Savanah's Swan Song (Part 13)

Late-night talk show host Paul Padner addressed his studio audience, and the millions of people watching from home, with obvious excitement in his voice—

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen.  Our next guests are a cougar and a savannah.  No, it’s not Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, it’s two of the biggest stars on the planet—Angelina Jolie and Savanah Georgia!” 

While Paul Padner, a former standup known for his ribald celebrity impersonations, was prone to hyperbole, this was not one of those times.  Angelina Jolie was Hollywood royalty and, though she had become reclusive in recent years, remained one of the world's most talented and beautiful women.  Savanah Georgia was simply the biggest pop star on the planet.  Having either one as a guest would have been considered a coup, but hosting both of them at the same time was historic.

The audience cheered as Larry Davis, the show’s bandleader, struck up a rousing rendition of “You Hold My Heart in Your Hands,” Savanah Georgia’s most recent hit.  After a few beats, the stars emerged from behind a gold curtain that obscured guests, wearing Prada and large smiles, and waved to the crowd as they made their way to the leather couch beside Paul’s desk.   

“Welcome to the show, ladies.”

“Thank you.”  Angelina turned to Savanah and clasped her hand.  “Though we prefer ‘bitches.’ 

Paul chuckled.  “Larry, have you ever seen two such fetching bitches?”

“Not since Westminster,” he replied.

The studio audience laughed.

“Are there any other nouns or pronouns that you’d prefer?”

Angelina whispered to Savanah, causing the singer to giggle.  “Angelina and I were wondering,” Savanah said to the flamboyant host.  “What pronouns do you prefer?”

“Hmmm…. I’d have to say that and there.”

“What?”

“Yes, growing up in the South I was referred to as ‘that there idiot.’”

More laughter from the audience.

“You two seem close,” Paul continued as the laughter faded.  “Did you know each other before your film?”

The duo shook their heads. 

“Nope,” Savanah said, lifting Angelina’s hand in hers.  “We met on the first day of shooting.  We were fast friends.”

“More like Sisters,” Angelina corrected.

Savanah nodded.  “Sisters.”  

“Don’t you play mother-daughter in the film?”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Paul,” Angelina answered, sarcastically.

“I’m sorry.  Spoiler alert!  Anyway, what else can you tell us about the movie?”

“Well, it’s called Holiday Cheer.  I play a retired cheerleader who comes out of retirement to help my daughter’s squad after they suffer an injury right before nationals.” 

“And hilarity ensues?”

“Hilarity ensues.”

“Angelina, you’re almost 50…”

“Thanks again, Paul.”

“Oh, come now.  That’s nothing a quick Internet search wouldn’t reveal.”

“Don’t believe everything you read online.”

Laughter from the audience.

“I was leading up to a compliment.”

“Oh, well, then please continue.”

“Ordinarily, with someone who’s…”

Angelina shot Paul a dirty look.

“…Beyond cheerleading age, you might expect a broken hip joke or a Rocky-esque ‘get in shape’ montage, but I can’t imagine that with you.  You’re stunning.”  Paul turns to the audience.  “Isn’t she stunning?  How do you do it?”

“Good old-fashioned diet and exercise.”  Angelina patted Savanah’s knee.  “Truthfully, this girl was great motivation.  I didn’t want to be shown up too badly.”

“And you,” Paul said, pivoting to Savanah.  “I read in The Enquirer that you were pregnant.” 

“Don’t believe everything you read offline.” 

Paul laughed, as did the audience.  “I had no idea you were funny!”

“Wait until you see the movie,” Angelina chimed.  “She’s hilarious.” 

“Well, as luck would have it, we have a clip from the film.  Would you care to set it up?”

“Sure,” Angelina said.  “I’ve just agreed to help Savanah’s squad, and this is our first workout together.  That’s when Savanah realizes there might be a couple of problems.”

“A couple of BIG problems,” Savanah added with a laugh.         

“Ok, here we go—a never-before-seen preview for Holiday Cheer!”

After the clip, the audience applauded rapturously.  A few even whistled. 

“That is so funny,” Paul gushed.  “You two have great chemistry.  Are you sure you didn’t know each other before?”

Savanah shook her head.  “We’re definitely wired the same though.”

“Will there be any singing?”

“Of course!” Savanah exclaimed.  “And not just by me.”

“Oh, do tell!”

“Well,” Angelina hesitated.  “My last movie was Maria, the biopic on opera singer Maria Callas, and I took innumerable signing lessons to portray her.  Let’s just say I put them to use again.”

“So, there might be a ‘mother-daughter’ duet?  How exciting.  Hopefully, the lessons stuck better than the weight you gained for the role.”

“That was exaggerated,” Angelina said with downcast eyes.  “The film mostly focused on her later years in Paris when she was thin.”

“When were you in Paris?” Savanah interjected.

“Last Spring.”

“So was I!” Savanah gushed.

Angelina perked up. “Ah, Paris est si belle et la nourriture...”   

“N'est-ce pas bon?”

“Le meilleur!”

Paul swiveled in his seat, addressing Larry, “I’m just going to let them talk.”

“Your ratings might improve,” the balding bandleader responded, prompting another round of laughter from the audience.

“The only French I know is ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?’ Paul said, returning his attention to his beautiful guests. “Wait!  Don’t answer that question!  My wife is watching.”  Then he looked directly at the camera.  “Honey, please turn off the TV.” 

Savanah--the real Savanah--sitting naked on the couch in her Atlanta penthouse with a bowl of ice cream in her lap, had had enough.  She flipped off the TV then she ‘flipped off’ the TV.

“Fuckers.”

Noticing the ice cream had melted into a soupy sludge of brownie and cheesecake chunks, Savanah tossed her spoon on the nearby coffee table and drank the rest directly from the bowl.  A bit dribbled from the corner of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her bare belly, its protuberance saving the leather from lactose intolerance.

After abandoning the empty bowl on the coffee table, Savanah burped and rubbed her swollen stomach, massaging the cold cream into her warm skin.  She was about to explore the unseen recesses beneath when she noticed the stack of unread mail beside her empty bowl. 

It had been piling up for weeks, but she suddenly felt compelled to go through it.  Perhaps there was a letter from Chad.   He was no wordsmith, but she was desperate for sentiments of longing or affection.  Something to douse the fire within her better than ice cream or her fingers.

There were none.  However, tucked within the hodgepodge of catalogs and solicitations was a small square envelope from the West Coast, addressed in an ornate script that bordered on Baroque.  The inside was equally opulent, hand-written in calligraphy on expensive, deckle-edge stationery:

Dear Savanah:

We have an important matter to discuss.  Please join me at my private villa at your earliest convenience.  The number below will provide you with discreet transportation.

Sincerely,

Angelina Jolie.

Beneath the phone number was a postscript:  

PS: Just you.  The real you.