Confessions of a Hollywood Star

by Dyan Sheldon

  The Red Barn Theatre was once suburban New Jersey’s answer to The Globe. Every summer it would put on old Broadway plays performed by professional actors (though largely ones who were household names only in their own homes), but it dropped its final curtain (though of course it didn’t actually have curtains) before I got to town.

  “Close.” A warm feeling, almost of affection, towards Carla filled my heart. How was I ever going to find someone in the hometown of Walt Whitman and Junior’s cheesecake who could replace her? “And it’s almost as good.”

  “Well come on…” She exchanged smirks with Tina, Marcia and Alma. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  “Well, you’re not going to believe it,” I leaned my arms on the plastic table top, making myself comfortable, “but it looks like they’re going to be shooting a Hollywood movie right here in dear old Dellwood!”

  A wave of excitement ran through the student sea – but failed to even lap at Carla’s toes.

  “Really?” Her smile was steady as concrete. “I didn’t hear anything about this.”

  “No?” I shook my head sympathetically, baffled by a world that could behave so strangely.

  “Well I do think that Daddy would’ve been told. He is one of the most important men in town.”

  “And don’t I know it?” The only people who didn’t know it were in the cemetery. “I guess your father was probably too busy buying you cars and trips to Europe to keep his eye on everything else in town.” I gave her a consoling smile. “Anyway, I think they’ve just made their final decision, so they’re probably sending him an urgent fax even as we speak.”

  Carla’s lips were straight as a blade. “And just how do you have all this inside information?”

  “She made it up like she usually does,” muttered Tina.

  I knew exactly what I was going to say, of course. It was short, but it was very sweet. I’d tell Carla about the costume designers coming into Second Best, and probably mention that I’d been more or less promised a job as an extra. But what I’d planned didn’t include any extraneous details about what anyone else would say – or how they’d look. It definitely hadn’t included the expression of disdainful skepticism on Carla’s beautiful face, or the Greek chorus sighing and snuffling behind her. These changes required some adjustments. They required improvization. I’ve always been good at improvization.

  “Me?” I straightened up, sidling slowly towards the empty seat next to Sam. “Oh, the director came into the store – you know, where I work?” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ella staring at me, a sushi roll frozen between her lips, but my attention was on the scene in my mind of a man who looked a lot like Martin Scorcese striding through the door of Second Best. “He was checking out the location and everything. He wanted to know all about Dellwood and what was around…” I smiled fondly at the memory. “We had a really good talk.”

  “Oh, really?” Carla’s voice was hard, but the practiced ear could hear the tiny wedge of doubt prising open the steel door of her confidence. “What about? Secondhand clothes?”

  The disciples tittered.

  “As a matter of fact we did touch on that topic. He was looking for vintage stuff for Bret. You know … Bret Fork?” I pulled out the chair and sat down, looking over my shoulder at her. “But then – much to my astonishment – he wanted to know if I’d ever done any acting myself.” I laughed with surprised delight. “Can you imagine?”

  I couldn’t see Ella even out of the corner of my eye now, but I could hear her. She sounded like someone had just punched her in the stomach.

  “Oh, please…” [Cue: long-suffering sigh.] “Why would he ask you that?”

  “Because he liked my face.” I didn’t even have to pause to think. It was like I was reading from a teleprompter. “He said he was looking for someone with my combination of wholesomeness and sophistication.”

  “Oh, God…” groaned Alma, Marcia and Tina.

  “You’ll be telling us you got the lead next,” Carla snickered.

  “No, not the lead.” I stared into her eyes like I was trying to read something behind her head. “It’s nothing big of course – just one of those blink-and-you-miss-it kind of parts really – but it should be fun.”

  Carla didn’t say anything. She suddenly had to go. “I’ll see you later,” she informed the disciples. “I just remembered I have something to do.”

  She marched out of the cafeteria the way Pinochet’s troops marched into Santiago.

  Ella finally dropped her sushi roll. “Are you crazy?” she hissed. “Why did you tell her you had a part?”

  “She goaded me into it.” I opened my lunch box. “And anyway, what’s it matter? Friday’s our last day of school.”

  “Thank God this part of our lives is almost over,” muttered Sam.

  Sadly, he has no future as a prophet.

  Carla Beats Defeat To The Ground And Snatches Victory Out Of Its Jaws

  It was a Dellwood High tradition that on the last day the senior class threw a barbecue for the other years. Since there was no school social event that wasn’t taken over by Carla Santini I planned to miss it. But Sam and Ella wanted to go, and because Morty was senior class president and put soya burgers on the menu I couldn’t even argue that a vegetarian at a barbecue is like a teetotaller at a drunken Harvard student party (offended and bored), so I let myself be persuaded.

  The barbecue was a happy, jubilant affair. There was a lot of last-minute yearbook signing, and a lot of stories that began with “Remember the time…?” and ended in hysterical laughter. A surprisingly large number of the “Remember the time” stories concerned me.

  “Well you can’t say you haven’t made a big impression on this school,” said Ella.

  Sam put an arm around my shoulders. “Nobody’s going to forget you in a hurry.”

  I smiled, but not with the completely unbridled enthusiasm you might have expected. It was always my intention to make a big impression on the student body of Deadwood High, of course, but what I wanted was to be a symbol of the great world beyond the golf course and three-car garages. An inspiration! A living legend! Years from now, when these same callow youths were wrinkled and grey, I wanted them to say, “Lola Cep was one of the biggest influences on my formative years. She opened my eyes to the glories of the universe.” Not, “I’ll never forget Lola Cep. What a character – she gave us a lot of laughs.”

  But this moment of gloom passed quickly. After all, I wasn’t exactly finished, was I? I hadn’t even begun.

  “They’re not going to have a chance to forget me. Someday the whole world will know who I am.” I squared my shoulders and smiled into the clouds. “But right now it’s time for me to bid my teary adieus to the Wicked Witch of the East.”

  Sam groaned. “I thought that was all over.”

  There wouldn’t be any opportunity for schmoozing at the graduation on Sunday and I wanted to say one last fond farewell to Carla before our paths parted for ever (it was like touching the corpse of your enemy to make sure she’s really dead). Also, I figured that a public bon voyage would dispel any lingering doubts that I’d been lying about the movie.

  “It is all over,” I assured him. “I just want that feeling of closure.”

  “I have a feeling of closure,” said Sam. “I threw out all my notebooks last night.”

  I took Ella by the arm. “Come on. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “And then it’ll finally be over, right?” Sam insisted. “No more Carla this and Carla that. You’re never going to say her name again.”

  “Never,” I promised. “Not even instead of swearing.”

  And I meant it. I know I sometimes exaggerate a little for dramatic effect, but I sincerely believe that in all serious matters a person’s word should be her bond. This was to be the last scene Carla and I ever played together.

  I would find Carla among the revellers. I’d go up to her all smiles and girlish gushing. A hush would fall around us. This was as historic
a moment as Roosevelt meeting with Stalin or Tom Cruise and Nicole getting divorced. I’d say I hoped she’d have a great time running Europe. Carla would promise to give my regards to London. Then, just as I was about to turn away I’d make a joke. “Who knows?” I’d say. “Maybe the next time you see me will be in the movies…”

  Carla was holding court on the lawn outside the library, surrounded by the usual suspects (Tina, Marcia and Alma) and a gaggle of lesser hangers-on.

  “Carla!” I cried as Ella and I drew near. “I just wanted to wish you bon voyage! Have a great time in Europe. Do give it my love.”

  The disadvantage of real life as opposed to a play is, of course, that not everyone’s working from the same script. So although I knew exactly how this scene was supposed to go, it wasn’t how Carla read it.

  “Oh, haven’t you heard?” Carla’s smile was shy and perplexed.

  The disciples were all smiling, too, but their smiles were expectant. They knew there was a banana skin right in front of my feet.

  “Heard what?”

  “I’m not going after all.”

  Beside me, Ella whispered, “Oh God… I should’ve known.”

  If you ask me, human nature could use some improving. History repeats itself over and over, yet people are always surprised when there’s another war, or another famine, or another politician is caught lying. Just like I was surprised by Carla Santini pulling a Carla Santini at the last minute. Ella was right: I should’ve known.

  “You what?”

  “There’s been a change of plan.” Carla tossed her shining, healthy hair and beamed. “I’m not going to Europe. Not this summer anyway.”

  “But you can’t be serious!” Sincerity lent a certain poignancy to my performance. “You were so excited…” I don’t like to wish ill on anyone of course – it’s really incredibly bad for your karma – but I couldn’t help hoping that the reason for this tragic turn of events was something truly serious. Like that Mr Santini’d been arrested for fraud or that Mrs Santini’d run off with the gardener.

  “Oh, I know.” Carla sighed as though she had personal experience of disappointment. “I’m devastated of course. Totally devastated. But what can you do?” If the Dalai Lama had caught her laid-back, understanding smile he would’ve thought he had a follower. “Things happen, don’t they?”

  Tina, Alma and Marcia all murmured sympathetically.

  “So what went wrong?” Things definitely happen to me, and most of them are bad.

  But only good things happen to Carla Santini.

  “Oh nothing went wrong really.” She shrugged and smiled almost shyly. “It’s Daddy. As soon as he heard about the movie he insisted on finding out all about it.”

  So that was why Carla left the cafeteria so abruptly; she wanted to call Daddy on her cell phone.

  “You know what he’s like,” said Carla.

  Do I know my own name? Mr Santini is Carla’s father after all. You don’t get lemons from an apple tree, do you? And I know Carla, too. If my mother could manipulate clay the way Carla manipulates Mr Santini, our name would be Wedgwood.

  Carla steamed on, not expecting an answer. “So, can you believe it, it turns out that Daddy knows the director, Charley Hottle. Isn’t that some coincidence?” She paused so everyone – especially I – would know it wasn’t a coincidence. It was because Mr Santini knows everybody, unless, of course, they aren’t rich or famous and therefore not worth knowing. “You’ve heard of Charley Hottle, haven’t you?” crooned Carla.

  There might be a small community of Innuit out on an ice floe somewhere who hadn’t heard of Charley Hottle, but everyone else with electricity, newspapers and magazines knew who he was. He was one of the biggest directors around, known as much for his fervent belief in family values (he had seven children and just the one wife) as for his films. Charley Hottle’s movies contained no sex, no violence and no dangerous ideas. He loved ordinary people and the simple life. Which didn’t explain how he got to be a pal of Mr Santini’s.

  Carla gave a girlish gasp. “Oh, how silly of me. Of course you know who he is. You’ve already met him, haven’t you?” The disciples snickered in a discreet, ladylike way, but Carla gave me the smile that’s been known to blind strong men. “Well of course they got talking and you know how generous Daddy is. He offered Charley the use of the cottage out back – you know, in case he or Bret and Lucy don’t want to camp out in a trailer or whatever it is they usually do.”

  The Santinis’ “cottage” only fits that description if you’re comparing it to a palace.

  “Your father’s practically a saint,” I muttered. The saint of spoiled brats.

  Carla shrugged in the philosophical way of princesses throughout the ages. “So I can’t possibly leave my parents at a time like this, can I?”

  Marcia, Alma and Tina all shook their heads – sadly. They didn’t think she could possibly leave the Santinis at a time like this either.

  “I mean, it’s too much to expect them to cope with actors and a film crew all on their own.” She sighed. “Everybody knows how I was looking forward to seeing the Sistine Chapel and shopping along the banks of the Seine and everything, but sometimes you just have to put yourself second, don’t you?” She was looking straight at me of course.

  I smiled in the philosophical way of servants throughout the ages. “Well, Europe’s waited centuries for you to visit – I guess it can survive a little longer.”

  I could tell from the faces of the disciples that I hadn’t yet stepped on the banana skin. But I was about to.

  The tiny glass bells tinkled wildly. “Naturally, Daddy found a way to make it up to me.”

  I didn’t reply. I felt like someone tied to a stake watching a rhino charge towards her. I knew what was going to happen next.

  Carla’s smile was so out of control by now that I felt like I was staring right at the sun. “Can you believe it? He asked Charley if maybe they could find a small part in the movie for me, and Charley was so grateful that he said yes!”

  I could believe it. What I couldn’t believe was that this was all my fault – me and my big mouth.

  “Isn’t that awesome?” breathed Marcia.

  “Awesome…” echoed Tina.

  “Awesome…” echoed Alma.

  “Well, I couldn’t refuse, could I?” purred Carla.

  I forced myself to rally. “Of course you couldn’t. You have too generous a nature.”

  Carla’s voice was like cream sliding over ice. “So I guess I’ll see you on set,” said Carla.

  “If Lola really has a part, you mean,” said Alma.

  Tina nodded.

  Marcia said, “That’s right. Just because Lola says something doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  They must’ve rehearsed this at least a dozen times. They all had their parts down pat.

  I smiled back. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s true.”

  “And we’ve heard that before,” said Tina.

  Once again I made my exit not to applause, but to laughter.

  If you believe what you read on greetings cards and in magazines, the benefit of friends is having people around who comfort and support you when the cold, cruel world turns against you and your soul has more dark nights than the army has guns. “I am lost!” you cry to the uncaring sky. “How can I hope to go on?!” And that’s when your friends all rally round, telling you how great you are and how none of your problems are your fault.

  I was totally in an I am lost! How can I hope to go on? mood after my conversation with Carla.

  “I can’t believe it,” I muttered as Sam, Morty, Ella and I climbed into Sam’s car. “Carla always gets her way. She must’ve been an absolute monarch in a previous life.” Either that or God.

  As an example of how real life does not imitate greetings cards, Ella said, “Just forget it, will you?”

  Sam was even more sympathetic. He looked at me like I was a leaking carburetor. “It serves you right,” said Sam. “That’s what
you get for lying.”

  Even Morty jumped on the I-told-you-so wagon. “You really should’ve known this would happen,” said Morty. “It’s not as if you don’t know what she’s like.”

  “I know she’s a devious, egocentric, manipulative witch, but even I didn’t expect her to dump Europe for this.”

  Sam looked over at me as we moved out of the parking lot. “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t, that’s why not.”

  “You’re like a kid playing with a loaded gun who’s all surprised when he shoots himself with it,” said Sam.

  “I begged you not to lie any more, didn’t I?” chimed in Ella. “I don’t know why you can never just let sleeping dogs snore away in the corner. Why do you always have to wake them up?”

  Has anyone been more misunderstood than I? “But that’s exactly the point!” I wailed. “I wasn’t lying, was I?”

  Sam’s a very conscientious driver, but even he took his eyes from the road for a second to look at me. “What do you mean you weren’t lying?”

  “You mean you really got a part?” demanded Ella. Since everything in Sam’s car is no more than a few inches away she was pretty much screaming in my ear.

  “Not exactly. I mean, not yet. But I will. That’s why it wasn’t a lie. It was just a premature announcement.”

  Sam hooted. “A premature announcement? Is that like a pre-emptive strike?”

  “And just how do you intend to get a part?” bellowed Ella. “Are you planning to ask Mr Santini if he can pull some strings?”

  [Cue: sigh of infinite patience being shoved over the edge.] “I told you. Those women I met said all I had to do to be an extra was turn up on the first day of shooting.”

  “You and half the town,” said Morty. “Unless they’re redoing Spartacus or something and need some really big crowd scenes, you’re going to have to line up now.”

  But mine of course is an optimistic nature. “I’m sure I’ll get something,” I assured him. “I do have experience.”