Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [41]
“You know, it’s odd,” said Paris, “that although we’ve never spent much time here, this is the house I always think of as home. Only of course without Jenny it will never be the same—‘home’ to us always meant wherever Jenny was.”
Stan cleared his throat—a thing he never did in the courtroom. Better get it over with.
“Before I begin,” he said silkily, “I want you to know that both Bill and I have agreed that you can call upon us for any advice you need—at any time. You understand?”
They nodded silently, their eyes fixed on him, waiting.
“Your mother, in the last few years, took her business and her career affairs out of our hands. The movie offers weren’t coming as often, and the parts were shrinking. Not as many movies were being made, and those that were called for a new generation of actress—not only younger, but of a different type. It wasn’t that your mother wasn’t a good actress, but the lead roles required someone more contemporary and Jenny wasn’t suitable. There were parts she could have had on television—she could have made that transition easily, according to Bill—and these blockbuster miniseries had plenty of openings, but never the lead. I’m afraid she blamed Bill for that, and when I took his side and tried to convince her to look at her career in a different light, remembering that she was no longer thirty-nine and that the business had changed, she accused us both of being traitors and told us to get out of her life.”
Stan paused and mopped his brow with an immaculate white linen handkerchief. “She was backed up in this decision by the man she was then living with—”
“John Fields,” responded Venetia automatically. She had met him once on a visit home and even to her naive eyes he had seemed so transparently maneuvering that she had questioned her mother about him. Jenny had dismissed her questions impatiently, telling her that she was becoming too British in her outlook and it was often easy to misinterpret American enthusiasm for aggression, and that she should know better.
“Right. John Fields. Jenny allowed him to take charge of her affairs, and then, when they split up after a couple of years, it was Rory Grant. He was twenty-four and a struggling young nobody actor and she fell for him, head over heels as they say. She nurtured Rory, she groomed him, she took him to Rodeo Drive and let them dress him until he achieved that carefully casual ‘style.’ They experimented with his hair until they found the shaggy blond look that those in the know decided was exactly right. She paid for his acting lessons and the dance and workout sessions, she rehearsed him for auditions, and as Jenny could still get anyone in this town on the phone, she called them all—heads of studios, producers, directors, and told them of this new, young superstar in the making. Rory Grant got to meet everybody.”
Bill lit another cigarette. “She was living out her thwarted ambitions in him,” he added, “and the bastard knew it. Not that he was unkind to her,” he added hastily, seeing their downcast faces, “nor did he ever make her look foolish. He was a nice enough guy—he had what she needed and she offered him what he needed. They seemed quite happy together. For a while.”
“Unfortunately,” said Stan, “he wanted to help her in return. He tried to straighten out the mess that John Fields had left her affairs in, and instead of turning to us—or at least getting other professional help as we begged her—she allowed him to do it. Bill and I were on speaking terms with Jenny again, but it wasn’t like before, and when we tried to offer advice she thought we were criticizing Grant.”
“A year ago”—Bill picked up the story—“Rory was offered the lead in a pilot film for a new TV series, and