Play It as It L.A.s

IF you’re a woman and you A want to be recognized at a Hollywood party, you’d better be either Barbra Streisand or an ex-lover. It’s a lot safer if you’re Barbra. I’ve had at least two famous ex-lovers not recognize me. It’s humiliating. You might say I asked for it though. As I said, I’m a woman, and worse, I have no power. Not yet.

Let me tell you about this agent. He started out selling television, and when I first knew him, he wore tasteful polyester. Now he has graduated to movies and cashmere. He looks boyish and nice. Recently, he even did something nice. He sold a screenplay for $250,000. Better, it was written by a woman. Even better, the woman was an unknown. Best of all, she was working as a waitress. He had this fantasy: He would take the check, drive up to the restaurant, and hand it to her over the table as she gave him the bill. A good fantasy, but he didn’t do it. Hollywood people, particularly agents, talk a lot about what they want to do, can do, and hope to do. Mostly, they don’t do.

But, as I said, this man looked nice—until I was being reintroduced to him for at least the fifteenth time. Then he didn't look so nice. And I told him so. He laughed and said, “Let me tell you a story!’’ Almost anyone can win me over by telling me a story. We settled down on a couch, drank brandy, and this is what he told me:

“I was walking down the hall at Universal. I was thinking about this meeting I was going to. You know how it is when you’ve got a story to pitch. I passed a couple of girls. Actresses. Hanging around hoping to meet somebody. One of them reached out to stop me. I was annoyed. I wanted to keep thinking about this meeting. But the other girl laughed and said, ‘Alan! Here’s an old friend of yours.’ I stuck out my hand and said, Howjado. She answered by saying, ‘Hi, Alan, I’m only your ex-wife.’

I choked on my brandy. He patted me gently on the shoulder and looked most solicitous.

“Ha, ha, he continued. “I decided that the only way I could remember any woman was if I had a son by her.”

The next time I saw him he remembered me. This made me nervous.

—Lucretia Bingham