Lovers and Liars (4 page)

N
aked, Belinda sat on the edge of the massive Victorian bed with its half canopy, thick rosewood legs, huge headboard, and antique lace spread. It had been her one major purchase, and it dominated her otherwise empty bedroom. She carefully pulled on a stocking, fastening it to a black garter. The mate followed. Belinda stood, stepping into three-inch heels, reaching for a purple leather skirt. She shimmied into it, forgoing underwear—she never wore panties when she was in this mood. The skirt clung to her strong curves like a second skin. A gold silk blouse followed, and she was braless, of course. The blouse molded to her firm, full breasts. She added a dozen gold bangles, huge gold hoops, a couple of chains, and ran her fingers through her hair, increasing its disheveled appearance. She spot-sprayed it.

She had decided to go out, after all. Cruising. Why not? The adrenaline flow had not ceased. She was feeling powerful It was a feeling unlike any she had ever had before—a feeling of being able to accomplish almost anything. She was launched. Her career was about to take off. Like a rocket.

She wanted this second sale so badly she felt she could will it to come true. It
would
come true. She knew it. She had no doubts. Even her agent, Lester, seemed confident now that she was
in
. And once that sale had gone through, she could relax, breathe a little, feel secure …

Maybe even take a vacation.

She was having a delicious fantasy. An Oscar for Best Dramatic Screenplay. Belinda got goosebumps just thinking about it. She knew the odds were against it, so she tried not to dwell on it. But imagine: Two sales and a multi-million-dollar box office and an Oscar …

She tried to picture Abe’s face. As he sat there in the audience while she received the silly little statue. Maybe just once he would tell her she was great. “Great job, kid,” he might say. No, he’d say, “Belinda, I’m so proud of you.” And he’d even hug her.

Jesus, she thought, frightened suddenly. I still need his approval after all these years.

The thought was so upsetting that she willed herself to the other extreme. I did it all on my own, she reminded herself. I did it without their support. That alone makes me a success, now, today.

It had taken years to get an agent, by which time she had half a dozen screenplays ready but no one to handle them. It was a catch-22. You couldn’t sell without an agent, but you couldn’t get an agent without having sold something first. Then she had lucked out, meeting Lester at a bar, of all places. They had talked, and he had agreed to read one of her screenplays. And that was it. She hadn’t even slept with him.

She had taken the hard way. She could have gone to her father. Abe Glassman had connections with everyone who was anyone on both coasts. He was close friends with several of Hollywood’s biggest moguls, including the head of Olympia, a studio that had been around since the days of Davis and Gable. Belinda knew she could have gone any one of several routes, from a direct loan from Abe to finance her own independent production of
Outrage
, to even an Olympia production. Not that her father had offered. But he would have just loved for her to come crawling to him, begging for his help. He loved wielding power—she had figured that out when she was thirteen. The worst part of it was, she had been tempted, out of sheer frustration, more than once. Thank God her pride had kept her from that.

Thank God she hadn’t succumbed.

It really couldn’t be a better start for her. North-Star produced quality films, and if they intended to make a first-rate star out of Jackson Ford, the odds were they would succeed. And he probably could act. Belinda didn’t watch television, but getting nominated three years in a row for an
Emmy had to mean something. With him in her film, it probably would do well at the box office, even if the director and producer destroyed it.

That should have given her confidence, but it didn’t. She didn’t want anyone to ruin her product. She wanted a good director, good cast, good technicians …

The phone rang.

“Hello, Belinda,” Abe Glassman said.

Belinda almost dropped the phone. “Oh, hello.”

“Rosalie says you called.”

She was now thoroughly regretting that moment of foolishness. He didn’t care, wouldn’t care. And she wasn’t going to be soft; she wasn’t going to allow herself to be vulnerable, not when she knew him so well. He had never forgiven her for moving to California. He had never forgiven her for not marrying according to his wishes and giving him a male heir. He thought writing screenplays was an aberration. He thought she was an aberration.

“I didn’t call,” she said smoothly. “Your secretary is mistaken.”

There was a heavy pause. “Oh,” Abe said. Then, “How are you?”

“Just fine,” she said.

“Are you gonna get a chance to come east for a weekend this summer? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“I’ll try,” she lied. Thinking, Oh, no, not again. Because, of course, the
someone
was a man and eminently marriageable. Then before she knew what was happening, she said, “I sold a screenplay.” And she could have kicked herself.

There was a moment of silence. “To who?”

“North-Star.”

“How much?”

“Three fifty.”

“Congratulations,” Abe said. “Now that you’ve proved you can write those damn things and sell them, why don’t you come back to New York and settle down? Dammit, I’m fifty-three, Belinda.”

“No, thanks,” Belinda said on a deep breath.

“You’ve proved yourself,” Abe said angrily, his tone louder now. “What more do you want? I’m gonna die one day, Belinda, and who’s gonna run all this? Jesus—you’re almost thirty, and if you wait much longer you’re gonna have mongoloid babies!” He was shouting.

“I don’t want children,” Belinda grated. It was, at the very least, an untruth. “Or would you like me to go out and oblige you by getting pregnant tonight? I’m in the mood to get laid anyway.”

“Christ! You know that’s not what I mean,” Abe said. “Why do you have to get so defensive? Every normal woman wants kids.”

“Thank you,” Belinda said. “But I already know you think I’m abnormal.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“My career is taking off,” Belinda said furiously. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop pushing now! I’ve sold one screenplay, and as you damn well know, that means I have an in. They’re already considering another script.”

Abe was silent.

Coming out on top with him was rare, but Belinda plunged ahead. “North-Star is using this as a vehicle for Jackson Ford. He’s one of the hottest properties in Hollywood right now. The box office should be good, or great, depending on how much North-Star wants to put out. If
Outrage
does well at the box office, I’m hot; and I’ll be selling like crazy.” She sounded more confident than she felt. She had learned a lesson a long time ago: Never expose your jugular to Abe.

There was another moment of uncharacteristic silence. “You know that industry is nothing but ifs,” Abe finally said. “Nobody can predict what sells at the box office. And an actor that’s hot one day is in the crap heap the next. C’mon, Belinda, even you know that.”

“Thank you,” she said, “for the vote of confidence, and yes, even I know that.”

“What?” Abe exchanged a few words with someone off
the line. Then he spoke back into the phone. “I have to go, Belinda. Will Hayward just walked in, and he says hello.”

“Good-bye, Abe,” Belinda said.

4

“T
his dialogue is shit.”

“Cut! Cut! Jesus Christ, Jack!”

Jackson Ford stood on the stage, golden and glowering, ignoring his costar, a typical California blonde, who was by now used to this kind of outburst Silence was replaced by grunts, groans, and a hum of conversation as lights flicked on and cameramen stepped back from their equipment.

The assistant producer, Nickie Felton, small, rotund, with a huge nose and glasses, mopped at his bald head frantically. “Jack, Jack, what’s wrong?” he cried, running over in a panic. The star was upset, and that absolutely must not be allowed.

“This dialogue is complete shit,” Jack said, carefully enunciating every word.

“Don’t worry,” Nickie Felton said, perspiring. “We got writers, plenty of writers. You want changes—we’ll make changes.”

Without a word in reply, Jack spun on his heel and left the stage, disappearing presumably to his private dressing room.

“That man is impossible,” breathed Edwina Lewis, a gangly assistant director. “Nothing is right, ever.”

“Impossibly gorgeous,” drooled another woman.

A tall, lean man strode over. “We are twenty fucking weeks behind schedule. I can’t take much more of this. If Ford doesn’t shape up, he’s out.”

“Now, calm down, John. Calm down,” Nickie said
quickly. John Price was the director, so his threat was empty—he had no control over hiring and firing. “Ford is right. That particular scene is, well, poorly written.”

“Quit kissing his ass. He’s a fucking TV star who thinks because he’s making a movie he’s big-time. Well, he’s not. I have about had it up to here with coddling Mr. Star.”

“John, John, don’t worry. We’ll change a line or two, and in no time we’ll have this scene done. I promise.”

“No one is going to give a shit what they’re talking about,” Price growled. “They’re either going to be looking at Ford’s bare chest or Leona’s tits.”

“At least he doesn’t ask for Dom Perignon and caviar on the set,” Edwina said. Her aside was loud enough to be heard. “He could be worse.”

Felton shot her a look. If Ford wanted Israeli olives, now, this minute, he’d get them, because North-Star had plans, big plans, for him. “True,” Nickie said to Price. “But why don’t we see if Goldman can’t touch up some of that dialogue, make it a little less stiff?”

“I’m going to blackball Ford. I’m going to blackball him and throw him off this film!”

“Now, John, we’ve only got a week left to shoot. Come on, you don’t really want to blackball Ford. He’s our meal ticket. And he is good.”

“Temperamental son of a bitch.”

“I’ll find Melody,” Edwina said, hurrying off, leaving the two men in their conversation. She spotted the redhead in a corner where she was staring at Price and Felton. “Melody! Please, can you cajole Jack into doing this scene?”

Melody stood, all bosom and red hair. She glanced again, worriedly, at the assistant producer and director. She nodded and hurried off the set. She knocked sharply on Jack’s door.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me, Mel.”

“C’mon in.”

Melody walked in, and although she had been Jack’s personal manager, assistant, and best friend for seven years, the sight of him at his desk—head bent over, the perfect
profile, sunlight dancing on his dark golden head—took her breath away, sent shivers down her body. She closed the door behind her.

He looked up and smiled.

That Jackson Ford grin. It reached his green eyes, made them sparkle devilishly. “Come to smack my hand?”

“You’re not funny, Jack. It’s just a damn love scene.”

“It’s my love scene,” he said grimly. “William is my character. I intend to protect his integrity.”

Melody came over and placed a light hand on his shoulder. “I understand,” she said.

“Do you?” His eyes snapped furiously. “They all think I’m a hard-ass troublemaker, but dammit, I was in this goddamn business for eleven years and no one ever gave me the fucking time of day! Now I’m hot, and I intend to stay that way. And I won’t—not if the critics laugh my product right off the screen.” He stood and paced angrily. “Shit!”

“I hate seeing you get this kind of rep.”

“I know you do,” he said, softening, squeezing her shoulder. “Anyway, I was just rewriting the scene. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be done.”

She watched him slashing out lines. “Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I know a lot is riding on this flick. But if you get a bad rep, now that the series is canceled … even with this contract with North-Star …”

He looked at her. “Thank God for that!” Sanderson Home was a great agent. At first Jack hadn’t wanted to sign an exclusive three-picture deal with North-Star. But as Sanderson had pointed out, with his series being nixed, three years as a TV star, no matter how hot—and he was hot—guaranteed him nothing, absolutely zero. “The public is like a whore, Jack,” Sanderson had said. “Completely faithless. And this town is worse. You have to work, Jack, and you have to work now, or a year from now you’ll be just another one-shot has-been. Get the picture?”