Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos)

by Arianne Richmonde

  Janice was tidying up a pile of magazines and books. My face stared at me from two of the covers. It was always surreal seeing photos of myself and watching myself on screen. Like I was a totally different person. And I was.

  “So why did Jake Wild ask you how you got the role? Doesn’t he know?” Janice asked.

  “Apparently not. I guess they never showed him my homemade film clip. He was so dead against hiring me from word go.”

  “And you think you convinced him at the read-through you’re right for the part?”

  “Maybe. But I think I’ve got to sweeten him up in other ways. Get him more on my side.”

  Janice raised a neat, shapely eyebrow. I’d been trying my whole life to raise just one eyebrow and had never managed. “Seduce him?” Janice said warily.

  I didn’t answer. Just gave a little smirk. She knew me so well.

  “That’ll be easy, won’t it?” she said. “Hasn’t he fucked half of Hollywood? Like every single beautiful actress that he’s ever met and worked with? I heard he slammed—who’s that A-list actress with the big boobs and pouty lips?—I heard he fucked her in the elevator at the Golden Globes.”

  “Well, apparently—I heard this through the grapevine—he’s not coming near me.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because Skye’s The Limit is his big break and he doesn’t want to ‘screw with the talent.’ ”

  “So fine. Leave him alone, then. Do your job and don’t get involved. Isn’t that better for you?”

  “I have more control when they’re lapping at my feet. You know, one time I didn’t get along with my director. And guess what? I ended up on the cutting room floor.”

  “But they can’t omit bits of the script and cut your part short once you’ve started filming!”

  “Oh yes they can. In that particular movie? This two-bit actress with three lines suddenly ended up being one of the most important elements of the storyline. Why? Because she was fucking the director and he was obsessed with her—” I took a swig of Diet Coke and went on—“Not that I’m fucking any of the directors—believe me—I mean, some of them are old enough to be my grandfather—but if that’s the case I still sweeten them up so they’re like father figures to me. Men either need to feel they have to protect me, or fuck me. And even if they’re treating me like ‘Daddy’s little girl,’ their secret fantasy is to have sex with me. They’re men. That’s how men think. Trust me, I’ve been working in this business since I was two years old.”

  “What about when you worked with that woman director—what was her name? She didn’t want to fuck you.”

  “Maya? Well Maya was like a mother to me. With women it’s easy. They’re like your big sister or mom.”

  Janice plumped up the cushions around me and folded up a cashmere wrap, laying it gently behind me. “Interesting theory.”

  “Except, oh yeah, when I was nine years old and shooting in Mexico? Before Mom died when she was in the hospital, and they gave me that lesbian freak as my chaperone, who I had to share a room with who, P.S., tried to freakin’ rape me.”

  “Jesus, how awful! How come you never told me about her?”

  “Because it’s a memory I would rather bury. And you know what my agent asks before I sign? She makes sure there are no bull dykes because there is no way I’m working with some she-man who’s going to try and get into my panties.”

  “But you kissed—no, tongued—what’s-her-face—last year at the Grammy’s? What’s her name again, that singer?”

  “She’s a lipstick lesbian and I did it just for show. I was off my head, anyway. You know what the problem with Jake is? I don’t know if he even finds me attractive.”

  Janice walked over to the window and looked out. “Of course he does—he’d have to be blind not to. Jesus, they’re still out there. I can see one, like half a mile away, up in that tree at the Dufays’ house. What is it with these paparazzi? Don’t they have anything better to do with their time?”

  “Well, when Jake looked at me the other day? He like drilled his eyes into me. It was scary. As if he was challenging me to a duel.”

  Janice turned around. “You find him sexy?”

  “Well . . . I’m intimidated by him, although I’d never let him know that, of course. I respect him. And yes, he’s drop-dead gorgeous with that husky British accent, not to mention his gorgeous body—of course I find him sexy—I’d be blind not to.”

  Janice smiled, knowingly.

  “I don’t think he’s into me at all, though. I think he thinks I’m a spoiled, underage brat.”

  “You’re over eighteen—you’re not underage.”

  “I’m too young to drink legally.”

  “Well now you’re sober that won’t be a problem, will it, Star?” The ‘will it Star?’ was a glaring threat, Janice’s sharp eyes locked onto mine and now she wasn’t smiling.

  I took a deep breath. “Look, this time I mean it. This time I have something to fight for.”

  “The part of Skye, you mean?”

  “Exactly, I don’t want to screw up. This is a once in a lifetime role. This could do for me what Monster did for Charlize or Taxi Driver did for Bobby. I cannot fuck my chances up.” My cell started ringing and I stared at it. Very few people had my number. “Answer my phone, will you, Janice?”

  She strolled over towards me and fished it out from under a cushion on the sofa. She looked at it and raised that eyebrow again. “Hello?” she said and then mouthed to me, ‘Speak of the Devil’—“uh, I’m not sure if she’s available right now—” there was a booming voice down the line that I couldn’t decipher and then, “okay, okay, I’ll put her on.” Janice capped her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s pissed.”

  I took the phone gingerly from her hands. I looked at the screen. It was Jake. My stomach flipped. Why the hell was I getting butterflies when I thought he was such a jerk? “Yes?” I said coolly.

  “Skye,” he said.

  “We’re not on set yet, so you can call me Star.”

  “I’ll get straight to the point. In your contract it stipulates that the studio has the right to determine your accommodation for the duration of the shoot.”

  “Yeah?” I answered, wondering where this was leading. On location I’d stay wherever they had organized—we’d be in the Badlands for a while, and Mexico. I wasn’t worried—I always ended up in amazing hotels with twenty-four hour room service. And now, with my home about to be remodeled, I thought a luxurious stint in The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills would be a great idea—better than a rental. The truth was, I’d spent my whole life in hotels and they felt more to me like home than my own house. No responsibilities. I loved hotels.

  Jake’s gravelly voice went on, “And they reserve the right to have any bodyguard of their choice, or any person deemed suitable, to offer you twenty-four hour security and vigilance.” ‘Vigilance’ was a polite term for ‘spying.’ But still, it was that or nothing. I was hardly in a position to negotiate, so fresh out of rehab. There were other heavier, legal terms that went on for pages and pages in small print in the airtight contract I’d signed. I didn’t bother reading it—I was so desperate to get the part of Skye that I didn’t even go over it with my lawyer. She went ballistic, but with a list as long as my arm of all the A-list actresses vying for the part of Skye, there was no time to procrastinate.

  “So they get to spy on me and have a bodyguard outside my door to make sure room service doesn’t send me up a bottle of Stolichnaya . . . so . . . what’s your point?

  “You’re not staying at a hotel while your house is being remodeled, Star.”

  “Oh no? So where the hell am I going to stay? In a bed and breakfast? I’ve already taken a ridiculously low paycheck so they can damn well get me a decent hotel!”

  “You’ll be staying with me. At my house.”

  My mouth parted in shock.

  “I don’t like hotels,” Jake explained. “I’ve got all my work gear at home so I’m
not budging and the producers are insisting that I keep an eye on you. Basically, they want me to be your nanny. I won’t lie, I’ve got better things to do with my time but . . . well, I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter. Very unorthodox that’s for sure. Why they couldn’t just hire someone specific for the job, I have no idea.”

  “Obviously you’re the only one they trust to do the ‘job’ properly because you have a vested interest in keeping me sober. However, Jake, if you’ve got so much to do, like you say, how will you have time to keep such an eagle eye on me? Me? Star Davis? who’s been known to rappel out of windows in the dead of night by tying sheets together? who has bribed bodyguards and hotel cleaning staff to bring booze and drugs and even dancers and male strippers—”

  “Exactly. Under my roof it’ll be a little bit more tricky for you.”

  “Look, Mr. Clean. Not. I have no intention of screwing this up. So why don’t you just give me a chance before assuming I’m a lost cause, okay?”

  “I’ll need you to be ready by Monday,” he said, ignoring my little tirade. “Pack your stuff, and if you really want to make a fuss about it? Take it up with the studio, not me. What kind of food do you like?” he suddenly said, switching direction.

  “I’m vegan.”

  “Great. Really easy-going, aren’t you?”

  “Do you know that nineteen thousand animals are slaughtered every MINUTE in the USA alone? and just because I don’t want to be a part of this evil—knowing I’m swallowing a big mouth of suffering tortured pig that’s been living in a concrete cell—where the poor creature can’t even turn around—or eggs from chickens that live packed together with their beaks sawn off in their own stinking feces in a metal cage and—”

  “I’m not judging you, Star, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll get my cook to sort something out. So what do you do about shoes, then, just out of interest?”

  “Shoes?”

  “Most shoes are made of leather.”

  “I wear Stella McCartney,” I said quickly, remembering that I’d worn some Jimmy Choos to the run-through—a hundred percent leather. They were old ones—ones I’d bought before I turned completely vegan. But still. “Stella McCartney doesn’t use any animal products in her collections,” I added haughtily.

  I could hear him smile through the telephone line and it bugged me. He’d already caught me out.

  LATER THAT DAY I went to see my new shrink. Well “shrink” is the wrong word because shrinks are able to prescribe medication and that was the last thing I needed: to get hooked on pills—any pills. People always assume drug addicts are going around with a needle stuck in their arm but no, most junkies are being aided and abetted by their very own doctors. Trust me, I know. My parents—Mom rest in peace—are great examples.

  The truth is, I was very happy with my last therapist. He was cool. But in treatment, at rehab, it was decided by “the group” that I had been “manipulating” him, that he “had fallen into my trap” and that I was going nowhere fast if I continued on the same path. That’s what happens in treatment. Your lies are exposed, your shell smashed so you are left with nothing but your own broken pieces, which you have to mend. The physical part of getting clean is nothing to what goes on mentally. Suddenly, you see yourself for who you are. I’m a work in progress—Jesus, I’ve only just begun—but I’m still not ready to let my barriers go completely. That’s why I’m an actor. That’s why I cling on to whatever role I have like a piece of driftwood in a raging sea. It’s my only chance of survival. I need to hide behind another character. Because when I’m just me? I don’t feel so great about myself.

  But that’s my secret. Even in rehab I tried my best to keep my walls from crumbling down. People don’t like weakness. And who am I to disappoint them?

  Back to my new shrink. She’s a woman. I’ll have to tell my whole story all over again and I’m yawning—yes yawning—when I say that. She’s bound to feel sorry for me but I don’t want sympathy. I’ve got two arms and two legs, and a job. I’m one of the lucky people and in the world and I don’t take that lightly.

  “SO WHERE DO YOUR PROBLEMS stem from, do you think?” Dr. Deal asked later. We were in her office and I was sitting comfortably in a big brown armchair, across from her desk, which was stacked with neat piles of paper—an old-fashioned fountain pen lay demurely on top of one pile. My hair was wet from a shower so I looked pretty drowned-rattish and she—well, she was immaculate in a Chanel-type suit (not real Chanel, obviously), and perfectly manicured nails which she held out in front of her, crisscrossed like show dogs sometimes do with their paws. She had smooth, shiny gray hair clipped into a page-boy cut and looked like she’d stepped out of an old copy of Vogue—or a collage of several old Vogues—because her hair and make-up was decidedly 1970s, but her suit was something from the 90s. A mixture of vintage—although perhaps that was accidental. Her mouth was a thin line—I could tell she was no-nonsense and her sense of humor on the back burner. Cool, ice-blue Nazi eyes. But there was a certain beauty about her. She must have been about fifty.

  “Where do my problems stem from?” I echoed. I learned this trick from them. To repeat the sentence. It made them question what they’d asked me. In their minds, anyway. “To be completely honest, Dr. De—”

  “Please, call me Narissa.”

  “Narissa? That’s a cool, unusual name.” She didn’t respond, her lip twitched into a wannabe smile but didn’t quite get there. “Well, Narissa. I don’t really see myself as having any problems at all. I’ve just landed a part in a movie that people would give their right arm for. I’ve got more money than people can even imagine earning in several lifetimes, a beautiful home, friends—you know, I’m really doing pretty darn well. But thank you for asking.” I smiled sweetly at her.

  “So why do you think you’re here?”

  “Why am I here? Because the studio believes that AA and NA are too public despite the fact that they promise anonymity.”

  “Narcotics Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  I nodded. “Basically, it’s in my contract that I come here. Plus, I wanted to show good will. To appease the studio, tow the line, and maybe, you know, talk about my addictive personality while I’m at it.”

  “So you’re willing to admit you have an addictive personality but you do not equate that with having ‘problems’ as such?”

  “To me ‘problems’ are like, when you can’t make payments on your home, or when you can’t afford to feed your kids.”

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t have any problems. Right now, I’m riding high.”

  She shifted in her chair and crossed her flesh-colored panty-hosed legs. “So you wouldn’t consider that ‘in denial’ in any way?”

  I shook my head. “I have nothing to deny. I’m honest.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your childhood, Star.” This wasn’t a question but a suggestion.

  I inwardly rolled my eyes. Uh, oh, here we go.

  She looked at her notes. “Your mother died of lung cancer when you were just ten years old. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “You’ve done your homework.” She ignored my jibe.

  “How did that make you feel?” she asked in a gentle voice.

  “What do you think? I was only ten.”

  “Perhaps we can explore that. Were you angry? Did you feel abandoned?” Right to the nitty-gritty, no beating about the bush, this one.

  “I don’t know if you’ve ever watched someone die, uh, Narissa. But when a person is screaming in agony to ‘just die goddam it, please just let me freaking die,’ then you kind of pray that their suffering will end. So when it does, you’re thankful. And when you miss them like crazy, two days later, because you realize they’re not ever coming back, you wish that life wasn’t so unfair and that it shouldn’t have been that way. But it was, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  “Those are very rational thoughts for a ten-year-old.”

  “What can I
say? I was ten going on thirty.”

  “A grown-up mind in a child’s body?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How did the rest of your family take it?”

  “You see, when you say the word ‘family’ I think of my co-stars. My family is whoever I’m working with at the time. Or better said, ‘with whomever I’m working.’ We become a unit. It’s like, when you’re doing a movie nothing else matters in the world, just the movie and the team making the movie. You become immersed in your work, in the minds and hearts of the other actors around you. The cameramen, Make-up, Hair, the electricians . . . everybody. You are one pulsing heartbeat.”

  “I was referring to your father. Your brother.”

  I could feel my insides coil at the word “brother.” I felt sick, nauseous like I hadn’t eaten all day. That empty yet bilious feeling, coming up like vomit. “My brother is not ‘family.’ And my father?” I could feel my sneakered foot tapping on the floor noiselessly. “Can we talk about this another day?”

  “I see I’ve struck a nerve.”

  “I haven’t even given my brother any mind-airtime for a long time. Because you know what? He’s out. For. Ever. And my dad? When you’ve supported someone for as many years as I have? You get to be the parent and he gets to be the child. And that’s what our relationship is, basically.”

  “Do you feel your dad—your parents—robbed you of your childhood? Starting working so young as you did?”

  “Did they rob me of my childhood? I don’t know. Because I can’t compare my childhood to any other as it’s the only one I’ve ever known. I can’t tell you what it’s like to stay at a school for more than nine months at a time because that was not my life. I can’t tell you what it’s like to experience first love, holding hands with a sweet-sixteen boy and making out at the back of a movie theatre. You know why? Because I am the movie theatre. I’m the spectacle. I’m the show.”