The Fame Game Read online

  The Fame Game

  A Novel

  Rona Jaffe

  For Jack Doroshow

  CHAPTER ONE

  This is the last time, I swear, the last time I’ll ever ride the subway, Gerry Thompson thought, feeling like Scarlett O’Hara when she dug out the turnip from the burned ruins of Atlanta. But this was New York, no burned ruin; it was life, excitement, the maddening, indifferent lover, her town even though she had not been born here, even though she had run away and returned. New York was a new job, new love, the smell of new paint in a new apartment. New York was promise even though all around you you saw failure. She gouged her way through the nine a.m. rush hour crowd, being gouged in return, stepped over a drunk left over from the night before, and emerged in the shriek of life that was Fifty-seventh Street.

  The Plaza Hotel stood like an oasis in the wasteland of ugly progress. Whenever she saw it she imagined a wealthy septuagenarian peering out of one of its high windows, refusing to come out ever again into the tasteless mess below. That tasteless mess was where it was all happening. Even the Plaza was not immune; there was an office in there now, operating out of a suite, and that was where Gerry was going to work as Girl Friday to the super-publicist—personal manager Sam Leo Libra.

  She had never met him. She had been hired by an employment agency in New York because Sam Leo Libra had been in California where he kept his main office. He was in New York now to open a permanent East Coast office, which would eventually be in one of those new office buildings. The employment agency woman had looked her over carefully as if she were casting her: a medium-sized twenty-six-year-old girl with shiny auburn hair, guileless green eyes, and freckles, who smiled a lot, who looked intelligent, friendly, and not easily ruffled; the sort of girl you would not hesitate to ask for directions in the street.

  “Five years doing publicity for motion pictures here and in Paris and Rome,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Why did you leave?”

  “Because I never saw Paris and Rome—all I ever saw was the inside of the office there from nine in the morning until eight thirty at night and then I was too tired to go anywhere.”

  “Is money important to you?”

  “I’m too old to work for nothing just because the job is interesting.”

  “And too experienced.” The woman smiled. “You won’t be working for nothing, but you’ll be around a great deal of money, people making what seems like a ridiculous fortune for what they seem to be contributing to the world, and you may begin to think you’re underpaid.”

  “I don’t expect to be paid as a star,” Gerry said.

  “You’ll be getting two hundred a week.”

  “My God.”

  “Don’t be so delighted,” the woman said. “A year from now you won’t think it’s so much. You’ll still be working from nine in the morning until eight thirty at night, sometimes longer. You’ll have to be able to keep secrets, defend the wicked, lie beautifully, and never lose that look of wholesome happiness. Can you do that?”

  “I’ve been doing it for years,” Gerry lied beautifully.

  “I trust you have your own apartment.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “The telephone. Mr. Libra doesn’t like roommates tying up the phone. You may have to get another line in any case, but if you do, he’ll pay for it.”

  “I live alone,” Gerry said.

  “And get an answering service.”

  “Who pays for that?”

  The woman looked at her shrewdly. “I should think you’d need one for your social life—you’ll be working many nights, you know. You can deduct it from your taxes.”

  I suppose those people like to take over everybody’s life, Gerry thought, wondering what this Libra was like. But on two hundred a week, who was she to complain? She’d always wanted an answering service anyway, not that she knew anyone she wanted to call her. New York had changed in the two years she had been in Europe: all the exciting single men had vanished, or perhaps she had changed.

  “Oh, yes,” the woman said, not looking at her for the first time since the interview had started. “And he wants to know how often you bathe.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look at me. He wants to know.”

  “Am I supposed to be a Girl Friday or a call girl?”

  “I guess he had a dirty secretary once.”

  “Well, every day, naturally,” Gerry said indignantly.

  “Only once a day?”

  She stared at the woman. She didn’t look any cleaner than anyone else Gerry had seen. “Once a day,” Gerry said. “And I wash my hair twice a week and brush my teeth after every meal. How often does he bathe?”

  “My dear, he’s always damp,” the woman said.

  That had been last Thursday, and on Friday Gerry had gone out and rented a new apartment on the third floor of a reconditioned brownstone in the East Seventies: three rooms with a working fireplace and a view of trees, for two hundred and fifty dollars a month. It was a steal, and she couldn’t afford it. But next week she would be out of her Greenwich Village rat-trap, and there would be the smell of new paint. There would be a green phone in the bedroom, a white phone in the living room, and a pink phone on the bathroom wall. With the last of her salary from Europe, except what she would need for food and subway fare, she bought a seventeen-dollar bottle of pink Vita-bath. Now let him fire me! she thought.

  So here she was on a Monday morning in March, in air that was neither chill nor warm but a heady combination of both, bathed and shampooed and perfumed, neatly made up (her hand had been shaking so much from nervousness that morning that it had taken half an hour to put on her false eyelashes), immaculately dressed, looking more like a girl on a date than a Girl Friday—but wasn’t that what Girl Fridays were supposed to look like today? It occurred to her that she was already deeply involved in her job, if only because she had involved herself in debt and could not afford to lose it. But she had always known that she would settle in New York, on her own terms; with an interesting, challenging job, a good apartment of her own, and enough money to feel she was a grown-up at last. This new job had to work out; even if it was horrible she loved it already.

  The door to Sam Leo Libra’s suite was open, propped open by a metal cart holding a stack of matched Vuitton luggage six feet high. Two bellboys were busy unloading it and adding the suitcases to the assortment, also matched, that lined the walls of the foyer. A small, thin, blond girl with her hair in two ponytails sticking out at each side, in a plaid mini-suit, a schoolboy’s tie, and textured white stockings, was standing inside the foyer with a clipboard in her hands and a pair of huge tortoise-rimmed glasses balanced on her little nose.

  “There are seventy-two pieces!” the girl was repeating crossly. “Seventy-two pieces, and don’t you dare let one get in here before I’ve counted it! Where are the coats? Where are the coats?”

  “They’re on the elevator,” one of the bellboys said.

  “You left my mink coat on the elevator?”

  “The elevator operator will watch it, madam.”

  “Excuse me,” Gerry said, “I’m Geraldine Thompson, Mr. Libra’s new assistant. Is he here?”

  “I don’t know; I didn’t count him,” the girl said. She pushed the enormous glasses up on her nose and looked at Gerry pleasantly. “I’m his wife, Lizzie Libra.”

  She wasn’t a little girl at all—she was forty years old. It was a shock: the tininess, the blond ponytails, the little-girl clothes, and then suddenly the wicked little face, the eyes circled by crow’s feet magnified by the lenses of the glasses. It wasn’t an unpleasant shock but rather interesting.

  “What do they call you? Gerry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you can
call Room Service and tell them to get that trash out of here, and then have them bring some more coffee and some Danish—there’ll be people coming in all morning. Get cigarettes too, one pack of each brand and six packs of Gauloise for me. Have you met my husband?”

  “No. I was hired here while he was on the Coast.”

  “You’ll find him in there,” Lizzie Libra said, waving at the suite, and went back to her list.

  Gerry went down the carpeted foyer into the large living room. Tall windows gave a view of Central Park, the fountain on the Plaza, and the tiny hansom cabs waiting across the street. It was absolutely still except for a soft sound that sounded like breathing. She realized that all the windows were closed and the sound came from an air conditioner and a humidifier that had been newly installed, their warranty tags still attached. There were crystal vases of fresh flowers everywhere. God, it was hot and humid, like a greenhouse. The smell of the flowers rose up in the artificially humid air and on an empty stomach this early in the morning it was a little sickening. She went over to the window but discovered all the windows had been sealed shut. Not a breath of street air or a particle of grit could enter. She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke vanish like magic.

  The customary painting above the fireplace had been replaced by a life-sized oil painting of Sylvia Polydor, one of the great ladies of the screen, who had been Sam Leo Libra’s first really famous client. People always said: “Oh, Sam Leo Libra, that’s Sylvia Polydor’s manager.” Her portrait was elaborately framed and lit from below by one of those oil painting lights. It was like someone in business framing his first dollar bill.

  On the desk there was an office telephone the size of a baby switchboard, bristling with push buttons. Next to it was the hotel telephone. Gerry called Room Service and then located the rest of the office equipment: the typewriter, the address books, the steno pads and pencils, the appointment book. Now there was nothing to do but wait. The breathing of the humidifier felt like a monster in the room with her. She wandered into the bedroom.

  The bedroom was immaculate although more Vuitton suitcases of various sizes and shapes were arranged about the wall space. There were two double beds separated by a night table with a push-button phone on it. The windows in here had been sealed shut too, and there was a new air conditioner and humidifier breathing away. There were no flowers. She remembered her mother, who was a terrified woman, often saying that you should never sleep with flowers in the room because they breathed your air and there was not enough for you.

  “Mr. Libra?” she said timidly.

  There was no answer. No one was there. The bathroom door was ajar, with the light on.

  “Mr. Libra?”

  Maybe there was no Mr. Libra. Maybe he was like the Wizard of Oz, just an amplified voice and a lot of machines. She felt so nervous she had to go to the bathroom immediately. She opened the door and went in.

  The floor of the bathroom was partially covered by clean white towels. At the far end, kneeling on the tile and completely engrossed in his task, was a man with maroon-colored hair in a maroon silk bathrobe, painstakingly scrubbing the marble floor with Lysol.

  Gerry let out what must have sounded like a startled squeak and backed out of the bathroom, but not fast enough, for the man looked up. An expression of terror crossed his face, then anger. She knew then who it was: the Wizard of Oz himself, behind his own battery of machines and protection.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” he said sharply.

  “I’m Mr. Libra’s Girl Friday and I’ll use the bathroom when you’re finished, sir. I’m sorry to have bothered you, I didn’t see you,” she said, smiling weakly and waving her hands like a duck. What an impression she was making! He’d probably either fire her right now or make her finish cleaning the already clean floor, and she couldn’t decide which would be worse.

  Sam Leo Libra stood up and walked carefully across the clean towels. He looked calm now. She noticed that his hairline was very low, and his hair was indeed damp, glistening as if he had just washed it. Reddish-brown hair sprouted from the neck of the immaculate white T-shirt he wore beneath the maroon silk robe and crawled down his wrists and the backs of his white hands. That hair, too, glistened with health. He looked like a very clean, newly washed ape.

  “You’re Miss Thompson,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll call you Gerry, you call me Mr. Libra, not sir. I’m not that old.”

  “Yes, Mr. Libra.” She guessed him to be about forty, the same age as his wife.

  “You can’t trust a new place,” he said, gesturing at the immaculate bathroom. “They clean it, but you never know what kind of slobs were there before. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why don’t you go down in the lobby to the Ladies’ Room. I’ll be through here in about fifteen minutes.”

  The power play, she thought, beginning to wonder if she was going to be able to like him. Make the employees know their place. The public Ladies’ Room is good enough for her. Okay, if he wants to play, I can play too.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said sweetly.

  She took her time coming back, stopping at the magazine stand to buy a newspaper. The papers were full of second-page obituaries devoted to the recent death and funeral of Douglas Henry, one of the old-time movie stars with two first names. She read about it coming up in the elevator: one of the pallbearers had been Douglas Henry’s personal manager and publicist, Sam Leo Libra. It was well known, the newspaper said, that Libra kept only twelve clients, no more, no less, and there was speculation in Hollywood and New York about who would be chosen to take Douglas Henry’s place in the Libra stable.

  In the hall just outside the suite there was a commotion. The floor policeman was there, chasing away three teen-aged girls. Two of the girls looked about fourteen, although who could tell, the way they were dressed. The thing that gave them away was their pimples, carefully disguised under layers of beige make-up. They were dressed as if they were going to a discothéque, with fake eyelashes and day glo plastic mini-dresses. The third girl was weird: she was about four feet eleven, with a scared little face and enormous eyes, and must have weighed seventy-five pounds. She looked like the Poor Pitiful Pearl doll. She had tears in her eyes. The other two girls only looked aggressive and annoyed.

  “Please,” said Poor Pitiful Pearl. “Oh, please! We’ve been waiting here since six o’clock this morning. We just want to look at him.”

  “And we want to give him this Mad Daddy beanbag we made,” said Aggressive Number One.

  “You can’t hang around here,” the cop said. “You’re disturbing the guests.”

  “We won’t say a word,” said Aggressive Number Two.

  “You’ll just have to wait in the street. Go on, scoot!” The cop raised his hand menacingly. The little scared one cringed, the other two giggled.

  “Can we leave the beanbag?” asked Number One.

  “Oh, don’t leave it, Donna,” squealed Number Two. “Then we’ll never see him.”

  “This Mad Daddy person is not a guest here,” said the cop. “I told you that but you won’t believe me.”

  “We believe you,” said Donna, “But we know he’s coming here because his press agent lives here.”

  Press agent, Gerry thought, amused. How Libra would cringe.

  “She works there!” Number Two screamed, making a rush for Gerry. “Is Mad Daddy coming? Is he?”

  “I don’t know who Mad Daddy is,” Gerry said.

  “You don’t?” the three girls chorused in amazement.

  “No.”

  “He’s darling!”

  “Well, if you like, I can see that he gets his present if and when he comes.”

  “What do you think, Michelle?” asked Donna.

  “I don’t know. What do you think, Barrie?”

  Poor Pitiful Pearl was wringing her hands. “I just think we should wait in the street,” she said softly.

  Mi
chelle looked at her oversized wristwatch. “I can’t, I’ll be late for English class again.”

  “You have to be prepared to make sacrifices …” Barrie murmured.

  “Yeah, well I don’t want to get flunked.”

  “Discuss it on the street,” the cop said, and herded the girls into the elevator.

  Gerry watched the cage descend and smiled at the security cop. She remembered very well when she had been like that, and she felt sorry for the kids.

  “This is nothing,” the cop said. “You should have seen with the Beatles. We caught a kid in the air shaft. She almost suffocated.”

  In the suite Lizzie Libra had disposed of the last of the seventy-two pieces of luggage and Room Service had cleared away the breakfast dishes and delivered an enormous order of coffee and Danish pastries. Sam Leo Libra, now dressed in a silver-gray silk suit and a thin silver-gray knitted tie, was arranging the packs of cigarettes in a large Baccarat crystal bowl on the coffee table in front of the couch. The smell of disinfectant floated lightly in the air, mingling with the sweeter smell of the flowers.

  “You get your ass out of here now, Lizzie,” he said pleasantly. “Do you have plans for the day?”

  “I’m going to lunch with Elaine Fellin and then I’m going to my shrink. Then I’ll probably go shopping to recover from the shrink.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Elaine is picking me up here at twelve.”

  “Well, what are you going to do until then?”

  “Would you believe get dressed?” Lizzie Libra marched into the bedroom and shut the door. Then she opened it again and stuck her head out. “My husband,” she said to Gerry sarcastically, “he’s so concerned about me.” She shut the door.

  “I’m not concerned about you,” Libra yelled. “I just want to be sure you get your ass out of here while I’m working.” He turned to Gerry pleasantly. “My wife always works up a mad at me just before she goes to her analyst so she’ll have something to tell him to make him think he’s worth all that money I pay him.”

  “Who’s Mad Daddy?” Gerry asked.