by Dyan Sheldon
“All this is beside the point,” cut in Sam. “It may have slipped your mind, Ms Cep, but the Carla Santini phase of your life’s supposed to be over, remember?”
“It’s not over till the final curtain.”
“This was the final curtain,” Sam informed me.
I smiled to myself. That’s what he thought.
Predictable As Always, The Gods Turn Against Me Again
Graduation was on Sunday, and on Saturday my father and his dog came out from the city to join in the celebrations so I had no chance that weekend to do anything about furthering my movie career.
I had a restless, brooding two days. Morty, with his logical, mathematical mind was right. Now that Carla was not only in the movie but practically living with the stars, the word was out, spreading through the leafy streets of Dellwood like fire across the Californian forests. There were going to be enough hopeful extras in Dellwood to film every epic ever made (all at the same time), and a lot of those hopefuls were going to be friends of Carla Santini – which meant that they were more shoe-ins than hopefuls. My only chance was to get there first. Which meant before the shooting started. If I could find Shona and Leslie and remind them that they more or less promised me a part, all my problems would be over. I didn’t figure that would be too hard.
Even though I didn’t have to be at Second Best until one on Monday, I got up practically at the crack of dawn. My mother, who has a very opportunistic nature, wanted me to take the twins to day camp for her since I had “time to kill”, but I said that I couldn’t even injure time, I was meeting Ella. This was more or less true. I would be meeting Ella, she just didn’t know it yet. She’d been busy with her family all weekend, too, so I hadn’t had a chance to tell her.
Karen Kapok gave me one of her is-this-bowl-off-centre looks. “So early? What are you doing, going fishing?”
I never like to tell my mother my plans if I can help it in case she tries to stop me. I said we had a lot to do before I went to work.
As soon as my mother and the twins left for the day camp, I called Ella.
“What time is it?” She sounded semi-conscious.
“You don’t want to sleep your life away,” I told her. “The early actor catches the part.”
Ella wanted to know what I was talking about. I told her my idea.
“You want to do what?”
“It’s my only chance. They liked me. They said all I had to do was turn up. I’m sure if I explain to them the urgency of the situation, they can fix it so I don’t have to mill around in the street with the rest of the town.”
Because I don’t want to miss so much as a second of my life, I wake up and leap to my feet, ready to take on another challenging day. But Ella likes to sneak up on it. She isn’t really awake until after breakfast.
“But there are dozens of bed and breakfasts around here,” said Ella. Sleepiness makes her argumentative. “You have no idea which one they’re in.”
“That’s why I need you. You and your car.”
“But—”
I didn’t have time to stand there bickering with her. It was already nearly eight-thirty. “I’ll be over as soon as I get dressed,” I told her – and hung up the phone.
Ella didn’t have her car. It was in Creek’s garage, being serviced.
“I tried to tell you,” said Ella, “but as usual you wouldn’t listen. We’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’m getting it back tonight”
Tomorrow might be another day, but it could also be a day too late. “Well, we have no choice then,” I decided. “We’ll have to go by bike.”
“In this heat?”
“Pedal fast,” I advised. “It’ll create a breeze.”
Ella was wrong about how many bed and breakfasts there are around Dellwood. There aren’t dozens; there are hundreds. Apparently anyone with a spare room sticks a sign on the front porch and waits for the city dwellers, bored with the theatre and music and elegant dining, to flood in, desperate to see a rabbit. We spent nearly three hours riding up hill and down dale, stopping at every one we found, but no one recognized Shona or Leslie from my descriptions.
The last one we had time for was the Freistucks’ “Bed & Breakfast – home cooking and TV”. By then we were both grimy and aching, and so wet with sweat that we looked as though we’d just tested for our Life Saver badges.
There was a man kneeling on the lawn doing something rural in the flowerbed.
I greeted him brightly. “Hi!” I said. “We were wondering if you could help us.”
The man turned around. I must’ve looked worse than I thought because he just stared at me for a few seconds as though he couldn’t quite place the language. Then he said, “Are you from one of those cults or something?”
See what I mean about Deadwood, New Jersey? It’s like stepping back in time to medieval Europe. What did he think our cult’s mission was, punishing ourselves for our sins by dying of heat exhaustion?
“Of course not.” I smiled reassuringly. “We’re looking for the proprietor.”
“Mrs Freistuck’s not in.” He went back to his digging.
“But you live here, right?” I asked the back of his head. “Or work here?”
He turned around again. “I’m Mr Freistuck. But whatever you’re selling we’ve already got it.”
I laughed. “Oh, no … we’re not selling anything. We’re – we’re looking for my aunt and her friend.”
Ella had been following me slowly up the driveway as though she was dragging a loaded Conastoga wagon behind her, but now I heard her stop before she reached us.
“She staying here?” asked Mr Freistuck.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I gave a girlish laugh. “Silly me, I forgot to write down the name of the B & B she’s at. But I know it’s around here. Somewhere.”
Mr Freistuck looked yearningly at the spade in his hand and sighed. “What’s your aunt’s name?”
I told him her name.
Mr Freistuck shook his head. “First names don’t mean nothing to me. What’s her last name?”
It was hard not to let my smile lapse. None of the other people we’d asked had been as difficult as to ask for a surname. I put this down to the fact that Mr Freistuck wasn’t a woman like the others – and also to the fact that he obviously enjoyed digging in the dirt. I find that people like Karen Kapok, who get pleasure from soil, have a tendency to be niggly and pedantic.
“Well…” I glanced behind to Ella for moral support and possibly help, but she had her back to me and was staring out at the road. “Well, it sort of depends.”
Mr Freistuck absentmindedly stabbed at the earth a few times. “Depends on what?”
“She’s from the city,” I explained. “You know what city people are like. It depends on her mood. Sometimes she uses her maiden name, sometimes she uses her married name, sometimes she uses—”
“What kind of car does she drive?”
“Car?”
Mr Freistuck had hidden depths of sarcasm you wouldn’t expect from someone wearing a Hal’s Hardware baseball cap. “You need me to explain what a car is?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that – it’s just that she’s just got a new one and I’m not sure—”
“Do you know what she looks like?” asked Mr Freistuck. “Or has she had plastic surgery since the last time you saw her?”
I described Shona. “She’s about five-foot seven, has three studs in her right ear, short black hair, a slightly long nose, wears Chanel No. 5, and looks like she might be Armenian or possibly Welsh and probably likes Miles Davis.”
Not so much a flicker of recognition showed in Mr Freistuck’s eyes, but I didn’t take this as a no. He seemed to me like the kind of man who might not recognize a detailed description of his wife.
“Her friend’s name is Leslie.” I described Leslie.
“She doesn’t have a last name either?”
“Oh of course she does.” I smiled staunchly. “But I don�
�t remember what it is.”
Mr Freistuck hefted his spade. “Yeah, I know who you mean.”
“Oh, but that’s terrific!” Even though Mr Freistuck was clearly an undemonstrative man, I wanted to hug him. “Where are they? Are they here?”
He turned again and resumed his digging. “Nope.”
“Well do you mind if we wait?” Ella had her cell phone. I figured I could call Mrs Magnolia and tell her I was going to be late.
“You can do what you like, just let me get on with my work in peace.”
Full of jubilation, I started back towards Ella when, from deep in the border, Mr Freistuck said, “Course, they’re not staying here any more.”
I turned sharply. “What?”
“Moved out,” said Mr Freistuck. “Somebody gave them a house.”
My heart was lower than the bottom of a well and just as dark as I finally made my way to the store. There was no doubt in my mind that my only contacts with the production crew were now living in Carla Santini’s back yard. They might as well be in Peru, for all the good that did me.
But coincidence is not just the stuff of fiction; it’s the stuff of life as well. I was just gliding to a stop in front of Second Best when I saw Shona and Leslie coming out of a store across the street. Pushing my bike, I raced across the road.
“Hi!” I called, not quite managing to stop before I hit their rear bumper with my front tyre. “Remember me?”
They both looked up, smiling vaguely, their hands on the doors of their car. As difficult as it is to believe, they didn’t remember me. I put this down to the pressures of work.
“I’m sorry,” Leslie began, “I don’t think…”
“The other day,” I prompted. “In the secondhand clothes store?”
Shona kept looking at me as if she was flicking through her memory files without coming up with a match, but Leslie nodded slowly. “Oh yeah, that’s right. You sold us a bowling shirt.”
Shona got into the driver’s seat. “Nice to see you again.” She slammed the door shut.
Like an echo, Leslie’s door shut right after it.
I stretched over the handlebars and tapped on Shona’s window. “Please!” I shouted. “I just – I wanted to ask you a question.”
There was a whirring sound and the window lowered halfway. It just proves how phony Hollywood people really are. Both of them had been all smiles and pleasantries when they came to the store but now, although they were technically smiling, they looked about as pleasant as the gout.
“What is it?” asked Shona. She started the engine.
I said I remembered they said the movie needed extras and I was just wondering if there was some way I could be one without having to stand in a line with everyone else. “You know,” I said, “I am an actor myself. I—”
She cut me off before I could give her my résumé. “I’m afraid we work in costume, not casting.”
I had to speak quickly because the window was rising again. “Oh, I know … I just thought – because you said—”
She beeped the horn so I could get out of the way before she backed over me.
I threw myself into work that afternoon so I wouldn’t become negative after the horrendous start to my day. I sorted through the new consignment; I changed the price tags on things that had been on the racks so long they seemed as permanent as the door; I bubbled with efficiency and helpfulness and hummed cheerful songs under my breath.
“Well, you certainly seem to be in a good mood today,” commented Mrs Magnolia.
I believe in total honesty whenever possible. “I’m not,” I said. “I’m just trying to keep up my spirits.”
“That’s my girl,” said Mrs Magnolia.
I shouldn’t’ve bothered. Although it’s not true of water, food, money, rainforests or clean air, it is true that there’s no limit to the defeats and humiliations a person can suffer in this world.
I was rereading Othello during a shopping lull to take my mind off my own problems (nobody does problems like the Bard – not even me) when I heard the door open, and looked up to see Carla Santini and Alma Vitters. Carla’s often said that diamonds are the only things she would ever wear secondhand, but from the way she strode into the store you’d think the sign outside said Prada.
She feigned surprise at seeing me behind the counter.
“Oh my God, Lola! I totally forgot you work here.” Of course she had. “I just had to get out of the house for a while. I mean, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like! They’re starting the shoot in a couple of days, so we’ve already got Bret and Lucy in the guestrooms and the costume designers and wardrobe people in the cottage because they need so much space. It’s total chaos – I feel like I’m living in a boarding house. Not that they aren’t all really sweet. Especially Lucy. She’s just as nice as she can be. Being a big star hasn’t spoiled her at all.”
So that was why she’d dropped by: to rub it in. “I guess we all have our crosses to bear,” I murmured.
“Don’t we just?” laughed Carla. “So we found ourselves passing by and I thought, hey why not go in?” It was like the Queen stopping her carriage because she’d never been in that McDonald’s on the corner. “Daddy’s sure our maid sells some of the stuff my mother gives her to Mrs Magnolia.” Then, in case I’d leapt to the wrong conclusion, added, “Not that he’s ever come in here of course.”
Alma rolled her eyes. “Well, why would he?”
“So you know, I thought, why don’t I just have a look? It isn’t right if she is selling Mommy’s gifts to her, is it?” Carla’s smile was serene.
I smiled back. “Maybe if you paid her a living wage she wouldn’t have to.”
“I really am going to miss your New York sense of humour.” She gave a small and painful laugh to prove it. “It’s so refreshing.”
I spread my arms wide to include every corner of the room. “So now that you’re here, what do you think? See anything you recognize?”
Alma snorted, which I took as a no. “You know…” Alma’s voice slithered around us. “I always thought old clothes all went to Christian Aid charities and stuff like that. You know, for really poor people in the Third World.” She looked around. “This place is really…” She searched her vocabulary (usually limited to the names of designers and “Yes, Carla” and “Oh, Carla”) for a word that might describe a store that sold nothing that was outrageously expensive or new. “Different.”
Carla cocked her pretty head to one side. “It’s got a really down-home feel, hasn’t it? You just know ordinary people shop here.” The floodlight of her smile fell on me. And worked here, too, obviously.
I picked up my book again. “Shucks,” I said in a real down-home twang. “You just holler if you need any help.”
Things Are Bad, Then Things Get Worse
I had a date with Sam that night. I wasn’t really in the mood (there’s nothing like an encounter with Carla Santini to demolish a person’s joie de vivre), but a great actor has to be able to rise above her moods. You have to put on your costume and make-up and get out on that stage no matter what state your personal life is in. Your heart may be in more pieces than a broken windshield, but if the evening’s fare is a comedy, you still have to make the audience smile and laugh and forget their woes. So I put myself in a cheerful, positive frame of mind and resolved to forget about the movie for at least one night.
Sam picked me up after work in his dad’s van (you can barely fit people in his Karmann Ghia, never mind a bicycle).
We went to Triolo’s for pizza (even though it’s miles out of town in the middle of nowhere) because Sam fixes Mr Triolo’s car and Mr Triolo loves him. We always get a salad or dessert on the house.
“Well if you ask me it’s pretty astonishingly ironic that I’m the one who heard about the movie first and Carla’s the one who gets to be in it,” I was saying as we reached Triolo’s.
“Twenty.” Sam sighed. “That’s the twentieth time you’ve mentioned either the movie or the Sant
ini since we left the store.” He pulled into a space near the entrance. “I don’t know what you’re so het up about. I thought the Cep-Santini War was over. I thought you had nothing but contempt for Tinsel Town.”
It’s astounding how photographic everyone’s memory is when it comes to something I said.
“I’m not het up,” I informed him indignantly. “All I said was that I think it’s grossly unfair that Carla not only gets everything she wants, but things she doesn’t want too. And that I should’ve known better than to try to get anywhere asking minions. It’s like asking the prop person to tell you how to interpret your lines.”
Sam turned off the ignition and looked at me. “OK, you’re not het up – but since you’ve just spent the whole ride over talking about Carla and this dumb movie, do you think we could have a moratorium on all conversation involving them – at least till after we’ve eaten?”
I said, “Of course.” It’s not like I’ve got an obsessive personality.
Most of the light in Triolo’s comes from candles stuck in wine bottles, which makes it very atmospheric, but pretty dark too. We sat at the front near the window so we could see what we were eating.
It’d be as hard to have a bad time with Sam as it would be to climb Everest with towels on your feet, so it was easy enough to stick with the moratorium. In fact, for over an hour I forgot that things like Carla Santini and Hollywood movies existed. When we were ready for dessert, Mr Triolo himself came to take our order. It’s another sad fact of life that everyone has an ulterior motive, and pizza men are no exception. Mr Triolo came himself not just because he likes us, but because he wanted to know what Sam thought the new noise in his car might be. Much as I love Sam, I can’t say that I share his passion for the inner workings of the automobile. So while they were discussing all the things that might make Mr Triolo’s car sound as though it was about to implode, I let my eyes wander round the room. The walls are decorated with old photographs of generations of Triolos (Mr Triolo’s parents on their wedding day; Mr Triolo as a child in front of an ancient hovel in the Old Country; Mr Triolo’s grandfather standing in a field with a dog).