by L. Duarte
My mind returns to the memory of him answering the phone. I remember the happiness in his voice when he spoke to his wife. Right now, I passionately hate and envy this woman.
I seldom do anything to tarnish my spoiled-brat reputation, but contrary to what people choose to believe about me, I am not demanding. I never had to be, I am one of those people who never lacked for anything. My parents never denied any of my requests. Yes, I was one of those teenagers who received a $1.25 million car for her sixteenth birthday.
Mom, in spite of all her rampant drug use, managed to become one of the highest paid actresses of all times. She claims that being high enhances her performance. Whatever floats your boat is what I say.
Dad, what can I say about the man that The New Yorker or Forbes Magazine hasn’t already said? Not that I read that crap anyway. All right, I read it, but only when I have PMS and become emotional and fuzzy. In all honesty, I would rather have a big bowl of ice cream, but it would go straight to my hips and look unflattering on the big screen. So instead, I look him up and, no, I don’t care to be judged or analyzed for doing so.
Against my conscious effort to forget those brooding eyes, a spiral of images of Will floods my mind. Will is going to be an awesome father. The man who talks to his wife the way he did—and who paints her picture, capturing her soul through her eyes—is certainly a great man. Shit. Shit. Shit. Can I go back to my old self now?
For a reason beyond my understanding, the minutes I observed Will talking to his wife gave me a glimpse of the common life with a white picket fence. The unnerving man did awaken elusive thoughts that I never dwelled on before. Happily ever after is a crappy false advertisement that attempts to sell a world of fantasy. After all, we know a money-back guarantee does not apply to real-life shit.
By not parenting me, my parents taught me valuable lessons. I do not think about Mom and Dad a whole lot. Their disregard has not caused me to have pity parties. I have come to terms with them.
When I was little, I hated the taste of peanut butter. Yet Niki, my best friend, adored it and had it for lunch every day. I watched and salivated as she layered the smooth paste and purple jam on soft white bread. She munched it with gusto. I wanted to like it so much, that many times I attempted to eat it and gagged at each bite. The point being, no matter how much we try, sometimes it is impossible to like certain things or people. My parents try to like me. Really, they do. Though they do not gag when they are with me, they don’t enjoy it either.
My parents’ brief marriage ended in divorce before I was a year old. Mom claims her marriage was momentary insanity. Shortly after the divorce, Mom and I moved to LA where I was raised between prep schools and Spanish nannies.
My fancily decorated room, overlooking Central Park, is the only evidence of me in my father’s life. Priscilla, my stepmom, makes a point of going to The Hamptons every time I am in Manhattan. She tolerated me up to the day their first daughter was born. Since then, she no longer welcomes me into their lives, eventually compelling me away from the family. I cannot blame her. I did once, but now I can see it through her eyes. As my three half sisters grew, they looked up to me. Bizarre, but true. There was no way in hell, my stepmother would allow her precious perfect daughters to hang out with a twelve-year-old girl who could name all the recreational drugs, but couldn’t name all her sex partners.
I am not a bad person, seriously. I’m just too shallow to be a good one. I do not loathe myself. However, I am not my biggest fan either. I am a worthless being, leading a meaningless existence. My life is senseless, nothing, a shitload of nada.
I apply a layer of bubble gum lip-gloss and slide on my oversized Prada shades. I pay for the ride and step out, wearing my plastic smile that is worth millions. Paparazzi flash their cameras momentarily blinding me, which I don’t mind. I can do this with my eyes shut.
“Whew, there you are. How did you get here?” Stefan shouts, the moment I step into the film studio.
“Good morning to you, too.” I offer.
“Oh, never mind, I rather not know. The driver went for you this morning. You should try to answer your cell, you know. You got me worried.”
“Jeez, sorry.” I mean it. The usual dark circles under his eyes seem accentuated.
“I scheduled two interviews for you on Thursday. Is noon OK?” He magically produces my Starbucks vanilla latte, grande size.
“Did I ever worship at your feet?” I sip from the drink, perfection in its pure form.
“Nonsense, the Gucci bag and sunglasses you gave me will suffice. Marina says thank you, by the way.” He beams his crooked smile and his eyes crinkle at the corners.
I guess he has forgiven me. I shrug. “No biggie, I have only one lifetime to wear all the junk people send me.”
“Honey, a thousand dollar sunglasses do not necessarily count as junk.” He ferociously types on his smartphone. “How is the tattoo, worth the trouble? I hear the man is a genius when it comes to drawing. You know he did not budge for any of our request, right. His way or the highway. I can’t wait to see it.” He hands me the script, the fourth copy this week. Seriously? He must think I am still seventeen.
“The tattoo is glorious. No other word will do it justice.”
“Did you read about yourself today? Don’t mind me, that’s my job. Here is a copy of the possible questions I approved for Thursday.” He returns to typing.
God, the man can multitask. It gets me dizzy.
“The interviewer wants to know your thoughts about the Oscars, you know, since rumor has you as a contender.” He grins and takes a big gulp of air.
“Gosh, I just started filming and rumors are already that I’ll win and lose, and that I deserve it and I’m unworthy. Who gives a crap about what they say?” I focus on the latte.
“You are early, but that’s not unusual. Do you want to relax in your trailer or are you ready for makeup?” He looks at me.
“Why delay the fun, let’s get started.” I roll my eyes.
“Uh-oh, you rolled your eyes. What happened?” He sees through me, God, I should get rid of him. I was paired with Stefan as my PA during my first main role. I was still a teenager and he had just gotten married to Marina. In a sense, we’re a match made in heaven. It’s almost ten years later and he still works for me. Who am I kidding? The guy owns me. I would do anything for him, and he knows it. The bastard.
“Nothing, just tired, woke up too early.”
“Portia, you are not the eye-rolling type. Do you need me to punch someone?” He asks protectively.
I am frustrated, disappointed, my skin tingles with wanton desire, and I miss people who don’t give a damn about me.
“I’m fine, just in need of a good night out to evict some demons, that’s all.”
He shovels the cell in his pocket. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Nah, not worth it.” I give a halfhearted smile.
“Just come to me if you need anything, OK.”
I smile and, this time, it is genuine. Regardless of our age and gender differences, Stefan is one of my few friends.
“Thanks, Stefan, I know that.”
I scramble to the makeup chair. “Good morning, Lisa, feeling better today?”
“Yeah, I think I had food poisoning, but I’m all better.” Her small hands align the makeup brushes on a tray next to me. The sight makes my mind travel where it shouldn’t. Damn tattoo artist.
“Good to have you back. The substitute was alright, but I missed your superb touch and good vibe.” I open my bag and fish for my cell.
Six missed calls, all from Stefan, and three text messages.
I sit and reply to the messages from Niki.
Me: What’s up?
Niki: Finally! About time, you answer your damn messages.
Me: Sorry, babe, busy morning in paradise.
Niki: Uh-oh, r u upset?
Me: Tell you later. When will you be here?
Niki: Eight. Where are we going?
Me: Nowhere, everywhere. That’s the plan, babe.
Niki: Good enough for me.
Me: Tarry called me. He leaves London tomorrow.
Niki: Can’t believe. The three of us in NYC for a night. Fantastic!
Me: Just like old times.
Niki: Can’t wait. Gotta go, my plane is about to take off. Love you.
Me: See ya. Love you back.
Closing my eyes, I lean back on the makeup chair. “Do your magic, Lisa.”
Again, when I close my eyes, the passion of when we kissed floods my mind and it bothers the hell out of me. So, I decide to stop thinking about having sex with Will and give my overactive hormones a chill pill. To hell with him and to hell with his commitment to monogamy! I won’t encourage a dedicated husband to stray. Deep down, I know that is debatable bullshit. I would not blink before giving into the crazy fantasies I had of the last few hours. I don’t mean to insult or hurt people, but when I do, I hope they cope with it. I just happen to love this little thing called sex.
I hear a husky voice that can only belong to one person: Will. Oh, well, I must be imagining things. Rejection, besides being a novelty, also made me delirious.
“Wow, who is that hottie? A part of the cast?” Lisa asks.
“Huh, who?” I sit up and my eyes fly open.
Following Jason’s assistant, Will glances my way and nods. He continues and dodges camera and light stands, until Lauren points him to Jason’s makeup chair.
My heart thumps so hard inside my chest that I worry. What is wrong with me? I have never been the blushing type.
“Oh, he is the tattoo artist. My guess is that he is here for Jason.” I wrench my eyes away from him.
“Gosh, that’s so typical of Jason. Now, the whole filming will be delayed, and there go my plans for tonight.”
“Yeah, we will be here for a long time. Alex won’t let us go, until we achieve his idea of perfection. I hope, no one decides to murder Jason for delaying the filming.” I shrug.
“You are done,” announces Lena, dabbing red lipstick on my lips.
“Thank you. I’ll look for Bruno to go over the choreography one more time.” I scoot out of the stool.
My mind orders me to go look for my choreographer, but my defiant feet, stomp Will’s way.
“Hey, Will.”
“Oh, hi.” He glances up at me, but returns his focus to assembling his airbrush gun.
“Retouching Jason’s tattoo?” I sit on Jason’s chair.
“Yeah, he managed to tarnish one.”
He is so taciturn, that it almost makes me uncomfortable. “Regardless of the reason, it’s good to see you here.” My lips turn into a seductive smile.
“Well, I could find a better use for my time,” he snaps, and it stings.
Don’t I affect him one bit? Is my mojo impaired? “Oh.” I am flustered and I bite my lower lip.
“Listen, I am sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that this is not how I like to work.” He points to the vibrant, noisy set, pulsating its own hectic rhythm.
“Yeah, it is a little chaotic here,” I say.
“Now, that’s an understatement. I don’t know how you do it, but I could never thrive in this environment.” He looks around. “I like the one on one, quietness of the shop. Or better yet, I like the solace of painting my canvases.” He pulls out several small brushes and ink tubes, and lays them on the tray.
“Well, I got used to the commotion.” I shrug. “But, yeah, I can see this could be overwhelming to a brooding artist.”
“Brooding, me?” For the first time, he smiles broadly and I see a dimple on his cheek. It does unfathomable things to me.
“Yeah, brooding, you.” I let out a throaty laugh, attracting the attention of the film crew.
“Maybe I am behaving on the grim side. I am just a little slow to warm up to new people—especially when that new person happens to be a celebrity.” His fingers sweep over his untamed hair.
“Bella!” I hear Bruno calling me from across the set.
“Hi,” I wave to him. “Be right there.” Disappointed by the interruption, I turn to Will.
“Got to go, I’ll rehearse while you touch up Jason.”
“I’ll try to be fast, let’s hope it is not too bad.”
“See you later,” I sigh and walk away with his divine smile carved in my mind.
Exasperated, I wipe beads of sweat from my face. The hundreds of lights in the studio generate too much heat and make it harder to stay steady when inking. Add an arrogant client to the equation, and the result is an exhausted and irritable me.
A man carrying a long microphone bumps my elbow, almost causing me to ruin the tattoo. I exhale a long breath of air. To aggravate my dreadful situation, my eyes constantly—and without my conscious consent—gravitate toward Portia standing a few yards from us.
Trying to squirt ink on the improvised tray, I spill it all over Jason’s lap and, I am pretty sure, in his coffee. Yuck, let him choke on it. What a jerk.
“Hey, watch it.”
“Sorry.”
Portia’s poise demands my attention, yet again. I look at her, she is attentive to the choreographer’s instructions, but she glances my way and offers her seductive smile. Muscles I have been trying to ignore throughout the day clench.
I hear the guy tell her, “You are making love with your eyes, darling. Captivating, lustful, and enthralling. Then, you spin slowly, sensually, and rip off his shirt.” I smile; she does not need directions on how to seduce a man with a mere look.
“She is something else, isn’t she?” Jason comments as he watches Portia rehearsing the scene with the choreographer.
“Huh?” I ignore his innuendo and focus at the inking.
“Oh, don’t patronize my actor’s brain cells, feigning indifference. I bet you screwed her this morning—either before or after the tattooing session. Portia doesn’t waste time, and I see the exchange of glances between you two.” He sips the coffee and—voilà—he spits it out, and in my mind, I smile. It must taste nasty.
“What the fuck?” he coughs. “Who is the imbecile who got me this coffee?” he waves his hands for drama effect. “Can someone get me decent goddamn cup of coffee?”
Regretting that the toxins he ingested were not lethal, I refocus on the tattoo he ruined. Before he left the shop at eleven last night, I handed him instructions on how to care for the temporary tat, with an emphasis on not to use oils. Well, the genius thought lubricant did not apply to the category.
Lauren rushes up and hands him a new cup of Joe. I notice her hands trembling slightly.
“Sorry about your coffee,” she apologizes, her face crimson red. Unable to see her taking the blame, I interject.
“It wasn’t your fault. I accidentally squirted paint on it.”
Jason sticks his face in the new cup, sniffing its content. I wink at the poor assistant, who suppresses a smirk as she leaves.
“Bunch of idiots,” he mumbles, slurping from the cup.
I glance again at Portia as she lap dances on Bruno’s lap. My stomach twists.
Before I wrench my eyes away, Jason the idiot, adds, “She rarely does seconds, you know. So whatever happened was it.”
“Wow, that’s why I detect a hint of resentment on your voice, huh, you are probably waiting for your second round.” I smile. “Oh, well, I don’t do your brand of people, so you don’t need to fry your three brain cells worrying sick about her and me.”
It takes me almost two hours to fix the tattoo on the fidgeting actor who has three bathroom breaks and a rest period of twenty minutes. I can’t help but to compare him to Portia, who endured hours without a single interruption or complaint.
Finally, I stroke the last bit of ink to the tattoo, making a silent vow never to commit to a gig like this, ever again.
Before my betrayer body hauls me toward the stunning woman pulling me with the magnetic power of her presence, quickly I gather my tools and storm out of the busy place.<
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Frustrated, I hop in a cab and dial a familiar phone number.
“Hey, Dan.”
“Hi, son.”
His voice is like a calming balm. “I just finished my gig. Do you want to get something to eat?” I know Dan often forgoes his meals to care for the need of others, which is one of the many things I admire about him.
“Yeah, sure, I just finished a killer meeting with the new mayor. Let me tell you, he is a cranky one. He acted like he did not want to be there,” Dan exhales. “But we got what we need for the homeless shelter.”
I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “OK, be at home in about an hour.”
“Oh, I will tell Maritza you are coming, she will be thrilled.” Dan hangs up the phone.
I smile. Maritza is Dan’s wife. She is from Colombia. They met twenty-five years ago when Dan went to South America on a mission trip. It was love at first sight, just as the cliché goes. Dan married her less than a year later.
The cab drops me off at the garage where I keep my Jeep. I hastily pay the fare, anxious to drive to Connecticut.
I moved to Manhattan when I started college, but I always relished the fact that I lived an hour away from home. I used to take the train home every weekend. About a year ago, I decided to keep my car in the city because I go home more often, especially during the summer.
I finished my undergrad earlier this month, and I will start my graduate studies in January. Between now and then, I need to finish the canvases for my upcoming solo exhibit in November, so I divide my time between home and Manhattan.
I spot my red Jeep Wrangler and smile, remembering the day Dan handed me the keys. I had just gotten my driver’s license. To this day, I keep the car, and honestly, I don’t think I can ever get rid of.
It was my seventeenth birthday. I had my first party, my first cake, and my first birthday present. Dan handed me a tiny silver box. I did not think much of it, until I opened to find a small key nested in between tissues. I almost cried, honest truth.