Famous (18 page)

Everybody’s mascara is running as they leave
the theatre. And it’s quiet, too, like we’re coming out of church
on Good Friday. I’ve got a feeling that when the reporters ask the
Stars what they thought of the movie, and everyone raves about how
wonderful it was, this is one of the rare times they’ll mean
it.

Chapter 22

misgivings * Santa Monica Pier * the trouble
with perfection * arrives at the mansion of Richard Haneline *
greets the host * the view no one sees * goes to get drinks * the
finger wave * a strange encounter

We have a couple hours before Rich Haneline’s
party, since the studio is throwing a bash at the Roosevelt
directly following the premiere. And I’m sure we’re on the guest
list and all, but I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling a tad nervous
about the prospect of mingling with hundreds of Stars and industry
types who I’m supposed to know, some very well, most at least
superficially.

It feels wonderful and safe when Kara and I
are back in the limousine and Rex is driving us south out of
Hollywood toward a surprise destination.

“That was amazing,” she tells me. “I mean,
Jan Bollinger shook my hand and told me she loved my dress. I know
that’s probably no big deal for you, but you have to understand,
I’ve watched her movies all my life. She’s going to Richard’s
party. She told me, ‘I’ll see you there.’ This is so much fun,
Jim.”

We reach our surprise destination, and Rex
gets out and opens the door for us.

“What are we doing here?” Kara asks.

“I thought it’d be nice to kill an hour or
two watching the sunset.”

“And here’s what you asked for,” Rex says,
handing me a small cooler.

Rex is a wonderful driver. While we watched
the movie, he went out and purchased champagne at my request.

It’s 8:30, and if I squint and measure with
my thumb and index finger, the sun is roughly an inch above the
horizon of calm blue ocean.

Kara and I walk onto the Santa Monica
Pier.

We stroll all the way to the end and only
pass three people—a starry-eyed couple, and an old man,
fishing.

We have the end of the pier all to ourselves,
and we sit down on a bench and watch the sun sink into the sea.

I open the cooler, remove the bottle of
champagne and two plastic flutes.

“Look at you,” Kara says as I work out the
cork.

It pops off, clears the railing, gone.

To tell you the truth, I’m kind of sad as I
pour the champagne. It’s like what I realized that morning in New
York. Sometimes, things are so perfect, you know it can’t get any
better. The most tragic point of existence isn’t when you’ve
bottomed out. It’s when you’ve peaked, when you’ve just crested
perfection and can see it beginning to fall away in your rearview
mirror.

“To you, Kara.”

“To you, Jim.”

Part of me wants to skip Rich’s party and go
home.

“What’s wrong,” Kara asks me.

“I’m very happy right now.”

She giggles.

“That’s a bad thing?”

I take a sip of the champagne. Very spritzy.
I look at Kara, her short blond hair pulled behind her ears except
for a few wisps which hang down over her eyes. I brush them back
for her.

“I don’t see how it could get any better,” I
say.

“That’s so sweet.”

She leans forward and kisses me and puts her
head on my shoulder.

But I wasn’t trying to be sweet. I understand
that she thinks I was implying that being here with her is a
surreal experience (and it is) but that’s not what I really meant.
I genuinely don’t think this night can get any better, and as such,
I’d rather not go to Rich’s party.

I finish my champagne and set the flute down
and caress Kara’s shoulder.

“Sure you’re up for this party?” I say. “We
could just go back to my place.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I think I can
handle it now. Maybe I’ll even let you stray three or four feet
away from me this time.” She laughs again and pinches my arm. I
laugh, too, but it’s forced.

I am so uneasy.

The sun is halfway into the ocean. Then three
quarters. Then only a sliver remains. Then it’s gone.

We sit for awhile in the dark.

Rich’s mansion is on top of this hill that
overlooks the sea. We cruise by the house at 10:15, but through the
gate, it looks as though only several limos are parked in the huge
circular drive.

So Rex drives us up and down the Pacific
Coast Highway, and at a quarter past eleven, we re-arrive at the
Haneline’s. Now, there’s a line to get through the gate, and we
feel confident the party is in full swing.

As Rex pulls into the line of cars dropping
off guests at the front door, I count thirty-six limos. When it’s
our turn, Rex opens our door, and I help Kara out of the backseat.
I can smell the ocean, hear the assault of waves in the darkness
below the hill.

Rich and Margot stand by the massive,
intricately-carved door (I read somewhere that the front door alone
cost half a million dollars) to their 17,000 square-foot home (a
reported $29,000,000), beneath the porch light, greeting their
guests. Rich looks almost stately in his tuxedo. His wife, Margot,
can’t be more than thirty. She’s stunning. Perhaps the first trophy
wife I’ve seen in real life.

“Jim!” he smiles when we reach the top of the
steps. We embrace, do some good old fashioned back-slapping, and
then pull back to look at each other, arms still entwined.

“I am so glad you could make it,” he tells
me.

“Can I make a prediction?” I say. “Oscar
nom.” I poke his chest. “You were brilliant, Rich. You’ve outdone
yourself this time.”

“I appreciate that. And who is this?” he
gestures to Kara.

“Rich, meet Kara.”

“Kara,” he takes her hand, “it is such a
pleasure to meet you. I’m thrilled you could come. This is
Margot.”

Margot smiles and steps forward in a
glittering white evening dress. She shakes Kara’s hand, then looks
at me. This may sound crazy, but from the way she looks at me, I
think we may have something going on.

“Jim,” she extends her hand, and I take it,
exactly like Rich took Kara’s, “does he have to make a movie for
you to come to our house?”

”Of course not.” I smile. “But it helps.”
Winning smile. Laughs all around.

Rich tells us to go on in and he’ll be along
shortly.

As Kara and I step through the monstrous
front door, I get the feeling that Rich and I used to be very
close. I wish I could remember what happened. I should probably
tell my doctor about this awful amnesia.

You wouldn’t believe that someone actually
lives in this palace. You walk through the front door into this
gardened atrium. Whole trees are growing out of the floor, and up
above, these skylights let moonlight in.

We pass through the atrium, where guests
mingle, sipping drinks by candlelight and moonlight. Staircases
curve up on either side and meet at the second floor, where four
large oil paintings adorn the wall. They each have their own
lighting system, so even though the hallway is dark, they seem to
glow.

Beyond the atrium, we enter a long family
room with fireplaces on either end so tall I could stand up inside
them. The kitchen shines beneath inlay lighting—steel appliances,
black marble countertops, and a brick oven that puts mine to
shame.

We hear the music as we approach French doors
leading out onto the veranda. A server opens the door for us, and
placing my palm on the small of her back, I lead Kara out into the
eye of the party.

When she sees the view, she whispers, “My
God.”

The veranda of Rich’s mansion is like nothing
I’ve ever seen. It runs the length of the house, and at fifty feet
wide, it’s crowded with partygoers, a jazz band, three bars, a
life-size bull made out of butter, a chocolate fountain, and
several tables of exquisite
hors d’oeuvre
.

Kara practically drags me over to the stone
railing. It comes to our waists, and we lean against it and look
straight down seventy-five feet to a rocky beach. The moon has just
begun to silver the inky sea, and we stand watching the waves far
below, and gazing up and down the Malibu coast, at the lights of
other cliff-top mansions.

It’s kind of funny. No one else at the party
seems even halfway enchanted with the extraordinary view. I mean,
this is one of the most beautiful things Kara and I have ever seen,
and no one really cares.

“No one else even sees this,” I whisper.

“What?” The sea breeze stirs her hair.

“This view. They might as well be in some
stuffy room. Do you see it?”

“I see it. And I see you.”

I stare into her eyes, dark jewels.

“You want to dance?” I ask her.

“No.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go home with you.”

“That can be arranged.” We laugh, and touch
noses, and kiss.

“I’m going to get a drink,” I tell her. “Can
I bring you back something?”

“Glass of white wine would be nice.”

“Okay. You’ll be here?”

“Right here.”

I make my way toward the nearest bar,
avoiding eye contact with anyone. I order my specialty and a glass
of white for Kara, and while the bartender fixes the drinks, I
survey the crowd, not recognizing as many faces as I thought I
might. Jan Bollinger, the actress, is dancing with a tall, Italian
man who can’t be more than twenty-two. She’s fifty-five, by the
way. She does a little finger-wave to me. I finger-wave back.

“Here you are, sir.” The bartender hands me
my drinks.

I try to tip him, but he won’t accept my
money.

As I start to walk away, someone grabs my
arm, and I nearly drop the glasses.

A youngish man, maybe twenty-five, stares
angrily into my eyes. He’s still holding my arm. He wears a black,
silk shirt and leather pants, similar to what I might sport when I
go clubbing with the commoners.

“There a problem?” I say.

He gets right up into my face, whispers,
“Least you can do is mail it back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He
brushes his hair out of his eyes. His face is tan, angular.

“I’ll bet. What are you afraid I’ll spill it
here? That ain’t going to happen.”

“If you don’t let go of my arm, I’m going to
throw you over the fucking cliff.”

He lets go of my arm.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t…I let my
temper get away from me.” He fixes his collar, takes a deep breath.
Smoothes his hair. “I guess should just be thrilled that the great
James Jansen let me suck him off in a prop closet,” he says, a
little loud for comfort. “You didn’t have to feign interest in my
script, you know.”

Now I step into the young man’s face.

“I don’t know how you got in to this party,
but if you ever speak to me again, I’ll have you run out of this
town.”

He looks pretty scared when I say this, so I
must’ve played it right. I turn and walk toward Kara without
looking back, though I can feel his eyes on me, and my heart going
like mad.

Chapter 23

Margot and Kara view the Manet * Jim’s vodka
commits suicide * gets pitched by Harvey Wallison * feeling pretty
shitty

Rich and Margot are talking with Kara when I
return with her wine, and she’s telling them all about her studies
in the art program at UCLA. She’s very engaging. Rich and Margot
talk to interesting people all the time, and I’m telling you,
they’re riveted.

“Well, you need to come up and see out
Manet,” Margot says.

“You have a Manet?”

“Oh, it’s breathtaking. If you looked up
toward the second-floor hallway when you first came in, you’d have
seen it. Come on! Let me show you!”

Kara looks at me, glowing, and takes her
wine.

“Gentlemen,” Margot says, taking my date by
the arm. “Think you can entertain yourselves while we’re gone?”

The ladies head off through the crowd toward
the house.

Rich and I lean against the railing and stare
out to sea.

A mile out, a yacht cruises off the
coast.

“She’s adorable, Jim,” Rich tells me.
“Where’d you two meet?”

“At La Casa actually. Night I saw you
there.”

“Oh, a new romance.” He sips what appears to
be a Perrier.

Somewhere in the crowd behind us, a woman
screams: “Oh go to hell!”

“So what’s up with that?” Rich points to the
glass in my hand.

“What, this?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It’s just a vodka with—”

“Look, maybe it’s not my place, but…” He
doesn’t finish the thought.

“What?”

“You’re going to kill yourself. Let me have
that.”

“Are you kidding?”

He takes my glass and throws it over the
railing.

Two seconds, and I hear it shatter on the
rocks below.

I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say
anything.

“How’s the script coming?” he asks.

“It’s coming.”

“Yeah? You going to star?”

“Who else? You?”

“Hey, come next March, I might be the hottest
ticket in town.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

Rich finishes off his Perrier. “You want one
of these? I’m going to go for another.”

“No thanks.”

Rich adjusts his bowtie and sort of just
takes me in.

“I don’t know what it is, Jim, but you seem
different somehow.”

My stomach comes up my throat.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the girl, but you
seem more grounded. At peace even.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?”

Kara doesn’t come back for awhile, so I
meander through the crowd, back toward the jazz band at the other
end of the veranda. I bump into a few people who know me along the
way, and one of them, an agent, goes on and on about how she read a
New York Times
rave review for some off-off-Broadway thing I
did, and how she had no idea I had stage chops.