Caroline’s marriage was on the rocks, and Kate finally had a man in her life, a real one, one who loved her, for the first time in a dozen years. It was about goddamn time for all of them. In the months since his death, they had all grown up.
* * *
—
Gemma called Jerry the morning she got back, to see if he had any work for her, but he didn’t.
“Still nothing? How is that possible? The show wrapped nearly three months ago and all you’ve had are auditions for a vampire movie, the voiceover for a witch in a cartoon, and six commercials that didn’t want me.” And they both knew why. She couldn’t play ingénues anymore, or even thirty-year-olds credibly. She had entered a new phase in her career, while she wasn’t looking, the middle-aged actress. How the hell did that happen? She had aged with the show, and now the show was gone, and she was standing on the shore watching the ships pass her by. “There has to be something,” she said in a plaintive tone. She had been harassing him all summer, even when he went to the South of France, and stayed at the Hotel du Cap, where she used to go, and could no longer afford. All the fancy trimmings and perks seemed fraudulent now, and irrelevant. She needed work, something she could sink her teeth into, and pay the bills with. Where was stardom now? Her star was in the tank, or that’s what it felt like to her.
“There will be something,” he said with certainty. “It just hasn’t happened yet. You’re a big name, they’re going to want you for a decent part, but whatever that project is, it hasn’t come together yet. It will have your name on it when it does.”
“I wish I was as optimistic as you are.”
“Do something,” he told her. “Go to the gym, get a hobby, buy a dog, sleep with someone. Keep busy.”
“I’m thinking of selling my house,” she said, sounding morbid about it.
“Good. Buy a new one. Decorate. Buy things. Go shopping.”
“That’s what got me into this mess in the first place. If I change clothes six times a day for the next twenty years, I can’t wear it all. My cleaning lady had more money in the bank than I did when the show closed.” The story was familiar to him. Most actors lived that way. They started to believe the roles they played and the hype. They went around living like royalty or the dictators of small countries, with nothing to back it up. Gemma was not unusual in that. Fancy cars, houses, art, and jewelry changed hands frequently to bail them out. And then they did it all over again when they got another big part, and forgot that it would end again one day. Few of them had a grasp on reality, and knew how to cope with real life.
Their relationships evaporated as fast as their films. Very few of them had their feet on the ground. Gemma was no different, no better or worse than most of his clients, though she was one of the rare few who had talent. Most of them just had great looks, which they frittered away too, with too much plastic surgery when they had time and money on their hands. He had a famous client who had died that summer from an infection after her fourth liposuction in six months. The doctor was under investigation. And another one who wanted a million dollars a year in her spousal support to pay for plastic surgery. They were all a little crazy, but he loved them. He tried to be gentle with Gemma. He knew she was panicking, but she had to be patient.
“Just don’t get work done on your face while you’re waiting. Every time I sign someone for a big part after a slump, they show up with a new face and the producers don’t recognize who they hired, and neither does the public.” They both knew it was true and saw it often, actors and actresses who surfaced looking like strangers. “You’re perfect just the way you are right now. Keep it that way.” Most of the time he felt like a babysitter or a shrink or a combination thereof. “Have an affair,” he advised her, “it’s great publicity. Go break up a marriage.” He was kidding, but his clients did that regularly too. “What about a younger