Girl of My Dreams by Morgan Mandel Page A

the previous performance drifted through his mind, filling him with a vast loneliness, taunting him with what might have been but could never be.
     
    WHEN BLAKE ARRIVED at his hotel room, the phone was already ringing. Had the press caught on so soon? Tempted not to answer, he decided to brazen it out instead. He’d put to rest once and for all any suspicions that Jillian hadn’t earned her place on her own merits.
    “We’ve got trouble,” Darryl said.
    Blake almost wished the voice were that of a reporter’s. He knew what would come next and didn’t have time to listen to a litany of his mother’s transgressions. The man never learned.
    Blake sighed and situated himself on the grey wing chair next to the couch. He may as well be comfortable while his father spilled his guts. “If you mean Barbara’s latest fling with the leading man, yeah, I’ve read about it. It’s nothing unusual, you know,” Blake said.            
    Since childhood, at his mother’s bequest, he’d always called her by her first name. She was right in that respect. She wasn’t much of a mother. Why pretend?
    Depending on the instance, his feelings for his father vacillated among pity, irritation and sometimes love.
    He could remind Darryl about the other guys and tell him what a fool he was for hanging on, but it wouldn’t do any good. He wouldn’t listen. The man was pathetic.
    “It’s worse than you think,” Darryl said.
    “Really? This might be interesting.”
    “I’m serious. Your mother was guaranteed the lead in Thomasita . They snatched it away at the last minute and gave it to that up-and-comer, Maria Martino.”
    “Barbara’s not Italian. Stacy is. Case closed.”
    “No, it wasn’t that. Your mother had the part, but she didn’t follow the script. She substituted lines.”
    Blake sighed again. The solution was simple. Why bother him? He had more important matters to address than his mother losing a role through negligence. The woman possessed an ego greater than an ocean. He didn’t doubt she often substituted words in movies, but most directors and producers were too cowed by her persona to protest.
    “Tell Barbara to spend more time memorizing lines instead of boinking her leading men. Problem solved.”
    “Don’t be so flippant. You don’t know your mother as well as you think. She’s obsessive about her lines. She practices ad nauseum . I should know. It’s a grueling business going over the scripts with her. She knows them at first, and then forgets them. It’s happening too often. There’s something wrong.”
    “Are you saying Alzheimer’s or something like that? She’s only what, fifty-six?”
    “It’s been known to happen.”
    Blake sighed. “Darryl, you worry too much. It’s normal not to remember things sometimes, especially when you get a little older. It doesn’t mean she’s sick. She’s probably nervous and can’t concentrate. She’ll snap out of it.”
    “I hope you’re right.”
    “You’ll see. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got stuff of my own to clear up.”
    Where Barbara Branton was concerned, his father made way too much ado about nothing. This wasn’t the first time he’d called with petty problems, but they never discussed the main issue of her infidelities. That topic was off limits, probably because Darryl knew the advice Blake would offer.
    Barbara Branton was fine. It was his father who was in big trouble, but didn’t realize it. The man had no existence outside of his wife.
    Blake shrugged. Their life was no concern to him, as was his to them. Had Darryl asked him about the show? No, he was too wrapped up in his wife. Nothing else in the world ever mattered to him, certainly not his son’s existence, except as to how it related to Barbara Branton. Typical.
    Blake shrugged off a familiar pang. He wasn’t a child and there was no use expecting more. His parents operated in their own sphere. It had always been that way. He should be used to