The Movie (38 page)

3o6

just getting greedy - it still felt like there was something missing. What exactly, Megan didn’t know. Perhaps it was just too smooth.., was there such a thing as being too good in bed? Megan wondered, and then shook her head. No way. Now she was getting seriously deranged.

Only it sometimes felt like her arousal was almost involuntary, just a physiological response to well-practised moves. Of course she knew David would have practised, he wasn’t a virgin. But why did it feel, after the slipperiness and the heat had passed, as though she was just the latest in a long line… Why do I snap out of it so quickly? Megan wondered guiltily. I’m thinking about something else almost the second after I’ve come! Isn’t that what men are supposed to do, the real jerks among them anyway, just climax and then roll over and go right to sleep? I should be thinking about David, not the script…

‘I guess so.’ The director’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. ‘l,.oxana doesn’t want her character to appear

weak.’ ‘Weak?’ Megan asked, bewildered. ‘How is she weak? This is the scene where a bunch of cocaine smugglers are threatening her with torture!’

‘Oh, look. Our resident Shakespeare has finally showed up for work,’ loxana Felix remarked acidly, sauntering across to Megan with a nasty smile. ‘What’s the matter, honey, you missed an alarm? Or maybe college graduates need more sleep than the rest of us non-intellectuals.’ She glanced across at Zach Mason, but he refused to meet her eyes.

‘I was here when I was supposed to be,’ Megan muttered, flushing a deep red.

‘Don’t talk back to me,’ loxana said with casual insolence. ‘You’re just the writer and don’t you forget it. A film set’s not about work to rule.’

‘Lay off,’ Zach said, very quietly.

loxana glanced at him, but subsided.

3o7

‘It would be nice if we could work at all,’ Fred Florescu sighed. ‘Now Roxana, tell me why you think Morgan is shown as weak here.’

‘I don’t think she would have been captured without a fight.’

‘Megan?’ Fred asked.

She shrugged. They had been over this scene a thousand times back in LA and Poxana had never objected to it once.

‘Morgan Meyer is a supermodel. This is towards the end of the movie, and she’s just been taken hostage by fifty mercenary guerrillas armed with AK-47s. How is she going to put up a fight?’

‘She could kick-box,’ loxana suggested.

‘

‘Can you kick-box?’ Zach Mason demanded. His tone

was sharp.

‘We could use a stuntwoman.’

‘I don’t have a stuntwoman who kick-boxes,’ Florescu explained with exaggerated patience, ‘because the script doesn’t call for one.’

“So fly one in from LA.’ Poxana’s almond-shaped eyes were narrow with the blind fury of somebody used to having her commands accepted without question.

‘How would kick-boxing help her against fifty automatic weapons?’ Megan asked reasonably. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

toxana turned on, her, scarlet lips drawn back in an almost feral snarl. ‘Nobody asked your opinion, bitch. I’m the one who has to create this role, not you. And if I want Morgan to fight, she’ll fight.’

‘You know what?’ said Fred Florescu, looking from loxana to a mortified Megan, seething with anger and humiliation. His tone was measured, but there was a line of steel underneath it none of them could mistake. ‘I don’t think this is productive. We’ll work something out for Morgan in that scene, but we’ll do it later. The light’s real

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good right now, too good to waste, so… we’re gonna shoot something else. The first approach scene to the gangsters’ base.’

That was an action scene. It involved only Zach, Seth and tkobert.

‘OK, sweetheart?’ Fred asked easily. Tll talk to Megan about that scene. You can relax for the morning.’

tLoxana stared at him for a long moment, then pirouetted on her heel and stalked off in the direction of her trailer.

‘Jesus,’ the director said.

David strode up to the group. ‘Hey, people,’ he said pleasantly.

Zach stiffened. Megan noticed it, surprised; so Fred was right about that. But why wouldn’t Zach like David? He’d chosen David. Oh, they were all children, Megan thought angrily, struggling to contain the tears of frustration that rose in a lump in the back of her throat. She’d so wanted to tell tkoxana to go to hell, but she couldn’t, she had to sit there and swallow every insult the bitch threw at her.

Because tkoxana was the star and she was just a writer. It was true. And when she’d sold this script for two hundred and fLfty thousand dollars, Megan realized, she’d thrown in

her self-respect as part of the deal.

She wonderd flit was worth it.

‘David, good to see you. Will you do something for me?’ Florescu asked him.

‘Name it,’ said Tauber, smiling engagingly.

‘Go back to the hotel and call SKI. I’ve been thinking about what you said about Sam, and maybe you’re right, he should be here. So call him and ask him if he’ll come

OUt.’

‘You want Sam Kendrick here?’ David asked, paling slightly.

‘I really think I do,’ Florescu said amiably.

Megan stared at the ground.

3o9

For a split second Tauber hesitated, then he said, ‘light. Great idea,’ and turned back to the hotel.

Florescu motioned to his lighting director and the technicians scuffled around the sand, moving the heavy lights into place for the new scene.

Zach walked slowly over to Megan. ‘Thanks for asking her to get offmy back,’ she muttered.

Mason ignored her. ‘WhatifI tell you I want this scene rewritten, Megan? Would you do it? I bet you’d jump.’

‘If the director agreed with you,’ she replied, staring up into his breathtaking grey eyes, hating him for the derision she saw.there. ‘I’m the screenwriter, I’m out here to ftx problems as they arise.’

‘Nice speech.’ He reached out and touched the delicate gold star nestling in the hollow of her neck, fingering it. ‘D. What’s that for?’

‘David gave it to me,’ she said defiantly.

Mason raised an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. ‘He gave you a pendant and he put his own initial inside it? But I guess that figures. It’s a badge of ownership.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Megan, before she could stop herselŁ. Zach smiled into her eyes. ‘What’s the matter, lost a little control there? Well, that’s still more balls than David Tauber would ever display for you. Of course, I could have you fired for that. Unlike loxana Felix, I am indispensable.’ He leaned forward. ‘And you know what would really be amusing? When David gets back here, I could tell him to give you the news. In public. And he’d do it, Megan.’

‘No he wouldn’t,’ Megan said.

‘Oh yes he would.’ Mason looked down at her, intently. ‘And you know it.’

She did know it, Megan realized with a sinking feeling.

It was true. David would do that if Zach ordered him to. And he probably wouldn’t even think twice abou it.

Suddenly she felt very cold, despite the blazing sun; cold, and totally isolated.

‘Am I fired?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Mason said. He shrugged. ‘I like the way you write.’

‘Zach, get over here!’ Florescu roared. ‘Are we making a fucking movie, or what?’

‘OK, I’m coming,’ Zach Mason said, and he strode off towards the Klieg lights, leaving Megan Silver standing on the beach, watching them, alone.

31I

‘Everything’s ready,’ Paul said.

Yes, Eleanor thought. I guess everything is.

The house alone was decorated to the tune of eight thousand dollars; wreaths of orange blossom trailing over every balustrade, white satin ribbons looped over all the ‘doorways, turtledoves and nightingales in silver cages piping away merrily in every room. The reception room and the dining room had been cleared of all furniture that morning in order to make room for their guests, except for the various mahogany table which the wedding designer had draped in ivory chiffon before weighing them down with silver dishes of sweetmeats and savoury titbits and hundreds of champagne flutes in Baccarat crystal.

Of course, the main luncheon would be served outside, on the wrought-iron tables they’d had shipped in for the event, each one covered in watered silk and bearing more vintage champagnes, a Tattinger Ros and a superlative Cristal, nestling in individual ice buckets beside the centrepieces of rare white and pink orchids. Huge oak tresde tables were lined up for the buffet, which was as sumptuous as the most expensive caterer in Beverly Hills could come up with: pheasant, grouse, wild boar, venison, pat a la foie gras; smoked salmon, caviar, oysters, rainbow trout; fresh truffles, wild strawberries, asparagus; anything and everything a jaded palate might possibly aspire to, with special sections for vegetarians, vegans, dieters, and anyone who might wish to keep it kosher. The puddings had a

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table to themselves, and they deserved it: apples formed out of delicate spun sugar; freshly made ice cream and sorbets in eighteen different flavours; hot pears in a mulled wine sauce; a warm pecan pie that had made Eleanor’s stomach growl just looking at it; a chilled chocolate parfait rippled with the bitter, milk and white varieties; some light concoction made of honey and burnt almonds; an exotic fruit salad; a quivering raspberry pavlova. . There seemed to be no end to them. And next to the desserts, a bar, with everything from freshly pressed strawberry juice to a very English bowl of ready-mixed Pimms, complete with floating slices of apple and cucumber. After the meal, their guests would have their choice often different flavours of filter coffee, six different flavours of decaff, espresso, cappuccino or herb tea, not to mention the twelve vintage liqueurs Paul’s wine merchants had recommended. At this very molent forty waiters and waitresses were hovering among the crowd, replenishing every empty glass, endlessly circulating with tray after tray of delicious hors d’oeuvres.

And that was merely a small part of it. The actual area set for the wedding was a masterpiece of floral design: each gold-backed chair for the guests had its legs and backs wreathed in lilies, roped seamlessly to the wood with invisible threads; the canopy overhead was one solid sheet of flowers, a gorgeous scented mass of pink dog roses and white orchids, irises, clematis, jasmine and freesias, strategically designed to pert’nit just enough space for the sunlight to filter through; and the arch under which Eleanor and Paul would stand was a single, contrasting blaze of colour, a curving loop of eight hundred red roses. And as for the cake…

‘Thanks, Paul,’ she said brightly. ‘Maybe you could ask everybody to take their places now? I’ll be down in just a second.’

‘You got it,’ he agreed. In the mirror in front of her

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Eleanor could see him pause, look her up and down, that familiar, satisfied smile creeping across his face. It had been there a lot recently. No more fights; he couldn’t agree fast enough to everything she wanted, couldn’t have been more solicitous or supportive.

I have to hand it to Paul, Eleanor told herself, he’s a gracious winner.

‘That dress is stunning,’ Paul said.

‘Thank you, sweetheart. You look wonderful too,’ she replied, sounding as enthusiastic as she possibly could. And he did look handsome: all that toned muscle and distinguished salt-and-pepper hair packed nearly into a bespoke Savile 1Low suit of the finest dark wool. They would look ,great in all the trades and society magazines and gossip

columns; the hotshot banker and the studio president, Los Angeles’s latest power couple.

Oh, come on, Eleanor. This is your wedding, not your funeral. Remember?

‘OK, I’ll see you later. Give me about ten minutes.’

All right,’ Eleanor said.

If she had her time again, she would happily have given

him ten years.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ Linda Orenstein sighed, fussing with

her train. Linda was an old friend from Yale, and one of her matrons of honour. The other one was her cousin Philippa, a happily married Boston mother of two. Eleanor had seen neither of them for years, but that somehow seemed more appropriate. To any of the women producers or agents that were her real fiiends, her true feelings might have shown, and that was something she just couldn’t risk. And anyway, she didn’t have a single female friend close enough to have confided in about Tom. That was another problem; for many years now, Tom Goldman had been her closest friend. She had never bothered to maintain a tight network of girlfriends; maybe she’d let herself be put off by the social mountaineering of the Tennis Club trophy

wives, all scrambling for position in the court of Queen

Isabelle and her new protfgfe, Crown Princess Jordan. Too late, Eleanor realized that had been a mistake.

‘It’s beautiful, Eleanor, really! And the bouquet is simply divine,’ Philippa gushed, adding enviously, ‘Oh, the whole thing is so glamorous. And Paul looks so handsome in that tux, doesn’t he, Linda?’

‘He does,’ Linda agreed, pulling the train straight. ‘There. You’re perfect.’

They all looked at their reflections: Linda and Philippa in subdued, grown-up gowns of dusty pink organza shot through with gold thread, the skirts falling to their feet where matching heels in rose silk peeped from under the hem. Their bouquets were laid to one side: small bunches of the purest white roses and lilies, gathered round with a ribbon of snowy velvet.

Eleanor Marshall stood between them, gowned, veiled and crowned like a queen. She knew she looked magnificent; the mirror told her so. There was the dress, full skirted in a crinoline style, antique lace sweeping down over rich folds of ivory satin, her white silk slippers beneath them embroidered with silver thread. The bodice was a tight whalebone corset, which she had laced into easily enough, that pushed her breasts together and lied them up, enhancing her already impressive cleavage and encasing it in creamy silk and lace, the front of the dress studded with seed pearls and opals that glinted in the midmorning sun. Her ice-blonde hair was swept upwards and backwards in the Edwardian style, giving height to her forehead, and her veil of the sheerest white chiffon was pinned at the crown, ready to be thrown forward as they left the room. Behind that, ftxed firmly but invisibly in place by her extremely expensive hairdresser, her train of white Prussian lace cascaded down, twelve magnificent feet of it. The whole headpiece was finished off with a startling coronet; her wedding designer had worked