It was a small cove, just a nick in the coast that couldn’t be seen from the road. It was reachable by a precipitous rock-laden path that wound down the steep cliff. There were only two people on the narrow belt of sandy beach, a man and a woman.
The man was tall and fit, although a bit on the lanky side, and his skin was just beginning to lose its lobster hue. He had a big smile on his face and laugh lines around his eyes.
The woman was also tall. Her skin was browner than the man’s. Her face was expressive and lively. She had a full, well-proportioned body, maybe just a tad fleshier than perfection. That did not seem to bother the man.
They were both naked on the sand.
She lay on her back and the man kneeled over her. He poured suntan oil onto his hands and massaged her breasts, which glistened in the morning sun.
“You look like a Turkish wrestler,” he said with a chuckle.
She smiled contentedly. “Well, I don’t have the leather breeches for you to hold onto,” she said, lifting her hips a few inches off the sand.
He poured more oil onto his hands and moved them down to her stomach. The movement of her hips grew more insistent. He moved his hands down. “Nope, you’re right. No breeches.”
Her head began to roll from side to side and her hands sought him.
“Oh, God! Enough massage,” she said. “Let’s do the wrestling, right now!”
Her hands pulled and guided. He found her and her back arched, straining up. It felt like riding the crest of a rolling wave and then come crashing down, engulfed by the surf. For a moment, he let pleasure take away all his troubles.
Afterward, as soon as they were both breathing normally, Gregory pulled Jenny to her feet and ran with her into the surf, where they laughed and cavorted like children. When they came out and lay down on their towels, he rolled onto his back, and looked up at the gulls wheeling along the currents created by the cliff. Jenny lay silently beside him, touching him only with her elbow.
After a few minutes, she spoke. “You’re ready to go back, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was great while it lasted.”
He rolled onto his side and looked at her. “It was more than great, it was wonderful,” he said. “I needed that.”
She turned her head slightly to face him. “But you haven’t been able to forget, have you?” Her eyes were squinting in the glare, unreadable.
He sat up.
“Is it Sharon?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. It was long before that.”
She pulled herself up beside him and sat with her arms entwined around her knees. “Well, why don’t you go to her?”
“I can’t find her.” There was a pause, and then he felt the need to explain himself further. “There was a time when I thought you might be she.”
She took his words figuratively, which was not how he had meant them. He meant to say, “We kept on bumping into each other and in the back of my mind was an idea that grew, that you might be Brooke, but now I know that, as lovely as you are, you aren’t she.” But he couldn’t speak the words. They were forbidden.
She accepted his remark silently and he hastily added, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You’re an amazing and lovely woman, and in my way, I love you, Jenny. But it’s not fair. I realize I can’t love you wholeheartedly while she’s still out there someplace. I should be able to, I know, but I can’t. I’m sorry if I led you to think…”
Jenny placed her hand on his. “Who is she?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Jenny, I’ve got a lot to thank you for, even though you may not realize it. When I left L.A., I was a mess. In these last few days, you’ve helped me get it together again. Whatever happens now, I know I’ll be able to cope. Now I have to get on with my life, my work.”
“Hey, it’s been my pleasure,” she said with a grin, and he knew it was all right with her. Everything usually was with Jenny, and he realized how lucky he was to have met her.
They kissed with a tenderness that neither of them had shown before.
“I don’t know how you’ll take this,” he said hesitantly. “And it's not a consolation prize, this would be really arrogant of me. But you’ve turned out to be one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I hope you always will be.”
She gave her cheerful grin again. “It’s a lot more than a consolation prize,” she said. “Anyone who wins the silver medal with you is doing fine.”
The first Academy Awards banquet was held on May 16, 1929 at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Since then, things have changed. The advent of sound ruined the careers of a number of prominent actors and actresses and color made the art of film more lifelike. The practice of giving the awards at banquets was stopped in 1942.
But some things never change in Hollywood, and one of these is a golden statuette. This small man, with his crusader’s sword, standing on a reel of film, has remained the same in design since first conceived. The gold-plated, thirteen-and-a-half-inch, eight-and-one-half-pound statue costs a few hundred dollars to produce, but its value in the film industry is inestimable.
There is a mystique to the little fellow. Some have claimed that he has jinxed more careers than he has assisted. He has been praised, damned, belittled, berated, and worshiped, but through it all, in the history of the Academy, only a very few have refused to accept him.
The Academy Awards ceremony is Hollywood’s biggest night, a magical parade with an excitement that nothing can dispel. And it all revolves around this coveted little statue named Oscar.
Gregory was nervous and excited in spite of his determination to remain cool about the whole thing. He was going to the awards show with Steve and Liz Williams, and so he arrived at their house at about four in the afternoon. Because of television requirements in the East, the show was scheduled to begin at five thirty in Los Angeles, a small indication of how television had become the Great Dictator of society.
Gregory wore a black tuxedo, feeling ridiculous to be so attired in broad daylight. He was reassured at hearing the compliments of his host and hostess. But without doubt, the chief attraction was Liz, sexily svelte in a tight, full-length, off-the-shoulder red dress.
Steve began to ply Gregory with drinks as soon as he arrived. Gregory concluded that reverse psychology was at work. Steve seemed much the most nervous of the threesome and was probably projecting his feeling of uneasiness onto Gregory. It was strange, Gregory thought, since Steve had nothing to lose, and Gregory, if one were to accept the gospel of the Great God Oscar, had his whole future at stake.
“You’re going to win, man,” Steve said, holding up his glass. “I’ve got a gut feeling about it. And my gut, she is never wrong.”
“All you’ve got is a gut, sweetie,” Liz commented.
“Thanks for your vote of confidence, Steve,” Gregory said, “but the odds are against me.”
“What do you mean, the odds are against you? Your script is better than the others.”
Gregory laughed. “That’s debatable. But there are others, right? Three, or is it four? Whatever. So that makes the odds four to one before we even start.”
“Ah, bull!” Steve said. “That doesn’t compute for crap. That’s just pure pessimism. I told you, I’ve got a gut feeling. Don’t hand me that odds manure.”
“I wonder what odds Jimmy the Greek has given you?” Liz said. “You know he does it for the Oscar Awards, just like for a football game. Let’s call Vegas and find out.”
“Forget it,” Gregory said. “Between Steve’s gut and the Greek’s odds, a guy could go bonkers.”
“Well, go bonkers,” Steve ordered, filling his glass again. “Because you, my good man, are going to walk out of there tonight with a little statue in your hand.”
“Can it, will you, Steve?” Gregory said. “Whatever happens will happen.”
Steve refused to be put off. “What kind of attitude is that? I’ve told you—you’re going to—”
Steve broke off, catching a signal from Liz. By now, even he could realize that his attempts to bolster Gregory were only causing more tension.
“Hey,” Liz said, “how about something to eat?” She went into the kitchen and came back with a tray of hors d’œuvres.
Gregory took a cracker and munched it slowly.
What if?
Ah, hell, he told himself. It didn’t matter. It was just an overrated object. The public was the final judge. They’d liked the film and that was enough for him. But another devilish little voice in his mind said, “Who do you think you’re fooling, Mr. Cool?” The public liked the film, sure, but what they liked was a composite effort consisting of the story, the stars, the photography, the music, the pace, the editing. But an Oscar was another matter. That was recognition of the excellence of his script. That was a tribute by his peers, people who competed and knew the values, and he had no right to underestimate it.
He tried to stop the insistent voices squabbling in his head. He’d been doing a lot of that lately, he realized. He’d tried to stop thinking about Brooke in the past few days as well. At least, he’d tried to stop dwelling on the things they’d done together, those little vignettes of their life that played so entrancingly on the screen of his memory. So far, he’d done pretty well. Now, however, the alcohol, together with the strain of the evening, was undoing it all. As he sat there sipping his drink, the images crowded into his mind, obliterating everything else. Dammit, he had to stop! He bit angrily into his cracker.
“Polly want a cracker?” Brooke held it out playfully. He leaned forward and took a bite. They were on the beach at Malibu, loafing in the sunshine, both playing truant. He picked up the champagne and poured it into their glasses. “Brookey, want a drink?” he said in the same cadence she had used. “To be brutally frank about it, Brooke wants you,” she said, rolling over on top of him, sending the glasses spinning into the sand. Her damp swimsuit was cold against his chest, her bare skin warm. He pretended to struggle, but then he kissed her impetuously, wanting her as much as he always did.
“What?” he said, focusing his eyes back into the room.
“Is Jenny going to the awards?” Liz repeated.
“Oh. Yes. She’s going with someone else. We decided to cool it for a while.”
“God, you’re a dingbat!” Liz said. “She’s a great chick. Just right for you.”
“Hey, I like her a lot,” he protested. “It’s just that… at the moment…”
“Want to tell me about it?” she said.
“No, Mom, I don’t,” he said.
Steve looked at his watch. “Where the hell’s the baby-sitter? It’s almost time to go.”
“Chill out,” Liz said. “You’re not up for an Oscar.” She went into Cosmo’s room to check on him.
The doorbell rang on cue. The baby-sitter was a young teenage girl, gangling and ill at ease. She had pimples and put her hand over her mouth when she smiled to hide the braces. Gregory felt for her. He remembered the times he’d hated being a teenager, awkward, never knowing whether he was doing the right thing or not.
Liz went over her duties with the girl for a few minutes in the bedroom, then came back snapping her fingers.
“Okay, boys. Let’s go, if you’re together enough.”
Gregory stood, draining his glass. He wasn’t sure how together he was. Tense, he was sure about that. He straightened his jacket, feeling suddenly like an impostor who was going to turn into a pumpkin at the magic hour. God, what an impossible time of the day, he thought. I should be working now, not traipsing off to a beauty contest.
The loyal fans were there. They thronged the street outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion—four, maybe five thousand of them. Hastily erected wood and scaffolding grandstands had been set up to accommodate them. Others lined up on the street behind cordons of ushers and security men.
Gregory peered out of the limousine window as it pulled up. The crowd peered back, staring hungrily, wondering who would emerge from the car.
As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, the crowd drew in a deep breath of suspense. Then there was a deep sigh of disappointment when nobody recognized them.
The Channel Five reporter stuck a mike under Gregory’s nose after a short introductory spiel.
“How do you feel about your chances tonight?” he asked.
He wanted to say something witty, but instead he said, “There’s a lot of competition. They all deserve to win.”
“Good grief!” Liz said under her breath as they walked away. “I hope your acceptance speech is better than that.”
A young girl managed to reach him and asked for his autograph. She’d seen him filmed by the television cameras. He had to be someone.
He scrawled his name on the pad she gave him and handed it back. She looked at it uncomprehendingly.
“Who are you?” she said.
“I’m a writer,” he replied.
“Oh, a writer,” she said, disappointed. He felt as if he’d betrayed her and had to suppress a nonsensical urge to apologize.
An usher showed them to their seats. A couple of people he knew shouted, “Good luck!” as he passed down the aisle. They had good seats, fairly near the front.
The pandemonium outside was matched in the hall. It was created mainly by the television crews. There were about a dozen television cameras in the room, two right in the center of the audience. Hundreds of spotlights swung from the ceilings, connected to one another by a jungle of wires.
Gregory looked up at the blazing lights, squinting under their glare.
Brooke held his arm nervously as they stepped out of the limousine. Michael looked at the spotlights, six of them, weaving enticing patterns in the night sky above Grauman’s Chinese Theater. The crowd of bystanders began to clap when they saw Brooke.
It was their first premiere together. Previously, they had managed to stay out of the Hollywood limelight as they had originally intended. She had gone to premieres like this with people the studio had chosen for her. He went alone, if at all. But the day before, she had said to him, “Michael, I want you to take me tomorrow night.” He was puzzled. “But what about…?” She shook her head. “I don’t care anymore. You’re my guy and I want everyone to know it. I don’t care about anything else anymore.” So they found themselves walking through the crowd, smiling at fans who wondered who the tall, rough-looking man with Brooke Ashley was. Inside the lobby, the small clique of celebrities looked at them speculatively. When they sat down in the dark, Brooke took his hand and pressed it to her face. He could feel her lips move against his palm but he could not hear her. “What?” he said, leaning toward her. “I love you,” she said. “I’m happy we’re here together.”
Gregory rubbed his eyes, then he adjusted his bow tie. He wondered what he was doing there. Butterflies were crawling around in his stomach. Busy little bastards. He had an urge to walk out, go home and watch the presentations on television. He would get a better view of it all. He resisted the impulse to flee, and looked around. He didn’t know any of the people in the immediate vicinity, but he recognized most of the famous faces. Gene Hackman, Jerry Lewis, Robert Redford, Faye Dunaway, Paul Newman, James Caan. There were others—the great and the not-so-great. Hollywood had turned out in splendor for its night. The women were untouchably glamorous, the men strikingly elegant. This, the cameras seemed to be saying to the world as they panned in on the nominees and other notables, is what Hollywood is all about. The final incestuous touch was provided by the two giant monitors on either side of the stage, showing the audience what the home viewers were seeing.
“There’s one of your rivals,” Liz said, nudging Gregory in the ribs and pointing to a monitor.
The camera had closed in on James Norton, the screenwriter nominated for the script of Hurricane, a highly successful adventure film. Gregory envied him, not for his achievements, but for his calm as he chatted comfortably with the woman beside him. An old pro, Norton had been through it half a dozen times before.
The orchestra started events rolling with a fanfare. There were short, obligatory speeches, and then the entertainment got underway with Sammy Davis, Jr., singing one of the nominated songs. Gregory tried to enjoy it, but his chest had an iron band around it and his right leg and foot had a will of their own, keeping a hellish beat. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. Brooke’s locket was there. He carried it with him everywhere these days. He felt his car keys next to it.
“Have you got the keys?” he asked Brooke. “No. I gave them back to you.” He stood beside the car in his bathing suit, searching through the pockets of the clothes he was carrying. The sun had dropped, the beach was cooling off. “I don’t have them,” he said. “I gave them to you to put in your purse when I got out of the car, just before we went down to the beach.” She shook her head. “I held them for you, then gave them back.” He clicked his tongue. “Look in your purse.” She looked. “Nope.” He put the clothes on the hood of the car. “Are you sure?” “Sure I’m sure.” He sighed. “Well, if you don’t have them and I don’t have them, they must be in the sand where we were sitting. Come on.” They walked back to the beach. “We were sitting here,” she said. He pointed with his finger. “No. Here. This is the hole I dug for the champagne bottle.” They got on their hands and knees and scrambled through the sand. He found a quarter. “This is a nightmare,” he said. “You might get rich,” she suggested. “This is a nightmare,” he repeated. “Don’t blame me!” “I’m not blaming you, Brooke. But look through your purse again, will you?” “It’s a waste of time,” she said. “Well, do it anyway.” He continued running his fingers through the sand. He found a comb. “Popular spot,” he said. Ten minutes later he told her to look through her purse again. “For God’s sake, Michael. I’ve already looked at least four times!” “Again,” he ordered sternly. A moment later he heard her cough and looked up. The keys were dangling from her hand. “Where?” he asked, frowning. Her face was red. “In my purse,” she said. “I had them in a side pocket.” “Jesus Christ, Brooke! What a way to earn a quarter!”
“What are you laughing at?” Liz said curiously.
“Oh, just thinking… just, ah… nervous, I guess.”
The monitors were featuring clips from the nominated films in the Best Cinematography category. He joined in the applause after each one, but he just couldn’t get into the spirit of it. He wished they’d hurry and get to his category. Get it over with, please; win, lose, or draw. His throat was dry. He was thirsty.
He woke up shouting from a dream in which he was drowning. Brooke stood above him, a champagne glass in her hand. The contents of the glass were being poured over his face. “Christ, Brooke. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you weren’t coming over tonight.” She fell on her knees beside the bed. “I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “Here, let me help you.” She began to lick the champagne from his face. They both started giggling.
Bob Hope was at the podium, doing his traditional monologue. If it was funny, Gregory was in no condition to know it. The crowd laughed uproariously and the applause was frenetic.
Liz dug him in the ribs again and pointed with her head. “Your agent.”
Richard Willmer was gesturing at him from three rows ahead. He waved back. Willmer gave him the thumbs-up signal, changed it to a circle with his thumb and second finger joined, and ended with a clenched-fist salute.
Liz laughed. “He certainly knows his sign language,” she said.
“Mother won’t come between us,” Brooke said. “We won’t let her,” he said hopefully. They were lying in bed. He was leaning on an elbow and looking down at her. They had just made love and her cheeks were the color of pale pink roses. She was always at her prettiest then, he thought. “We won’t let anyone come between us, ever,” she said. “Lady, you’ve got yourself a deal,” he replied.
The Jonas Foster Dance Troupe had the stage, dancing to another of the nominated songs, an instrumental number. They were impossibly energetic. Gregory began to feel exhausted watching them.
Steve leaned past Liz to speak to him. His expression was encouraging. “Hold on, man. Just a few minutes and you’ll be off the hook.”
Gregory smiled back feebly.
Another comedian took the podium.
Gregory half-stood. “I’ve got to go to the john,” he said to Liz. He made his way down the row, mumbling apologies to the four people nearest the aisle.
When he got to the washroom, he drank water from the faucet, then splashed it over his face, rubbing as hard as he could. It helped. Then he stood in the lobby and smoked half a cigarette. That helped, too.
He arrived back just in time to hear a soft, French-accented voice say, “Thank you very much,” and see a woman walk off the stage to applause. Even from the brief view he had of her profile and her back, he got the impression she was extremely beautiful.
“Who was that?” he asked Liz after he took his seat.
“Monique Rousseau. Best Actress in a Foreign Film.”
He had never heard of her. He didn’t keep up much with foreign films. Brooke had acted the role of a Frenchwoman in The Flight of an Eagle. Although the exteriors were done in New Orleans, the interiors were shot at the studio soundstage.
He was watching from an inconspicuous vantage point on the side. Brooke stood in front of the cameras, flexing her fingers restlessly. But as soon as the director called, “Action!” she was all calm professionalism. It was the final scene. She would recite the full monologue, though part of it would be cut later in the editing process. “I’ve loved you since the sun first rose,” she said. “I’ve loved you through God-sent catastrophe and manmade disaster. I’ve loved you though my heart stopped beating and my eyes ran dry, through time and in spite of it, for our love has its roots in eternity, and cannot fall victim to time or death. My love has no shame, no pride. It is only what it is, always has been, and always will be. It is yours. All yours. Only yours.” He stood there, knowing the words were meant for him. She kissed her co-star and he knew the kiss was meant for him. The crew applauded spontaneously at the end of the scene, and she walked quickly off the set toward him. They held each other, emotion precluding words. The crew continued to applaud.
Johnny Carson took the stage and announced Jimmy Carter was negotiating for their release from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The audience roared. Gregory laughed in spite of himself. He almost wished it were true.
“No one, nothing can ever separate us,” Brooke said fiercely. He tenderly stroked her hair. Her head was on his chest. “If we’re ever separated, for any reason,” she said, “let’s make a pact to get back together no matter what the obstacles.” He kissed the top of her head and said, “I told you long ago, our love is eternal, and it won’t fall victim to time, or death. Remember?” “I remember,” she said.
“And now,” someone was saying, “to present the award for the Best Original Screenplay, here is Miss Monique Rousseau.”
Gregory sat upright, the butterflies kicking to get out of his stomach. He looked at Monique Rousseau’s close-up on the monitor. He turned pale, all thought of his own stake in the ceremony completely vanished from his mind. Then his face became flushed with color. The adrenaline was pumping wildly through his body.
She had fair hair that fell to her shoulders; full, curving lips, mocking blue eyes. She was wearing a white strapless dress that clung to her body as far as her hips, then fell gracefully to the floor.
God! Oh, God, she's… Oh, yes…
She stumbled charmingly over some of the names as she read the cue cards announcing the nominees, eliciting good-natured laughter from the audience.
“And now, the envelope, if you please.”
Somebody came out of the wings and handed her an envelope.
Gregory’s eyes began to film over with gray dots.
She tore it open, took out the paper and unfolded it.
“The winner is…” she read slowly, “Gregory Thomas for The Hunter!”
Gregory saw himself on the monitor as it flashed her picture away, his mouth partly open. Steve stamped his feet and yelled a war-cry. Liz kissed him exuberantly and whispered urgently in his ear, “Go! Stand up, dummy! Go!”
He stood up and walked down the aisle as if in a dream, drifting through the warm cocoon of applause.
Our love has its roots in eternity and cannot fall victim to time or death.
He stumbled up the stairs and had to use his hand to save himself. Laughter mixed with the clapping. It was thunderous. It deafened him.
Our love has its roots in eternity…
He walked across the stage toward the actress. It seemed to be taking forever. She was smiling radiantly at him with that warmth he knew so well.
…and cannot fall victim to time or death.
Her eyes met his and they both felt the shock of it as she handed him the Oscar.
I’ve won, I’ve won! He thought elatedly as he looked at her.
He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve found you,” he said clearly. “For always.”
Then he realized he had the Oscar in his hands and took the podium.