by Ella Berman
I watch them both through the gap in the door, realizing that the woman in the mask is the lead actress in the film they’re reshooting in the parking lot. She was on a huge network TV show for a couple of years, and Nathan told me she had left it to make the move into features, booking John’s action movie as her first role. She’s a couple of years younger than me, and she seems glossy, uncomplicated, enjoying it more than I ever could, but maybe I’m too quick to judge.
“Did you see her?” she says, addressing her friend, while still staring at herself in the mirror.
“She looks different. Kind of like a caricature of herself?” the friend says, her words peeling up at the end as she watches the actress for cues.
“Right,” the actress says, leaning in and dusting something from her cheek. “But I think she’s still kind of beautiful. There’s something eerie about her.”
The friend leans in closer. “You know I heard they’ve already cast the role she’s auditioning for. I think they’re only seeing her today as a favor to someone.”
“Shit. And I heard she overdosed last year,” the actress says, making a sympathetic noise at the end.
“Did you read that interview she did? She seemed kind of unhinge—”
I cough loudly before flushing the toilet and unlocking the toilet door. The two women are horrified but they recover quickly, and the actress holds her arms out to embrace me even though we’ve never met and I haven’t washed my hands yet. I stand stiffly and let her hug me anyway, catching the eyes of my reflection in the mirror as I do. That’s when, from nowhere, I hear Emilia’s voice, as clear as if she were standing next to me in the bathroom.
They don’t want you to win.
* * *
• • •
I walk back into the corner of the parking lot and stand on my mark. Nobody is looking at me anymore, punishment for wasting their time while I was in the bathroom.
“I’m ready,” I say. “Give me one more take.”
The assistant turns the camera back on, and the producer stands behind it. I drop the script onto the floor at my feet and inhale a deep, shuddering breath.
They don’t want you to win.
I let the negative energy bubble up inside me, summoning it, trying to mold it into something else: a protective shield of armor around me. They don’t want you to win. I breathe in and out, every nerve in my body firing until I start to fill the whole fucking parking lot with my light, soaring above these people and their impatience, their passive-aggressive power moves and their time commitments. I channel Sienna, queen of Euron, gathering her strength to defeat the final galaxy, her reluctance to lead ending up being the very source of her strength.
“I never asked for any of this, don’t you understand that?” I start, and my voice rings out, clear and perfect through the air. I can see the assistant glance quickly at me out of the corner of my eye, but I keep my gaze focused on the producer, burning into him with every word I say. “I’ve always seen it as a sign of weakness. That people who want too much of anything are flawed.”
My words cut through the open structure like flaming arrows, pulsing out of my body one after the other at lightning speed until they create a ring of fire around me. The casting director puts her phone down and watches me with interest. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as the power flows through me in intense waves.
“But after what they’ve done, do you think I have any choice? That I have any other possible life to live?” I continue, my eyes filling with tears as I say the lines because at least I know now that nobody can take this away from me, however hard they try. This is what I do.
“So you ask me why I want to win this war, and I’ll tell you this: I never once wanted to rule over Anatopia. It is my destiny.”
When I’m finished there is a silence, before the casting director turns off the camera and John nods approvingly.
“Great job, Grace,” he says warmly. “Do you want to watch any of it back?”
I shake my head. I already know I nailed it from the look on his face.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I park on a side street off Melrose, underneath a blossomless jacaranda tree, and check the directions to the restaurant that Laurel texted me. I feel invigorated from the audition, as if I’ve just remembered who I am after the longest time away. As I walk, I call Emilia to fill her in on my screen test, but it rings through to her voicemail. I haven’t heard from her since our talk in her kitchen yesterday, but I feel so relieved about that now, too, safe in the knowledge that I made the right decision in not telling her the truth. Maybe the past really is just that, something to forget ever existed. I feel wildly happy all of a sudden, like maybe if I run fast enough I could even take off from the ground. The feeling is vaguely familiar to me but in the past it was only ever drug induced and not caused by something that genuinely has the power to save me, like this god-awful, beautiful fucking movie.
There is a magazine stall on the corner of Melrose and I slow down, scanning the titles. My face is on the cover of at least five magazines, but only one of them is still leading with the deranged photos from PCH. The rest have followed Vanity Fair’s lead in recasting me as a survivor, traumatized by a life spent in the spotlight. I lift one up so that I can read the headline: “Grace’s Tragedy: The Real Reason She Left LA.”
I drop the magazine without reading it and walk into the restaurant. A woman on her way out recognizes me and digs her daughter in the ribs, but she’s too late, I’ve already passed them.
Roots is a new vegetarian restaurant, right in the heart of Melrose, with swaths of outdoor seating so that everyone can see you from the street. Green cacti swing in macramé planters above jewel-toned velvet sofas, and trays filled with brightly colored food decorate the gold tables. Everyone is beautiful and tattooed and locked in intense conversations, but they all still stare at me as I make my way through the restaurant. Laurel is already waiting at a table just inside, set back behind a giant cactus.
“Didn’t they have a table outside? I’m worried nobody will see us here.”
“Wow, hi to you, too, Grace. Since when do you care about being ‘seen’?”
I sit down opposite her and roll my eyes. “I was talking about the servers, obviously.”
“Sure you were,” Laurel says, studying her menu. “How was the audition?”
“I think it was good. It felt good. You were right, it turns out I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“And John? I’ve heard he’s kind of a creep.”
I think about it for a moment. “I guess kind of, but in a nonthreatening way.”
Laurel raises her eyebrows. “Thank heavens for that.”
“I mean, at least it’s all on the surface with him,” I say, thinking of Able’s perfect white teeth that will drain your blood faster than a leech, before I quickly add, “I did feel a little like he was pushing for a date more than the movie at first . . . Do you think that’s crazy?”
“Probably not. As I said, he doesn’t have the best reputation,” Laurel says.
“Yeah. I think I actually felt grateful that he didn’t make a big deal when I rejected his dinner offer. Isn’t that fucked?”
“Sounds like the patriarchy,” Laurel says, signaling the server, who comes straight over. We order a few different plates, and then the server asks us how successful we’ve been at manifesting our goals this year, and Laurel laughs in her face until she leaves, because apparently only she’s allowed to ask me that type of thing.
“So do you think you’ll do the movie?”
I look down at my nails and then back up at her. “If they offer it to me, yeah. It’s kind of earnest, but I think that could work in its favor. It’s like Game of Thrones meets Titanic, set in space.”
“They’ll probably want you to get your tits out,” Laurel says, swiveling around to check som
ething behind her.
“Are you okay? You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine. Did you talk to the paparazzi today?”
“I thought you did that for me. Are they here?” I ask, but Laurel is still looking around. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No, no, great. I actually forgot to call them. Maybe they just got a tip.”
“Yeah, I guess so, or maybe they followed me from the audition? They were outside waiting when I left.”
The waitress brings over our food, and a matcha smoothie for each of us.
“Do you want to order anything else? My manager said it’s on the house,” the waitress says, smiling widely, her eyes not leaving mine.
“I think we’re okay,” Laurel says at the same time I say, “Can we get some more beetroot raita?”
“Everyone’s being nice to me again,” I say, once the waitress has left.
“It’s because you don’t look like you’ve escaped from a psychiatric ward anymore.”
“It cannot just be the hair. Or one interview. This fucking city,” I say, rolling my eyes so hard I can nearly see my brain.
“It’s not just the hair, or the interview, it’s what they both represent. You’ve got your shit together. You’re not running across three lanes of traffic holding gas station pizza. In Crocs.”
“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed the Crocs. And it was actually four lanes,” I say, semi-proudly.
“I took the Crocs with me last time I was over. They’re somewhere in a dumpster in Echo Park.”
“You know, I’m going to call Crocs and ask them to sponsor me, just for you.”
“I wouldn’t,” Laurel says, chewing her way through a mouthful of charred brussels sprouts. “My contact at Lancôme says they’re considering you for the face of their new fragrance.”
I pause, my fork suspended in the air.
“What? Do you think it’s true?” I ask, only slightly unsettled to realize how excited I am by this news, and by how thrilled Emilia will be when I tell her.
“It would make sense. You’re everywhere again. In a good way this time.”
I smile at Laurel, still pleased for reasons I don’t even understand. I feel something rippling through me—if not happiness then at least pride, or maybe gratitude. I am slowly rebuilding Grace Turner, only this time I’m doing it without Able.
“The thing I like about you is I can tell where I’m at, in terms of public perception, just by hanging out with you. You’re my one-woman litmus test. If you’re being nice to me, then I know that everyone else must like me again too,” I say, still smiling.
“The difference being, I still hang out with you even when you’re acting like Britney Spears before her meds. Don’t forget that.”
“Best friends forever,” I say faux sweetly.
“And ever.”
I take a sip of smoothie and think I can taste the deactivated charcoal.
“So Emilia thinks I need to build on the momentum of the Vanity Fair piece. She suggested a couple of awards show appearances and a late-night talk show once I’ve signed on to Anatopia. What do you think?”
“Anatopia won’t even start shooting until the middle of next year, so you need to do something before that,” Laurel says, frowning slightly. “I guess you could do a talk show. But you should check which one with Emilia, obviously. She seems to know best.”
I let the resentment hang in the air instead of trying to appease her.
“What are your plans for Christmas?” Laurel asks, but she still seems distracted.
“Honestly? I haven’t even thought about it,” I say.
“It’s six days away, Grace. You can’t just sit in that house. Jesus.”
I shrug, not wanting to tell her I don’t have many other options right now.
“Look, you can come over to my place if you need somewhere to go,” Laurel says hesitantly, in a way that makes me think she might be regretting the offer already.
I smile at her anyway. “Thank you.”
“So, how are you feeling at the moment? Like really?” Laurel asks after another pause, but I can tell she’s still in a weird mood. I consider adjusting her energy in the way she would if this was the other way around.
“I actually feel okay. Maybe even more in control, I don’t know,” I say, smiling over Laurel’s head at the photographers crowding around the entrance to the restaurant. “And it’s not my fucking hair.”
“Grace—”
“I know what you’re going to say—one day at a time, blah, blah, but I haven’t even thought about having a drink or doing any drugs in weeks. To be honest, I’m sick of everyone treating me like I’m damaged,” I say, drinking some of my green smoothie and frowning, but not in the way that gives me the “eleven” lines between my eyebrows.
“I think that’s great, and I’m so happy you’re feel—”
“I don’t even necessarily just have to stick to acting, if that’s what you’re worried about. What are those people called that do a bit of everything? Maybe I’ll write a book on mindfulness or something,” I say, grinning as I swirl my straw around in my glass. “Or a vegan cookbook. I really should have kept it up, but did I tell you what my dad made me the first night I was home?”
“The salad with cheese and bacon bits,” Laurel says, and I think for a second that she’s bored or maybe just miserable.
“And ranch dressing! I couldn’t—”
“Grace,” Laurel interrupts at this point, basically shouting. I look at her, surprised.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been trying to tell you that I have to go for fucking ages,” Laurel says, sounding sheepish. “I didn’t tell Lana I was with you, and I’m kind of freaking out that she’s going to see that I’m with you before I have a chance to explain, because of all these fucking cameras. You’re not her favorite person after our night in Coyote Sumac. I hadn’t done coke in six months until I saw you.”
“I’m sorry, who?” I ask, not understanding.
“Lana. My partner.”
I can feel my shock register on my face. I don’t even try to keep my features neutral for the photographers this time. “Your what now?”
“We’ve been together two years, Grace. You’ve met her. What the fuck.”
“I didn’t even know you were gay,” I say, and then there’s a moment where I think Laurel might smash a plate of blackened eggplant over my head, but instead she starts to laugh, her eyes filling with glossy tears as she reaches across the table to take my hand.
“Never change, Grace,” she says, and even though I think I can hear genuine affection in her voice, I’m still embarrassed.
“I’m the pits,” I say, and Laurel nods.
“Can I meet her?” I ask. “Again, I mean?”
“Sure. But not right now. Like I said, she hates you.”
I look down at our setup, the table for two filled with sharing plates piled with vegan food, and matching matcha smoothies, surrounded by photographers calling out my name.
“What the fuck are you still doing here then?” I ask, smiling and putting my sunglasses over my eyes. “Go home.”
* * *
• • •
I climb into my car, pulling my baseball cap over my head once I’m inside. One of the photographers taps on my window, and I open it two inches so that I can hear what he’s saying. He is older than the rest and is smartly dressed in a sky-blue linen shirt. He drops something through the window that lands on my passenger seat. It’s a business card. I turn it over in my hand. Mario Gomez—Professional Photographer.
“Call or text me whenever you need me, okay? I’ll be there,” he says through the window as I reverse away from him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I leave three messages for Emilia over the next few days, but she doesn’t return any of my calls. Ev
en when I tell myself that she must be busy getting everything ready for Christmas without Marla, I still check my phone a few times an hour to see if she’s been in touch. I want to tell her how I think I finally understand what she meant about sifting through the shit life deals you and holding on to the good stuff with everything you have. Maybe I’ll even find the words to tell her how much more grounded I’ve been feeling since I started spending time with her, like she might be the kind of person I could grow up to be like, if I can just stay on track.
The late December sun is blazing hot, hotter than I can ever remember it, and the beach below my house is filled with tourists shaded under bright umbrellas and mismatched towels bought on Venice Beach. I collect the binoculars from the kitchen drawer, and point them toward the peach house. The house is dark, with no movement, but Emilia’s car is still parked in the driveway. I consider walking up the back to surprise her, but instead I settle into the beige lawn chair and wait.
After an hour or so, I see her blond head bobbing across the driveway, and then her car starts to move. I race to my own car. The drive down to PCH from Emilia’s takes longer than from mine, so I drive up the hill and wait at the opening until I see her Porsche turn onto the highway. I follow her car, keeping at least three car lengths between us as she drives south on PCH for about twenty minutes. She turns off just before we reach Venice, and I follow her, telling myself I just want to share the story of my audition with her, since she was the one who got it for me. I turn the radio up loud to drown out everything except the golden sun, the song and the white Porsche in front of me.
Emilia parks on one of the side roads behind Abbot Kinney but I drive on, opting for the paid parking just off the main street instead so that I have a head start on her. I can’t figure out how to use the payment machine so I just leave my car and hope that I don’t get another ticket.
Abbot Kinney is buzzing with Christmas tourists and local girls gripping iced coffees along with their car keys and sparkly phones. Christmas lights are strung over the storefronts, and trees glitter in the windows. I duck into Le Labo when I see Emilia ordering something from a juice truck parked in front of the Butcher’s Daughter across the street. I make a big thing about smelling the different perfumes in case she’s coming in here, but then I find one that is actually familiar—the one Emilia wears. Thé Noir 29. I spray it on my neck, turning my back on the pretentious man behind the huge oak counter. I clocked the exact moment he recognized me, his face softening disingenuously.