The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  We would talk for a while. I would sit on the floor, between his legs, drinking Bollinger and stroking his knee.

  ‘Tell me about the contract I’m going to get,’ I murmured.

  ‘Two million upfront,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with three?’

  ‘So she wants three? So she has three.’ He patted my head. ‘Plus a weekly expense allowance.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Say, $15,000 when you’re out of town. And you keep your wardrobe from the movie.’

  ‘Go on,’ I urged him greedily. He was like an uncle, telling me my favourite fairy story over and over again.

  ‘Plus, the production company will pay for your hotel suite, a car for your exclusive use and a driver.’

  ‘For my exclusive use too?’ I murmured, running my hand along his thigh.

  ‘You want this contract?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You want this contract, you behave.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘While on the set, you’ll have a first-class motorhome dressing room with shower, double bed, refrigerator, stove, TV . . .’ He stopped. ‘You have wonderful shoulders, sweetheart, know that? Strong, muscular . . . Your shoulders, that’s all I’m thinking about today. The phones are ringing and I’m just seeing your shoulders.’

  ‘Get on with the contract.’

  ‘VCR. Mobile phone. Air conditioning.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten the stereo.’

  ‘Stereo, sweetheart, anything you want. The moon! Nothing’s too good for you.’ He stroked my hair. ‘Plus approval of the final script, your hair, makeup and any photographic likeness of you used on the videocassette package, the soundtrack album cover and theatre displays.’

  ‘Go on!’ My skin glowed. I felt fuller, riper. I was a movie star. ‘Tell me more,’ I said greedily.

  ‘You’ll also be consulted on the casting of your leading man and the initial United States ad campaign.’ He stopped. ‘Let’s make ourselves more comfortable,’ he whispered.

  ‘Not yet! Go on!’

  He sighed indulgently. ‘She wants more? Sure she wants more. Don’t they all? OK, so your name will appear above the title in all advertisements.’

  ‘What size?’

  ‘At least 35 per cent of the artwork title and 100 per cent of the regular title. You’ll attend all dailies, previews and premieres of the movie, with expenses and transportation paid for by the producers.’ He shifted his legs, and stood up. ‘Come on, sweetie.’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  He smiled. ‘Plus a complimentary video copy of the film and a piece of any profits from advertisements placed on those tapes.’

  He pulled me to my feet. I smiled, inflamed by his story just as he, soon, was going to be inflamed by mine. Sometimes I would initiate it, getting up and pulling him to his feet. We would both yawn, exaggeratedly, as if we simply wanted to go to sleep.

  Actually, sometimes we did. I never knew his age but I guessed he was in his early sixties. He’d had a tiring day; he was extremely unfit, and he wasn’t used to frequent and vigorous sex. But usually we would pull open the curtains of our little theatre and our two-hander would begin. I was aroused by his power-talk; he by my sensual conniving. We both knew the script and the costume-changes; we both responded to the various improvisations. But when the curtain fell he would never mention the performance. As I said, sex was furtive and shameful. In fact he usually crept out of bed and slept in his spare room. He said he was a poor sleeper and didn’t want to disturb me in the small hours by switching on his light and reading scripts.

  In the morning I woke alone, the cat weighing down my feet. Roly didn’t exactly hustle me away; he was too polite for that. Besides, he liked to watch me eat a good breakfast. But he was anxious to get rid of me before his maid arrived, at nine, and I made sure that I never met her. Which was lucky, as things turned out.

  I felt as taut as a wire, those March weeks. As yet, no work had come my way. I went to a couple of auditions but didn’t get the parts. Apart from the episodes with Roly I spoke to no one. Anyway, our night-time activities were so bizarre that they seemed unconnected to the rest of my life; they had the surreal insubstantiality of a dream. I had such powerful dreams, too, when I was sleeping; their violence shook me. I dreamed about girls at school; I had nightmares about my father. Sometimes I thought I should get back to England, before it was too late. My anger was growing, you see. It should have subsided, but it had gathered its own hot momentum. Inflamed by titbits about Lila and Trev, I seethed in my room. I felt like a boil, filling with poison.

  By casual questioning, I had discovered the address of Trev’s new apartment. It was a concrete high-rise behind the Dakota. Sometimes at night I took a bus there and stood outside, my neck straining, looking up at the lit windows and searching for his. Up in the sky, New Yorkers seldom close their blinds; a city of egoists, they don’t believe that anyone else exists. Or maybe they are simply voyeurs. Watch their TV shows and you’ll see what I mean. The curtains in Lila’s apartment hadn’t closed properly; she had obviously never bothered.

  There was no sign of Trev in the windows I presumed were his. But his apartment might have been around the back. I felt uneasy, standing there in the underground garage entrance. It had a sign saying ‘Active Driveway. Do Not Park!’ I felt he might be creeping up behind me, ready to pounce. His fingers would dig into my eye sockets.

  ‘Let me guess who it is,’ he would mutter. He would press against my back, breathing into my hair. ‘I know. You’re some crazy nutcase . . .’ His hands would grip my shoulders, hurting me. ‘You’re Chapman, ready to shoot.’

  One day, near the end of March, I saw their photo in the paper. It was in the Post showbiz column. Lila clung, laughing, to Trev’s arm. He had changed; he had the unmistakably sleek look of the rich. He had cut his hair, too. For a moment, in fact, I didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Among the guests at the “Gaslight” premiere were Lila Dune and her constant companion, hunky British penman Trevor Parsons.’ They looked obliviously happy.

  Gaslight. A re-make of the classic thriller had just been released. As I looked at the photo, something stirred in my brain.

  Remember the original? Charles Boyer tricks Ingrid Bergman into thinking she is going mad. He lowers the gas jets; he hides her necklace. He works on her – oh so cleverly. He undermines her sanity.

  It was the photo that did it.

  My heart beat heavily as I picked up the phone book and looked up Linsky’s number. Linsky’s was a deli on Amsterdam Avenue where Lila ordered her groceries. She had told me about it; in fact, I had gone there myself. It sold a large selection of expensive, take-out items. I could picture them in front of me, in their spotlit earthenware dishes. I leafed through the pages and found the number: 787.2000.

  I stood still for a moment, trying to compose myself. My throat had dried up; my bowels churned. I felt as if I were standing on a very high diving board, willing myself to move. The water glittered below me, miles away.

  I took a deep breath. It was only stage fright, after all. I went over to the mirror.

  I hadn’t practised her voice for weeks now. I was rusty.

  It’s easier, speaking to your reflection. You ought to try it.

  ‘Hi, this is Lila Dune,’ I said. I tilted my head, just like she did, and looked at myself under my eyelashes. She could be so damned flirtatious, even with the phone. ‘Hi, this is Lila Dune.’ I smiled. She smiled.

  It’s fascinating. Once you start speaking in somebody else’s voice your face subtly changes. Mine does, anyway. I’m an actress, you see; that’s why.

  My face looked fuller, softer. More sluttish. Pouting at Lila, I moved my head slightly as I spoke. She did that. I knew her mannerisms so well; I had studied her with great attention – Lila, my PhD.

  Actually, I felt quite calm. I shimmied over to the phone and dialled 787.2000. I looked at my watch; it was 2.30.

  ‘Linsky’
s,’ said a brusque voice.

  ‘Hi,’ I drawled. ‘This is Lila Dune.’

  His voice grew warmer. ‘Hi, Miss Dune. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Fine. I have some people coming over to dinner tonight. You ready?’

  There was a rustling sound. He must have been getting his pen. ‘Ready to go, Miss Dune.’ He repeated my name in that distinct way people speak when they’re wanting other people to listen, and be impressed.

  ‘Some of your fabulous seafood salad,’ I said. ‘For eight. Parma ham, two pounds, thinly sliced. Artichoke hearts in vinaigrette, you got any?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Some pumpernickel,’ I said. ‘You got any Beluga?’

  ‘Sure, Madam.’

  ‘Four ounces. No, make that eight. Some sour cream . . .’ I rattled off the list in my head; it grew, recklessly.

  When I had finished, he said, ‘Let’s just check that.’ He repeated my order.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘When can you deliver it?’

  ‘Right away, Miss Dune. Within the hour.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and put down the phone.

  It was then that I started trembling. My bowels had turned to liquid and I rushed to the bathroom.

  I remember giggling. I sat on the lavatory, gazing at the towel rail and shuddering with laughter. What a hoot! Two hundred dollars’ worth at least! Two hundred dollars’ worth of dinner party turning up at her apartment!

  But you ordered it, Miss Dune, said the gum-chewing delivery boy.

  I wha-a-at? Lila stared at him.

  You ordered it. Look. Here. Showing her the list.

  I had to get out. I felt full of energy, like a wicked schoolgirl. I left the apartment and hurried down the street. A police siren wailed. What if they came and got me?

  They couldn’t, of course. I was a nobody. I was a ventriloquist.

  I strode all the way to Battery Park. The wind whipped my face. I felt flushed and vigorous; I hadn’t felt in such rude health for months. Buses thundered past me, rattling the metal plates that bolted the streets together. The whole city rocked and creaked on its loose joints but I had conquered it. I felt as powerful as a potentate. One press of a button and lo and behold! In a far country it was all chaos. This was fun! With my stick, I had broken open an ants’ nest; its inmates teemed in confusion. I wha-a-at? echoed, far away, from Central Park West.

  I was due to see Roly later that night. First, he was taking his contracts manager out for dinner. Half BCM’s clients had been signed up for Bonfire of the Vanities – half of everybody’s clients had been signed up for Bonfire of the Vanities – and Roly was celebrating. Unlike many agents, Roly was generous to his staff. He was always taking them out, sending them flowers when they were sick and remembering their children’s barmitzvahs and birthdays.

  He was always sending me flowers, too. When I got back there was a huge bunch of roses waiting for me in the lobby. Trev had never sent me flowers. Well, once he had nicked some forsythia from somebody’s garden but it wasn’t the same.

  No, it wasn’t. It was wonderful. He had wrapped them up in an old copy of Exchange and Mart and delivered them to me with a flourish. I had flung my arms around him and smothered him with kisses, rubbing my face against his stubbly cheek.

  ‘Feels like a goddam cheese grater,’ said Lila, droolingly.

  She called him Tee. Wasn’t that revolting!

  Roly was particularly affectionate that night.

  ‘You’ve changed my life,’ he said, stroking my cheek. I was curled up in the armchair. ‘Know that? You’ve made an old man very happy.’

  ‘You’re not so old,’ I said abruptly. I turned away from his fat, jowly face. I hated it when he talked like that. Didn’t he understand the rules?

  ‘How’s Lila?’ I asked casually, addressing the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Heard anything from her today?’

  He shook his head, and went on to tell me about some screening he had been to that afternoon, some new Michael Douglas picture. His words pattered like rain on a distant roof. Why should she have phoned him, anyway? Why should she have phoned her agent about a mysterious deli delivery? Ridiculous, wasn’t it?

  He was telling me about location problems on some rainforest project, somewhere in Brazil. Inside my skirt, his hand was creeping up my thigh. His fingers were always slightly damp. They reached my stocking top.

  Why couldn’t he find out about Lila, for Christ’s sake? Why did he think I was here?

  ‘Everybody’s working on a rainforest picture,’ he chortled. ‘Soon there’ll be more film crews than Indians.’

  Suddenly I pushed his hand away. I thought of Gertie. ‘Don’t talk like that!’ I snapped. ‘That’s a stupid, cynical thing to say!’

  A couple of days passed with no word about Lila. I decided to intensify my campaign. The idea had been brewing for some time; when I thought about it my skin prickled.

  I bought some newspapers and magazines at the news-stand opposite and took them back to my apartment. Leafing through them, I wondered where I would pla’nt my story. In Spy, People? In Liz Smith in the News or Suzy in the Post? In the National Enquirer?

  Planning was half the fun. I lingered over the pages. ‘Angry Zsa Zsa Flings Bread in Eatery,’ said one item. ‘Guess What Kim Basinger Wears Under Nun’s Habit!’ Celebrities smiled at me from flashlight photos. ‘“Falcon Crest” Gal Panics Over Creepy Stalker,’ said another item, about a TV actress who was spooked by a series of threatening letters.

  What a load of nutsos there were out there! One of them dung to every celebrity, like a limpet. Like a parasite. They clung on for dear life, sucking out the blood and discharging their poison. And nobody could see them! Clever, weren’t they?

  I decided on the National Enquirer because I was a coward; I didn’t believe anyone would read it. My stomach had started fluttering, but I sat still for a moment and did my deep-breathing exercises. When I spoke I was admirably calm.

  I asked for the celebrity items column. I used one of my favourite accents: Brooklyn. My name was Bernice.

  Somebody called Mitch, or Rick, answered. I didn’t get his name.

  ‘I was sitting in a Greenwich Village eatery last night,’ said Bernice. She told him the name and address of the Cajun place. ‘It was late, there was only one other couple there. Imagine my surprise when I recognised the guy. Boy, was I in for a shock!’

  Mitch, or whoever, asked, ‘And who was that, Bernice?’

  ‘Trevor Parsons! You know, who’s been having a relationship with Lila Dune.’

  His voice sharpened. ‘Ah, yes.’

  She paused, for effect. ‘But it sure wasn’t Lila Dune he was relating to, not last night! She was a petite redhead, in a dress that I assure you left nothing to the imagination! If what they’d been doing was shown on TV, why the lines would be jammed! I was kind of embarrassed myself. Kissing and cuddling, and a lot more than that.’

  ‘Do you have a name for this person, Bernice?’

  ‘Sure. I met her in the rest room, later, when she was putting back some of her lipstick. Her name’s Susan. She told me. She said she’d met Trevor when they were shooting Jane Eyre and she was one of the background artistes. They couldn’t date then, because he was staying at Lila Dune’s lovely home.’ I gave the address of Lila’s place on Doheny Drive. ‘They used to meet late at night, when Miss Dune was asleep. She always goes to bed early, apparently, when she has a call.’

  ‘And could you give me your full name and address, Bernice?’

  ‘Just call me a well-wisher,’ I said, and hung up.

  The story duly appeared in the next issue. Grinning, I read it in my local coffee shop. It was just a small item, pretty much as I had told it though peppered with exclamation marks. ‘Psst! Wanna know where horny scribbler Trevor Parsons enjoys the hottest speciality on the menu?’ It was accompanied by a photo I hadn’t seen before of Lila and Trev in evening dress.

  Sniggering, I hurried out into the su
nshine. It was a glorious spring day; I blinked in the glare. The driver of a passing truck whistled at me. I must have still been smiling.

  I phoned the National Enquirer the following day. I cleared my throat and spoke in Irma’s guttural Hungarian accent – another voice that I had perfected over the past few months.

  ‘Zees is the private secretary of Miss Lila Dune. Your item deeply distressed Miss Dune and eet eez completely unfounded, a complete lie, she denies any truth in it whatsoever –’

  The man interrupted. ‘Thank you for calling us, but as we told you this morning –’

  ‘Vat?’

  ‘Maybe it was the publicist who called. Who was it, Curly?’ There were muffled voices as he talked to someone else. He came back on the line. ‘Yep, just checking. We’ve had a call from a representative of Miss Dune, we understand your position, if you hold on I’ll put you through to –’

  ‘Zat’s OK,’ I said, and replaced the receiver.

  My hand was trembling. It took me a while to light my cigarette.

  So she had seen it! Lila had read the item; she had been upset enough to get somebody to phone!

  You plant these seeds. It’s a miracle, isn’t it? Those tiny, poisonous shoots appearing.

  I had set events in motion and now I couldn’t stop. I knew what it was like to be jealous, you see. I had suffered so much in the past. Why shouldn’t Lila suffer now?

  The next day I decided to phone Lila’s private number. I planned it for the late afternoon, when both Fidelia and Irma would have gone home. Trev, I guessed, wouldn’t be there either. Roly had told me that he had some urgent deadline; he had to finish his book. Nobody could possibly work in the vicinity of Lila, she would never let them. Trevor would be at his apartment.

  I paused for a moment, my hand on the phone. Who was this girlfriend of Trev? I closed my eyes, let out my breath, paused, and breathed in Susan’s. She was a composite of several extras I had met in LA. However, when I squeezed my eyes shut she thickened up. I could picture her now. She lay on her plastic recliner reading True Confessions and dreaming of her dream kitchen. Trev and she had gotten together in Le Dôme one lunchtime, when everybody else was out on location. After all, Trev was seldom on the set. He had plied her with spritzers and told her she had gorgeous tits and the relationship had blossomed. Now she had followed him to New York.