The Actor's Guide To Adultery

by Rick Copp

  “Hi, you must be Juan Carlos. I’m Jarrod.” I wanted to add, “And Laurette’s best friend who will hunt you down and gut you with a knife if you hurt her in any way,” but it seemed too early in the evening.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Jarrod.” There wasn’t a trace of a Spanish accent. Maybe he was second or third generation. Or maybe he had been working with a voice coach to pound it out of him.

  Despite my suspicions based on Annabelle’s stories, I couldn’t help but be impressed upon first glance with Juan Carlos. He was, just as Laurette promised, gorgeous. About six feet, broad shoulders, jet-black hair, and smoldering brown Spanish eyes that glistened in the light from the lamp just outside the front door. He was wearing a Hugo Boss suit, but the tie had been undone and the shirt was open, giving me more than a hint of his toned muscular smooth chest. He looked even better in person than he did on 90210.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he shook my hand and entered before I had a chance to invite him inside.

  Laurette ran into the entryway from the kitchen and threw her arms around him. She smothered him with kisses on his face, ears, and neck. Whatever was in reach of her lips. I noticed him tense slightly as she hugged him. It was just for a split second, and then he relaxed and allowed her to maul him. Finally, he gently pulled away and smiled. His teeth were fluoride white and perfect.

  “I nailed it, honey. I’m pretty sure I got the part,” he said.

  “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you,” Laurette said, before turning to me. “See, I told you he was good.”

  Charlie was the next to amble out of the kitchen, and stride over to Juan Carlos with an outstretched hand. “I’m Charlie. Nice to meet you, Juan Carlos.”

  Juan Carlos gripped Charlie’s hand, and looked him up and down. It was subtle, barely detectable in fact, but I caught it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was checking Charlie out.

  “I better head out to the backyard and check on the steaks. How do you like yours done, Juan Carlos?” Charlie said.

  Juan Carlos smiled and slipped his hand behind Laurette, lowering it until his palm was firmly clamped on her butt. “Blood red.”

  Charlie nodded and walked away. I thought I saw Juan Carlos peek at Charlie’s ass as he strolled off, but he instantly averted his eyes when he felt me watching him. I had to be imagining this. Laurette had excellent gaydar. She of all people would likely know if the man she was planning to marry was straight or not. But it did depend on how good an actor Juan Carlos was.

  “So, sweetie, what did you bring us for dessert?”

  Juan Carlos frowned, and then gave us both an apologetic look. “In all the excitement about the audition, I forgot to pick something up.”

  “That’s all right, darling,” Laurette said. “I have to lose twenty pounds in six days anyway if I want to fit into my wedding dress.”

  They embraced again, and Laurette mouthed the words, “Isn’t he fabulous?” over his shoulder to me.

  That’s when it hit me what she had just said. “Did you say six days?”

  “Yes. You don’t already have plans or anything, do you? We just didn’t have time to send out formal invitations.”

  “No, we don’t have plans. But six days? I had no idea you were going to get married so soon.”

  Juan Carlos flashed me a self-satisfied smile. “We both know this is it, the real deal. What’s the point in waiting?”

  Laurette took his hand and gazed longingly at him. I had to snap her out of it somehow. I didn’t have time to get the full story on Juan Carlos in only six days. “But there’s so much to plan. You have to pick out a venue, a dress . . .”

  “It’s done,” Laurette said. “You know I’ve always wanted to be married at the Hearst Castle. There was a last-minute cancellation next weekend. It cost me most of my savings, but I got it. My dress is being altered as we speak. I’ve booked a band. Invited everybody I want to be there. There’s not a whole lot left to do.”

  My head was spinning. I knew Laurette was a freight train when she decided to do something, but I didn’t expect her speed to rival a space shuttle.

  “There is one problem, though,” she said with a scowl.

  Finally, something I could work with to stop this madness.

  “I could only afford the Hearst Castle for three hours,” she said. “With setup and cleanup, that leaves approximately one hour and seven minutes for the ceremony and reception. It’s going to be tight.”

  I was speechless. There was a momentary silence before Juan Carlos picked up the slack in the conversation. He beamed at his blushing bride. “Oh well,” he purred. “More time for the honeymoon.”

  And then the happy couple proceeded to suck face right in front of me, devouring each other like a pair of five-year-olds chowing down on their first hot fudge sundae.

  I felt sick to my stomach.

  La Cuesta Encantada, or the “Enchanted Hill,” is located in San Simeon, midway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and is situated sixteen hundred feet above sea level on a sprawling two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Housing one hundred and sixty-five rooms, two spectacular swimming pools, and an astonishing collection of art and antiques, the magnificent compound was built by publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst over a twenty-eight year-period. Since Hearst and his longtime mistress, the comedy actress Marion Davies, loved hosting Hollywood royalty, including Charlie Chaplin, Jimmy Stewart, Greta Garbo, and Cary Grant, the camp value alone made it the ideal spot for Laurette’s nuptials. Ever since her parents carted their wide-eyed eight-year-old daughter on a bus up to the grounds for a tour, Laurette had been fascinated with the history and beauty of “the ranch,” as Hearst liked to call it, and felt it was destiny that she be married among the ghosts of the Hollywood elite. Since her first wedding was a Vegas quickie so her husband could jet off to Prague for an obscure film festival, Laurette decided to arrange a more formal affair at the Hearst Castle upon his return. But when he did arrive home six weeks later, he kept putting her off until she finally gave up on both a San Simeon wedding and her ill-fated marriage.

  Juan Carlos was an entirely different animal altogether. The thought of an expensive party at a sprawling hilltop retreat looking down on the blue sea and up at the blue sky was not only a good thing, but a God-given right. Despite having no financial resources of his own from what I could see, this charmer certainly had cultivated tastes. He was more excited about getting married at this exotic location than his blushing bride was.

  Charlie didn’t share my suspicions about Juan Carlos’s character. He felt I was being overprotective of my best friend, and should just lay off and be happy for her. So naturally my persistent suggestions that he run an ID check on Juan Carlos using his police sources fell on deaf ears.

  The drive up to the tiny seaside hamlet of San Simeon took about three and a half hours, not counting the hour-and-a-half stop at the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara for their remarkable all-you-can-eat Sunday morning brunch. Charlie tried reminding me that there would be food at the reception, but since Laurette could only afford to rent the Castle for such a limited amount of time, I didn’t want the pressure of having to scarf down enough shrimp cocktail before we got kicked out.

  Since I insisted on going back for a third serving of pineapple sponge cake at the Biltmore, we fell behind schedule, so by the time we reached the Hearst Castle, there were only a handful of guests left at the bottom to be bussed up to the property for the ceremony.

  Five of us boarded a blue bus driven by a portly African-American man with a pleasant smile, and began our ascent heavenward to the estate that was so high up it often sat above the coastal fog drifts.

  Charlie and I sat in the back and I watched the other three passengers, none of whom seemed to know each other. Directly in front of us was a young woman in her early twenties, with long cascading brown hair that fell down below her shoulders. She was a petite thing, very thin and gaunt. If only I had brou
ght a doggie bag from the Biltmore, then maybe I could feed the starving little bird. Her face was striking, with gorgeous green eyes and full Angelina Jolie lips. If she hadn’t started going the way of Karen Carpenter, she would be a real beauty.

  The other two passengers were both men. Across from the girl sat an obese man in his early thirties, who ran upwards of three hundred pounds. He was squeezed in his seat, and droplets of sweat trickled down his cheek. His washed-out orange hair, or what was left of it, was unruly and frizzy with a few stray wisps combed over his bald plate. He looked grossly uncomfortable, and he kept his eyes fixed out the window. He had zero interest in conversing with any of us. A few seats ahead of him was a short, compact fellow who made up for his height deficiencies with a killer physique. He, too, was balding, but unlike the heavy man, he kept the sides neat and trimmed. He wore a tight white T-shirt to showcase his muscles and crisp hip-hugging jeans. This guy was definitely not dressed for a wedding.

  I decided to break the silence. “So, are you all friends of the bride or groom?” I knew full well they were all acquaintances of Juan Carlos, but it was an acceptable icebreaker. Charlie smiled. He loved watching me force people to socialize.

  The girl spoke first. Her voice was as tiny as her body. “Groom.”

  More silence. I wasn’t about to give up.

  “So, did you have to travel far to attend?”

  “Florida,” she said flatly.

  The short man’s ears perked up and he flipped around in his seat. He and the girl made eye contact and there was both surprise and recognition in their eyes.

  “What are you—?” she started to say to him, but thought better of it. He gave her a polite nod and they instantly turned away from each other.

  “You two know each other?”

  “No,” they both said in unison.

  I kept forging ahead. “Oh, is Florida where you met Juan Carlos?” I asked the girl.

  “Yes.”

  She wasn’t giving me anything. And the other two didn’t seem very anxious to talk to me either. So I stuck out my hand. “I’m Jarrod.”

  She looked at my hand as if it were covered with abscesses, and then reluctantly took it for a moment. After a brief handshake, she quickly pulled away.

  “Dominique.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” I said, trying desperately to win points somehow. I’m an actor. I have a need to be loved. It didn’t work. She just grunted what I assumed was a “thank-you” and looked away.

  “We’re friends of Laurette’s,” I said, plowing on. “Have you met her yet? She’s wonderful. You’ll love her.”

  This got her undivided attention. She whipped around, her eyes narrowing and her face tightening as she said evenly, “I don’t have any interest in meeting her.”

  “Oh. Okay,” I said. Charlie signaled me with his eyes to drop the subject. I smiled at him and then turned back to Dominique. “Why not?”

  I heard an exasperated sigh come out of Charlie.

  Dominique thought for a minute, probably debating whether or not she should say anything more. But her anger got the best of her, and eyes blazing, she said, “Because it should be me marrying Juan Carlos today.”

  “So you two were—?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’m surprised you got an invitation.”

  “I didn’t.” And with that, she turned back around, sending me the clear message that our conversation was over.

  This was too juicy. But I was more than a little worried that an old flame of Juan Carlos’s might ruin Laurette’s big day. I wasn’t sure how I should handle it, whether I should tell Laurette, or try to get Dominique to leave quietly, when Charlie, reading my mind, squeezed my arm and whispered, “It’s none of your business.” He was right. I decided to focus on someone else.

  “You a friend of the groom’s too?” I said to the short, muscular man upfront, but both men turned around.

  The obese one nodded and then, with a miserable look on his face, gazed back out the window. I’ve never seen someone so unhappy going to a wedding. Except for maybe Dominique.

  The other man was a bit chattier. “Yes, I’ve known Juan Carlos for some time now. Austin Teboe. We met in Florida as well. Working in a restaurant. I haven’t seen him in a while. I’m hoping he’ll be happy to see me.”

  This was too much. “So he doesn’t know you’re coming either ?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t have a clue. It’s going to be a big surprise.”

  The more he talked, the more nervous Dominique appeared. She started fidgeting in her seat, folding her arms, trying to stay calm.

  “So are we the only two on the bus who have actually been invited ?” I said to Charlie, as I kept one eye on the obese man to our left. But he never even bothered to acknowledge me.

  The bus pulled in and deposited us at the Neptune Pool on the north side of the property, where the wedding ceremony was scheduled to take place. Made up of fragments of ancient Roman columns, bases, and capitals, and decorated with sculptured figures of Roman gods, the picturesque pool area was reminiscent of an Italian Renaissance villa. Laurette could not have selected a more visually exciting locale. With rain clouds hovering overhead, however, there was an unsettling foreshadowing of storms ahead.

  Most of the guests were already seated, and I got the distinct feeling from the annoyed looks we were receiving that the ceremony was being held up due to our late arrival.

  Charlie, the obese man, and I slipped quietly into a row of seats in the back so as not to draw any more attention to ourselves. Dominique and Austin, however, remained standing, making a concerted effort to be conspicuous.

  The organist off to the side launched into those first notes that introduce the “Wedding March” processional, and Juan Carlos, his skin a perfect shade of bronze against his all-white tuxedo, strolled out to take his place in front of a makeshift altar set up near a breathtaking sculpture of the Birth of Venus. He broke out into a smile with enough wattage to light Dodger Stadium. He was in his element, enjoying everyone watching him and admiring him and envying him. Until his eyes fell on Austin. And then the smile faded. His face twitched a little. He was confused, almost disoriented. Austin was enjoying every minute of it. He sent back a slight wave and then folded his arms, satisfied he had made some kind of point. But Juan Carlos’s reaction to Austin’s presence was nothing compared to his horrified reaction to Dominique’s last-minute arrival. He stared at her, mouth agape, mind obviously racing. I could tell what he was thinking. What was she doing here? How did she find him?

  For a minute I thought he was going to bolt. Get the hell out of Dodge. But then it was too late. The organist started banging out the familiar “Wedding March” melody, and Laurette Taylor, decked out in a bodacious satin off-white wedding dress complete with gauzy veil and an endless train carried proudly by four preteen first cousins, made her way down the aisle, ready for her moment in the sun.

  That’s when it started raining.

  Chapter 3

  God was undoubtedly sending Laurette a message when he opened up the skies and pounded her hastily planned wedding with an unrelenting torrent of rain. She chose to ignore it. Not budging from the altar, resolved to leave the Hearst Castle a newlywed, Laurette gripped Juan Carlos’s hand tightly and strained to hear the sermon from the doddering old minister whose fogged-up glasses prevented him from sailing through his notes in a timely manner. And since she could afford the property for just over an hour, an unmistakable tension began creeping into Laurette’s smile as the long-winded and soaked minister ate up a lot of time talking about love and commitment and the importance of trust. She pretended to listen, but I knew Laurette’s mind was on the three-tier German chocolate wedding cake, and if the staff had thought to move it under the canopy to protect it from the rainstorm.

  Several guests dashed for cover, but the majority of us stayed glued to our seats, resigned to the fact that we were going to leave this place drenched to the bone. Beside
s, we had to take our cue from the bride and groom and neither was acknowledging the fact that the wedding party and all their guests were practically drowning. None of us could hear a word the minister was saying, but when Laurette leaned forward and whispered something in his ear, I presumed she was advising the old man to wrap it up because he seemed to skip right to the “I do’s.”

  The minister cleared his throat and tried talking above the now blustery winds. “Do you, Laurette Taylor—”

  “Yes,” she interrupted him. “Yes, I do. Thank you. And he does too, don’t you, darling?”

  “Yes,” Juan Carlos screamed.

  The minister was not good at improvisation. He desperately wanted to stick to the script, but Laurette was having none of it. He was at a loss.

  “So by the power vested in you,” she offered, trying to help him out a bit.

  “Yes, yes, by the power vested in me . . .”

  He took a pause for dramatic effect in a lame attempt to add some theatricality to the already drama-filled affair. But Laurette never gave him the chance. She turned and faced the crowd.

  “He now pronounces us husband and wife. He gets to kiss me now.” Laurette peeled the wet veil off her face and puckered up her lips. Juan Carlos grabbed her by the shoulders and devoured her face with his mouth in an obvious play of machismo that rivaled Al Gore’s attempt to show his amorous side by sucking his wife’s face at the 2000 Democratic Convention.

  The crowd erupted in applause and I turned around in my seat to get a good look at Dominique. She watched the proceedings with a steely gaze, never flinching, just frozen in time, like one of the Roman statues behind her.

  Laurette snatched a fistful of Juan Carlos’s tuxedo jacket and pulled him down the aisle as the poor organist, sopping wet, began the standard “Wedding March” recessional.

  Hurrying things along, Laurette bellowed, “Try to move it along, people! We have a lot to do, and we only have forty-six minutes!”

  Mercifully, the reception was under a tent erected on the South Earring Terrace of the estate, built around an ancient Verona wellhead that the caterers almost used as a giant punch bowl before cooler heads prevailed. The nearly one hundred guests squeezed under the canvas cover, and there was very little room to move let alone browse the buffet and load up on chicken salad finger sandwiches and mini-éclairs.