The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I took a breath. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She says she’d be really happy to see you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She wants you to go visit her.’

  My first reaction was to rush to the bathroom and throw up. I knelt on the floor and gripped the lavatory bowl. I was being tossed on the sea, and I tried to grip the lifebelt. I knelt there for a long time, I didn’t dare move.

  Afterwards my throat felt eroded with add; it felt raw, as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper, over and over. I gazed in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes. I looked crazy. I looked like one of the people I met in atriums.

  What on earth was I going to do? I couldn’t possibly go. How could I face her? What could I say? What was she going to say?

  Going to prison is a sort of death. It happens so suddenly. You are plucked from your home, leaving it a Marie Celeste of shockingly half-finished tasks. You are bundled away, locked up and silenced. Six weeks ago Lila had to all intents and purposes died. Now she had spoken, her voice threw me into confusion.

  It took me hours to decide. At first I thought I wouldn’t go, but I knew I was helpless. I couldn’t resist her siren voice; it still had the power to summon me to her side. A blush rose to my face; wasn’t that ridiculous?

  After a struggle I decided I would go. Just for half an hour. It would look curious, if I didn’t. Besides, Roly had told me her reason for wanting to see me.

  ‘She says she’s lonely. Nobody visits her except Irma and her Mom and they irritate the hell out of her,’ he said. ‘When I told her you were going to work on Dead on Arrival she said you had to go and see her and she’ll give you all the dirt on the director. She worked with him on Touch and Go.’ It sounded utterly innocent.

  So the next afternoon I took the train from Grand Central Station. I was extremely nervous. But I wasn’t suspicious; not at all.

  The journey took an hour, up the Harlem Line of Metro North. I sat in an empty carriage. I concentrated on the names of the stations, counting them off. Bronxville . . . Scarsdale . . . White Plains. I willed the unwillable; for the number of stations to multiply rather than reduce, like a billowing, reversed spool of tape. I was a child going to the dentist; I cursed the remorseless, continual swallowing-up of time that was propelling me forward. The burnt-out hulks of Harlem had long since been left behind and I was out in commuter-land. The sun shone on white clapboard houses. They slid by, as blameless and unreal as those on the back lot. Nothing looks as innocent as an American suburb. I passed a drive-thru bank, disguised as a country cottage. I passed the Valhalla Animal Hospital, disguised as a church. There was no sign of life. The dormitory communities slumbered through the long, chilly afternoon. Just sometimes I passed pockets of marshy wilderness, as surprising as underarm hair.

  I arrived at Bedford Hills and got out. The station was empty. The main street of the little town was silent with parked cars. I walked past bow-fronted thrift shops run by commuters’ wives. Come to our Bake-In! said a handwritten sign. I stopped outside Jeni’s Boutique and Gifte Shoppe. All at once I had the strangest sensation. This town was just a façade; these boutiques were just erected for my visit. Taffy’s Bakery, with its window display of muffins, was as phoney as the Dickensian corner shop where I had first glimpsed Lila that sultry day, over a year before. The town was simply a film set, to be dismantled when I departed.

  I felt deeply uneasy. At that moment I nearly turned back, hurried to the station and made my escape. I nearly did. But Lila still pulled me. So I found a cab and it took me to the correctional facility, a mile away.

  I’ll never forget my first sight of the prison. Solid and brickred, it looked like a Victorian power station. It was sunk in a valley, hemmed in by russet trees. Tall fences, topped with tangled sausages of barbed wire, surrounded the buildings. A sentry tower rose as high as a factory chimney.

  I was directed to a peeling Portakabin. Inside, they frisked me for metal. There were notices on the walls, in Spanish and English. An officer searched my handbag and removed my street map, matches and bunch of keys. He put them aside, in a brown paper gunny-bag. I silently thanked God that I no longer carried the keys to Lila’s apartment; I had hidden them back home. He wouldn’t have recognised them but I would, and I needed my wits about me. I laid my hand on the desk and he stamped it with invisible ink, as if I were entering an exclusive night club to which the whole of New York was clamouring to gain entry. I was released, and walked through a huge wire gate, which was opened for me by another officer. I walked across a pen, through another gate up to the main entrance. My steps faltered. Suddenly my throat constricted; I was gripped with claustrophobia. They’ve got me now, I thought. It’s all an elaborate trick. I can’t escape.

  Then I thought, Don’t behave oddly. Not now. They’re all watching.

  In the entrance lobby, an enormously fat officer stood behind a desk. Her uniform strained over her vast belly and hips. A heavy bunch of keys hung from her belt, as if she were a jailer. She was a jailer. She was eating something from a tub, with a plastic spoon. Nearby was a heavy, barred gate.

  I told her who I was visiting. ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, and lifted the phone.

  She was telling them that the plan was working. The rabbit was in the trap.

  I turned away, my heart thumping. A good-looking black woman, another visitor, stood waiting to be let through the gate. She glanced up at the surveillance mirror and fixed her hair.

  The fat officer eased herself out from behind the desk, and inserted her key in the lock. The gate swung open. I held out my hand, under an infra-red light. Another officer escorted me down the corridor. Behind me I heard the gate clanging shut. It echoed. That’s the sound you always hear in prison: gates clanging shut.

  In the visiting room I spotted Lila at once, the only blonde woman amongst a mass of brown faces. But then you could always spot Lila, anywhere. She hurried over to me and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Honey!’ she said. ‘It’s great to see you!’

  She dragged me to a chair and we sat down. I paused, glancing at her. I had expected all sorts of Lilas, but not this one. Her hair looked newly-washed and fluffy; it hung loose to her shoulders. Her face was flushed; her eyes bright. She looked wired up, as if she had been taking drugs. As if my visit was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.

  ‘You look terrific,’ I said.

  Like the other inmates she wore a regulation, state-issued outfit: green slacks and a white blouse.

  ‘Think so?’ she asked. ‘I think it’s the pits. Remember that line from Sexbusters? “Honey, green’s not your colour”.’

  ‘Our first scene,’ I said. ‘The first scene we did together.’

  Just then I had the curious feeling that we were acting. At the time I blamed it on our unlikely surroundings, and the fact that, indeed, I was performing a part and would be doing so for the rest of my life. But she seemed phoney too; she seemed too animated.

  To cover my confusion I rummaged in my bag and produced my gifts: Snicker bars, Pepperidge Farm Nantuckets, a pack of apricot kernels.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, barely looking at them. They lay in her lap.

  We were silent. Next to us, a couple was sitting close together, kissing. The man drew back, cleared the phlegm in his throat, and resumed. I heard a faint, slurping sound.

  ‘Know who I miss?’ said Lila. ‘Orson.’

  It was a large room, painted orange and yellow and lined with vending machines selling coffee and snacks. A rainbow mural had been painted on one of the walls. At one end was a sign saying CHILDREN’S CENTER; shouts came from the room beyond. At the other end was a raised desk. It was manned by officers, who surveyed the room. They were looking at me, I was sure of it.

  The couple beside us hadn’t said a word. They had stopped kissing; they sat side by side, like two ebony figurines. I knew I should be asking Lila how she was feeling, how she was getting on, what her day was like, but I s
imply couldn’t bring myself to do it. It seemed such an intrusion. That might seem ridiculous, but that’s how I felt.

  So I said, ‘Tell me about Lou Minke. What was he like on Touch and Go?’

  She lit a cigarette and blew twin jets of smoke through her nostrils.’ I’m going to be straight with you,’ she said. ‘That’s not the reason I wanted to see you.’

  I didn’t move.

  She said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Jules. It’s been bugging me for weeks. I’ve been trying to psyche myself up.’

  I took a breath. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  She turned to look at me. ‘I knew you’d been having a relationship with Tee. I knew it all the time.’

  My heart stopped. It seemed like a full minute before it started again, hammering against my ribcage. She turned away from me and looked down at her hands; smoke wreathed up, between her fingers.

  ‘That guy, he was a total son-of-a-bitch,’ she said. ‘I knew he was using me. He just wanted me for my goddam body. He used me like he used everyone, his fucking play said it all. I was just one more sucker.’ She gazed at the shiny packages on her lap. Her voice was flat. ‘Faking my pregnancy, what a jerk-off thing to do. But by that stage I’d do anything.’ She looked up. ‘Hon, you meant a heck of a lot to him, I had no idea. He always wanted you. He talked about you, about how you were so goddam intellectual, so goddam clever. That’s why I had you thrown off the picture.’ She took a drag of her cigarette. Her hands were shaking. ‘I thought it was over. He was cured. He said it was over. Then I found out it wasn’t.’ She looked up. Her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘You were still seeing him.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ I cried. ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You might as well come clean,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not true!’

  ‘I know you were still screwing him. He told me, that night. That’s why I shot him.’

  I stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘He told me everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My head spun. She’d shot him?

  She said, ‘He said he only wanted me for the sex. But he wanted you for your mind.’

  ‘He didn’t!’

  ‘Even though you were a lousy fuck.’

  I stared. ‘I’m not!’

  ‘He said you screwed like a schoolmistress.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ I protested. ‘He always said I was terrific!’

  I stopped. My brain felt scrambled. I realised that I’d said too much, but I couldn’t work out what it was. I needed, desperately, to disentangle myself.

  Lila shrugged, and tapped her ash on the floor. The couple next to us were holding hands. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything.

  Finally I rallied. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I did have a little fling with him. Ages ago. But that was way back in England. Anyway, who hadn’t had a fling with Trev?’ I tried to smile. ‘He jumped anything that moved. No wonder you couldn’t stand it any more.’

  Lila nodded. She took my hand and squeezed my fingers. ‘I just wanted to tell you why I did it.’

  Why she did it? I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘I went there that night and I told that motherfucker I was going to kill him.’ Her voice was quiet. Her fingers kneaded mine. ‘He didn’t believe me. He laughed in my face. You believe that? He didn’t think I could do it. But I squeezed the trigger and pow!’ She pushed her hair off her face. ‘Know something, hon? It was kind of a relief.’ She leant towards me and kissed me on the cheek. Her lips were dry. ‘I’m glad I told you. It’s like this big weight’s been lifted. We can be friends now, huh?’

  I nodded, speechlessly.

  The next morning I started work on Dead on Arrival. I still suspected nothing. Lila’s revelations had sent me reeling, but I just presumed that she had finally cracked up. Prison had finished off what showbusiness had started. Whether it’s the process of law or of the media, you finally get to believe what you’re told. They hold up a distorting mirror of almost-lies, of persuasions and manipulations, and you start to believe that the reflection is your own face. It becomes your own truth; it reinvents you in its own warped image.

  During breaks in the shooting my mind was busy. Trev must have told her, at some point, about us. That was all. The news had festered in her. She had seethed, just as I had seethed, with jealousy. Now he was gone, she realised how much she missed me, how much she had thrown away. How men could come and go, but it wasn’t worth losing me, her great friend.

  I felt exultant. Flattered too, of course. All this time, she had been thinking of me. Little old me. I had been in her heart, just as she had been in mine. At last we were truly close. I would visit her. She said she had few visitors. Obviously all those showbiz types just melted away at the first sign of trouble. Shallow, ruthless little shits. How lucky she was, to know a woman with good, solid British values. I wasn’t like that; not me.

  I had a marvellous day and turned in a terrific performance. I felt expiated. Blessed. Lila believed she had done it – even to myself, I could only call it It. If she believed it, so could I. There was nothing to worry about. Prison would be a deepening, ultimately rewarding experience for her. Though locked away, she would in a sense be released from the febrile imprisonment of her fame. She would gather strength from the real lives, the real struggles and tragedies of the ordinary people from whom she had been separated for so many years. She would be down amongst her public, at last. She belonged there.

  And when she was released early, for good behaviour, she would emerge blinking into the sunshine to find me waiting.

  No imposter now, I sat in a canvas chair marked ARTISTE. We were shooting a series of hospital scenes; I wore my white physio’s outfit as if I were born to it. My career was just beginning; soon I would be a movie star. Dead on Arrival had all the signs of becoming a good picture; the director was sensitive, the story was gripping. It was a bleak, psychological thriller with a twist in the climax of each act. The female star, who I hadn’t yet met, was an actress called Murielle Fames whose work I admired.

  As I sat, inhaling on my cigarette, a girl walked past me. She stopped, and came back.

  ‘I liked what you did this morning,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ I replied. ‘Thanks.’

  She was mousy and instantly forgettable; she shuffled her feet.

  ‘So who do you play?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t play anybody,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She grinned ruefully. ‘I’m just Miss Fames’s stand-in.’

  I looked up at her and smiled. ‘You just hang in there, kid,’ I said.

  Five

  THE NEXT MORNING was freezing cold. The buildings looked carved against the blue sky as I travelled to Brooklyn. It was our second day’s filming in the hospital; one of the climactic scenes in the movie. The hero, with my support, is trying to regain the use of his legs. He hobbles up and down his room, telling me about his failed marriage. At this point, two hit men burst in on us. Before they can kill him, however, a bunch of cops come clattering down the corridor and there’s a big shoot-out.

  The atmosphere was tense, that morning. It was a complicated scene; there were a lot of moves to rehearse and a whole lot of new actors on the set. They milled around in their cops’ uniforms, drinking Coke. Their leather gun-holsters gleamed.

  They had turned up the heating. I was sweating in my nylon jacket. My stomach felt tight and gassy. I had dreamed about my father, and this always dislocated the morning after. The whole day, in fact. Images suddenly rose up, making me lose my footing as if a stair had been removed.

  ‘Miss Sampson, can you come over here?’

  The coach instructed me how to support Oscar Blechman, the actor. He leant against me, nearly toppling me over. The sun shone through the blinds; my hands were slippery. My feet slid on the polished floor.

  I had the sensation that I was being watched, but when I turned round all I saw was the black, homely face of the phys
io coach. I hadn’t caught her name. I hardly knew anybody’s name.

  ‘You got it?’ she asked.

  I nodded. Beyond the window, in the corridor, I saw one of the cops pausing to look at me. He took a drag on his cigarette and walked on.

  Oscar leaned heavily against me. I tried to rehearse my lines, silently, but I couldn’t remember them. I expect great things of you, Julia. It was my father’s voice. Look at me! I replied. I’m acting in the movies! Aren’t you pleased with your little girl now?

  ‘That’s fine,’ said the coach. ‘Take his weight. That’s it.’

  How could I possibly support him and remember my lines, both at the same time? How did people do it? I was standing on a stage, the audience was waiting. The faces were upturned so hopefully. My father sat in the front row. I was standing there, naked, and when I opened my mouth no sounds came.

  Through the door I saw the blue blur of a cop’s uniform. It was crowded out there. Every time I saw the cops it gave me a jolt. Stupid, wasn’t it?

  They were only actors. This was only a rehearsal.

  A camera was being manoeuvred into position. It trundled across the shiny floor. How cramped this room was! I could hardly move. Oscar lay back on the bed, his eyes closed. His jaws worked as he chewed his gum. His thick, grizzled hair reminded me of my father. He opened one eye and looked at me. Then he winked. My father’s head, rising from the chimney pot.

  ‘Can you come with me?’

  I swung round. It was the make-up girl. Nothing too alarming, was it? She had a yellow ribbon in her hair. Wide-eyed, she gazed at my face.

  ‘Jeez, you look hot.’

  People moved back as I made my way to the door. What did she mean by that? The others were sweating, too, weren’t they?

  ‘I’ve forgotten my lines,’ I said to her, giggling. ‘Isn’t that a thing?’

  She didn’t hear. I felt clumsy and foolish; in fact, I nearly tripped over a cable.

  Out in the corridor, one of the cops scratched his nose with a beefy finger. He looked like Rod Steiger. He moved towards me and I flinched back. But he was only making his way to the water cooler.