An American Love Story (30 page)

“I don’t think I’m pretty,” Nina said.

“You’re beautiful!”

“Well, thank you, but nobody else seems to think so.”

“They’re just afraid of you. They think you wouldn’t want to be bothered with them.”

“I think it’s my destiny to be alone,” Nina said.

“I thought the exact same thing when I was around your age,” Susan said. “I thought it was a curse put on me for being different, for not conforming, for wanting other things.”

“You did? You felt that way?”

“Yes.” And for a moment the long-ago youthful pain came back and she remembered everything about that moment when she knew she was doomed.

“But you’re not alone,” Nina said matter-of-factly. “You have my father.”

So here it was, out in the open. “You don’t mind?”

“No. I did years ago when I first heard about it. It’s a shock for a kid—even if your parents aren’t happy you still think it’s going to work out. But when I saw my father today he looked so comfortable. I’ve never seen him look that way before; he always looks irritated.”

“He’s really very sweet,” Susan said, feeling a wave of warmth and love for him.

“Tell me something—who put the flowers in my room, you or he?”

“He did,” Susan said.

Nina smiled, a grin of pure pleasure. “That was so cute,” she said.

After lunch Susan showed her Rodeo Drive, and then drove her around Beverly Hills to see the alleged homes of movie stars. Nina had been here when she was so young that she didn’t remember anything. Then they went to the production office to pick up Clay. “That was a long lunch,” he said.

He took them to Chasen’s for dinner. They all had a lot of wine, and under the table Clay held Susan’s hand. In the car driving home he said: “This is the monkey.”

“Monkey?”
It was obvious Nina thought it was an awful name.

That night the three of them slept in the apartment. In bed Clay held Susan in his arms for a few moments, but it was understood without words that they would have no sex. It would feel too strange in the midst of this tentative little family. She was disappointed but accepted it. And then, holding her, Clay changed his mind. He made love to her, silently, passionately, almost defiantly. After all, the door was closed, and they all had their own lives.

Nina came to the set with them every day that week. Susan explained things to her, but Clay ignored her: he was upset again. It had become apparent from the dailies that Thalia was not giving them enough coverage, and when they had to put in the station breaks the cuts would be too abrupt. In order to get the picture finished ahead of schedule, her claim to fame, she never held the camera on anyone for an extra second.

“Don’t worry,” Susan said. “The people at home are watching on a tiny little screen, and they probably have bad reception, and the minute it’s a station break they run to the kitchen to get food. For this we kill ourselves.”

“The network people watch the cut on a big screen,” Clay said. “Then they never watch it again. For
this
we kill ourselves.”

At the end of the week Nina left. “Maybe when you come back to New York we can have dinner together sometime,” she said to Susan.

“I’d love that.” They exchanged phone numbers.

“Good luck with the picture.”

As it turned out, a great deal could be fixed in the editing. Film could be slowed. Badly spoken lines could be dubbed. Clay did all this after Thalia handed in her director’s cut. Susan wondered why he had been in such a state of agitation when he knew that all along, and why he had never bothered to reassure her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

“I wanted you to learn.”

Did he think that being scared would make her do her best? But a little voice inside her mind said:
He wants power
. She didn’t quite understand what that meant, or how it applied to what had happened, but she also didn’t want to examine it too closely.

The Romeo and Juliet Murder
got excellent reviews, with Thalia’s direction singled out for special praise. And although it did all right, it didn’t get nearly the great ratings they had been expecting. Susan was surprised. She had thought it would be the other way around.

19

1982—HOLLYWOOD

B
ambi and Simon had been in Hollywood for two years, and Simon Sez was a success. It was always full, and Simon reveled in it; the new congenial customers, the new acts, his same cozy womb. Except for more money, nothing in their lives had really changed. And because of this, for Bambi everything had changed.

She remembered her vision on the mountaintop, her certainty that she would make it here—and she saw her life slipping away from her along with her twenties, her vitality and her youth—and she felt angry and cheated. She watched Simon lying on the living room sofa eating an apple and watching television, content and calm, and she felt a strange new depression, a subtle new irritation with him. She watched him in Simon Sez and saw him running everything efficiently and happily, and realized that he was only an innkeeper.

It was not enough.

He thought she was talented and wonderful, but what
good did it do when he had no ambition to help her realize her dream? She was special to him, his coffeehouse star; he thought that was all they needed. Sometimes, in the middle of the evening, she felt herself choking and had to run outside to the steps beside the kitchen to get some air. The kitchen overlooked the parking lot. She saw the cars pulling in, and with each one she wondered if it was the one that contained the person in the business who would discover her, the contact who would change her destiny. But it never happened. She was only the innkeeper’s wife.

It was not enough.

She was tired of gliding around being the good greeter, the co-owner, the civilian outsider. She wanted to learn, to be an actual part of those earnest or boisterous groups who filled the booths and talked shop. She deserved to be more than just an entertainer for people who treated her as if she were Muzak. It was time to start a different approach.

There was a group of writers she had been watching, who showed up nearly every night, in twos and threes and alone, a core group that joined together until they were a squashed six, sitting in what had now become known as the writers’ booth. Tonight Bambi arrived earlier than usual, and when she saw they had become five she went over to say hello, and then instead of moving on she pushed into their booth and sat down with them. They were all guys, all straight. She liked being the only woman in a group of men. They went on with their discussion and she listened.

“I have real trouble making up names for my characters.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah, so how do you do it?”

“I use the phone book.”

“You do? My agent makes me look in the phone book to be sure the names I use aren’t there.”

“Why?”

“He thinks they’ll sue. He’s a very nervous type.”

“What if they’re unlisted?”

“Then he says it’s their problem.”

The new waiter came over—they were would-be actors, always
leaving—and Bambi told him to buy the table a round on her. The writers smiled and lifted their drinks in a toast to her, and went on talking.

“I use my friends’ names. They love it.”

“Yeah, I know other writers who do that, too.”

“The problem is,” one writer named Matt said, “No matter how inventive I try to be there’s always somebody around with the same name.”

“Because it’s the law of numbers,” said Al obscurely.

“No. I mean like I put in the leading man’s girlfriend, it turns out it’s my friend’s new girlfriend. I hadn’t even known her name before. And this is weird: I put in an accountant. And I look in the phone book and it’s a real accountant. I mean, not just anybody, but another accountant.”

“You should use your own accountant,” Bob said. “It’s safe and he’s flattered. Only make him a detective.”

“All names exist out there in the atmosphere,” Bambi said. They turned to look at her. “They’re just floating around, waiting to be chosen. It’s the collective unconscious of names.”

“The what?” Matt said.

“Why not?” Bambi said.

He looked at her and shrugged. She noticed he had the most beautiful green eyes she had ever seen. His dark hair curled down over his collar and he was unexpectedly handsome. “Why not?” he agreed, and smiled. He had the cutest teeth, small and perfect except for the two eye teeth that were a little longer, and pointed. Cute little baby vampire teeth.

“Are you writing a movie?” she asked.

“Yeah, for Magno.”

“That’s wonderful,” Bambi said. A movie! She was thrilled to be here in the company of real working writers, listening to their shop talk and being a part of it. “Have you written for television too?”

“Endlessly,” he said, deadpan.

“Have I seen any of your shows?”

“You have if you looked fast. I’ve done three pilots that went on
but never made it to series and a lot of series episodes that did go on.”

“But that’s wonderful,” Bambi said again.

“It’s not so bad. I have a house with a pool and a Mercedes.”

“And a ninety-nine-year mortgage,” Al said, and laughed.

“You know anybody in this town pays money?”

“I’ve been thinking for a while about writing TV scripts,” Bambi said.

Matt nodded. “Do you have an agent?”

“Not yet.”

“You need a script first.”

“Exactly,” Bambi said, although her thoughts about writing a script had not extended to the logistics of getting anyone to sell it. Her heart was beginning to pound. This was going to be her lucky night. Advice, maybe even help …

Simon was standing right over her. “Everything okay?” he asked pleasantly.

“Fine,” she said. She wished he would go away and not interrupt what was turning out to be a valuable contact.

“You’re on next,” Simon said.

“I’ll go on later,” Bambi said.

He took her hand. “I need you now.”

There was nothing she could do without making one or both of them look like a fool, and she was furious. “I enjoyed talking to you,” she said to the writers, especially Matt; smiled, and stood up graciously. “I’m sure we’ll talk again.”

“What were you doing?” Simon whispered as soon as they were out of earshot. “You’re not supposed to sit so long with them.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the hostess, but they want to be alone.”

“I never heard such bullshit in my life,” Bambi hissed. “I was listening to the most fascinating secrets about their craft.”

“Maybe they didn’t want you to listen,” Simon said.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I just don’t want you to be an intrusion.”

“An intrusion!” She had never heard him say anything so hurtful.

“Well, you know, we’re supposed to walk around and be nice, but …”

“An
intrusion?
”

“You don’t even know those guys,” Simon said.

“I intend to,” Bambi said sweetly.

“You should spend time with other customers too,” Simon said, very mildly, trying to deflect her wrath.

“I plan to,” she said.

He looked remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You did.”

Simon put his arm around her. “Was that our first fight?” he said. He nuzzled her ear. “Hey … do you want to go into the newly decorated, extremely romantic utility closet and make up?”

All she could think of were mops and pails. It was the first time that Simon’s nearness, Simon’s arm around her, his breath in her ear, failed to excite her. She felt dead. The shock of not feeling aroused by him frightened her, and she walked quickly to the small stage so he wouldn’t notice. What was happening?

She sat on her high stool under the pink spotlight and did the monologue that everyone always liked about the old woman, but this time she was looking out into the room at the writers’ booth and trying to see if they were paying attention. At first it was too dark out there to tell, but then the kitchen door opened and in the slab of light that spilled out she saw Matt’s face. He was turned all the way around watching her, and she realized this was probably the first time he had bothered to listen to her at all. When she had finished she threw in a second one: her sketch about two people on a date. It had dialogue, and she wanted him to see she knew how to write it. He kept watching, and Bambi looked straight into his eyes so he wouldn’t stop. Think I’m good, she prayed.

When she was finished there was the usual applause; mild, but not so mild as to be insulting to Simon’s wife. Did those idiots out there know she was a partner; not just a wife, not just an appendage, but an important person, better even than Simon was because she didn’t just help him run the place, she was an artist? She gave
up her spotlight to a new guitar player and walked over to lean against the wall. She suddenly felt sick.

I love Simon, she thought, but he’s so weak, so ordinary. Since she had been in Hollywood she had noticed many spectacularly good-looking men; Simon had stopped looking special. Your respect and admiration for him made a man seem sexy. Simon had his own drive and energy, but it was confined to Simon Sez. He didn’t seem to realize that if she wrote for television it was a great leap forward from what she had here, and that contacts would be everything.

She had thought their lives would be different in Los Angeles, and they were: she was standing with her nose pressed against the window, starving at the feast. He had given her as much as he could. She was going to have to start doing for herself.

The next night she joined the writers’ booth again. Matt was there, and she sat opposite him, gazing intently into his beautiful green eyes, listening to him complain about his deadlines for two scripts he was contracted to do. Two scripts!

“I’d love to read something you’ve written,” Bambi said. That way she could find out what a script was supposed to look like, how many pages it was, all those things writers were supposed to know. “If you could bring one some time, would you …?”