“Thank you, ma'am.” He took a brief bow and they both laughed and one of the network heads came up to greet them both. He kissed Charlotte on both cheeks, and shook Oliver's hand, and told him he'd been keeping an eye out for him for the past hour.
“I want to introduce you to some of our friends, but I see you've already met my favorite lady.”
“I attempted to trample her as I came through the door, and she was kind enough not to have me thrown out, or sue. She's probably too lame now to move, so we've been standing here chatting, while I bore her with tales of my children.”
“I've enjoyed talking to you, Oliver.” She looked almost hurt as the other man laughed, and then she turned to her network boss and almost pouted. “I suppose you're going to take him away now.”
“I should. I'll bring him back if you like,” and then he turned to Oliver with a supposed word of warning. “Watch out for her, she hates movie stars, she loves kids, and dogs, and she never forgets her lines. I don't trust women like that, do you? And what's more she's too goddamn good-looking. You should see her at four A.M., it'd make you sick, no makeup and a face like an angel.”
“Come on, Howie, knock it off! You know what I look like in the morning!” She was laughing and Oliver looked amused. She looked like a good sport, and he would have loved to see her at 4:00 A.M., with or without her makeup. “He's telling lies, all lies, I hate kids and dogs' But she hadn't sounded like it when they talked about his children.
“Okay, Charlie, go play, while I take Oliver around. I'll bring him back in a little while.” But when they left her, much to Oliver's regret, “Howie” introduced him to absolutely every human being of any importance on the set, and it was an hour before he got back to the spot where he had left her. And of course she was gone. He hadn't expected her to wait … not really … except that he would have loved it if she had. He quietly walked away, and went to look for his limousine, and then much to his amazement, in the distance, getting into a red Mercedes, he saw her. She was wearing her hair in two pigtails, and she had taken off her makeup, and she had an old black leather coat on. He waved to her, and she saw him and waved back, and then hesitated for a minute, as though waiting for him to approach her. He walked over to her then, wanting to tell her how much he'd enjoyed meeting her, and she smiled as he came closer.
“On your way home?” She nodded, and smiled up at him, suddenly looking like a kid. But a very pretty one as he watched her.
“I have two weeks off until after the holidays. We went on hiatus tonight. What about you? Finished with your duties in there?” She smiled easily at him and he nodded. He wanted to ask her out, but he didn't quite dare, and then he decided what the hell, all she could do was say no, even if she was Charlotte Sampson.
“Have you eaten yet?”
She shook her head, and then her face lit up. “Want to go for a pizza at Spago? I'm not sure we'll get in, but we can try. It's usually pretty crowded.” That was the understatement of the year. It was usually wall-to-wall bodies, willing to wait a lifetime for Wolfgang Puck's terrific meals, and a glimpse of the stars who hung out there.
“I'd love it.” He looked thrilled, and glanced over his shoulder at the limousine. “Can I give you a ride? Or should I follow you?”
“Why don't you just ride with me?”
“You wouldn't mind?” It would certainly be simpler.
She smiled warmly again. She liked the way he looked, and the way he sounded. She liked his easy air, and there was something quiet and confident about him. He looked like someone you could count on. “Of course not.”
He dismissed the driver quickly then, as though he was afraid she'd change her mind, and slid into the front seat beside her. And then suddenly she turned to him. “I have a better idea. Sometimes Spago can be pretty noisy. I know another Italian place on Melrose. It's called Chianti. It's dark and no one will see us there. We can call from here, and see if they'll take us.” She pointed to a small red phone hanging from the dashboard, and operated it with one hand as she started the car, while he watched with amusement. “Something wrong?”
“No. I'm just impressed.”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “It's a long way from Lincoln, Nebraska.”
The restaurant answered on the first ring, and they would be happy to give Miss Sampson a table. And it was a perfect choice. It was small, and dark and intimate, and there was nothing “nouvelle anything” about it. It looked the way Italian restaurants used to look, and the food on the menu sounded delicious. The headwaiter took their order quickly, and they settled back side by side against the banquette, while Oliver tried to absorb it all. He was having dinner with the Charlotte Sampson. But this was Hollywood, wasn't it? And for the flash of an instant, he thought of Megan in New York. How different this was. That had been so sophisticated and a little decadent, and somehow this seemed so simple. But Charlotte was that kind of person. She seemed very real.
“This was a great idea.” He looked pleased, and they both dove into the breadsticks. They were starving.
“It's so wonderful not to have to worry about going to work at four o'clock in the morning tomorrow It really makes a mess of your social life sometimes. Most of the time I'm too tired to go anywhere at night, except home to bed. I take a bath, and then I crawl into bed with the next day's script, and by nine o'clock I'm out cold with the lights out.”
“What about all the famous Hollywood parties?”
“They're for morons. Except the duty calls like tonight. The rest of them you can have. The ones like the one tonight are dangerous not to go to. You don't want to get anyone mad at the network.”
“So I've heard. Is it really as tense as all that?”
“Sometimes, if your ratings aren't great. This is a lousy business.” And then she laughed. “But I love it. I love the excitement of it, the hard work, the challenges of doing difficult scripts. There are other things I'd like to do more, but this has been a terrific experience.” She had been doing the show for two years.
“What would you rather do?”
“Professionally?” It was an interesting question. “Shakespeare probably. I did a lot of repertory in college, and summer stock after that, when I couldn't get any other work. I like live theater. The pressure of it. The demand that you remember all your lines and do it right night after night. I think the ultimate, for me, would be a Broadway play.” He nodded, he could see that. It was kind of the pinnacle of the art form, but what she did had merit too. He admired her a lot for what she did. And it was harder work than it appeared. He knew that much.
“Have you done any films?”
“One.” She laughed. “It was a disaster. The only person who saw it and liked it was my grandmother, in Nebraska.”
They both laughed and their dinner arrived then, as they chatted on endlessly about their work, his kids, the pressures of their jobs, and how he felt about suddenly running the L.A. office. “Advertising must be rough. You screw up once, and you lose the client.” She had heard horror stories for years, but he looked surprisingly calm considering the kind of pressure he worked under.
“It's no different from what you do. They don't give you much leeway either.”
“That's why you need something else, so you never really care too much. There has to be something else that matters in your life.”
“Like what?”
She answered without hesitation. “A husband, marriage, kids. People you love, something else you know how to do, because one day, the shows, the autographs, the hoopla, it's all gone, and you have to watch out you don't go with it.” It was an intelligent way to look at what she did, and he respected her for it, but what she had just said suddenly made him wonder.
“Is there something you're not telling me, Miss Sampson? Is your husband about to walk through the door and punch me in the nose?” She laughed at the thought and shook her head as she dug into her pasta.