by Lian Dolan
Happy hour became a happy three hours. We ditched Patrick at the Huntington and moved our all-female lovefest to Mujares Mexican Cantina, because Olympia claimed there was no such thing as too much guacamole. By the size of her thighs, I’d say her definition of “too much guacamole” was very different than mine. But the change of venue gave me a chance to text Candy from the car.
Star sighting. Meet at Mujares. Keep low profile.
Candy responded: What am I looking for?
I answered: Dirty Archaeologist with Olympia Sutton-Major. Off the record.
In Candyland, keeping a low profile meant snooping from the bar or the table next door when a scoop was unfolding. And Off the Record meant just that: off the record, as in not for posting on candysdish. She needed a pick-me-up after the Raleigh waitlist debacle, and this was just what she needed—hobnobbing with the famous, not gossiping about them.
At first she kept her distance, chatting up Raul at the bar for a good long time over a club soda, while Annabeth and Olympia downed margaritas. When I felt the timing was right, I waved her over to meet Annabeth and Olympia. By the time the enchiladas arrived, the three of them were laughing like old school friends. Candy delighted them with her Rose Queen Gone Bad story, an apologia I’d heard a million times. But she was on; it was like watching a one-woman show. The reception from Annabeth and Olympia was so encouraging, she carried on with her whole life story. She concluded by explaining candysdish.com, her way of disclosing that she was a professional celebrity gossip reporter. Annabeth and Olympia squealed with delight, though that may have been due to the margaritas. By the time the coffees were poured, Olympia was calling her agent—Aphrodite Productions wanted to buy the rights to Candy’s life story. She was glowing.
“Once this deal hits Variety, Mariah will get in off the wait list at Raleigh for sure,” Candy whispered to me. “Plus, they’re talking HBO series. So don’t worry, I won’t say a word. I’m going to bide my time on this one. And I like them. I want a weekend invitation to Santa Barbara, don’t you?”
Candy agreed to drive the slightly drunk Dirty Archaeologist and her snow maiden back to their hotel. She had a deal to secure, and I had to get home to Aiden. The valet pulled her spotless Jaguar around. “This was so much fun,” Annabeth gushed. “I love you guys. Were you always this much fun in college, Helen? I can’t wait for the shoot on Thursday. Candy, you must come. We want you to be there, too.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Can I bring my photographer? It would be great publicity for your show.”
“Oh, that is such a good idea!” said Annabeth the Naïve. “But a word of advice: Cut out the salt and the chips tomorrow. Just lots of water,” Candy warned Annabeth as the trio piled into the car. “Or you’ll be bloated and have carb face on camera! Right, Olympia?” Olympia, who had never had carb face a day in her life, agreed heartily.
As I waited for my car, my thoughts drifted off to Patrick. Now that I knew there was nothing between him and Annabeth, I felt more pressure than ever about the benefit.
Was there really something there between us?
CHAPTER 19
“Are you ready?” I asked Patrick two days later, as I watched the stylist smooth the collar of his Turkish linen shirt, in what I’d come to think of as Patrick’s Blue. We were standing in a makeshift dressing room at the Huntington in the Friends Hall. Scholars’ Cottage #7, which I’d stayed in late last night to clean and accessorize with fresh flowers and important-looking books, was being lit for the interview. All that HGTV proved good for something. Patrick, now powdered and hair-sprayed, was looking impatient. And fine.
“Helen, relax. I’ve done interviews before. And the research is good. This will be great. And then we can all go out and have a beer. It’s just TV.”
“You look great, Dr. O’Neill. I’ll be on set to powder in between takes. Let me know if you need Chapstick,” said Mona, the skinny, adorable twentysomething with the carpenter’s apron full of makeup, brushes, cotton swabs and safety pins. She turned to me. “Do you need hair and makeup?”
Did I look that bad? Just as I was about to acquiesce, Olympia swooped in. She was dressed in fabulous white jeans and a tawny suede shirt set off by a silver-and-turquoise belt. Mona’s mouth dropped open. There was a Bond girl on her shoot! “Of course, Helen needs nothing. She’s beautiful all on her own. And she’s not on camera. But you are, Patrick. So get to the set. Be brilliant.” Patrick trotted off while Olympia played producer, pushing Mona out the door, too. “Darling Makeup Girl, go take one last look at Annabeth. Tell her she looks lovely, because she is starting to doubt herself. Go!”
Mona went. Olympia really was a movie star.
“Is Candy here? I want to talk to her about something.”
“She’ll be here any minute. With a camera crew. She said that you okayed that.” I don’t know why now I was playing the part of Candy’s producer. I just wanted everything to go smoothly for Patrick. And Annabeth. An unexpected camera crew might ruffle some feathers.
“I told her absolutely yes!” Olympia clapped her hands, her beaded bracelets flashing on her wrists. She draped her arm around my shoulders conspiratorially. “Let’s go make something dirty, shall we!”
The Huntington’s gardens, library, art galleries and koi ponds have been used in literally hundreds of movies and television shows. Leo, J-Lo, DeNiro—you name it, they’ve filmed on the grounds. You’d think the Huntington staff would be blasé by now about another film crew taking up their parking spaces and messing up their schedules. That was the usual attitude of the citizenry of Pasadena when the klieg lights and Starwagons rolled into town. But there was something electric about the atmosphere surrounding The Dirty Archaeologist. Maybe because so many of the staffers had something personal on the line.
Sarah White was vying for professional attention from the director of the Huntington, kudos from the board of trustees and personal attention from Patrick. She was entertaining a cadre of local journalists covering the shoot. Karen from Library, the self-appointed “manuscript wrangler” on set, wouldn’t allow anyone but her to turn the pages of the Schliemann Journals during the close ups. Annie the Coffee Cart girl was thrilled to get her first craft-services gig, supplying fresh java. (The big movies used their own people.) The eager grad students who had supplied the extra hands to scan and transcribe the journals toward the end of the project stood around with lattes, whispering about the glamorous Olympia. Even Arlene the Volunteer Coordinator was snapping photos of the action for her slide show presentation for the Ladies’ Guild Luncheon in June.
Sure enough, Neutron Mel, not technically an employee but putting in a lot of hours around the place lately because of the benefit, hovered in the corner with her minion Jennifer Braham, who seemed to have aged ten years since she acquired my position. Being Neutron Mel’s #2 was not good for the complexion. Melanie was typing furiously on her Blackberry, periodically looking up to survey the scene and check her watch. Jennifer’s face was tight as she scanned the horizon, looking for something. Of course—today was the day the massive white tent went up for the benefit on Saturday night. A control maven like Neutron Mel would want to oversee every aspect of the event, even the tent stakes.
Then, of course, there was me. I had everything on the line. That’s why I was thrilled when Olympia called me over to the inner circle: the two young, blue-jeaned producers, the prototypical, unshaven director in a baseball cap and Yankees T-shirt, Patrick and Team Aphrodite. The executive producer/movie star spoke in an exasperated tone, “Helen, can you please explain what we went over yesterday? The producers seem to have forgotten the rundown. Exactly what are Annabeth and Patrick going to cover while going to the cottage location, and what are they going to cover while strolling through the sculpture garden? I know you’ll remember.”
“No problem. I made notes.” I flipped through the stack of papers on my clipboard. “Here, I typed this up last night for Patrick.” Then I addressed the production team and Ann
abeth, trying not to step on any toes. “And here’s a list of possible questions. I know you have your own, because, um, that’s your job. But I gave these to Patrick as examples. I’m sure he didn’t look at them.” Patrick laughed. “But I made copies for all of you, just in case.”
I handed out the rundowns and questions to Olympia, Annabeth, Jonas the director and the crew. Then I handed one to Patrick. “Does this look familiar?”
I swore he winked.
Annabeth was a natural on camera. Any anxiety she had in the dressing room disappeared the moment the cameras started rolling. She was warm, inquisitive and completely comfortable in the role of host and expert.
Patrick, on the other hand, was not a natural. He was scholarly and serious and not having a single bit of fun. What was going on? For a guy who was so dynamic in person, he sounded like a drone! His description of the love triangle, the findings from the journal and the revelation that young Rudy and young Sophia had been sleeping together were about as salacious as a C-Span Senate hearing. Olympia, Jonas and the producers huddled around the video playback whispering about Patrick, citing his “lack of energy” and “geeky academic tone.” Jonas kept asking, “Where’s the sexy?”
I could tell he was getting self-conscious as the director repeatedly yelled, “Cut!” and “Let’s try that again.” I felt awful for him.
Olympia called me over. “Seems Patrick has a case of the uptights. What should we do? You know him best.”
Hardly. But technically, I’d spent the most time with him in recent months. What could I say that would get him out of academic mode? I remembered the day in the cottage. That was it! I offered to Olympia, “Let me talk to him. I think he’s just really nervous. Why don’t you take five—or whatever you say in the TV biz.”
“Work your magic, Helen.”
Did this mean I could add “director” to my resume?
“I’m the problem, aren’t I?” Patrick said in between sips of coffee (out of a straw so as not to mess up his Chapsticked lips). Mona fluttered around with the powder puff, assessing the shine on Patrick’s brow. “I’m terrible.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not terrible, just too serious. It’s about the tone. The show is The Dirty Archaeologist—they want it to be steamy and intimate. You don’t seem to be having fun. You need to bring your personality to the material. You know, the part of your personality that’s not so technical and … analytical.”
Patrick shooed off Mona. “Okay, okay. You’re right. It’s just the more that director guy says ‘relax,’ the more annoyed I get. Tell me what I need to do.”
“You need to stop with the dates and the statistics and the soil analysis. Find the heart of the story. The good stuff.” Patrick’s blank stare meant that I had to go even further. Okay, here goes. “Remember that day when we were talking about history and love triangles and you faked me out. Got me all worked up. And I, I … freaked on you.”
“Yeah,” Patrick responded cautiously, not wanting to go there again. “What about that day?”
“You told me the story with intensity, with passion. Like you were speaking directly to me about something you really felt. And I felt it, too. I thought you knew something about me that I’d kept secret.” Patrick was very quiet. I leaned in closer to him and continued. “That’s why I freaked out when I found out you were using me to work on your material. I thought it was the real thing.” He nodded slowly. “You need to find that intimacy with Annabeth. This is a story about love, passion and betrayal of historical significance. Tell it to Annabeth the way you told it to me. Make Annabeth feel it the way I felt it.”
Patrick’s face lit up, “You’re right. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I get it.” And he kissed me on the cheek, much to the dismay of Mona, who was monitoring his lip moisture. “Thank you, Helen.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, then dropped my voice. “And if that doesn’t work, just picture Annabeth and Olympia naked. That should do it, too.”
From the way Patrick smirked, I could tell he already had.
“I don’t know what you said, but it worked,” Olympia whispered, as Patrick and Annabeth carried on for the camera. Patrick’s storytelling and Annabeth’s questions were compelling and their interplay downright … arousing! It was exactly what the director was looking for. I watched the tiny playback monitor and smiled at Olympia’s compliment.
“So what’s next? Will we ever really know if Priam’s Treasure was the real thing? Or simply the desperate gesture of a jilted husband?” Annabeth asked, shaking her brunette mane, practically breathless as she awaited the response.
“Hopefully, I’ll know soon enough. I just received permission from the Pushkin Museum in Moscow to examine the treasure next week. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for years, and the invitation was finally issued. If all goes well, I’ll have the answer by the end of May.”
What? I almost screamed. Next week? He’s leaving next week?
“Cut! That was great! Really good.” Jonas directed. “Okay, Patrick, we need a pick-up on your last line about going to the Pushkin. This needs to be evergreen. It won’t air for a few months. So can you talk about the trip to Moscow without using specific time references or dates? You know, something like, ‘I’m going very soon’ or ‘I’ll have answers in a couple of months’—something like that.” Annabeth and Patrick huddled for a moment to consider the options.
What followed was a long discussion about how Patrick was going to frame his impending trip to Moscow for the TV show. But I wanted to know how Patrick was going to frame his intended trip for me. Was he leaving for good? Would he come back to Pasadena after Moscow? Or was this it?
“All right,” Annabeth said. “I think we’ve got it. We’ll do the pick-up.”
This time Patrick’s answer was vague in terms of specific dates but not information. “Next week, I’m flying to Moscow to finally get my hands on Priam’s Treasure. Then, I’m headed straight back to the dig site at Troy to compare all the data. I hope to have an answer to your question very soon.”
No mention of Pasadena, the Huntington, or me at all.
I was standing next to the craft services table, laden with energy bars, chips and bowls of lollipops, M&Ms and chocolate-covered raisins. Mindful of Tina’s warning not to eat anything before the benefit, I was drinking coffee, black. My Stress and Grief Diet had given way to a straightforward Starvation Diet. I felt jittery but thin. I didn’t know if the pit of nerves in my stomach was from my excessive coffee consumption or the prospect of Patrick leaving. I’d know soon enough as he swept over to the table, grabbing a handful of almonds. He was very pleased with himself.
“I nailed it, didn’t I?” he said, fairly confident of the answer. Could he be any cuter?
“Yes, you did.”
“Thanks. You really helped.” Now Patrick was less sure of himself. “So that bit about going to the Pushkin, did you hear that?”
Confirmed: The pit was from the prospect of Patrick leaving, not the coffee. “Yeah, that was a surprise. How great! And how timely,” I said, ratcheting up the pace and enthusiasm of my response to cover my disappointment. “That all your research should be coming together at once like this is incredible. What luck!” More rambling on the horizon. “And to get to work at the Pushkin? Amazing. You must be super-excited. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This could really be a breakthrough. Congratulations.” Despite my high levels of caffeine, I felt winded after my speech.
“I was trying to find the time to tell you. We’ve just been so busy, cranking out everything over the last few weeks. It just slipped my mind.” Patrick grabbed a bottle of water and nervously played with the top, twisting it back and forth.
“Totally understand. Hey, I’m here for another month, according to my contract. So I can finish up anything you need: get stuff packed up, ship anything off to wherever—Troy, Athens, Moscow. I’m here.” That’s me, Full-Time Helen.
“Great. I’m leaving Tues
day.” Tuesday? That’s five days from now. And in between, there’s the lecture and the benefit. Freaking Tuesday? “So we can go over everything on Monday, I guess.”
“I’ll be here,” I said again, in case there was any confusion about my future plans.
“What will you do next? When your contract is up?”
“I’ve already talked to a few people about positions,” I lied enthusiastically. “Now that I know things will be wrapping up here, I’ll get on the job search. So it’s all good.” Aggressively Perky Helen making a rare appearance.
“Have you thought about going back to grad school?” Patrick asked, reaching for some M&Ms. I guess the statute of limitations for Misleading Information About Your Academic Credentials had run out. I was forgiven for failing to mention my half-done master's. “I can make some calls to Berkeley, Princeton, anywhere you want. It’s not too late to go back to school.”
But it was. “Thank you. That’s very generous. But I can’t afford grad school now. That ship has sailed. I have Aiden and everything. I need more revenue and less debt. So grad school is financially impossible for me.” “
There’s money out there for someone like you, Helen.”
I laughed. “The money would have to be for me and Aiden! Does Princeton give double scholarships to middle-aged moms and their underperforming teens?” Patrick looked sympathetic, but not so sympathetic that he corrected the “middle-aged” crack.
Just then, the twentysomething producer in a headset appeared. “Dr. O’Neill. You’re wanted on the Camellia Walkway. That’s where we’re doing the next set-up. We need you in five.” Then she darted off, like a nervous rabbit. I gathered up my stuff, intending to head back to the office to mope alone.