The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  It took a moment for this to sink in. Actually, it wasn’t such a surprise. I guess I had known it all along.

  I looked round. There were other people in the trailer, watching me curiously. Bob, Rodney, Kelly. Lila was there, too. She was sitting in a cloud of smoke, hunched in her fur coat. She looked like a hunted animal. Her face was grey, her mascara smudged.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ she said. ‘You OK?’ She sat down beside me, wedged on the seat. She put her arm around me. ‘Want one of these?’ she asked, fumbling in her other pocket for her cigarettes. Her hand was trembling.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said. She put the cigarette tenderly between my lips. Kelly leant forward and lit it. I leant against the thick fur of Lila’s coat.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Lila again. Her voice was flat; she was in a state of shock. Irma came in, then, and took her away. Somebody told me later that she had gone on a crisis visit to her shrink.

  Filming was abandoned for the day. The cops asked me some questions. A reporter arrived, but when he heard it wasn’t Lila who had narrowly escaped death, just a stand-in, his interest evaporated. I learnt, later, that the would-be assassin had been caught trying to leave down the subway. He was just some nutter who had escaped from a mental hospital, just a screwball with a grudge against the famous. America breeds them; they flourish in the darkness of obscurity like poisonous fungi. They fester with the injustice of it all. Seething, they lie on their hotel beds whilst outside the window other people’s names are up in lights.

  IMAGINE, said the plaque. One pot shot and you can alter history. Squeeze the trigger and, hey presto! Instant fame!

  Back in my hotel room I pulled off my tights and washed my grazed knee. Nobody had noticed that I had hurt myself when I fell. They seemed far more worried about Lila and how it would affect her. Once he had seen I was the wrong person, watch the Magic Disappearing Journalist! Lila wasn’t trembling for me, but for herself.

  Patting my legs dry, I suddenly boiled with fury. The dumb cow, the egocentric bitch! Didn’t she realise that out there, in Rockefeller Plaza, it might have been me who had died for her? Me, Jules – the ultimate stand-in?

  I took a cab down to the Village. It was lunchtime, and I needed to talk to somebody. I would go to the Cajun place and tell Clayton about my brush with death. Funnily enough, I suddenly felt manic. Everything sprang at me, vividly, as I looked out of the window of the cab. I started giggling, making up little Manhattan haikus. The Lebanese taxi driver hawks and spits as his passenger tries to make herself understood. I watched the passing office blocks. Handsel, delivering pizzas, loses his way in the forest of an atrium. We bounced over the potholes; inside the cab, somebody had torn a hole in the plastic seat, revealing its fluffy entrails. Over the driver’s impassive shoulders I grimaced at his photo, hanging from the dashboard on his licence card. Above his printed name: MOHAMMED IBRAHIM SHABAZZ, his swarthy face glared. How differently would you react, I thought, if I were Lila? But Lila was stupid, stupid. Why should her loss to the world be any greater than mine? Why should it get the headlines? She couldn’t make up haikus, she couldn’t notice anything beyond the end of her own stupid snub nose. I had more intelligence in my little finger.

  I got out at Greenwich Avenue and walked past a row of shops. The ash lengthens on the Korean grocer’s cigarette as he hoses his salads. I turned up Christopher Street, past a homosexual gauleiter festooned with chains. Under the rusting fire escape a lone gay whistles for a mate. I sauntered along, swinging my handbag. I had acted well that morning, hadn’t I? I had acted being shot. Now I was being shot for real, the camera panning around the street and then tracking me as I walked along, my haikus in voice-over. I was a kookie Village resident, a poetess fought over by six men. All around the block the traffic had been stopped. Trailers jammed the side streets and the lights flared on me, just me.

  By daylight the Cajun restaurant looked smaller and shabbier, as if I had dreamed it. I went inside and sat down. I couldn’t see Clayton. A waitress came up. When I asked her, she said he had gone.

  ‘He had a call from LA,’ she said. ‘He flew out this morning. He’s doing a Diet Pepsi commercial.’

  My back was covered with hair. It had been growing for weeks but I hadn’t noticed it till now. A girl was bending over me. ‘Quick!’ I hissed to her. ‘Pull them out! I’m appearing in a movie with Lila Dune, what’s she going to say?’ Pink light glowed; the blinds were pulled down. ‘She hasn’t got any,’ I said. ‘She’s all smooth.’ I lay, a monster. I was a werewolf. The sign said Dianne’s Discount Body Waxing. The girl was wrenchingout my hairs with a huge pair of pliers but it didn’t hurt. Even as she pulled them out, I could feel new ones growing. Inside I was filled with a knotted, evil wad of hair and it was poking out all over my body, like the entrails inside the taxi seat.

  When I woke it was dark. By the frequent clangs of the manhole cover I knew that it was the rush hour. My mouth was dry. It took me a while to come to my senses. I lifted the phone and dialled London, but Trev wasn’t in. The bastard, he was never in. It must be eleven o’clock, over there. I had eaten lunch at some point, and before that somebody had tried to shoot me. There was nobody to listen to me.

  I got up unsteadily, had a shower, and dressed in the silk slip and a tight woolly dress I had bought at Bloomie’s. I did consider the bronze dress but I hadn’t the nerve. I put on my high heels and made up my face with care.

  I outlined my lips an then filled them in with glistening crimson. Barbara Hershey had plumped up her lips, for Mary Magdalene. Pouting at my reflection, I layered on the mascara. Then I fetched my diaphragm and inserted it. I remembered Kelly, stitching one of Lila’s dresses and telling me about hotel bars. ‘You should start a relationship in the Warwick, because it’s so sexy,’ she had said. ‘Dark and sexy. And when it’s got to end, go to the Plaza because it’s so damn public he can’t start beating up on you.’

  I took a cab to Sixth Avenue, got out at the Warwick and went into the bar. She was right; the place was so dark that I stumbled as I entered. All I could make out was the black bulk of businessmen and some spotlit bowls of peanuts. It’s changed now, they have redecorated it. But it was like that, then.

  I sat down and ordered a vodka and tonic. Piano music played faintly from some place or other, I didn’t care to look. I took out a cigarette and lit it with a steady hand. My heart pounded. I knew it was only a matter of time. I felt miles away from my body.

  A man was looking at me. He was sitting at the next table. I couldn’t make out his features but that was probably all for the best. I held his gaze, smiling at him. I willed him to come over. I could do something, couldn’t I? I could do this. Tonight, in the dark, I was as desirable as Lila. I could make a man do anything.

  He smoked. That was a promising sign, he must be from out of town. Hardly any men in New York, except film crews, smoked any more. I watched him stub out his cigarette, and pause. He tapped his finger on his briefcase, beside him on the seat. He was thinking. I finished my drink.

  I willed him, with all my concentration. He waited a moment, then he picked up his briefcase and walked across to my table.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You waiting for somebody?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘May I join you?’ he asked.

  I was perspiring in my wool dress. But then so was he. Now he was beside me I could see that he was a broad, fleshy man. Not too bad-looking, in fact. While the waiter fetched our drinks he introduced himself. ‘Marvin Scales,’ he said, shaking my hand. Then he chuckled. ‘But there’s nothing fishy about me.’

  ‘I’m Jo-Jo,’ I replied, without thinking. I knew a Jo-Jo once but I didn’t have time to remember who she was.

  He sold hearing aids. He called them audio facilitators or something. It was all microchips nowadays, apparently. He had some in his briefcase the size of pinheads. He came to New York five days a month and stayed at the Warwick. He call
ed New York ‘the Big Apple’.

  ‘And what’s your line of business, Jo-Jo?’ he asked. ‘Let me guess. You’re a model.’

  I smiled mysteriously. ‘I do whatever I’m asked.’ I spoke with an American accent; I didn’t want him to know anything about me.

  Thank God he was a drinker too. There aren’t so many of them left, either. He ordered another bourbon for himself and another vodka and tonic for me. I began to feel swimmy. He told me how many thousands of miles he had travelled that year, you needn’t know how many, I didn’t listen. He said he wasn’t paid for his job, he was paid for sitting around in goddam hotel rooms all by himself for nine months a year.

  ‘That’s a pretty dress, Jo-Jo,’ he said. He stroked my arm. ‘You’re a very attractive woman.’ He put his hand on my thigh, heavily. Through the wool, he felt the knob of my suspender clip. His hand lay there, massaging it thoroughly. ‘Very attractive.’ His voice was husky; he cleared his throat.

  I smiled at him. In the dark, under the table, I took his hand and slid it under my skirt, up my thigh. He drew in his breath, sharply. His finger stroked my bare skin, above my stocking top.

  ‘Boy, is this my lucky night,’ he whispered, hoarsely.

  We made our way across the bar. In the lobby, the light was bright. He was shorter than I thought, with a bulging belly. We avoided each other’s eye as we waited for the lift. It seemed to take for ever. Finally there was a ping and the door slid open to reveal two couples in evening dress. They filed past us, smiling politely. We stepped in and stood like dummies, rising together to the twelfth floor. I could smell his cologne; it was sickly-sweet. I stared at the framed inspection certificate screwed to the wall, willing my lust not to drain away. We walked along the corridor to his room and he fumbled for the key.

  Inside, I was relieved to see, the room was nearly dark. A recessed light glowed above the unmade bed. The curtains were closed. He hurried across to the bed and pulled up the covers; he must have taken a nap before he came downstairs. On the floor was an F.A.O. Schwartz carrier bag; perhaps he’d bought a present for his kids. In a few weeks, I suddenly realised, it would be Christmas.

  ‘May I use your bathroom?’ I asked.

  ‘Please. Go ahead,’ he said. We were both very polite.

  In the bathroom I peed and then washed my hands, looking at my flushed face in the mirror. The woman I saw bore little resemblance to myself. She was breathing heavily; she looked coarse, and her mascara was smudged. In front of her, in a glass, was a strange man’s toothbrush, orthodontic probe and another unknown instrument. This guy was heavily into dental hygiene.

  I went back into the room. He was lying on the bed, stripped to his jockey shorts. He looked large and bald. His hand was on his cock; he rubbed it as he watched me. Maybe he didn’t have a wife at all. Maybe anything. I paused, suddenly panic-stricken. Then I rallied, and tottered towards him on my high heels. I sat down on the bed.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Marvin Junior,’ he said in a tight, high voice. ‘He’s mighty pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  For a moment I thought that his son was in the room. I swung round, but he pulled me back. A hand pushed down my head; his stout cock rubbed against my eye socket. I shifted, and took it into my mouth. It tasty faintly sour, but talcy too; he must have showered before he went down to the bar. Way behind me, he grunted. His buttocks rose rhythmically against my face; gagged by his cock, I could hardly breathe. He shifted, and there was a click as thank God he switched off the light.

  American men were obsessed with oral sex; I had read enough Updike novels to realise that. My jaw ached as I worked away; my dress was hitched up around my waist. Inside my briefs his finger probed me in a desultory way; he wasn’t much bothered with me. With his other hand he pushed my own hand around his balls, clamping it there, squeezing. His balls were large and surprisingly furry.

  ‘Attaboy,’ he yelped, in his baby voice. ‘Attaboy. Go to it, go to it.’ He spoke faster and faster, like a train gathering speed. Already he was whimpering, in spasms, as he regressed into baby talk. I manhandled him over so that he lay on top of me! He was very heavy. My dress was up around my neck now, half-smothering me; I spread my legs as he buried his face in my breast.

  ‘May Marvin Junior pay a little visit now?’ he asked, muffled.

  I pressed his buttocks; his cock slid in, at last. At least he didn’t want to kiss me; he sucked my breast loudly, breathing through his nose.

  He gnawed my nipple until it hurt and I pushed his head away. He started fucking very fast, for a few moments I was plunged into oblivion. I ignored what he was whimpering; it sounded suspiciously like ‘Mommy’. I just squeezed my eyes shut in the darkness and moved underneath him, I was muscular and vigorous, I was the best whore in New York. The cameras whirred; the crew was transfixed. Everyone was watching my supple body as I arched and fell beneath him. He was moaning helplessly, he was in my power.

  I climaxed, in disappointingly faint waves, but he took no notice, hammering away until I started getting sore. Finally he came, groaning loudly and shouting, ‘Dirty boy! Dirty boy!’ He collapsed, his face buried in the pillow. He was suddenly, crushingly, heavy.

  ‘Boy, will I sleep well tonight,’ he muttered.

  I paused for a moment, then slid out from under him. He was asleep already, his lips making small rubbery noises against the pillow.

  I pulled down my dress, put on my shoes and crept out of the room, brushing my hair as I went. I took the lift down to the lobby. I was so shaky that, when it stopped, my legs buckled and I staggered for a moment before I regained my balance.

  Lila didn’t show up the next morning. I wondered what she had been doing the night before. Maybe she had freaked out; maybe she had gone on a massive bender. Maybe she had disguised herself and gone out into the city, to some anonymous bar, and picked up a strange man. Somebody who didn’t know she was famous; a nobody, like the rest of us. And she had drunk so many vodkas she couldn’t remember it the next day. Who knows? She was an unstable woman, and the shooting had thrown her off balance. It only took a little thing to topple her over.

  I had one hell of a hangover, but I was sane and strong, wasn’t I? I was reliable. So I took over her part – me, Julia Sampson. While the PA made frantic phone calls I was summoned to rehearse. I was the understudy, beckoned onto the stage because the star was indisposed. After all, they could trust me by now; it had even filtered through to Chuck that I had been helping Lila. I had made sure it had filtered through; I’m not stupid.

  We were shooting a scene in Mary-Lou’s lover’s recording studio. He was a rock star, have I told you that? The movie had to be peppered with his dreadful songs. This was because Grover Cain, the co-star, was a superannuated rock singer who was trying to make it in the movies. After all, Cher had done it. She’d got an Oscar too.

  Anyway, he was recording a song and I had to barge in and accuse him of infidelity. I’d seen him with another woman (a hologram, in fact, courtesy of my son’s interplanetary powers). It was a big scene. Totally asinine, but a big scene. Even the writer had turned up.

  I knew the lines anyway. I knew the entire script by heart – what else do you think I had been doing, those long evenings? I had acted each scene, pacing my hotel room and gesticulating at the bedside table. I had spoken into the mirror, making my reflection weep. I had argued at it, like that bum had argued at the lamp-post. I had stood at the window, declaiming to the suffused jostle of skyscrapers, glimpsed between the slices of the buildings opposite; I had mouthed my anguish to the neon sign, way below, saying Dianne’s Discount Body Waxing. I knew the part a bloody sight better than Lila did.

  Chuck treated me with some deference that morning. For the first time he needed me – the acting me, not just a solid bulk to be positioned and lit. I was introduced to Grover, who had never taken a blind bit of notice of me until now. He shook my hand, his brown eyes spuriously sincere. They took me outside the door and I readied myself, brea
thing in Jules and finally breathing out Mary-Lou. The rusty old machinery turned, my God how long it had been. My skin tingled; for the first time in six months I was truly working.

  ‘Cue the song,’ called Chuck. ‘And action!’

  I strode through the door a tough businesswoman but suddenly vulnerable, a wounded woman afraid of losing both her lover and her son.

  ‘Who was she?’ I spat out. ‘Who was she, you worm?’

  Grover, in mid-song, stood at his microphone. ‘Who was who, honey?’

  ‘You know who I’m talking about!’ I barged over, pushing him against the soundproofed walls. ‘That woman you were jogging with in Central Park!’

  ‘I wasn’t jogging with nobody!’ he protested.

  Suddenly I ad-libbed, I couldn’t bear not to. ‘Don’t you double-negative me!’ I yelled. ‘What do you mean, you runty little shit-head, you were with somebody!’

  Grover stared at me, but then we heard Chuck laughing – an unexpected sound. They cut there and he beckoned over the writer, a small Jewish guy whose chief claim to fame was rewrites of Miami Vice. Chuck said to him, ‘We’ll use that.’ He turned to me. ‘I liked it. A whole lot. I loved that energy!’

  I replied, ‘What nobody understands is that Mary Lou is a strong, independent woman who’s despising herself for her own impotence.’

  He grinned. ‘The Hedda Gabler of Riverside Drive.’

  I smiled back at him. ‘I knew you’d do her in the end.’

  Soon after that, Lila arrived. Nobody seemed to know where she had been. She was hustled into make-up while we rehearsed the scene again, incorporating the new dialogue and building it up into a nice piece of screwball comedy, touching and playful. Even Grover, who had the acting ability of a bathroom sponge, surprised us all by making up a bit of business for himself. Just for a while there was a real creative fizz in the air – a rare sensation, on this project. The crew even overran their coffee break by a few minutes. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much for ages.

  Then Lila came on. I had to move aside and let her get on with it. She took the amended script and inspected it, frowning.