Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Just the fact of the separation. Not the fact that you saw other people then. But this open way of handling the monogamy crisis you went through — without it, I don’t have a piece the Times would run.”

There was now in the room a heavy, heavy silence. Paula looked at him gently, considerately. He couldn’t blame her. She was right. He thought of Holder, bouncing up and down the halls of Garlands, lobbying for more ads and bigger print runs.

“Okay,” Fred said. “Carefully, though.”

She turned on the recorder. “Don’t worry. Trust me— women will love you for your honesty.”

A little thrill went through him at that. He began to talk. …

Tony Winters, his black hair shining, his face pink from the air, emerged from the swivel doors into the warm and smoky gold-and-red Russian Tea Room, unbuttoning his camel’s-hair greatcoat and meeting the apparently casual but supervisory glances of the famous, near-famous, and companions of the famous seated at the semicircle booths opposite and beside the bar. He handed his coat through the cloakroom’s half-door to the woman. She handed him a plastic check. “Hi,” he said to the wave of Donald Binns, the now ancient and quite mad Broadway producer seated with his chorus-girl wife and faggy assistant.

“How’s your mother?” Binns croaked out.

The glances returned, this time as puzzling stares. “Rich and famous in Hollywood,” Tony answered.

“That’s good.” Binns groaned when he spoke, as though the flattering lies and blustering rages of a half-century had corroded his vocal cords. “You still writing?”

Tony nodded with an indulgent smile, giving the impression that he was humoring a senile uncle. In a way, he was.

“Send me something!” Binns almost shouted. The stares were now mixed with speculative whispers. “What’s the matter? Broadway’s not good enough for you?”

“I will,” Tony answered, and moved on. “Good to see you,” he said. The heads returned to their companions as he passed. He saw himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He looked great. Life is a performance, assholes, he thought to himself. No one knew Binns had rejected all three of Tony’s plays — probably even Binns himself had forgotten. All that mattered was Tony’s crisp walk, his clear bold eyes, the slight witty smile wavering on his lips. “I’m meeting Gloria Fowler for lunch,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Winters. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Tony said, acknowledging the hostess, now that he had been recognized.

Gloria rated a booth on the left (number seven, Tony guessed, remembering from his childhood the station numbers; explained to him by the waiters with whom he would play while his mother got progressively drunker), and she was already there — her expensive haircut, her creamy silk blouse, and her simple (but unbelievably costly) rope of pearls leavened by the modest pair of blue jeans hidden beneath the pink tablecloth.

“You look lovely,” Tony said, kissing her on the cheek and then sliding in.

“Deal’s made,” she said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, when Garth wants somebody, it’s done. Want something to drink?” He ordered and then she went on, “He wants you to call him tonight — the afternoon out there — at his home. I’ll give you the number. He’s very hot about you staying with him in Malibu to do the rewrites.”

“Really?” Tony looked around the room with mastery, owning it. Mom must have felt like this when a hit was running, he thought to himself. “Well, I guess if I do it, the movie’ll get made.”

“It’ll keep his attention and make him feel he’s part of the writing of the script. Would Betty be a problem? Can she get time off?”

“She can’t leave now — or rather, she doesn’t want to. She’s got a …” It sounded so trivial and small-time, Tony hesitated. “She’s got a book coming out—”

“She’s written a book?”

“No, no. I mean a novel she’s edited. But she wouldn’t make a fuss about my going. I’ve been so moody, she’d probably feel relieved.”

“I’m sure she’d miss you terribly. Garth says it’ll only take a few weeks—”

“They always say that — then it goes on for months.”

“You could stay with your father if Garth gets to be too much.”

“God, I’d rather stay at a hotel.”

Gloria frowned at her glass and lifted it to her lips, sipping. When she put it down she smiled and put her hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s just a rumor, Tony, but I think you should know …” She paused and smiled encouragingly.

He was baffled. “Yes …?”

“Your father — they say — is probably going to be named CEO of International Pictures.”

Tony swallowed. “CEO?”

“Chief executive officer. The head of the company, overseeing television and features.”

He looked away from the band of mirrored glass — reflecting the glittering hairstyles, sparkling glasses, and open laughing mouths — down at the brilliant red leather of the booth. He closed his eyes as the humiliation fell over him like a shroud. Don’t show it! Life is a performance. “I see. That’s why Garth wanted me back.”

“No!” Gloria said, like someone commanding a dog not to pee on the rug. “That’s why I wanted to warn you about it. I knew you’d think that. But Garth has no idea of—”

“Gloria, that town is worse than high school. Somebody pops a pimple out there and everybody knows how much pus came out. If you’ve heard the rumor, he’s heard it.”

“Not true. I know it and I’m the only one who does, because of my association with someone — I can’t explain. I know that no one else knows. Have you heard anything about it?”

“No, of course—”

“You see!”

“But that—”

“Listen to me, Tony. Garth has had two other writers do drafts since yours.”

“You’re kidding me. Two?”

“Yes. They’re awful. Whatever problems your draft has, at least there’s a movie there. These other drafts are unusable. He wants you back. I was afraid that the rumor might come true and be announced while you’re out there and you’d get paranoid and pissed off and walk off. I don’t want that to happen.”

Tony stared into her eyes. “Forget it, Gloria. Don’t bother with the speech. I don’t care why I’ve gotten the job back. I was going crazy. I’m just glad I’m working. Garth wants me to live at his house — I’ll live at his house. He wants me to do the dishes, I’ll do the dishes. I don’t care.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled. Life is a performance, his mother’s ringing youthful voice spoke through time in his head. “To a go picture,” he said, raising his glass.

Patty entered the loft grimly. She had discussed it thoroughly with Betty at lunch. She had to get away from these men. She couldn’t think clearly about her life while living with Grumpy David and seeing Demanding Gelb. Tony was going to Los Angeles for at least a month and Betty had offered to put Patty up for as long as he was gone. Four weeks of male abstinence, both sexual and emotional, might clear her head.

She had decided to blurt it out — her desire for a temporary separation was the story she planned to tell David — the moment she entered, afraid that any hesitation would end up in cowardly silence. She walked to the bed area, where she saw light, and stopped, amazed: David was packing a suitcase. It stunned her. How did he know?

“Hi,” he said. His voice sounded rushed. “Where were you? Believe it or not, I have to fly to Brazil.”

“What?”

“You can’t say a word to anybody. This has to be absolutely secret. I’m flying to Brazil to interview, or possibly interview, Hans Gott.”