My Lucky Star (8 page)

“Uh, Claire,” I said, gesturing toward three tuxedo-clad extras who were smoking outside the next soundstage and eyeing us
with frank fascination. Prudence dictated a change of venue, so we started toward the parking lot.

“I don’t see what you’re getting so worked up over. It’s not as if you two had any ethical problems with it.”

“EXCUSE ME?!” inquired Claire.

“Let’s not be hypocrites. You had no trouble taking bows for the script when you thought
I
wrote it —”

“WE
NEVER
THOUGHT YOU WROTE IT!”

“Well, whoever you thought wrote it, you knew
you
didn’t.”

“Actually,” I said, embarrassed, “we thought we did.” I quickly outlined our initial theory, which he greeted with a patronizing
snicker.

“Leave it to you two to assume that if Bobby loved the script it
had
to be yours! Not,” he added, fearing another thrashing, “that your script wasn’t marvelous. It just wouldn’t have gotten
us this job. Bobby specifically asked me for a World War II script.”

“And why on earth,” inquired Claire, “would he assume you of all people would have a World War II script up your sleeve?”

“I might have told him I did. I mean, I
had
to pique his interest. I figured I’d pull one of my other scripts out of the drawer and change the period. Y’know, plop in
the Third Reich.”

“As if you had anything finished!” I snorted, the time for diplomacy on that issue having passed.

“Well, I had things that were
close,
” he said huffily. “But when I tried changing the period on them, it wasn’t easy. The cyber-thriller was a complete nonstarter.
And forget
Log Cabin Republican
. ”

He referred to a script he’d started based on his dubious theory as to why young Abe Lincoln first became devoted to the cause
of racial justice. Hint: think hot runaway slave and moonlit hayloft.

“You can see the jam I was in. I’d told him I’d get something to him by the weekend, so I had no choice but to borrow something.”

“But to rip off a masterpiece—!”

“What was I supposed to use? Something bad? Anyway, I was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t seen it.”

He explained that during Max’s dinner there’d been a general discussion about what classic films had most influenced those
present. Bobby had proudly claimed to have no such influences, saying that while his pretentious colleagues were in film school
earnestly analyzing Hitchcock and Lubitsch, he was soaking up real life and building a business. He claimed that apart from
Schindler’s List
and some old Westerns he’d watched on TV as a child, he’d never even seen a black-and-white movie.

“He was really pretty obnoxious, making it sound like everyone else is busy churning out ‘homages’ while he’s this complete
original. So I thought, ‘Hell, if he doesn’t know his classics, why not slip him one and see if he likes it?’ ”

“But
Casablanca?!
Even if you haven’t seen it, you know it. All those famous lines—”

“Oh, there aren’t that many. And of course I changed the really well-known ones. In our script—”

“Stop calling it that!”

“— Rick, or, as I call him, Frank, doesn’t ask Sam, or rather Smoky, to play ‘As Time Goes By.’ He asks for ‘I’ll Be Seeing
You,’ which works every bit as well. The farewell scene at the plane was tricky—practically every line is famous! Took a bit
of rewriting, but I actually prefer some of my dialogue to—”

“Oh, shut up!” fumed Claire. “I refuse to stand here and listen to you boast about how you improved
Casablanca!
”

We reached Gilbert’s car and Claire hurled herself into the backseat. Gilbert, growing testy now himself, slammed the door
and took the wheel.

“I’m getting a little tired of your attitude, Claire. I take this incredible gamble to help
all
of us get ahead. It pays off brilliantly and you’re not even grateful!”

“Grateful?!”
she thundered. “I should be
grateful
that I get to go home now —”

“Go home?!”
I gasped.

“— and spend the rest of my life praying Bobby Spellman never turns on his TV and catches
Casablanca?
”

“What do you mean, ‘go home’?!”

“Gawd!” groaned Gilbert, peeling out of the space. “You’re worrying over nothing! Once our movie’s made it won’t
matter
if Bobby finds out. You’ve seen his ego—you think he’d let people know he was duped?”

“You’re
leaving?
” I bleated piteously. Claire’s response was a stare of incredulous disdain.

“And you’re
not?
Don’t tell me you’re actually contemplating going through with this?”

“Well,” I said weakly, “we did sort of promise we would. It doesn’t seem right to renege.”

“Thank God
someone
here has a few scruples!” said Gilbert.

“And besides,” I argued, as if my lame sophistries could persuade a girl of Claire’s unshakable rectitude to remain a party
to such chicanery, “if we back out now, how do we explain it to Bobby? Or Maddie and Max? I mean, I don’t
approve
of what Gilbert did any more than you do. But that’s water under the bridge. And it’s not as if we can plagiarize
this
script. No, this one will be our work start to finish, so it’s not as if we won’t be earning our money and...”

I trailed off, thoroughly cowed by her expression. It was a stare of bewildered revulsion such as an abbess might bestow on
a young novitiate she’s just caught test-driving a dildo.

“Philip,” she said slowly, each word an ice cube, “you may lack the common sense to run screaming from a job that promises
untold creative misery plus the looming threat of fraud charges and lifelong disgrace, but I do not. And for God’s sake, Gilbert,
this is not the Daytona 500!”

“If she wants to bail, let her!” brayed Gilbert, running a stop sign. “More money for us!”

“You’ll need it for your defense.”

As we drove the rest of the way to the hotel, Claire’s silence was steely, Gilbert’s petulant, and mine wretched as I pondered
my future. Would Claire’s defection sabotage our deal? And even if it didn’t, how could I write the script with just Gilbert?
I’d always relied on Claire to handle the heartfelt bits in our comedies, and
Greta
was nothing
but
heartfelt bits. As I gazed at my partners’ surly faces I couldn’t believe how quickly last night’s euphoric unity had given
way to such rancorous discord.

You might suppose that the demons assigned to torment me would have agreed at this juncture that they’d put in a solid day’s
work and could retire to the clubhouse for drinks. But no, they’re a gung ho bunch, my demons, and, unlike my guardian angel,
never averse to a spot of overtime. Their next assault came an hour later, and as with their previous salvos, they took care
to soften me up before going in for the kill.

I was in Claire’s room watching her pack, pathetically hoping that my sad puppy stare might alter her decision, when Gilbert,
a crazed grin on his face, burst in without knocking.

“Philip, there you are! Claire—what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Well, stop it,” he said lightly. “You can’t quit on us. Not now. I have the most amazing news!”

Claire said, “Let me guess — Cameron Mackintosh wants us for his next show on the strength of our score for
Porgy and Bess?
”

“No. I just talked to Josh—our agent, swell guy, you’ll love him— and he got a call from business affairs at Pinnacle. The
studio is offering us—brace yourselves!—half a million bucks to write this baby!”

“My God,” I gasped, attempting unsuccessfully to do the math. “That’s like... more than a hundred fifty grand each!”

“
And,
” said Gilbert, “we share a million-dollar bonus if the movie gets made!”

This was not happy news for a girl whose honor code compelled her to fly back east to a gloating ex-boyfriend and glittering
career as a rehearsal pianist.

“Thank you,” she deadpanned, “for making this easier for me.”

“Oh, honey!” smirked Gilbert. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet!”

“There’s a
better
part than that?” I asked.

“I called Bobby to say thanks and he’d just gotten a call from Mr. Überagent himself, Irv Hackel. It seems he has a certain
client that Bobby sent the book to and this client’s just
dying
to play the lead.”

“Who?”

“You may want to put a pillow on the floor so your jaw doesn’t get hurt.”

“Just tell us!”

“And... that... client... issssssssssss—”

“WHO?!!”

“Stephen! Donato!”

I shrieked like a castrato.

“Stephen Donato?”

“His colleagues call him Steve.”

“
We’re
writing a movie for Stephen
Donato?
”

“Annnnnnnd —!” said Gilbert, slapping out a drumroll on his thigh. “There’s an ‘
and’?!
”

“Guess who wants to play Greta?”

“Who? His mom?”

I said it facetiously, of course, a casting coup of that magnitude being an inconceivable bonanza for a trio of newbie screenwriters.
But Gilbert did not roll his eyes at my outlandishness nor did he ask me to guess again. He just smiled puckishly and waggled
his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

“NO! Diana fucking MALENFANT?!”

“Mother and son, together again!”

I sank weak-kneed onto the bed, speechless at the thought that this long and breathlessly awaited pairing, this embarrassment
of stardom, was to be lavished on our little script. If any acting team on earth could ram this stinker down the public’s
throat and make them say “Yum,” this was the one.

Not even Claire, who’d managed to maintain her look of vinegary disinterest at the mention of Donato, could feign indifference
now. She sank onto the bed, her mouth agape as she struggled to make sense of a town in which adored and wildly sought after
megastars committed their talents to projects of such dubious merit.

“They
both
want to do it?” she asked. “All the projects they’ve turned down over the years—and they want to do
this
one?”

“And soon!” said Gilbert. “We’ll need to get cracking. Now I realize, Claire, how silly you must be feeling over your little
snit, but don’t beat yourself up. We artists are entitled to our little displays of temperament. Just unpack and we’ll say
no more about it.”

“You will stay, won’t you?” I pleaded. “I mean, you
can’t
walk away from something like this!”

She scowled and resumed folding her blouse.

“And just what exactly do you imagine this changes?”

“Are you kidding? They haven’t acted together since his first movie when he was, like, ten! Now they’re finally doing their
reunion picture — and WE get to write it?! This changes everything!”

“No arguments there!
Now
if the whole
Casablanca
stunt gets out— excuse me,
when
it gets out—the stink will be a hundred times bigger!”

“God!” fumed Gilbert. “I’m so sick of your negativity! You only see the downside!”

“Has there ever
once
been an upside with you?” she asked and I winced at the cogency of the question.

“Let her go, Philip! Who needs her?”

“We do, you idiot!”

“No, we don’t. Let the turncoat abandon us—we’ll still write a beautiful, heartbreaking script and after Stephen and Diana
star in it there’ll be no end to the offers we’ll get! Producers will be lined up, begging for that Selwyn and Cavanaugh magic!
I swear to you, Philip, we will
own
this town!”

As if to punctuate this speech Gilbert’s cell phone rang. He whipped it out and opened it with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Selwyn here!” he said debonairly. He listened a moment, then covered the phone. “Our agent. Wondering, no doubt, where to
send the Cristal...Yes, Josh, old man! If you’re calling with the glad tidings, we’ve already heard.”

He listened a moment, and his raffish smile suddenly vanished. His eyebrows shot upward and his jaw plummeted as though suddenly
loath to be on the same face.

“You can’t be serious!” he said, hitting a high A-sharp on “serious.”

“What?” demanded Claire and I, though we both knew.

“We’re off the picture!” he blurted, looking like a man about to burst into loud hysterical sobs.

Which, of course, he was.

A
N HOUR LATER, AFTER FRANTIC CALLS
had been placed to Maddie, Max, and Bobby Spellman, a clearer if only marginally less bleak picture of our situation had
emerged. We were advised to remain calm as we were not yet officially off the project. Our hopes of staying, though, hung
by a thread, one so slender that even the tiniest spider, offered it for use in constructing a web, would have declined, citing
safety concerns.

Had we been wiser to the ways of filmdom we’d have realized we were toast the minute we heard the names Donato and Malenfant.
Megastars as a breed pride themselves on their authority to approve all key players on any project they undertake. Stephen
was no exception to this rule and Diana was notorious for the ruthlessness with which she exercised the prerogative. It was
not difficult as such to imagine their response on hearing that the screenplay for their reunion picture had already been
assigned to a trio of neophytes. Four flared nostrils and an icy “Oh, really?” about sums it up.

We were assured that Bobby had heartily endorsed us to Stephen and Diana but that there was little he could do if they preferred
to hire some more established writer they’d worked with before and with whom they felt a greater “rapport.” This assurance
came not from our great pal Bobby, who, so far as we were concerned, was now, like Heinrich’s tender heart, in hiding, but
from our agent. Josh also warned us that overtures had already been made to several A-list writers and that the odds of our
being chosen over these scribes were small indeed. He said that our best, indeed only hope would be to send Stephen and Diana
a copy of the spec that had so impressed Bobby and pray they were equally dazzled.