17

Nigel Phillips looked at the calendar on his office wall, surrounded by postcards displaying images of spectacular mountain scenery, and mentally pinched himself. Only a week hence he would be on his way to the city that was nearest Margaret’s place, a week earlier than she was expecting him, and he had not informed her.

They had been abiding by their semi-tacit no-telephone pact, and corresponding by picture postcard. She had told him that she had sometimes found the phone calls from her previous lover, the film-director chap, annoying, and to cause Margaret any annoyance was the very last thing Nigel wanted.

His firm had for some time toyed with the idea of opening an office on the Continent as more and more of their clients, mostly small-to-medium businesses, were expanding their operations there, but none of the partners, including Nigel, had made any concrete proposals, and the idea was left to linger. But when that autumn he proposed that the office be in Geneva – it was, after all, a major hub of international business, with easy access to Paris and Milan and Zurich – the proposal was greeted with enthusiasm. When he further volunteered to be the one to head the office, his partners were ready to pin a medal on him; they were all solid Britons, for whom crossing the Channel was a bit of an adventure and the Continent was a fine place for a holiday, but one wouldn’t want to live there, would one? And when he, finally, said that he would go there during the week before Christmas in order to do some exploring, their admiration knew no end. Except for Nigel and one other chap, they were all family men, and they viewed giving up the London Christmas season as somewhat of a heroic sacrifice.

Now he wondered about how to apprise Margaret. Should he break the pact and phone her? Or should he surprise her and call her once he was there, or even show up at her place without calling? Or should he send her a postcard? She would certainly get it in time, but what about her reply? There might not be enough time for him to receive it before he left. There it was: he would write her, and ask her to call him – it’s most important, he would say – immediately she got the card. Then he would tell her.

Albert Bosch, that was the chap’s name. People had been talking about his new film, Lady Something-or-Other. The reviewers, not only the one in the Telegraph, hadn’t much liked it, and it seemed that they didn’t much fancy Mr. Bosch in general. But Nigel felt that he ought to see it, if only because it might help him, in some unknown way, to learn something more about Margaret. They had, after all, shared only one night of passion, and that man had shared her life for several years. Yes, he would go see the film some time that weekend.

Throughout his career Albert Bosch had made a point of finishing his film projects, down to the last detail, by the end of November so that with the coming of December he could get ready for his other passion, skiing. Someone had once asked him at a festival why it was that in his films there never was any snow and he answered, “Because when it snows I ski.” The questioner’s premise was not quite factually true because his films occasionally showed snow-capped mountain peaks, and his answer was a bit flippant because he also did much of his reading and writing, especially the storylines of his films, in winter. The reason for this was that Albert Bosch was a man of fairly moderate, perhaps less-than-average, sexual appetite, but skiing stimulated it well beyond moderation, and it was only during the ski season that his erotic imagination operated on the level necessary to furnish his films with the sexual content for which they were known. When he would go skiing without a female companion, in the evenings he would troll for women in the bars and hotel lobbies of the resort, something that he never did elsewhere. The après-ski sex was just as important to him as the skiing itself. He did not talk about this proclivity of his to critics or film students, only to friends, and he found that those who were themselves natives of the greater Alpine region understood it perfectly, but others found it strange.

And so he found it disconcerting that the page on the calendar in the editing room where he was finishing the revised Lady G had been turned to December. True, December had not advanced very far when the job was done and the new prints were sent by courier to Albert’s distributors in London and Paris; by now they were probably running. But, unlike previous years when in the midst of working he had kept in shape by taking strenuous hikes on his days off, this year there had been no opportunity. Unlike Margaret, who was also an enthusiastic hiker and skier, Gina had no interest in either of these pursuits, nor – except for swimming, about which she was fanatical – in anything more strenuous than strolling on the beach. That, and sex, were the physical activities that they could share.

He now wondered how he would catch up. Their stay in Catalonia was practically finished, and Gina wanted to get back to California. They had agreed that he would go to Utah for a week of skiing before the festival and that she would join him then, as would Mario, but what about the month remaining until then? The ski areas in Southern California did not, he had found out, have enough snow until much later in the season, and those in Northern California were a good day’s drive away from Los Angeles. Perhaps he would let Gina go and he would stay in Europe, go back to his hometown and find a gym in which to get into shape. And then: would he go to the resort – in the French Jura, away from the crowds that filled the Alps – where he had been going for years? It was where, six years before, he had met Margaret, who lived nearby. Over the past three winters he had spent many weeks at her house, skiing with her or reading and writing while she painted. But if he were to go there this year he would probably run into her, and he did not want that.

But why not? What would be the harm in that? They were educated European adults, for God’s sake.

And then he was struck by the absurdity of worrying about how to spend one month when his career had just crossed its Rubicon. The die had been cast. It was now rolling, rolling along with the projectors in the cinemas of Europe and soon, perhaps, with those of the movie houses of America.

In Southern California, December had begun with drizzles that turned into heavy rain, but after a week the storm petered out, letting the sun warm the air once more.

Jenni Jarman was doing one of the things she liked most: barefoot in her jeans and tee-shirt, in a reclining chair beside the pool, with her slippers beside it, she was reading a book. She was taking a well-earned break from studio work.

Once her period had ended and she was back on the pill, the hard-core shooting schedule on Moving Around had to be speeded up to make up for lost time and to enable Barry to finish the job before closing the studio for Christmas vacation, as he always did. Jenni was tired, more mentally perhaps than physically. She remembered that at her initial interview with Barry she had summarized her upcoming work as “no simulation,” and Barry had agreed; but she now found that she had to simulate after all: simulate pleasure when she felt none, or hardly any. And that simulation, in conjunction with the non-simulated sex, proved to be harder than she had expected. The other three men, it turned out, were no more fun to work with than Steve Kelly. None of them had Frank Bond’s raw animal sexuality, which she had found rather appealing, nor did they have much else to make up for it.

Now that Barry had told her that he was wary of using Frank in the future, confidentially explaining to her the reason (while assuring her that Frank had tested negative so far), she once again had second thoughts about staying in the business.

She was reading The Old Man and the Sea. For relaxation reading, she had decided, a book should contain no sex whatsoever.

A cloud came to block the sun and the air suddenly turned chilly. She stepped into her slippers, intending to fetch a sweater from the cottage. Just then she heard a car drive by, stop for a few seconds, and then drive off again; probably a taxi dropping off a fare. She stopped in her tracks to listen for any further sounds. Another few seconds later she heard the distinctive chime of Barry’s doorbell.

Driven by curiosity and casting aside her usual caution, she took off her glasses, keeping them in her left hand, and walked past the pool, through the carport and to the sidewalk. When she looked toward the front porch, she felt her knees tremble. Standing before the door, waiting for someone to answer, was the sexiest man she had ever seen.

“Hello!” she called out.

The man seemed startled for a split-second to hear a voice coming from an unexpected direction, and then gave her a look as she had never been looked at in her life. Her knees felt even weaker.

“Oh, hello!” he said with some sort of Mediterranean accent. “Mister Barry Bergman lives here?”

“Yes, he does, but he won’t be back for another half-hour.”

“I know I am early. I am Mario Farga, I am an actor, and I had an appointment with him. I believed that to get here it would take longer.”

“Well,” she said, feeling composed at last, “my name is Jenni, I’m also an actress, and I live in a cottage in the back. It’s cold, so why don’t you come and wait in my place.” She reached out her hand, which he took gently but firmly. His hand was warm despite the chill.

“Thank you very much,” he said, never having taken his eyes off her. “This is very nice of you.”

She broke the handshake and turned around in order to lead him back, and he followed her a few paces back. They were silent at first, but as they passed the pool he said “Jenni!”

She stopped and turned around to face him. He, however, continued to walk until they were face to face.

“You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” he said.

Give me a break, she thought. How Mediterranean can a guy get? But all she said was “Come on!” and walked on toward the cottage.

“No, I mean it,” he insisted. “Believe me, I have known very many beautiful women, but not one like you.”

If he really meant it, she suddenly thought as she opened the cottage door, then this was an opportunity to get back at Barry for the Volvo incident. “Make yourself at home,” she said as she closed the door after he had come in. She sat on the bed, put her glasses on the nightstand, let her slippers drop to the floor, lay back, undid the top button of her jeans and unzipped them.

They were still doing it, frantically, when she heard Barry’s car come into the carport and Barry get out of it. Mario’s thrusting suddenly became cautious. “Don’t worry,” she said to him, “it’s okay.” She increased the volume of her moaning, hoping that Barry would hear her as she had heard him with Doctor Nancy de Volvo, and to make doubly sure she intensified her pelvic movements, with the result that Mario let out a roar that, she was triply sure, could be heard well beyond the confines of Barry Bergman’s property.

Fifteen minutes later Jenni led Mario into the house. Barry had drinks ready, and was evidently expecting both of them.

From the exchanges between the two men, to which Jenni listened carefully, she was able to deduce, more or less, the involved process that had led to Mario’s presence there, and even to figure out the personalities behind the names that were bandied about: Albert Bosch, Sofia Marés, Carla Ortiz, Bill Martinez. She knew of course who Gina George was, and she had briefly met Geoff Scrivener – a charming chap he was – when he came to the house. It was Geoff, it turned out, who had phoned Barry early that morning with the news that a revised version of Lady G in Paradise – one that he called impurgated, the opposite of expurgated – was already running in London, and was creating a bit of a buzz, especially about Mario. Geoff, as an investor, had known about the revision but had been sworn to secrecy by Gina George. Barry had, of course, heard about the plan from Gina herself, and he had been the one who told her to call Bill Martinez.

“Bill’s a nice guy,” Barry said, “a good cameraman too, but he’s sneaky. I guess he has to be, in the position he’s in.” As she had on other occasions, Jenni thought that Barry was too charitable.

“But he was using Carla,” Mario protested, “and making Carla use me. Is that nice?”

“Welcome to Hollywood!” Barry bellowed. He and Jenni laughed. “But you’ve come to the right place. Let me tell you an idea that I’ve come up with. And that includes you too, Jenni. So listen carefully, both of you.”

Barry Bergman’s idea was quite radical. He would produce a film – he actually said film, not movie – starring Mario and Jenni; it was obvious to him that they had a chemistry that would explode right on the screen. He would keep his name, and that of BB Productions, off the credits; he would hire an established screenwriter and director, and legitimate actors; it would not be an “adult” film but an independent film aimed at real adults. If the script called for explicit sex, it would be done, but realistically and naturally. It would not, repeat not, be a porn flick by anyone’s definition.

“So what do you think?” he asked both of them in conclusion.

“I think,” said Jenni, “that you should have producer credit, but as Henry Bergman.”

“Maybe,” Barry answered. “I’ll think about it. But speaking of names, it would be better for you, Jenni, not to be Jenni Jarman.”

“I’ve already thought about it. In the little stage work that I’ve done, I’ve used Jenny Garber, Jenny with a y – there are too many Jennifers around. Do you think that would work?”

“It sounds okay to me,” said Barry and, turning to Mario, explained that her real name was Garabedian. “What do you think, Mario?” he asked.

“Jenny Garber and Mario Farga – that has a nice rhythm,” said Mario, “but I think there are too many rs.” That was doubly true with Mario’s accent.

“You’ve got a point,” said Barry. “How about... Galvin?”

Before Jenni had a chance to respond – she was going to say, “Isn’t that a street in Culver City?” – Mario asked, “But is it not too soon to think about names?”

“This is Hollywood, my friend,” said Barry. “Here we don’t deal with important matters first; the important things take time, and this project will take time to set up – several months at least, maybe more, maybe a year. So we talk about trivial things, like names. What I’m asking of the two of you is that you keep it under your hats and that you don’t undertake any commitments that would keep you from doing it when the time comes.”

“What commitments?” Jenni asked with a laugh. “I’m committed to you.”

“You never know,” Barry said enigmatically. “So let me hear it: are you interested?”

“Yes,” Jenni and Mario said in unison. They looked at each other and laughed. But one look at Mario, and his look at her in return, produced in her a surge of lust that was almost too much for her – for her, the oversexed Jennifer Garabedian! – and it became immediately clear to her that her petty desire for retaliation toward Barry had been only a mask over her precipitous craving for Mario.

Barry then explained that since Mario had come on a tourist visa, then in order for him to stay past three months, not to mention get paid, he would need an employment contract. When Mario objected that in a little over a month, after the Utah festival, he would be going back home for a six-week commitment in the theater, Barry said that it didn’t matter, he still needed a contract so that he could come back and work. Barry’s lawyer, together with an associate who was an immigration expert, would draw up a simple contract that would satisfy the authorities, and Mario could have it translated into Spanish before signing, if he so desired.

Barry could be pretty sneaky too, Jenni – or Jenny, as she was now beginning to visualize her name – thought. From what she had gathered in the course of the conversation, Mario was on the verge of becoming a hot property, and Barry was getting a lien on that property. Good for him, she thought further.

Her appreciation of Barry as a mensch, as his people would say, had grown of late. He had intuitively grasped, and unresentfully accepted, her sudden loss of sexual interest in him. Overnight, or over-afternoon to be exact, he had become like a good uncle to her. Much better than her real uncles – her mother’s brother Greg (Rachel’s father) and her father’s brother Steve – who had never, from the time she was a baby through the recent Thanksgiving, stopped dwelling on how pretty she was, so much so that Jennifer-lovelier-than-ever had in effect, to her everlasting annoyance, become their name for her.

Yes, she thought again, more power to him. Bravo iren, as her grandparents might have said.

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