Spa Page 3

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it exciting? He’s replacing Tommy Tune.”

  “Great.” Cliff drained the last of his drink and chewed noisily on a mouthful of ice. Other people’s success was not what he needed to hear about right at this moment.

  “Well, are you going to come? You know Anne and I would love to see you.” He paused. “Amanda’s going to be here.”

  “Who cares.” He spit the remaining ice back in the glass.

  “I thought you two were an item.”

  “Yeah, well, as the world turns. Amanda got what she wanted from me—and I don’t mean the pleasure of my company. She got that part on “Dynasty,” and all of a sudden it’s ‘So long, been good to know you.’ You know what I mean?”

  “Sure, Cliff. I know what you mean.”

  “Still, it’s her loss, right?”

  “Right, Cliff. Look, about tonight?”

  “I’ll give it some thought, O.K., Marty? I’m just waiting for a call from Alvin. This could be the big one. I’ve got to hang around the phone until I hear from him. But, if it gets settled early, I’ll probably come over later.”

  “O.K. Cliff. See you.”

  “Yeah, see ya, Marty.”

  Cliff got up and went back into the house—the house that used to belong to Elvis—the house that had cost him pretty well every cent he had earned from “Darkness Before the Dawn.” But then Belladgio Road was one of the most prestigious addresses in Bel-Air. And, if nothing else, a star had to be conscious of giving out the right image, especially if he was a fading star. Let them know you were anything but successful and they would eat you alive in this town.

  He took a fresh glass out of the kitchen cupboard, threw in a handful of crushed ice from the ice bucket, followed that with a healthy slug of Silent Sam, squeezed half a lime into the mixture, thought about adding some tonic and didn’t. Then he went back outside.

  The heat was still searing, and the air had taken on the thick murkiness that settles on southern California when the wind doesn’t come along to blow the crud over the mountains.

  He looked out over the city. It was after three now, and a purple haze had begun to form that would, in a couple more hours, turn into one of L.A.’s famous sunsets—great to look at, but bad for your health. Just like Amanda, he decided, as he sat down on the edge of the lounge chair and then stood up again right away. In his absence the yellow-and-blue-striped pad had become white-hot. He dragged the chair and then the table into the shade, placed a towel over the cushion, and sat down again to wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, he couldn’t stand it any more. He picked up the phone and dialed Alvin’s number.

  “Celebrity Management Group. Good afternoon.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Minter, please. This is Mr. Eastman calling.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Eastman, Mr. Minter is taking a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Yes, I would. Tell him I called and it’s important that I speak to him this afternoon. He can reach me at home.

  “I’ll tell him as soon as he comes out of the meeting, Mr. Eastman.”

  Cliff hung up the phone and drummed his fingers on the table. All he could do now was wait. And he hated waiting. It made him feel so helpless. He took another long swallow of the vodka and lay back in the chair, his eyes closed against the smog. His mind was busy plotting.

  “… If I get this part, I’m going to demand 5 percent of the gross, and I want at least five million. At least. This picture is going to go right through the roof. I can feel it. They’ll probably open in at least 400 houses nationwide. And then of course there’s the foreign distribution to consider—they love me in France and Germany—and we’ve got to get it into the theatres in time for the Academy Awards nomination deadline. We’re talking Oscar-time, here.…”

  He must have dozed off, because, when he opened his eyes and looked at his watch, it was four o’clock. Why the hell hadn’t Alvin called? He picked up the phone again and dialed CMG.

  “Celebrity Management Group. Good afternoon.”

  “Hello. It’s Mr. Eastman again. Is Mr. Minter still in that meeting?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid Mr. Minter has left for the day.”

  “Left for the day! Didn’t you give him my message? Didn’t you tell him I have to talk to him this afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “And he’s left for the day?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to leave another message, Mr. Eastman?”

  “No … I … Yes, I would. Tell Mr. Minter that if he can’t return my calls, I can always go to another agency.” He slammed down the phone.

  “Goddamn agents. When they smell money they’re all over you. Go into a little slump and they treat you like the plague.”

  The ice had melted into the vodka, but Cliff picked up the glass and drank down the warm, diluted mixture in one gulp. Then he got up and went into the house to make another drink.

  He had just reached the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  “Miguel, will you get that?” There was no answer. The doorbell rang again.

  “Miguelllll. Bloody houseboy’s never around when you need him.” Cliff went through the kitchen and down the black-and-white-tiled hallway to the front of the house. He reached the door at the same time as Miguel, who came skidding down the other hallway, which led to his room over the garage.

  “Been having a little nap again, have we?” Miguel started to protest.

  “No, Señor Eastman.…”

  “Forget it. Just remember one thing. I can always tell the Immigration people about your phony ‘green card’. Now do you want to get the door, or do you want to watch while I get it?”

  Miguel, blanching at the mention of Immigration, moved to open the door. On the portico, framed by the bougainvillaea which rioted in purple confusion all around the entrance, stood Alvin, clutching his briefcase.

  “Hiya, Cliffy.”

  “Well, if it isn’t my long-lost agent. Come in, Alvin. I take it the news stinks, since you wouldn’t answer my calls and now you’ve come here to plunge the knife into my heart in person.”

  Alvin Minter stepped into the hallway and Miguel closed the door behind him.

  “Cliff, are you drunk?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it. You want one?” He held up his empty glass.

  Alvin shook his head. “No thanks. It’s too early for me. Maybe a beer, though. It sure is hot outside.”

  “Well, enjoy it, Alvin. The weather’s the closest you’re going to get to hot around here. Isn’t that right?”

  “Now Cliff, don’t get all bitter and twisted on me. It’s just.…”

  “Wait a minute. Let’s not discuss my failures in front of the help.”

  “Miguel, una cerveza, por favor, and fill this up with vodka and a little ice. Don’t forget to squeeze the lime.”

  Miguel took the glass and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  “You wanna do this inside or out?”

  “In. The smog’s making my eyes water.”

  They went into Cliff’s oak-panelled library. It was dark and quiet. A place for retreat.

  Cliff lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. The leather was refreshingly cool. Alvin took the matching dark-green leather wing chair. They waited in silence until Miguel had come and gone.

  “O.K. Cliff. I guess it’s pretty obvious. You didn’t get the part.”

  “Who did?”

  Alvin didn’t answer. He sipped at his beer. Picked at one of the brass studs on the arm of the chair.

  Cliff opened his eyes and sat up. “Look Alvin, I think I’m entitled to know who is going to be replacing me in the hearts and minds of the movie-going public. So tell me, who got the part?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I really, really want to know. I really want to know with sugar on it. Do I have to say ‘May I’ as well?”

  “O.K.
Cliff. Don’t get testy. Pierce Brosnan got the part.”

  “Pierce Brosnan! Pierce bloody Brosnan got my part?” Cliff was standing up now.

  “You’ve got to admit he’s right for it. He’s a little young, maybe, but they can make him look more mature. A little grey at the temples … a few lines around the eyes.…”

  “A little grey at the temples! A few lines around the eyes! I’ve got a little grey at the temples. I’ve got lines around the eyes.” He squinched up his eyes to make the point. “I look mature! I am perfect for that part.”

  “I know, Cliff, I know. I told them that. And Goldman agreed with me. He really did. Said he’d always loved your movies, even when he was a kid. He thought you’d be perfect for the part of Rory. But Glick disagreed, and you know he’s the one who really runs the show.” Alvin had begun to fidget in his wing chair. Cliff was pacing.

  “Glick disagreed, eh? Did he say why? Is it maybe something to do with my personal life he doesn’t like? Could it have anything to do with that ‘lunch’ I had with his cousin’s wife? Tell me, O agent mine, what’s the real reason I didn’t get the part?”

  “Cliff, it’s nothing to do with you: personal life. Glick doesn’t care who or how many, and neither does anybody else in this town. As long as you’re box office you can live any way you like, screw anybody you like. It’s just that, well, to be frank, your last three pictures only did so-so … and.…”

  “They were good scripts. In fact they were great scripts. But the producers spent no money on production or publicity. What did they expect? It wasn’t me who screwed up. It was the goddamn front office.”

  “True, Cliff, true, but it doesn’t look that way to Goldman and Glick. All they see is that Cliff Eastman’s last three pictures were flops. Christ, the last one went straight to video. It was never even released in the States.”

  “It did well in Europe. All my pictures do well in Europe. Did you tell them that?”

  “Look, Cliff, it’s not just your track record. It’s well.… How can I put this? Shit, I didn’t wanna have to say it, Cliff. I like you too much to wanna hurt you, but.…”

  “Go ahead, hurt me.”

  “Glick thinks you’re too old for the part.” Alvin blurted out the words in an apologetic tumble.

  “Too old for the part! Too fucking old for the part?” Cliff’s face was turning bright red.

  “Blood pressure, Cliffy, blood pressure,” warned Alvin.

  “Fuck the blood pressure and fuck them. How can I be too old for the goddamn part? Rory is a forty-seven-year-old man who’s seen too much of the good life and wants to make a change. I’m a forty-seven-year-old man who’s seen too much of the good life and wants to make a change. How is that puppy going to play the part like I would have played it? Answer me that.” He stopped pacing and willed himself to calm down. Alvin was right. He couldn’t afford the luxury of a heart attack.

  “I can’t answer that, Cliff. This is Hollywood. You know how it is. It doesn’t have to make sense, just money. You’re still a good actor, Cliff, but you’ve been around this town too long not to know how the game is played. You know the numbers.”

  “Sure, Alvin. I know the numbers. Half the movie-going public is under twenty. Two-thirds are under twenty-five.”

  “That’s right, Cliff. They want to see people up there on the screen who are closer to their own age. People they can identify with. Not someone who reminds them of their parents.”

  “Thanks a lot, Alvin. You really know how to cheer a guy up.” Cliff picked up Alvin’s glass and saw that it was empty. “You want another beer?”

  “No, no thanks. One’s my limit. I’m driving. And you should lay off, too. Booze ages you faster than anything.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take that under advisement.” He pushed the button on the intercom. “Miguel, get your little brown buns in here with another drink, pronto.”

  “Cerveza, too, Señor?”

  “No. No more bloody cerveza. Mr. Minter is driving, for Christ’s sake!”

  Cliff went back to the couch and sat on the arm nearest Alvin’s chair.

  “O.K., Alvin. You’re my agent. You tell me. What’s the bottom line on this? Where do we go from here?”

  “This isn’t the only script in town, Cliff.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve been reading them. Half of them call for kids with braces on their teeth and spots on their faces and the other half are for women who want to live their lives without men. Where does the middle-aged, fading male star find a part?”

  Alvin stood up. “Cliff, let me have some time. Go away. Have a vacation. Get yourself straightened out, mentally and physically.” He thought about adding “and dry out,” but didn’t.

  “Get out of town for a while, and let me work on a few things. In fact, I’ve got just the place for you. Irma went there for a couple of weeks. It’s this new spa in the Caribbean. She came back looking a hundred percent. You can go there. Get yourself back on track, and nobody will be any the wiser. It’s too far for the Hollywood crowd to go, so you’re not likely to run into anybody you’d rather not see. And Irma says it’s real quiet, hardly anyone there, so you can have a nice rest. How about it?”

  “A nice rest.” Cliff shook his head. “Who would ever have thought that I would get to the time when a “nice rest” would be the answer? But, what the hell. Do I have a choice?”

  The agent’s answer was his silence.

  “O.K. I’ll think about it, Alvin. I’ll see. Come on, I’ll walk you to the door. I feel a binge coming on.”

  Chapter 5

  Belle and Regina

  Mildred Makepeace had one of the toughest jobs in New York City, or at least that’s how she saw it. As the secretary cum babysitter cum referee for Belle Taylor and her daughter Regina—yes, the Regina Taylor—she approached every working day with the same cautious dread and flooding adrenaline as any soldier going into battle.

  The Terrible Taylors, as she had come to refer to them when gossipping with her friends, were about as tranquil as two cats in a sack. When they weren’t shouting at each other at the top of their lungs, they were ignoring each other in stony silence. In fact, rarely did a word pass between them that was not taken as an invitation to engage in conflict.

  This had not always been the case, though. When Mildred had first come to work for them, the mother had ruled the roost with an iron fist, and the child had been her obedient acolyte. Under Belle’s benevolent dictatorship, both the home and the business had run like well-oiled and very profitable machinery. But lately the daughter had begun to try bending the fingers on that fist and the fist had reacted by tightening even further. And so it was that Mildred was the one who invariably had to smooth things over, mend the breaks, and tend the wounded egos.

  It was not an easy job, to be sure, and she wouldn’t do it for all the money in the world, or so she said, except that working for the Taylors was like living in your very own soap opera. You didn’t always like what happened, but you had to stay tuned to see how it all turned out.

  And Mildred had been tuning in to this particular soap opera for the last fifteen years. But the truth of it was that, aside from her fascination with their lives, Mildred felt that the Taylors were like family to her, except of course her family was never as rich or as beautiful or as argumentive as this. Still, at sixty, she found that taking care of them provided a real purpose in her life and, even when the fur was flying, she couldn’t wait to get to work and was always loath to leave at the end of the day.

  Things had been pretty quiet lately, though. Icy quiet. It was only a matter of time, therefore, as far as Mildred was concerned, before something came along that would blow the lid off the mother/daughter relationship one more time.

  On this particular afternoon, however, they were out, and Mildred was sitting at her desk in the Taylor’s Upper East Side co-op, answering some of the ton of mail which found its way to Regina every year.

  She had to admit that it was one of th
e jobs she liked best. The letters never ceased to fascinate and amaze her, and in some cases make her blush. And so, whenever she decided to tackle a pile, she like to pick a time when both Taylors were out, so she could enjoy them in peace and quiet.

  Today, mother and daughter were scheduled for an all-day shoot in front of the Plaza Hotel for a layout of new clothes that would appear in Seventeen magazine sometime in the fall. Knowing, therefore, that she still had a good three or four hours before they came home, Mildred put on a pot of her favorite coffee and went to work.

  The first half-dozen or so letters belonged to what she like to call “the worshipful” variety. They said things like, “I think you are the most beautiful girl in the world,” or “I have every picture of you ever taken,” or even “My whole room is plastered with pictures of you but my Mom says I have to take them down.”

  Next came a couple of instruction seekers. “How did you get your hair that blue-black color?” “What kind of makeup do you use?” “Do you wear tinted contact lenses to make your eyes that purple color?” “Is it true you put lemon juice on your face to keep it so white?” Mildred answered them all briefly and truthfully: “It’s natural,” “I don’t,” “No,” and “No,” and turned her attention back to the pile.

  The next envelope was bulky and had some sort of logo on the top left-hand corner, bur it looked hand-typed, so Mildred tore it open.

  Inside was a glossy brochure. On the front cover was a picture of waving palms and sun-smitten beaches beneath an intense blue sky streaked by pearly wisps of cirrus clouds.

  Mildred was hooked immediately. She opened the brochure and saw that it folded like a map. On each page were pictures of glorious-looking people sunning, swimming, laughing, and playing, all amidst a spectacle of tropical flowers, frothing surf, and soothing sunshine. It looked like they were all having a wonderful time, and Mildred kept turning the pages, ooohing over this picture and ahhhhing over that. Where was this? There was no text to give the secret away until she turned to the back of the last page and there, very simply, it said—The Spa At St. Christophe—Join Us In Paradise. Below, at the bottom of the page, was the phone number.