Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,1

into an angry glare.

How many times had some wandering-palmed director or overweight stage manager mangled the same phrase? How many predawn hours had she endured, dragging herself to that wretched studio in the godforsaken San Fernando Valley only to be greeted by a bevy of backbiting scriptwriters armed with clever quips about the stupidity of actors and the brilliance of their own art? And how many evenings had she finished taping at eight, or even nine o’clock at night—only to find twenty pages of new dialogue shoved toward her weary chest with a dismissive: “Let’s try to get it right tomorrow, huh, babe? For a change—Cassie, babe?”

Jamaica glowered at the mirror, shook her raven hair again, and attempted a more winsome pose, but her wrathful expression seemed permanently stuck. Embittered, middle-aged female, it all but shrieked. Stalled career, no permanent relationship, no true and loving home.

Jamaica’s shoulders sagged, and her back, always held so proud and straight—and youthful—drooped in despair. Forty-five, she thought again, with all the wrinkles, lines, and blotchy skin to show it. Forty-five in an industry where twenty was considered “seasoned.”

When had her age begun to betray her? she wondered, although she already knew the answer. It had been when one particular paparazzo had decided to make her his moving target. Catching “Cassandra Lovett” with her proverbial pants down had become his obsession. Jamaica hadn’t been able to shop at Neiman’s or dine in a Santa Monica bistro without encountering this demon with a Leica. She hadn’t been able to approach her home in Holmby Hills without finding him encamped by the gates—or lurking in the neighbor’s bougainvillea—waiting for her to take her daily swim, then squeezing off a roll that had ended up as CASSANDRA BARES ALL according to The Hollywood Globe’s salacious headline.

Reggie Flack was the cretin’s name. On retainer with The Hollywood Globe, his main assignment was to photograph Jamaica Nevisson in poses as revealing—and unkind—as possible. He’d stalked her obsessively, taking perverse pleasure in affixing bitingly sarcastic theatrical quotations to each published photo.

The last straw had come several weeks earlier. Jamaica had sailed to Catalina Island on her Oceanis 352 with an “unidentified male friend”—as The Hollywood Globe later trumpeted—and had opted to take advantage of a supposedly secluded cove for a topless frolic. How Flack had discovered the outing, she didn’t know, but he’d followed the pair to the island, scaled a cactus-infested hillside, and managed to snap a good many unflattering photos, all of which appeared in a full-color center spread under the caption: The Island of Jamaica—“the Bounded Waters Should Lift Their Bosoms Higher Than the Shores.”

On the day the photo spread had appeared, Jamaica had marched bravely into the studio. She’d been determined to ignore the wretched press, but Phil Carney, the foulmouthed actor who played the show’s patriarch, had goaded her unmercifully. “Philly” took delight in torturing the female performers, extras and leads alike, with a daily torrent of off-color comments—behavior the studio greeted with deaf ears.

His lewd remarks about Flack’s photographs had pushed Jamaica over the edge. She’d slapped him across the face, stormed into the production office, told the head honcho to “take this job and shove it up your expletive deleted!”, and slammed back to her dressing room. From there, she’d placed a call to her longtime friend Genevieve Pepper in Newcastle, Massachusetts.

“Come back east!” Genie had laughed in response to her friend’s woeful phone call. “We have plenty of room, and you know Tom adores having you visit . . . Besides, there’s the Commodores’ dinner dance at the Yacht Club on October first. You can shake up the musty old place, and find some fabulous guy with scads of money! . . . After that, you and I can charter a boat . . . sail to Nantucket . . . You’ll forget California ever existed . . . And, yes, Jamaica, the guest rooms are equipped with Jacuzzis and steam showers . . . We’re not as primitive in Massachusetts as you might imagine . . .”

Now, as she sat safely in one of those peaceful guest suites, there was no question in Jamaica’s mind that leaving Crescent Heights was the smartest thing she’d ever done.

Jamaica gave herself another wink, unconsciously replicating Cassandra’s come-hither look, then scooped up her ermine stole from the settee, sailed down the stairway, and stepped into the Peppers’ baronial living room.

“Ahhh . . . There she is. And, looking as luscious as ever . . . You’re