Cape Cod Casting Couch
(A Vacation from Love – Book 1)
by
Rebecca Milton
***
Copyright © 2014 Rebecca Milton - All rights reserved.
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Cape Cod Casting Couch
Because she was famous.
Because she was someone that people knew when they saw her in the market on the street, having an ice cream cone. Because she was a public figure, it was assumed that she was public property.
She wasn’t.
How often had she heard the sentences, “Hey, I know you,” or “don’t I know you?” How often had she wanted to say, no, there is no way you could know me because you don’t want to take the time? There’s no way you could know me because we have never met. There is no way you could...
“You’re that actress, I saw you do...” then the list, then the autograph request, then the rundown of the career, then the questions about what’s next, then the picture and then, and then, and then... Like a drive thru at a cheap hamburger joint, pull up, order and get what you want. Because she is on the billboards, the televisions talk shows, the big screens... She is on the menu.
For a while, when it first started, she was flattered. In the beginning, people were polite. Maybe because she wasn’t a household name just yet. She was recognizable, but no one was really sure exactly why just yet. In the early days, it was people who saw the indie films, the art films, they had to really know their shit to know who she was by sight and name. Those were good days. Those were the days when the fans just said, hello, really loved you in... Once in a while a burgeoning filmmaker would stop her, chat for a few minutes, but they were polite and respectful. They were always kind, wishing her the best. Looking forward to seeing her career take off. She thanked them, told them she hoped so as well. The early days were good. The early days were exciting.
Then she won the awards. Then she was booked on the talk shows. Then, she was interviewed. Then, there were the phony scandals about her in the rags, the supermarket tabloids. She hated those.
“Why,” her agent, who believed in her when she started out, so she was kept on when fame rolled in, “that’s free publicity, Amelia, that’s gold. I’m telling you, there are people in this town who would kill to have a phony scandal written about them in those rags.” Like that was some kind of comfort. That was supposed to assuage her anger and make her feel better, some jackass writes a story about her and some guy that is not true, that is ugly, that is hurtful and she is supposed to be thankful for it. In the beginning, she had a lot to learn. Which she did. It wasn’t easy.
The money was good. Not simply that there was a lot of it, but it was good because it allowed her to escape, to insulate. That was a perk of the fame. Also, because she was famous, because she had won the awards, she had her pick of work. All the years she had struggled, had taken the worst play, at the worst theaters, for little to no money. All the student films and the shitty “b” movies she had played bit parts in to get experience. All the auditions, the begging to be seen, the struggles, now, that was in the past. Now, she had boxes of scripts, people asking her to work on their projects. Now, for the first time, she was able to turn work down. A luxury she never believed she would ever have. The days of working a crap day job so she could rehearse a play at night were gone. The days of taking vacation time from her job so she could spend it making a cheap movie were gone. She no longer had to do the job for her career, she now had the career that commanded, and that was a dream come true. Only bad side...
She was famous.
“I need to vanish for a while,” she told Camille on Sunday morning. Camille had come to her house to discuss the next project. They sat on the beach, drank mimosas and Camille basked in the glory that had come from Amelia’s hard work and fame. “I just finished a film three days ago, Camille,” she argued, “I literally got back in my house seventeen hours ago. Do I need to do another film right now, right away?” They discussed this back and forth for some time, Camille believing that Amelia was hot right now, and she needed to capitalize on that. Amelia believing that she was good and that a little time away wouldn’t hurt. Camille wanted her working on another movie within two weeks, but Amelia wanted to disappear, vanish, to not step in front of a camera or an audience for a year.
“A year,” Camille shouted, “are you crazy? No, a year is too long, besides, you’d go out of your mind.” Which was true. Despite the dangers of fame, Amelia loved, loved, loved working. She worried that this love would fade if she kept pushing herself, kept doing film, after film. She needed to recharge. She needed life perceptive. She needed to bring something to the art. That was what she always believed, and that was what she told Camille.
“You know this about me, you know that is never going to change,” she told her anguished agent. “At one point, you agreed with me about this.” Amelia was right, and Camille knew this. They were not only agent and client -- they were lifelong friends. They had an understanding. Amelia used to say; “if I ever get famous...” and Camille would always say, “WHEN you get famous...” They had an understanding.
By the time the sun was sitting like a ball on a wire on the horizon, they had come to an uneasy agreement. Amelia would vanish, so to speak, for three months. Camille tried to get her down to one but then agreed she would field offers, pick scripts and have them ready for her to read when she returned. No meeti
ngs, no phone calls, no stopovers to have a few publicity shots done. Nothing. No work for three months.
“Where will you go,” Camille asked her, “one of those private islands like Johnny Depp has?” Amelia said she had no idea, someplace warm of course, someplace by the water of course.
“Some place where no one knows me,” she said and Camille laughed.
“Good luck with that,” Camille said and Amelia wished for luck.
***
Being famous, Amelia had famous friends, friends who had been dealing with fame a lot longer than she had. They were good for bitch sessions and advice. From two of them, she got the name of a small town, on the ocean, in New England. Despite its local, it was a very quiet town where these two famous friends had often taken refuge. She also got the name of a realtor they had used, discreet and caring, who Amelia called and rented a cottage for the three months that had been the agreed allotment for her vanishing. From a third famous friend, she got a good piece of advice.
“Hide in plain sight,” she was told, “the people in this town are pretty dyed in the wool New England. They are not fond of getting into other people’s business. Just go, act normal, shop, go to the bar, go to her restaurant, they will adopt you as one of their own and they will keep you safe. If you just be normal and hide in plain sight, no one will be curious about you and you will be left, basically, alone.”
She picked up her rental car at the airport, all things arranged in advance to cut down time in the open. She plugged in the GPS coordinates and off she went. The further she got from the City of Boston, the better she felt. She believed that this trip, this town, this time away would be just what she needed. No work. No paparazzi. Just her, in a cottage, on the beach, with nothing to do for three solid months. Three months that had Camille in a worried snit.
“I’ll probably go out of my mind,” she said to herself as the suburbs flew by, and the land became more and more open outside her windows.
Five hours, two bathroom stops, one cheeseburger, if she was going to vanish she was certainly not going to keep to her “Hollywood” diet that much, later, she pulled into the town of Sandbrooke. She followed the directions she had written on a torn envelope to the realtor’s office and parked in front. The office was actually someone’s house. The someone was Marla Koff, of Marla Koff Realty. According to the sign, Marla was also a notary, a lawyer and an ordained minister.
“Minister,” Amelia said as she sat in Marla’s kitchen and signed papers for the cottage.
“Yup,” Marla said, a cigarette hanging from her bottom lip, defying all the laws of gravity, “mostly homo marriages, but I do some ‘traditional’ ones as well.” She used air quotes when she said traditional.
“Homo marriages,” Amelia said, knowing that she shouldn’t question, being a guest in this town and all, but she found it a little disturbing.
“Simmer down, miss,” Marla said, “I’m a lesbian. I have a live-in girlfriend, I am a diehard equal rights activist. I love the gays, the lesbos, the queers, what have you. I just call them homo marriages. I do it mostly because it rankles the town selectmen. They say same sex and I say, I don’t have sex the same as you. Boils their butts and gives me a laugh. So, don’t start picketing my shop, OK?” Amelia agreed and instantly decided she liked Marla.
Papers were signed, checks written, keys handed over and Amelia headed to her car to start her vanishing routine. Marla walked her out.
“Hide in plain sight,” Marla told her, echoing the advice her friends had given her. “People here will give you the once over the first few days then, they don’t give a shit. Just be a decent human being, and you’ll get the same back tenfold.”
Amelia thanked her, hopped in her car and drove away slowly, taking in the small town, the sand-covered streets and the sense of tranquility that was washing over her. This was just what she needed, she told herself. She would be comfortable here. She would not go out of her mind. In fact, she worried that she would never want to leave. She drove easily and slowly down street after street until she found the cottage she had rented. A beautiful little place, sitting up on a plateau, right above the beach.
To the left was a long, stone breakwater that stretched far out into the water. To the right, endless, clean, beach. The sun was going down by the time she got moved in and settled. The beach was spotted with a few walkers. Some couples, some singular. She descended the staircase at the back of her cottage and was on the sand in a few moments. She started to stroll down the beach.
As she walked, the worries about being noticed faded away and she began to believe that this was the refuge, the escape that she so needed. After an hour of walking, she turned and headed back to her new place. When she was about a hundred yards from her steps, she noticed a man carrying gear down on to the beach, directly in front of her cottage. Had she been discovered? She walked slowly by him.
“Hide in plain sight,” she told herself and smiled at the man, giving him a friendly wave. He barely acknowledged her as he carried his gear down and dropped it on the beach. She ascended the stairs and stood at her back door, watching the man go to his car and carry armloads of gear down to the beach. He’s camping out right in front of my place, she thought, he’s certainly not shy about his work. She watched him for a few more minutes then went inside. She closed the back blinds that covered the huge floor to ceiling windows and felt sad. She was looking forward to that view, the ocean, and the moon as she settled in, but she couldn’t take the risk of some photographer snapping pictures of her all night. In the morning she would go say hello, allow him a few pictures, a few questions and then, maybe, he’d let her be. “Plain sight,” she said as she got ready for bed.
***
“Listen,” she said to the man the next morning. He was sitting by a small fire that he had going, a coffee pot on it. His tent was pitched, and he had set up a small, cozy, camp site. He looked up at her and said nothing. “I understand you have a job to do, I do,” she said. “I respect that and I am cool with it. I was kind of hoping to get some private time, so how about this; I let you take a few pictures, I answer a few questions and then, you just leave me alone and let me have my vacation in peace.” He stood up, put his hands on his hips and stared at her.
“Who the fuck are you,” he said and then, his head turned quickly toward the water, and he took off running. She watched him run down to the surf and take hold of a fishing rod that was in a stand stuck in the sand. There were four of them in a row. He took the rod and pulled it out of the stand and started to reel it in. He was engaged in a fierce battle with whatever was on the other end of the line. She walked down and stood near him, watching the action. The water in front of them was busy, churning like a washing machine.
After a long struggle, the man pulled a large, blue-green fish onto the sand. He carefully took it off the hook and then, dropped the flopping, fighting fish into a large tub of water that was near the four rods. As soon as he had the fish in the tub, he baited the hook and flung it far out into the surf. Moments later, another rod bent and shook. He grabbed it and repeated the process, pulling another fish onto the sand. Into the tub it went. Again, he baited the hook, flung it far out, put it back in the holder and stood back. He then moved up and down between the four rods, testing them, reeling them in a little and replacing them back into their holders. She said nothing. She just watched. When he was set, when he felt the rods were fine, he finally returned to her.
“Sorry, what were you saying,” he asked. She had no idea how to reply. He stood looking at her, his eyes a clear blue, His face was stubbly, ruddy and his hair was long and bleached by sun and surf. He seemed very no-nonsense, and she suddenly felt self-conscious.
“I was saying,” she stammered, “I’m on vacation and was kind of hoping for some privacy.” He stared at her. “So, I was thinking, what if I let you take some pictures, answer a few questions and then, you just let me have my privacy.” He said nothing just kept looking at her.
&nb
sp; “Once again, who the fuck are you?” She was shocked.
“I’m Amelia Baker,” she said and then, she felt stupid.
“OK,” he said and moved back to the rods, stood with his feet in the surf and watched the water, “Am I supposed to know you, Amelia Baker,” he said over his shoulder. She moved down and stood in the surf next to him. The water felt good. She stood watching the surf churning.
“What’s out there,” she asked, and he turned to her, he seemed surprised that she was still there.
“Bluefish, they are running this time of year. Now and at the end of the season.” He looked out at the water.
“What are they doing?”
“Feeding, they school and trap baitfish and then just attack.” He went silent again, just watching the water, watching the churning surf. Suddenly one of his rods bent almost to the water, and he flew to it. He pulled it out of the holder and started to reel in energetically. Within a few minutes, he had landed another fish. This one larger than the other two. He pulled it off the hook and replaced the rod in its holder. He brought the fish to her and showed her.
“Bluefish,” he said and then, he pulled the mouth open carefully, showing her two rows of very sharp looking teeth.
“Oh, God, do they bite?” He laughed and dropped the fish into the tub with the other two. He baited the rod he had just cleared, cast it out into the surf and replaced it back into the holder.
“So, Amelia Baker,” he said, washing his hands in the surf and returning to stand beside her, his attention always on the rods and the surf, never fully on her. “Why would I want to take your picture or ask you questions?” She laughed, suddenly feeling stupid. How did she explain that she was famous without saying that directly?
“Well, I’m kinda... famous,” she said and he looked at her. He looked her over, tried to figure out who she was and came up empty. She could tell he had no idea who she was. She felt relieved and silly at the same time.
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