and prosecuting the still-anonymous blackmailer who had, it was feared, fled the country.

  Come Oscar morning the story completely dominated the headlines and Sunday chat shows. Stephen declined all interview requests, saying he’d been advised not to discuss details of the case as to do so might impede the investigation. He would, he vowed, have plenty to say once the perpetrator was apprehended and tried. Until then he hoped his fans and the media would respect his family’s privacy.

  That night when he and Gina walked down the aisle of the Kodak Theatre, the audience rose as one in thunderous support for this gr
eat and greatly maligned star. For Billy and me, watching at home with Gilbert and Claire, it was a bit of a Stella Dallas moment — you know, the classic weeper that ends with poor selfless Stella standing outside the party in the rain, nose pressed to the glass, watching proudly as the daughter for whom she has sacrificed so nobly basks in the admiration of the beau monde.

  “What is she wearing? ” asked Gilbert of Gina. She was sporting one of those gowns where the breasts are barely concealed by crisscrossing satin panels only slightly wider than suspenders.

  “Tramp,” I said flatly.

  “Go on,” sneered Billy. “Flaunt your gazongas. You’ll never make him as happy as I did!”

  “As we did,” I corrected. “Well,” drawled Billy with the off-putting smugness that had crept into his tone of late, “I think I made him a little happier.”

  “Do you?”

  “He looked at me.”

  “How could he not with you slobbering over him like a border collie?”

  “You want to talk tummies?”

  “You will cease this conversation immediately,” demanded Claire, “or I’ll hurl this bottle through the screen.”

  I was happy, at least, for Stephen. How glorious he looked and how much more glorious he must have felt bathing in that Niagara of applause. He had sojourned in purgatory, clutching a boarding pass for points south, but now he’d been welcomed once more into this celestial assemblage, yea, even seated at the right hand of Spielberg. Had the balloting for Best Actor taken place that night his rivals wouldn’t have mustered a single vote between them. Unfortunately for Stephen, the ballots had been mailed in some days ago when he was still under a cloud and the Academy had felt a soupçon more love for Laurence Osgood Fenton, the brilliant newcomer who’d portrayed a traumatized Iraq war vet in the searing drama Anthem. Laurence, only twenty-four, stumbled, disbelieving, to the stage and gave an eloquent speech, declaring himself unworthy to share the category with the likes of Nicholas Cage, Al Pacino, Liam Neeson, and, most of all, his hero Stephen Donato. The screen filled with Stephen’s face as he applauded and brushed aside a grateful tear.

  IF THE OSCARS BROUGHT little joy to Stephen, they did provide a welcome distraction from the blackmail story, which was bumped off the front page by the usual coverage of winners and losers, gowns, gripes, and gaffes. This was a relief as our cover story with its murky details and mystery villain had been hastily concocted and would not bear undue scrutiny. People still gossiped about it but conventional wisdom deemed Stephen innocent of any same-sex shenanigans. How could he be otherwise when even his bitterest enemy was forced to declare him the blameless victim of a conspiracy? A few naysayers, Rex among them, continued to cry cover-up, but their crackpot theories won little attention and the public, starved of fresh developments, soon lost interest.

  STEPHEN WAS NOT ENTIRELY out of the woods. There remained the nettlesome matter of Amelia Flies Again! Monty still had his disk and refused to return it till Stephen made good on his promise. Stephen pointed out that he could no longer disseminate it without revealing to Rusty that our alibi was a hoax. True, countered Monty, but what of Lily? She now knew all about Stephen’s “romance” with Billy. Though she was disinclined to tattle on her costar, if Stephen reneged she would not hesitate to include every succulent detail in her memoir. This left Stephen in a pickle. He could, of course, call in the script doctors but was loath to let anyone read it since not even Gina had failed to discern that he’d bought it with a gun to his head.

  It was, of course, Claire who finally proposed a compromise acceptable to all parties. And, as it happened, her neat solution dovetailed happily with another development in the Donato household.

  In an exclusive cover interview for the May Vanity Fair (timed to coincide with the release of Caliber IV: Who’ll Save the Sun?) , Stephen announced that he and Gina were expecting their first child. Thanks to this joyous event, production on The Heart in Hiding would be accelerated so that Gina could film her scenes before her pregnancy became apparent. This rescheduling, alas, meant that his mother, who had a conflict, would no longer be able to play the heroic housekeeper Greta. Fortunately his aunt had graciously consented to step into her sister’s shoes. This would, alas, compel Lily to put her Amelia Earhart project on hold but family was family and one sacrificed for them as needed.

  GILBERT, HAVING EMERGED UNSCATHED yet again from a disaster of his own making, was, as always, maddeningly blasé, claiming he’d never doubted it would all work out in the end. This greatly annoyed our rescuer, Claire, who brusquely remarked that the only reason he’d escaped arrest was that he was in the “witless protection program.”

  I’d feared he’d be hurt when I told him we would not be collaborating with him on any future projects. He was unfazed though, having recently decided that a lad with his looks and charisma belonged more properly in front of the camera. He had head shots taken and declared himself an actor, throwing himself into his new métier with the same commitment and discipline he’d brought to his careers as a novelist and screenwriter.

  ANGUS BRODIE RETURNED FROM LOCATION, evicting us from our movie-star bachelor pad. Gilbert decamped to Max’s guesthouse while I took a one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood on Fountain and Hayworth. Though perfectly charming, it was still quite a comedown from our aerie in the hills, which, sadly, was visible from my bathroom window.

  Claire and I kept plugging away, trudging from one “creative” meeting to the next. Ironically, we wound up winning an assignment from Irv Bushnell, the producer I’d last glimpsed taking lachrymose bows for Whoa, You’re No Chick! The picture, based on Irv’s original concept, was a comedy about an alien running for congress. We’d liked it much better than his time-traveling rap-star pitch.

  THE HEART IN HIDING opened in November a week after Rusty lost the governor’s race to Ms. Almy and only days before Gina, two weeks overdue, tearfully consented to a cesarean. Gilbert and I attended the premiere as Lily and Monty’s guests.

  The picture, as most of you save Amos know, turned out rather well. Gilbert and I had to concede that the screenplay was depressingly superior to our own. In Ms. Gamache’s novel, Heinrich’s transformation from Nazi to saint is preposterously rapid and unconvincing, a problem less than adequately remedied in our script. In Mr. Schramm’s version the only reason Heinrich fails to report Greta’s family is his lust for Lisabetta, whom he very nearly rapes. His moral awakening comes in agonizing inches and he fights it every step of the way, making it both more plausible and moving. The direction and brooding cinematography were flawless, and Stephen’s performance as Heinrich was compelling and, as Moira was heard to remark, “layered.”

  The revelation, though, was Lily. Both during and after production she’d decried the director, Peter Kistiakowski, as a tyrannical bully, sorely lacking in respect for an artiste some years his senior. But even Lily had to admit his hectoring had paid off. Her performance was unlike any she’d ever given, stripped of her usual mannerisms and excess and steeped in pain, cunning, and fortitude. I can’t tell you how strange it felt afterward to compliment her and actually mean it.

  I saw Stephen at the party as well. It was the first time we’d seen each other since that bizarre last night at Les Étoiles. Conversations with ex-boyfriends are almost always awkward and never more so than when the ex is standing arm in arm with his massively pregnant wife.

  “Really amazing work,” I said, daring no more than a handshake. “You must both be very proud.”

  “We are,” said Gina, her tone, like her performance, a bit on the stiff side.

  “So, how are you guys doing?” asked Stephen.

  “Oh, fine. Claire and I are busy. Gilbert’s started acting.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Has Gilbert ever stopped acting?”

  “Good point. Anyway, I was just bowled over. Really. You deserve an Oscar for this.”

  Gina frowned, the name, I suppose, forever tainted for her. But Stephen smiled and said, “From
your mouth to God’s ear.”

  There was something about his smile, something wistful and perhaps a touch nostalgic, that made me realize how much he missed me. He may even have been trying to discreetly signal that he hoped I’d call him again sometime. “But no,” I thought to myself, “best not.” You have to know when to let these things go. I realized that even if Stephen didn’t.

  STEPHEN WAS INDEED NOMINATED again for Best Actor. Again he lost. The camera lingered with customary cruelty on his face at the moment of defeat. This time he could not even manage a brave smile, just an odd, faraway look of rueful astonishment. Claire, Gilbert, and I, watching at home, were certain beyond doubt that he was thinking of Lily and recalling what she’d said nearly three hours ago when she’d jubilantly taken the stage to accept her Best Supporting Actress Oscar.

  “Thank you! Thank you! Oh, my word, thank you! I won’t say I never dreamed this would happen because I did! Dreamed it every damned day! I’m so glad I’ve put off finishing my memoirs —now they have an ending!

  “I want to thank the Academy and all the dear, sweet people who voted for me. I want to thank my brother, Monty, and my many loving friends who never doubted this night would come! I want to thank our brilliant young director for his great kindness to me and our producers Bobby Spellman and Moira Finch for their courage and unwavering integrity. I want to thank my sister, Diana. She turned this role down, you know, so she could make Who Needs Tomorrow? The very few of you who saw it know what a mistake that was! Bless you, Diana! This should really be yours— but it’s not!

  “Most of all I want to thank my wonderful costar, Stephen! Where is he? Oh, there you are! Don’t look so anxious, my dear! You’ll be standing up here soon enough! Thank you, my darling, thank you so much! You’re more than a nephew to me. Yes, you are! You’re my hero, Stephen! My champion! My lucky star!”