“Good God, Meg, do you believe this?” she whispers as she walks past me.
“I know.” I smile and touch her arm. “Good luck in there.” I remember the days—not that long ago!—when neither one of us had to audition, let alone pre-audition. On my way out, I smile at the pretty receptionist. She might be the next casting director if Todd is tapped to head the studio in another month or two.
Keep it straight and real, and you’ll do fine? Why not remind me to wear shoes?
I ride the three floors down to ground level making faces at the fun-house image of myself in the shiny elevator panels. I shift slightly, and the squat, wide-beamed image morphs into a pinched, elongated semblance of myself. With another slight shift, I appear almost normal. But even with some wavy distortion, I look pretty good. My auburn hair, blunt-cut, chin-length (I’m my own best hairdresser) gleams in the stainless steel. My Armani suit (a good five years old, but I’ll take it to my grave) flatters my still-slim hips. How could I not pass for a rich society murderess? I’d cast me in a minute.
I step off the elevator and pause to get my bearings. There was a time, pre-tourist trolleys and theme park, when this lot was home to me. In those days this was a scene of bungalows and makeshift trailers, not flashy office blocks. I was a contract player then, and spent most of my waking hours on one of the soundstages.
When I first arrived in California, a somewhat snotty New York actress wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake signing on as a “Hollywood starlet,” Clint Eastwood, James Garner, and Steve McQueen were starring in television Westerns. Rod Serling was still producing Twilight Zone. Alfred Hitchcock dined in the commissary. My photograph, a Technicolor confection of a pert and perky nineteen-year-old version of myself with big, brown eyes and a bouffant flip, hung above the booth where I took my lunch every day. I was in a picture with Jimmy Stewart, another with John Wayne. Now I barely recognize the buildings, let alone any of the people I pass. Yet the excitement churning my stomach is real—and all too familiar: I got a callback! I made the cut. Some things never change.
But other things do. I live on a strict budget these days, my wallet even leaner than it was in my salad days. Back then, salad actually meant a can of tuna, some lettuce, and a handful of saltines for supper, a feast in my present economy. Seeping sweat inside my beloved Armani, I stop for a moment in a patch of shade next to a soundstage. I’m hungry, and somehow I have to stay fresh while killing four hours until my afternoon audition. I head for the air-conditioned commissary.
The dining room that once sported red leather banquettes and miniature lamps on each cloth-covered table has seen many studio heads come and go—and undergone almost as many renovations. Today, it’s an upscale cafeteria with salad and soup bars, latté stations, and pasta made to order. I settle on coffee, tomato soup, and a fistful of crackers, the cheapest nourishment available. With hours to waste, I manage to look as harried as everyone else trying to grab a table.
I spot an empty one near the wall and move fast, not waiting for a busboy to clear the debris. Before pushing it away, I glance at the tray of food left by the previous diner. Next to a bowl with the swampy remains of salad and blue cheese dressing, there’s a plate with a half-sandwich of ham and cheese that appears untouched. A toothpick with a fringe of red cellophane sticks out of the whole-grain bread, an unopened packet of mustard beside it on the plate.
With my hand still poised over the tray, I wrestle with temptation. Waste not, want not. But it’s the remains of someone’s lunch! Who will know? I edge the tray closer, my fingers hovering within grabbing distance just as someone brushes my arm.
“Meggie? I don’t believe it. Where you been, gal?”
My hand snaps back like a sprung rattrap. I look up at the weathered face of Doug Haliburton, wondering if his rheumy eyes have caught me scavenging leftovers.
“Dougie, my God! How’re you doing?” I throw my arms around the frail, sagging shoulders of the man who directed most of the episodes of the Holiday detective series I filmed on this very lot.
“Not so bad. Mind if I join you?”
“Please do. Here, let me clear the table.”
“Wait, don’t forget your sandwich.” I watch without protest as he lifts the plate off the tray and sets it next to my soup bowl. “You finished with this salad?”
“Yes, thanks. I was going back for some water. Anything I can get for you?”
“Just a napkin. Hey”—Dougie juts his chin and affects a snooty British accent—“awfully good of you, my dear.”
“All in a day’s work,” I say, then give his thin shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Awfully good of you, too, Dougie,” I whisper to myself on the way to the water cooler. He cast me as Jinx, and I’ve probably worked with Doug Haliburton more than any other director in my career. I grab a handful of bread sticks and a napkin from the soup and salad bar before heading back to join him.
“So where you hangin’ these days?” he asks as I bite into my secondhand ham-and-cheese. “Same place up in the hills?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore. Actually, I’ve been traveling. Stopped off in Nebraska for a while to visit my mother. I just got back a few weeks ago.”
“Good for you. Not a bad idea to blow town once in a while.” He catches my eye and smiles. “Ever see Winnie?”
“I think ol’ Winston’s back in Canada, retired. We used to exchange Christmas cards until a few years ago.”
“Man, those were the days.” Doug shakes his head. “Are you working?”
“I just read for a guest role in a new murder mystery series. I’m up for the bad guy, a rich society matron.”
“Did you get it?”
“Don’t know yet. First I had to meet the new casting director. He’s twelve.” I laugh as Doug rolls his eyes. “I’ve got a callback at three.”
“You? A callback. Man, what next?”
“Are you kidding? What actress isn’t hankering for a series these days? I expect to see Meryl Streep sweeping in this afternoon hauling one of her Oscars in her handbag.”
“So? Don’t sell yourself short. You had a couple of good series and took home an Emmy.”
“The embryo casting this wouldn’t remember, Dougie.”
He laughs. “You’ll land it. Trust me.” He sips his coffee, a grizzled native in his trademark worn-out safari jacket and two-day stubble.
A wave of emotion engulfs me, remembering how kind Dougie was to me years ago when I was still married to my first husband. When I needed a favor, Dougie was there.
As though reading my thoughts, he says, “Say, I was just reminded the other day—whatever became of your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Dirck? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years. Probably still back in New York teaching acting.”
“No, not him.” Dougie gives me a quizzical look. “C’mon, Meggie. The property developer—aren’t you still married to him?”
“Paul? I am, only—sorry, I try not to think about him.”
“I’m not surprised you want to forget him, all things considered.” I hold my breath, hoping Dougie will move on, but it’s not the case. “I probably shouldn’t bring this up, but Edie and I were down near San Diego visiting her niece, and, damn, I coulda sworn I saw him coming out of a restaurant as we were going in.”
“Couldn’t have been. It’s almost certain he’s dead.”
“Dead? I’m sorry, Meg. I didn’t know that. I just remember hearing he was missing. Well, sure looked like him. Handsome devil. Big, broad-shouldered. Of course, I didn’t get to know him like I knew Dirck, but—”
Dougie gazes at the space around my left ear, the way he always did when he took me aside on the set to give direction. Still not looking me in the eye, his voice soft, he says, “I sort of lost track when Edie got sick, but I remember reading about it in the newspaper last year. He was kidnapped or something, right?”
My throat tightens. “It might’ve been a hoax. But who knows? The
FBI seems to think Paul set it up himself.” Anxious to move on, I pat his hand. “I’m so sorry about Edie’s stroke. I should’ve kept in touch, but so much was going on the past few months—”
“I know. Me, too. I kept thinking about calling and just never got around to it. You must’ve been going through hell. I’m sorry, kid.”
“So how’s Edie doing?” I ask, determined to change the subject.
“Hanging in there. Never complains.”
“Maybe I could drop by for a visit one day—”
“Please. Anytime. You need any of those boxes you stored in my garage?”
“Yikes, I almost forgot. It’s just books and stuff. You want me to get them out of there?”
“Nah, leave ’em. They’re not in my way.” Doug sips his coffee, then shakes his head again. I can see he’s not finished with Paul. “Of course, I only met the guy a couple times up at your place. Funny thing is, he sort of hit me up, too.”
“Dougie, you never told me you invested with Paul!”
“Turns out I didn’t. It was right around the time Edie started going downhill, so I backed off. It kinda scares me now to think how I would’ve got by if I’d invested, you know?”
I nod. Ice masses in my chest. I know only too well how it feels to lose everything. But it’s even worse to think about the friends that Paul roped in. Facing some of them in the aftermath was painful, often ugly, but the living hell of it was knowing there was nothing I could do to help make it right, to give back what they had lost. Paul disappeared, vanishing without a trace, leaving nothing behind to recoup.
Dougie pushes his plate away and licks his thumb. “You know, despite all the bad stuff that came out about him, the guy had a lot of charm. I guess that’s how they get away with their schemes.”
I tuck the last of my sandwich in my mouth, hoping to avoid having to comment. Dougie watches me chew, waiting until I finally swallow before speaking again. “Then again, maybe he didn’t.”
“What?”
“Get away with it. You say he’s dead?”
“Most likely. They never found a body, but—”
“You’re not sure, then?”
“No, but what does it matter? He’s gone. Dead or alive, he’s out of my life.” Even to my own ears, it’s a bad line reading. I tense, knowing Dougie won’t buy it, either.
He looks out the window, then slowly back at me, his head cocked to one side in a gesture I remember well. “Jinx wouldn’t let it go at that. She’d wanna get to the bottom of it, don’tcha think?” His eyes flicker. He’s heard my breath catch.
“Sorry, Dougie. Without the swallowtail coat I’m not Jinx.” My smile is so tight my cheeks ache.
“I only meant she’d want to know. Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Sure. So would the FBI, the U.S Attorney’s Office, and a whole slew of people out a helluva lot of money. Personally, I’m just glad it’s not front-page news anymore. Maybe everyone will forget. I’m certainly not going to be the one to dredge it up again.” I can feel Dougie pulling in to a close-up, so I play it small, keeping it light. “Crime-busting is a lot more fun when it’s scripted and you’re the one solving it. I can handle my share of media attention, too, but not when it’s camped on my doorstep. I was praying one of the Kardashians would pull a trigger, or at least shoplift.”
“Hell, maybe even Alec Baldwin acting up again, you know?” Doug smiles, and we exchange a look. We’ve both worked with Alec Baldwin. “Sorry, kid. I’m sure there were people who thought you were in on it.”
“Probably still are. Notice I’m not flashing any diamonds. Maybe I should’ve just kept traveling.”
“Nah, running away never works.” Dougie’s face softens. “I’m glad you came back. If you don’t deal with it, you can end up feeling like something on the sole of a shoe.”
I nod. Feeling like a piece of crap is nothing new to me these days.
“It’s a good thing Edie was with me that day, or I’d probably have said something to that S.O.B.” He gives me a look, then pushes his chair back. “Anyway, gotta hit the road. They’ve got me editing another retrospective. What the hell, everything’s a compilation now. Cheap and fills air time.” He stands, and I rise to give him a hug.
“Take care of yourself.”
“You bet. Good seeing you again, kid.” He pats my arm, then reaches for his tray.
“Leave it, Doug. I’ll get it.”
“Yeah?”
“All in a day’s work.”
“Guess I’m jinxed again,” he says, mimicking Winston’s closing line of every episode. “Awfully good of you, my dear.”
Dougie shuffles toward the door. Once he’s out of sight, I slide his untouched lettuce and tomato onto my plate. A burst of nervous energy surges through me. Maybe it’s the rush of nourishment and caffeine. More likely it’s the mention of Paul. If I’d run into him instead of Doug, what would I have done? Strangled him? Shot him? Just screamed at him?
I rummage in my shoulder bag for the clipping I tore from a newspaper I found on a counter in a café south of San Francisco in early January. I was on my third refill of coffee by the time I turned to the tattered remains of the Chronicle’s business section. Below the fold, my eyes latched onto a double column about the Los Angeles City Council passing a ridgeline ordinance. Accompanying it was a photograph of a canyon construction site, with the caption: PROPERTY OF FUGITIVE DEVELOPER PAUL C. STEPHENS CITED IN CLAIMS OF GRADING ABUSES.
It was a shock to see Paul’s name in print again, even more so finding him designated a fugitive. For once, my name wasn’t mentioned in connection with his, a good omen. Not a good omen was spotting my waitress, slack-jawed and heavyset, her hand cupped over her mouth, talking with a woman at the far end of the lunch counter. Both were staring at me. I jammed the clipping into my bag, yanked my last few dollars from my wallet, and got up to leave.
I drove as far as Half Moon Bay, considering my options. My tires were practically bald, my wallet thin. Why was I on the run? Paul was the fugitive, not me. He was off somewhere living on other people’s millions, while I was scraping bottom. I should have listened to Pat, my tough-as-nails agent, when I’d called her at the height of the media clamor.
“Pat, I’m going nuts here. I need to work. A location job would be great.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” she said in her husky rasp. “But I’m not having lotsa luck. There’s a lotta resistance.”
“Really? Because I’ve got media parked on my lawn that can’t wait to get me on camera.”
“I know, kiddo. So, what can I say? Maybe you need PR that specializes in crisis control.”
But I hadn’t gone that route. Instead I hit the road. Maybe I’d reached the end of it. I pulled into a lay-by and punched up Pat’s direct line on my cell phone. I took a deep breath and said, “Hey, Pat, it’s me.”
She let out a long, low sigh that sounded like a year’s worth of waiting and wondering. Then, “What’s up, kiddo? How ya doing?”
“Good. I’m fine. Doing okay. I’m coming back and just wondered if you could get me some auditions.”
The weather and pilot season are only two of the reasons I made my way back to L.A. after coming across that newspaper clipping about Paul. The third is that I need my life back.
I push aside my tray and settle in with the script. Still thinking of Paul, I try to project myself into the role of a murderess. If I had the chance, would I hire a hit man to kill him?
As I cross the studio lot, a passing stagehand flashes me that unmistakable look that means I’ve been recognized as Jinx. Whatever other roles I’ve played in my career, Jinx is the character everyone remembers.
Then again, maybe the double take is the result of the stock photo of Paul and me that ran with every story about the scandal. One headline read: JINX COSTARS IN REAL-LIFE CAPER. How many people now automatically cross-reference “Meg Barnes” with “con-man husband”?
I take the elevator back up to the third floor
of the production office. At the end of the corridor, half a dozen actresses sit on folding metal chairs, waiting to audition. I recognize most of the faces that look up with smiles a little too bright. How many of them are dredging up last year’s headlines as they watch me make my way toward the producer’s office?
Jenna, a tall, athletic blonde who once guest-starred with me in an episode on a medical series, leans against a doorjamb, script in hand. She looks up and taps my arm with her script. “Hey, you. I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s it going?”
“Great. How’s it with you?”
“Fine. They’re running behind, of course.”
“Of course. What else is new?” I reach for the sign-in sheet. “I see they’ve rounded up the usual suspects.”
Jenna laughs. “Just so we know when the last plane to Paris leaves.”
We both laugh, though I’m not sure either of us knows what the joke is. Why did I have to say “suspects”? Stop fixating! These women have nothing more on their minds than getting the damn job.
The truth is any of us “callbacks” could play this guest star role. Only one brave soul has let her hair go more salt than pepper. Another has packed on a bulging midriff. I barely recognize a former supermodel-turned-actress whose face looks Saran Wrapped, evidence of a few too many trips to a plastic surgeon. Otherwise, we all look reasonably well preserved.
I take a seat next to a water cooler and tune in to the general conversation. For some, acting has become a sideline. Two women have become real estate agents; one is working toward her marriage and family counseling license; another is a landscape designer. The erstwhile model with the taut skin and trout lips owns a Pilates studio. Jenna runs a dog kennel with her actor-husband. Three are divorced (one still in the throes), and several are grandmothers. Business cards are exchanged and lunch dates promised while we wait for Todd-with-the-goopy-hair to escort each of us in. How many of these gals had to pre-audition?
At last it’s my turn, and I follow Todd down the corridor to the producer’s office.
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 2