Dreams Are Not Enough (26 page)

Theater owners who previously had dismissed the film as uncommercial altered their booking arrangements. Wandering On would open in over a thousand houses on the fifteenth of October.

Early in the afternoon of the premiere a top hair stylist, a thin makeup woman and a volatile perfectionist of a wardrobe mistress arrived at the small house. These Magnum employees were still fussing over Alyssia at seven thirty when Maxim, like Hap in black tie, arrived in a stretch limousine. Juanita, who had refused Hap and Alyssia’s persistently offered premiere tickets, set out huge pink shrimps. Maxim, new lines etched into his face, ignored the platter, prowling around the living room.

“Alyssia,” he called.

“Let’s get the show on the road.”

“Relax, Maxim.” Hap dipped a shrimp in red sauce.

The wardrobe woman finished sewing up the back seam of Alyssia’s white satin gown—the zipper ruined the line, she had earlier announced. The hairdresser swirled his ultimate brush stroke as he followed Alyssia out the door.

The limo sped northward to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Barry and Whitney waited under the green and white overhang. Magnum personnel had been working on Whitney, too: various shades of blusher accentuated her good cheekbones; her upper eyelids gleamed with striations of greens and mauves. Taking out her mirror, she turned from side to side, narcissistic ally examining her face. Barry poured a large Scotch from the limo’s bar—he was already loaded. Maxim’s long fingers tapped on the satin stripe of his trousers. Alyssia and Hap sat unnaturally straight. The tension in the limousine had a name:

preview nerves.

Traffic came to a near halt on Hollywood Boulevard. At Grauman’s Chinese, spotlights cut fingers into the darkness, fans jammed the temporary stands and an eagerly shoving crowd jostled in the courtyard that was embedded with the hand and footprints of Hollywood immortals.

Hap emerged from the car first.

“Nobody!” shouted a woman with angry disappointment.

As Hap handed out Alyssia and Whitney, though, a murmur went up from the crowd: they must be somebodies, these elegant creatures:

the blonde in sequined black, the brunette in white satin. Alyssia’s skirt was slit high on the left side to quiet ConfidentiaVs poisonous hints regarding a prosthesis and, aware of the night chill, she slung her white fox boa (on loan from Magnum) around her throat. She put her silver heels down hard, managing her high-voltage walk despite the pain darting up her left side all the way to her collarbone.

“It’s Alyssia de Var,” a fat woman cried.

“God bless you, Alyssia!”

A wrinkled crone in a micro mini shouted, “I prayed for you, Alyssia!”

The Newmans were getting out of their chauffeured car. The crowd roared. The Wandering On group hurried inside to the lobby, where Army Archerd, one eye cocked for Paul and Joanne, interviewed them.

When the lights went down and the curlicued M inside a cartouche, Magnum’s logo, appeared on the screen, Alyssia crumpled in her seat, closing her eyes. For a full five minutes she let the hard rock of the musical score fill her. Then Hap grasped her hand. She looked up, meeting Diner’s hugely magnified, haunting gaze.

PD stood squarely in front of Alyssia, a highball raised in one hand, the other hand pressed against the paneling, thus tucking her away in a corner of the Desmond Cordiners’ crowded living room.

“From here on in, Alyssia,” PD said, “they’ll kill to have you.”

“One movie,” she said wryly.

“One smash performance,” he retorted.

“You can be the biggest there is. Bigger than anyone here.”

PD threw a meaningful glance at the guests assembled in the impressive room. When Rosalynd Cordiner’s father had built the house for himself in 1919, no expense had been spared: the fifteen-foot ceilings were molded with Tudor tracery, each windowpane was beveled, the parquet floors inlaid by European master craftsmen, the antique furnishings imported by Lord Duveen, a formality that was largely dissipated by the oversized, comfortable modern couches. The background befitted the gathering. Alyssia had already been congratulated by Veronique and Gregory Peck; the Fondas, Henry, Shirlee, Jane and Peter; by James Mason; by Audrey Hepburn; as well as by several scores of less famed but equally illustrious movie people. The invitations had been issued verbally by Hap, Maxim and their parents at the premiere, but the party was far from impromptu. A string trio played in the entry hall’s minstrel gallery, a brace of bartenders plied a brisk trade, the waiters passed steaming hors d’oeuvres.

A honey-colored hand extended a silver tray. PD dipped a miniature potato blini in sour cream and Beluga caviar. Alyssia shook her head.

She had not eaten since breakfast, but the emotional turbulence of being in this house made digestion seem a long-forgotten skill.

Although she had been aware that Hap and Maxim’s mother came from old wealth, a queasy sense of intimidation had settled around her the moment the limousine curved around majestic trees to the battlemented entrance bay, where blue-jacketed parkers rushed about taking the cars.

Wiping his mouth, PD said, “I predict it’ll be Magnum’s biggest moneymaker ever. The studio’s struck a vein of gold. Alyssia, it was your performance that took their heads off.”

“Hap’s a marvelous director.”

“He had you blazing in every damn frame. Hey, there he is. Hap! Hap.”

Hap, holding a long-stemmed Baccarat champagne flute, made his way through the crowd, halted at every step by congratulations. Women in magnificent jewelry tiptoed to kiss him, important-looking men slapped his back and shook his hand.

When he reached them, Alyssia saw that his face radiated excitement, and he couldn’t control his smiles. He hugged her tightly to his side, then turned to PD.

“Hey, cousin, this isn’t the time to grab my date to talk business.”

“Relax, cousin. I am only offering the star my sincerest compliments.”

“I’ll just bet, cousin.”

“Cousin, no shit. And also telling her that your directorial skill brings out her best.”

“Thanks, cousin.”

“You’re welcome, cousin,” PD said, raising his highball glass as in a toast.

“Naturally, I would like to talk to her before the small timers Swifty or Wasserman” —both were present”—get in their pitch.”

“Tomorrow, cousin, tomorrow,” Hap said. He hugged Alyssia again.

Her insecurities settled into manageable proportions.

“PD, tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said.

“Drop by for brunch around eleven thirty.”

PD nodded, making a mental note to tell Beth—across the room chatting with a pair of Magnum writers—to come to the apartment an hour later than usual.

Hap affectionately punched PD’s bicep.

“See you then,” he said.

He guided Alyssia through the living room. In the entry hall, directly under the enormous crystal chandelier that his grandfather had imported from a ducal estate in Scotland, Maxim held court to an implausibly handsome young group. One hand draped casually over the breast of the tall, exquisite redhead, he was obviously telling a joke, his expression alive with comical, sardonic grimaces. Once, at the premiere, Alyssia had glanced at him. Maxim Cordiner’s set profile might have been carved onto Mount Rushmore.

In the dining room, the buffet had opened and a half dozen first corners were being helped by solicitous waiters, while in the game room, onlookers surrounded a tense poker game.

“Christ,” Hap said.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s Uncle Frank.” Alyssia followed Hap’s gaze to a short, gray mustached man whose black tie had been loosened and whose cards were clutched close to his barrel chest.

“He promised Aunt Lily he’d quit.

Again. “

“Then he’s a gambler?”

“A compulsive one.”

Hap drew her into a long lanai massed with green plants. Here, in the relative quiet, older guests sat chatting. A couple in street clothes was perched on one couch like drab city sparrows thrust into an aviary of brilliantly plum aged tropical birds.

It took Alyssia several beats to recognize Tim and Clara Cordiner. Her in-laws appeared several decades older than on the one occasion she had seen them seven years earlier.

They were talking to a regal woman in a long, midnight-blue gown. Even if Hap hadn’t pointed her out at Grauman’s Chinese, Alyssia would have known that Rosalynd Harvard Cordiner was his mother.

He had inherited that broad forehead, the gray eyes set deep in their sockets, and the large bone structure—features considerably more felicitous in a man than a woman. Rosalynd Cordiner was nearly six feet tall, and although not fat, she had the pillar shape and impressive bosom of a Wagnerian soprano. Her sole adornment was a long strand of pearls, luminously pink, as large as walnuts. They’re too huge to be real, Alyssia thought, but continuing her glance at Hap’s mother, she reversed her opinion. These were neither fake nor cultured and must have cost a minimum of five times what May Sue could have earned if she’d lived to old age.

Hap’s mother, perhaps feeling Alyssia’s gaze, looked up and saw her.

For a moment the gray eyes grew remote, as if Hap had brought home a pup that wasn’t housebroken.

Then Clara Cordiner turned and saw Alyssia. The mournful lips tensed, and a thin hand clutched at the brown wool over her sunken chest.

Tim was staring at them, too, his face mottling with red.

Alyssia stepped backward, but Hap’s stubborn clasp drew her toward the couch. Clara got jerkily to her feet, moving automaton-like to the sliding glass window, pretending to stare down at the brightly lit tennis court.

“Hello, Uncle Tim,” Hap said in a controlled voice.

“I must’ve missed you and Aunt Clara at the Chinese.”

“We weren’t there.” Tim was standing, a large man with a greenish gray plaid jacket open to show a pendulant stomach.

“It goes without saying that we’re dying to see Barry’s movie. But his home situation has been very hard on your aunt. Frankly, it disturbs the hell out of me, too. We’re only here because we couldn’t believe she would have the nerve to come.” He glared at Alyssia.

That awful trembling of her hospital stint overcame her. Impelled to cover up her weakness, she said brightly, “But Mr. Cordiner, surely Barry’s passed on the word. We’re separated.”

“From the beginning we knew as soon as you’d gotten all the juice you could from his connections, you’d drop him.”

“Uncle Tim, you’ve had a few too many,” Hap said in a clenched polite tone.

“You’re acting like a dope, Hap, but I can buy that. At your age it’s understandable, being a total ass.”

“It appears to be a family condition regardless of age,” Hap said in the same courteous tone.

Tim’s face darkened to a more dangerous red. Rosalynd rested her large, well-proportioned hand on the sleeve of her brother-in-law’s jacket. Her adeptness at sweeping unfortunate situations under the rug was as famous in Hollywood as her husband’s unpredictable swings of business tactics.

“Tim, dear, they’re serving the buffet. Why don’t you take Clara in.”

While not in the least condescending, she somehow managed to give the impression of a duchess jollying along a grumpy retainer.

Tim glanced uncertainly at his rich sisterin-law.

Rosalynd gave him an encouraging smile.

“I especially asked Milton to make that veal you’re so fond of.”

Tim joined Clara, and the couple stood whispering with their backs to Rosalynd took a handkerchief from her gold minaudiere, wiping a palette of lipstick shades from Hap’s jaw and cheeks.

“Dear, I can’t tell you how proud I am of you and Maxim. I didn’t understand every thing tonight, but the film was unusual, and exceptionally fine.”

“I’m glad you liked it, Mother.” He held Alyssia tighter.

“Mother, this is Alyssia. Alyssia, my mother, Rosalynd Cordiner.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, dear. You were most convincing.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cordiner,” Alyssia said.

“And I want you to know how much I appreciated your chocolates.”

“Chocolates?” Rosalynd Cordiner looked bemused—and remote.

“When I was in the hospital, that huge box of Godiva. I’m a chocolate freak, and I wolfed them all.” A white lie. She had been too ill then to even sip water.

“Oh yes.” Rosalynd touched her pearls.

“They wouldn’t let me in, but then probably it wasn’t the best time for you to meet Barry’s family.”

“Mother,” Hap said, “Barry’s left Alyssia.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I’ve explained to you and Dad how I feel about Alyssia.”

“Of course you did, dear.” She patted his cheek again.

“Alyssia, it was delightful meeting you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must tell our guests that the buffet’s open.”

She proceeded regally into the hall, where she paused to talk to Barry and Whitney. Barry’s face was lax, and Alyssia knew from long experience that within the next ten minutes he would find someplace to sit, then promptly fall asleep—pass out would be a more accurate term.

Tim turned, looking at her. The venom in that glance!

She felt herself on the brink of passing out.

“Hap, where’s a bathroom?” she murmured.

“First door to the left of the front door.”

Mercifully the powder room was free. Pressing the lock, she sank onto the velvet bench. The reflection in the vanity’s triple-paneled mirrors showed a tawdrily made up brunette in a tight satin dress that exposed too much bosom. Cruddy, cruddy, she thought, bending her face in her hands to weep in great rasping sobs.

The bronze door handle was tried several times, but she didn’t notice.

She was attempting to do the therapeutic breathing exercises that she used to calm herself when anxious hyperventilation struck her on the set. Finally she regained control, but immediately visualized the remoteness in Hap’s mother’s gray eyes—crueler by far that chill than Tim and Clara’s overt loathing—and her weeping began afresh.

Knocks barraged against the door.

“Are you spending the night in there?” snarled a masculine voice.

Alyssia picked up a sharp-edged bottle from the vanity. She dug the pointed stopper into her palm. As the blood flowed, her hysteria faded. Wrapping a linen guest towel around the wound, she Kleenexed away muddy trails of eye makeup.