On the other side of town, Viveca Rothschild, dubbed the Blonde Bombshell by the press, was hosting a similar Oscar party. Twenty-nine, lithe, blonde, and voluptuous, Viveca had already racked up two nominations in her career, but she had never won. After a lifetime of playing femmes fatales, her departure role in a romantic comedy had been a gamble, but it had paid off. Dancing, singing, and delivering big laughs, she had wowed the critics with her versatility, earning her best reviews ever. After taking home her first Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy, an Oscar nomination was all but assured.
Viveca couldn’t have been more nervous. Only the presence of her Hollywood friends and her boyfriend, Bruce, were helping her hold it together. Or at least put up the appearance.
On the television, the presenter said, “The nominations for Best Screenplay are . . .”
The announcement was met by boos, hisses, and catcalls.
Viveca’s best friend, Cheryl, threw a napkin at the screen. “How many damn categories are there?” she said, and everyone laughed.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Bruce said. “I know you’re going to be nominated.”
Viveca put up her hand tolerantly, urging her boyfriend to be quiet. Bruce was a handsome young man with rippled muscles and a charming smile, and had been her high school sweetheart. But he was not good at picking up on social cues. Bruce had been wounded in Iraq and had come home with a Purple Heart, a Medal of Honor, and the resultant post-traumatic stress disorder. For the most part he had a pleasant nature, but as far as his girlfriend was concerned, he was ready to fly to her defense at the slightest provocation.
The screenwriting nominations gave way to Best Director.
“Did anybody act in these movies?” Cheryl said, and everybody laughed.
As if he heard her, the presenter said, “And the nominees for Best Supporting Actress are . . .”
“Supporting!” Cheryl wailed. “Kill me now!”
Finally they got to Best Actress. Three names were read, none of them Viveca’s. Fourth time was the charm.
“Viveca Rothschild, for Paris Fling.”
The entourage burst into roars of approval.
“Quiet, quiet!” Viveca said. “One more to go!”
The room was instantly hushed, with everyone thinking the same thing.
Viveca murmured it under her breath: “Not Meryl Streep! Not Meryl Streep!”
“And Tessa Tweed, for Desperation at Dawn,” the presenter said, and the room collectively sighed in relief.
Viveca had dodged that one last bullet.
An Oscar was within her grasp.