around her pinkie finger. She’s clever that way; never antagonistic, but always gets what she wants. Janie, you’re no fool and your instincts could be spot on. Shame, I so wanted for you to be part of my world. Never mind, we’ll find another leading role for you. I’ll call Steven, and I know Sandra has some cool stuff going on.”
Steven Spielberg and Sandra Bullock, no doubt. Star knew them all.
“You happy with your agent?” she asked. “You want to meet mine?”
“I’m a loyalist, Star. My agent helped me get Where the Wind Blows. I won’t change her now, whatever carrot is dangled before me.”
“You’re a good person, you know that? Decent. In fact you’re too good for your own good. That’s a lot of ‘goods’ in one sentence! There aren’t many like you in this town.”
I shook my head in denial. I wasn’t a good person. But I didn’t want to tell Star why—share the Daniel story with her. My unhealthy obsession with him, resulting in his wife dying, only days after I’d wished ill on them. I wanted to believe it was fate, a coincidence—nothing to do with me, but deep in my bones I knew that wasn’t true. Thought is powerful. Admitting to myself I had bad karma coming my way was difficult enough, but letting others in on my secret was harder—nobody else needed to know. Maybe Hollywood, with its lies and deception, would suit me perfectly after all.
STAR AND I STOPPED off for a coffee in Brentwood on the way back to her house. She donned the big hat and shades again, and kept her back to the street—we were sitting outside on a terrace. So far, nobody was bothering her. She checked her messages so I did the same.
I listened to my voicemail.
The first was from Pearl Chevalier. She got straight to the point. “Janie, I have to admit I was pretty shocked by what you did in our meeting . . . ”—my stomach turned inside out. I’d embarrassed myself, and her. I listened to the rest of the message—“However, it certainly got Sam’s attention and he has changed his mind about . . . how should I say this? He has a different opinion now about your assets and talent.”
I sniggered to myself. Talent? Straddling and kissing someone is a talent now, is it?
Pearl’s message continued: “But now there’s a new problem. Daniel Glass and Sam Myers do not see eye to eye on how the movie should be shot, the look and feel of it, specifically concerning the sex scenes. And I’m somewhere in the middle. I’ll call again later, meanwhile sit tight.”
The next message was from Samuel Myers himself. Before he even opened his mouth I knew it was him, because there was a bout of heavy, wheezy breathing coming down the line. Finally he spoke: “Jane,” he said, getting my name wrong,” I eat my words. I see who you are now. You are Rambling Rose! And I like it. I like it very, very much. I’ll be in contact. Don’t fly back to New York yet.”
I hoped that there would now be a message from Daniel. Nothing. Daniel was obviously a lot less impressed by my shenanigans. Probably even majorly turned off despite his hard-on, which would have been a normal physical male reaction in any red-blooded man who wasn’t gay. I mulled over Samuel’s words. “Rambling Rose” . . . who, or what, was Rambling Rose? I had humiliated myself with Daniel. He was a theater director, with principles and standards.
Fiddling with my phone, I saw that Daniel hadn’t called my voicemail, but he had left a text. It read:
You’re worth more than that, Janie. Don’t sell your soul.
I felt I’d been stabbed. Only Daniel knew how to wound me so profoundly. But he was right. The direction this movie was taking was the opposite of everything I stood for. I didn’t spend four years at Juilliard, probably the best damn drama school in the country, to simply rip off my clothes and act like a prostitute.
I called Pearl back. She didn’t answer so I left a message.
“I’m so grateful for the chance,” I said, “and I appreciate your interest, but what I did at our meeting was completely out of character for me, and it’s a direction I don’t want to pursue. I don’t know what came over me, and I’m sorry I let myself get out of control. Please thank Mr. Myers but let him