Dreams Are Not Enough (32 page)

“Of course.” Gravely, he marked his place.

“But what’s the point? We aren’t doing it.”

“We?”

“I’d prefer that you didn’t, but of course I can’t tell you what parts to take.”

Alyssia heard in Hap’s tone a modicum of the aloof precision that Rosalynd Cordiner used on her.

“Well / can’t ignore PD!” she snapped.

“And I don’t see how you can either—he’s your cousin. His family’s your family! Don’t you give a damn about family? Or do only the dirt-poor learn to help one another out?”

“I refuse to be involved with heroin.”

“Lang’s not sticking needles in you. He’s financing a film.”

“Taking his money means I condone the needles.”

“Terrific!” She was shouting now.

“PD or one of your other relations get their skulls bashed in while Mr. Morally Superior Cordiner soliloquizes about right and wrong!”

She ran into the dressing room. As she yanked on slacks and a loose sweater, she grew more and more frightened that Hap would decamp.

Throwing open the door, she shouted, “I’m going into town!”

She drove the mile into Bellagio, parking in the square that abutted the little town’s ancient, square-spired church. Striding down a cobbled alley in the direction of the lake, she ignored the tall, narrow houses with flowers that fell raffishly from every cranny—normally the little town’s opera-buffa vistas delighted her.

Reaching the lake, she hurried past the ranked, outdoor tables where locals were leisurely taking their afternoon snacks, continuing to the end of the promenade, where she paid to enter the gardens of the Villa Melzi. The extensive grounds bordering the shore were empty in the twilit mist. As she passed the little Moorish temple where

Liszt had composed, her footsteps crunched slower on the gravel and she hugged her arms around herself. I’ll have to we strategy, she thought bleakly. She considered it wrong to bring psychology to bear against anyone, and to work Hap seemed the ultimate treachery to love.

“Signorina del Mar.”

The desiccated little guard, Rizzio, was running after her to explain it was closing hour. She replied in her serviceable Italian, picked up while doing the Fellini film, that she was just about to leave.

PD peered at her through the ocher light coming from the outside lantern. It was a few minutes before dinner, and she had just brought a bottle of Marzemino d’lsera to the guest-room terrace.

“Take off?” he asked.

“You’ve got me baffled. There’s no way I can convince Hap if I take off.”

She looked away.

“Alone, I can, uhh, convince him.”

He picked up the wine.

“You’re the boss,” he said.

At her insistence, he hired a driver to return his car to Hertz.

No matter where she fell asleep in a bed, she invariably awoke curled around Hap. That night she retired to the adjacent room.

The triumvirate arose before dawn, driving to the Milan airport.

After they waved PD onto his plane, Alyssia turned to Hap.

“I need a couple of things on Via Monte Napoleone.”

Via Monte Napoleone, a short, narrow street in the old central part of Milan not far from the Duomo, was where wealthy, super humanly well-groomed Milanese shopped at Gucci, Ferragamo, Valentine and other top designers.

Leading Hap into a perfumed boutique, Alyssia said, “I won’t be long.”

He sat on one of the uncomfortable gilt chairs, which were far too small for him, while she disappeared into an elegant fitting room. She chose several feloniously expensive silk outfits for herself, then asked to see clothes in Juanita’s size, buying the two high-priced suits that would fit her sister. The beaming manageress offered to deliver her purchases to her car—or even to Bellagio—but Alyssia said no, she’d take everything with her. She piled her packages into Hap’s arms, leading him to Gucci’s, where she selected two dozen richly flowered silk scarves to take home as gifts, handing him these, too. If they hadn’t been embroiled, he would have told her to knock it off, but instead, he carried his burdens like the perfect gentleman.

At Ferragamo, her saleslady stayed past the inviolable lunch closing hour of one o’clock to sell this American movie star all the shoes that fitted her slim, high-arched feet.

Outside, Alyssia exclaimed, “I’m ravenous.” Hap crammed her purchases in the trunk and drove the few deserted blocks to Don Lisander’s charming eighteenth-century courtyard restaurant.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded.

“Isn’t the zuppa ingle se good? It’s usually marvelous here.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You barely took two bites of your ri sotto and your veal.” She had eaten less of hers.

“Alyssia, they’re waiting for us to finish,” he said with patient courtesy.

The other tables were deserted and their waiters leaned disconsolately against the famed antipasto buffet. As Hap raised his finger, the short waiter with the mustache darted over.

“Signore?”

“I’d like a brandy,” Alyssia said.

Again she slept in the adjacent room.

At first, unable to place the odd, rusty little sounds, she imagined some wounded animal had found refuge in their hilly garden. Then she realized it was crying.

Running into the next room, she dropped on the bed to clutch Hap’s large, over warm body.

“Oh, darling, darling, don’t.”

His controlling breath shuddered against her.

“This kind of situation,” he muttered, “when something’s right and wrong at the same time, is something I can’t handle.”

“I’ve been a total bitch.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” He rubbed his wet cheeks against her breasts.

“Alyssia, I’ll do the film.”

“Hap….”

“I should be doing it for PD and Uncle Frank, but I’m not. I’m going ahead strictly because I just can’t fight you.”

Lang’s demands included a swift release. Luck was with them and there were incredibly few foul ups Transformations was ready for release seven months later, at the end of April. Members of the Motion Picture Academy were treated to a preview showing of Transformations. The downstairs lobby of the Academy’s big, comfortable new theater on Wilshire was jammed, and some casually clad people were still making their way down the broad, thickly carpeted staircase to the larger, brilliantly lit lobby where the temporary bars and buffets were besieged—in honor of the New Mexico locale, the caterers were serving chile verde, came as ada and gold puffs of so papillas

Well-wishers formed kaleidoscoping groups around those connected with Transformations. (An invitation had been sent to Robert Lang, but he had preferred to view his investment privately—thus far he’d had no contact whatsoever with any member of the cast or crew. ) Maxim received his adulation in front of a glass-encased exhibit of Billy Bitzer’s cameras.

Barry held court on the steps.

Alyssia stuck close to Hap. She had no belief in her own talent, and lavish compliments always made her feel an imposter. The only way she could get through functions like this was to play a role she had long ago prepared for herself. Wearing blue velvet hip-huggers and a blue fitted tie-dyed chiffon top, she continually tossed her head, flashing her new ultra long gold earrings as, eyes asparkle, lips moist, she uttered breathless disclaimers.

Desmond Cordiner had come over.

“Alyssia, it’s a damn blessing you’ve got an obligation to do a picture for us,” he said.

“I wouldn’t want Magnum to be at the tail end of the line.”

“Those lines, Mr. Cordiner, are for the buffet,” she bubbled.

Rosalynd Cordiner embraced Hap. Smiling at a point a few inches above Alyssia’s head, she said, “You were excellent, dear, as always.”

“Wonderful direction, Mrs. Cordiner,” Alyssia said.

But Rosalynd was already making her stately way toward a pair of gray-haired matrons in designer pantsuits.

Alyssia flushed. She reflected that at least she didn’t have to worry about a run-in with Clara and Tim. The demand for tickets had been so great that Maxim had decreed two Academy screenings: her in-laws had insulated themselves from her by requesting the second night’s performance. So had Frank and Lily Zaffarano. Frank and Lily had yet to invite her to their home, and though she feigned indifference, she couldn’t control her bitterness—or her desolation.

Rejection hurts.

A minute later Beth was there.

“You were fabulous,” she said.

“With a role like that, who wouldn’t be?”

Beth lowered her pleasant voice to a whisper.

“I’m really grateful, Alyssia. PD told me the entire story.”

“It’s nothing compared to what he did for me.”

Beth touched her arm.

“Will you look at Barry!” Barry was laughing with an oval-shaped, long-haired older man whom Alyssia recognized as a Metro big gun.

“He’s finally out of his slump … thanks to you.”

Beth had never showed her warmth before: Alyssia felt her throat tighten. Then William Holden came over, his weathered face creased into a smile.

The next time Alyssia glimpsed Barry, he was at the buffet with one arm around a blonde wearing a brief, metallic gold top.

Alyssia decided that when major executives hung on Barry’s words and blondes pressed their spectacularly tanned bodies up to his, that was the time to bring up a divorce.

Leaving Hap, she went over to make a date with her husband.

When the phone rang at eleven thirty the following morning, she glared balefully at the instrument, positive that it was Barry canceling.

“Hello?” she snapped.

“May I speak to Miss del Mar?”

Puzzled, she tried to place the soft masculine voice. Their phones were unlisted, therefore she knew everyone who rang the Laurel Canyon house.

“This is she.”

“Miss del Mar, Robert Lang here. I’m in Los Angeles today and I’d like to lunch with you.”

Taken completely by surprise, she blurted, “Hap’s at the office for a press conference.”

“I’m aware of that. And considering how Mr. Cordiner feels about me, don’t you agree it would be easier if we meet without him? Shall we say at the Bel Air? At one.”

“I can’t” -she started. But the phone had gone dead.

She slammed down the instrument. I’ll call and cancel, she thought.

But the incident had roused her uncertainties, and she examined herself in the mirror.

For her meeting with Barry she had put on a black turtleneck and jeans. Mightn’t he think she was too casual and get his back up? She changed to a crimson midi with matching boots. But this outfit might also be a demerit—Barry had always felt that she overdressed.

She was wearing one of the silk Valentines she’d bought in Milan when she finally went into the living room. Barry was well into a fifth of Chivas Regal.

“I’m sorry, Barry,” she said.

“But you know me, late for my own funeral.”

“Juanita gave me a drink,” he responded cheerfully.

“But I do have an appointment at the Brown Derby.” He took a sip.

“Last night went well, think?”

“How not? Another fabulous script.” As he beamed, she continued, “I wanted to get things rolling with the divorce. It’s been dragging on too long.”

He was still smiling.

“You’re the Catholic, remember.”

In all the years they had lived together as man and wife she had never once entered a church or uttered a prayer, yet he continued to perceive her as Alicia Lopez, devout housemaid.

“It’s better to get it settled,” she said.

“Any time you want, hon. As I’ve told you ad nauseam.”

Had he been too drunk to remember those times when he had sobbed and begged her not to cut him out of her life, not to turn him adrift?

“I’m not up on the community property, but we’ll make a date with the business manager.”

“Why?” Barry blinked rapidily.

“Your finances are of no concern to me.”

Too late she remembered his touchiness about her success, financial and otherwise.

“You’re right,” she soothed.

“It’s better to let the lawyers handle everything. But we can get rolling?”

“Alyssia, it so happens I’m more eager than you to dissolve this long-defunct marriage.”

After he left, she stared at the door, trying to remember how Barry had appeared to her years ago—a godlike college man, erudite, sophisticated, impossibly successful.

Sighing, she dialed Information for the number of the Bel Air Hotel.

“I’d like to speak to Robert Lang.”

“Robert Lang?” A long silence.

“I’m sorry, but we have no Mr. Lang registered.”

“Oh. I thought he was staying with you. Then please give me the dining room.”

The captain informed her there was no luncheon reservation for anyone by the name of Lang.

Juanita had come to clear away the drink.

“What’s wrong? Barry cry in his beer again?”

“No, no. He said it’s fine with him.”

“Now there’s a new tune.” Juanita set the glass on the tray.

“So why d’you look like the end of the world?”

“Robert Lang called awhile ago” — “Lang?”

“Yes. He said he’d meet me at the Bel Air. And hung up before I could refuse. I just tried to give him a message that I won’t be there, but he’s not registered—he doesn’t even have a table for lunch.”

“Maybe they always give him one when he shows up. D’you think he’s about to make a pass?”

“I won’t be there to find out.”

“You can handle his passes, Alice,” Juanita said firmly.

“And from everything I’ve heard, Robert Lang isn’t the type anybody stands up.”

The Hotel Bel Air shelters presidents, royalty and other celebrities desiring luxurious privacy. At casual glance, the rambling, vaguely Hispanic compound appears to be another of the surrounding Bel Air estates, and the hostelry’s noncommercial aspects were further corroborated inside. At that time the lobby was without a reception desk or bellboys, appearing to be a large, gracious drawing room.

A man sat reading near the fireplace. His head was bent, so Alyssia couldn’t see his features, but the way his thinning brown hair was a bit rumpled and the easy, somewhat out-of-date cut of his well-tailored suit made her think, One of those Boston brahmins.