Peter put up his hands. “Yes, yes, we can all play it cool. But it is the Oscars. Before they get going, let me say this.”
Peter took a breath. “I think it’s great we could get together this morning to celebrate our film. But while awards are nice, that’s not why we do this. We’re not out to win awards, only to make good movies. If we can do that, and turn out a film we can be proud of, we don’t need outside validation. We know we’ve done a good job. You all know how I feel about you, and awards or not, I’m very pleased with how this all turned out.”
“Well, that’s gracious and self-deprecating,” Ben said with a grin. “In case you don’t remember, your picture just won a Golden Globe. An Oscar nomination is not such a long shot.”
“It won for Best Drama,” Peter said. “At the Globes you’re only competing with half the films. There’s a strong field of comedies this year.”
Hattie laughed. “Would someone nominate him already, before this naysayer ruins the whole party?”
Hattie got the first nomination for Best Original Score. The announcement was cause for jubilation. Hattie had been passed over by the Golden Globes. Peter had reassured her that the Golden Globe voters weren’t necessarily the most knowledgeable of the category, and Oscar voters would know better. He was delighted to have been proven right.
“What did I tell you?” Peter said.
“Oh, God,” Hattie said. “Now we’re going to have to listen to him take credit for my nomination all morning.”
Peter had his own nominations to brag about. He scored two, for Best Original Screenplay and Best Director.
Finally they got to the acting categories. Best Supporting Actor was first. Stuntman character actor Mark Weldon got a nod for his turn as villain Leonard Kirk.
“Too bad he’s not here,” Teddy said, and everyone laughed.
There was a tense moment when they got to Best Actress. None of the first four names were Tessa Tweed. For the first time all morning, the room was deathly quiet.
“And Tessa Tweed,” the announcer said, “for Desperation at Dawn.”
The announcement was met with relief, laughter, and applause.
“Told you so,” Teddy said
“You realize this ups her price for your next film,” Ben kidded Peter.
Peter smiled. “What are you telling me for? You’re head of the studio.”
“Oh, hell.”
After all that, it was almost an anticlimax when the film was nominated for Best Picture.
3
On the other side of town, Viveca Rothschild, dubbed the Blonde Bombshell by the press, was hosting a similar Oscar party. Twenty-nine, lithe, blonde, and voluptuous, Viveca had already racked up two nominations in her career, but she had never won. After a lifetime of playing femmes fatales, her departure role in a romantic comedy had been a gamble, but it had paid off. Dancing, singing, and delivering big laughs, she had wowed the critics with her versatility, earning her best reviews ever. After taking home her first Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy, an Oscar nomination was all but assured.
Viveca couldn’t have been more nervous. Only the presence of her Hollywood friends and her boyfriend, Bruce, were helping her hold it together. Or at least put up the appearance.
On the television, the presenter said, “The nominations for Best Screenplay are . . .”
The announcement was met by boos, hisses, and catcalls.
Viveca’s best friend, Cheryl, threw a napkin at the screen. “How many damn categories are there?” she said, and everyone laughed.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Bruce said. “I know you’re going to be nominated.”
Viveca put up her hand tolerantly, urging her boyfriend to be quiet. Bruce was a handsome young man with rippled muscles and a charming smile, and had been her high school sweetheart. But he was not good at picking up on social cues. Bruce had been wounded in Iraq and had come home with a Purple Heart, a Medal of Honor, and the resultant post-traumatic stress disorder. For the most part he had a pleasant nature, but as far as his girlfriend was concerned, he was ready to fly to her defense at the slightest provocation.
The screenwriting nominations gave way to Best Director.
“Did anybody act in these movies?” Cheryl said, and everybody laughed.
As if he heard her, the presenter said, “And the nominees for Best Supporting Actress are . . .”
“Supporting!” Cheryl wailed. “Kill me now!”
Finally they got to Best Actress. Three names were read, none of them Viveca’s. Fourth time was the charm.
“Viveca Rothschild, for Paris Fling.”
The entourage burst into roars of approval.
“Quiet, quiet!” Viveca said. “One more to go!”
The room was instantly hushed, with everyone thinking the same thing.
Viveca murmured it under her breath: “Not Meryl Streep! Not Meryl Streep!”
“And Tessa Tweed, for Desperation at Dawn,” the presenter said, and the room collectively sighed in relief.
Viveca had dodged that one last bullet.
An Oscar was within her grasp.
4
Chaz Bowen eyed the attorney suspiciously. He had no reason to. The attorney, Richard Fitzgerald, was a slick shyster who represented a number of mobsters and crime bosses in the Los Angeles area. Which was exactly the type of lawyer Chaz needed, only Chaz was too dumb to know it.
Chaz was a sullen man, with hostile eyes, who suspected no one liked him. He was not entirely wrong on that count.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your attorney, Mr. Bowen. I’m here to get you out.”
“Well, you took your time getting here,” Chaz snarled.
“You made the mistake of getting arrested in the middle of the night. The system works slower then.”
“Can I go home?”
“What’d you tell the cops?”
“Told ’em I wanted a lawyer.”
“Anything else?”
“Hell, no.”
“You didn’t try to give them a reason why you were trying to break into a Hollywood producer’s house?”
“Couldn’t think of one. Can you?”
“So what happened?”
“How the hell should I know? A simple break-in and a fucking SWAT team shows up. What the hell is that all about?”