desk. A minute later I peeked into the other corner office, decorated in ivory and bright silks like a California Taj Mahal for visiting west coast sultans.
Vicky was posed behind a carved ivory desk, a telephone at her neck under her cascading blond-streaked hair. “Come in, come in,” she mouthed. A piece of her hair fell over one eye, Veronica Lake style. She looked like a clean-cut Miss America, her large breasts pointed under a beige silk dress, snapping intelligent green eyes, and a glowing red lipstick smile. It was daunting to see a twenty-five-year-old girl in this setting.
I sat down heavily in an ivory throne chair while she whispered into the phone. “Honey, I love it, let’s take a meeting, let’s make a movie.” She sounded like a Hollywood starlet but I knew she’d been an honor student at Princeton who directed the senior play.
I sneaked a look at my wristwatch. I’m not used to being kept waiting. She gurgled, “Kisses, kisses,” and smooched loud before she hung up. She walked around the desk on glamorous high heels and shook my hand hard. I stood up; I was about two inches taller.
“I hear great things about you,” I said. “People tell me we both love good movies.”
She had a sharp direct stare. “Not like some people we work for,” she snickered, bonding by remarking on our boss Michael Finley, who had the odd reputation for hating movies.
“How’s Jack?” She beamed, reaching over to dial the phone again.
I sat forward. “Wonderful. He’s really working this time. He interviewed his Jewish grandfather and lived in a Brooklyn Hasidic monastery for three weeks and took off thirty pounds.” I grinned. “Instead of sexing it up, he’s acting.”
“He’s admitting he’s half Jewish these days?” she asked aggressively. “His first press agent said he was Irish.” She spoke into her phone, asking for Arnie Berger, a big local agent.
I had to get her off the phone. I smiled. “Part Jews can be the worst anti-Semites. Maybe this movie will save his soul.”
“I hear Anita’s three days behind schedule.” She raised her voice like a cheerleader.
“No, she’s doing great, only—”
“Only what?”
“Well, you know Michael Finley. All he cares about is my low budget. He won’t do creative thinking with me to make the movie better.”
I was planting information with her. Vicky Corona might be my way to get around Michael Finley if he started playing rough about my problems on the set. Vicky’s mentor was Michael’s boss and the person Michael would consult before he took the picture away and fired me.
She turned her back suddenly. I felt something coming. “I told Michael I can supervise your film.” She whirled around. “But I decided there’s not enough power in just running New York.” She slammed down the telephone.
My eyes bugged out at her opening punch. She was facing me from a foot away.
“I do have a great job,” I said evenly. “Sorry you’re not happy with yours.”
“I made a fabulous deal with the studio.” She sat down, crossing her legs like a 1940s fashion model. “I’ll be here one week a month meeting with New York talent. There’s a lot more to be done here, a lot more.”
I didn’t believe her; she was saying she would be supervising me. The interoffice phone rang, and Vicky grabbed for it. She looked pissed and shoved it across the gleaming white desk. “Polanski for you.”
“Hello?”
“It’s just me,” Rosemary said on the line.
“Roman darling, how are you?” I sounded sarcastic.
Vicky was combing the waving yellow hair that covered her eye.
“Just repeat what I say,” Rosemary chortled. “She’ll blow a gasket.” She paused. “No, I can’t fly to Paris.”
“No, I can’t fly to Paris.”
Vicky strummed the teeth of her large tortoiseshell comb.
“Of course I’d love to see you,” Rosemary was dictating.
I repeated the line.
“I’ll get back to you and I love you,” she said. “Say
Vicky was posed behind a carved ivory desk, a telephone at her neck under her cascading blond-streaked hair. “Come in, come in,” she mouthed. A piece of her hair fell over one eye, Veronica Lake style. She looked like a clean-cut Miss America, her large breasts pointed under a beige silk dress, snapping intelligent green eyes, and a glowing red lipstick smile. It was daunting to see a twenty-five-year-old girl in this setting.
I sat down heavily in an ivory throne chair while she whispered into the phone. “Honey, I love it, let’s take a meeting, let’s make a movie.” She sounded like a Hollywood starlet but I knew she’d been an honor student at Princeton who directed the senior play.
I sneaked a look at my wristwatch. I’m not used to being kept waiting. She gurgled, “Kisses, kisses,” and smooched loud before she hung up. She walked around the desk on glamorous high heels and shook my hand hard. I stood up; I was about two inches taller.
“I hear great things about you,” I said. “People tell me we both love good movies.”
She had a sharp direct stare. “Not like some people we work for,” she snickered, bonding by remarking on our boss Michael Finley, who had the odd reputation for hating movies.
“How’s Jack?” She beamed, reaching over to dial the phone again.
I sat forward. “Wonderful. He’s really working this time. He interviewed his Jewish grandfather and lived in a Brooklyn Hasidic monastery for three weeks and took off thirty pounds.” I grinned. “Instead of sexing it up, he’s acting.”
“He’s admitting he’s half Jewish these days?” she asked aggressively. “His first press agent said he was Irish.” She spoke into her phone, asking for Arnie Berger, a big local agent.
I had to get her off the phone. I smiled. “Part Jews can be the worst anti-Semites. Maybe this movie will save his soul.”
“I hear Anita’s three days behind schedule.” She raised her voice like a cheerleader.
“No, she’s doing great, only—”
“Only what?”
“Well, you know Michael Finley. All he cares about is my low budget. He won’t do creative thinking with me to make the movie better.”
I was planting information with her. Vicky Corona might be my way to get around Michael Finley if he started playing rough about my problems on the set. Vicky’s mentor was Michael’s boss and the person Michael would consult before he took the picture away and fired me.
She turned her back suddenly. I felt something coming. “I told Michael I can supervise your film.” She whirled around. “But I decided there’s not enough power in just running New York.” She slammed down the telephone.
My eyes bugged out at her opening punch. She was facing me from a foot away.
“I do have a great job,” I said evenly. “Sorry you’re not happy with yours.”
“I made a fabulous deal with the studio.” She sat down, crossing her legs like a 1940s fashion model. “I’ll be here one week a month meeting with New York talent. There’s a lot more to be done here, a lot more.”
I didn’t believe her; she was saying she would be supervising me. The interoffice phone rang, and Vicky grabbed for it. She looked pissed and shoved it across the gleaming white desk. “Polanski for you.”
“Hello?”
“It’s just me,” Rosemary said on the line.
“Roman darling, how are you?” I sounded sarcastic.
Vicky was combing the waving yellow hair that covered her eye.
“Just repeat what I say,” Rosemary chortled. “She’ll blow a gasket.” She paused. “No, I can’t fly to Paris.”
“No, I can’t fly to Paris.”
Vicky strummed the teeth of her large tortoiseshell comb.
“Of course I’d love to see you,” Rosemary was dictating.
I repeated the line.
“I’ll get back to you and I love you,” she said. “Say
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