The Movie (20 page)

FLight on cue, Isabefle appeared beside him at the top of

the steps in a Balenciaga original as the first headlights appeared at the end of their drive.

Banishing all thoughts of anger and lust, Sam composed

his face into a rare smile.

Showtime!

Megan Silver clutched onto her agent’s arm as though it were a voodoo talisman. David Tauber - she’d only known him for four days, but that was four days longer than anyone else she could see. A sense of complete unreality had descended on her. She couldn’t stop looking around, her head turning constantly, as though she expected the whole place to shimmer and disappear like a

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desert mirage. Back in San Francisco she’d always been the clever one, intellectually self-assured, cynical, worldly. A perfect nineties twentysomething, a girl who’d been raised on grunge and political apathy. She might not have made any money, but she was cool. Megan knew every lyric Kurt Cobain had ever written, considered Jim Mordson an alcoholic loser who’d wasted his talent, and was on first name terms with the doormen at all the hippest dubs. She wore Caterpillar trainers and Veruca Salt T-shim and nobody fucked with her. She was in with the in-crowd.

But here! Holy Lord God, this was worse than the first time she’d dropped acid. Megan felt totally lost. Hundreds of people thronged past her, almost all of them over forty; big, powerful men who walked nowhere and strode everywhere; shorter, meaner-looking ones whom everybody else seemed to be afraid oi and women, crowds of women, practically every one of them sporting gemstones the size of small birds’ eggs, floating past her, pushing past her, in clouds of taffeta and chiffon and the finest moirt silk, in designer outfits so signature that even she could not fail to recognize a few - sparkling Versace designed for a wearer thirty years younger, immaculately fitted Chanel, impossible for anyone to mistake, Gucci with its signature buttons. Every one of them had tight, clear skin that she imagined would,crack if they laughed. And every one of them moved with utter self-possession, accepting a crystal flute friedwith pink champagne from a waiter like she might reach for a cold Bud, or turning down caviar or truffles as though they were M&M’s. Megan guessed they might add an ounce or two to all thos o-pound frames.

From the second David had helped her out of their hired limo Megan had ceased to feel successful. Looking around at her fellow guests, she knew what she was. The smallest of the smallfry. Unsophisticated. Fat. And poor.

‘You’re doing free. Relax,’ David whispered in her ear, steering her towards the buffet.

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‘Oh, David, I can’t eat anything,’ Megan said miserably. She was twenty-four, and she felt heavy and unattractive, as though her youth was a creel joke. What good did it do her to be twenty-four when there were women here with thighs barely bigger than her upper arms? ‘Sure you can,’ David told her, a brilliant smile permanently fixed on his face, adding, ‘Best go for the caviar and the fruit. No fat that way. And skip the breads. You don’t need complex carbohydrates right now.’

‘OK,’ she said, feeling fatter than ever. But grateful, of course. David had been so good to her, and now he was going to help her with her diet … and David should know. He was a prime physical specimen, Megan thought, as she snuck a glance at her companion, waving and nodding at four different players a minute. He’d told her his tux was from tkalph Lauren’s latest collection, and it certainly looked stunning on him - the wool was the darkest, deepest blue, practically black, but with just enough colour to set offhis hazel eyes and sandy hair, and it was flawlessly cut, fitting his large, athletic frame to perfection.

Being with David was the only thing that gave her any reassurance, Megan thought. At least she didn’t have to be ashamed of her escort. The dress she’d been so proud of earlier now looked as though it had walked right out of a Frisco thrift store, but nobody would notice the dress while she was with ,David. Moguls and movie stars swarmed all around her, but she knew she was with the best-looking guy in the room.

‘Here.’ He handed her a small plate heaped with glistening fish eggs, a slice of lemon, and a minute silver dish of sliced strawberries and gooseberries. There were two delicate silver spoons on the side. ‘And take a glass of champagne, too.’

‘Can I?’ Megan asked doubtfully.

‘This is a celebration,’ David said generously. She felt his

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strong hand take her elbow, leading her deftly through the crowd to one of the rose-strewn tables on the terrace, the area nearby flickering and dancing with shadows thrown up from the hundred little candles drifting across the darkened surface of the pool.

He picked up the lemon and squeezed it deftly over the caviar, a thin trail ofjuice trickling over his palm and wrist. Megan felt need stir in her groin. She hadn’t been touched since she left tkory, not that any man would want her. Still, she had a strong urge to bend her head towards him and lick him dean.

To her total embarrassment, David looked up and caught her staring at him.

Megan blushed bright red.

He gave her a soft smile, and dug one of the silver spoons into the mound of caviar, scooping up a wet, shining pile

of miniature black pearls, and held it out towards her. ‘Try some of this.’

Dutifully Megan swallowed the caviar, taking it in her mouth as delicately as she could. Essence of salt fish and slime. Ugh.

‘You like?’ Tauber was asking her.

‘Delicious,’ Megan said.

‘It’s an acquired taste.’ He can see right through me, Megan thought, sensing her blush deepen, but David was already on his feet. ‘And you’ll get used to it. All my clients do. Within six months you’ll be able to tell a good champagne vintage with your eyes slut. Come on, I have to introduce you to your new colleagues.’

With a regretful glance at her untouched champagne, Megan followed him, unsteadily. Jesus Christ. She would never get used to high heels.

Jordan was burning up. She couldn’t help it. They hadn’t even gone into dinner yet and already she was being thoroughly upstaged! Every society wife she’d ever me

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was pressing loxana to attend this dinner or that party; the news of her casting had gone round the room in twenty seconds, and all Jordan could hear was ‘the next Julia Roberts’. As if the bimbo had one ounce of Julia’s talent. And worse still was the way their husbands had-started to jostle the Goldman party as if loxana were some incredibly rare wild animal in danger of extinction before they’d had a chance to gawp. They stared, they ogled, they paid her inane compliments on her dress, they asked about her new career. All the attentions that she, Jordan Cabot, was used to receiving - for the last eighteen months she’d been the youngest woman at any high-powered party by a good ten years. And now she might as well be invisible.

Furiously, Jordan flashed Barry Diller a beaming smile and took a deep sip of her loederer Cristal champagne. She noticed that loxana, next to her, had not so much as glanced in the TV mogul’s direction. But of course not, Jordan thought bitchily, loxana waits for the Barry Dillers of this world to come to her.

,She began, flashing back to unpleasant memories of their shared schooldays at the Sacred Heart. Even there, Jordan had always been the prettiest girl at the convent-bar one, of course. Was she destined always to take the silver medal?

In the sdented, darkened air, Jordan slipped her perfectly toned arm through her husband’s. At least Tom wasn’t fawning over loxana, and she should know, because she’d watched him like a havk from the moment the bitch had stepped gracefully into their limo. He had given her a once-over, of course, but in a cold, detached way. Jordan had seen him give other movie stars the same clinical look. He was checking her out for her box-office potential, nothing more. In fact, while Jordan had been explaining all about the gun-control dinner, Tom had interrupted them just once, asking loxana if she’d spoken to Sam Kendrick recently. And P,.oxana had smiled coolly and repli.ed that

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no, she’d been too busy to speak to Sam, and after all, David Tauber was her agent.

Jordan had no idea what all that was about. But she was glad her husband,didn’t seem to care for the supermodel. That would have been all she needed.

‘Sweetie.’ Tom was bending down to her, whispering in her ear. ‘Do you need me? I have to go and talk toJake Keller about something.’

He was amazed at the easy smoothness of the lie. Why didn’t he just say Eleanor? Eleanor was his president of Production. He talked with Eleanor all the time.

‘Oh.’ Jordan gave him her best little-girl pout. ‘You know how I hate all your silly business talk. Well, dbn’t be long.’

‘I won’t.’

Why did she have to act like that? It was stupid, Tom thought, tlmost angrily. Since when was she six years old?

‘Come back soon. Me miss ‘oo.’ She blew him a kiss from her full, perfectly lined lips.

Oy vey. Goldman turned away, sighing.

Sam Kendrick moved fluidly round the room, working the groups Isabelle wasn’t covering. Over the years they’d got this down to a fine art: Isabelle chatted with the players and female stars, he attended to the male stars and wives. It was exactly the opposite.of what everybody expected, but it worked perfectly; the men gave him beaucoup brownie points for being able to lay offbusiness for one night-how many of them would be capable of the same thing? - and their wives, normally expected to jtist show up, shut up and smile, were insanely flattered to have a heavy hitter, especially one as sexy as Sam Kendrick, ask their opinions as though he were actually interested. It bought him alot of extra influence, and it was another social trick Isabelle had wised him up to. Take care of the wives. They won’t forget it. And they’ll push their husbands for you all year long.

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The second trick was timing. You said as little as possible

to as many people as possible; that way you could make an impression on everyone.

Sam glanced at the time on his subtly lit Cartier watch. He was making good progress.

Then, out of the corner of one eye, he saw Tom Goldman break away from the little throng of people crowding P,.oxana.

His blood pumped a little faster. Now was his chance. With a murmured excuse to the wife of some TV producer, Sam crossed the terrace.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, would you excuse me?’ he said loudly. ‘I have to monopolize this beautiful lady for a few seconds.’

‘Your latest client, right, Sam?’ one of the suits enquired.

‘She is indeed.’ He smiled proudly.

‘Lucky dog,’ somebody else said, and there was general laughter as his guests moved away.

1Loxana Felix leant back a little against the marble pillar she was standing in front of, and regarded the head of her agency with a cold stare.

Sam looked. Then he looked again. And again.

In the soft light from the Japanese lanterns, her face and hair framed by a wreath of pale pink roses, 1Loxana Felix reminded him of a picture by those British painters what were they called? - the, Pre-tLaphaelites. Right. All pure white skin and silken black hair, her full mouth red as blood, her eyes dark as sin, and her slender, perfect figure, simultaneously hidden and revealed by the cream sh/fi dress, the most tempting thing since Eve introduced Adam to harvesting. But no, maybe not. The way .those Victorians had painted, their ladies seemed pure, ethereal and ghostly. 1Loxana Felix was none of those things. She was everything he had seen on screen, everything that he’d been fantasizing about. Sex projected and oozed out of

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every tiny pore of her flawless skin. She was no cold, narcissistic mannequin. She was a flesh-and-blood woman and she conjured up images of the hottest luck you would ever have in your life. Even the way she was standing right now, defiant and outraged, regarding him with such hostility. Her body seemed poised to strike, as graceful and deadly as a panther.

She was the most attractive woman he had ever seen, and Sam Kendrick had seen a lot of attractive women.

Desire hit him like a lightning bolt. Savage. Intense. Astonishing.

‘Are you done?’

She had a low, sensual voice, but the tone was absolute steel.

‘Are you done, Mr Kendrick? Do you think you could pick me out of the police line-up now?’

‘We have to talk,’ Kendrick said, firmly. He dragged his gaze back up to meet her eyes. Jesus Christ! Just because she’d been around the block in the fashion business didn’t mean that some twenty-four-year old baby was going to chew him, Sam Kendrick, out at his own party. He recognized that note in her voice. It was the same one he used to demolish his various underlings, or to pole-axe studio execs that were screwing with his clients. That was the tone of command, of a person used to authority. OK, so loxana Felix had been boss in her world up to now. But this was a different universe and he was its resident God. This, she had to learn. This, he was going to make her learn. Sam Kendrick had not reached the summit of the game to surrender his authority to some sassy piece of ass.

‘I was talking. To those gentlemen, whom you so rudely interrupted.’

Uh-huh. Nice grammar. Well, he got enough of the fake limey bullshit from Kevin Scott.

‘Listen, princess.’ He saw her eyes narrow in shock and anger, and felt adrenalin start to knot in his stomach. This

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was the tough bit: blasting the client without getting fired. You had to bluff, and you had to gamble on how badly they wanted the part. Poker with people. He’d alway been an expert. ‘You can hold court with the boys some other time.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ tkoxana demanded, scarcely able to believe her ears. Sam Kendrick was just another salt-and-pepper suit. A looker, but so what? Did he think she was going to cut him any slack because he’d retained a little masculinity? Nobody, but nobody, spoke to her like that. Not any more.