The Dimple Strikes Back

by Lucy Woodhull

  My every nerve ending screamed for him as he walked out the apartment door. I sat, frozen in place, for quite a while—not crying, barely thinking. I’d rarely in my life ever felt so alone, adrift on a strange continent.

  Nothing to do but sob in the shower then watch Law & Order on Netflix until I was numb, like every successful Hollywood player.

  Chapter Four

  When the Cat’s Away, the Mouse Will Be Very Confused

  Ext. Hyde Park—day

  Angle On: Our heroine Samantha Lytton walks along the banks of the Thames.

  Music Score Plays: The new, hit single from the group Whiny Boy Band Popular With Your Twelve-Year-Old.

  Samantha takes stock of her life in a touching montage.

  Samantha Lytton: I thought we’d be together forever.

  Nearby Rollerblader: Are you talking to me?

  Samantha Lytton: I’m talking to the romantic comedy gods.

  Angle On: Samantha continues her slow walk, past the picturesque trees filtering a dappled sunlight, past the cafe where she buys a seriously large ice cream cone, past the garbage can she runs into accidentally while trying to take a bite of her ice cream, past the laughing group of twenty-somethings who capture her every move on their cell phones.

  Angle On: A wet, spreading chocolate stain on Samantha’s white T-shirt.

  Samantha Lytton: Oh, my tit! Fucking seriously?

  Twenty-Something: Keep filming! It’s Michelle Williams.

  Other Twenty-Something: Damn, she’s short.

  Samantha Lytton: I’m not Michelle Williams! Why does everyone say that?

  Twenty-Something: Beige American actresses all look the same, innit?

  That actually makes Samantha feel better, as she’s usually cast in a role labelled ‘ugly friend’ or ‘goofy sister’.

  Angle On: She ditches her disintegrating ice cream cone in favour of a drink at a nearby pub. It seems a more suitable spot in which to pause and consider her life choices. After knocking back a couple—FYI, when you ask a blunt-nosed English bartender for a dirty martini, he may give you the stink eye and just pour you a beer—she weaves into the street at three in the afternoon.

  Angle On: A police horse Samantha befriends, his magnificent brown hair the same colour as the deuce he leaves in the street.

  Samantha Lytton: If this were a movie, I’d clumsily step in a pile of horse shit. I’d probably be the pile of horse shit.

  Pile of Horse Shit: There are worse things, Samantha Lytton.

  Samantha Lytton: You can talk!

  Pile of Horse Shit: We of the horse shit have many secrets.

  Samantha Lytton: Tell me what to do, oh wise, yet stinky one.

  Angle On: Samantha lets out a very ladylike burp.

  Pile of Horse Shit: Perhaps that smell is the mess you’ve made of your romantic life. You must decide if you’re going to trust Sam. Trust or trust not, there is no try.

  Samantha Lytton: You’re cribbing advice from Yoda?

  Pile of Horse Shit: You’re the one talking to a pile of crap in the dirt.

  Samantha Lytton: Fair enough.

  Pile of Horse Shit: You’ve fought thus far for your one, true love. Await his call this evening tide and work things out together. Communication is the key.

  Samantha Lytton: Thanks, Mr, um, Shit.

  Angle On: A copper joining his horse.

  Police Officer: Do you require assistance, Miss?

  Samantha Lytton: Nope! I wasn’t talking to—I mean, I don’t like crap. I mean cops. I mean, have a nice day. I’m sure you’re very nice. Taxi!

  Angle On: Samantha takes a cab back to her apartment. She presses her face to the glass as the city rolls by, reflected in the window. The music swells. Samantha then considers that the window of a cab is probably filthy, and jerks away. Gross.

  It took a full minute after waking in my London flat to realise that I’d fallen asleep at seven p.m. the evening before, and that it was now six a.m. the next morning—and Sam had not called. I gripped my cell phone, heart tripping to and fro in my chest, and pressed button after button to check texts, emails and received calls. Nothing. I took a deep breath and hit my first speed dial. It went straight to his voice mail—do not pass go, do not collect the shattered pieces of your love life. Had the men who’d jumped us succeeded in tracking him? I tossed the phone on the bed and squeezed my eyes shut. He’d done this before. Not answered for days and days. “To hell with it.”

  I shoved every bad notion out of my head and lumbered to the shower. Today at ten a.m. I had my table read for What Could Go Wrong? and I intended to look dazzling, perform majestically and be the star I was pretending to be. The star who definitely did not get depressed-drunk by herself and have imaginary conversations with faeces. No, that woman was gone, as was her impossibly stained shirt. It was time to woman up.

  Shit! Where was the plug converter for my hair dryer?

  I collapsed on the floor of my bathroom and cried for five minutes, which might have been an inappropriate response. My insides jumped around even faster than my thoughts, and it took me a while to compose myself, with the help of a crumbled, leftover muffin from my flight the day before.

  Luckily, one of my neighbours had a locally-sourced hair dryer, so two hours and a borrowed bag of frozen peas on my puffy eyes later, I hit the streets of London in a fabulous vintage brown tweed dress and red knee-high boots. I looked so damn cosmopolitan I should have been stopped by a style blog.

  A woman who looks like this would never be left by her lover. No, indeed, she’d dash into the studio offices, totally on the guest list, and breeze into the large conference room where the table read would take place. And there it was—my name on a tented card dead centre along one side of the table. Jayde Loving, Samantha Lytton. Oh, how I loved her silly name. For every ridiculous ‘y’ added to a character name, she gains ten per cent more sexy.

  I’d shown up early, which is not a thing the stars of a film tend to do, I’d discovered. But better early than late. I was one of the two major leads of this film, and I could not fuck it up. Just the thought of making an ass of myself and costing the studio fifty million dollars gave me a wave of such anxiety I actually had to sit in the folding chair. I played it off by diving into my bag to search for nothing. Soon, folks were introducing themselves—some of the other actors, the Director of Photography, other technical wizards who would be paid to stare at my face in close-up for many, many hours. I apologised for this to some of them, and they laughed. Yes! I was a functioning adult! I was a fabulous starlet! I was…drooling.

  Oh, baby.

  He walked in the room. Daniel Zhang, the man People magazine had placed third in their most recent Sexiest Man Alive issue. When asked later, I would tell my best friend Ellen that I heard slow-mo saxophone music timed to his long, lean strides. He smiled before he took off his aviator sunglasses, which he twisted off in the hottest move since hip-thrusting was invented. He was so handsome up close that he didn’t seem real—warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, tanned skin smooth and perfect, his hair black and brushed forward gorgeously in the way that only comes from four-hundred-dollar haircuts.

  Recently, he’d ended a Tony-winning run in Hamlet on Broadway. As Hamlet—the first actor of Asian descent to do so. I sighed. Yes, sighed when he came straight for me and extended his hand down, down, down. At six feet tall, he had me beat by an entire foot.

  We’d emailed a little, but he’d been so busy we hadn’t got a chance to talk. We hadn’t even read together, the producers figuring he was so golden that he’d create enough chemistry for six romantic sub-plots and innumerable fanfictions.

  With a smile I hoped would mean big box office for us, he said, “I’m so delighted to finally meet you, Samantha.”

  And at that moment, the first verified case of ‘death by unbelievably sexy British accent’ occurred.

  Almost. I shook his hand, mine cold and clammy, and managed to stutter, “Hi. Yes. Me, too. Mister Zh�
�Dan—Daniel. Zhangiel.”

  He laughed. “My friends call me Danny.”

  I giggled, but in a very professional manner. I collapsed back into my seat while he worked the room, which parted lovingly for him like a pair of overeager female thighs. When he circled around, his ass was so perfectly formed in his brown pinstripe pants that I had to literally think close your mouth, Samantha. My disloyalty to the main ass in my life slapped me, and I vowed to not gaze adoringly at strange butts anymore. Well, not overly much. I wasn’t dead.

  I checked my phone—nothing from Sam, not even in response to the texts I’d sent earlier. I decided to be angry rather than fearful about it. I functioned on angry, but scared just turned my mind into a wad of stale cotton candy. I needed all the brain power possible to perform fantastically at the read. The producers were getting their first real taste of how this film might turn out, and I could be replaced. It would cost them, because yay contracts, but it could happen.

  Fortunately, as the next few hours unfolded, the laughs were many and happened in all the correct spots. Danny, as his friends call him, was easy to riff off of, and the chemistry was natural and zinging around the room.

  During a break, he came over to me at the snack table. “I’m a big fan,” he said.

  I looked around. “Of me? Be real—you’d never heard of me before you saw my audition.” He was one of the producers, so he would have had to sign off on me. Remembering that flattered me anew.

  “That’s not true! I watched you on TV, the one about scientists during World War II. Very funny.” I’d done an arc on a one-season hit wonder called Manhattan Projectile. It was a black comedy spoof about science, inequality and America, which naturally meant that no one in America had watched it. “You have a real spark. I’m the one who put your name on the list for this role.”

  “Really? I thought that the producers just called in everyone cited in the latest issue of The Hollywood Reporter.”

  He chuckled, a warm sound, friendly. The word ‘gentleman’ doesn’t have much meaning nowadays, but, by my first impression, it seeped from every attractive part of him—and there were no unattractive ones visible to the naked eye. He was kind to the caterers, calling them by name, had a handshake for everyone in the room, and it didn’t seem put on. I laughed and stared at my Diet Coke. “Well, thank you. I’m very happy to be here.”

  “We’re happy to have you.”

  It came out so lilty that I flicked a glance into his eyes and felt myself blush. He extended his arm towards the table, where folks were sitting down again. I rushed to my spot and thought Sam-like thoughts—stealing stuff, fake driver’s licenses, Hot Pockets.

  I was sure I’d see Sam tonight. I was only lusting after movie stars because of our strange evening last night. And because movie stars named Daniel Zhang were skin-meltingly hot when they tell you how glad they are to have you.

  But I’d learned that being had wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  * * * *

  As I left the studio, Danny squeezing my hands while his eyes promised unending love—it could happen!—I mentally worked through the next few days of prep. Wardrobe fittings, stunt rehearsals and the like. It would be a busy few days until my first actual set appearance.

  I rushed into my apartment to find no one there. I checked my phone for the hundredth time—nothing from Sam. Dammit, dammit, dammit! And damn him! Should I be worried? He often went on radio silence when it suited him. “Gggggaaarghh,” I growled, picking up Captain Taco for the cuddles I wished his daddy were giving me. The cat grimaced and turned his nose away like he’d rather be anywhere else. Just like Daddy!

  A knock at the front door. “Yes! Oh, thank God.” I plopped fur face on the couch and ran to the door.

  “Surprise!” screamed my best friend Ellen. She rushed in and picked me clear off the ground in a hug. Taller than me, she practically strangled me with love and tiny, yet squishy, boobs.

  Her girlfriend, Nicolette, walked in after, a look of bemused resignation on her face. Nicolette was the cop who’d busted the evil art theft ring wide open during the Picasso debacle. With my help, of course. She hadn’t liked me since, what with my interactions with known felons, and letting one get away only to return to my bedroom. But I was working on her. This past year, I’d helped Ellen plan Nicolette’s surprise birthday party, and I’d brought one of her favourite bisexual starlets with me to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the enraptured, mostly-female audience. Now, if that didn’t earn one lesbian brownie points, I don’t know what would.

  I squeezed my Ellen back and rested my head on her shoulder. We’d been BFFs since high school, and nobody knew me like she did, embarrassing haircuts and all. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Ellen shuffled everyone to the couch, the gracious hostess straddling the worlds of friendship and friends-with-benefits-ship. “We just flew in! You said you’d have a little time before the filming got nitty gritty, and we’re overdue for our first official vacation together, so here we are to crash Europe with our awesomeness.”

  I grabbed her and held her so hard she squeaked. And then I cried on her shoulder. Literally. She wiped the moisture off her button-down before setting me nicely aside, raising her eyebrows to Nicolette and saying, “Let me guess—it’s so hard being a movie star.”

  “Shut up.” I punched her and she obligingly rearranged herself between Nicolette and me.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellen asked.

  Nicolette handed me a tissue from her purse. “That is so nice,” I said, new tears flowing. Maybe she was starting to warm to me! Nobody is concerned about the snot situation of a person they despise. I cleaned up a little and put on a pot of coffee for everyone. Upon my return to the couch, they stopped making out—whoops—and I said, “So, I have a situation that involves a boy.”

  Nicolette quirked an eyebrow. Ellen gasped and said, “You banged Daniel Zhang! Good girl!”

  “I didn’t bang him!” Perhaps I shouldn’t have confessed to her the threesome fantasies I’d been entertaining about Danny and Sam. I’d have to learn to keep these thoughts between myself and Colin Firth. Colin Firth is the name I’d given to my Hitachi Magic Wand, because is there any straight woman who doesn’t need a little Colin Firth from time to time?

  I served the coffee and prepared to recount my sordid tale. Ellen sat up straighter and pushed her brown hair behind her shoulders. Captain Taco leapt onto the couch and danced from lap to lap until he settled on mine. Even Nicolette appeared interested. “I’ll begin by saying that I am definitely not talking about a man who ever committed a crime of any sort.”

  Nicolette’s face got pinchy. Ellen grabbed one of her hands and they shared a look I chose to interpret as them being fully in my corner, grimaces notwithstanding.

  “This not-a-criminal man, let’s call him…Ham.”

  Ellen grinned. “I like him better already.”

  “Don’t taint my favourite food,” Nicolette said.

  “How about…Bam?”

  “Acceptable.”

  “Okay, so Bam, everyone’s favourite upstanding citizen, surprised me here in London—he picked me up at the airport. Wow.” I leant down to unzip my boots. “Three of you flew all the way to London to surprise me.” I sucked in a halting breath and let it out in stutters. “You all l—l—love me!”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Nicolette turned her amber eyes away and took a sip of coffee.

  “No more crying!” Ellen leapt forward, tissue in hard, and smashed it against my nose. She relented after my gasp of pain—my honker was stinging so much, those flying birdies almost made an appearance around my head.

  I did not cry any more, but removed my boots quite calmly. “Anyway, if I may continue—”

  “You’re the one stopping you. Does this story end in time for dinner?” Ellen asked.

  “Bam picked me up. We went out for food. We left the restaurant and got frisky in the alley.”

  “You c
lassy bitch.”

  I nodded, accepting this honour as my due. I continued, “And then three men appeared from nowhere and tried to kidnap us into an awaiting car.”

  Finally! Ellen and Nicolette stopped playing footsy and paid attention to the serious matter of Bam and the mystery men. “We got away, and Bam stayed the night here. Then he left yesterday morning, saying he was going to make inquiries about the attempted kidnapping, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “You almost got kidnapped!” Ellen yelled.

  “Bam is missing!” The outbursts startled the cat, who jumped away and hid under the table.

  Ellen crumpled and put her head in her hands. “Once again, Dipshit McGhee misses the point.” She glanced up to me. “The kidnapping is the problem, Samantha. His disappearance is a mitzvah. Besides, he didn’t call or email you for the entire month of August last year, which I remember because I heard whiny updates about it all thirty-one days.”

  I fumed, angry that, per usual, Ellen had cut right through my lust-brain haze and sliced into the heart of the matter. And I hadn’t whined every day of August! Even if I had, BFFs are not supposed to count the small shit that way. I never brought up the fact that for the first four months of Ellen’s and Nicolette’s relationship, I was treated to exhaustive and detailed accounts of every sexual act via text. Although, in her defence, I had learned a few things, and I’d be much more effective now if I were ever cast as a lesbian character.

  “I know, I know.” I grabbed Ellen’s hand and held on. “I know Sam is probably just…contacting nefarious underworld persons in an attempt to secure my safety.”

  Ellen put her arm around me. “Yes, he is.”

  “I mean non-nefarious,” I amended, glancing at Nicolette.

  “You also mean Bam, not Sam,” she replied with a wink. She leant forward and put her coffee on the table. “Look, girl—is this really so bad? I know you care about him, but,” she huffed, “you are an up-and-coming thing right now. Do you need this bullshit in your life? Instead of pining after this mess of a man who doesn’t even give you the courtesy of a reply, and you here crying and carrying on, why don’t we get a drink, go dancing and forget losers who don’t deserve us.” She stood, looking fresher after an intercontinental plane ride than anyone had a right to be. Her black hair fell across her shoulders in waves, and her brown skin positively glowed. She was so pretty and confident, it was compulsory to do what she said. Plus, she was a cop. Ellen gaped up at her, enraptured and practically drooling.