My Lucky Star (39 page)

“Mwah! How nice you smell. New cologne? Hello. Monty Malenfant,” he said to the masseur. “Stephen’s uncle and head speechwriter.
And you are?”

“Julio.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Julio. My, what a firm grip! Sonia, my angel! It’s been ages. What a pretty frock you’re wearing.
Hello, hello!” he said, waggling his fingers at a nearby haggle of agents. “My goodness!” he chortled, surveying Stephen’s
retinue. “You should’ve told me you were low on help today. I’d have brought another regiment. Ha ha!”

He opened his satchel and removed a manila folder containing several typed pages.

“Now per our discussion I’ve made the alterations you requested, and if I may say so, the whole thing just sparkles. You’ll
no doubt want to read it over and — might I ask your cupbearer for some of that wine? And for Philip?— if you think any last-minute
tweaks are called for I’ll be happy to make them. Thanks, Ganymede, aren’t you a darling? Cheers!”

Sonia, tight-lipped with rage, stepped forward. Mindful of the onlookers, she attempted a smile, the result suggesting a constipated
gargoyle.

“Maybe we could all talk about this somewhere more private?”

“Of course! Mustn’t spoil the element of surprise! Lead the way, my pretty.”

We followed Sonia down a short hall to the suite’s large bedroom. As soon as she’d closed the door, she wheeled on us with
a look that made me know how the matador feels.

“How dare you show your miserable faces here!”

“Now there’s a silly question,” said Monty. “You know perfectly well
how
I dare. The question for you is
what
I dare and trust me, it’s a doozy, though in light of your disgraceful treatment of Lily I find it eminently fair. Your views
may vary. How are you coming with that?” he asked Stephen, who was staring goggle-eyed at the pages Monty had given him.

“What the hell is this?!”

“I should think that was obvious. It’s your acceptance speech, love.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” said Stephen, aghast. “I can’t say this crap!”

“Of course you can,” said Monty. “Been doing it all your life. Speaking words written by others as though they were your own,
lending them force and the bracing tang of reality. Do try to keep your voice down when you reach page two, as the impulse
to howl will be a strong one.”

Stephen turned the page, read a bit, then leaped like a man who’s just peed on the third rail.

“Have you lost your fucking mind!”

“Give me that!” growled Sonia, grabbing the pages.

Alarmed to think Stephen might assume me a witting accomplice, I fervently assured him I had no idea what the speech even
said. It was hard to make myself heard though, as he was rhythmically pounding the arms of his chair while repeating the word
“no.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”
exclaimed Sonia, reaching page two. “You’re fucking nuts! I’m calling security!”

Monty retorted that the only security Stephen could hope for lay in delivering the speech verbatim.

“How can you do this to me!” raged Stephen. “You’re my god-damned uncle!”

“And entitled, as such, to administer discipline when called for. Come along, Philip.”

“No!” cried Stephen, bounding past us to block the door. “I’m calling your bluff! I know you, Monty! You can threaten me all
you like but you’d never send that film to the media!”

Monty gently patted his nephew’s cheek and spoke, as they say, more in sorrow than anger.

“Once, Stephen. Once I wouldn’t have. But that was before you bewitched this one into stealing your poor aunt’s diaries. Bad
form, love. Very bad form. It made me quite angry at you, which is why I’ve posted clips of your little Oscar party on a website.”

Stephen blanched and Sonia grabbed Monty roughly by the shoulder.

“You put them on the fucking Web?!”

“Unhand me, sir. Yes, on a site the domain name of which is known only to me. I see, Sonia, by the fur that’s just sprouted
on your forehead that you’re contemplating doing me an injury. Don’t. I’ve already e-mailed links to ten publications. I’ve
done so on a time delay so the message will go out at five today unless I return safely home and cancel it. So you see, there’s
no wriggling out of this one.”

Stephen stepped away from the door but kept his imploring eyes on Monty. I must say that for all the fierce and genuine emotions
he must have been feeling, his gaze had a whiff of the stage about it. He was feeling pain but playing it too in a last-ditch
attempt to shame his uncle into mercy.

“This was supposed to be
my
day, Monty. The biggest damn day of my life.”

“And so it will be. One way or another.”

A
S WE LEFT THE SUITE
I begged Monty to tell me what he’d written for Stephen. He declined, puckishly maintaining that he didn’t want to spoil
the surprise. His real reason, as he later conceded, was his well-grounded fear that if he told me I’d have bolted from the
hotel, leaped into a cab, and screamed, “Airport!”

We returned to the lobby and relocated Clipboard. Monty informed him that Stephen had requested we be seated backstage to
serve as prompters. Could two chairs be placed in the wings? This clearly struck Clipboard as an odd request, but as Monty
had proven himself an authority on Stephen’s wishes, he acquiesced and led us into the ballroom.

I saw that Gilbert had been squeezed into a table on the other side of the room. Lily sat opposite him, chattering away to
Quentin Tarantino, whose eyes darted madly in search of rescue. Moira was there too, of course, at a front center table well
larded with A-list stars, plus Bobby, Max, and Maddie.

Clipboard led us down the side of the ballroom and up three stairs to the wing space, which was just two curtains with logos
flanking the low stage. He informed a fellow with a headset that Stephen wanted us seated there as prompters. This greatly
flustered Headset, who seemed to have a lot on his plate just now, but one doesn’t flout the Entertainer of the Decade’s will,
so chairs were produced and we sat down to await the festivities.

Stephen’s award was, of course, the last on the program, and the hour leading up to it seemed the longest of my life. The
suspense alone was torment enough, but it was even worse having to endure it while listening to a ponytailed producer tearily
extol the “courage, tenacity, and vision” he’d displayed in shepherding
Whoa, You’re No Chick!
to the screen. Finally after much boasting and bathos, Bobby Spellman, Stephen’s introducer, took the stage. He did a little
double take when he spotted Monty and me in the wings, then launched into his remarks, which for sheer bombast left his predecessors
entirely in the dust.

I’ve never understood why speakers at award shows insist on making it sound as though movie stardom is not merely a swell
job offering fame, fun, glamour, and a heck of a nice salary. No, it is rather a great and selfless service to humanity, ranking
on the nobility scale somewhere between cancer research and famine relief. In Bobby’s intro, which ran an exhausting ten minutes,
he praised Stephen’s high principles, uncompromising integrity, and countless good works on behalf of the less fortunate.
As an actor Stephen was a “visionary” whose boldness, versatility, and artistic daring would influence screen acting for centuries
to come. He dwelled at length on the Caliber films, the grosses for which were the real reason Stephen was being honored.
To Bobby these were not just well-crafted escapist entertainments— they were “modern retellings of sacred myth,” soaring testaments
to the human spirit and man’s unconquerable heroism in the face of evil.

When he’d finally run out of blather, a screen was lowered and highlights of Stephen’s career were shown. It’s no small comment
on my vanity that even in my agonized suspense I felt a frisson of pride to see that gorgeous kisser fill the screen and think,
“Yeah, I know that guy. Did him.”

The screen was raised and Bobby proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen — Stephen Donato!” We heard the audience applaud wildly
and presumed from the scraping of chairs that they’d offered the de rigueur standing ovation. Stephen took his place behind
the podium and Monty waved to catch his attention. He hadn’t expected to see us there and, should he ever tackle the role
of Macbeth, the moment will make a good sense memory for the scene with Banquo’s ghost. He was not carrying any pages, but
when Monty shook an admonitory finger he removed them from his jacket and spread them on the podium. He took a breath so deep
it drew chuckles from the house—how charming that he’s nervous!— then began to read.

“I’d like to thank my great and wise old chum Bobby Spellman for that generous introduction. We go way back, Bobby and me.
Sterling fellow. Don’t be fooled by the scary eyebrows and Prince of Darkness goatee. True, he may look like something red-hooded
young ladies would do well to avoid en route to Grandma’s, but beneath that carnivorous exterior beats a showman’s tender
heart. Splendid filmmaker too, if a mite too fond of explosions, but we all have our little foibles, so I say why cavil?

“Thanks too to the good folk of FilmFest LA, not only for this curiously designed trophy but for the invaluable service they
perform. Especially now during awards season when the whole town’s gone gaga over ‘Quality’ and ‘Artistic Merit’ it’s nice
to see someone give a well-deserved pat on the head to those savvy producers who’ve kept a keen eye on the bottom line and
shrewdly gauged the public’s often baffling appetites. I’d also like to thank my new partner, Moira Finch. Most of you have
met her by now — she’s seen to that!— and I’m sure you’ll agree she’s quite a gal —smart, charming, and, as those of you who’ve
visited her spa can attest, one hell of a hostess.

“Most of all I want to thank my family—my indomitable mother, Diana, for everything she’s taught me and for always accepting
me just as I am. Gina, my supertalented wife who looks after me and forgives my little quirks and habits. And I especially
want to thank my aunt Lily...”

His voice caught as he said “Lily.” He paused and glanced down, massaging his forehead like an overcome eulogist. Monty though
knew that his inability to continue stemmed not from teary sentiment but from the most profound reluctance. Monty had anticipated
just such a contingency and prepared for it shrewdly.

Reaching into his shoulder bag, he removed two small male figures. One appeared to be a nude G.I. Joe. The other was an Oscar.
Coughing lightly to catch Stephen’s attention, he positioned the two figures horizontally, Oscar on top, then commenced grinding
them together while fluttering his eyelids in mock ecstasy. This gentle reminder served its purpose admirably. Stephen promptly
recommitted to his text, bringing to it a fervor and conviction his performance had thus far lacked.

“I want to thank my
wonderful
aunt Lily, who always looked after me whenever Mom was away on location or hospitalized. Lily was my first real acting coach
and I will always be grateful to her for that gift.

“I’m grateful too for a more recent gift she gave me, one I hadn’t been expecting. You see, I always knew Lily was a fantastic
actress but never dreamed she was an amazing writer as well. But then I read her screenplay,
Amelia Flies Again!,
a gripping tale that dares to imagine what fate may have befallen Amelia Earhart after her disappearance in 1937. I’m thrilled
to announce that I’ve acquired the rights for Finch/Donato Productions and will be starting preproduction immediately.”

On hearing this, Lily (reports Gilbert) shrieked in astonished glee and squeezed his arm so tightly it bruised.

“That’s me!” she announced to her luncheon companions. “That’s my screenplay! I’m his aunt Lily!” she added as if she hadn’t
made this abundantly clear to the whole table and several adjoining ones as well.

Stephen, real tears now dampening his cheeks, thanked her as well for writing a nice juicy role for him. “But mostly,” he
concluded, taking his deepest breath yet, “I want to thank her for agreeing to play the rich and complex role of Amelia herself.
Lily, take a bow!”

Lily did not need to be asked twice. She sprang immediately to her feet, a good thing, noted Gilbert, as it kept her from
hearing Tarantino exclaim, “He’s shitting us, right?!” Advancing to a clearing between tables, she executed a series of elaborate
curtsies while blowing kisses to her suddenly beloved nephew. The crowd applauded madly if only to drown out the wild, gossipy
buzz that greeted this jaw-dropping announcement.

His
aunt?

She’s still
alive?

Were they even on
speaking
terms?

Could she
ever
act?

Amelia Earhart?!

The applause went on at length, only tapering off when it became clear that Lily would not stop bowing as long as she could
hear a single pair of hands colliding. As Lily milked her ovation Stephen cast a glance at us and pointedly returned the pages
to his jacket. It was a token gesture of defiance. He’d done Monty’s bidding and would not demean himself further by spouting
more of his folderol. When the applause finally subsided Stephen closed with a portion of the remarks he’d originally planned.
He spoke of the Healing Power of Art and Giving Back, ending with a million-dollar pledge to build an Arts Center for inner-city
youth. All very laudable, of course, but not half so scintillating as his bizarre promise to costar in a period epic with
his washed-up aunt.

As Stephen stepped offstage into an ocean of hugs and handshakes, Monty rose and clapped me heartily on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, dear! You’re back in showbiz!”

“Thanks a lot! Jesus, Monty, have you
read
that script?”

“Yes, and, if I may be frank, it needs work. The plot’s far-fetched, and the Hitler stuff’s a bit of a giggle. Still, nothing
a talented fellow like you can’t set right. Lily’s happy and that’s the main thing. I’ve done my good deed.”

Lily was a damn sight more than happy. She was wafting deliriously through the party in a spot well north of cloud nine, hobnobbing
with the stars who’d been transformed by a wave of her fairy godfather’s wand into peers. When we caught up with her and Gilbert,
she was accepting polite congratulations from her new pal Meryl Streep.