Part 1 (2/2)

”I will.” Robert Zaitlin was Celia's lover and the producer of the movie in which I had a small but important role. He was married to an old girlfriend of ours.

”He told me he's having problems with a young actress,” she said.

”Jenny Parson. She can't get through a scene without forgetting her lines.”

She nodded. ”I'd better go see what Mr. Ward is up to. Want to have dinner tonight?”

”Great.” I paused. ”Celia, I just want to thank you for helping me get this part.”

”You gave a great reading. Besides, Robert has always had your best interest at heart, you know that.”

Only a woman in love with a movie producer could say that and mean it. But I wasn't worried about Robert Zaitlin; it was the young actress, Jenny Parson, who troubled me.

In my Jaguar, so old it had five ashtrays and no airbags, I headed east on Sunset Boulevard then turned down to Santa Monica Boulevard toward the old Warner Bros. sister studio, which was once the old Samuel Goldwyn studio and is now called The Lot. But what's in a name?

The heater, which never turned off, blew hot against my wet jeans. My silk blouse clung to my damp body like an unwanted lover. I began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation I'd just created, and then suddenly I burst into tears. Mourning for a dead mother I didn't like and a dead husband I loved can do that to you.

Colin Hudson, my husband, died a year ago of a heart attack. We had been married for eight years-an eternity in this business. He left me with what is euphemistically called a teardown in Malibu, the old Jag, two Academy Awards for Best Original Screenplay, a bank account in the red, and an emptiness I couldn't fill.

In order to earn a living, I'd gone back to what I knew best-acting. Of course, I was eight years older and the parts for women in their early forties were few and usually lousy. And to be honest, if I had not been the daughter of Nora Poole my name would have been forgotten. Hollywood has all the attention span of a c.o.ked-up executive producer.

The bold-striped awning of the Formosa Bar came into view. It was one of the few great watering holes from the Golden Age of Hollywood that was still standing. The others had become photographs in coffee-table books reminding us of how great movie life had been and would never be again.

I turned right and pulled up to the gate of the studio. Recognizing me, the guard waved me through, and I drove slowly past the enormous, gray stucco soundstages that looked like vast warehouses where all the Hollywood dreams and nightmares were stored. I parked in front of the makeup and wardrobe building and stared up at its benign facade. I would go in there looking like myself, a little bedraggled, and come out looking like the role I was playing: a mother who was a drunken s.l.u.t.

CHAPTER TWO.

The camera aimed at Jenny Parson and me. The key light felt warm on my skin. Jenny crossed to her mark-a piece of blue camera tape stuck to the carpet. She glared at me. Her auburn hair curled around her oval face and down to her shoulders. I held a gla.s.s of scotch (colored water) in my hand. Using the acting technique sense memory (conjuring the past to give reality to the present), the odorless liquid reminded me of the smell of bourbon in my mother's shot gla.s.s. My blouse was b.u.t.toned haphazardly, and the tail end of it hung out from the waist of my too-tight, too-short miniskirt. The red wig felt heavy on my head. ”Don't you dare talk to me like that,” I slurred, staggering on my high heels, while making sure I didn't block Jenny's light.

”Why, because you gave birth to me?” she snapped back. Her green eyes flared in a defiance that felt real to me, and for the first time I thought we'd make it to the end of the scene. I fed off her anger, using its power to say my next line.

”Who says I did?” I let my mouth turn ugly.

Her full lips tensed. ”You ... you gave birth ... didn't ... give... .” Her lively eyes grew vague. She froze. I knew the look. G.o.d, did I know it. She'd gone-up again. Forgotten her lines.

I held my expression, trying to will her to remember. My makeup felt tight on my skin, like a second layer of flesh. Jenny clenched her fists, groping for her dialogue, then turned away from me and stared angrily out into the shadowy darkness of the soundstage.

”Cut!” The director, Beth Woods, ripped off her earphones, jumped away from the monitor she'd been viewing us on, and emerged from the dim light onto the set.

Spiked henna-red hair cut short, Beth wore a leather jacket that looked as if she'd borrowed it from a Mossad agent. She had the worried look of a director who knew her film and maybe her career were going down the toilet.

”Diana, you could help her out by just continuing with your line,” Beth chided.

I was about to remind her I had done just that on a previous take, and she'd told me not do it again. But I said nothing. We were all tired, and tempers were flaring. The grips moved restlessly. My head ached from the d.a.m.n wig.

Beth took a deep breath and put her arm around Jenny. ”What's the problem, love?”

Jenny shot her a cat-like look, and Beth removed her arm.

”I can't remember my stupid lines. It's kind of obvious, isn't it?” At least she didn't say duh to her.

Jenny was twenty years old and playing sixteen. She had that jarring quality young girls have today: a youthful innocence mixed with a s.l.u.tty in-your-face seductiveness.

Robert Zaitlin, the producer, walked slowly onto the set. He pulled thoughtfully at his perfectly unshaven chin. The lights reflected off his perfectly shaved head. ”I think we should call it a day.”

Astonished, the director turned on him. ”We're behind.”

”Wrap it,” Zaitlin ordered.

With an abrupt turn, Jenny ran dramatically out of the soundstage. I couldn't help but think tears should have accompanied her grand exit. But there was none.

Beth let out a long disgusted sigh, and called out ”It's a wrap!”

The crew converged on the set, taking down lights and wrapping up cords. The boom mike disappeared from overhead, and the prop man took the gla.s.s out of my hand while the wardrobe, hair, and makeup people waited for me. The set no longer belonged to the actors.

Stepping over cables, I started to leave, but Zaitlin put a hand on my arm and walked me to a quiet corner.

”I was the one who told you to go ahead and get married, but don't give up your career.” Robert always started a conversation as if the person he was talking to was inside his head and on the same wavelength. Prologues wasted too much time. ”So did your mother,” he continued. ”Even your husband. We all tried to convince you. But no, you didn't listen to me. Or them.”

As I waited for him to come to the point, he leaned close and I got a whiff of his sweet cologne mixed with the smell of a very long disappointing day.

”I didn't think you had a chance at a comeback. But you're d.a.m.n good in this role. I really think it could be a springboard for larger roles.”

Zaitlin's copious belly pushed against his tailor-made blue-striped s.h.i.+rt. Sweat had gathered under his loose heavy chin. He was not a physically attractive man, but his energy, intelligence, and intensity lit up his blue eyes and made him appealing. He also had the producer's ability to focus on a person as if they were the only one who mattered. Maybe that's how you end up with a wife and a mistress.

I smiled, understanding what he was really saying. ”You want something, don't you?”

Gripping his heart, he feigned being hurt. ”I only want the best for you, Diana.”

”And what else?”

”I've got Jake on my a.s.s.”

Jake Jackson was the hot new star and the reason the movie was able to get made.

”He wants me to replace Jenny Parson,” he continued.

”Replace her.”

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