“Keith is so yesterday, Dad. You’ll have to call more often if you want to keep up with Jamie’s love life.”
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Here we are, Mr. Shore.”
“Thanks. Hang on a minute, Steph.” He signed the voucher and got out of the car. Marquee lights tossed yellow streaks across the rain-slicked pavement. A throng of celebrity watchers and paparazzi milled in front of the theater. They stood cordoned behind a red velvet rope. Jules Asner was interviewing some man in a tuxedo.
As Jack emerged from the town car, camera lights flashed in his face. He smiled, waved, and kept walking.
In the lobby, he found a quiet corner. “Stephanie?”
“I’m here, Dad. What’s all that noise?”
“It’s a film premiere. There’s a real crowd.”
“Cool. Any movie stars?”
“George Clooney is supposed to show up, and Danny DeVito. And one of those teenybopper girls; I can’t remember her name.”
“That sounds awesome. Have fun.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay, honey? You can tell me everything that’s going on with—” genetics … microbiology … physics. He knew she’d changed majors, but he couldn’t remember which it was now. Shit. “—your life.”
“You promise?”
“You bet. And tell Jamie I’ll talk to her, too.”
“Okay. We’ll be home tomorrow morning until eleven. Will that work?”
“It’s a date. Love you, Steph.” He snapped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.
Inside the theater, he found a seat on the aisle.
The theater filled up quickly. Finally, a young man walked onto the stage; his ponytail was at least six inches long and thinner than a pencil. He wore a wide-ribbed red turtleneck sweater with sleeves that hung past his fingertips, and a pair of wrinkled brown corduroy slacks. His shoes were clogs. Clogs.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“I’m Simon Aronosky. I directed the film you’re about to see. True Love is the tragic, yet ultimately uplifting story of a woman in a coma. The deepness of her sleep is a metaphor for life itself. The film explores the hard choices a husband must make to keep his family together. After the show, I’ll be available to answer a few questions. Oh, and be sure to fill out the comment cards on your way out. The mice at Disney want to know what you thought.”
The theater lights dimmed. The credits started.
A Northwest Diversified Entertainment production … A Simon Aronosky film …
George Clooney.
Thea Cartwright.
The film, shot in black and white, opened on a close-up of Thea’s face. She was sitting at a kitchen table, making out a grocery list. She was illuminated by a single candle. Her blond hair, long and a mass of curls, seemed to be woven of a dozen shades of gray and white. But it was her eyes that held the camera. Big, smoky-dark eyes that seemed to promise the world.
God, she was beautiful.
Jack tried to concentrate on the film, but he’d never liked black and white much, and it was definitely one of those chick tearjerkers that no one really liked but made a shitload of money.
He was awakened by the sound of applause.
The lights came up.
Simon walked, slump-shouldered, back onstage. He was smiling and laughing. “Thanks. I’ll answer any questions you have, but first I’d like to introduce you to our star. Ladies and gentlemen, Thea Cartwright.”
Jack straightened.
Thea walked onto the stage, and even from this distance, she was radiant. Flashbulbs erupted, cameras clicked and whirred, people applauded wildly.
She wore a skimpy black top that plunged almost to her nipples, and a pair of skintight, flare-bottomed low-rise jeans. Her belt buckle was a rhinestone-studded T. Her black sandals had knife-sharp stiletto heels.
She waved to the crowd, then ran a hand through her chopped blond hair. “Hey, New York,” she said, grinning, “how’d you like my movie?”
The audience went wild.
“Who wanted to try kissing my character to wake her up?”
More applause. For the next thirty minutes, Jack watched her seduce a room full of strangers. By the end, they were eating out of her hand. There was something in her luminous black eyes that made every man—including Jack—think she’d singled him out, that her smile meant something.
“Well, guys,” she said, lowering her voice to a sexy, disappointed purr, “I’ve got to run now. They’ve scheduled me for a few more things tonight. Ciao.”
And she was gone.
The director came back onstage. Jack couldn’t hold back a groan. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to Mr. Generation-X wax poetic about art in a chick flick. He left the theater. There was an after-premiere party scheduled at a nearby restaurant. He’d go, have a drink, then head home.
He was the first one to arrive at the restaurant. A guard at the door asked for his invitation, looked it over, then nodded. “Go on in.”