Jane Goes Batty

Chapter 12

Jane’s backyard was teeming with movie stars.

“They’re like ants at a picnic,” Jane remarked.

“Well, they are at a picnic,” Lucy reminded her.

They were standing in Jane’s kitchen, looking through the window at the group of people milling about on the lawn. Jane had counted them half a dozen times, and each time had come up with a different number. Finally she had decided that there were slightly fewer than two dozen of them and left it at that.

“Do you think we have enough tables?” Jane asked, looking at the four redwood tables Ned and Ted had recently purchased for her at the local home improvement center and set up in her yard. Now the twins were helping Byron figure out the propane grill.

“You’d think he’d want to stay away from fire,” Lucy mused, watching as Byron tried—and failed—to get the grill lit. “And yes, I think there are enough tables.”

The cookout had been a mistake. Well, not so much a mistake as a slip of the tongue. When earlier in the day a striking woman had entered Flyleaf Books and introduced herself to Jane as Julia Baxter, Jane had been so thrilled to meet the director that she’d invited her for dinner. A moment later, when she recalled that she’d also invited Rabbi Cohen and his daughter, she’d heard herself say aloud something she should have kept to herself: “There’s room for everyone.”

Julia Baxter, hearing this, had smiled warmly and replied, “That’s so kind of you. I’ll tell the others.”

And so a cookout had been arranged. The “others” had turned out to be the principal cast and a handful of assistants, as well as Ant Doolan and Shelby, who were filming the whole thing. To balance the equation Jane had invited her staff, as well as Byron. She had found herself picking up the phone to invite Walter and his mother, but then she’d remembered that their situation could currently best be described as uncertain, and so had not made the call.

She didn’t want to think about that. “Tell me again who they all are,” she asked Lucy, focusing her attention on her guests.

“Okay,” said Lucy. “That one over there—the girl with the long, dark hair—that’s Portia Kensington.”

“Yes, I recognize her,” Jane said, trying to place the young woman’s face. “She was in that movie about the girl who … did something.”

“She’s your Constance,” Lucy said, ignoring her. “And don’t start about her being too young or not looking the way you picture Constance in your head. She’s big box office. Oh, and she used to date one of the guys in Endzone, but she broke up with him when she found out he cheated on her with her best friend, Tanner Bixby, while Portia was recovering from her nose job.”

“Why do you know this?” Jane asked.

“I can’t help it,” said Lucy. “I’m a pop culture sponge.” She next indicated a woman of about fifty with short, curly red hair and a face—Jane thought—that Cassandra would have described as “looking like a boiled pudding.” “That’s Anne Simon,” said Lucy. “She’s one of those people you know you’ve seen before but can never remember what you saw her in.”

The actress was holding a glass of red wine in her hand and talking to a handsome man with dark hair and a solid build.

“Is that Tucker Mack or Riley Bannister she’s talking to?” Jane asked, throwing out the names of the actors she recalled were playing the two male leads.

“Tucker Mack,” said Lucy. “That’s Riley over there.” She pointed to a man who was in every visible way slightly less than Tucker Mack. He was slightly shorter, slightly thinner, slightly younger, and slightly less dark. However, he was arguably more handsome.

“He’s playing Charles,” Lucy said. She sighed. “He’s my movie husband.”

“Your what?” asked Jane.

“My movie husband,” Lucy explained. “You know, when you pick one guy from the movies who you would want to marry? I also have a TV husband, a music husband, a sports husband, and a book husband.” She looked at Jane. “You and your girlfriends never did that?”

Jane was about to say that no, they never had, but then she remembered something. “Well, I did have rather a crush on William Pitt the Younger when I was about fifteen or so.”

Lucy looked at her. “You’re joking. William Pitt the Younger?”

“He was prime minister,” Jane said defensively. “He had lovely eyes. Also, he worked to abolish the slave trade. I imagine that’s more than you can say for your imaginary husbands.”

“You’re probably right about that,” said Lucy. “But Riley Bannister has a cuter butt.”

Jane peered at the young man, whose backside was facing her. “I must agree with you on that point,” she said. “So that means Mr. Mack is playing Jonathan. I believe he’ll do admirably as a villain. He has the eyebrows for it.”

“Then we have Cecilia Banks,” Lucy continued. “She’s Minerva.” She indicated a thin girl with olive skin and short black hair that reminded Jane of the style popular with the flappers of the 1920s. She resembles Josephine Baker, Jane thought, her mind briefly flashing back to a raucous evening spent with Baker, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a trio of French modernist painters. How that girl had loved to laugh.

Cecilia was talking to another young woman who was her opposite in coloring, having unnaturally blond hair and skin like milk. The blonde was smoking a cigarette, and Jane could smell its acrid fumes from across the yard. “And she is?” she asked.

“That would be Chloe,” said Lucy.

“Chloe who?” Jane inquired.

“Just Chloe,” Lucy answered. “Like Madonna. Or Cher. She’s a pop star. The pop star at the moment.”

“She can’t be more than seventeen,” said Jane. “Can she act?”

Lucy shrugged. “We’ll find out,” she said. “This is her first movie.”

“Tell me she’s playing a small part,” said Jane, watching the singer toss her cigarette butt into the grass and regarding the girl with dislike. “A very small part.”

“Barbara Wexley,” Lucy informed her. “So not all that big. Besides, isn’t Barbara supposed to be something of a troublemaker?”

“Well, yes,” Jane admitted. “Still, a pop singer?”

“She’ll put butts in seats,” said a male voice.

Jane and Lucy turned to see Ant Doolan standing behind them. As always, he was holding his camera. “Chloe’s a real piece of work,” said Ant, taking a handful of potato chips from a bowl of them on the counter. “Just between us, I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled a Richie on us.”

“A Richie?” Jane repeated. “Is that a film term?”

Ant laughed loudly, potato chip crumbs dropping from his mouth. “Leslie Richie,” he said. “You know, she was the rising star of Hollywood a few years ago. Won an Emmy. Was on the cover of every magazine in town. Dated one of them Italian princes. Only she got a little taste for the nose candy and vodka. That’s not a big deal—most of them do—but she got out of control. Six trips to rehab in two years, but it never stuck. One night she and her boyfriend got into a fight and he beat her head in with her Emmy.”

“What a delightful story,” Jane remarked. She glanced out the window at Chloe. “I hope she won’t come to quite so unfortunate an end.”

“Probably not,” said Ant. “She doesn’t have an Emmy. Anyway, Cecilia is the one with the talent. That girl is pure magic. Wait till you see her on set. Unbelievable.”

Jane heard genuine admiration in Ant’s voice and was surprised by it. He seemed all too typically jaded by his life in Hollywood. Yet Jane could tell that he really was moved by Cecilia Banks, and not from any lecherous motivations. It would be interesting to see what the girl could do with her character. It’s too bad she isn’t playing Constance, Jane thought. She was not at all confident that Portia Kensington could do the role justice.

“At any rate, Chloe will bring in the teenyboppers, and they’ll come with their mothers,” said Ant. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter how bad she is. They can fix all of that in editing.” He looked at Jane. “So where’s the can?”