GLASS: A Standalone Novel
Page 10
“There’s submissive and there’s boring,” I quipped.
“Just do your goddamn job please, so we can all go home.”
I found myself rolling my eyes like a wayward teenager but then quickly pretended I had a stray eyelash so I didn’t appear like I had an attitude. “Fine, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“Quiet on set please, going for a take!” the AD called out. “Camera ready? Sound ready?”
“Ready.”
“Camera rolling.”
“Take two, scene thirty-one.”
“And . . . action!”
Cal started his stuff again. I should have felt turned on in some way, but I wasn’t. Not Cal’s fault at all. I squirmed in the seat and started pretend groaning and biting my lower lip. This was not what I trained at Juilliard for; my mother would be rolling in her grave. I writhed around like a porn star, remembering the scale of my debts, knowing I had to shut my smart mouth and just get on with it. I moaned again and flexed my hips up toward Cal. In my peripheral vision I saw he had a boner.
Well, at least one of us was into this.
We took a short break and Cal said in a low voice so only I could hear, “You know, Janie, if this were Woody Allen you might get fired.”
“Even though we’ve already shot so much footage? It would be too expensive to fire me now.”
“Woody sometimes fires actors almost midway through the shoot, if he thinks the actor isn’t right for the part.”
“Oh.”
Cal went on, “They do mid-shoot replacements all the time. Harvey Keitel had already started filming Apocalypse Now, but got fired and was replaced by Martin Sheen.”
“Providential, really—it wouldn’t have been the same without Martin Sheen.”
“Apparently Harvey had an attitude.”
Like me. “Oh,” I said again. I thought of Daniel once comparing me to Kate from Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. He didn’t mind it when I challenged him though—when it had to do with work, anyway. He thought it was healthy for actors to have opinions and questions. But I knew that a lot of other directors, with less confidence in themselves, would interpret it as cocky or arrogant. Like Simon.
Cal went on, “One of the most famous firings in movie history was Eric Stoltz—you remember him? He was originally set to play Marty McFly in Back to the Future. They’d even filmed forty whole minutes screen time with him, but they decided he was too serious for a comedy.”
“Wow, Cal, I didn’t know you were such a movie nerd. And I also didn’t know that kind of thing happened, at least not to that extent.” How naïve could I be? I could just see that was where I was headed. So much for my fleeting film career!
“You’re doing great though,” he said, “don’t worry about it.”
The truth was, I wasn’t that worried. I mean, I was—I wanted to do a great job and not be the laughing stock of Hollywood, but I also felt deceived by this business. Everything felt so mechanical, so inorganic. The director treated us like puppets and paid far more attention to the lighting, or if my hair or something was shadowing my face, than the acting. The takes were short, which meant the editors would have a lot of work to do. It was hard to get into the flow of it. Filming felt like a game of American football. Stop, start, stop, start. I didn’t feel as if I were offering anything except my body and my face—I wasn’t being nourished as an actor. As an artist.
I now wished Daniel hadn’t abandoned the project. It would have been different with him. Artistic. Creative.
Damn Daniel Glass. Why couldn’t I rid him from my thoughts? He invaded every part of me, even when I was working.
Especially when I was working.
11
THE NEXT DAY, I was summoned by Samuel Myers himself. I knew what would happen next: I’d be unceremoniously fired. They probably had the contract so air tight that I had compromised something somewhere and wouldn’t get all my fee. And who was I to try and sue? A nobody. Just a little, itty-bitty actress in the big greasy wheel that was Hollywood. I’d go back to my moldy apartment and start auditioning for plays again. Maybe I’d even need to beg for my old waitressing job back, although I doubted they’d take me. I’d been foolish. Not grateful enough. And now I was going to get my comeuppance.
I had one hour before I needed to leave for our “meeting” . . . the firing. I sat on the living room floor, playing Barbies with Hero. Star was in the kitchen with Jake, both making lunch. They did things like that; cooked meals together. I wondered if that would ever be me. Maybe Cal would be up for making meals with me, although in my fantasies he’d do all the cooking.
“This is my Computer Engineer Barbie,” Hero told me, holding up the blond bombshell doll, who was wearing pink plastic glasses. Hero was a strong little thing, all of six and a half years old, already a veteran movie star. She knew all about hitting her mark, camera angles, even which side of her face looked best. “This is my naughty side,” she had told me last week, pointing to the left side of her face, “and this is the cute side.”
“Oh yeah? And which side gets the ice cream?” I asked.
“The cute side, for sure.” She blinked her long lashes at me, and swept a hand through her Shirley Temple curls. Scary. She knew the power she had already, especially when it came to her doting dad.
She now sat cross-legged on the floor, arranging her dolls and teddies, her lips pursed in concentration. We were making a school.
“I heard all about this Computer Barbie,” I said. “Apparently she gets the boys to fix her computer and doesn’t do those kinds of things for herself.” I thought of myself, letting anyone, and everyone, cook for me. A real live Blanche Dubois.
Hero fiddled with her doll’s synthetic golden hair. “Oh, she knows how to fix her computer. She knows a lot. She just asks the boys because she’s too busy.”
I grinned although Hero’s serious face made me bite my tongue. “Oh yeah? What’s she busy doing?”
“She runs her own company, of course. She can’t do everything herself, she has boys working for her.”
“I like your take on that, Hero. Very interesting. Very astute.”
“What’s astoot?”
“It means that your Barbie is a lot cleverer than people give her credit for,” said her mom. Star was standing at the doorway, watching us. “Never underestimate a pretty face. When she gets guys to do stuff for her, she has a reason. Lunch is on the table.” She clapped her hands. “And . . . action!”
Like mother, like daughter, I thought with a smile.
CAL CAME TO PICK ME UP in his Mustang convertible. He insisted that I didn’t go to the meeting alone. Not that he’d be coming in with me, but at least he’d be there, waiting for me when I came out (probably in floods of tears), realizing what an idiot I’d been to bungle up my one big chance.
“Everything happens for a reason,” he said in a gentle voice, as he drove out of Star and Jake’s driveway.
“That’s such a cliché,” I mumbled.
“Clichés are clichés because they’re nearly always true.”
“I have a sixty thousand dollar student loan to pay off,” I said. “Plus bills, rent et cetera. Why couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut?”
“Because you have a strong personality. You are who you are, Janie, you can’t fight it.”
“Simon hates me.”
“No he doesn’t, he’s just under pressure to come in under budget.”
I looked out the window at the view passing by. We were on Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean shimmering on our right, and palms taller than skyscrapers kissing the bright blue sky. New York would be cold and tough. I’d gotten used to luxury at Star’s house, the warm breeze, the great views. I’d miss this. All because of my attitude. Oh well. Hollywood obviously wasn’t my path in life.
Cal turned to me and squeezed my hand. “You’re amazing, Janie. You’re different.”
“Different, like how?”
“Good different. Quirky. Kind of c
ocky, but vulnerable at the same time. Like you don’t care but yet you do. I can’t explain. But if they do let you go? Promise we can still hang out.”
“Sure, I’d love that.”
He shuffled in his seat. “You know, I have to admit after yesterday, after our sex scene in the limo, you kind of really got to me.” He was silent for a beat and added, “I dreamt about you last night.”
My smile tipped into a sardonic smirk. Oh yeah, did I know all about dreams. “A sexy dream?”
“Very sexy.”
I noticed Cal had another stiffy straining through the fabric of his jeans. He spotted me eyeing his crotch.
“Shit, sorry, just thinking about my dream has gotten me all aroused again.” He laughed. “I hope I’m not being crass.”
“I’m flattered,” I let him know.
“Janie, I kind of really tried to keep this professional between us, you know, getting involved during filming is not always the best idea in the world, but now . . . ”
“I’m going to be fired?”
“Hey, we don’t know that for sure.”
“I think we do. You saw Simon whispering to George yesterday. He’s fed up with me. It’s so over for me.”
“Janie, I’d like to take you out. Get to know you better, off set. I thought we could maybe go for a little road trip or something? Go up PCH? Santa Barbara? Get away for a couple of days.”
Cal was such a gentleman. Not only had he opened my car door for me but was asking my permission to date me. The old fashioned way. He was salt-of-the-earth. A nice, mid western boy with manners and morals. I’d been so wrapped up with my Daniel obsession that I hadn’t given anyone else a chance. Mainly because I hadn’t met someone I’d found attractive in New York, amongst the plethora of gay guys and short actors with chips on their shoulders. Cal was different. A breath of fresh air.
I laid my hand on his muscly thigh. His erection stood back to attention the second I touched him. A good sign if ever there was one. I was sick of the unrequited love bullshit. Not once had Daniel ever hinted at asking me out after his wife died. Not even for a coffee. And kissing me, when I was offering myself up so wantonly like fruit on a platter, did not count.
“You know what, Cal? I’d love that.”
He heaved out a heavy sigh—he’d been holding his breath, waiting for my answer.
Finally I’d found a man who was real boyfriend material. Not some OCD perfectionist freak like Daniel, who was in love with another woman anyway—even still—and would be for years to come.
“You know what, Cal?” I said again, squeezing his firm leg. “You’re a really cool person.” I looked at his handsome face. Damn, he was fine. His mop of dark hair hung heavy over his brow and his beautiful brown eyes—rimmed with shockingly thick eyelashes—glimmered with hope.
He opened his mouth to say something but he stopped himself. But I knew a guy in love when I saw one—and Cal was falling for me. Hard.
Hard, in more ways than one.
And it pleased me to have him so into me.
But the real question was . . .
Would I be able to get Daniel out of my system?
I TIPTOED INTO Samuel Myers’s office in Century City, my sneakers making no sound as I slipped through the door. He was expecting me; his PA had just called him, but when I peered my head into the room I thought at first it was empty. Music was playing softly. Something classical. I looked around. Nobody was here. The room was vast and imposing, boasting floor to ceiling windows with skyline views. We were very high up—as high as you could be in LA for fear of earthquakes. A library lined one wall, replete with leather-bound books. Grand sofas and armchairs sprawled themselves on one side, and on the other there was a bar. In the middle, a massive conference table.
I suddenly had an uneasy feeling in my gut. Samuel hadn’t called me in here to fire me. No! He had other plans: to seduce me. My mind wandered back to my mother, the “being chased around the casting couch” story, with the “repulsive, gold medallioned director.” Samuel Myers scored no higher in the beauty stakes. He’d called me in to woo me. Or worse, blackmail me. “Give me a blowjob or you’re off the movie.” Ugh!! Gross.
Because where the hell was he? This was no bona fide “meeting!” I had imagined that Pearl Chevalier would be here too, and maybe one of the executive producers—a room full of them ready to offer their condolences, yet firing me simultaneously, paradoxically sugary-sweet smiles on their faces.
“Hello?” I called out tentatively. “Mr. Myers?”
A deep voice rumbled from somewhere in the library. “Hi, Janie. They just stepped out. They’ll be back in a minute.”
Goose bumps spread across my flesh. What the fuck was he doing here?
“Daniel?” I couldn’t see him, but I knew that unmistakable voice. I detected the sound of pages being turned, mingled with the gentle melody of the classical music playing in the background. Then Daniel spoke again, his deep, theatrically trained voice resonating:
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”
I stood there, motionless, my limbs floating—at least it felt that way. The words of that beautiful poem brought back a memory that I couldn’t place.
“Emily Dickinson,” I murmured to myself, “I love that poem.” I noiselessly walked over to the library and saw Daniel, not on one of the sofas, but on the floor, books spread about him, his head cast downwards, as he thumbed through an old leather-bound volume. Why that particular poem? Was it random? Hope is the thing with feathers. Did he mean me? That I was hoping? Hoping for a real relationship with him? The little bird that didn’t ask for even a crumb? Because it was true; I had never asked anything of Daniel, but I had hoped. Hopelessly hoped. I shook myself out of my reverie and back to the point in question . . .what was Daniel goddamn Glass doing here, anyway?
He said nothing, just continued to thumb through the book. He didn’t even turn to look at me, so absorbed as he was. I wondered if he could sense my presence. Finally he raised his head.
“Do you always slink up on people that way?” he said wryly. I had forgotten how much his eyes affected me. Just a glance was all it took. My stomach somersaulted on itself.
“Do you always gatecrash my meetings?” I retorted, a faint smile sneaking on my lips.
“I was invited here.”
He was wearing a blue T-shirt that accentuated his pectorals and the color of his eyes, and a pair of worn jeans. All I could think of was the delicious package tucked away inside, and a flash of one of my sexy dreams replayed in my brain.
“Janie! You got here!” It was Sam Myers bursting through a side door, with Pearl Chevalier in tow.
Daniel gathered the books together and put them on the coffee table in front of him. He turned and said, “Damn, I was hoping to have a moment alone with you, Janie.”
Samuel thundered into the room, donned in a cream-colored suit that was too tight for him. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead. I was tempted to hotline a call to my makeup artist to take away the shine. He was smiling inanely. This whole situation was confusing to say the least.
“Janie, so glad you could come,” Pearl said, offering me her cheek. Her skin was perfect—smooth and flawless. She really was beautiful and very un-LA, sophisticated, dressed in nude high heels and a navy blue suit. Another man came into the room, seconds later. One of the producers? He was debonair. Tall, dark, and unbelievably handsome. Not dissimilar to Daniel; an unusual, original face, but with green eyes, not blue—equally piercing, though.
“Who’d like a drink?” Samuel exclaimed with a hearty wheeze. “Champagne, anyone?” He made his way to the bar and took out a bottle of Bollinger from the icebox. “Pearl, honey, would you get some glasses? You know where they are.”
“We don’t want to jump the gun,” Daniel warned.
“Oh, I think we have cause for celebration,” Samuel snorted.
“Well, Janie, I just wanted to say hi,” Alexandre said, kissing my hand with a flourish, “welcome aboard The Enterprise, and see you around.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door.
Samuel puffed out his large belly. I thought his suit buttons would pop. “Take a seat, Janie, make yourself comfortable. Daniel, explain to our Rambling Rose, here, what’s going on.”
I made my way over to the library, Daniel meeting me halfway. To my surprise he kissed me on the cheek, while his hand slid over my hip. “Missed you, Janie,” he whispered in my ear. Then he stood back when he noticed my bewildered expression. “What, did you think they’d asked you here to fire you?” He knew me so well.
“No,” I lied, “of course not.”
“Like hell,” he said.
“Why am I here, then?”
“Ah, you said, ‘then’ . . . so you did think you’d be fired.”
“Who thinks they’ll be fired?” Samuel roared. “Oh, him. He doesn’t know it yet.”
Doesn’t know it yet? Who doesn’t know it yet? This was becoming more mysterious by the minute.
Pearl brought a tray of glasses over and set them on the coffee table. Samuel popped open the bottle of champagne and poured. I slumped on the sumptuous sofa, and Daniel sat next to me. Pearl perched herself on the edge of an armchair and Samuel remained standing.
“Janie, we’ve been watching the dailies and everybody is very happy with your performance,” Samuel said.