his mother got it
published after his death. What kind of prize are you hoping to win?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got room for something else on my mantel. I’ve
always thought three was a nice round number.”
That set off a wild round of applause from the studio audience packed
with Teri Squire fans. Price and Archie joined in, while Teri smiled. It was
good to be back in Hollywood’s good graces again. It had taken two years,
but Hollywood memories were short and all was forgiven. For now.
“Ladies and gentlemen, two-time
Academy
Award winner
Teri
Squire,” Price said. “The movie is called The Precipice , and it opens soon at
a theater near you.”
CHAPTER 12
Teri looked at
herself in the bathroom mirror. An unusually harsh
critic, she took one more stab at her hair, then double-checked that her
dress, specially created by Montavo, Hollywood’s newest one-namedesigner flavor of the month, didn’t reveal any unflattering cleavage or
cling too tightly to hips, love handles, or buttocks. Makeup effectively
covered the crow’s feet that radiated from her eyes. She had always heard
that exposure to sun would age your skin, but growing up in Texas, it was
impossible to avoid sun, especially for a ranch tomboy who spent more
time out of doors than in. Crow’s feet were badges of character where she
came from, instead of the beginning of a countdown to the ends of
careers, as they were in Hollywood. Fittingly enough, if they ran amuck,
she would soon move from leading lady to character actress.
Mike entered and stood behind her. He put his arms around her
waist, clasped his hands on her stomach, and pulled her close. “You about
ready, Babe?”
She pulled at her bangs, spreading them evenly across her forehead.
“Does my hair look stupid?”
“No.”
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
He gave her a once-over in the mirror. “Like anything could ever
make you look fat.”
She unclasped his hands from her waist, turned, and sighed. “Well, if
I don’t look fat and stupid, then I guess I’m ready to go.”
Mike
laughed, and
Teri
smiled to see
it.
Throughout their
relationship, she had always been able to make him laugh. That is, until the
“troubles,” the term he used to describe the firing/unfiring of her by her
agents, the way some older folks in the Deep South still referred to the
Civil War as the “recent unpleasantness.” Teri thought that using that
word was Mike’s way of marginalizing what had happened, and his part in
it, as if the whole sequence of events had merely been an uninsurable force
of nature or an act of God, as opposed to a calculated decision by Bob
Keene, supported—or at least acquiesced in—by Mike.
Even now, with her career apparently back on track, things were not
what they had once been. If the future of their relationship was to be
dependent on the fickleness of a Hollywood career, things most likely
would never be the same. But things were good for now, and that was as
much as Teri could hope for. She had long ago shelved the marriage hopes
she once harbored. There might still be marriage in her future, but she
knew it wouldn’t be with Mike, or anyone else in “the business,” for that
matter.
They drove to the Beverly Hilton in silence. Teri kept her face to the
window as Mike drove down Coldwater Canyon Drive, across glitzy
Sunset Boulevard where Coldwater Canyon became Beverly Drive, and on
to Wilshire Boulevard. Limos and luxury cars were already lined up in
front at the
valet stand
of the
Hilton, the
car-parkers working in
overdrive. Rope lines had been set up alongside a red carpet, from the
curb to the entrance, and crowds of fans and onlookers gathered on both
sides, cameras and cell phones in hand, ready to snap shots of celebrities.
Mike pulled in at the back of the line, waiting to edge up one car at a
time.
“You nervous?” he asked, the first word spoken since they got in the
car.
“Yes. Are you?”
“No.”
“Your reputation’s on the
published after his death. What kind of prize are you hoping to win?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got room for something else on my mantel. I’ve
always thought three was a nice round number.”
That set off a wild round of applause from the studio audience packed
with Teri Squire fans. Price and Archie joined in, while Teri smiled. It was
good to be back in Hollywood’s good graces again. It had taken two years,
but Hollywood memories were short and all was forgiven. For now.
“Ladies and gentlemen, two-time
Academy
Award winner
Teri
Squire,” Price said. “The movie is called The Precipice , and it opens soon at
a theater near you.”
CHAPTER 12
Teri looked at
herself in the bathroom mirror. An unusually harsh
critic, she took one more stab at her hair, then double-checked that her
dress, specially created by Montavo, Hollywood’s newest one-namedesigner flavor of the month, didn’t reveal any unflattering cleavage or
cling too tightly to hips, love handles, or buttocks. Makeup effectively
covered the crow’s feet that radiated from her eyes. She had always heard
that exposure to sun would age your skin, but growing up in Texas, it was
impossible to avoid sun, especially for a ranch tomboy who spent more
time out of doors than in. Crow’s feet were badges of character where she
came from, instead of the beginning of a countdown to the ends of
careers, as they were in Hollywood. Fittingly enough, if they ran amuck,
she would soon move from leading lady to character actress.
Mike entered and stood behind her. He put his arms around her
waist, clasped his hands on her stomach, and pulled her close. “You about
ready, Babe?”
She pulled at her bangs, spreading them evenly across her forehead.
“Does my hair look stupid?”
“No.”
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
He gave her a once-over in the mirror. “Like anything could ever
make you look fat.”
She unclasped his hands from her waist, turned, and sighed. “Well, if
I don’t look fat and stupid, then I guess I’m ready to go.”
Mike
laughed, and
Teri
smiled to see
it.
Throughout their
relationship, she had always been able to make him laugh. That is, until the
“troubles,” the term he used to describe the firing/unfiring of her by her
agents, the way some older folks in the Deep South still referred to the
Civil War as the “recent unpleasantness.” Teri thought that using that
word was Mike’s way of marginalizing what had happened, and his part in
it, as if the whole sequence of events had merely been an uninsurable force
of nature or an act of God, as opposed to a calculated decision by Bob
Keene, supported—or at least acquiesced in—by Mike.
Even now, with her career apparently back on track, things were not
what they had once been. If the future of their relationship was to be
dependent on the fickleness of a Hollywood career, things most likely
would never be the same. But things were good for now, and that was as
much as Teri could hope for. She had long ago shelved the marriage hopes
she once harbored. There might still be marriage in her future, but she
knew it wouldn’t be with Mike, or anyone else in “the business,” for that
matter.
They drove to the Beverly Hilton in silence. Teri kept her face to the
window as Mike drove down Coldwater Canyon Drive, across glitzy
Sunset Boulevard where Coldwater Canyon became Beverly Drive, and on
to Wilshire Boulevard. Limos and luxury cars were already lined up in
front at the
valet stand
of the
Hilton, the
car-parkers working in
overdrive. Rope lines had been set up alongside a red carpet, from the
curb to the entrance, and crowds of fans and onlookers gathered on both
sides, cameras and cell phones in hand, ready to snap shots of celebrities.
Mike pulled in at the back of the line, waiting to edge up one car at a
time.
“You nervous?” he asked, the first word spoken since they got in the
car.
“Yes. Are you?”
“No.”
“Your reputation’s on the
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