I stare at Deena, then look over my shoulder as if maybe I missed something that just whizzed past me, something I was supposed to notice but didn’t catch.
“Wait—that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“So, the moral of the story is—stand up for what you believe, even if it’s a silly technicality that means losing a job?”
“The moral is: there’s always someone who’ll tell you it’s just as good with your arms down, when you know it isn’t. There’s always someone who says the talking cat is cutting edge. The only thing you have that isn’t in the hands of a dozen other people is your sense of what’s right for you. You don’t have to do a job that makes you feel bad. This is a business where it’s real easy to think you like something you don’t really like because you’re flattered to be chosen at all. The moral is: Every actress, from Meryl Streep to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, has boobs. Not every actress has ‘no.’ ‘No’ is the only power we really have.”
I agree to split the omelette and I excuse myself to use the bathroom, when all I really want to do is use the pay phone in the narrow hallway. I check the home machine, to find that James has called and invited me to come to his place “if it’s not too late for you,” and my heart leaps a little. I can see my smile reflected in the glass of Evita, one of the framed show posters that line the wall. When I come back, there are two fresh drinks waiting at the bar.
“I, ahhh …”
“Cancel the omelette?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re lit up like a Christmas tree,” Deena says, and gives my arm a little squeeze. “Can we eighty-six the omelette, Patrick?” she calls down the bar, and Patrick nods.
“Thanks. Sorry,” I say, putting on my jacket quickly. I feel like I’m late for an appointment suddenly, that I’m rudely keeping someone waiting, even though it’s nearly 10:00 and I just got his call.
“What does he say about it?”
“He thinks I should do it. Nudity doesn’t bother him. And he’s heard good things about the director’s next film.”
“Well then, I give up. He’s probably right—he’s got the eye.”
“What do you mean?”
Deena pauses, as though she’s said the wrong thing and now needs to choose her words more carefully. “Nothing.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Nothing—just. I’ve been in class with the guy for years, you know, since when he was just starting, before any of the—” She trails off, still looking stuck.
“Say it.”
“Historically? He tends to pick the girls who are the most talented—who seem to be the most potentially successful—to be with.”
I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for Deena to continue, to say something that reflects her solemn face, but I see that she’s finished and allow myself to exhale. “I thought you were going to say something bad about him. That may be what he used to do, but he’s obviously not doing that with me. He’s broken his streak—”
“Franny. You have to stop this.” Deena’s voice is sharper than normal.
“What?”
“You don’t get it.”
“I don’t—”
“Do you know how many other people in class got signed from the Showcase?”
“No.”
“Two. And they were both guys.”
“I thought Molly had—”
“A meeting. Molly had a meeting at a small agency that told her they had too many of ‘her type.’ You and Fritz and Billy were the only people. You passed this major hurdle, you had this huge accomplishment, but you barely noticed. You don’t see how well you’re doing. You don’t see how I see you, or how James sees you.”
“I’m grateful he sees me at all,” I say in an attempt at humor, but Deena doesn’t crack a smile.
“I want the best for you. You’re twice as talented as I ever was, but I’ve learned a few things along the way. I want you to do everything you can to avoid making the kinds of mistakes I made. I just don’t want you ending up on a show about a talking cat from France, you know?”
23
“Don’t read it out loud! Please, James, I’m begging you.”
I want him to stop, but I’m laughing, too, lying on the bed in his apartment the next morning while James stands over me at the foot of it, holding the pages of my nudity rider in his hands solemnly, the way a messenger in a Shakespeare play comes to deliver a decree from the king.
He clears his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for one night only, I bring you: Nudity Rider.”
“What night? It’s eleven A.M.! Boo, hiss! I wanted to see Starlight Express!”
He shuffles the pages dramatically, bows slightly to the imaginary audience. “In which reference is made to the agreement between blah, and blah blah, ‘Producers,’ and Frances Banks, ‘Artist’ …”
“Who’s that?! Never heard of her!” I heckle.
“In conjunction with the motion picture currently entitled Zombie Pond, which will heretofore be known as ‘The Picture.’ ”
“Stop! No more! Don’t read all the …”
“I’m sorry, there seems to be a disturbance in the house.” James lowers the papers. “Yes, madam?”
“Seriously, please don’t read all the—the details or whatever. It’s embarrassing.”
“Madam, silence, if you please. Ahem. As I was saying, ‘Producer’ will shoot an overhead of Sutton and Sheila in bed, Sutton without a shirt, Sheila in a silk front-opening pajama top—”
“No! Stop! Why not a flannel nightgown? Footie pajamas, please!” I say, but I can’t stop laughing.
“Artist agrees to perform what will heretofore be referred to as the ‘foreplay sex scene,’ in which: Sutton will unbutton Sheila’s top, slowly, kissing her chest, between her breasts, with the top on …”
“Help! Somebody help me!” I squeal, hiding my face in a pillow.
“At this point a creature (herein known as ‘creature’) will emerge from between Sheila’s breasts, and a brief, two-to-five second shot of Sheila’s mangled chest and the screaming Zombie baby (‘creature’) will be shown, after which point Sheila slumps to the floor, dead, and no further nudity shall be required. Producer assures the set shall be closed to all persons, except those essential members of the cast and crew, and there shall be no still photographers allowed during filming. Except as specifically set forth herein, blah blah blah, agreement shall remain as such on this day, blah blah blah, the end. Ladies and gentlemen, thus concludes this evening’s performance. Refunds will not be given. Tip your servers, thank you, and good night.”
I’m clapping and bouncing up and down on the bed. “Brilliant! What a performance! I can’t wait for the sequel!”
“Nudity Rider 2—Bottoms Up!”
“Bottoms Off!”
“Barely There!”
“Back to Backless!”
“Slutty in Seattle!”
James and I collapse together on the bed, face-to-face, out of breath from laughing.
“Seriously, James, that was torture. To hear it described so specifically, so clinically. I can’t imagine I’ll be the person they’re talking about. How do they know already what the costume and the shots, or whatever, will be?”
“They’re trying to be specific so you aren’t surprised. That’s what a good agent does. He’s trying to get the parameters from them ahead of time so they don’t pressure you on the set into something you aren’t comfortable with.”
“I guess,” I say. I’m still hedging, but it’s reassuring to hear James speak so knowledgeably.
“So does it?” he asks. “Make you feel more comfortable?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Hearing you read it makes it sound fun. Talk about the phone book. You can make anything compelling.”
He smiles. “So then … what aren’t you sure about?”
“I know it’s a silly movie. But I like the other scene, and it’s kind of an important part, and I
can’t believe I’d be in an actual movie that would play in an actual theater. But I’m still not sure if being topless would feel horrible or embarrassing or whatever.”
“Why embarrassing?”
“Well, duh, it’s my body, you know?”
“So?”
“Well, I’m not sure …”
“Not sure how it will feel, or how it will look?”
“Both, I guess.”
“But you’re beautiful.”
“Says you.”
“Do you doubt that?”
“Of course.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He brushes a hair from my face, then gently runs his finger along my cheek. “I get that it’s hard to have confidence. But like I’ve said before, as actors, our bodies are our instruments. We have to have a sense of objectivity about the body, the face, so that we don’t get in our own way of telling the story, any story. I’d gain fifty pounds or shave my head if it meant getting a part right, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say, although I’m not totally sure. James pauses, looking deep into my eyes. I think he’s about to kiss me, but instead he comes closer to me and whispers, “You know, if you want, I’ll help you.”
“Thanks. You’ve helped already, reading the scenes aloud, not to mention your recent perform—”
“No, I mean, I’m starting to make some real money. They’re really paying me on this new film with Hugh, you know.”
“Oh. That’s great,” I say, although I’m not sure why he’s reminding me the Hugh McOliver film is paying him well.
“And, not that it helps you on this job, but if you wanted to, you know, in the future …”
James trails off, but a grin starts to spread on his face, as though he’s having trouble keeping a really juicy secret from me.
I’m totally confused. “In the future … what?”
“If you wanted to jump on the bandwagon.”
“Sorry, I’m lost. What band? What wagon?”
“C’mon, Franny, it must be on your mind, even a little. The whole time you’ve been agonizing over this decision, you’re telling me it hasn’t occurred to you?”
“What?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I think you’re beautiful the way you are, like I said, but if you wanted to get them done, just so you felt more confident, more competitive, you know, so you didn’t have to agonize over this kind of stuff anymore. It won’t be the last time it comes up, you know? So why not take the anxiety away? So many of the girls in L.A. are doing it, and they can make them look really natural …”
I feel as if someone just jabbed me hard in the ribs. My mouth falls open.
“You’re talking about … you’re suggesting … you want to buy me a boob job?”
The smile slips from his face. “Franny, no, I’m sorry, please, calm down. I mean, yes, that’s what I was saying, but only because I thought that’s what you were struggling with. I was just trying to help. I’d never—I thought we were talking about the same thing, feeling more sure of yourself.”
“I’m not sure what we were talking about,” I say, my throat closing up and something like a sob threatening to slip out. “I’m going.” I slide out from under him on the bed and grab the one boot I can see.
“Don’t go.”
“I have to go. Where’s my other shoe?”
“Wait. Don’t go like this. You’re taking this totally the wrong way. You’re mad.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not mad at all. It’s just, now I feel like the penis pump I got you for your birthday isn’t that original.”
“See? That’s funny. You made a joke. We’re laughing about this.”
“We are not laughing about this. I’m saying sarcastic things as I walk out the door. I’m exiting. I’m making a spunky exit.”
“Frances, this is a total misunderstanding. Please don’t go.”
I whip around and try to look as intimidating as I can while wearing only one shoe. “Why, because you want to pitch me your ‘face-lift before thirty’ concept?”
He takes a deep breath, and the look on his face is as soft and sweet as any I’ve ever seen. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you to go, because I love you.”
I have to admit, this is probably the one and only thing James could say that would stop me in my tracks, the one and only thing I wasn’t expecting to hear from him, certainly not today, and I’m not sure I’ve ever allowed myself to think it could happen at all. But my brain is a jumble of conflicting feelings, so I find myself in an awkward suspended moment somewhere between lacing up the rest of my one boot and collapsing back onto the bed in relief. I’m stuck, one shoe on, one shoe off.
“What?”
“I mean it. I love you. I really do. I’ve been wanting to say it to you for a while.”
“Okay …”
“And I didn’t even get to talk to you about the premiere.”
Now I’m really confused.
“The what?”
“The premiere, for the movie I did with Arturo. It’s coming up in three weeks. I wanted to ask you to be my date.”
James said he loves me, which is frankly only slightly more shocking than the fact that he’s asking me out to a public event where we’ll actually be out of this apartment and among not just regular people, but also very public people.
I’m equally confused by both things that just happened. I don’t even know which thing to think about first.
“But I thought you weren’t—you said you couldn’t go to my cousin’s wedding because of the shooting schedule.”
“Yes, but I meant to tell you they changed the schedule to let me go to the premiere.” It flashes through my mind for a brief moment that if they changed the schedule for him for the premiere, maybe they could have changed it for the wedding this weekend, but of course a premiere is work, and my family wedding isn’t as important, I guess.
James picks up my sweater from the floor, revealing my missing shoe, and takes a step closer to hand them both to me. His face still looks so open and wounded, I’m afraid I’ve hurt his feelings. “Look, I’m going to L.A. tomorrow and the weekend is wide open. Why don’t you come with me? I can probably get production to …”
“My cousin’s wedding is this weekend.” My face gets hot again and my stomach tightens. He could have come if he wanted to, I think to myself. He just didn’t want to.
“Oh, yes, right. Look, when I say the weekend is open, I mean I have a lot to do to get ready for the scenes with Hugh in the desert on Tuesday, so I left myself time to work, you know. But if you were there, we could grab a bite and, you know, be together.” James starts to come closer, but I pull back, not yet ready to be appeased.
His work is important. I know that. That’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for not going to the wedding. It doesn’t exactly sound right somehow, but then I don’t know what it’s like to be in a big movie with big movie stars.
“So—you can’t come because you’re working on Tuesday? You’re not working on Monday?”
“Well, I’m not scheduled right now, but I’m rain cover.”
“I understand,” I say, though I can’t help but consider how likely a day of rain in the desert might be.
“Look, we’ll be shooting in the middle of the desert like I told you, but we’ll talk soon—I just don’t know when exactly. I hate that I won’t see you until then, but please come to the premiere with me. And after that, I hope we can put this behind us. You’re really, really special to me.”
I go through the motions of an affectionate goodbye, but my heart isn’t really in it. I feel detached, as if I’m watching myself from a few feet away. Out on the street, under the bright sunlight, my head starts to clear a bit and a wave of embarrassment hits. But maybe he was just trying to give me what he thought I wanted. I’m muddled and disoriented, as though I just woke up in a strange house and, for a minute, can’t remember where I am.
But there’s one thing I
’m suddenly sure of.
I need a pay phone, but one that’s not on James’s street. I want to get farther away from here first. I half-jog the two long blocks to the corner of Seventh Avenue and Union Street. I’m only a few blocks from home, and though I could just use the phone there and not have to compete with traffic sounds, I don’t want to wait another minute.
“Franny Banks for Joe Melville, please.”
The receptionist said “one moment please,” but it seems to be taking forever for Joe to pick up. The hold music is that same classical station but today there’s some strange static interference, so the music keeps fading in and out, which hurts my ears, and I want to pull the receiver farther away, but I’m afraid I’ll miss Joe picking up. To distract myself, I fix my eyes on the door of The Muffin Café, a ramshackle little storefront directly across the street. One person enters, then a second, then a third. When the first person exits, now with coffee and what looks like a bagel wrapped in white paper, I realize I’ve been on hold long enough for a bagel to be toasted and spread with cream cheese and wrapped, and for pleasantries and money to have changed hands, which has just become my new definition of forever.
“Franny?”
It’s Richard instead of Joe, which is disappointing, but I’m also relieved not to have to explain what I’m about to say into the calm, silent abyss that can sometimes be Joe Melville on the phone.
“Richard. Hi. Listen, I feel bad, I’m sorry, but I can’t do the movie.”
“The movie?”
“The movie. I can’t do Zombie Pond. I’m really sorry. I’ve thought a lot about it and I’ve realized that I’m just not the nudity type. Not that that’s a bad type to be, necessarily. And it’s not because of the zombie thing, either—it’s no offense to zombies or monsters or man-eating sharks. In fact, I wouldn’t even do this if it were Jaws, which is one of my top ten favorites. Although, actually, I take that back, since if Steven Spielberg—no—you know what, even if Steven Spielberg were calling, I’d have to say no. To being naked, I mean. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not artistic of me or whatever, and I know this is my first real job and I hope Joe won’t be mad—or maybe it’s something he’d want to discuss, right? So, sorry, anyway, I’ll just call back when he’s back, which is when?”
Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel Page 22