This nugget is news to me. I’d self-quarantined all entertainment media the past few days, partly in fear of finding myself in a blind item. Or Priscilla lurking in the background with any of my clients. The era of studio “matchmaking” may be over, but it’s not uncommon for crafty agents and managers still to pair up their clients for publicity or deception. There’s no better guaranteed attention than when a fresh pair of shiny stars align.
“Eva’s pretty amazing,” Billy continues, “but she’s not my type.”
“Yeah, she’s awfully heinous,” I deadpan.
“How are things with Jake?”
No pussyfooting around.
“Jacob. Over.” I close my eyes but still see Jacob’s crushed expression, hear the angry parting words. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, if it helps, anyone who accepts losing you is a fool.”
“Says the man who shrugs at Eva Mendes.”
Billy laughs, raising his palms in surrender. “What can I say? The heart knows what it wants—even if it sometimes confuses the hell out of us or others.”
“You know, I will have a glass of wine.” Just one. Billy gets up to fetch me a stem glass as I ponder his last remark, connecting it to Mom’s words. In matters of the heart, no one has all the answers. Why has everyone but me gotten the memo? “You are a very wise cowboy.”
With a pretend tip of his hat, he responds, “Why, thank you, ma’am.”
“So… you needed my fashion ‘expertise’ for…”
“Oh yeah, sorry.” Billy retrieves the scripts, but instead of handing me a copy, he holds them to his chest. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
That gets my attention.
“You know how the whole zombie craze won’t die?” he continues.
“Undead, so to speak,” I say to tease.
“Well my agent and Wanda think I should do one. A horror project. Connect with a younger demographic—particularly teen boys. Raise my Q Score.”
I’m not an agent or a manager, so I’m not supposed to have an opinion on projects… and as of just recently, I’m not supposed to have any opinions at all when it comes to one Billy Fox so… “Aha. Okay.” I demur. “So this is…” I peel back the stack of held scripts and even upside down can’t mistake “BRAINS FOR BREAKFAST” emblazoned across the title page. It’s impossible not to laugh. “Seriously?”
Now he’s laughing too. How could he not? “Hey, it’s only the working title!”
“But I thought your next project was the one you were so excited about? Where you get to go all Meryl Streep with the new accent…”
“Still happening, but schedule-wise there’s an opportunity to squeeze in this other shoot first. Screen tests with potential costars are next week and I want to bring my A-game out of the gate.”
“Well you know what they say: breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And if they’re serving—”
“Yeah yeah,” Billy says, playing along. “Keep it up and someone won’t get to borrow my future Teen Choice Award surfboard.” He holds up a stunning, easily $300-plus blue button-down. Then swaps it out for a gray T-shirt. “Which shirt should I wear to meet the producer? I need to seem… you know, capable of saving the world, but I didn’t really dress for it.”
“Well, what does your character do? I mean… what were you doing before the zombies arrived?”
“Actually I have to work on memorizing the scene too. You want to help me with that? Then you can make a more educated decision.”
“You win. Hand it over,” I say, indicating the script. “Who do I get to read? And please don’t say Zombie number forty-two.”
“Nah. You’re playing Emily.”
Emily. I test the name out, ready to become this mystery girl. The lean script can’t be more than a hundred pages. I quickly flip through my copy, pausing at the presumed audition scene, tagged with a Post-it.
“She’s kind of my girlfriend,” Billy says.
“Oh.” I take a deep sip of wine.
CUT TO:
INT. HOSPITAL EXAMINING ROOM – NIGHT
MAX huddles with EMILY, a very sexy young nurse in uniform, on the edge of a paper-lined examining table.
A hanging curtain shrouds the far side of the room. They’re staring intently at the room’s closed door.
MAX
It’s okay. I locked it. No one’s getting in.
EMILY
(quietly)
Are you sure we’re alone?
“Wait, what kind of movie is this again?” I say, interrupting the scene.
“Relax. It’s strictly R. Although there’s always the Director’s Cut.”
“Mhmmm.”
“It’s nearly a family movie,” Billy says, clearly enjoying messing with me.
“Yeah… one where they get eaten.”
“For real, this is an important, character-building scene. Okay?”
What the hell. I nod.
And then Billy—or rather Max, my “boyfriend”—takes my hand. It seems silly but the sudden intimacy is startling, even if it’s plainly scripted. I’m very aware of his close physical presence, the crisp trace of deodorant, the buffed manicure of his nails, the rise and fall of his breathing—and that we’re alone.
Billy turns my face toward his and looks deep in my eyes. His own eyes’ intense shade of pale blue is positively hypnotic. “When we get through this,” he says calmly, “and we will… everything’s going to be different. We’re going to go somewhere safe and warm—just the two of us. And have our chance to start over. Can you picture it?”
Yes. And there it is echoed on the page in black-and-white. I read on. “Yes. Where there’s no more pain. No regret.”
“And life is simple again. The open beach. Smell of salt in the air. Cry of gulls circling overhead. The sun on our shoulders. Toes in baked sand. Your hand curled in mine.”
Despite my parents’ and Izzy’s standing ovation for my fevered performance in sophomore year’s production of The Crucible, I don’t consider myself a particularly good actress. But in this moment, I am practically Method. Emily and I are one.
I grip my script tightly. Emily doesn’t have that many lines.
“Everything happens for a reason—even this,” Billy/Max says. “And as long as we stick it out together, we’ll survive.” His hand runs tenderly through my hair. “I was a fool to take you for granted. It’s taken all this—the chaos around us—to understand how I feel about you. Surviving isn’t worth it alone.”
Yes, even in my rhapsody, I can tell it’s a little cheesy. But it’s exactly what I need to hear… from someone… and the affirming words resonate inside.
I believe him.
Billy/Max leans in and we kiss. A passionate, open kiss that leaves me a bit woozy.
“Oh Billy.” Oops. A little off-script. But Billy, ever the professional, doesn’t break character.
“Shhh.”
“Sorry!” But again I’m off-script, the two worlds confusedly overlapping.
“Did you hear that?” he whispers urgently, eyes now wide, his fingers gripping my forearm. He silently edges off the settee and stalks toward the changing area. “I thought I heard something.”
My heart is in my throat as Billy grips the curtain folds and, without warning, flings it open. “Oh my God. Run!”
Billy’s horror is so convincing that I nearly dive off the settee, tossing my script to the floor. I’m half-expecting to find the walking dead shuffling toward me, a willowy salesgirl with dead eyes and a blood-smeared mouth craving my flesh. A beat later, I don’t know whether to laugh or be humiliated. Either way, my pulse is still racing.
“It’s ridiculous, right?” Billy says, referring to the script, but his words—and their larger truth—trigger an epiphany.
The “love” between Billy and me isn’t real.
Or at least it’s very different than Jacob’s. I can see it clearly now. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet or West Side Story. We’re not star-cro
ssed lovers. The only tragic ending may be my reputation and stalled career.
And the fact that I hurt Jacob, losing the one guy who loved me most.
I wanted a future, a commitment with Jacob. And when it didn’t happen on my own timetable, insecurity twisted into frustration. Instead of exploring why, I left myself open to the exciting yet totally unexpected possibility of Billy.
I got swept up in the moment—seduced by the easygoing charm and sexy attention Billy embodies.
But there’s no real future with Mr. Fox and me. And so, as with poor promised Emily, the happy ending isn’t guaranteed—or, let’s face it, even likely.
With all I’ve seen in my job, why didn’t I realize sooner that I was beholden to make-believe?
Now, Billy isn’t a bad guy at all. He may even care for me. But this exercise puts my infatuation—because ultimately that’s what it is—into belated perspective.
“You okay?” Billy says. “You seem miles away.”
“I’m good,” I reply. “You’re going to nail the audition—screen test—whatever. Really. I totally bought it. But I’ve got to get going.”
An escape is in order. And I know just the place to help clear my head.
But first I’ve got to do something long overdue.
Back home I boot up the laptop and log on to my personal email account. Lots of unread or unanswered messages. I’m too ashamed to simply pick up the phone and call.
Dearest Izzy,
I’m sorry. As I’m sure you guessed, I’ve been avoiding you. A LOT has happened lately—much I’m not proud of. Unfortunately I’m not coming to New York next week. Please tell Simon I’ll sorely miss him and “the Boss.”
Where to start? I suppose the beginning…
On the open road, flipping through radio stations, I’m amazed to discover just how many country music stars relate to my current situation. Whether they’re losing at love, not knowing how they’ll get through another day, or enduring the unemployment blues—I find myself totally nodding my head, grateful that at least Keith Urban and Lyle Lovett understand what I’m going through.
The drive east to Palm Desert usually takes about two and a half hours from Brentwood. Given that I “cleverly” decided to make the drive during peak hours, it will be closer to four. Luckily I brought some good company. In the passenger seat, Lizzie alternates between poking her head out the half-cracked window—pink tongue blissfully lolling out of her mouth—and curling up to nap in the increasingly warm sunshine. The old girl may be light on conversation, but she offers plenty of comfort and unconditional love.
It’s only fitting that she joins me on this getaway. My family originally picked Lizzie out at a breeder’s house on our way home from the desert one winter. I remember knowing immediately she was the right dog. It’s not that she was the only one who came running up to me with wishful puppy eyes. Nor was she showing off or trying to get her brothers and sisters to play with her. Instead, Lizzie had a rope chew toy in her mouth and wouldn’t let go. As an only child, I related to how self-sufficient and independent she was. And knew for certain we were meant to be together.
This morning my parents were gracious enough to loan me Lizzie and the keys to my childhood vacation home. After seeing things for what they are with Billy and belatedly confessing all via email to Izzy last night, I need a little off-the-grid time. And visiting Palm Desert, a city in the heart of Coachella Valley, approximately eleven miles east of Palm Springs, in the arid early summer, is definitely going against the grain. Dry heat or not, once the average high temperature settles in at triple digits, only the year-round aging Baby Boomers, sun-loving die-hards, and absolute masochists stick around.
But I’m not worried. In fact I welcome the relative quiet and easier parking of off-season. Besides, I’ve been coming here since I was eight and gracelessly swung my first golf club, so it’s not like I’m going to be surprised or bowled over by the intense subtropical climate.
Plus I miss it. The open blue skies and namesake palm trees seemingly lining every road and all the plentiful golf courses. The city has hosted many of my favorite memories.
Regrettably it’s been years since I last spent any time there. After college, once I started working, freedom was scarce and what few breaks I had generally weren’t spent accompanying my parents out of town. No, there were always friends, boyfriends, or the demands of work to keep me preoccupied. Now with all three cornerstones of my prior identity on hold (or at least out of reach, in Izzy’s case—I symbolically turned my BlackBerry off), I’m experiencing the first true—if very disorienting—break from all my old routines.
For better or worse, I’m 100 percent free—even if it feels a lot more like adrift.
Past Moreno Valley, I leave CA-60 East to take the exit onto Interstate 10 East, signaling we’re more than halfway there. I adjust the BMW’s windscreen visor, helping to block the direct sun, and put my sunglasses back on. Even with the satellite radio now tuned to “Nineties Dance Party”—the B-52s “Roam,” fittingly enough—my mind starts to drift as the sameness of the road and surrounding scenery lulls me.
I wonder what Izzy’s reaction was to my email. Is Billy declaring his love right now to another “Emily” at the audition? What’s happening with my projects at Bennett/Peters? Does Elle regret her decision? Or am I simply office gossip, a cautionary tale? And what of Jacob? Does he miss me? Or is he already moving on to someone kinder and less complicated? Perhaps a pretty peer in finance, who will cherish talking about… whatever it is they do, exactly.
The downside of this road trip may be a little too much time to analyze.
Okay, I’ll think positive. The Secret and all that. What’s the first thing I’m going to do when I get to Palm Desert? Lie by the condo association’s pool and finish every paperback romance and mystery novel I can get my hands on. It’s hardly a long-term solution, but it’s a plan.
I’ll take it.
As the miles rack up, so does the outside temperature. We’re definitely entering desert territory. I raise the automatic windows. “Sorry, girl. Time to switch on the AC.” Lizzie looks up at me quizzically, all deep brown eyes and two tan dots punctuating her eyebrows, but happily concedes once the cool air is blowing.
I’ve got nothing but time to figure things out. There’s no reason to go back to LA right away. I mean, there’s no point, right? No job to wake up for… no red carpets to organize or phone calls to make. No relationship. I can stay in the desert for as long as I want. My parents are cool with it, and at this time of the year the condo otherwise sits empty. A little caretaking is in order.
This trip is about slowing down. During the few vacations I’ve taken since I started my career, I have never been able to really relax. I check my email compulsively, like an addict with a twitch. I am always high-energy, mid-story, and on the go.
But this is certainly not like a holiday. And as it turns out, it’s a lot easier to not check my phone when I know the only people who would be contacting me are the people I don’t want to hear from. Over the last week I have accepted that I won’t be hearing from Jacob. That Elle is not going to call, begging me to come back, because her firm is not crumbling down around her without me. When I saw Wanda von Kingstead’s number on my missed call list the day after my suspension, I realized two things: There are some calls you just don’t need to return, and self-preservation overrides a person’s habitual, borderline obsessive message-checking trait. Wanda’s remains the one and only voicemail I’ve ever erased without hearing one word.
Outside Beaumont, I pull over for some gas and the boost of a fresh Diet Coke. It feels good to stretch my legs and back. The strong dry heat hits me, baking the asphalt, yet its nostalgic familiarity is comforting. It’s only the cold (which for me is anything below forty degrees Fahrenheit) or heavy humidity that makes this SoCal girl miserable. Just ask Izzy, who humors my “softness” whenever I visit New York in all but its most mild seasons.
Lizzie’s cont
ent to keep her serial nap going, so I leave her momentarily to man the vehicle.
An electronic chime announces my entrance at the convenience mart. It’s one of those overlit places—day or night—with more blinding fluorescents than Hollywood’s shorthand vision of the afterlife. An exhausted-looking mom tries to wrangle her pleading kids out of the snack aisle, shaking her head at each air-plumped bag or can of Pringles. In the rear at the beverage coolers, an acne-scarred teenager pretends to admire the range of bottled iced teas while cagily eyeing six-packs of beer. Been there, my friend. I grab my soda bottle plus some water for Lizzie and head to the checkout, happy to spare my corneas.
And that’s when my old life catches up to me.
Up front, next to the impulse gum and candy, sit the usual tabloids. Without a pause, the entertainment publicist in me automatically scans the headlines. And there in the top right corner of this week’s In Touch is the headline BILLY AND EVA BUILDING DREAMS above a shot of the striking pair hand in hand beside a meticulous sand castle on a beach somewhere.
Gotta hand it to Wanda.
The picture-perfect sand castle is a giveaway that—whether Eva was in on the ploy or not—this caught date was intended to be anything but private. Just the ridiculous thought of Wanda demanding an extra turret makes me laugh.
“You’ve got a great smile.”
Caught off-guard, I look up to find a super-cute—if barely legal—Hispanic clerk with enviable lashes and a black faux hawk behind the register. He’s flashing me his own killer smile.
“Thanks,” I say, paying for my purchases. “You too.”
I leave the innocent flirting at that, but the unexpected compliment couldn’t have had better timing. It reminds me that there’s a whole future of possibilities. Change in hand, I catch myself grinning again in the automatic door’s reflection.
Sure, that one was more baby than babe. But I won’t lie. For the first time in a while, it felt good to be me.
Arriving at my parents’ place in the desert is like traveling back through time without a flux capacitor, though it would’ve been nice to go eighty-eight miles per hour. I feel like a young girl again pulling into the driveway of the sweet bungalow-style condo with its one-car garage, concrete tiled roof, sage-painted plantation shutters, and sentinel palms flanking the front walkway. In the distance, the majestic San Jacinto Mountains spread out as if embracing the entire fertile valley.
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