Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

“Oh,” Perry said, deflated, “it’s you.”

It was not only the Englishman’s insolent remark that brought him down, but the very fact of his presence made the party seem less brilliant in Perry’s mind, as if the guest list had to be padded at the last minute by such third-string hangers-on, which brought into question the value Perry might attach to his own presence on the scene.

Heathrow was not in his riding garb, but was decked out in white duck pants, white buck shoes, and a sports jacket of wide pastel stripes, topped by a straw skimmer tilted jauntily on his head. He touched a finger to its brim in a sort of salute to Jane.

“You should have brought your camera, shouldn’t you?” he asked. “Snapshots of the stars, sent back to the hometown gazette? A sure sale, I should think.”

“Sounds a bit old hat, Mr. Heathrow,” Jane said with a wide smile. “I’m sure they’d rather see a genuine English literary figure in the midst of the Hollywood scene, looking so … croquet? ”

The left corner of Heathrow’s thin mouth made a slight downward twitch, expressing disdain.

“Possibly so,” he said, then turned, his pastels melting into the crowd.

The Englishman’s barbs were quickly forgotten when Pru Vardeman suddenly swept down on Perry and Jane, bestowing on the cheeks of each a quick, dry peck, making them feel as if they were being greeted on the Merv Griffin show.

“How too sweet of you to come,” she said, then grasped one of Jane’s hands in her own. “May I borrow your decorous wife, Perry? There’s someone absolutely dying to meet her.”

“ Me? ” Jane asked.

Perry felt himself reddening, wondering if one of the famously lascivious stars, known for his hobbylike conquest of women, had picked Jane out of the crowd as his new morsel. But before he could ask any questions Pru was already towing her off at almost a run, pulling Jane behind her like a kite she was trying to get airborne. Perry started to follow, when a sudden goose from behind made him jump. He turned to see his host.

“Friggin’ chili,” Vaughan said, emitting a spicy belch, and shaking his head, “stuff’s hot enough to scorch a wetback.”

He threw an arm around Perry’s shoulder and started guiding him toward the house. Now Perry understood why Jane had been suddenly swept away; Vaughan wanted a little private time with his old pal who was now making a mark in this new scene. OK, fine. Let’s see what’s up. He was ready for anything.

Vaughan and Pru each had their own office at home, conveniently located on either side of the comfortable private screening room they shared. Pru’s office featured authentic New England antiques, while Vaughan’s was a clashing combination of Danish-modern desks and tables, along with scruffy leather club chairs and couch that seemed to have been rescued from some ancient college fraternity house. There were framed posters of the movies he had produced, as well as autographed photos of Vaughan with celebrities ranging from Tommy Lasorda to Don Ho.

Vaughan opened a desk drawer and pulled out a scruffy, slightly deflated football that he tossed to Perry.

“Was rereading some of your stuff the other day,” Vaughan said casually.

Perry smiled. He bet he knew exactly what day. He bet it was the day the Nielsen overnights came in on “The First Day’s the Hardest.” Vaughan probably had some kind of hookup to the Nielsens like the Dow-Jones ticker tape that provided the latest numbers. Maybe they were fed right into his own home computer.

“That so,” said Perry, noncommittally. He gripped the football along the laces and lofted it back to Vaughan in a graceful arc. He was enjoying the game they were playing. Not long ago he would have thought Vaughan’s sudden interest in his old short stories after all these years was disgustingly phony and hypocritical. Now he realized it was just part of the business, part of the game. When you’re hot, you’re hot. Might as well enjoy it.

When Vaughan got the ball he tossed it up toward the ceiling and caught it himself.

“There’s one in your latest collection that grabbed me,” Vaughan said. “‘The Springtime Women.’ I think it might make a feature.”

“So does Ned Gurney,” Perry shot back, as if hurling a bullet pass.

Vaughan caught the comment without so much as a wince.

“Did he take an option on it?” he asked, casually tossing up the football again.

“We agreed that when ‘The First Year’ is all set, he’d take an option. I think his lawyer is drawing up some papers.”

“So you just have a verbal agreement, is that it?”

Vaughan sent the football in a hard spiral that stung Perry’s hands as he caught it.

“Well, I guess so.”

Vaughan made along whistle and shook his head.

“You probably gave it to him for a song.”

Perry felt himself flushing. He cradled the ball against himself, as if in protection.

“Ned and I are friends,” he said.

“At least you don’t have anything in writing,” Vaughan said, giving out another five-alarm belch.

Perry squeezed the ball harder against his belly, feeling his gut heaving.

“Ned and I really work well together,” he said. “He sparks ideas in me.”

“Too bad he never got his feature off the ground.”

Perry gave the ball a fling. It wobbled in the air toward Vaughan.

“Hamlin Productions has it now. Ned says they’re really hot about it.”

“ Hamlin? I wish him all the luck.”

Vaughan tossed the ball across the room, past Perry’s head. It ricocheted into a corner, and Perry went scrambling after it, puffing as he trapped and held it and called back to Vaughan, out of breath.

“What were you going to do with ‘The Springtime Women?’ I mean, if it was free.”

Vaughan yawned, and scratched at his crotch.

“I wanted to show it to Harrison.”

“Harrison Ford? ”

“Why not? You can’t see him as the starving artist-type who lives in the pad below the two women?”

“Well, it’s not a very big part in the story.”

“If Harrison was interested, we’d build it up. Maybe the artist ends up getting it on with one of the chicks.”

“I guess that’s possible.”

“With Harrison involved, we could take it to any studio in town.”

Perry was squeezing the football.

“But he’s all booked up, isn’t he?”

Vaughan shrugged.

“No harm in showing it to him.”

That wasn’t just Hollywood talk. Harrison Ford was here, at this party, tonight. Perry had actually seen the guy with his own eyes.

Vaughan held out his hands for the ball, beckoning.

“I guess there’s no harm,” Perry said. “After all, Ned and I don’t have anything in writing.”

He tossed the ball to Vaughan.

Outside on the lawn, among the stars and cowgirls, Jane was enmeshed in some animated conversation with a middle-aged woman who looked, like so many other people present, hauntingly familiar. Her name was Mona Halsted, which didn’t ring a bell, and when Jane introduced her Perry asked her if she used to be on that excellent show called “Family,” one of the only classy prime-time series.

Mona laughed.

“No, but a lot of people mistake me for Sada Thompson,” she said. “The actress who played the mother.”

That was it! This woman looked like the ultimate mother, the warm, slightly hefty source of all-American comfort. She must have been the mother in a number of movies, if not a series.

“Mona’s not an actress,” Jane explained, “she’s a producer .”

“Oh?” Perry asked with rising interest, “features?”

“No, we only do television. I’m with Allerton, a production company.”