Her mother smiled. “Try and keep me away. Now, shall we try the Mendelssohn?”
“Why not?” her daughter responded.
Muriel immediately went to her luggage, withdrew her own violin and tuning fork, and the two of them savored the unique experience of playing a violin solo as a duet.
The next day, Isabel took her mother to classes with her.
Muriel enjoyed Professor Rosenmeyer’s lecture on Greek tragedy, but was lost in “Introduction to Physical Chemistry.”
Moreover, she could not fail to notice that Isabel’s presence was unique not only for her age. She was one of only two girls taking the course.
As they were leaving the lecture hall, one of Isabel’s classmates called out, “Hey, da Costa, your new bodyguard’s a lot cuter than your old one.”
After an alfresco lunch followed by another cheerful shopping expedition, they returned to the apartment to find Raymond leafing through a copy of Science.
“My, I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to you,” he remarked with a perceptible edge of disapproval.
There was an uneasy silence. Muriel knew full well that the halcyon days were over.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Ray,” she remarked with as much conviction as she could muster.
“Yeah,” he replied, “I checked myself out. Actually, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Was that intended to be a pun?” Muriel asked wearily.
Raymond glanced at the sheet music propped up against a pile of books on the dining table.
“No,” he answered somberly. “It was more like a slip of the tongue.”
Muriel suddenly had an awkward realization. “I guess I’d better call and see about flights this evening,” she volunteered.
“Can’t you stay, Mom?” Isabel asked with genuine disappointment. “We could all have dinner.” A further thought tumbled out. “Like the good old days.”
“By all means,” Raymond added, “Isabel would really enjoy that.”
“But then I’d have to stay over,” Muriel explained as delicately as possible. “And you don’t seem to have a guest room.”
“There’s always the couch,” Raymond suggested.
Was he aware, she wondered, of how cruel he sounded?
“No, I’m afraid I’ve never been a very good camper,” she said, declining with a smile. “It’ll only take me a few seconds to pack. I know I can get a flight to San Diego without any problem.”
By the time she was in the taxi, speeding along Route 101 to the airport, Muriel was shaking with rage.
Had Ray been totally insensitive to the horrendous example of a married couple they had presented to their daughter?
With this precedent, Isabel could never hope to form a normal relationship in her later life.
But then, maybe that was precisely what Ray wanted.
March 27
Why are they making me choose between them?
16
SANDY
“Are you still a virgin, kid?”
Sidney Raven’s question caught his son off guard. Sandy did not know how to reply. Although he wanted to stand high in his father’s esteem, he was desperate to surrender his celibacy.
He hesitated. “Gee, Dad, that’s a tough one.”
“No, sonny boy, it’s easy. And you’ve just answered it. And that’s why I’ve booked a table for you and Gloria at Scandia.”
“Who’s Gloria?” Sandy asked, confused.
“Your date,” Sidney responded with a mischievous wink. “She’s a nice kid—anxious to break into movies, and who happens also to be friendly—and generous with her body.”
“Oh,” Sandy said, suddenly growing nervous. “And who am I supposed to be?”
“Just who you are,” his father stated, with a touch of pride. “Sidney Raven’s son. I think you’ll like her. She’s got a college degree in something or other. When the bill comes at the restaurant, all you have to do is add a fifteen percent tip and sign my name. I’ve got an account there.”
“What about Gloria?”
“What about her?”
“How do I—settle with her?”
“Are you kidding?” Sidney reacted with mock indignation. “She’s not a hooker or anything. She’s a clean-cut kid like yourself.”
Sandy was at a complete loss. “But, Dad,” he confessed, “I haven’t got the vaguest idea what to do.”
“Don’t worry, son, leave it all to her.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Sandy was stricken with high anxiety. Suppose—like the fastidious Margie—Gloria found him unappealing? The wound from that terrible rejection was still fresh and painful.
And even if the girl were commercially bound to grin and bear him, he wondered nervously if he would have the courage to initiate the action—or whatever it was called out here in L.A.
To optimize his appearance, he spent four hours in the sun, hoping a tan would make his face look a little less like the surface of the moon. After cutting himself three times shaving, he was so nervous that he had to take another shower. He spent eternities going through his father’s wardrobe, trying to decide which tie he should wear.
Sidney was still sitting by the pool sipping a martini as the late afternoon sun filtered through the huge fir trees casting long ithyphallic—or so it seemed to Sandy—shadows on the lawn.
“Have a good time, sonny boy,” the elder Raven called. “Be sure to try the gravlaks, it’s great.”
Sandy nodded, went out into the crescent courtyard and climbed into his father’s leased Jaguar XJ 12. He cruised down Stone Canyon and turned east at Sunset Boulevard.
To say the least, Sandy was driving below the speed limit, cautioning himself that the police were severe with speeders. In fact, all day long he had been reminding himself to be cool and casual in everything he did.
Sunset Boulevard was precisely as it appeared on film. The vast lawns of the mansions he passed seemed as if they had been trimmed that morning with cuticle scissors by legions of Disney dwarves.
In addition to his panic, Sandy was vertiginous with a sense of déjà vu. It felt as if he had been there a million times. And yet at this moment he felt like a stranger from another planet.
In less than five minutes he was pulling up at Scandia and a red-vested, blond and tanned parking valet hurried to relieve him of his car.
Sandy somehow felt naked without the four walls of automotive metal that had been insulating him from the dreamlike realities of Hollywood.
When he entered the restaurant, he marveled at its elegant decor and the strangely mellifluous hum of its sedate diners.
The moment Sandy gave his name, the head waiter replied with unctuous deference, “Ah yes, Mr. Raven. I’ve already shown your guest to the table.”
First they moved through the luxuriantly carpeted cocktail area, and then into a bright, cheery dining room.
Preoccupied though he was, Sandy could not keep from staring at a titian-haired young woman in a light tan suit and frilly white blouse, sitting all alone. As they drew closer, he had the uncanny feeling that she was smiling at him.
Surely this could not be Gloria. It was an angel-faced Aurora, Goddess of the Dawn.
“Hello, Sandy.” She smiled, politely offering her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Her accent was East Coast posh.
As he sat down in the deep-cushioned chair, all he could manage as a response was, “Uh, it’s nice to meet you too.”
The maitre d’ bowed and offered them menus, at the same time asking Sandy, “Aperitif?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a Kir Royale,” Gloria said, with what seemed like respectful deference.
Why did she seem so in awe of him?
“Then I’ll have the same,” Sandy responded.
The captain nodded and evanesced.
Now at last, Sandy thought, a legitimate topic of conversation. He looked straight at Gloria, trying to overcome his bedazzlement at her natural beauty: ??
?What exactly did I order?”
“Champagne and cassis,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, I know a lot about champagne,” he volunteered, leaping with enthusiasm on a topic he knew something about. “Mostly from a scientific standpoint. I guess it would bore you.”
“On the contrary.” The young woman reached over to touch his hand. “I’m fascinated by science, even though I only had to take one course for distribution at Radcliffe.”
Jesus, Sandy thought to himself, this … professional went to Harvard! And then he responded out loud, “Uh, what did you major in?”
“Art history,” she replied. “In fact, I’m just finishing a master’s thesis at UCLA on the engravings of Albrecht Durer.”
Sandy breathed an inward sigh of relief: she’s doing this to support her education. I’m actually helping subsidize her studies. The fact that she was so widely educated was a great relief. He had wondered how they would pass the time before the critical moment.
When the moment came to order, Gloria proved knowledgeable about the restaurant’s Scandinavian fare. And, when the wine waiter came, she did not usurp his initiative, but merely whispered, “Try number one hundred twelve. But be sure it’s very chilled.”
Sandy relayed her suggestion in a louder voice, and after noting it was an excellent choice, the sommelier retreated.
Suddenly Sandy’s jaw went slack. His eyes bulged.
Gloria’s instinct made her think that he had just seen someone he was dodging. She came to the logical conclusion and whispered, “Is it your wife?”
Sandy shook his head wordlessly.
Gloria turned discreetly to follow the direction of his gaze. His attention seemed to have been caught by a table in the far corner which, to the best of her knowledge, at least, was currently being peopled by a quartet of nonentities—three men and a woman.
“You’ve got Hollywooditis,” she whispered solicitously.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a kind of delusion you suffer from during the first few days you’re here. I had it when I arrived. You sort of hallucinate that everyone you see—the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker—is actually someone like Robert Redford or Jane Fonda. The truth is, the major plebeian preoccupation out here is trying to look like the real thing.”
“No,” Sandy protested, still in a semitrance. “I’m sure I know this person. We went to grade school together.”
Gloria took another discreet look.
“Surely you don’t mean Kim Tower?” she asked disparagingly.
“Yes,” Sandy insisted. “But I know her, I really do.”
“That’s nothing unusual,” she answered dismissively. “I mean, everybody in the town does.”
Sandy deliberately chose to ignore Gloria’s remark. He asked, as a child would a parent, “Do you think it would be all right if I went over and said hello?”
“If it’ll make you any happier,” Gloria answered. “But in your parlance, I’d say she has a molecule for a brain.”
Sandy’s defense was instinctive. “She’s very smart, actually,” he said sternly.
“Well,” Gloria surrendered sweetly, “I guess clever women have to keep their minds in check. In any case, she does a good job hiding it.”
Unaffected by Gloria’s derision, Sandy rose, still in the semitrance that had been induced by the appearance of his personal goddess. He tentatively approached Rochelle’s table.
The closer he came, the more refulgent his idol seemed—flawless skin, perfect teeth, sparkling everything. When he was as near as he dared, he said shyly, “Hello, Rochelle, fancy meeting you here.”
A look of puzzlement crossed her face. Simultaneously, her three escorts whirled around to deal with what they assumed was some out-of-town autograph seeker.
Her sudden smile deterred them.
“It’s not Sandy, is it?”
“For a moment, I thought you had forgotten me,” he confessed.
“How could I?” she answered with a flourish. She stood and held out her arms. “Come here, so I can give you a big hug.”
He complied, and before his senses were benumbed enough to appreciate it, was pecked on either cheek.
But this was merely an overture to his twenty-one gun salute. For she then proceeded to recite a florid introduction to her trio of attendants.
“Guys, I’d like you to meet my dearest childhood friend, and probably one of America’s greatest scientific geniuses. And, by coincidence, Sidney Raven’s son. Sandy, this is Harvey Madison, my agent; Ned Gordon, my business manager; and Matt Humphries, my publicist.”
All three men rose and shook Sandy’s hand with bone-breaking vigor, while Rochelle rushed on to say, “I’m really sorry I can’t ask you to join us, but we’re having a business meeting. My contract’s coming up for renewal and we’re working on a game plan.”
“That’s okay,” Sandy replied, a bit of confidence returning, “I’m with a friend, in any case.”
“Oh, really?” Kim inquired with a hint of genuine curiosity.
“Yes,” Sandy acknowledged proudly. “She’s over there.”
Four pairs of eyes scrutinized Gloria from afar.
“Lovely lady,” Harvey Madison pronounced. “Is she in the business?”
For a split second Sandy thought the agent’s remark was intended to demean his date. “No,” he replied with a tinge of sanctimony, “she’s an art historian. It was nice meeting you, but I have to go back. Please excuse me.
As he moved away, Rochelle called out cheerfully, “Don’t forget to give me a ring before you leave. We’ll have some eats and catch up on old times.”
“Sure, sure,” Sandy mumbled.
He weaved his way along the serpentine route back to his own table and addressed Gloria as he sat down. “Sorry, but she’s an old friend from back East.”
Gloria simply nodded. “You’ve got lipstick smudges on your cheeks.”
Their food arrived then, and the waiter’s bustling enabled Sandy to make a detailed study of Gloria’s face. Apart from a touch of mascara, Gloria did not seem to be wearing any makeup at all, in sharp contrast to Rochelle.
His unexpected encounter with a group of what he imagined to be the “in” crowd had emboldened Sandy.
“Uh, I understand you’re interested in making movies,” he remarked.
“As a matter of fact, I am. I think it’s about time that women got their fair share in this town, don’t you?”
“Well, Barbra Streisand does okay. Don’t you think?”
“But who the hell would want to be an actress?” Gloria sneered. “I have no desire to be gawked at. I’m already working part-time in the Paramount Editing Lab. If I’m good enough, someday you’ll see my name in lights—as a director.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Sandy raised a goblet of the Chablis she had chosen.
Gloria then declared, “Now it’s my turn to toast: ‘May you fall out of love with Kim Tower as soon as possible.’ ”
He was stupefied. “Why on earth did you say that?”
“Because, Sandy, she’s plastic, and you’re the real thing.”
Later that evening at her apartment, after they had made love well into the night, Sandy whispered in a moment of sensual intoxication, “Gloria, what if I told you I think I’m falling in love with you?”
“I would talk you out of it, darling. I’m not nice enough for you either.”
When he pulled the Jag up to his father’s front door, it was nearly four in the morning. Entering the house as quietly as he could, Sandy was surprised to see a streak of light from the study spilling across the carpet.
He peeked into his father’s office and saw the elder Raven, clad in a silk bathrobe, feet up on a chair, piles of scripts on either side, swiftly leafing through what was clearly a scenario.
“Dad?” he whispered.
“Oh, sonny boy, you gave me a start. I didn’t expect you home so early.”
“Do you always stay
up this late?” Sandy inquired.
“That’s what you gotta do if you want to get ahead in the movies, kiddo. In a few minutes the calls’ll start coming in from Spain, where I’m shooting an Italian western. Meanwhile, I took some submissions home to see if there are any worthwhile properties.”
“When do you sleep?”
“What is this,” his father asked good-humoredly, “twenty questions? I should be asking you. You’ve got a strange look on your face, Sandy. Did everything go okay?”
“That depends on how you interpret the data, Dad.”
“Well, let’s get to the important part. Did you enjoy yourself with Gloria?”
“She’s a terrific person. Really bright and—”
“Son, I’m not asking you for a character reference. To mince no bones, did you have a good time horizontally?”
“Are you kidding? Thanks for the fix-up. I hope I can get to see her again before I go back East.”
“You can count on it,” his father answered with enthusiasm. “But how come you’re not beaming from ear to ear?”
Sandy flopped down on the easy chair, then leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and inquired, “Dad, would you level with me if I asked you a really intimate question?”
The elder Raven was puzzled. “Sure, fire away.”
Sandy gathered up his courage. “Is Rochelle Taubman like Gloria?”
“I don’t understand. You’re talking apples and oranges.”
“No, I’m not—I’m talking about two ambitious girls who are desperate to get to the top in movies.”
“Okay, I get it. Yeah, from that point you might say they’re both oranges.”
“Then does Rochelle have to sleep with anybody her producer tells her to?”
“I’m not her boss,” Sidney replied, in a tone wavering enigmatically between sincerity and evasiveness.
“Come on, Dad, you’re on contract to the studio. I bet everybody at those top tables knows who’s screwing whom and whether it’s for love or … advancement.
“These things are not mutually exclusive, sonny boy. But I still can’t figure out why, after I orchestrated what I hope was the most memorable night of your life, you’re acting like this was the Caine Mutiny court-martial.”