Oscar Night by Jennifer Brock

A flippant remark by a mild screenwriter to an obnoxious TV reporter snowballs into more than he had bargained for, at one of the most glamorous of events! (There's no actual TG stuff in this first part, but there will be. I promise.)

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons alive or dead are purely coincidental, mostly.
Note that this story takes place in a time when Hollywood’s writers did not go on strike.

David Fine was still reeling with the sudden fame of having a second novel on the Bestsellers’ List, and now his adapted screenplay for his first novel, “Sublimation,” had been nominated for an Academy Award. His agent had negotiated the sale of the film rights to allow him to submit the first treatment before the studio shipped it out to other screenwriters, and the producers actually liked what he did with it, and now it turns out the academy liked it too! With the film for his second novel “Condensation” already under production, David felt like he’d finally made it.

L.A. was completely unlike the small Ohio mill town he’d spent most of his life in. His agent had found him a nice little bungalow in the Hollywood hills, but he was having trouble fitting in with the west coast scene. He’d only made one new friend so far — Claude Marsh, an up and coming fashion designer, who had arranged to do the costumes on “Sublimation.” He was a big fan of the novel and jumped at the chance to share in bringing his cherished characters to life. David and Claude met in an early production meeting for the film, and ended up forging a fast friendship based on mutual appreciation of the other’s work. Claude also helped David out socially, helping him hobnob with Hollywood society, occasionally fixing him up with models from his runway shows as his escort to the fancier events. Claude quickly called to congratulate him when the nominations were announced.

The Oscars ceremony was a whole new level of Hollywood social event, and David was completely out of his element. In his congratulatory phone call, Claude tried to calm him down. “Relax, David. I can help you out every step of the way. I can give you pointers on what to say to the press; I think I can get Maritza, you remember that leggy brunette you appreciated from my Milan show, to accompany you down the red carpet. And I insist on making you a custom tuxedo, appropriate for the biggest night of your life.” David accepted all of Claude’s offers, which would ultimately lead him in a direction he’d never expected.

***

So, when the big night arrived, Claude showed up at David’s townhouse in a rented limousine, accompanied by Maritza, a tall Venezuelan model he remembered seeing in one of Claude’s shows. She was stunning, in her three-inch heels she was taller than David, so he had to tilt his head up to see her eyes, so dark they were nearly black - they captivated him when she smiled her hello. She was dressed in a shimmering gold gown that was suspended only by the thinnest of straps that crisscrossed in the middle of her back. It slithered gracefully down her every contour, and she had contours aplenty - Claude bucked the trend of using famine-stricken heroin addicts shaped like thirteen-year-old boys as models, preferring softer more feminine curves for displaying his creations.

The long wavy brown hair that he remembered from the catwalk was piled up on top of her head, allowing her shoulders to be appreciated, with only a few corkscrew tendrils escaping from the knot. Her jewelry for the occasion was a pair of glistening ruby earrings in a teardrop shape, with a matching pendant that rested where David’s eyes lingered. She was light years out of his league — there was no way a vision like her would ever be interested in a regular date with a nobody like him, but at least he had this one special event to enjoy her company while he could. Claude interrupted the tableau to pour Maritza a glass of wine and show her to the sitting room where she could wait, while he herded David into the bedroom with a garment bag: “Let’s get you dressed.”

The tuxedo that Claude had designed was a bit unorthodox, but David trusted his friend’s taste. The shirt was crisp white linen, with six vertical pleats on each side of the front buttons. Its gold cufflinks had small square rubies which nicely echoed his date’s jewelry. Instead of the usual black, the jacket and pants were of a deep red wine or maybe more of a cranberry colored soft woolen blend. The cut was very flattering on David’s rather average figure, but he was a little uneasy about the color. “Are you sure about this, Claude?”

His friend was very reassuring. “Trust me on this. Would I steer you wrong? Color is the next big thing. Besides, when you make your entrance you’ll be on the red carpet, and its color is so bold, you’ll look just barely tinted in contrast! The tie and cummerbund are black, if it’s any consolation.”

“But I look like a pimp!”

“No you don’t. You look fine. You’re just nervous about the award.”

Eventually, Claude was able to convince him that he’d fit in just fine at the awards, and David was able to calm down. A pair of pointed-toe black Italian calfskin shoes completed the outfit. Claude had originally planned on tying David’s longish hair back with a ribbon into a little ponytail, Revolutionary War style, but he decided not to push his luck, and just ran a few drops of gel through to slick his hair back.

When Claude brought him out to his escort, David noticed that Maritza had been flipping through the manuscript he’d left out on his desk while she was waiting for him to get ready. She looked up when they entered the room, gave him the once over, and clucked her tongue in a sound of approval. “Very sharp. I like the color.” Realizing she’d been caught looking at his papers, she added “I hope you don’t mind me peeking. Claude got me hooked on your other books to help with my English, and I couldn’t help myself to see what your next one will be.”

Knowing that this angel liked his words banished all thoughts of his new suit. “That’s ok, but that copy’s just a draft with notes from my editor written all over it — it’ll be better when it’s finished. I’ll make sure you get a copy. Your English sounds fine to me. I can’t hear any accent.”

“I’ve been working in America since I was fourteen, but sometimes when I get excited or nervous, you can tell I didn’t speak English as my first language.”

Claude wanted to pout, since David never let him read his drafts, but let it go. He hurried them out to the car, where the driver was looking bored, rushing to hide the issue of Variety he’d been reading. In Hollywood, everyone’s secretly a frustrated actor. Claude told the driver to let David and Maritza off at the red carpet, and then take him to his home in Brentwood where he’d be hosting a party to watch the awards. Claude didn’t like attending big Hollywood media events like the Oscars, where he couldn’t be the center of attention since so many movie stars would be there. He wished David luck when they arrived at the Chandler Pavilion.

***

The Red Carpet was a whole new experience for him. Taking Maritza’s arm, he tried to ignore the sea of flashbulbs and walk on past. “Who are you wearing?” he heard the paparazzi shout. David wasn’t sure if they were talking to him, but his companion knew what to do.

“Claude Marsh,” she called out, giving a slight twirl. Of course, neither of the couple was an A List celebrity, so the reporters really didn’t care.

Further down the carpet, the TV reporters crowded the ropes. David knew he wasn’t famous enough for them to bother, so he was ready to just stroll past when he was stopped. “You there in the Santa suit! Aren’t you that writer guy?” He turned. It was Jane Waters, the notorious “fashion reporter” from that Hollywood news cable channel. She made her name as an insult comedienne back in the eighties, so her fashion reports tended to consist primarily of her making fun of what people were wearing. Unfortunately for our hero, she had found her next victim. She called him over.

Not knowing how to get out of it, David went back to where Jane was set up. “Yes, I’m David Fine, the writer guy. This lovely lady is Maritza Delgado, one of the shining stars of the catwalk.”

She wouldn’t be distracted. “Whatever. I want to talk about your red suit. What happened? You lose a bet or something?”

“No. A friend of mine made me this.” David was confused. Claude had told him this was fashionable.

“Is your friend a lounge singer? You look like you belong in a piano bar at a two-bit hotel by the airport. No sane man would dare wear anything but a black tuxedo to a prestigious event like this!” Now she was lecturing at him like he was five. “Don’t you see all the other people going into the auditorium? Look around — all the men are in black tuxes. The only color you see is in the gowns on the women. Whatever gave you the idea that you could wear a red suit?”

“It’s a very dark red,” he tried.

“Not dark enough, Buddy. Maybe you book guys don’t go to too many black tie affairs, but the dress code is something everyone in Beverly Hills knows.”

“Well, my tie _is_ black.” He was getting flustered.

“That doesn’t matter. All the other tuxes on the actors, producers, directors, everyone, including the other writers that don’t get out much, are black. Let’s look around.” She pointed to other people processing down the red carpet: “He’s in a black tux; he’s in a black tux; and even that little fruity actor and his boyfriend over there are in black! But you do see a whole rainbow of colors on the women that are with them. She’s in a blue Versace gown; she’s in a beautiful lavender Donna Karan; there’s a silver Vera Wang, over there’s a classic beauty in a vintage Halston in a more exciting shade of red than yours, and here’s a lovely golden Whatshisname gown beside you. In fact, if you wanted to wear a different color than black, you should have just worn a gown and you’d fit in perfectly.” She laughed at her own joke, a dry braying that couldn’t be ignored.

David was getting irritated, wondering why she wasn’t off bothering some real famous person, instead of picking on some poor novelist, even if he is wearing a pimp suit. He couldn’t let her know he actually agreed with her that wearing a red tuxedo was a mistake, so he thought he could toss off a witty sound bite and beat her at her own game. “I’ll tell you what, Jane. If I’m nominated again next year, I’ll wear a gown. But now I’ve really got to get into the theater.” He turned to Maritza and walked boldly on down the carpet. Jane was dumfounded and couldn’t come up with a reply fast enough for her camera to catch.

His casual remark would come to haunt him.

Watching at home on the widescreen television he’d rented for his Oscar party, Claude was dumbfounded. That cow knows nothing about fashion! How could she do that to poor David? He didn’t deserve her mockery. And to forget Claude’s name was the biggest insult of all! But at least David had gotten the last laugh. Or did he? For the rest of the night, every time she interviewed a man, she’d comment on the blackness of his tuxedo, and ask each woman if she thought her gown would look good on “a stupid writer guy.” He hid his anger behind a mask of “congenial host,” and the six appletinis that he consumed during the red carpet portion of the program rendered him nicely toasted by the time the actual awards rolled around.

But inside, he plotted his revenge. He was going to have to find some way to make that no-talent “fashion critic” eat her words. If David did get nominated again the next year, (and the buzz about “Condensation” was good enough that it just might happen) Claude was going to have to design his best creation ever, one that would knock Jane Waters’ support hose off!

***

David didn’t win. The prize for adapted screenplay went to a couple who’d turned a news article about flooding in the Heartland into a movie that focused on one family’s struggle to save their farm from the rising waters of the mighty river. He graciously applauded his opponent, but couldn’t help but be disappointed.

Maritza shared in his loss. When the clapping was over, she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “You should have won. They do not know what they are doing, voting for that mud picture!” She then kissed him, giving his earlobe a nibble. “I will just have to see what I can do to cheer you up when I take you home.” She punctuated this sentence by giving the top of his thigh a playful squeeze.
Were there other awards given that night? David couldn’t tell you; his brain was stuck in an image that it couldn’t release — a beautiful, sexy model was flirting with him, and promising... things. She was gorgeous beyond anyone he’d ever been with, and the idea of a one-night stand with her was occupying all his attention. He really had no idea what was going on onstage, and didn’t applaud with the rest of the crowd when he was supposed to.

As the Lifetime Achievement Award was being presented, Maritza had to nudge David to stand up with the audience to show respect for the gifted director whose films had brought appreciation to generations. She was worried, since he hadn’t been paying attention to all the spectacle going on. It seemed as though he’d become withdrawn and depressed after he didn’t win. He was a good man, and she didn’t like to see him sad. Although less rugged than the men she usually dated, there was something about him that interested her. He was cute in his way, if a little soft and short for her taste. But he was sweet and smart, and from the way he wrote the characters in his books she could tell he really understood women. And the way Claude had talked of him; she knew he was a good friend. There was real potential there. Her plan was that she’d check out how good he was in bed that night, and see if it would be worth pursuing anything long term.

Unfortunately, their evening would have a different ending. When they left the pavilion, their limo driver had some difficulty working around the traffic, which allowed them some time for conversation. Maritza leaned over onto his shoulder and tried talking to him about all the movie stars she’d seen, but David was so nervous he just made one word comments, and she couldn’t really draw him out. Neither of them was really feeling up for going to anyone’s after party. Thinking he was still down, she turned and kissed him firmly and deeply, thinking it could get his mind off his trouble. He was shocked, and at first he responded a little stiffly, but then he realized that he was blowing it with his dream girl, so he relaxed and returned the kiss. One kiss led to another, and soon it didn’t matter that he was having trouble talking to her. He reached out his arms and held her, although he wasn’t confident enough to let his hands explore her exciting contours very much.

But faster than either of them realized, the limousine pulled into David’s driveway. David was flustered and clumsily broke the embrace like a teenager whose father had just turned on the lights. The driver came around and opened the car, and David steeped out and then turned to give his date a hand getting out of the car. He asked clumsily, “Would you like to come in?” She giggled at his awkwardness and reminded him that she’d already told him she was coming in. He had absolutely no experience with women this forward, so he blushed. Maritza found it cute and charming, but then noticed the driver standing there and had to whisper to David that limo drivers usually get a tip before they leave. He blushed again, grabbed his wallet, and gave the driver a twenty. Having been paid, the driver thanked them, tipped his cap and drove off. David escorted Maritza to the door, and almost couldn’t find the right key, but when he took hold of the doorknob, he saw that the door wasn’t locked. This wasn’t good.

Upon cautiously entering the house, he saw that Claude was there sitting on the couch! David regretting giving him a key that time he went on a book signing tour and needed someone to water his plants. Claude was very excited about something. “Oh good, you’re home! We have to get started as soon as possible on a plan! A year is scarcely enough time to get you ready. Oh, Maritza, I didn’t see you there. Could I get your jewelry back, since you’re here anyway? It’s on loan.”

David tried to ask, “Claude, what are you doing here? I have no idea what you’re talking about, and you seem more than a little drunk. Can I call you a cab?”

Maritza just stood there, getting irritated that her plans were being interrupted.

But Claude wasn’t listening. “I’ve got some preliminary sketches here! We’ll show that ignorant bitch she doesn’t know who she’s messing with! When we’re done you’ll be the hottest thing ever to strut down the red carpet!”

David looked from his friend to his date and back, trying to figure out how to get the crazy drunk guy out of his house, and not ruin his evening. “Claude, I’m not sure what you’re going on about, but I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow. But you’re a little drunk, so I’m going to get you a cab to take you home. Maritza, I’m sorry. Once I get him out of here we can…”

Claude cut him off. “What? You think you have a shot with her?” He laughed. “She’s a professional body, and can get guys with professional bodies! You barely eat right, and you never work out! You’re a bag of Jell-O; there’s no way she’d be interested in you. Besides, you’re a brilliant novelist and she’s an airhead model; you can do so much better than her.” Seeing Maritza starting to fume, he added, “Don’t take it personally, Sweetie. All models are airheads. You make great arm candy for an event, but you sex on wheels types go through guys like water, and I don’t want you to hurt my friend. I’m sometimes your boss so you’d better do what I say.”

That sent her over the edge. “You want my jewelry back? Fine. Here it is!” And she unclasped her necklace, pulled out her earrings and threw them at Claude. “Hey! You made this dress, too,” she shouted and, reaching around behind her back, she unzipped her dress and let it drop to the floor. Dressed only in her stockings, high heels, and the smallest pair of panties David had ever seen, she stepped out of the gown, bent down, picked it up, and threw it at Claude. “Here, you can have this back, too!” Then she went behind the couch and fetched the overnight bag she’d left there earlier, and stomped off into the bathroom.

David finally took a breath when he was shaken out of his stupor by Claude’s comment as he held up the garment that had been thrown at him. “This style wouldn’t work on you. Yours will need more definition.”

“Mine? My what?”

“Your gown, Silly. The one you promised Jane Waters you’ll be wearing next year! That’s what I came over for — so we can start planning your outfit.”

Finally, David understood, and he was flabbergasted. “You came over here in the middle of the night to interrupt my date with an incredible woman, because of a joke I made with a fashion reporter? To plan an outfit for an event a year away? That I might not even get nominated for? Claude, you’re a great guy, usually. But you’re just going overboard on this way too soon. Wait until next year to bother me about this, if Jane Waters even remembers. Now I’m going to call you a cab, and send you home, and then I’m going to try to make it up to the girl in the next room.”

Maritza’s heels clacking back down the hallway gave her away. She was wearing a simple little black dress that covered a little more shoulder, but showed a lot more leg than her gown did, and had let her hair down. Her bag was slung over her left shoulder, and her cell phone was in her right hand. She loudly snapped it closed. “Don’t bother calling a cab for him. I had them send two - one for me, one for him.” She walked over to where David was sitting and leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m sorry, but I am just too mad at him right now. Angry sex can be good sex, but it is too animal for your first time with me. I think you need it soft and gentle when you are sad like this about your award. It will take me hours to fall asleep now, and I have to fly to New York in the morning.” She snatched a paper from the stack of sketches Claude was holding and wrote on it with her lipstick. “I will have my phone on when I’m not working. Here is my number.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him again. She pulled on his bowtie and untied it, undid his top button, and tousled his hair. Don’t be sad, David,” and she thickened her accent to pull his name out as Dah-VEED. “You will see me again.” And as a mischievous smirk came to her lips she threw in, “So, what did you think of my breasts? Do they suit your taste?”

Dumbfounded, David had to take a moment to answer. But then he was saved by a beeping horn, as two taxis from apparently the most efficient car service in LA County had arrived at his driveway, and his guests had to go. He would have liked to walk Maritza to her car, but he had to partially carry Claude to his. What a strange night! It was a pity about losing the award, though.