So she showed up when she was invited, mingled and said the right things. She never really made any close friends that way, but at least she collected more faces to smile at when she dined at Spago’s, which she usually tried to avoid because it was too noisy there to hear yourself think.
Sarah turned to the sliding door and smiled to see Jack coming toward her with a bottle of beer in his hand. She liked Jack. Of all the people she’d met in Los Angeles — Stuart aside — he was the closest she had to a friend.
Handsome in a TV star sort of way, Jack was tall and slim, not exactly muscular, but in good athletic shape, with a dark complexion and a great head of shiny black hair. Sarah liked him because he was straightforward — no games, no bullshit — full of mischief and energy, and he had a sense of humor. Jack could act, too, not like some of the people in the show, who had walked right out of toothpaste commercials and used-car lots.
Sometimes they went out together to restaurants, plays and concerts. There had been one or two media attempts at rumors of romance, of course, but even the greenest of entertainment reporters hadn’t been able to maintain that fiction for long, reverting instead to the cliché of the beautiful star’s lonely life, her Garboesque love of solitude and privacy.
Sarah knew that Jack was gay, and that the one marriage he had tried, to appear hetero, had been a dismal failure. If the gossip columnists also knew, they weren’t saying anything. Hollywood could be very funny about things like that, even today.
“Playing wallflower again?” Jack asked, standing next to her. They turned to face the canyon and he draped his arm over her shoulder in a brotherly fashion. The solid wooden fence they leaned against was all that stood between the two of them and a long plunge into the dark.
“Oh, shut up, Jack,” Sarah said, thumping his arm. “You’re such a party animal, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Jack feigned a frown. “Not for much longer. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s my birthday. I’m getting old.”
“Thirty-seven’s not old.”
“Easy to say that when you’re only thirty-four.”
“How did you know that?”
Jack winked. “Same way I know your real name’s Sally Bolton. No problem if you flirt a bit with one of the secretaries.”
“Swine.” Sarah nudged him in the ribs, but a chill went through her when he mentioned knowing her real name.
“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Jack joked. “Especially with that plummy London accent.”
“Plummy?” Sarah countered, switching to the broad Yorkshire she’d lost after years playing other people, other voices. “Ee bah gum, lad, tha mun’t call us plummy.”
Jack laughed.
“Is that true?” Sarah asked him. “About the secretary?”
“No. You told me yourself in the fall. Don’t you remember?”
“So I did. It’s just... ”
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
Sarah shrugged. “No. Well, not really.”
He took his arm away, grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Come on, Sarah,” he said in his TV voice. “It’s me, Tony Lucillo, your partner.”
Sarah slipped out of his grasp and turned to face the canyon. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “It was just you saying how easy it was to find out things about me. You know, personal details. I got some weird letters, that’s all.” She turned to face him and touched his arm. “Please don’t say anything. I’d hate it if everyone knew about them.” The music stopped. Sarah heard police sirens in the distance.
“We all get weird letters. I got one from my ex-wife’s lawyer just the other day. She wants more money. Stop being so goddamn British. What was it, threatening, dirty?”
“Neither, really. But... well, a bit of both, maybe.” Sarah turned back to the canyon and told him about it.
“Ooh,” said a voice behind them when she’d finished. “That is creepy.” Sarah and Jack turned around and saw Lisa Curtis. Lisa looked as gorgeous as ever in a low-cut, strapless black dress, which contrasted with her creamy skin, and her thick, glossy chestnut hair falling in extravagant curls and waves over her shoulders. “Sorry,” she said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“Oh, it’s you, Lisa,” Sarah said. “That’s all right. Just don’t go broadcasting it around, okay? I could do without the attention. It’s nothing really.”
Lisa, who played the police dispatcher in the show, pointed to her impressive chest. “Moi? Broadcast? But I’m the soul of discretion, Sarah, you ought to know that.”
“Right.” Sarah laughed. “Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?” she asked.
“Goose-bumps are in. Anyway, I think they’re fascinating.”
“What? Goose-bumps?”
“No, dummy. Your letters.”
Jack excused himself to attend to his guests and said he’d be back later. Lisa cornered Sarah by the edge of the deck. The music started again; this time it was Kiri Te Kanawa singing an aria Sarah recognized from Tosca. Jack sure had catholic tastes, and this was clearly the Italian in him coming out. Te Kanawa’s strong, clear voice rang out over the canyon.
“Something like that happened to a friend of mine,” Lisa went on. “Well, a friend of a friend, really. I mean, I never actually met her. She dated this guy, like, a few times, and he got too serious, too possessive, so she dumped him. Time to move on, right? Like, get a life. Anyway, this is the kind of guy who won’t take no for an answer. He starts sending her letters every day. Like, really graphic ones about the things they used to do together in bed and how he would love her for all eternity and couldn’t bear being away from her body. That kind of thing. Real yukky. Then next it’s phone calls, flowers, the whole deal.
“She tries to tell him she’s not interested, right, but it’s like he isn’t even hearing her. He says he knows she still loves him and she knows it, too, deep down. She’s just like fighting it because her feelings are so overwhelming and so powerful they frighten her. Can you believe it? This asshole tells her if she looks deep inside herself she’ll find the truth and the courage to act on it. Well, she tells him the only thing that frightens her is his behavior, but he just laughs and tells her not to be a silly girl, like one day she’ll wake up and know it’s true.”
Sarah sipped her warm rum and Coke and nodded in all the right places. That was one thing about a conversation with Lisa; it wasn’t too demanding, if you had plenty of patience. Laughter spilled from inside the house, glasses tinkled and Kiri sang on about how she lived for art, her warm soprano soaring in the clear night air.
“Next he starts hanging around outside the bank where she works,” Lisa went on. “She was an assistant manager. I mean, she’s one bright lady. And the guy was a stockbroker or something. We’re not talking lowlifes here. Anyway, finally she gets really freaked. She starts to believe it really is her fault, that she must be encouraging him in some way, giving him signals. Like, maybe she really did want him.” Lisa put her index finger to her temple, turned it a hundred and eighty degrees and back, and mimicked the Twilight Zone theme.
“What happened?” Sarah asked.
“He goes too far is what. Just when she’s starting to feel like it might be easier to give in than keep on dealing with him. I mean, he’s got her so messed up she’s even starting to feel flattered by the attention. This guy would neglect his job and hang around outside the bank all day just to catch a glimpse of her. I mean, just a glimpse. She wouldn’t even talk to the sucker. He keeps telling her he loves her, buys her diamonds and stuff and she won’t give him the time of day.”