Lucky Stars (12 page)

“When do I get a look at him?” I cut her off before she could utter another syllable about s-e-x. I was having enough trouble absorbing the romance part.

“Whenever you say,” she replied. “I’ve told him all about you, of course. He feels as if he knows you.”

“Well, he doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. Which is why I don’t think you should rush into anything here, not until I’ve checked him out.”

She laughed. “So you’re the mother now, Stacey? You don’t trust me to bring home a good one?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mom. It’s just that your life has changed dramatically since your first Fin’s commercial. You’ve become a household name. People want things from you, want to hang around you, and their motivations might not be legitimate. I’d hate to see you get taken in by—”

“Oh, so you don’t think a man could want me for
me
?”

“I didn’t mean that, Mom. I meant that you’re not in Cleveland anymore. People in Hollywood aren’t always what they seem.”

“Stacey, Stacey. Don’t be such a party pooper. Listen to your mother and be happy about this. You’ll meet Victor and you’ll love him as much as I do. Maybe he’s even got a handsome young friend for you. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Incredible. Not only had my mother eclipsed me in the professional arena; she had now outdone me in matters of the heart. In meeting this Victor person, she’d been able to accomplish what I hadn’t: she’d found a man to love. Yes, she had a boyfriend and I did not, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t suck.

Still, she’d urged me to be happy for her, and I would certainly try to be. It was entirely possible that Victor really was the gem she’d made him out to be, in which case I would be the quintessential Miss Congeniality around him, nothing but supportive and encouraging of their relationship.

But if he was a bad guy, I’d nail him to the wall.

f
ifteen

I
had a good excuse for not meeting Victor just yet. I was rehearsing for and then shooting my one scene in
Money,
the arty little comedy directed by Hal Papush. Since the film’s budget was about six cents, I didn’t get to do any traveling—we did my scene on Highland Avenue in the Hancock Park section of L.A.—but it felt great to be in the company of actors again, great to be among the technical people, great to be working.

The star of the film was an Australian actor named Alex Hart, and he was funny and sweet and very generous to me, complimenting me on my approach to the scene, offering suggestions, making me feel as if I were truly engaged in a collaborative effort.

Basically, my part called for me to parallel park my car into the space that Alex was simultaneously backing
his car into, for our cars to collide, and for us to storm out of them and hurl obscenities at each other, with him ultimately turning on the charm and convincing me not to call the police. What my character didn’t know was that Alex’s character was in the midst of a jewelry heist and that my character was fouling things up for him. Anyhow, the scene went well and Alex told me to stay in touch, and as I packed up for the day I was in excellent spirits.

Before going home, I lingered on the set to chat with Hal Papush, the director, who was friendly to me in spite of the fact that he was the big cheese and I was an actress with only a handful of lines. At one point, I said, just fishing around for a little positive feedback, “So, Hal, your first look at my work was in
Pet Peeve,
the Jim Carrey movie?”

He had lots of people vying for his attention at that moment, and so when he replied, “I never saw
Pet Peeve,
”
I assumed he was merely distracted and not focusing. Mickey had told me that the reason Hal had asked me to read for the film was precisely because he’d seen me in
Pet Peeve.
I remembered the conversation clearly.

I tried again. “Hal, you did see
Pet Peeve.
You—or maybe it was the person who does casting for you—said to my agent, Mickey Offerman, that you thought my performance had spunk.”

He glanced at me, eyebrow arched. “You’ve got me confused with somebody else.”

Strange. “But if you didn’t see me in
Pet Peeve,
why did you hire me for
Money?
”

Before he could answer, one of his assistants commandeered his attention briefly. When he was free again, I posed my question once more.

“I hired you because you’ve got friends in high places,” he said with a wry smile.

I tried to process this. So he hadn’t seen
Pet Peeve
but had hired me because someone had asked him to? Someone with clout? Someone with the same last name as mine, perhaps?

Yup. That had to be it. He’d hired me because of my mother, not because of my work. Well? What was I supposed to do? Cry about it? Make a stink? Demand that he unhire me? Of course not. So my mother had exerted her newfound power and gotten me a break. Maybe Arnold was Hal’s agent as well as hers, and she’d asked him to call in a favor to his other client. As I said, I’d suspected it was something like that, deep down. I was the daughter of America’s Most Famous Mother now, so there were bound to be times when I’d be riding her coattails. But you know what? I was finally at the stage where I accepted the situation instead of resented it. Yes, I was grateful for the job, very grateful, even if it did come through her. “It was sweet of my mother to intervene on my behalf,” I said, as much to Hal as to myself.

“Sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

Was he distracted again? “I meant that I’m okay with having my mother pull some strings for me,” I said. “I realize how lucky I am to have ‘friends in high places,’ as you put it.”

He laughed. “I’ve seen your mother do her thing on television, and I think she’s outrageously funny—a total original—but she’s not the one who whispered in my ear about you.”

“No?” Now I was really confused.

“No, it was Jack Rawlins. For whatever reason,
the
guy loves my films and enjoys helping me discover
new
talent. When he heard I was making
Money
, he suggested I get in touch with your agent.”

Jack? Jack Rawlins? I felt my heart explode, so unprepared was I for this bulletin. So he was the one who helped me land the job? The ambitious little prick actually did me a favor?

I tried to act cool, to
not
hyperventilate, but I was caught off guard and had a zillion thoughts running around in my head and couldn’t—

Oh, wait I got it. Yeah, I understood it now. When my mother was a guest on his show, she must have let it slip—despite my begging her not to—that I had encouraged her to schedule the appearance. In response, he must have figured he owed me one. This was just the favor for favor he’d talked about, the one-hand-washing-the-other business. Well, at least he’d kept his part of the deal, I had to give
him that. “So Jack called you—
what?—like a few weeks ago? Right after my mother was a hit on
Good Morning, Hollywood
?”

“Hey, as I said, I think your mother’s a riot, but I have no idea when she did Jack’s show. He called me about you a while ago. He told me he’d had drinks with you the night before and that you were someone I should take a look at.”

Jack had called Hal Papush the day after I’d thrown the ginger ale in his face? Before my mother had even done his show? What was
that
about?

“Uh-oh. I just remembered that I wasn’t supposed to tell you all that,” Hal added with a semi-embarrassed chuckle. “Jack specifically asked me not to mention that he was the one who gave me your name.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, and I blew it. Oh well.” He shrugged, as if betraying confidences is no big deal, which, in Hollywood, it isn’t. “So what’s the story with you two? Does he have the hots for you or something?”

The hots for me. Right. “No, no. It’s not like that.” Then what was it like? Jack had not only given Hal my name but asked to remain my anonymous benefactor. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I was definitely intrigued.

I
decided to write Jack a thank-you note. I figured I could control what I’d put down on paper much better than I
could control what I’d say on th
e phone, so it seemed like the best course of action.

I was appreciative in the note, as well as apologetic about my behavior at the Four Seasons, and I expressed a desire for us to bury the hachet and be friends.

The very day I mailed the note, I received one from Jack.

How odd, I thought when I opened it. Talk about being on the same wavelength as another person.

It, too, was a thank-you note. Apparently, my mother
had
let it slip that I was the
reason
she had done his show, but she’d led it slip to Jeanine, her publicist The little tidbit had only recently made its way from Jeanine to one of the show’s producers to Jack himself, which was why he was writing to me at this late juncture to thank me.

He was appreciative in the note, as well as apologetic about his behavior at the Four Seasons, and he expressed a desire for us to bury the hachet and be friends.

“On the same wavelength” was an understatement! We had used the identical language in our notes, the identical tone, too. The combination of the similarity in our approaches and the timing of them was more than intriguing. It was downright thrilling.

When Jack received my note, he called, laughing. “I think it’s official: we must have been separated at birth.”

“Right. The nurses dubbed us the Thank-You-Note Twins before they sent us to live with different families,” I said, laughing, too. I also noticed that he had placed the call himself, instead of having Kyle, his assistant, handle it, and I took that as a sign that we had moved into new territory.

“Well, I, for one, am glad the separation’s over,” he said. “How about dinner Saturday night?”

This Saturday night? Well, I should say I’m busy, I thought. Play hard to get. Let him think I’m declining dinner invitations by the dozens. “I’d love to,” I said instead.

“Great. Should I bring a change of clothes or am I safe from another drink in the face?”

You should bring a change of clothes, I thought, my mind leaping instantly and wildly into a fantasy in which Jack Rawlins took me to dinner, brought me home, made love to me, and spent the night. Had such stirrings been there, lurking inside me, from the very beginning of our “relationship”? Or was I newly turned on by the fact that he had shown me such kindness? “You’re safe,” I said. “No more temper tantrums. You’ll be getting the Good Stacey as opposed to t
he Evil Stacey.” I wondered sud
denly about the redhead, the one he’d been cutesy with at Cornucopia! Were they
dating? Was his interest in me purely professional? Or did he find me as attractive as I found him, now that we were no longer mad at each other?

“Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing whichever Stacey shows up,” he said in a rather husky, suggestive voice that answered my questions without my having to ask them.

s
ixteen

I
n spite of the passionate and often X-rated images that danced in my head (Jack rushing over with a huge bouquet of flowers, Jack declaring his undying love for me, Jack ripping off my clothes before we even made it into the bedroom), I was determined to take this one slowly— this relationship, this romance, this professional association that had grown personal. In the past when I’d meet a man who held the promise of genuine boyfriendhood, particularly after a long dating drought, I would hurl myself into the relationship, just jump right in, regardless of the possible consequences. I was too willing, too eager, too dumb, and the result was always the same: the “I love you, Stacey” would be followed, three months or so later, by the “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Stacey.” I was like roadkill when it came to
men. I’d never see the tractor trailer coming.

But this time it would be different, I vowed, as I got ready for my dinner with Jack. I would be available and open and responsive, but I would not rush things. If my mother wanted to hurry love, that was her business.

“You look great,” said Jack when he arrived at my door to pick me up.

Swell, I thought. He kicks off the evening with a compliment and I’m not supposed to rush things? He was the one who looked great, by the way. He looked great, smelled great, had great teeth. I’d never noticed the last one before, never been as close to him as I was at that moment.

“Thanks,” I said and invited him in. I had spent as much time spiffing my place up as I had spiffing myself up. My mother would have approved. “Can I get you a drink?”

He pretended to flinch, protecting his face with his hands. “Come on. You promised.”

“I meant a
drink
drink, silly. Scotch, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’m flattered that you remember.”

I remember almost everything about you, I thought, trying to rein in my hormones, settle myself down. It amazed me how my grudge against Jack had so suddenly and unexpectedly turned to—what? Lust? Infatuation? Respect? Gratitude? All of the above? Or was I kidding myself? Had I felt something for him right from the beginning, when he’d sauntered into Cornucopia! and we’d sparred for the first time? Or had the feelings surfaced at the Four Seasons when Jack had let down his guard and told me about his childhood, and was that why my subsequent angry reaction that night had been so over the top? Because my humiliation was more about
my attraction to him than it was about his wanting my mother on his show?

I fixed Jack’s drink and a glass of wine for me and brought them out to the living room, where he was inspecting my collection of videos.

“I see you like old movies,” he remarked, thumbing through such classics as
All About Eve, Some Like It Hot,
and
A Letter to Three Wives.

“I do,” I said. “I can watch them over and over and never get tired of them. Why is that? Were actors just better then?”

“Probably, but it’s the writing that sparkled in those films. It was sharp and funny and never lazy. The reason we remember Bette Davis’s ‘fasten your seatbelts’ line in
All About Eve
is because it was fresh, not some warmed-over,
cliché
-ridden drivel.”

“Like the dialogue in
Pet Peeve,
you mean?”

Jack smiled. “Why don’t we make a pact not to talk about that movie ever again,” he said. “I don’t want to be reminded of how much my review hurt you, and you don’t want to be reminded of how much my review hurt you, so let’s stick with
All About Eve.”

“Deal,” I said.

“Want to watch it tonight? Or one of the others?”

Tonight? “I thought we were going to dinner. You said you made a reservation someplace.”

“We were. I did. But the idea of spending a quiet night here with you, watching a movie we both love, just struck me as being a much better idea. We could order in or rustle up something from your kitchen.”

I groaned. “All I have are a gazillion cans of Fin’s premium tuna, and I can’t even look at them.”

“What about popcorn? Got any?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then I’ll cancel the reservation and you make the popcorn and we’ll
spend the evening at the Stacey-
plex Theatre.”

“Okay.” Why not? Jack probably went out to restaurants all the time. Staying home would mean he wouldn’t have to sign autographs or run into people from the industry or be the guy with his own TV show. It would also mean I’d get to sit next to him on my sofa with the lights off.

I microwaved the popcorn and set the bowl on the coffee table. “Which movie are you up for?” I asked.

“How about
A Letter to Three Wives.
I’m in the mood for romance, and that movie has three of them.”

He was in the mood for romance. Well, that made two of us. Still, I was not going to rush into anything, as I said. Jack Rawlins was bright and successful and wonderful to look at, and he was clearly interested in me, judging by his words as well as his actions, but I was taking this one slowly, no matter how great the temptation not to.

I popped the tape into the VCR, dimmed the lights, and settled onto the sofa—onto the other end of the sofa from where Jack was sitting.

“It’s not contagious,” he said with a laugh.

“What isn’t?”

“Whatever you think I’ve got.” He patted the cushion next to him, indicating I should slide over and sit there.

“Oh. Fine. I just thought you might want to spread out.” I moved over next to him, affecting nonchalance.

As I hit the play button on the remote and the opening credits rolled, I was so conscious of Jack’s physical presence that I could hardly concentrate on anything else. Nevertheless, I watched the movie, munched on popcorn, sipped some wine, and behaved myself.

And then, a little over halfway into the film, my resolve suddenly and irrevocably deserted me.

We had gotten to the part of the story that chronicles the relationship between Linda Darnell and Paul Douglas. Jack leaned over and said, “Look at the chemistry between those two. She’s determined to act as if she doesn’t love him and he’s determined to act as if he doesn’t love her, and the audience is fully aware that they’re crazy about each other.”

His arm grazed mine as he made his point, and my body jerked involuntarily, the way your leg jerks when the doctor taps your knee to test your reflexes.

“She has to act as if she doesn’t love him,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “She’s protecting herself.”

“And he’s protecting himself,” said Jack, “which is what creates the sexual tension between them.” He made serious eye contact on the words “sexual tension,” and I made serious eye contact back at him, and there was no denying the electricity right there on that sofa.

“What?” I said, thinking he had said something else.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

We refocused on the movie.

A split second later, Linda Darnell and Paul Douglas engaged in a steamy (for the 1950s) kiss, a kiss that confirmed all their pent-up emotions. Jack turned to look at me at the precise instant that I turned to look at him and, like two love-starved maniacs, we went for each other, just flew at each other in that darkened room, the flickering black-and-white images on the TV screen our only light.

“Listen,” I managed, as he was kissing me with such ardor that I had trouble breathing. “I hardly know you. I don’t want you to think I do this all the time.” Okay,
so maybe I had been known to make out with g
uys on a first date, but never li
ke this. Never as intensely or fabulously as this.

“So if you’re not promiscuous,” he said as I sucked on his cheek, his chin, his lower lip, “it must mean that you really like me.”

“Not necessarily,” I said as he stroked my thigh. “It might just mean that I like your cologne.”

“I’m not wearing any,” he said after a luscious duel between his tongue and mine.

“Then I can’t account for it,” I said, my body a mass of exposed nerve endings. “But please don’t stop what you’re doing.”

What he was doing was rubbing up against me while he was kissing me. If it was possible to die of arousal, I could have.

“I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the store,” he said in a low moan.

“I don’t think the redhead would have approved,” I said.

“The redhead’s a friend,” he said. “Didn’t you notice how platonic we looked?”

“I didn’t have time to notice,” I said, ecstatic with this news. “I was too busy hating you.”

“Do you hate me now?” As he asked the question, he had his hand up my sweater and was unhooking my bra.

“No.”

We kissed some more. I couldn’t get enough of him. I loved the way he inhaled me with every kiss, loved how he stopped every few minutes to look at me, to take me in, loved how he said my name in a soft, whispery voice.

“You know what would be great?” he said.

“What?”

“If we could do this all night.”

“I don’t have a curfew. Do you?”

“No.”

“There’s just one problem,” I said. “I want to take this slowly. In fact, I’m determined to take this slowly.”

“I’ll go ve
r
y, very slowly,” he said, unzipping my slacks and slipping his hand inside them.

W
hen I woke up at two o’clock in the morning, we were still on that sofa. I was stark naked and being spooned by Jack, who was stark naked, too, and drooling on my shoulder. The television was still on and the popcorn was still sitting in its bowl, and our clothes were strewn haphazardly on the floor.

My first thought upon surveying the scene was that I had done it again: rushed in instead of heeding my own advice, and that I would pay the price. Sure, Jack and I had created real magic in the sex department, but what if it had meant more to me than it had to him? What if he was a love-’em-and-leave-’em type? And, speaking of types, why couldn’t I be one of those dopey
Rules
girls?

I slipped out of his arms and stepped back into my clothes, resigned to the fact that my hoped-for romance would likely become a giant flameout, based on past experience.

As I was turning off the TV, he stirred, then peered at me, not quite awake but getting there. Here it comes, I thought, preparing myself for the awkwardness, the weirdness, the feeling of wanting to crawl down a drainpipe. Brace yourself, Stacey. He’s going to say what a nice evening he had and promise to call you, then grab his clothes and head for the door.

In that instant, I decided that I wouldn’t give him the
chance; that the smarter thing to do—the most selfpreserving thing to do—would be to thank
him
for a nice evening and then kick
him
out.

“Jack,” I said, handing him his clothes. “That was fun, but I have an
early day tomorrow. I hope you
understand.”

He laughed. “Get over here, would you please?” He threw his clothes back onto the floor.

“I’m serious,” I said, handing them to him again. “I really enjoyed our time together, but it’s better if you leave now.”

“Why?”

“I already told you. I have to get up early.”

“For what?”

“For an audition.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. What are you auditioning for, a church choir?”

“Oh. Stupid me. What I meant was that I have to get up early for work at the store.”

“Really? Don’t most stores open later on Sundays?”

“Yes, but the salespeople have to come in early. We have to set up, make sure the merchandise is displayed properly, the usual.”

“Stacey?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pulling a Linda Darnell.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re acting as if you don’t care about me, so you can protect yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is that you’re standing there with your clothes on. Take them off and come over here, would you?” He held out his hand to me, pulled me back onto the sofa, and finger-combed my hair off my face in
a gesture that was exquisitely tender. “You know, there are no guarantees in life, especially when it comes to relationships, but I think things are going pretty well between us so far, don’t you?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“So what do you say we play this out, see where it leads? I’d like us to do that, Stacey. I’d really like us to do that.”

He kissed me soulfully on the mouth, purposefully. It was a wet, damp, humid kiss, and it sapped all the resistance out of me.

“You win,” I said, taking off my clothes.

“We both win,” he said. “There’s just one little matter before you get comfy.”

“What?”

“Do you have a bedroom? With an actual bed in it? This sofa’s hell on my back.”

“Yes, I have an actual bed,” I said. “Follow me.”