by Suzie Nelson
“Aragorn, from Lord of the Rings,” Pippa admitted. “I saw the first film three times in theatre just for him. And I don’t even like fantasy films. My boyfriend at the time took me to it. I don’t think he was expecting to get laid afterwards.”
The other women laughed and Jean raised her hand, “Mathew McConaughey in Sahara. Terrible movie, beautiful man.”
“True,” said Laura, nodding.
They looked at Angie and she sighed. “Johnny Depp in Sleepy Hollow,” she admitted. “I was a total Goth when I was a teen.”
“Why does that not surprise me,” said Pippa.
“Yeah, but that’s one of the beauties of Johnny Depp,” said Jean. “You’ve got a version for all tastes. I thought he was stunning in Chocolat. Lucky Juliette Binoche.”
“Mmhmm,” Pippa agreed. “He’s too weird in Sleepy Hollow, but in Chocolat? I’m all for that. Even if he couldn’t keep his accent in place to save his life. I mean, Johnny, it’s a good thing you’re hot because I wasn’t sure if you were French, Irish, or American in that one.” Pippa herself was from London and worked as an accent and dialect coach for actors. She could be a bit of a pain to watch movies with sometimes.
“Literally only you noticed that, honey,” Claire joked. “The rest of us were too caught up in how amazing Juliette Binoche’s breasts looked in those 1950s outfits.”
“Uhhh, more like how good Johnny Depp looked doing carpentry,” Laura replied. “I like a man that knows how to handle his wood.”
The other women exploded into giggles again and the couple next to them sighed loudly.
“Oh, Laura,” said Angie, wiping her eyes, “you’re perfect.”
Laura stuck her tongue out and took a sip of her Manhattan.
“Ooooh, but no, no, seriously, guys,” Claire flapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “This is exactly what you need, Angie! You need an interview with Sasha Pollock!”
Angie felt her mouth drop open of its own accord. “Oh my God, YES! Claire, you are a genius! That is exactly the kind of thing that would make me irresistible to every network on the continent. Hell, every network in the world.”
“Uh, I hate to rain on this parade,” said Jean, “but, Angie, come on. How the hell are you going to pull that one off? I mean, I’m not denying you’d do a great interview, but the guy’s not exactly your next door neighbor.”
Laura nodded in agreement. “You know he’s super reclusive. He never gives interviews. Hell, he never even shows his face in public.”
“Well, he’s showing it right now,” Claire pointed out.
“Yeah,” Laura responded, “and it’s a literal miracle.”
Angie sighed. “They have a point, Claire.”
“No! Never give up! We can get you an interview,” Claire wagged her finger at Angie. “Between the five of us, surely we must know someone who knows someone who knows him. Come on, ladies, six degrees of separation and all that.”
The other women glanced around at each other skeptically. “Claire,” Pippa sighed, shaking her head, “who do we know that’s going to know Sasha Pollock?”
“Well, who worked with him as his accent coach in Moon over Moscow? He didn’t just come out with that Russian accent all by himself.”
“Actually,” Laura piped up, “I think he probably did. His mother was Russian. Or Ukrainian. Or was it Slovenian? Whatever, she was Slavic.”
Pippa nodded. “Russian. She was Russian. That’s why he’s a got a Russian first name. At least, that’s what a friend of mine who worked in costuming for Moon over Moscow told me. And, if he grew up hearing that accent whenever she spoke English, he’d have no trouble imitating it. Children learn to imitate the adults around them at a very early age and almost never lose an accent once they have it. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had to put more effort into learning an American accent than a Russian one.”
“Do you think he speaks Russian?” Laura asked, resting her chin in one palm and looking up at the ceiling dreamily. “God that would be so hot.”
Claire rolled her eyes and chucked a bread stick at Laura. “Well, if we can get Angie an interview, maybe we’ll find out. I mean, listen to me guys: maybe his mother was Russian; maybe he speaks Russian; you heard it from a friend of a friend. Nobody knows anything about this guy.”
“Well, everyone knows he’s a total ladies’ man,” Jean pointed out. “He’s dated, like, half the movie stars in Hollywood.”
“Do we know that for sure, though?” Claire asked. “I mean, how do we know that if he never talks to the press. Have you seen photos of him with women?”
Laura and Jean, as the two leading experts on Sasha Pollock, looked at each other. “Well, no,” said Laura. “But there’s always a million rumors after he finishes a film. He’s constantly seducing his co-stars.”
Pippa made a face. “I think we’ve just seen him on screen as this seductive, rough-and-ready hero that we’ve all just started to believe that’s what he’s actually like when, in reality, no one has a clue.”
“Well, can you ask your friend in costuming to get Angie an interview so we can all find out?” Claire asked Pippa.
Pippa shook her head. “I mean, I can try. But Marie never actually met him. She only overheard him and the director talking about it as she fitted him for his costume. He never actually spoke to her. She’s just the wardrobe help. I get the feeling he’s a bit of an elitist prick that only speaks to people who are co-stars or higher on the artistic ladder – ironic, seeing as his mother was a communist.”
“Just because she’s Russian, doesn’t make her a communist,” Angie pointed out. “She could have ended up in the States precisely because she wasn’t a communist and had to escape the regime.”
“Also,” Laura interjected, “just because he didn’t talk to your friend doesn’t make him an asshole. He could just be shy.”
Pippa raised am eloquent eyebrow. “Right. A shy movie star. That’ll be the day.”
“No, no,” said Claire, waving her hands. “I’ve got it. His mother was a Russian spy who came over during the Cold War and trained him as a sleeper. He doesn’t talk to anyone because he hates all of us opulent capitalist pigs and also doesn’t want to give anything about his top-secret family history away.”
Angie felt her own eyebrows go up. “So, because he’s so indoctrinated to the communist cause he decided to join the industry that is, like, the symbol of capitalist Western consumerism around the world and become an American movie star. That makes total sense. You nailed it, Claire.”
Claire stuck her tongue out. “Okay, maybe my theory needs some work. But see? This is exactly why we need that interview!”
Angie laughed, “I think it’s a brilliant idea. I just wish I knew how we were going to make it happen.”
Claire draped an arm over Angie’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get you there. And now can we please order some goddamn food? Some of us worked all day. I am starving. Like actually about to eat one of your arms off.”
Laughing, the women put aside Sasha Pollock’s mysterious past and picked up their menus.
The night went on like these nights always do: with lots of good food – except for Laura, who was constantly on one diet or another – good drinks, and laughter. By the time their plates had been cleared away and Claire was perusing the desserts menu, Angie had completely forgotten about her terrible job interview that afternoon and her moment of despair as she lay draped over her couch (though, she had to admit that these moments were becoming more and more frequent).
Once Claire had ordered tiramisu – insisting that Angie help her eat it to save her, Claire, from exploding – Angie excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she stood up, still talking to Pippa and not looking where she was going, she felt herself back into something.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said automatically, turning to apologize to the person she’d walked into – whom she hoped hadn’t been a
waiter carrying an expensive tray of drinks or something. Her friends had, strangely, gone completely silent and were staring past her with slightly open mouths. Weird, thought Angie – until she saw who she’d walked into.
Sasha Pollock was looking at her with one eyebrow raised, his grim body guard right behind him, looking ready to tackle Angie there and then. Sasha gave her a once over, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the restaurant. “Nice dress,” he told her.
“Same to you,” said Angie, automatically. Then she winced. “I mean…sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
This seemed to amuse the reclusive actor and he gave her a knee-weakening smile. “You were the only person in the restaurant who didn’t, I think,” he replied.
Angie chuckled, “Probably.”
“It must be nice to have such engaging friends,” Sasha said, though she couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “Have a good night. Wear that dress more often.”
And, with that, he and his hulking bodyguard swept out of the restaurant.
Angie took a deep breath as she turned back to look at her friends. They were all staring at her wide-eyed.
“Did that seriously just happen?” Angie squeaked. She wasn’t usually one to get excited over celebrities. She’d met a number of them and they were just people after all, and usually self-centered, whiny people at that (though not Prince, that she had to say. If she had to pick a favorite celebrity, she’d pick him without hesitation. His interview had been one of the most interesting and fun of her entire career. She’d cried for a whole day when she’d found out he’d died). But there had been something in Sasha Pollock’s dark gaze, something in his calm, aloof presence that had struck a chord in Angie.
“Yes!” Laura squealed. “Oh my God, you talked to Sasha Pollock. You touched Sasha Pollock!”
“Okay, well, let’s not exaggerate here,” said Claire. “She backed up into him. I don’t know if that counts as ‘touching’.”
“Shhhh,” said Jean, flapping her hands. “Don’t split hairs, Claire.”
“Not to mention,” Angie said, looking at Pippa, “he liked my dress. Validation, right there.”
Pippa rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,” she said, shaking her head.
“Oh God, you met Sasha Pollock!” Laura squealed again, clapping her hands together excitedly.
“It’s a sign,” said Claire. “You’re supposed to interview him. Just make sure you wear that dress when you do.”
Angie glanced down at her dress and grinned. “God, Claire, maybe you’re right. Maybe your crazy scheme really will work.” Then she remembered why she was standing in the first place. “Okay, but now I really need to pee!” she said, and ran off towards the bathroom.
Chapter 2
Sasha was silent for the ride home. This was not unusual. Neither he nor Bruce, his bodyguard and driver, were particularly chatty. It was one of the reasons Sasha liked Bruce so much. They understood each other’s need for silence. Sometimes you got bodyguards that just talked, talked, talked. It was a total nightmare.
Los Angeles flashed passed in a blur of orange and yellow light as they headed for his mansion on the edges of Santa Monica – close enough to the rest of the celebrity beach houses, but far enough that the hills of Topanga State Park were all he could see from his back deck. Sasha far preferred the quiet park to the hellish grind of L.A. – which was why, as often as he could, he went north to Oregon to stay in his home amongst the Redwoods, or out to Arizona, to his private ranch. Just him, his horses, and the great outdoors.
That was what Sasha liked most – just being alone with a big, empty space. Though, he did have to admit that, once in a while, it was nice to come into the city and see the chaos – not mention all the beautiful women. And that brought his thoughts back to the clumsy woman in her yellow dress.
“Did you like her dress?” Sasha asked abruptly.
“Excuse me, sir?” Bruce asked as he drove.
“That woman who bumped into me. Her dress. The yellow one. Did you like it?”
Bruce had long since stopped being surprised by his employers wandering train of thought and surprising questions. “Personally, I thought it was a bit too loud, sir,” he replied honestly. Sasha liked it when you were honest. He had enough people pandering to him as it was.
Sasha nodded. “I know. But that’s what I liked about it. She didn’t give a shit. I liked that.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just her legs you liked, sir?” Bruce asked with just the slightest hint of a smile.
Sasha chuckled but shook his head. “Not to toot my own horn here, Bruce, I see a lot of very nice legs on a pretty regular basis. Seeing a woman pull off an outfit like that is much more interesting.”
“If you say so, sir. Then again, I speak as a man who only sees very nice legs from afar.”
Sasha laughed again. “Fair enough,” he said and went back to staring out the window. He’d also liked how she hadn’t been overwhelmed by his presence. Flustered, certainly – he smiled to remember her ‘Same to you’ slip up – but she hadn’t started fawning all over him the way most people did. It had been as refreshing as her outfit. Briefly, he wondered what her name was.
To be honest, her forthrightness reminded him a bit of his mother. He chuckled to himself. Freud would have a field day with that, he was sure. But his mother had been the same: she’d never cared what people thought of her; she’d never bowed down to anyone or apologized.
“You are what you are, Sasha,” she’d always tell him, pushing his blond bangs off his forehead. “If other people have a problem with that, then it’s their problem. Not yours. Don’t ever apologize for what you are.”
And he never had.
Sasha sighed. He still missed his mother. She’d always been his best friend. His father, an American soldier, had met her while he was on leave in Europe and had fallen in love with her wheat-blond hair, enormous black eyes and her long, slender legs. It probably helped that she hadn’t been able to speak a word of English at the time. Her Russian had sounded lilting and romantic to him.
He brought her back to America with him but, as soon as she learned English and started speaking her mind, the charm wore off. Not to mention, he hadn’t bargained on a child. He’d wanted a silent, malleable Russian bride who would be eternally grateful for him for bringing her to the United States. What he got was a smart, sarcastic woman who didn’t appreciate him drinking away their grocery money and would beat him with the broom handle if he smacked their only son.
“The little shit had it coming!” Sasha’s father would roar.
His mother always stood her ground, gripping the broom – or the rolling pin, of the frying pan – tightly in her delicate fingers. “He is only a child, you brute. That’s how childs are! You should know! You act like one!”
“Well, if I’m so childish then why’d you go and have another one then, huh?” he hollered at her, raising his fists.
“Because you must to stick your stupid drunken cock in me without condom, that’s why!” she screamed back, standing in front of Sasha to make sure his father couldn’t reach him. She never let her hazy grasp of English grammar get in the way of making her thoughts known.
Eventually, his father, the weaker of the two, had simply drifted out of their life. In the beginning, he began by taking longer and longer overseas postings, leaving Sasha and his mother behind in California. Then, one day, when Sasha was ten, he simply didn’t come back. Sasha’s mother, who was working as a cleaning lady for several movie stars by that time, didn’t seem to care that her husband had simply vanished. Without a word to anyone, she moved them off the Army base and into a tiny bungalow in the sweltering center of Los Angeles. From then on, Sasha and his mother had been on their own.
It had been his mother that had got him his first acting gig as an extra in a period drama about the French king Louis XIV. He’d been one of several court chi
ldren that were supposed to loll around in the background of a royal picnic. But there had been horses and Sasha had gotten bored playing with the other kids who were all fighting over whose costume was better. So he went to hang out with the horses.
One of his mother’s clients was a waning Western movie star and every few months the guy would take them both with him when he went out to his ranch in Nebraska. His mother had always told Sasha that it was because the actor liked her cooking so much. Though, of course, looking back with an adult’s understanding, Sasha now suspected they had been sleeping together. At any rate, that was where Sasha had discovered his love of horses. He’d been put to work helping in the stables and, in return, was allowed to take the horses out.
It wasn’t until the director spotted the fourteen-year-old cantering through the back of a scene that anyone noticed he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.