The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘I wouldn’t!’

  ‘Look, Jules. I’ll always be grateful to you, you know that, but let’s have no hard feelings –’

  ‘No hard feelings?’

  ‘Maybe when it’s all over we can still be friends –’

  ‘Friends? You lying shit! You bastard! You never even told her about us!’

  ‘I can’t talk to you, if you’re going to be like this,’ he said, and put the phone down.

  I jumped out of bed, rummaged in my bag for my address book and found Lila’s number. In that moment of fury I suddenly didn’t give a damn if she knew the truth. What the hell. She’d see what kind of a creep he was.

  I dialled but I only got the engaged signal. The bastard must have taken the phone off the hook.

  Six

  I BEHAVED PERFECTLY normally the next day. The rest of the cast was performing, but boy could I act! I was pleasant to everybody, you would have been proud of me. I chatted between takes, I shared a joke with Scott, one of the grips, and I listened patiently while the continuity girl told me how to make a marbled vegetable terrine. We were filming up in the Will Rodgers State Historic Park, a beautiful mountainous region north-west of LA. The sun shone. We were shooting a sensitive and relevant scene where Jane Eyre, wearing a fetching period costume of bikini top and tight white shorts, is hiking. She’s in tears, on account of the Blanche Ingram business. And what do you know? By chance she happens to meet Mr Rochester, who is fishing and who happens to be landing a twenty-pound salmon, brought in fresh that day from Gelson’s Fish Counter.

  I’ve always prided myself on my self-control. That stupid outburst on the phone – Jules shouldn’t have done that. She had sat there, shaking, in her pastel hotel room; she had snivelled into her Kleenex. How could she have been so stupid? She wouldn’t do that again.

  Phaedra was the first film where a woman really cried. Do you remember it? Melina Mercouri, and her mascara ran down her face. She looked mannish and ugly; she looked real.’

  I watched Lila. She had taken my place on an outcrop of rock. She stood there, being shot in profile. The wind blew her hair; on her cheeks were glycerine tears. She looked as bland and glamorous as a shampoo ad. No Mercouri, she. The stupid bitch couldn’t act to save her life. What did she know about grief?

  Trev wasn’t around. At lunch-break, trestle tables were set out in the car park, a stretch of tarmac with a Scenic View. I sat down next to Chelsea, the girl from the production office. She was pulling giant prawns apart with her fingernails.

  ‘Where’s the English guy?’ I asked casually. ‘What’s-his-name?’

  ‘Trevor Parsons? He’s back in the office, doing re-writes.’

  ‘So he’s not coming up today?’

  She shook her head. ‘We’ve nailed him to his desk.’

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I gazed down at the city; smudged with smog, it stretched to the horizon.

  ‘He’s working on the big sex scene between Jane and Mr Rochester,’ she said, chewing. ‘Know what? I didn’t understand, at first, why they brought him in. He had no experience. Hutt was really antsy about it.’

  ‘Antsy?’

  ‘Ants in his pants. But Trevor’s fabulous! Everyone’s really pleased with what he’s coming up with. His work, it has a lot of energy. Kind of moody and erotic. Hutt says it reminds him of the early Sam Shepard.’ She sucked her fingers, one by one. ‘Kind of looks like him too, don’t you think? Right down to the Calvin Klein work-shirts. Who’s betting he’s left a few broken hearts in England.’

  ‘Who’s betting,’ I said, gazing at a bottle of mineral water. At the far end of the table Lila laughed.

  How could Trev have attacked me like that? ‘Lila’s not superior, she doesn’t analyse me, she just loves me.’ She was a working-class, uneducated woman, that’s all. Obviously he couldn’t cope with anything more subtle and challenging than that. He couldn’t cope with an intelligent woman like myself. He wasn’t man enough for that. He wasn’t even man enough to meet me at the Four Seasons.

  I wasn’t going to cry. Not now – not any more. No Mercouri Mascara Runs for me.

  We broke early that day, at four. I had to talk to Trev. Calmly and reasonably. I had to salvage what was left of my pride. He wasn’t going to get away with it. Did he really think I could be fobbed off that easily, after two years?

  Lila was staying behind; a journalist from Redbook was interviewing her. No doubt she was telling her all about her wonderful new relationship with the priapic Trevor Parsons, and how great he was in the sack. Pow! The chemistry between them! How she’d really gotten the confidence to give herself emotionally. How every woman needs a toyboy; a lot more fun than a face-lift and twice as efficacious!

  I got into my car and drove down the winding mountain road, fast. The sun was sinking; it was suddenly chilly. Night fell quickly, here. Didn’t the stupid cow realise he was using her, just as he’d used me? I wasn’t going to tell her, nope siree! Let her find out for herself! I was driving through the residential area now. The road was cracked from landslips, but vast mansions stood on either side. They had stable blocks and servants’ blocks, towers and turrets. Up above the amog line, these properties were worth millions. Heady stuff for a boy like Trev, who had grown up in a house with an outside toilet. First step, me. Second, Hollywood. ‘Their properties and possessions are seen as reflections of their core being,’ I had read in a magazine. ‘Affluent Americans today enjoy a standard of living that matches the splendour of the medieval popes.’

  I slewed into Sunset Boulevard. It was thick with rush-hour traffic. Recklessly I weaved through the cars; I was heading for the Hyatt Hotel. The production office had taken over a couple of suites on the second floor; Trev had a desk there.

  I had planned exactly what I would do. I would go in, ostensibly to pick up a copy of the next week’s shooting schedule. I would saunter into Trev’s office, express surprise that he was there, and casually suggest we went for a drink at Barney’s Beanery. This was a big, dark, macho bar – Trev’s sort of place, with pool tables, thousands of different kinds of beer and signs that said things like ‘A Fool and his money are soon Partying’. I had gone there, a few nights before, for the production runner’s birthday drinks.

  I parked outside the Hyatt and brushed my hair. How could the bastard cut me dead, in mid-conversation? I slammed the car door shut, like a cop, and strode towards the hotel. I had rehearsed several speeches and finally decided on this one. I know what you mean, Trev – see, I’ve fallen in love too! Couldn’t tell you on the phone. I wanted to, though; I wanted to share it with you. Pow! The chemistry. It’s amazing, the sex is astonishing, quite unlike anything I’ve ever known. Isn’t it wonderful when it really happens? I met him in New York; he’s called Clayton and I met him in a restaurant in Greenwich Village. Now he’s followed me out to LA because we can’t bear to be apart. Maybe we’ll all make a foursome some time. I’m so happy! For me, and for you.

  I took the elevator up to the second floor and knocked on the door of the production office. It was empty except for one of the secretaries, a girl called Mary-Beth. She was on the phone. ‘He’ll be here for the dailies,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘He’s coming in from New York, with the composer.’ The other phone rang; she darted to it and started talking to Cy, the location manager.

  There were three doors leading out of the office. Two were closed. I breathed deeply, doing my pre-performance exercises.

  Mary-Beth looked up. ‘You OK?’

  I nodded. ‘Which is Trevor Parsons’s office?’

  She pointed. ‘Over there. But you just missed him.’ She smiled indulgently; Chelsea had smiled like that when she’d spoken about Trev. He obviously had a debilitating effect upon Californian women. ‘He says it’s their anniversary.’

  ‘Their what?’

  ‘It’s four months since he met Lila. He’s gone back to her place; he’s planning some surprise dinner.’

 
I shrugged. ‘I see.’ I paused. ‘Well, I’ll just leave him a note.’

  Stung, I hurried into his office. Their anniversary! When had he remembered our anniversary? Bloody never. On our first anniversary I’d booked us dinner at Orso’s, but he had forgotten all about it and gone out on the booze with a mate of his, some builder. I’d had to cancel the restaurant. He’d crept into my bed at two in the morning, giggling, ‘Got plastered with a plasterer.’

  I sat down at his desk. In front of me was a silver-framed snapshot of Lila and a box of typing paper. His old Olympia typewriter sat there; he had obviously brought it over from England. He was deeply superstitious about his typewriter; he refused to work on any other one. In fact, I had bought him an electronic Olivetti but he had never used it. He could only work on his heavy old manual one; he’d bought it from Look Back in Ongar.

  I sat down and slotted in a sheet of paper. At first, I thought I would simply write him a note. I sat there for a moment. But what on earth could I say?

  So I did something else instead. Maybe it seems insane, to you. It seemed insane to me, later. But I had to do something to release my feelings.

  I tapped out a letter to Lila on the heavy old keys. I had to bang down on the keys, hard, with my forefinger.

  Dearest Lila

  I know I’m a lousy coward, but believe me it’s easier this way, I’ve been trying to find the words to tell you that I don’t think we should see each other any more.

  I stopped to inspect it. I was grunting with my exertions. I went on.

  I’ve found somebody else. You suspected it, I denied it. I’m sorry. This time it’s the real thing. I’ve never felt like this before. Maybe, when it’s all healed, we can still be friends. I hope so. And let’s remember the good times.

  All the best for the future. Chin up and take care.

  I pulled it out of the typewriter and re-read it. A bit abrupt, but there you go. I signed it Tee, copying his writing. I folded it up and put it into my handbag. Then I left the office and went back to my hotel.

  I honestly don’t know why I did it. For comfort, perhaps. When I was typing it, actually, it did comfort me. Just momentarily; mildly. It assuaged my feelings.

  Maybe I was superstitious. Once it was typed, maybe it would come true. It was like putting pins into a wax figure and making a wish. LA was riddled with superstition, with Tarot-readings and palm-readings, with horoscope hot-lines and miracle cures. It was Lila’s sort of town. It dealt with magic. It was built on shifting sands and the San Andreas Fault; it was built on the illusions of celluloid, the stuff of dreams and delusions. Maybe the place was seeping through to me.

  I was embarrassed at myself. It seemed such a pathetic thing to do. But I didn’t throw the letter away. I hid it in my suitcase.

  Seven

  PRIDE STOPPED ME approaching Trev again. In a way I was glad that he hadn’t been at the production office; I might have broken down and made a fool of myself. The only way I could salvage my dignity was to play it cool and unconcerned. I would bide my time and work out a more effective plan of revenge.

  It was bloody torture. The next week we moved to the sound-stage, at the studios, to shoot interiors at Mr Rochester’s house. Trev appeared and I had to watch him canoodling with Lila in front of everybody. They giggled like teenagers. I caught Irma’s eye, once; she was watching me. I think she guessed something was up between Trev and me; she was much sharper than Lila. But she had never liked me, so why should she care? She could see that Lila was slipping away from me, too, and I could detect a certain satisfaction on her sallow face.

  Trev and Lila were the flavour of the month. Hollywood loves romance and there was something irresistible about a film star’s infatuation with an unknown young English writer who had the impish grin of a new Steve McQueen. Toyboys were all the rage; Joan Collins had one, Stephanie Beacham had one. They were every woman’s antidote to ageing. Whenever I read a gossip column, Trev and Lila’s names sprung from the page. ‘I’ve lost 20 Pounds and 20 years!’ trilled Lila. ‘She’s got a fantastic sense of humour,’ said Trev. ‘He’s given me new stability,’ she breathed. ‘She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,’ said Trev. ‘It’s like Christmas every morning!’ she gushed. ‘I want to go for every experience and live life in its quintessential form,’ said Trev. Grinning inanely from flashlight snapshots, Trev was variously described as a drop-out, a builder, an antiques runner and a radical writer whose outspoken belief enraged the stuffy British establishment.

  They had met in London, and since then had been in daily contact on the phone – ‘our hour-long Indian love-calls,’ said Lila – before he flew out to join her. Apparently he was also writing a novel. It was called Heavy Petting in Hornchurck and was bold, erotic and autobiographical. The synopsis had been sent to Bantam Books amidst rumours of a six-figure advance.

  Could I really believe it? Was he really writing a novel, and, if so, would I feature? Could I really believe that ‘We’re too happy to consider marriage’ when the Hollywood Reporter claimed that ‘Wedding bells might be in the air’?

  Where was my Trev in all this? Did he really say ‘quintessential’? Could he possibly? I despised myself for my weakness, for my demeaning, slavish passion. I wanted my old Trev back – feckless, unreliable, charming – the love of my life. Alone in my hotel room I could admit it; just to myself.

  I thought of his play, Use Me. He had certainly used me, with a vengeance. Things that I had said started appearing in his re-writes. Jane Eyre told Mr Rochester a psychiatrist joke that I had told Trev long ago. She brought him some cuttings from her African violets, just as I had done once. Mr Rochester liked Ry Cooder and she gave him a cassette which he already had in his collection, so he hid the original in his jacket pocket and she felt it when they were kissing. Trev had ruthlessly cannibalised our most tender and playful moments; he had exposed them to the world. Worse, far worse – he had stolen them from me and given them to Lila. It was Lila who spoke my lines now, and caressed the back of Mr Rochester’s neck. It was Lila who told him, just as I had told Trev, that he had the sexiest bum she had ever known. Except Lila called it ‘ass’.

  The most painful moment came during one of their love scenes. In the script, Jane has been evicted from her apartment building – developers are converting it into luxury condos – and she moves into the guest wing of Mr Rochester’s house. It is here that she slowly falls in love with him, even though he is having a relationship with Blanche Ingram. (At night, when Jane lies in bed and hears a distant cry from Mrs Rochester, she presumes it is Blanche in the throes of orgasm.) However, Mr Rochester finds himself irresistibly drawn towards his ward’s shy therapist and they become lovers. In one scene he pretends that he is blind. He comes up behind her and feels her all over, making guesses on who she might be.

  I went cold, when I read this. The day before we were due to shoot it I spoke to the director, Hutt.

  ‘Surely it’s a bit sick, isn’t it, when later he’s blinded for real?’

  But Hutt said, ‘We’ve given it some thought, Jules. We’ve discussed it together and we’ve come to the conclusion that it’s kind of moving – being already an established motif in their relationship it makes his real disability all the more powerful when it occurs.’

  Who was a mere stand-in, to object?

  The next day I stood on the set of Mr Rochester’s bedroom – a lavish, mock-baronial affair complete with four-poster bed and hunting trophies, just like the Ralph Lauren shop. Trev was there, leaning against the dressing table and joking with one of the grips. I wanted to shout: clear the set!

  While they set up the lights I positioned myself with Ivan, the other stand-in. He pressed himself against my back; I smelt the tuna on his breath, from lunch.

  I tried to pretend I was relaxed. ‘Sorry I’m not a bloke,’ I whispered, and he laughed.

  We didn’t have to perform the action – his hands running over my body. We didn’t have to speak the lines. We ju
st stood there, while Trev blew the smoke off his coffee mug and watched me cruelly exposed.

  When they were ready, I was ushered away and Lila appeared on the set. She wore peach-coloured silk underwear; Mr Rochester wore a black, monogrammed bathrobe. Twenty years earlier they had been lovers, real-life lovers, whilst filming Flames of Love, and they acted this steamy scene with some conviction.

  I watched Rochester, his eyes closed, pressing himself against Lila and running his fingers over her face. ‘. . . mmm . . . soft young mouth . . . warm lips . . . you’re the checkout girl at the A&P.’

  ‘Nope,’ murmured Lila, her head flung back. She moistened her lips with her tongue.

  The crew held its collective breath; everybody watched as she wriggled her shimmering, silky body; she parted her red lips and my words came out of her mouth.

  He ran his hand lightly over her breasts; she started breathing heavily. His hand caressed her thigh.

  ‘. . . ah . . . dancer’s thighs . . . you’ve just arrived in town, all dewy-eyed . . . you’re auditioning for Fame 6 . . .’

  The atmosphere was electric. Nobody stirred. Finally the scene climaxed in a close-up of her face as his hand slid to her crotch.

  ‘ah . . . now I can guess,’ he muttered hoarsely.

  Followed by the camera, they stumbled onto the bed. Lila wrapped her legs around him.

  She murmured, ‘Know what you are? Shrink-wrapped.’ This was Trev’s joke.

  When they cut there was a moment’s silence, then the crew burst into spontaneous applause. I turned and looked at Trev. He was clapping too.

  ‘Print that,’ said Hutt. ‘Hose down the crew.’ He strode across to Lila and hugged her. ‘Where did you find that, honey?’ he asked. ‘It was sensational!’

  I had to get out. When they broke for tea I made for the exit, tripping over the cables and hurrying past the extras who had arrived for the next scene and were stuffing themselves with Danish pastries.