My Lucky Star (48 page)

Monty had instructed an old friend in Key West to FedEx him a note reading:

Dear Monty,

Thanks again for loaning me this
very
special movie! I part with it most reluctantly and only wish I had the technology to make a copy for my personal library.
What a cutie little Oscar is! Do you know him? Do visit soon.

Love,
Trevor

This arrived in Los Feliz shortly after ten a.m. Monty barely had time to open the FedEx pouch and insert the disk before
Hank Grimes, who’d been watching the house, barged in to seize it. Hank, we presume, then screened it, comparing the audio
to Rex’s tape, and reported to his brother.

That afternoon Rusty held a press conference. He began by apologizing to Stephen, his family, and colleagues for any embarrassment
they’d suffered during yesterday’s “deplorable circus,” vowing again to find and discipline the tipster who’d alerted the
media. He said that Stephen and Moira, far from being targets of a criminal investigation, were the innocent victims of an
extortionist who’d spread false and malicious rumors about them and Miss Finch’s spa. The extortionist had then fabricated
“evidence” to support these rumors and mailed it to Stephen with a demand for thirty million dollars. Rusty’s office had examined
this so-called evidence and determined it beyond doubt to be a computer-generated forgery, which would not be released to
the press out of respect for its intended victims. In closing he vowed to spare no effort in finding and prosecuting the still-anonymous
blackmailer who had, it was feared, fled the country.

Come Oscar morning the story completely dominated the headlines and Sunday chat shows. Stephen declined all interview requests,
saying he’d been advised not to discuss details of the case as to do so might impede the investigation. He would, he vowed,
have plenty to say once the perpetrator was apprehended and tried. Until then he hoped his fans and the media would respect
his family’s privacy.

That night when he and Gina walked down the aisle of the Kodak Theatre, the audience rose as one in thunderous support for
this great and greatly maligned star. For Billy and me, watching at home with Gilbert and Claire, it was a bit of a
Stella Dallas
moment — you know, the classic weeper that ends with poor selfless Stella standing outside the party in the rain, nose pressed
to the glass, watching proudly as the daughter for whom she has sacrificed so nobly basks in the admiration of the beau monde.

“What is she
wearing?
” asked Gilbert of Gina. She was sporting one of those gowns where the breasts are barely concealed by crisscrossing satin
panels only slightly wider than suspenders.

“Tramp,” I said flatly.

“Go on,” sneered Billy. “Flaunt your gazongas. You’ll never make him as happy as I did!”

“As
we
did,” I corrected. “Well,” drawled Billy with the off-putting smugness that had crept into his tone of late, “I think I made
him a
little
happier.”

“Do you?”

“He
looked
at me.”

“How could he not with you slobbering over him like a border collie?”

“You want to talk tummies?”

“You will cease this conversation immediately,” demanded Claire, “or I’ll hurl this bottle through the screen.”

I was happy, at least, for Stephen. How glorious he looked and how much more glorious he must have felt bathing in that Niagara
of applause. He had sojourned in purgatory, clutching a boarding pass for points south, but now he’d been welcomed once more
into this celestial assemblage, yea, even seated at the right hand of Spielberg. Had the balloting for Best Actor taken place
that night his rivals wouldn’t have mustered a single vote between them. Unfortunately for Stephen, the ballots had been mailed
in some days ago when he was still under a cloud and the Academy had felt a soupçon more love for Laurence Osgood Fenton,
the brilliant newcomer who’d portrayed a traumatized Iraq war vet in the searing drama
Anthem
. Laurence, only twenty-four, stumbled, disbelieving, to the stage and gave an eloquent speech, declaring himself unworthy
to share the category with the likes of Nicholas Cage, Al Pacino, Liam Neeson, and, most of all, his hero Stephen Donato.
The screen filled with Stephen’s face as he applauded and brushed aside a grateful tear.

I
F THE
O
SCARS BROUGHT
little joy to Stephen, they did provide a welcome distraction from the blackmail story, which was bumped off the front page
by the usual coverage of winners and losers, gowns, gripes, and gaffes. This was a relief as our cover story with its murky
details and mystery villain had been hastily concocted and would not bear undue scrutiny. People still gossiped about it but
conventional wisdom deemed Stephen innocent of any same-sex shenanigans. How could he be otherwise when even his bitterest
enemy was forced to declare him the blameless victim of a conspiracy? A few naysayers, Rex among them, continued to cry cover-up,
but their crackpot theories won little attention and the public, starved of fresh developments, soon lost interest.

S
TEPHEN WAS NOT ENTIRELY
out of the woods. There remained the nettlesome matter of
Amelia Flies Again!
Monty still had his disk and refused to return it till Stephen made good on his promise. Stephen pointed out that he could
no longer disseminate it without revealing to Rusty that our alibi was a hoax. True, countered Monty, but what of Lily? She
now knew all about Stephen’s “romance” with Billy. Though she was disinclined to tattle on her costar, if Stephen reneged
she would not hesitate to include every succulent detail in her memoir. This left Stephen in a pickle. He could, of course,
call in the script doctors but was loath to let anyone read it since not even Gina had failed to discern that he’d bought
it with a gun to his head.

It was, of course, Claire who finally proposed a compromise acceptable to all parties. And, as it happened, her neat solution
dovetailed happily with another development in the Donato household.

In an exclusive cover interview for the May
Vanity Fair
(timed to coincide with the release of
Caliber IV: Who’ll Save the Sun?
) , Stephen announced that he and Gina were expecting their first child. Thanks to this joyous event, production on
The Heart in Hiding
would be accelerated so that Gina could film her scenes before her pregnancy became apparent. This rescheduling, alas, meant
that his mother, who had a conflict, would no longer be able to play the heroic housekeeper Greta. Fortunately his aunt had
graciously consented to step into her sister’s shoes. This would, alas, compel Lily to put her Amelia Earhart project on hold
but family was family and one sacrificed for them as needed.

G
ILBERT, HAVING EMERGED UNSCATHED
yet again from a disaster of his own making, was, as always, maddeningly blasé, claiming he’d never doubted it would all
work out in the end. This greatly annoyed our rescuer, Claire, who brusquely remarked that the only reason he’d escaped arrest
was that he was in the “witless protection program.”

I’d feared he’d be hurt when I told him we would not be collaborating with him on any future projects. He was unfazed though,
having recently decided that a lad with his looks and charisma belonged more properly in front of the camera. He had head
shots taken and declared himself an actor, throwing himself into his new métier with the same commitment and discipline he’d
brought to his careers as a novelist and screenwriter.

A
NGUS
B
RODIE RETURNED FROM LOCATION,
evicting us from our movie-star bachelor pad. Gilbert decamped to Max’s guesthouse while I took a one-bedroom apartment in
West Hollywood on Fountain and Hayworth. Though perfectly charming, it was still quite a comedown from our aerie in the hills,
which, sadly, was visible from my bathroom window.

Claire and I kept plugging away, trudging from one “creative” meeting to the next. Ironically, we wound up winning an assignment
from Irv Bushnell, the producer I’d last glimpsed taking lachrymose bows for
Whoa, You’re No Chick!
The picture, based on Irv’s original concept, was a comedy about an alien running for congress. We’d liked it much better
than his time-traveling rap-star pitch.

T
HE
H
EART IN
H
IDING
opened in November a week after Rusty lost the governor’s race to Ms. Almy and only days before Gina, two weeks overdue,
tearfully consented to a cesarean. Gilbert and I attended the premiere as Lily and Monty’s guests.

The picture, as most of you save Amos know, turned out rather well. Gilbert and I had to concede that the screenplay was depressingly
superior to our own. In Ms. Gamache’s novel, Heinrich’s transformation from Nazi to saint is preposterously rapid and unconvincing,
a problem less than adequately remedied in our script. In Mr. Schramm’s version the only reason Heinrich fails to report Greta’s
family is his lust for Lisabetta, whom he very nearly rapes. His moral awakening comes in agonizing inches and he fights it
every step of the way, making it both more plausible and moving. The direction and brooding cinematography were flawless,
and Stephen’s performance as Heinrich was compelling and, as Moira was heard to remark, “layered.”

The revelation, though, was Lily. Both during and after production she’d decried the director, Peter Kistiakowski, as a tyrannical
bully, sorely lacking in respect for an artiste some years his senior. But even Lily had to admit his hectoring had paid off.
Her performance was unlike any she’d ever given, stripped of her usual mannerisms and excess and steeped in pain, cunning,
and fortitude. I can’t tell you how strange it felt afterward to compliment her and actually mean it.

I saw Stephen at the party as well. It was the first time we’d seen each other since that bizarre last night at Les Étoiles.
Conversations with ex-boyfriends are almost always awkward and never more so than when the ex is standing arm in arm with
his massively pregnant wife.

“Really amazing work,” I said, daring no more than a handshake. “You must both be very proud.”

“We are,” said Gina, her tone, like her performance, a bit on the stiff side.

“So, how are you guys doing?” asked Stephen.

“Oh, fine. Claire and I are busy. Gilbert’s started acting.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Has Gilbert ever stopped acting?”

“Good point. Anyway, I was just bowled over. Really. You deserve an Oscar for this.”

Gina frowned, the name, I suppose, forever tainted for her. But Stephen smiled and said, “From your mouth to God’s ear.”

There was something about his smile, something wistful and perhaps a touch nostalgic, that made me realize how much he missed
me. He may even have been trying to discreetly signal that he hoped I’d call him again sometime. “But no,” I thought to myself,
“best not.” You have to know when to let these things go. I realized that even if Stephen didn’t.

S
TEPHEN WAS INDEED NOMINATED
again for Best Actor. Again he lost. The camera lingered with customary cruelty on his face at the moment of defeat. This
time he could not even manage a brave smile, just an odd, faraway look of rueful astonishment. Claire, Gilbert, and I, watching
at home, were certain beyond doubt that he was thinking of Lily and recalling what she’d said nearly three hours ago when
she’d jubilantly taken the stage to accept her Best Supporting Actress Oscar.

“Thank you! Thank you! Oh, my word, thank you! I won’t say I never dreamed this would happen because I did! Dreamed it every
damned day! I’m so glad I’ve put off finishing my memoirs —now they have an ending!

“I want to thank the Academy and all the dear, sweet people who voted for me. I want to thank my brother, Monty, and my many
loving friends who never doubted this night would come! I want to thank our brilliant young director for his great kindness
to me and our producers Bobby Spellman and Moira Finch for their courage and unwavering integrity. I want to thank my sister,
Diana. She turned this role down, you know, so she could make
Who Needs Tomorrow?
The very few of you who saw it know what a mistake
that
was! Bless you, Diana! This should really be yours—
but it’s not!

“Most of all I want to thank my wonderful costar, Stephen! Where is he? Oh, there you are! Don’t look so anxious, my dear!
You’ll be standing up here soon enough! Thank you, my darling, thank you so much! You’re more than a nephew to me. Yes, you
are! You’re my hero, Stephen! My champion! My lucky star!”

While most of the Hollywood award rituals depicted in the book are, as even young Seth knows, real events, FilmFest LA is
not. It was modeled very loosely on ShoWest, an annual film industry trade show that does indeed bestow an award for Distinguished
Decade of Achievement in Film. (As of this writing the latest recipient is Drew Barrymore and I like to think that
Guess What, I’m Not Dead
gave her just the extra boost she needed to outshine the competition.) ShoWest takes place in Las Vegas; I chose to place
my ceremony in LA and sprinkled in a few more stars than such an event might normally attract.

In the past I’ve used these acknowledgments to thank those who’ve assisted me with my research on previous books. Since my
research for this one consisted solely of reading
Vanity Fair
and gossiping at parties, I can’t offhand think of anyone who falls into this category. There are, nonetheless, a fair number
of people who deserve thanks and perhaps apologies for the role they’ve played in this book’s creation.

Owing to the demands of my second career in series television, which offers handsome remuneration but very little downtime,
this book has had an embarrassingly long gestation period. In searching my hard drive I was taken aback to discover that the
earliest notes for it were written in the spring of 1995. The first draft was not completed until the summer of 2004. I wrote
most of it during vacations, meandering through various world capitals and islands, muttering to myself and scribbling in
pocket-size notebooks.