from me and wheeled it behind her, racing ahead of me. “Hubby will kill me for going out without my bodyguard, but hey, I need my independence, you know?”
“Excuse me, excuse me, are you Star Davis?” a woman yelled, trotting after us.
I had to practically sprint to keep up with Star.
“You know,” she told me, “when I traveled around the world with a backpack a few years ago, I cut my hair short and dyed it black, and almost nobody recognized me. Good days, although I mustn’t complain, being accosted comes with the job.” She winked at me. “You’ll soon understand. When you get famous, I mean.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m just a working actress, Star. I don’t think fame is in the cards for me.”
“You’ll see. I’m driving you to your meeting by the way.”
My stomach dipped. “Not now though. We’re stopping by your house first, right?”
“No. No time. Straight to Paramount, to the lot. Sorry, but they brought the meeting forward. No worries, hon, you look great.”
“I look like shit,” I said, glaring at her. She ignored me as if going to a Hollywood meeting with a group of powerhouse producers was the easiest, breeziest thing in the world. For her, I guess it was. Star had been famous most of her life, had started acting when she was only two years old, won an Oscar at ten, then again for her role in Skye’s The Limit. She had obviously forgotten what it was like to be a flesh and blood human being, with nerves and insecurities—well, when it came to movies, anyway.
Once we were in the car, she revved up the engine unnervingly, hugging corners and going beyond the speed limit. Our hair was flying in the wind like ragged sails. She was oblivious to my gritted teeth, my hand gripping the sun-warmed seat. Not to mention my anxiety at the thought of meeting three producers who I was sure were doing Star a favor by agreeing to see me. They probably had the part already cast and were just appeasing her. Because if they were serious, they would have called my agent and arranged an official screen test.
Star glanced at me and then set her eyes back to the road. “Dig out that Dolce & Gabbana shopping bag from the back. There’s a dress inside I bought for you. To wear to the meeting.”
I leaned back and pulled out a bag. “Star, really, let me pay you back. You can’t go round buying me expensive outfits.”
“You can’t go round buying yourself expensive outfits, sweetie. Not with your off-Broadway paycheck. Plus, don’t you have that student loan still hanging over your head? Anyway, it’s not Dolce & Gabbana, it’s vintage Halston. And it’s beautiful. And more importantly, sexy. Yet classy. I’ll pull over in a minute and you can slip it on.”
“What, on the side of the road?”
“You’re a performer, you’re used to quick changes.”
I pulled the dress out of the bag and ran my fingers over the soft, black fabric. “1970s?”
“1970 is your era, Janie. Small, perky, pre-pubescent boobs were big back then—I mean ‘in’ back then, not ‘big.’ ” She laughed at her blunder. “Remember Katharine Ross in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? The Graduate? The Stepford Wives? She was the A-list actress. The ‘it’ girl everybody wanted to be. She was pretty flat chested. Ditto Faye Dunaway, Sissy Spacek, Mia Farrow. That’s your look, that’s your niche, Janie.”
Thanks, Star, for pointing out the flat chested part. I felt ashamed. Not about my small boobs but about my lack of film knowledge. I’d read every play known to man, but my movie repertoire was sketchy. Star was a film buff—not only had she seen everything, but she viewed her life through movies; every reference was a movie—and she was personally acquainted with half the actors that had starred in them too, even the golden oldies like Robert Duvall.
I rummaged about in the bag and pulled out a pair of high, platform shoes. Black. They were my size. “How did you know I’m an eight?” I asked her.
“I learned that trick from my husband. Called the wardrobe department at the Playroom Theater and found out.”
I laughed. “Stalker. You could have asked me directly.”
“It would have spoiled the surprise.” She slowed down somewhat, easing her foot off the accelerator. She was about to tell me something important. “Janie, you’ve heard of Pearl Chevalier, haven’t you? You know she’s one of the producers you’re meeting today.”
“Course I’ve