The Fan Letter (15 page)

Having risen to see Eddie to the door, Phillip frowned at his last words and grabbed his arm. “Hey, I'll go along with your little party, Edward, but I'm not looking to meet someone. Understand? I don't know what you know or what you
think
you know, but I am still a married man. All right?”

Eddie glanced at the letter on the desk. “Yeah, Phil, I know. I didn't mean anything. I just think you need to have a little fun. I'm concerned about you. We all are. Okay? So sue me.”

Phillip dropped his hand, embarrassed by his outburst. Running a hand through his hair, he looked down. “Sorry, Edward. I know you mean well. It's just….” He hesitated, hating to make his troubles public again. “It's just that things around here are still off.” He looked at the far wall and took a deep breath. “I already told you Davey calls Martin Daddy. Well, Sarah now refers to that scum as Dear. I don't know when, or if, they are ever coming home.”

Eddie let out a low whistle as Phillip sat heavily on the sofa. “Sorry, old man, I had no idea things hadn't worked out yet. I heard through the trades how well she's going over in Japan, but now the France deal is definite? Why don't you go spend some time with them?” he offered for thought.

The reply was a sick, despairing laugh. “I tried that, remember? I had it all worked out. Only they didn't have the time for me. They were too busy,” he said with a bitter edge. “Every time I call I get Martin. I've only talked to Sarah twice in three months. Davey has always been out on some outing. Or, so I've been told. I'm getting sick and tired of this, but I don't know what to do.”

Eddie didn't know what to say to his friend. This further confiding from Phillip hadn't been expected. He usually never knew what was going on with this private man. But he now knew everything and was surprised by the depth of anger and hurt he was seeing. Phillip usually betrayed no emotion.

Eddie hesitated. “Well, maybe this party isn't such a good idea. We could make some calls….”

“No,” Phillip surprisingly interrupted. “Go ahead. You're right. It might do me some good.”

“That's the spirit,” Eddie grinned. “Some good food and some good friends always help.”

Phillip glanced at the papers on his desk. “Yeah. You can always count on some people to be there when you need them,” he muttered in a quiet voice that sounded far away.

Following Phillip's glance to the letter on his desk, a worried expression wrinkled Eddie's brow once again as he looked back at Phillip. Phillip didn't notice the look on Eddie's face. He saw only the ivory-colored stationery.

A
s Phillip strolled through his house chatting with the different guests, he noticed the soft classical jazz albums he had playing on the stereo system had been changed. Now hard rock blared over the hidden speakers throughout the house and terrace. The only notice the guests gave of the switch was that they were not talking a little louder and dancing a little faster out by the pool.

He could tell the usual assortment of partiers were present: Fellow actors, directors, writers, agents, realtors, young hopefuls, lawyers, speculators, backers, patrons, and a few people whom no one knew but always showed up. The mood was relaxed and friendly. Deals would be discussed; movies would be argued over; past roles would be ribbed; lunches would be set; starlets would be introduced; real estate prices and locations would be considered; gossip would be exchanged.

Phillip was mildly surprised to discover he was actually enjoying himself. Tom and Eddie were minding themselves, which was a relief all in itself. He had just had a fascinating discussion on the latest art exhibit downtown. He bypassed the lovely young hopefuls that threw wide-eyed, smiling glances at his handsome face. He had partaken in the debate about the quality of the plays coming out of New York as compared to their own here in Los Angeles.

He found he was at ease in his role as host. Sarah had always planned and invited everyone with most of his friends never included. He was always easily bored by her models, photographers, agents, decorators and prospective employers. Almost nothing that her particular bunch discussed interested him. His world was equally unappealing to them. Phillip felt he
should
miss his wife's presence either at his side or mingling around the room. But, he didn't. The only twinge he felt was that Davey wasn't constantly sneaking halfway down the stairs to peek out at the colorful guests or wave at his Uncle Eddie. Phillip would always go up the stairs with some little dessert off one of the trays and carry him back up to his room. This memory was the only shadow on Phillip's evening.

The host resisted his impulse to go look once again at Davey's room. Instead, he went out onto the terrace where ten or so couples were dancing. A few of the more adventuresome were frolicking in the heated pool, the rising steam in the cool air making it look like a misty sauna. He sat with Tom Young and a realtor introduced as Mike Upson. They were talking about some available beachfront property along the coast. Tom was interested in getting out of the hills and onto the ocean. Mike happened to know of one or two prime locations. When Mike's wife interrupted and took him away to dance, Phillip could see Tom was still contemplating the offers.

“Say, Phil,” said Tom, suddenly looking over. “I need to make a call while this is still fresh in my mind. Can I use your phone?”

“Sure. If you want some privacy in this madhouse, use my office in the back. Just close the door. No one should disturb you.”

Tom began searching through some papers in his wallet and apparently couldn't find what he wanted. “Shoot. Do you have a phonebook in there?”

“In my desk. Help yourself,” Phillip offered, glancing over at the pool where a sudden shriek was heard over the deafening music. He smiled briefly at Tom who rolled his eyes. It was an old trick. One of the young hopefuls had a friend “accidentally” throw her into the pool. Some of those on the terrace quit dancing and talking and came to the aid of the pretty girl whose dress was ruined but clung provocatively to her shapely body. Phillip couldn't recall many parties with a pool where that didn't happen. Too bad the girls didn't realize that trick didn't work any more. It would save a lot on dry cleaning bills, he mused as he went inside to get something to eat and see what Maxwell Marlowe was doing.

T
om Young, at age thirty-four, had been amused to find himself an over-night star after being an actor for more than ten years. His role of The Loner had made him instantly popular with the women. Although having acted on a television series before, he had never been one of the leads. What most people did not realize was that, in real life, Tom was a lot like his “Time Police” character—intelligent, quiet, and alone.

Tom was the youngest of five children. All of his brothers and sisters had gone into the family business that his mother and father had started, Youngtown Clothes in New York, forty-five years ago in a third-floor walk-up with two sewing machines and a head full of designs. Now, Youngtown Clothes was the fourth largest line in the United States. All the family was still active in design and sales and promotion. All, that is, except for Tom.

He had gone to college to major in business as was expected of him, but found he had little interest in the whole idea. Realizing, even at the time, that he was becoming a cliché, he followed a certain charming lady into a drama class as a chance to be near her. She dropped out, but he had been acting ever since.

Tom's current popularity with the female fans didn't faze him much. He was well aware of his plain appearance by movie standards. He didn't have the square-jawed, manly ruggedness or the dimpled, boyish handsomeness found on most popular stars. He was just under six-feet tall, amber brown eyes, straight brown hair that always looked windblown, and a serious countenance that belied his quiet sense of humor.

Like his character, he had never married and spent most of his free time traveling. Tom had not set out to be single, but had never met that certain, special Someone. And it wasn't the fault of his co-workers and friends as they were forever setting him up to meet this or that perfect companion. Even Tom couldn't fully explain what was wrong, what he was seeking. Absolute beauty didn't appeal to him, even when it was combined with an intelligent mind or a good sense of humor. Most of the actresses and models who looked his way lacked something indefinable.

One of his sisters was now vice-president of the family business, second only to their father. Her tough business sense was helping push the company towards the number three spot. While Tom admired her expertise, he knew he wasn't looking for someone of her particular type either.

It was Tom's humor that surprised people the most when he allowed someone to get close enough to discover it. While Eddie was the chief instigator in most of their capers, Tom was always the right-hand man when it came to execution. When left to his own devices, Tom would silently do private deeds. He would keep adding sugar to someone's coffee when their head was turned. Or tighten knobs of props on the set so the action would have to be halted. Or lock the door to the time portal that resulted in a four-person pile-up. Or invite fifty people over the Eddie's house for a party when Eddie was off visiting his wife in New York. During the festivities, they would make it a point to empty both the refrigerator and the liquor cabinet. When they were all ready to leave, everything would be completely cleaned up and put in order, and all attending would sign a huge thank you card that would be left on Eddie's dining room table.

Tom was now seated behind Phillip's desk, the forgotten phonebook pushed off to the side. For in his search for a blank piece of paper for some notes he had to make, he had come across a pile of letters and two scripts. When he picked up the edge of one to see what it was, a picture had fallen out of the upper pages of the letters and landed face down on the carpet. On the back of it were the words: “This is my word processor. Don't need none o’ them fancy gadgets.” He had turned the snapshot over and laughed. On an off-white sofa sat a smiling woman holding a pen ready in one hand and had some kind of lap desk on which she was writing. The sofa was literally covered with papers and reference books. The woman's sock-covered feet rested easily on her coffee table and a large yellow and white cat overlooked her work.

As Tom returned the photo, his eyes caught a few words of the letters and he read “Time Police,” and “my novel.” Curiosity aroused, he found himself reading all of the letters from this Leslie Nelson, not really meaning to be nosey or pry into Phillip's business. He would have quit reading immediately at the first indication of a love letter or some business he should not be privy to. But, instead, he found well-written, funny letters of thanks, friendliness and observations. He chuckled over some of the passages and wondered about others—ones that mentioned his Loner character and a Jane Barrett. He thought her descriptions of “The Time Police” conventions were hysterical as he was a regular guest at such events and knew what they were like.

Like Eddie, once he thought about it, he had remembered Phillip's preoccupation on the set and figured the larger dog-eared script had been the reason. After checking his watch, Tom knew he wouldn't have time to read the whole manuscript. And he could think of no way to ask Phillip for it without revealing how he came across it. So he allowed himself a few more minutes to thumb through the pages. He was surprised to find in the first chapter that his character was now married. The letters had told him what he was now reading was a second novel. The first was the one being published. Now he was interested, for the first time, in novels written about his television show. He wanted to see how this Leslie managed to do what their writers wouldn't.

After carefully collecting all the papers and replacing them in the drawer, Tom sat a moment thinking. Leslie had told Phillip she sent a copy of her first manuscript to Tom over a year ago. By now it would have been read, charted, and destroyed with all the other unsolicited manuscripts and mail that poured into the studio for him. He felt he would have liked to have seen that one.
Oh, well
, he thought,
I'll just have to wait for the book
.

Glancing at his watch again, it was now too late to make his call. Looking around the quiet, well-arranged office, he smiled as he preferred this room to any other in the bleak, white mansion. He would have liked to stay in there shut away from the noise and the hilarity of the party, but a giggly young woman boldly threw the door open and declared that she had been looking for him just everywhere. When she shut the door behind her and gave him an inviting smile, Tom hurriedly excused himself and made his escape around her. The woman looked around the quiet office, wrinkled her pert nose, and turned off the light as she left.

E
arly the next morning, Phillip was doing his usual laps in the pool. The party had gone on into the late hours, and he actually had no idea who was still asleep inside the many guestrooms. Eddie had arranged with his own housekeepers to come by later that morning to help with the clean-up.

As Phillip continued his workout he was unaware of the ringing phone. In one of the downstairs bedrooms, a moan was heard as a hand reached out for the horribly loud noise.

“Hmmm?” came out instead of hello.

There was a moment of silence at the other end and then a static-filled voice asked, “Hello? Who is this, please?”

“Mindy,” she replied, not yet awake.

“Cindy?” Sarah demanded, straining to hear. “Is that you? What are you doing answering the phone?”

A yawn. “It wouldn't stop ringing any other way.”

The static increased. “Where's Phil? I want to talk to him. Now.”

Mindy turned to her sleeping husband and nudged him. “Bill, it's for you. Bill?”

There was no reply.

“He's asleep. Good party,” Mindy mumbled and hung up the phone.

“
P
hillip? This is Bill. Did you ever get your house straightened out after that party?”