Outside In

by Courtney Thorne-Smith

  She was startled out of her daze by a sharp knock on the door and Sam’s voice saying, “Coming up!” He opened the door and made his way up the rickety steps of the makeup trailer and balanced his metal clipboard, a Starbucks tray, and a paper plate overflowing with bacon, struggling to close the door behind him without dropping everything or interrupting the conversation he was engaged in on his headset. “Yes, I am here with her now…Yes, I will tell her…Yes…Right…Got it…” He rolled his eyes and smiled at the ladies, nodding from them back to the tray and the bacon to clear up any nonexistent mystery about whom the treats were for. With one more “Right…Got it!” he plunked the trays down onto the counter next to Paige and Kate and fell back into an empty chair with an exasperated sigh. “Is it just me or is everyone crazy?”

  “Well,” said Paige, “it’s both, really. Everyone is crazy including you.”

  “Oh, thank god. Does that mean I get a two-week vacation to the loony bin?”

  “Well, yes, it does,” added Kate with the exaggerated enthusiasm of a game-show host. “And the best part is that you are already here! This is your loony bin!”

  “Noooooooooooooo,” whined Sam. “I want the box with the sandy beaches and mai tais!”

  “Then you should have taken that job on Lost.”

  “And give up being abused by you two every day? Never!”

  “Uh-huh,” said Paige, unconvinced. “That and the fact that they never offered you a job.”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s mostly that. On a brighter note, I did bring bacon.”

  “Yes, I did notice that,” said Paige, picking up two pieces and taking a healthy bite. “I can’t help but think this means bad news.”

  “And Starbucks,” he said, taking two cups out of the tray and handing one to each of the ladies.

  “Really bad news,” said Kate, accepting the cup and immediately looking under the lid for any signs of cream or anything else remotely tasty and, by definition, fattening.

  “How could more time together be bad news?”

  “Sam!” said the women together, both ready for the anticipation to be over and for the actual pain to begin.

  “Okay, okay,” said Sam, pushing himself up out of his chair and, backing toward the door, clearly preparing for a quick exit should bacon start flying at his head. “There has been another change of plans.”

  “Uuuuuuuuuuuuugh,” groaned both women simultaneously.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, and all of our combined agreement gets us a whole bunch of diddly-squat. So here is where we stand: we are going to start with Sapphire’s scenes to get her out early, and then we hope to get to your scene before the end of the day today.”

  “And if not today, it will be the first scene up tomorrow?” asked Kate hopefully, afraid that her growing anxiety over the endlessly rescheduled lingerie scene was in danger of leading her smack into the middle of a fear-numbing—and figure-killing—Krispy Kreme doughnut binge.

  “Well, yes and no,” hedged Sam. “Your scene will be first up—right after Sapphire’s scenes. The new world order here on the ever-crazier Generations set is that her scenes will be done first, with all other work for the day scheduled after hers are completed.”

  “What? Do we even get to know why?” asked Paige, through a mouthful of pork.

  “I would tell you if I knew. All I know is that this is what was decided in this morning’s meeting with all of the brass.” He looked pointedly at Kate. “Your husband was there. You might want to ask him.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” said Kate in a near whisper, feeling suddenly nauseous.

  “Oh, there is one more thing,” said Sam over his shoulder as he headed out the door. “There’s sashimi at craft services if you want any.”

  Driving home seven hours later, Kate tried to decide if her headache and nausea were the symptoms of a burgeoning flu, the result of her frustration over being sent home yet again without completing her much-dreaded (and ever-elusive) near-nude scene, or the fact that her husband had apparently just sold her down the river. Paige had been admirably restrained; she didn’t ask Kate for any insider information about the secret meeting, which was a tremendous relief because Kate didn’t have any. She had expected—and been promised—a full report from Hamilton as soon as the meeting ended. What she had gotten instead was a hastily scrawled note on the door of her trailer, saying that Hamilton had looked everywhere but couldn’t find her,” and he had “to dash over the hill for a meeting” and would call from the road. He hadn’t called. In fact, her phone didn’t ring for the rest of the day. The day had dragged on, Kate checking her phone repeatedly (even calling the phone company to make sure that her phone was able to receive incoming calls) and feeling more and more like a rejected one-night stand. She had spent the remainder of the afternoon holed up in her trailer, embarrassed to show her face outside, sure that everyone could see through her robe to the silent cell phone in her pocket.

  A television or film set was just like high school, with clearly defined cliques and a carefully orchestrated hierarchy. The only thing that crossed freely over all of the social dividing lines was gossip, and a piece of information as hot as a secret meeting with one of the show’s stars orchestrated by the husband of another of the show’s stars, but excluding that second star, was sure to spread like wildfire. By now, Kate was sure that everyone knew all about the scheduling mandate, and even if they didn’t know for a fact that it had been Hamilton’s idea (even Kate didn’t know who had said what during the actual meeting), it was quite clear that no one had put up much of a fight in her defense—or in defense of any of the other actors, for that matter. But that was really the whole point, wasn’t it? Sapphire Rose was the homecoming queen and everyone else was just lucky to have been granted a spot in the marching band.

  But why is my husband in her court? wondered Kate, feeling the knot in her stomach twist and grow as she turned into her driveway and spotted Hamilton’s car.

  Kate walked in the front door and called out a tentative “Hello?” hating how unsure she sounded in her own home.

  “Katie!” boomed Hamilton’s voice from down the hall. “I’m so glad you’re home!”

  “You are?” asked Kate, startled first by Hamilton’s enthusiastic tone and then by the bear hug he gave her when he bounded into the entryway seconds later.

  “Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be, you silly goose?”

  “Well, I didn’t hear from you all day, and you didn’t come by to see me at work, so I guess I just wondered what—”

  “Didn’t you get my note?” interrupted Hamilton, extricating himself from the hug and moving to the console to tidy the already perfectly tidy mail tray.

  “Yes, I got it. I guess I just thought it was weird that you didn’t try to find me to say good-bye.”

  “Katie, don’t start this,” said Hamilton, turning back to her. “You know that I am a very busy man.”

  “I know that, but it just seems to me like you could have taken five minutes to come to the makeup trailer and say good-bye.”

  “And it just seems to me that you could take that same five minutes and try to be a little less self-centered and overly sensitive.”

  “What? I don’t think…I mean, I’m just asking why you left without saying good-bye to me, your wife,” said Kate, rapidly going over the events of the day in her head, trying to see where she might be overreacting. “I don’t think that makes me overly sensitive.”

  “Of course you don’t, darling,” said Hamilton, taking her by the hand and leading her down the hall toward their bedroom. “That’s why it is so lucky that I am here to set you straight. Now, come with me to the bedroom and help me pick out a tie.”

  “Are we going out?” asked Kate, feeling more and more like Ingrid Bergman’s character in the movie Gaslight.

  “No, sweetie, I am going out. I have a very important business meeting with none other than your friend Sapphire Rose, to discuss the possibility of representat
ion. Apparently, she has been considering taking on a manager for quite some time, and after today’s meeting, she feels I just might be her guy.” Hamilton sat Kate down on the edge of their bed and headed over to the vanity and his extensive collection of hair-care products.

  “You just might be her guy?”

  “Yes, that’s what she said. Isn’t that exciting?” Hamilton said, sounding like a cheerleader who had just secured a date with the star quarterback.

  “Well, I guess so…but isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “A conflict of interest? With whom?”

  “With whom? With me!”

  Hamilton stopped primping long enough to treat her to a patronizing smile. “Now, Katie, we mustn’t let petty jealousy get in the way of our future. Sapphire Rose is going to have a long and profitable career, and we want to be a part of that, don’t we?”

  Kate sat on the bed gripping the duvet with trembling fingers, watching the room spin along with Hamilton’s version of reality. Attempting to keep her voice calm, Kate said, “It just seems to me that it might be difficult to service two clients on the same show at the same time. Like today, when you had that meeting on the set—”

  “Damn it, Kate!” The sound of his Mason Pearson hairbrush crashing into the bottles and jars on the vanity was almost as shocking as his harsh tone. “Do you have to ruin everything with your fucking narcissistic insecurity?” He turned and moved toward her purposefully, stopping directly in front of her and waving a pointed finger inches from her nose. “I have one shot—one shot—at working with one of the greats, and you can’t see beyond your spoiled little nose to give me the minuscule amount of support I need to show that you are capable of caring about anyone besides yourself!”

  Kate was speechless for a few moments before finally finding the strength to say in a small voice, “I’m sorry, Hamilton. You know I would never do anything to stand in the way of your success.”

  “Oh, Kate,” said Hamilton, turning away in disgust and throwing himself dramatically onto the Eames chair next to the vanity. “That is the saddest part. I do know that you would never stand in my way…intentionally.”

  “Or unintentionally,” argued Kate.

  Hamilton dropped his head into his hands with an audible sigh of frustration. “Oh, Katie-Cow, that is exactly the problem, don’t you see? You don’t even have the self-awareness to know what you are doing, so I can’t even talk to you about it. Did you ever make an appointment with Penelope?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach her and I will make one, I promise. But I’m here right now. Talk to me.” Kate moved over to where Hamilton was perched and kneeled in front of him, trying to get him to look her in the eye. “Tell me what I am doing wrong.”

  Hamilton sighed deeply, as if debating whether she was worth talking to at all, then said, “You are allowing your jealousy and insecurity to get in the way of my happiness, which is the epitome of ‘lower consciousness’ behavior. You need to reread pages fifty-seven to fifty-nine in Penelope’s book. In fact, you should probably reread the whole book, because you seem to be backsliding quite severely. The only way for you to be happy is for me to be happy, and the only way for me to be happy is to be allowed to follow my bliss. And right now my bliss is Sapphire Rose.”

  “Your bliss is Sapphire Rose?” Kate demanded in disbelief. “Do you hear how that sounds?”

  “Do you hear how you sound, Katie? Whiny and insecure.” He got up, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and headed toward the door.

  “Hamilton, wait,” said Kate, still kneeling on the floor, having a hard time processing what she was hearing and standing up at the same time. “You know I love you.”

  “Yes, Katie, I know you love me.” He continued to head toward the door, pausing one last time to turn and add, “But that’s not really the point, is it?”

  With that, he left the room, and, moments later, Kate heard his Porsche starting up and the familiar sound of the turbo engine driving away.

  She didn’t sleep at all that night. Her mind was racing with all of the things she would say to Hamilton when he came home—if he came home. She would try harder, be better, be more for him—or less. Or both: she needed to be more of the good, pretty parts and less of the ugly, needy parts. How had she forgotten so much of what Penelope had taught her? She knew better, damn it. She knew that she had been beyond lucky to find such a handsome, successful man to take care of her and that her only job—her only job—was to look beautiful and treat him like a king. How had she forgotten something so simple? How had she let her petty insecurities ruin his day again and threaten the health of her relationship? The relationship was her domain, her responsibility, and she had let it slide. What Hamilton really needed was for her to support and adore him—what she really needed was for him to love her. And not leave her. She couldn’t go back to the way she had been before he came into her life. She couldn’t stand the thought of being Katie the Cow again, of moving out of this beautiful house and being alone, of losing the security of being Mrs. Morgan. Mostly, she couldn’t stand the thought of telling her mother.

  Oh god.

  What would she say to her mother? She would be so disappointed. Kate knew that in her mother’s eyes there were two Kates: the fat, unemployable embarrassment that she had been before Hamilton, and the beautiful swan he had created. Her mother much preferred the Kate she could brag about to her book club to the one who sat in her old bedroom all day, crying and eating Kraft macaroni and cheese. At the time of her very public humiliation, she had looked to her mother for the oft-advertised unconditional love that a mother is supposed to shower on her children like a broken water main, but had found only drops of tolerance, tinged with impatience and disappointment.

  Conditional as it may have been, her mother’s loving admiration of the past two years had felt so affirming. With her handsome husband and her “pretty girl” role on a television show, Kate was finally the daughter her mother could be proud of. Now she was in danger of losing that, too. She couldn’t stand the thought of once again seeing her own self-hatred reflected in her mother’s eyes. “How could you let this happen?” her mother would ask, just as Kate was torturing herself with the same question. That was the problem, in a nutshell: When she was with her mother, it was two against one. There was no one on Kate’s side.

  10

  “Michael, you’re late,” scolded Marjorie when Michael passed her desk on his way into his office.

  “Late for what?” asked Michael.

  “Late for work!” said Marjorie, saying the word “work” with the same energy with which one might say “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!”—which, for Marjorie, could all be found in an organized work space.

  “Yes, I see your point,” said Michael. “Unfortunately, work seems to get in the way of my wasting an inordinate amount of time hanging out in overpriced coffee shops. I’m sure you can see my dilemma.”

  “No, I cannot,” answered Marjorie primly. “There is perfectly good coffee here that you can drink at your desk while you start on returning your calls. The phone has been ringing off the hook and I am quite out of excuses for you.”

  “A: I love that you just used the word ‘quite,’ and B: you don’t have to make excuses for me, Marjorie. I’m a grown-up.” Michael picked up the stack of phone sheets and started to head into his office.

  “Oh, I see—was there a very important meeting of the top secret grown-ups club at Starbucks this morning?”

  Stopping in his tracks, Michael turned to her with a big grin and said, “Why, Marjorie, was that a joke?”

  Embarrassed, Marjorie pretended to look for something in a pile of papers and said, “No, just a question.”

  “And quite a funny and charming one at that.” Leaving a blushing and smiling Marjorie at her desk, he headed into his office and closed the door behind him.

  He was late—late and disappointed. He had spent the morning at Starbucks, pretending to work on
his laptop but really just surfing the Internet while hoping to see his mystery girl. Two hours of sitting and drinking coffee had left him jittery and frustrated, but no closer to a dinner date.

  For the first half hour, he had jerked his head up every time he heard the door open, expecting to see her face. After the first thirty-seven or so times in a row that it was not her, he found himself creating superstitions: if he didn’t look up for thirty seconds, it would be her; if he waited until he heard the counter person say, “Welcome to Starbucks,” it would be her; and finally, if he held his breath and counted to fifty before looking up, then it would definitely be her. In spite of his efforts, she never showed up. He left at ten a.m. feeling hurt and a little angry, as if he had been stood up on a date.

  “Snap out of it—you don’t even know this girl,” he said to himself. He was sitting behind his desk, staring at the stack of phone messages but seeing only her face. He knew intellectually that his crush was ridiculous and based on absolutely nothing beyond a fantasy created by hormones and projection, but that knowledge did nothing to dim his ardor. After all, isn’t that what love at first sight really was—projection and imagination? He felt he deserved a little slack. What was so strange about the fact that he was sitting at his desk, literally surrounded by scripts he needed to read and phone messages he had to return, unable to get started on any of it because he was too busy daydreaming about a future with someone he didn’t actually know? What was really wrong with spending his mornings sitting in a coffeehouse hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of a girl he had met once for all of thirty seconds?