Oscar Season by Mary McNamara

Author:Mary McNamara
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

“Palm Springs,” she said as she strode in the door. “You’re going to accept a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Palm Springs Film Festival.”

O’Connor was watching television; on his lap was a script, but his eyes were focused on the screen. They did not stray her way when she spoke.

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “I am cutting short my stay in Morocco to accept the award they have so generously, and so often, offered. It came as quite a surprise to them; I imagine they are scrambling to get the press release out and add tables to their venue even as we speak.”

“What about your treatment?”

“I’m taking another little break,” he said.

“What is this? Self-administered chemotherapy?”

“If nothing else, this should prove my devotion to you,” O’Connor said, waving her words away. “I mean, a Lifetime Achievement Award? What do they think, I’m ninety or something?”

“Your devotion to me? How does going to Palm Springs prove your devotion to me?”

“We have already established that you do not watch movies or television, but do you read the papers? Have you seen who’s going to be down there? For reasons even the Los Angeles Times is at a loss to explain, half of fucking Hollywood is going to be there this year, either receiving or presenting some trumped-up award to an Oscar nominee hoping to wedge in a few more photos before voting closes. I know you won’t want to miss it because your pal David Fulbright will be presenting an award or two. In fact, I understand that all of our favorite people will be in attendance. Becker’s going to be there, and our Miss Stewart, which means the always delightful Arnie Ellison should be on hand. Also Alicia Goldstone, Eddie Izzard, and the other Best Actor dark horse, what’s-his-name, William Rudnick. He interests me very much, that guy—you know he’s a former Marine? Vanity Fair did a big profile on him and apparently he was reading Mamet in some tent in Afghanistan when he decided what he heard above the lashing of sand and wind was the call of the muse.”

“Did you just make that up? Or was that in the article?”

“Which part?” he said, finally taking his eyes off the television and turning them innocently toward her.

“The lashing sand and wind part.”

“Made it up. Did it move you? Did it create an indelible visual footprint in your varied and lovely mind? Do you not find it interesting that there might be a Special Services spook with an agenda smack in the middle of this highly dangerous Oscar race? It interests me,” he said, looking back at the screen. “In fact, many of the people I have just named interest me in a way they haven’t for years. Too many connections among too many previously unconnected people.” His voice had taken on a certain timbre; although it wasn’t a British accent precisely, there was something a bit too measured about his speech, as if he were playing a part. Or preparing to play a part.

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