My Lucky Star (20 page)

Gilbert arrived at our booth and plopped himself brazenly next to Stephen.

“I’m not late, am I? I thought we said eight.”

Stephen said that by chance we’d both arrived early and decided to have a drink. I could tell Gilbert thought he was lying
but knew he’d never dare say so to Stephen. I, by contrast, could confidently expect brass knuckles the instant we reached
home.

Diana showed next, and her arrival caused the furtive oglers in the bar to abandon any effort at discretion. Gilbert, aware
of this, leaped to his feet and flung his arms wide in greeting.

“Darling!” he cried, his air kisses swarming around her like gnats. Diana, who’d only met him once and hadn’t expected him
tonight, endured this with baffled courtesy and seemed on the verge of asking his name. Stephen, observing this, rose and,
with undue gallantry, said, “Gilbert was available to join us.”

“Oh, good,” said Diana vaguely.

Gina arrived next, followed by Sonia, who was much affronted to see her two biggest clients chatting in a public bar without
so much as velvet rope to protect them. She gruffly summoned the maître d’, who greeted his sovereign with a terrified smile
and escorted us from the bar. He led us through the main dining room, Diana bestowing grand “Yes, it’s really me” nods on
her fortunate patrons, to a private table concealed from public view behind sliding smoked-glass doors.

We perused our menus, exchanging small talk and hearing some spicy gossip from Sonia, who had no compunction about airing
the lurid misfortunes of nonclients. It was not until the waitstaff had taken our orders, served our appetizers, and withdrawn
that Diana finally broached the topic of Lily’s memoir.

“I want to thank you, Philip,” she said, “for everything you’ve done for us. I can only imagine how tiresome it’s been for
you, listening to Lily chatter on about herself day after day — I’d go mad in an hour! But you’ve done a wonderful job. In
fact, a little too wonderful.”

“Oh?”

“I know my sister. She’s not a bright woman. But you make her sound quite intelligent, clever even. Is that quite necessary?”

“Mother,” sighed Stephen, “we can’t hire Philip for a job, then find fault when he does it well. Besides, what better way
to get Lily to trust him than to flatter her?”

Diana dourly allowed that Stephen perhaps had a point but was clearly piqued by anything that showed her sister in a positive
light.

Sonia said, “Anyway, the pages you’ve given us so far, it’s just childhood crap, which is not what we’re concerned about.
We realize that if she’s telling her life story she’s gonna start at the beginning, but we don’t want to wait months to find
out what we’re up against. What I’m talking about are allegations. Lies. Big, fat actionable lies. We know she’s told these
lies in private. What we want to know is, is she planning to print them? Has she said anything negative about my clients?
To either of you?” she said, including Gilbert.

“Actually,” said Gilbert, “I’ve never met her.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Well, sure,” I said cautiously. “Lily’s said a lot of things. It’s just a little embarrassing to talk about.”

“It’s embarrassing for us too,” said Stephen gently, “but it’s better for us to know than not.”

“I suppose so,” I said and, composing my features into the contrite expression the polite dinner guest wears when preparing
to defame his hostess at length, pulled out a crib sheet I’d made detailing Lily’s charges. I was glad I’d brought it. Apart
from serving as a memory aid, it gave me something to look at besides Diana’s increasingly volcanic countenance.

In brief, I said, Lily was planning to write that Diana was an overrated actress who’d stolen her signature mannerisms and
effects from more gifted and original performers; that she had, starting in adolescence, begun a lifelong habit of trading
sexual favors for both material goods and career advancement and that by the time she was twenty a wag had christened her
boudoir “the chamber of commerce”; that in her late teens she’d augmented her meager acting income by selling marijuana to
jazz musicians and that even as a dope peddler she’d lacked integrity, cutting her wares with herbs and lawn clippings; that
her sexual appetite bordered on nymphomania and that once, on a USO tour in Korea, she’d gotten drunk and pleasured no fewer
than seven marines; that by the time she was twenty-four she’d had three abortions, the last of these while playing a nun;
that she’d been a neglectful mother to Stephen, callously entrusting his upbringing to servants and relations; that she’d
cheated on all three of her husbands; that she’d had affairs with numerous married men, several of whom she’d snagged not
from passion but resentment over their wives having won roles she’d coveted; that so far as her character was concerned, she
was dishonest, petty, vain, envious, cruel to underlings, alcoholic, and a world-class cheapskate.

When I’d finished there was a fraught silence at the table. It was finally broken by Gina, who said, “You’ve been to Korea?”

“Oh,” I added, glancing at my crib sheet, “she also said something about a junkie musician you were seeing in the late seventies?
That he overdosed at your house and you had your gardeners bring his body back to his place to avoid the publicity.”

“How could she possibly—?!” sputtered Diana, then she cut herself off before uttering the damning words “know about that?”

“Give me those notes!” barked Sonia, snatching them from my hand. “Have you shown these to anybody?” she demanded.

“Of course not!”

“Let’s not shoot the messenger here!” scolded Gilbert, winning himself a tender gaze from Sonia. As for Diana, the actress
in her had suddenly grasped that her enraged expression was making her look less like an Innocent Maligned than a Villainess
Exposed. She promptly replaced it with a poignant look of wounded astonishment.

“How can she hate me so much that she’d make up such dreadful lies?”

Stephen, who, I suspected, knew that the charges were all dead-on, patted her arm and said that jealousy prompted people to
do all sorts of strange things.

“What about this one?” asked Sonia, jutting her chins toward Stephen. “What’s she planning to say about him?”

“Mainly,” I replied without a moment’s hesitation, “that he’s conceited and ungrateful.”

“Oh, please!” harrumphed Gina. “He’s the most grateful person you’ll ever meet. I could show you ten interviews where he says
he’s the luckiest guy on earth!”

“I think,” said Stephen, “that she means ungrateful to her.”

“Yes. She says she did so much for you when you were growing up, more than your own mother —”

“Lies!” cried Diana, wiping away a nonexistent tear.

“— and now that you’re famous you consider yourself too important to see her or Monty anymore.”

Stephen ruefully conceded that he had, perhaps, been a shade neglectful.

“That’s so like you,” said Gina. “She attacks us and you blame yourself.”

“And that’s all?” asked Sonia, her eyes narrowing.

“That’s all she’s told me,” I said, content that, in the acting department, I was more than holding my own with Diana.

The waiters arrived with our entrees and Stephen took advantage of the distraction to give my thigh a little thank-you squeeze.
He, of course, performed this gesture with the utmost discretion and suavity. I, however, unaccustomed to having my thighs
fondled by sexy megastars in the presence of their wives and mothers, could not constrain a delighted smirk from erupting
briefly on my face. Gilbert alone observed this and shot me a questioning look that I pretended not to see.

When the waiters were gone Sonia fixed me with a glacial stare and said, “What do you think of Lily?”

Given the circumstances I could hardly say that I found her a daft yet sweet old darling and that we were working on a screenplay
together. I said that I considered her a vain, bitter woman who lived in a world of her own and relied heavily on drink to
sustain her illusions.

“Would you testify to that?” demanded Sonia.

“Excuse me?”

“That she’s a delusional alcoholic? Possibly a danger to herself and others?”

“Sonia,” chided Stephen, “we cannot actually
commit
Lily just because we’re pissed at her.”

“I’m trying to be creative here!” snapped Sonia.

Gina, who’d lost interest in Lily’s book once it ceased to threaten Stephen, asked if we could talk about something more pleasant.
Diana, keen to avoid a more detailed discussion of Lily’s charges, seconded the motion and began chattering inanely about
her polenta.

I did not suppose, given the joy I’d spread during the appetizers, that the rest of the meal would be a very jolly affair.
I had, however, underestimated the effects of excellent wine and Gilbert’s indefatigable charm. Eager as always to ingratiate
himself with the famous, he employed every device he could muster to chase the Malenfants’ blues away. He told jokes, many
of these lengthy and well-practiced set pieces, he did impressions (his Maggie Smith, as always, spot-on), and he flattered
them shamelessly. The specter of Lily’s memoir did not completely recede but began to seem more and more like a battle that
could be waged and won another day and which needn’t further dampen our spirits tonight. The drinks flowed, our laughter grew
louder, and by the time the last impossibly dainty cookie had been consumed, an air of tipsy conviviality prevailed. As we
rose to leave, I could see from Gilbert’s rapturous smile that he considered the evening an unalloyed triumph.

Two waiters pushed apart the sliding doors, revealing a tableau that was deeply gratifying to both Gilbert and myself. We
stood at the center of our little group, flanked by Stephen on one side and Diana and Gina on the other. We watched as diners
discreetly nudged companions who hadn’t seen us, then began our stately procession toward the exit, regally ignoring the necks
craning and swiveling all around us.

Gilbert suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, clogging our party’s route. I gave him a puzzled glance, and as I did there spread
across his face a grin so ecstatic as to make his earlier expression look like that of a small boy watching the final reel
of
Old Yeller
.

“Gilbert?” came an incredulous voice just behind us. I turned toward it.

“Oh, dear God!” I gasped.

For there, just four feet away, dressed in black Prada and seated at a small table too close to the kitchen, was Gilbert’s
ex-wife, Moira Finch.

“Stephen,” purred Gilbert, “there’s someone you simply
must
meet.”

F
OR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE
faithfully followed earlier installments of the Cavanaugh Chronicles, the fend Moira Finch requires no introduction; I don’t
doubt that any of you currently residing in Los Angeles, on learning that she walks among you, have already laid down this
volume, bolted your door, and called small children in from play. I ask those of you whose filesh has already horripilated
to Moira’s dark doings to grant me a moment’s indulgence while I throw open the crypt for the newcomers.

A few years back Gilbert, in a move that will surprise no one who’s read this far, decided to get married, his sole motive
being to extort lavish wedding gifts from his wealthy stepfamily. He chose Moira as his bride. He was not, even then, particularly
fond of her, but her equally prosperous family, combined with her can-do approach to swindling, made her seem a suitable partner
for the venture.

Once engaged, Moira revealed herself to be a full-blown sociopath, one whose brazen deceptions and lighthearted treacheries
would have made the Borgia girls hang their heads in shame and resolve to try harder. Gilbert and I, his luckless best man,
did everything in our power to halt the wedding, but Moira thwarted us at each turn and by the end had maneuvered us into
a position of literally mortal peril. Thanks to Claire’s heroic assistance we escaped with our lives (others were less fortunate),
and after a decent interval, Gilbert divorced her, vowing to shun her for the rest of his days.

Given their history, Gilbert’s glee at seeing her again might seem puzzling. I knew though that it sprang from the happy fact
that she was sitting at a bad table with a stringy-haired female nonentity while he had just emerged from a private dining
room, armed to the teeth with movie stars. There are few things as pleasant as rubbing one’s latest triumph into an old enemy’s
face, and Gilbert wasted no time in spackling Moira’s with his.

“Moira, my angel! How well you look! It’s been ages! Stephen, Diana, Gina, I’d like you to meet a very dear old friend of
mine, Moira Finch.”

Greetings were exchanged. Moira, whose blood has the approximate temperature of a Slurpee, managed not to look nonplussed,
but her companion gaped like a goldfish. Moira, noting this, smiled in mortification and introduced her as Deborah, “a colleague.”

“Oh, gosh, hello!” burbled Deb. “You people—I just think you’re so...
awesome!
Gawd, wait’ll I tell Ma.”

“So, Gilly,” said Moira, preposterously reverting to the endearment she’d employed when feigning affection during their engagement,
“what brings you to LA?”

“I’m writing a script for these guys,” he replied with brutal nonchalance.

Not even the frosty corpuscled Moira could conceal her amazement at this. She’d lived with Gilbert for months and knew better
than anyone that his words-per-day output seldom exceeded that of a one-armed headstone carver.

“Really?”

“Philip too,” added Gilbert, remembering I was present. “Bobby Spellman read our spec script and recommended us. So what are
you up to?”

“This and that,” came her evasive reply.

“Moira’s a movie producer too,” offered Deborah, prompting a subtle but unmistakable wince from Moira.

“Anything we might have seen?” asked Gilbert ruthlessly.

“Not yet. I have a few things in development. You know how it is. Everything takes ages!”