21 Gina George’s urgent need to contact Albert Bosch stemmed from Geoff Scrivener’s message, which told her about his and Julian Burroughs’ plan – one that hinged on Albert’s agreement – to release Lady G in Paradise as an erotic video, at least in Europe. The subtext of the message, as Gina heard it, was an invitation for her to persuade Albert to agree. Gina, however, resolved to do just the opposite. If the plan went through then copies of a film directed by Albert Bosch would be on shelves or in bins right next to the products of Barry Bergman and his ilk, and Gina George would be competing with herself. Everything she had worked for over the past half-year, and far longer than that in her mind, would go by the wayside. Of course, what she would tell Barry, she thought as she was driving to Mort’s, would be only about her concern for Albert’s reputation, and nothing that would sound as if it denigrated Barry’s work. She owed Barry that much. “I’ve seen the video of your movie” were Barry’s first words to her when she arrived at his table. “The hot version,” he added. “Geoff sent me a copy.” She kissed him warmly. “So what did you think?” she asked as she sat down. “Other than those scenes, I guess it’s an Albert Bosch film,” he said in a noncommittal tone, “except for no subtitles, or hardly any.” “Okay,” Gina said with a smile, “we agree on that. But as an expert, tell me something: could it be marketed as an erotic film? That’s what Geoff wants to do.” “You mean, as what we call an adult movie? Like what we do?” “I guess.” “Well, anything can be marketed as anything you want it to be, and Geoff’s pretty good at it. If the question is ‘would it sell?’ then yes, because you would sell it.” “In other words, it would sell as a Gina George movie, not an Albert Bosch film.” “Exactly.” He motioned to a waitress. “I can’t do that to Albert.” “You? What would you do to Albert, except help him make some money?” “He’s an artist, he’s got a reputation.” The waitress came to take their orders. Gina ordered a hamburger – she had come to like the hamburgers in Europe and wanted to refresh her memory of what an American one tasted like – and coffee. Barry ordered a corned beef on rye with everything and tea. “His reputation is,” Barry said slowly, “shall we say, variable. He’s got his fans – you obviously among them – and his critics or detractors. And as an artist – well, artists evolve, they change their style with the times. And they like to make money from their art. Look at Picasso. And he did some erotica too, pretty hot stuff, and his reputation didn’t suffer.” “So, still as an expert, tell me something else: what did you think of ‘those scenes,’ as you called them?” “Pretty good, and the one at the beach I would say very good. You, sweetheart, are a pro, and Mario is something else.” “Isn’t he though.” “Yes. He’ll be working for me, by the way.” It took a while for his words to sink in. “You mean...” “No. I am not Bill Martinez. Listen carefully: I am planning to make a film – to produce it, that is, but the director will be under my control; that’s the way I operate.” “Don’t I know it. What kind of film?” “A film for adults, but not an adult movie.” “I see.” “Have you heard of Les liaisons dangereuses?” “No. Sounds French.” “It is. It’s a novel, written in the form of letters between the characters, that’s two hundred years old. There are several English translations, but the one I like is called Dangerous Acquaintances, and that’s what I think I’ll use for the title. A couple of other studios have projects based on it; they may already be in production, but from what I hear they’re making them as period dramas, and they’ll be using name directors. I plan to make mine modern; maybe not quite the present – it has to be a time and place when a young girl’s or a married woman’s reputation is still important...” “Believe me,” said Gina with a laugh, “there are still places where it is. You’ve been in Hollywood to long.” “Okay. But you know what I mean. And I plan to make it realistic, if you know what I mean, so I thought you might be interested in it.” The tea and coffee were delivered. “Me? What kind of part?” asked Gina after taking a gulp of the piping-hot coffee. “Well, the male lead is a womanizer named Valmont,” said Berry as he put a sugar cube in his tea, “and that’s Mario; he’s perfect. There are several female leads: the jaded older woman – older meaning in her thirties, mind you – and that could be you.” He took a sip of his tea. “There is the young married woman in her twenties, and that will be the girl who worked for me after you left under the name Jenni Jarman...” “I remember.” “... and who is now named Jenny Galvin. She and Mario are a pretty hot item, by the way. The tough part to cast is the teenage girl. I need to find someone in our industry who’s eighteen or nineteen, twenty tops, and who can act. The one who died, Leslie, had just turned eighteen – poor girl! I’ll have to do some discreet scouting.” “So, Barry Bergman, you’re going legit! Didn’t someone make fun of me when I said that I wanted to?” She took another gulp of coffee, and started to look around for someone to refill her cup. “Touché,” said Barry as he took another sip of tea. “As someone said, artists evolve.” Their food arrived at the table, and Gina’s coffee cup was refilled. It was probably close to midnight, and, most untypically, she was lying awake while the man beside her was sleeping. She didn’t know if peacefully; his body periodically made small movements, not twitches but small displacements, but he made no sound louder than gentle breathing. No, it was not his physical presence that kept her awake, but thinking about the sudden change that had happened in her existence. From the time she moved to the Continent her life, as a woman and as an artist, had been one of gradual evolution. For years she had been in a relationship with Michel, a film distributor who worked in Paris, lived in Lyon – where his ex-wife and two daughters also lived – and vacationed in the Jura, sometimes with his daughters. It was Michel who had introduced her to Albert, some six years before. Albert had maintained an off-and-on romance with a photographer called Sylvie who lived in Lausanne, and during one of the off phases Michel had introduced him to the French Jura as a getaway from the Swiss Alps. But Margaret and Albert had remained casual acquaintances even after Michel had left her – for a younger woman, bien entendu – and Margaret had been comfortably celibate for a year and a half until she ran into Albert at a place where a film festival coincided with an exhibit of hers. With Nigel everything seemed different. He was her first Englishman since her London days. He was the first one who had nothing to do with the arts. And he was the first one who seemed to be openly, unabashedly, unreservedly in love with her. Was she similarly in love with him? That was the question that was nagging her and keeping her awake. She simply wasn’t sure, and popular wisdom had it that if you weren’t sure then you weren’t. And yet there had been times, in her twenties, when she was absolutely convinced that she was in love, only to have the conviction fizzle in the face of reality. So much for popular wisdom. Nigel made her feel good, and that, for now, was good enough. True, as a lover he was – physically – a bit clumsy. The first time, in London, their mutual passion could disguise the fact, but this time it was obvious. It wasn’t so much that she felt unsatisfied; it was just that it hadn’t been as much fun as it could have been. Must be lack of practice. But if she was going to give him ski lessons, then she could just as well give him pointers on another pleasurable activity described by a three-letter word that starts with s. That was how she would put it to him, and she was sure that he would appreciate it. She could hear the distant village church bell chime midnight. It was a sound she rarely heard; she was usually asleep by this time, and if for some reason she was up, the radio would have drowned it out. By some acoustic illusion, each successive peal seemed softer, and by the time she counted to twelve her mind seemed empty. She turned onto her side, away from Nigel, and let herself experience the emptiness. So, Gina said to herself as she walked to her car after giving Barry a good-bye kiss, Mario is screwing this Jenny girl, Barry is screwing Doc’s wife, and Albert’s in Europe, maybe screwing Margaret again. What about me? As she got into the car her head bumped into the rear-view mirror and she had to adjust it. In so doing she got a look at herself, held the position for a moment, and suddenly thought of Doc. It was Doc who made what had previously been a pretty nice pair of boobs into the spectacular chest that now attracted stares for miles, and even made her stare at herself. “You are my masterpiece,” he had said to her as he was screwing her, again and again, in that hotel room, where he had taken her after her boob job to show her, he had said, how much sexier she had become. Doc was out on bail, Barry had told her, staying in some hotel in Brentwood. It had to be the same place. Maybe it was time to check, she thought as she started the engine, how well the job was holding up. They looked great and felt okay, but a girl never knew. She would look up the hotel’s phone number when she got home and ask to speak to Doctor Paul Kruger. Driving home, she thought about Barry’s film proposal. Too bad he was modernizing it; doing it with period costumes would have allowed her to show off her boobs to the max. And if she wasn’t going to be a marquise – as she had been in Barry’s version of Madame de Pompadour – what would she be? A rich divorcee, Barry had suggested, and Mario’s character would be a rich Latin playboy. Okay, but they would have to live in a community where it was normal to marry off a young girl – who of course had to be a virgin – to a rich old guy. It would be a problem to make that realistic in a modern setting. Victorian, maybe, but modern, hardly. She would read the book that Barry had lent her. It was an out-of-print edition, so she would have to be careful with it. She would write down notes on a little pad. She had never before concerned herself with script issues, but Lady G had given her a taste for them, and Albert – Albert Bosch! – had respected her ideas. Well, if Albert did, then so would Barry. When she got into her condo she kicked off her shoes, looked up the hotel’s number and called. “Hello!” Doc’s voice said. “Hi, Doc,” she said. There was silence on the other line. It was only people from Barry’s crowd who called him Doc, and he was not prepared for any such caller. “It’s Gina George,” she said. “Gina!” The surprise made him silent for a good while. “How are you?” “I’m fine, but what about you? I’ve heard you’ve been having some problems.” “Yeah, but I’ll work them out. I was just thinking about you the other day.” “Really?” “Yeah. You remember the photograph of a pair of breasts that hung on my wall, that I used to say were made by God?” “Sure. You told me that you’d made mine even better than that, and I said that you probably said that to every woman.” “That’s right. But of course I didn’t – you were the only one. Well, now it can be told: those breasts are my wife Nancy’s, and now that we’re getting divorced I’ve taken the picture off the wall. When I took it off I thought of you – the only boobs better than Nancy’s.” “Well, Doc, I was just thinking that maybe they could use a checkup after all these years.” “I’d love to give you one. Would you like to come to the office – I’m not taking appointments but I could meet you there – or to the hotel?” “The hotel seems nice; it brings back a nice memory. How about dinner first?” “Fantastic. And maybe you can tell me all about yourself.” Yeah, sure, said Gina silently, for five seconds before you go back to talking about yourself. But she wanted to hear about him, from him, and she said, “I’ll be over at seven. See you then!” “Bye, Gina!” That was easy, she said to herself. She was tired of sleeping alone.