Lucky Stars (11 page)

“What did you say?”

“Listen, before you react, let me explain the situation. I need her for the show, Stacey. It’s a ratings issue. The producers have been falling all over themselves to convince her to come on, but she won’t, thanks to my
Pet Peeve
review of you and the grudge she’s got against me because of it. They suggested I talk to you, to see if you’d persuade her that I’m not such a terrible guy after all.”

Well! I was so angry, so humiliated, so undone, that I couldn’t breathe at first. I just stared at Jack Rawlins, who was no longer handsome to me in the slightest, and tried to figure out how in the world I could have been so gullible, how in the world I could have believed his apology, believed his interest in me, bought his act. Of course he was a sneaky son of a bitch. Of course he was an ambitious asshole. Of course he was using me to get to my mother. (It was entirely beside the point that I was using him to further my career.) I mean, the nerve of the guy. The sheer audacity.

I stood, swaying a little from the martini and the rage, grabbed my glass of ginger ale, and said, “But you
are
a terrible guy after all.” And then, because I was out of control and no longer cared what sort of an impression I made on anybody, I splashed the soda in his face.

“I guess the answer is no?” he said, as he reached for his napkin to mop himself up. “You won’t talk to your mother for me?”

“I guess the answer is no
way,”
I said and headed for the exit.

f
ourteen

“
Y
ou did what?” said Maura after I told her about the ginger ale shower I gave Rawlins. We were sitting in the spare bedroom she’d turned into a studio, and she was applying color to one of her wigs. In addition to using the studio for makeup sessions with private clients, she stored her wigs and costumes and stage props there and rented them out to make extra money. Needless to say, she cleaned up on Halloween.

“I threw my drink at him,” I said. “I was beyond angry.”

“If you ask me, you overreacted.”

“Overreacted? That jerk lures me to the Four Seasons, letting me believe he’s interested in me, in my career, when all he wants is to get to my mother? Come on, I think I was justified in feeling used.”

“Why? You were using him, too. From what you tell me, you solicited his help in getting jobs. And then he solicited your help in getting your mother. Favor for favor.”

“That’s exactly what
he
said.” Was Maura really taking Jack’s side? My Maura?

“Stacey, you’re going to have to adapt to your mother’s success, to the fact that she’s in demand right now. Besides, you of all people know how fleeting fame is. There’ll come a day—probably sooner rather than later—when your mother’s phone won’t be ringing anymore and no one will be cozying up to you to get to her. This is her moment. She’s sixty-six years old and she never expected to find herself in this position. So let her have fun with it. Tell her it’s okay with you if she does Jack’s show. She may never have the chance again, and you’d hate it if you were the one who deprived her of that chance, wouldn’t you?”

“I never thought of it that way.” I had to admit that Maura had a point. Just because I had a grudge against Jack Rawlins didn’t mean my mother shouldn’t have her day in the sun. This
was
her moment. This
was
her time to take advantage of all the offers that were coming her way. This
was
the opportunity of her lifetime, and I’d be selfish if I let my petty hurts ruin it for her. If anybody understood how quickly her good fortune could evaporate, it was I.

“He must think I’m the Wicked Witch of the West,” I mused, “losing my temper the way I did.”

“He probably does,” said Maura. “You might consider apologizing.”

“Yeah, right. Maybe he didn’t deserve the soda in the face, but he’s still a rat. Don’t forget that he pretended
to praise my television work, softening me up before zooming in for the kill.”

“What if he was sincere about your acting? What if he meant it when he said you were wonderful on
Ally McBeal
and
Boston Public
?”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the only reason he even looked at those tapes was to set me up, so I’d coax my mother into doing his show.”

“Maybe, but it’s possible that when he did look at the tapes, he liked what he saw.”

I dismissed what Maura said. She always viewed the glass as half-full, as I’ve indicated, so what good was her opinion anyway?

M
y mother came over to my apartment the next day. It was one of her rare visits since stardom hit, and she looked terrific. The woman who never wore anything but dresses and skirts was sporting a black Armani pants suit, and the streaks in her brown hair were no longer gray but a flattering shade of red. Apparently, there had been yet another addit
ion to her entourage—a stylist—
and she now wore whatever
Eve
told her to wear.

“You look great, Mom,” I said as she eyed my messy kitchen but refrained from rushing around to straighten it up. This was the new Helen Reiser, the Helen Reiser who had much too much on her plate to worry about mine.

“Thanks, dear. You look great, too.”

See? No: “You need a haircut.” Or: ‘There are dark circles under your eyes.” Or even: “Watch your posture.” I offered to make us lunch, but she already had
a
lunch date—with a writer for
Good Housekeeping.

“This is just a
quickie visit, so I can spend a little time with you,” she said, hugging me. “Come, let’s sit down so you can tell me what’s going on.”

We sat. “Nothing much is going on,” I said. “I’m still working at the store a few days a week and going out on auditions. But there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“What? You’re not sick, are you? I was in the greenroom at the
Today
show last week and everyone had these horrible, hacking coughs. Even Katie Couric had a cough. She’s very nice, by the way.”

“I’m thrilled to hear it. Actually, what I’d like to talk to you about involves another show:
Good Morning, Hollywood
.”

She scowled. “Why would I want to talk about that show? The host insulted my daughter.”

“Because it has a huge audience, Mom, and it would be the perfect vehicle for you.”

“That’s what Jeanine says. She’s been inundated with calls from some producer over there. I keep telling her to say no to him.”

“I think you should say yes to him, Mom. They’ve changed the format of the show, so you’d have lots of air time. Jack Rawlins isn’t on my list of favorite people, obviously, but he’s a really good interviewer, an intelligent interviewer, and he’d give you the kind of exposure that’ll keep you in the limelight.” I didn’t add that she should grab every invitation she could get, because there was no telling when the media would tire of her and move on to the Next Big Thing.

She shot me one of her are-you-crazy looks. “I’ll do that show over my dead body. Not after how he treated you, dear.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you should do his show,”
I said, remembering Maura’s words of wisdom, that I shouldn’t let my grudge against Jack deprive my mother of her chance to shine. “You should go on with him and then give him a hard time. Remember how you wanted to write him one of your complaint letters after his review of
Pet Peeve?
Wel
l, now you can badger him face-
to-face, on national television.”

She cackled. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, think of it, although I didn’t mean you should discuss me during the interview. I meant that you should take him on, the way you took on Fin’s. Make him earn his money, ask him some tough questions, engage him in a lively dialogue about whatever subject he brings up. It would be great television, great for your career, and great for me.”

“Why for you?”

“Because I’d get to watch him squirm, Mom. You’re brilliant at making people squirm.”

She cocked her head, considered my proposition. “I suppose it would be fun to go one-on-one with that rascal.”

“Of course it would. So will you do it? Will you have Jeanine call his producer and book the interview?”

“Now that you’ve put a different slant on it, yes, I will. I’ll have her call this afternoon and set it up.”

“Great. But will you also promise me something?”

“What?’

“Swear to me that you’ll tell Jack Rawlins that the reason you finally relented and agreed to do the show was because Jeanine twisted your arm.”

“But you’re the one who—”

“I know, but you have to tell him it was Jeanine and that she persuaded you over my objections. The point is,
you can’t mentio
n
that I was in favor of it. Not a whisper. Are we clear?”

“Yes, but why the secrecy?”

“I’d just like to stay out of it, that’s all.”

The last thing I needed was for Jack Rawlins, the dirtbag, to find out I’d caved in and done what he’d asked me. I may have lost my composure with him, but I was not about to lose my pride, too.

M
y mother taped
Good Morning, Hollywood
two weeks later, and the show aired a few days after that. It was a ratings winner, one of those once-in-a-lifetime interviews that everybody remembers, because it was so provocative, so compelling, like watching two evenly matched heavyweights duke it out until the final round. Jack kept trying to get straight answers out of my mother, and she kept dishing out fabulously crabby barbs in return, and at the end of the interview, he knelt down in front of her and literally begged her for mercy. The clip was played and repl
ayed on all the other entertain
ment shows, which brought my mother the kind of visibility I would have denied her had I not convinced her to do the interview. I felt good about that, surprisingly good.

M
y own career took an interesting turn shortly after my mother’s appearance on Jack’s show. Mickey called to say that Hal Papush, a director of small, independent films, was casting a new comedy and wanted me to come in and read for the part of a woman who steals the parking space of the main character.

“It’s not a big part, kid, and they don’t have much of a budget, but it’s something,” said Mickey.

“You bet it’s something,” I said, delighted by this
development. “How did he hear about me?”

“According to his assistant, he saw you in
Pet Peeve
and remembered your spunk. Like I said, it’s only a scene, maybe two, but it puts you back in the ball game.” Back in the ball game indeed. So
Pet Peeve
wasn’t a noose around my neck anymore, in spite of Jack Rawlins’s review.

I went and read for the role of the parking space thief and, miracle of all miracles, snagged the job. It occurred to me that the fact that I was Helen Reiser’s daughter probably nudged the director into hiring me, but I didn’t care. I was thankful for the part, ecstatic to have it. Unfortunately, my ecstasy was tempered when my mother called one night, sounding oddly girlish, and hit me with stunning news.

“I’m in love,” she announced, following several seconds of giggles.

“What do you mean?” I said, because my mother hadn’t used the “L” word in connection with any man but my father, not for my entire adult life.

“Oh, Stacey, I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure. But now I
am
sure. Victor loves me and I love him.”

“Who the hell is Victor?” I said. It was true that since my mother had become as famous as Madonna, I didn’t see or speak to her as often as I used to, but she had never even mentioned that she was dating anyone, never even mentioned that she was in the market for a man.

“He’s a catch, that’s who he is,” she cooed. “He’s smart and rich and sooo handsome, and he treats me like a queen. Oh, and he’s terrific in the sack.”

“Stop!” This was crazy. My mother had never talked about sex before, except to warn me not to have it without a ring on my finger. She may have been vocal about other subjects, but when it came to sex, she was so uptight she’d would
n’
t even say the word out loud; she would spell it, as in: “I heard Gloria Marx’s daughter had s-e-x with her tennis pro.” And now here she was, extolling her new boyfriend’s prowess in the bedroom? “What I mean is, I think you should slow down and start from the beginning. How did you meet this guy?”

“
Through Arnold. Well, not really
through
Arnold. I was sitting in the waiting room at Arnold’s agency, and Victor was sitting there, too, and we struck up a conversation.”

“Is Arnold his agent?” I asked.

“No. Victor was there to see one of the other agents. Oh, Stacey, it was straight out of a movie. Pure magic. He approached me in that waiting room, very much the gentleman, and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Ms. Reiser, but I get a bang out of your television appearances. You’re so unique.’ I was flattered, naturally, and said, ‘I don’t mind the intrusion at all.’ Then he introduced himself and we continued talking and before I knew it he was inviting me to lunch.”

“Does this Victor have a last name?”

“It’s Chellus. Victor Chellus. He’s in his late sixties— sixty-seven, I think—and he’s retired.”

“From what?”

“Oh, my, he did a little of everything, from the sound of it. He was a producer, a real estate developer, an investor in different businesses, and who knows what else. Everything he touched turned to gold, judging by the mansion in Beverly Hills. And to think that he could have any woman in Hollywood and he picked me. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Amazing” wasn’t the word for it. “Suspicious” was. Not that my mother didn’t have her charms. But, as I’ve said, the men in this town tend to go for women my age
or younger. It wasn’t the norm for one of them to fall head over heels for a matronly midwestem sixtysomething like Mom, no matter how successful she’d become. Not unless he was broke.

“You say Victor has money?” I asked, feeling yet again that my mother and I had swapped roles. In the old days, she was the one who’d quiz me about the state of my boyfriends’ finances.

“I told you, dear. He lives in an enormous house in Beverly Hills. He has staff, he has limousines, he even has his own movie theater right off the living room with a chaise that converts into a bed. The first time we made—”