Hollywood Kids (27 page)

She left the house with no regrets. And once more it was a girl and her Porsche against the world.

Marjory seemed to be in a lively mood.

'How come you moved home again?' Jordanna asked, settling into one of the lavish guest suites.

'Daddy insisted,' Marjory replied, pulling at the hem of her pink cashmere sweater. 'Because of the letters.'

Jordanna frowned and began unpacking one of her bags. 'You're not still getting them?'

'Regularly.'

'Where do they come to?'

'He
was
sending them to my apartment,' Marjory said, fiddling with her long pale hair. 'But now they're coming here.'

Jordanna opened a bureau drawer and threw in some T-shirts. 'That's creepy,' she said. 'Like he's watching you.'

'I know,' Marjory agreed.

'What's your father doing about it?'

'He's hired a private detective.'

'You've got to be careful.'

'I am.'

For a moment Jordanna thought she might confide about the test. Then she changed her mind.

Wait and see, a little voice warned her. Don't go announcing something that might not happen.

Later she fell asleep missing Charlie, but knowing for sure she'd made the right move. Charlie was a talented man with a big heart, but when it came to relationships he was totally insensitive.

In the morning she reported for work as usual, hoping to hear something - anything - even if they didn't like her she'd sooner know than not.

Nobody said a word, she was stuck in the casting cubicle sorting through photos as if nothing had happened.

At the lunch break Florrie entered the room, perched on the side of her desk and came out with a half-hearted apology. 'I suppose it was smart of you to keep who you are a secret,' she said, chewing on a breath mint. 'Sorry I let it out.'

'It wasn't that I kept it a secret,' Jordanna explained carefully. 'I simply didn't advertise.'

'
Why
are you working?' Florrie demanded rudely, as if it was her right to know. 'You must have tons of money.'

'It's not
my
money, it's my father's.'

'Isn't that the same thing?'

Jordanna decided there was no point in carrying this conversation further. 'Uh, Florrie,' she said, attempting to sound nonchalant. 'What's happening upstairs?'

'Same old thing,' Florrie replied, obviously about as sensitive to the situation as a plank of wood. 'Actors in, actors out. Oh, and that girl from TV came in - Barbara Barr. The one from that big deal night-time soap. yknow, she's always in the tabloids. Anyway, she read for Sienna.'

Jordanna felt her heart jump. 'Was she good?'

'They're putting her on video.'

Now her heart was pounding. 'Really?' she said, trying to sound as if it didn't matter.

'After lunch.'

'Did you hear anything about my test?'

'Nope,' Florrie replied, picking at her nail polish. 'But it doesn't matter, does it? It's not like you're a proper actress or anything. I expect they were getting desperate when they tested you. There's two more Sienna's coming in this afternoon, and three videos of New York actresses.'

Jordanna managed to remain expressionless as Florrie rattled on. She didn't think the girl was being mean or even bitchy - merely thoughtless. Everyone thought that if you had a famous parent, it was enough, you didn't need anything else, certainly not a job. In a way she could understand Cheryl's delight at becoming a successful Hollywood madam. She'd made it in her own right, not because of Daddy and his studio.

'I'm not eating lunch today,' Florrie confided, removing her big butt from Jordanna's desk. 'I have to lose three pounds by Saturday. I've got a date with that cute guy over in promotion, the one with the new Acura Legend car.'

Three pounds won't cut it
, Jordanna thought.
Try fifteen
.

Florrie wandered off. Jordanna sat still for a moment, considering her next move. Should she go and badger Mac, or sit tight and wait to see what happened next?

Sit tight. Stay cool. Do not get panicked.

But I am panicked. Totally. I want this part more than I've wanted anything in my entire life.

Chill out.

Fine.

Midnight Cowboy called the casting office in the afternoon. Her luck she answered the phone.

'Any news?' he asked, sounding as agitated as she felt.

For a second she thought he was asking about her, then she remembered she hadn't mentioned her test to him. 'Uh... no. But if there is, the casting director will contact your agent.'

'Fuck!'

'What?'

'I hate this waiting to find out crap.'

'I know exactly what you mean.'

'Fuck!' he repeated, as if it were her fault. 'Can't you go in and
ask
?'

Nice of him to tell her what a wonderful time he'd had the night she'd driven over to his place and given him the best sex he'd probably ever experienced.

Nice of him to be so solicitous and charming and concerned.

If he knew she'd tested for Sienna he'd throw a fit!

She almost told him, but changed her mind. 'I gotta go,' she said. Work beckons.'

'Call me as soon as you hear?'

Don't hold your breath.

The rest of the day dragged. She caught a glimpse of Marcy Bolton, another young actress who arrived to read for Sienna, accompanied by her manager.

She's too short. Her face is pointed, like a ferret's. And she's wearing too much make-up.

When Florrie emerged from the interview room on her way to the bathroom, Jordanna grabbed her. 'What was she like?' she demanded.

'What's who like?' Florrie replied vaguely.

'Marcy Bolton. Did she read? Was she good? How did they react?'

'Mac seemed enthusiastic.'

'And Bobby?'

'He was OK with her.'

Tell me she stunk, Florrie. Tell me they hated her!

'Has anyone else read for Sienna?'

'They're viewing the New York tapes now.'

Jordanna wished she could burst into the office and watch with them, get an eye on the competition. 'How's your tooth?' she asked Florrie, hoping that maybe she'd have to go back to the dentist.

'It's all right,' Florrie replied, moving her tongue around her mouth. 'If ever you need a good dentist...'

No, Florrie, I do not need a good dentist. I need answers and I need them now!

Mac came down to see her at five thirty. She stared at him expectantly, waiting for the good news. He cleared his throat, looking everywhere except at her.

'So?' she said at last. 'What's the verdict?'

'Sorry,' he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'I fought for you, but the studio won't go for it. They say you don't have any experience - which unfortunately is true - but in my opinion we could have made it work.' He patted her on the shoulder. 'If it's any consolation you came across like dynamite.'

The disappointment that enveloped her was so overwhelming she could barely breathe. 'Who's got the part?' she managed to get out.

'Barbara Barr.'

She's totally wrong. Doesn't anybody realize that?

'Is... is Bobby happy?'

'Between you and me he's not ecstatic - after all, she's TV, but this is an important movie for him and he wants to please the studio. They've decided that since we can't get a star at this late date, it's prudent to go with Barbara. She has an enormous TV following and garners front-page publicity. They think it'll work.'

'Do you?'

'I wouldn't agree to cast her if I didn't.'

So that was it. Big opportunity out the window.

Normally something like this would have set her off on a self-destruct course. Drinks, drugs, Midnight Cowboys. But lately she'd been feeling more centred, and the never-ending cycle of trying to cure things with transient remedies had to stop.

I can handle it, she told herself. I can and I will.

She'd handled the Charlie situation when he'd screwed around on her. OK, so she'd run to the actor in Venice. Big deal. It had made
her
feel better, she hadn't gotten wasted and she
had
used protection. Score one for a change of direction.

The truth was she'd finally realized she was responsible for her own life. No more brooding about Jordan and his series of wives, they were his business, not hers. At last it was becoming clear. No more punishing herself.

'So that's the end of my brilliant career,' she said ruefully.

'You're taking it well,' Mac replied, obviously relieved.

'I'm a big girl,' she said, full of false bravado, because she'd learned early on that the best way to survive was to hide your true feelings.

'And a smart one,' Mac said. 'Bobby's giving you a shot as his personal assistant. He'd like you to go up to his office.'

From movie star to PA in one minute flat. Quite a leap. 'Sure, Mac.'

'Oh, and, Jordanna?'

'Yes?'

'We're going to have fun making this movie, that's a promise.'

She smiled wanly, still hiding her disappointment. 'OK, Mac, if you say so.'

'Good morning, Mr President.' The Man cleared his throat and tried again, lowering his voice to a macho growl. 'Good morning, Mr President.'

The Man stared at his naked reflection in the mirror and repeated the greeting twice more.

If circumstances were different he could have been the President of America. It was possible. The great American dream was always attainable. Look at some of the men who'd made it. Carter - a peanut farmer. Reagan, an actor. Kennedy - a womanizer.

Ahh, what it must have been like in the days of Kennedy, when the media were not snooping around every corner photographing every move. President Kennedy had gotten away with plenty.

The Man decided to add President Kennedy to the list of men he admired. Of course, the dead President would not knock Steven Seagal from the top spot, because Steven Seagal was a true hero. Unbeatable.

The Man continued to study his reflection in the mirror. 'Good morning, Mr President,' he said in a whispery female voice a la Marilyn Monroe. 'How ya doin', Mr President?'

It occurred to him there was a certain similarity between Monroe singing 'Happy Birthday, Mr President', to President Kennedy, and Barbara Streisand crooning one of her mournful love songs to President Clinton.

The truth was that all Presidents were whoremongers. He knew that. America knew that. It didn't seem to make any difference. In America looks were everything, and the best looking scored the most points.

I am very good-looking, The Man thought smugly. I am very handsome. I could have been a famous movie star if the breaks had been different.

A knock on his door startled him. How dare anybody disturb him. How dare they interrupt his precious solitude.

Who's there?' he called out.

'Shelley.'

Shelley? He didn't know anybody called Shelley. In fact, he didn't know anybody at all. He was alone and that's the way he liked it.

'You must remember me,' Shelley said hopefully. 'I live in the house. We bump into each other sometimes. My mother sent me a home-made fruit cake and I'd like to offer you a
piece.'

'No,' he said abruptly.

'Please,' she wheedled. 'Yesterday was my birthday.'

He didn't wish to arouse her suspicions. 'I'll be out shortly,' he said gruffly.

'Come to my room - it's by the pool.'

He wondered if Shelley wanted him to fuck her. That's what most of them were after. Most of them except The Girl who'd led him on, and then, when he'd tried to consummate their relationship, she'd treated him like a stranger.

On reflection he was glad he'd killed her, even though he'd been forced to accept the harsh and unfair punishment.

AND THE TRAITORS SHALL DIE FOR GANGING UP AGAINST ME. EVERY ONE OF THE BITCHES AND THE WHORES.

He remembered meeting The Girl for the first time. So pretty and beguiling - it had not been difficult falling in love with her.

But she'd made one fatal mistake. She'd rejected him. She should never have done that.

He dressed quickly, unlocked his door, relocked it behind him, and went looking for Shelley.

He found her in a large room overlooking the old tile swimming-pool.

Her door was open, but he did not enter immediately, he stood hesitantly on the threshold.

'At last,' she said, rushing to greet him. 'I thought I'd never get you here.'

He entered the room, hovering awkwardly in the middle of the floor.

'I can offer you herb tea, apple juice or wine,' she said.

'Nothing.'

'You know, John - you don't mind if I call you John, do you?'

John? And then he remembered he'd told her his name was John Seagal, which of course was a lie. 'No,' he said flatly.

'What do you do?' she asked curiously. 'I never see you around. You seem so... lonely.'

'I'm a writer,' he lied.

The news excited her. 'Oooh, do you write screenplays?'

He noticed that her hair was the same colour as The Girl's. Natural yellow, not dyed like most of the hussies in Hollywood.

'Books,' he said.

Now she was even more impressed. 'That's serious. What kind of books?'

'Vendettas.'

'Vendettas?'

'Revenge. If somebody does you wrong then you must see they get their come-uppance.'

'
Oh, you mean like
Death Wish.
I love those movies where Charles Bronson walks around blowing the bad guys away. Why don't you write a movie like that
?'

'I told you - I don't write movies.'

'
Shame, you could've written one for me, and when I'm a star you could've written
all
my movies. Then I could tell everyone, "No, sorry, I only work on John Seagal films. He's my closest personal friend."' She hesitated a moment before rushing on. 'And, actually, you are, because I don't have any friends in LA, I hardly know anybody
.'