FRENCH SUMMER WAS ALMOST FINISHED, and Lara felt the usual sadness that always came over her when filming ended. Making a movie, especially on location, was like becoming part of an extended family. The family she didn’t have. The nice thing was that everyone—from the hair and makeup people to the teamsters and grips—looked out for her. She was a special favorite with film crews, because even though she was an enormous star, she wasn’t a prima donna, and she knew how to treat everyone with fairness and respect. Most of the male members of the crew usually fell in love with her. And why not? She was exquisitely beautiful with a gorgeous body, and as if that wasn’t enough, she was smart, friendly and a good sport.
Nikki had organized a lavish wrap party to take place at the rented villa. There were huge tables of food set up in the garden, and plenty of beer, wine and spirits to accommodate the mostly English crew. The tennis court had been transformed into a flashy disco, complete with a dreadlocked disc jockey who was into sixties soul.
“Everything looks wonderful,” Lara exclaimed, emerging from her room, dressed in a filmy white sleeveless dress and flat sandals. Her skin glowed, and her shoulder-length hair was freshly washed.
“Enough with the wonderful shit,” Nikki responded, hands on black-leather-clad hips. “I worked my butt off to make damn sure it’s the wrap of the year. I want everyone to know that when they work on a Richard Barry movie, they know they’re appreciated.”
“I hope Richard appreciates you,” Lara remarked.
“He’d better,” Nikki said with a grin.
“You’ve been so good for him,” Lara continued. “He’s a much nicer person.”
“Want him back?” Nikki asked jokingly.
Lara laughed. “No, thank you.”
“That’s good,” Nikki said with another wide grin. “ ’Cause he’s totally unavailable.”
As if he sensed he was the subject of discussion, Richard appeared, strolling out to the garden, wearing beige linen pants and a casual silk shirt.
“Hmm . . . He even dresses better now,” Lara remarked.
“Of course,” Nikki said. “I drag him to Neiman’s twice a year and make him spend all his money!”
“Are you two talking about me again?” he asked, as usual pretending not to enjoy the attention.
“You know, Richard,” Lara said, lightly touching his arm, “you’re incredibly lucky to have found a woman who cares so much about you.”
“Hey—” Richard objected. “What about her? She got me!”
“Ah . . . the ego gets bigger and bigger,” Lara murmured.
“And that’s not all,” Nikki said with a lewd wink, flinging her arms around Richard’s waist and hugging him.
“Seriously though,” Lara said. “I couldn’t be happier for the two of you.”
“Now all we have to do is find the right guy for you,” Nikki said.
“I keep telling you,” Lara said patiently. “I’m perfectly content by myself.”
“Bullshit!” snorted Nikki. “Everyone needs somebody.”
“I’m sure Lara is quite capable of finding him on her own,” Richard said, irritated that Nikki was so intent on setting Lara up.
Lara wished they’d both leave her in peace. She was happy by herself—most of the time. “I’m going to miss you guys,” she said wistfully. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“You’ll be slaving so hard on The Dreamer you won’t even notice we’re gone,” Nikki said, referring to Lara’s next movie, which started principal photography in the Hamptons in a week.
“I want to work with you two again,” Lara said. “This was a memorable experience.”
“Tell your agent,” Nikki said crisply. “According to him, you’re booked for the next three years.”
“Nonsense!”
“Richard,” Nikki nudged her husband, excitement lighting her face. “Shall I tell Lara about the book I took an option on?”
“What book?” Lara asked curiously. “And why are you mentioning it now when I’m practically out of here?”
“It’s called Revenge,” Nikki said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “A true story about a schoolteacher who gets gang-raped, nearly dies, then recovers and exacts her own form of punishment.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I’m producing,” Nikki announced proudly. “My first attempt.”
“That’s great!”
“Richard’s promised to help—which means he’ll be keeping a steely eye on everything I do. I’m going for a hot young director. Unfortunately, it’s a depressingly low budget. But the lead’s a fantastic role for an actress.”
“I don’t get it,” Lara said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nikki shot a baleful glare at Richard. “He said I shouldn’t bug you.”
“Which is exactly what you’re doing now,” Richard interrupted, with a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look. “I’ve told you, Nikki, this is not the kind of movie Lara would be interested in.”
“Do you have a script yet?” Lara asked.
“Nothing I’m satisfied with.”
“I’d love to read it.”
“Just for fun?” Nikki asked hopefully.
“I’m curious to see what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“She has no idea,” Richard said dryly. “Try stopping her—I can’t.”
“Isn’t that what life’s all about?” Lara said gently. “Helping other people achieve their dreams?”
“Right on!” agreed Nikki, squeezing Richard’s arm. “And when I’m a big, fat mega-rich producer with an out-of-control coke habit, a live-in stud and a majorly inflated budget, the first person I’ll hire will be Richard Barry—who by that time will be an ancient, out-of-shape drunk, living in Santa Barbara with nothing but his memories and a couple of senile old dogs.”
“Thanks, darling,” Richard said ruefully. “You sure know how to make a person feel good about himself.”
“Only joking.”
“Like I didn’t know that?”
“Don’t get uptight.”
“Who’s uptight?”
“You two,” Lara said, shaking her head and laughing. “You’re acting like a road-show version of Virginia Woolf!”
“Let’s go get a drink,” said Richard. “We may as well be first.”
• •
Much later in the evening, Harry Solitaire grabbed Lara on the dance floor. He was sweating through his red polo shirt, and his hands were clammy as he placed them clumsily on her shoulders. His wife, a pleasant-looking English girl who had arrived in time to spend the last weekend with her husband, sat in a corner conversing with the first A.D. Lara felt sorry for the poor girl. After Harry’s aborted attempt at making it with Lara, he’d had a series of one-nighters that had included her stand-in, the continuity woman and two extras. There was no such thing as a secret fuck on location; everyone knew the moment it happened.
“I want to thank you for not saying anything about the other night,” he said, shooting a furtive glance at his wife, feverishly hoping the first A.D. was not saying anything he shouldn’t.
“Why don’t you try being a gentleman and stop cheating on your wife?” Lara suggested. “What would you do if she carried on the same way?”
“She wouldn’t,” Harry said gruffly.
“Maybe she should,” Lara retorted crisply. “See how you’d like it.”
“My wife’s not that kind of woman,” he said, sweat beading his upper lip.
“What makes you so sure?”
“It’s different for men,” he said, as if she should understand. “Everyone knows that.”
“No,” Lara said unwaveringly, “that’s where you’re wrong.”
Harry was not about to argue. He had the delectable Lara Ivory in his arms, and this was his last chance to score. He pulled her so close she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh. Before she could move away, he managed a sly “I’d give my left ball to make love to you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, grow up, Harry,” she said, pushing him away and leaving the dance floor.
Wrap parties. Sometimes they were too much of a good thing.
• •
The next morning, Lara departed early for the airport. Nikki and Richard came to the door of the villa to see her off, both clad in terry-cloth bathrobes, bleary-eyed with monster hangovers.
“Can’t believe it’s over,” Nikki said, stretching her arms high above her head.
“I know what you mean,” Lara agreed. “I feel the same way.”
“Be sure to look after yourself, sweetheart,” Richard said, squeezing her hand. “Anything you need—call me. You know I’m always here for you. Day or night.”
“I hate good-byes,” Lara said, giving them each a quick hug and jumping in the car. She didn’t look back as the car left the driveway.
Her loyal assistant, Cassie, met her at Nice airport. Cassie was an overweight woman in her mid-thirties who bore a fleeting resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor in her Larry Fortensky years. She’d worked for Lara for six years and made sure everything went smoothly. Today she was anxious to get Lara on the plane to Paris, where they would make a connection to New York.
“I’m tired,” Lara said, yawning.
“You don’t look it.”
A man from the airline fell all over himself to help them aboard. Another airline representative met them in Paris and escorted them to their Air France flight to New York. Lara settled into her first-class window seat. Cassie handed her the script of The Dreamer and a large plastic bottle of Evian water.
“Thanks,” she said, taking an unladylike swig. “If I fall asleep, don’t wake me.”
“Not even for food?”
“No, Cassie, especially not for food!”
A businessman across the aisle was stretching his neck to get a better look at her. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer and came over. “Lara Ivory,” he said, his middle-aged voice filled with a mixture of awe and admiration.
“That’s me,” she said brightly, knowing exactly what he would say next.
She was right. “You’re far more beautiful in the flesh,” he managed.
She smiled, dazzling him—even though it was still morning and she had on casual clothes and hardly any makeup. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Cassie ran interference, placing her considerable bulk between Lara and her admiring fan.
He took the hint and returned to his seat.
“Civilians!” Cassie muttered.
Lara wondered what it would be like to go out with a civilian. The only men she came in contact with were connected to movies—actors, producers, directors, the crew. She’d met Lee while working on a film. Richard had set up their first date. Lee had been painfully shy, a condition not helped by being thrust into the limelight as her boyfriend. They’d spent a year together, mostly at her house in L.A. She’d known two months before the breakup that the end was coming. There was no passion left in their relationship, and Lee clearly wasn’t happy living in her shadow. Plus she was being tracked obsessively by a stalker, which made him crazy. Eventually they’d agreed to part, amicably, and she hadn’t heard from him since.
“The steward wondered if he could get your autograph,” Cassie said.
“Sure,” she replied. “Tell him to come over.”
A few minutes later, the steward—a gay guy with impossibly long eyelashes and gentle eyes, knelt beside her seat. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Ms. Ivory,” he said in reverent tones. “Only my friend would draw and quarter me if I dared to come home without your signature. Is it a terrible imposition if I ask you to sign his book?”
“Of course not,” she replied, with a faint smile. “Do you have a pen?”
“Right here,” he said, fumbling in his pocket.
“What’s your friend’s name?” she asked, taking the blue leather-bound book from him.
“Put ‘To Sam, the man of my dreams.’ ”
Graciously she did as he requested. Some stars wouldn’t sign autographs at all, others made their fans pay for it. Lara felt privileged that she got asked. Being a movie star was a big responsibility—people looked up to her. She remembered seeing Demi Moore on David Letterman once, stripping down to an almost nonexistent bikini. At the time, Demi was the highest-paid female star in the world, and it seemed so dumb that she would get up and blow her image in front of millions of viewers, becoming just another babe with a body. Of course, she’d redeemed herself with a stellar performance in G.I. Jane, but was that enough?
Lara slept most of the journey, waking half an hour before their arrival in New York. She’d hoped to get to L.A., to spend a few days at her house, but there wasn’t time. Three frantic days of costume fittings and interviews in New York, and then she had to leave for the house the studio had rented for her in the Hamptons. Cassie had flown in several weeks earlier to check the place out. “It’s absolutely your style,” Cassie had assured her. “Very Martha Stewart—comfortable, with a pretty garden and beach access. Oh yes, and you’ll love this. It’s extremely private.”
Cassie knew her well, when she wasn’t working she loved seclusion. Parties and nightlife were not for her.
A limo took her straight to the St. Regis Hotel, where she was booked into the Oriental Suite—courtesy of Orpheus Studios, who were in charge of her for the next seven weeks while she shot The Dreamer, a light comedy about two divorced people who meet, fall in love, fall out of love and finally get together for good. It was a contemporary piece, a welcome change from Richard’s film, where day after day she’d been locked into excruciatingly uncomfortable period gowns. She’d loved making the movie—hated wearing the clothes.
Her costar in The Dreamer was Kyle Carson—a bankable star who’d recently separated from his wife of seventeen years. Lara had met Kyle briefly at several industry events, and he’d seemed attractive and charming. She hoped his recent separation hadn’t changed him.
The director was Miles Kieffer, an old friend, who’d directed her in her first movie.
The hotel staff greeted her with welcoming smiles, remembering her last visit. She was gracious to everyone, it wasn’t in her nature to be otherwise.
The manager personally ushered her upstairs to the sumptuous suite, making sure she had everything she required.
She often reflected on the strangeness of her life. Limos and rented houses, first-class travel, everybody ready to grant her slightest whim. It was understandable that movie stars grew to believe their own publicity and in their own importance. They were so protected and cosseted that reality ceased to exist.
She’d been thinking about Nikki’s project and wanted to read the book. She called out to Cassie, who was in the bedroom, busily unpacking for her. “Do me a favor, Cass,” she said, wandering into the room. “Call Barnes & Noble and have them send over a copy of Revenge.”
“It’s done,” Cassie said, heading for the phone.
The book arrived within the hour. After eating a light room-service dinner, she sat down to read.
She read way into the night, finally falling asleep with the book in her lap. She awoke early, and at 9:00 A.M. New York time, called her agent in L.A.
“Quinn,” she said. “Is it true I’m booked for the next three years?”
“You’re as busy as you want to be, Lara,” Quinn replied, struggling to wake up. “I could have you working steadily for three, four, five years—take your pick.”
“What if I felt like making a small, low-budget movie?”
That really woke him. “Why would you even consider such a thing?” he asked, alarm creeping into his voice.
“Could I do it?” she persisted.
“It’s possible.” A pause. “Is there something I should know about?”
“Not right now.”
“Good,” he said, relieved. “Can I go back to sleep?”
“You certainly can.” Thoughtfully she replaced the receiver. Quinn was an excellent agent, but like most agents, his prime interest was making money.
She pictured his face if she told him she wished to do Nikki’s film.
And if the script turned out to be as powerful as the book, there was a strong possibility that’s exactly what she might do.