by Josie Brown
I didn’t answer immediately. I had planned on going back to Louis’s to get my car. Then I was going to go home to change into some jeans before doing my stargazing, which, I’m sure, would have sounded somewhat lame to a guy like Mick.
Now he’ll know I’m a nut if I tell him about the great evening I’ve got planned, I thought.
I elected to stall. “Shouldn’t you stay here, for Ethan?”
“Nah, I’ve already paid my condolences. Besides, when he’s around Ophelia, he’s no fun anyway.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I get that feeling, too. Still, the place is hopping. I think you’d want to hang around…”
The band kicked off a yowling riff that had Mick cupping his ears. “What? I can’t hear you!” Shaking his head, he gently steered me out the door with him.
The street was teeming with passersby, all dressed for a flirtatious Friday night on the Strip. In both directions, across all four lanes, cars were doing a bumper-to-bumper crawl, the better to ogle and hoot at the club-hopping crowds. It was noisy outside, too, but at least we could hear each other.
He was making it clear that I wasn’t going to lose him easily—not that I minded that in the least.
Okay, I thought, I’ll come clean. That should scare him away.
“I appreciate the offer. But I’m sure I’ll be putting you out of your way. You see, I have to go back up Laurel and grab my car from Louis’s place, then I was going to go home and change, and then head out to—well, to Griffith Park. The observatory.”
“But it’s late. Isn’t it closed?”
“There’s a platform that UCLA has set up for its new planet research. That’s my real job.”
He gave me an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m very serious. But since taking this job with Louis, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been able to keep up my research. So, it’s now or never.” I sighed. “Hey, I understand perfectly if you want to bow out on your offer to give me a lift. Don’t feel obligated to stick around.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cab pull over and disgorge a drunk, giggling couple. “See you when we get back from London, I hope.”
“Look, I’ll make you a deal,” said Mick. “You quit trying to brush me off, and I’ll give you a ride up the hill. In fact, if you let me, I’d like to tag along on your little stargazing expedition.”
“Well, sure. But why would you want to do that?”
“Because I—well, I feel like a fool admitting this now, but, okay, I’ll say it. Just don’t laugh at me: although I’ve lived here for the past twelve years of my life, I’ve never been to the observatory.”
I did laugh. Hard. And so did he. “I’m sorry,” I gasped, “but I can believe you’ve never been there. Most of L.A. doesn’t even know it exists, which is a shame.”
“Then you won’t mind being my guide tonight?”
I smiled. “I’d be honored. It’s a fair swap for the lift—and the gas.”
And (hopefully) your friendship.
* * *
While I was changing in the bedroom, Mick—keeping a gentlemanly distance in my small, cramped living room—peppered me with questions about planet searches and my interest in astronomy.
“What kind of telescope do you use?”
“A TeleVue NP-101. It’s portable, but still bulky—about twenty-five pounds. It has a four-inch APO refractor. On it, I use a Carl Zeiss Monocentric lenspiece, which is around fifty years old but considered a classic among astronomers because of its two-lens design—as opposed to many modern telescopes, which have as many as nine lenses. This gives it a narrower field of vision, which means it takes in more light transmission from objects farther away, which the newer multi-lens scopes can’t see.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. So which star will we be watching?”
“Gamma Microscopii. It’s about 220 light-years away from Earth.” I answered, and “it’s called ‘Mic’ for short. I also explained that scientists both at UC Berkeley and in Australia already suspected that a planet that is somewhat larger than Jupiter and three times farther from its star than the Earth is from the Sun, is orbiting Mic somewhere within the expansive disk of dust emanating from it. Bets are that this mysterious planet was somewhere within the first three or so AUs (astronomical units) closest to Mic. The goal now was to verify their findings, and that called for around-the-clock observation by amateur astronomers like me.”
“Mic, huh? Like me. Pretty neat,” he exclaimed. Then, somewhat embarrassed at the pride in his voice, he continued, “How can you tell if a planet is orbiting a star?”
While there were several methods, amateur astronomers such as myself used the Doppler Wobble method, which noted wiggles—or “wobbles”—made by the star as it pulls planets with a magnetic field. I don’t know if he heard this explanation, though, because at the time, my head was buried in a too-tight La Via 18 silk sweater that was caught on an earring.
“That means the star needs constant surveillance, and there just aren’t enough scientists to do it—which is why they welcome us volunteers to pick up the slack. If we’re able to confirm their theory, we all win.”
“How long should the whole project take?”
“It’s hard to say. It may take months or years,” I said.
That brought a low whistle from him. “If you don’t find it, will you feel as if you’ve wasted your time?”
I paused, both to collect my thoughts on that question and to zip up my favorite pair of old, faded jeans. Because I wanted to see his face when I gave my answer, I grabbed a jacket out of my closet, opened the bedroom door and walked out into the living room, where I found Mick peering into my telescope—which was pointed directly through the bedroom door’s keyhole.
Caught red-handed, he looked up sheepishly. “Wow, this thing is powerful!”
I snatched it out of his hand and headed out the door. “To answer your question: sure, it’s a crap shoot, with lousier odds. I guess that’s exactly how you feel after writing a script, waiting for some producers to option it, watch them sit on it, have it go into turnaround, only to have it put back on the shelf. Then, if a movie actually gets made, first it’s totally rewritten, or in fact could be rewritten two, three or more times, so that it’s really not your script anymore. And that process may take a very long time, maybe even a decade or longer, soup to nuts, right?”
He nodded, chagrined. “You’ve got a good point there.”
I pointed in the direction of the Beetle. “I’m driving tonight. Hop in.”
* * *
Here is what I learned about Mick as we took turns watching Mic twirl and flicker:
He was originally from a small town in Missouri, which, he claimed, had absolutely no skyscrapers. Because of that fact, I pointed out, it was more than likely his hometown had a great sky for stargazing.
He was allergic to cats. (Which made me glad I didn’t have one.)
He preferred writing for film over TV, and although he had done both, he’d probably be richer by now if he had stuck it out in television.
His mother worried that he wasn’t eating enough. (If she had been around for the boxing party, her mind would have been put at ease, because he’d been eating nonstop then!)
Like me, he couldn’t stand Ophelia and was praying that Ethan would figure her out before she conveniently forgot to take her contraceptive pill and played on his natural instinct to “do good by her.” (“No one really pulls that act, do they? I thought that went out with An Officer and a Gentleman,” I said, horrified. “Oh, you’d be surprised how popular that trick is...and, for that matter, the movie’s DVD rental,” explained Mick.)
Here is what Mick found out about me (and believe me, that’s only because he asked):
How much I already missed Leo.
How angry I was at Leo for leaving me before we could clean up the crap between us.
How much I regretted not having been able to tell Leo what I
really needed from him when I’d had the chance.
How proud I had hoped to make Leo of me by doing something like this—particularly something like this, which had nothing to do with the “industry.”
Neither of us mentioned Louis.
By five o’clock, enough light was piercing the sky to convince us that we had strained our eyes—and our voices—enough for one night. The ride back to my place was made in silence. Mick insisted on walking me to my door and lugging the telescope for me. I thanked him, then informed him that I now knew it was worth taking the time to put putty in my bedroom’s keyhole.
When he leaned over to kiss me, I didn’t try to stop him. Nor did I object when he moved us out of the doorway and, very gently, pulled me through the living room into my bedroom and onto my bed.
And I’ll admit it: it was I who ripped the button off his shirt while pulling it out from under his belt. Granted, we took turns peeling off each other’s jeans, but I’ll give him full credit for how quickly he can unsnap a Victoria’s Secret Second Skin Satin unlined demi bra, and definite kudos for his gentle touch while slipping off my lace low-rise Brazilian tanga, and for the tender way in which he explored every nook and cranny of my love-charged body. . .
Until the phone rang.
Reflexively I grabbed it, while Mick groaned.
Love hurts.
Unrequited love is an even bigger bitch.
Of course, none of that mattered to Louis, who was in full-fledged crisis mode.
“Love, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling your goddam cell all evening!”
“I wasn’t expecting you—I mean, I shut it off after I left the club. I’ve been—well, I—Louis, it’s Saturday. Didn’t Randy give you my message?”
“Randy? No, Randy said nothing. Look, something—something terrible has happened—” There was an ache in his voice, which broke before he could finish the sentence. “I need you.”
“Right now? But it’s—it’s not even six o’clock yet!”
“Please, Hannah. Look, I’ll—I’ll explain when you get here.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the ceiling, weighing what meant more to me: my obligation to Louis or my lust for Mick.
Mick made the decision for me. He got up, got dressed, and left me with nothing more than a kiss on the forehead.
And a broken heart.
It took me exactly 38 minutes to hightail it from my place to Louis’s.
In the meantime, Louis had somehow found the strength to pull himself together. He was fully dressed, shaved and humming one of T’s rap ditties as he munched a Zone-approved low-carb scone along with his glass of grapefruit juice. He didn’t even look up from his Variety as I ran in.
“Change of plans,” he said, smiling brightly. “We’re leaving for New York immediately.”
“Oh . . . ’kay.” My mind went in a million directions. Suddenly I had a headache. “I’ll have to call the jet service and let them know. And change the Ritz reservation. And the tulip order, I guess. Uh . . . may I ask what happened? You seemed pretty upset when you hung up forty minutes ago.”
Could he tell by my tone that I was a bit peeved? I hoped so.
“I suddenly realized how badly I missed Tatiana. You know how it is when you’re in love, right? And you can’t bear to be away one more second?”
“Yes. I know the feeling,” I growled.
I punched in the reservation number for the studio’s private jet on the gray cell and walked out of the room.
Chapter 6: Penumbra
Means, literally, dim light. It most often refers to the outer shadow cast during eclipses.
It’s true, for actors at least, that all the world’s a stage. And since my primary assignment put me front row center in Louis’s world (apparently, the job description wasn’t fooling when it said 24/7), there was a part of him that pined for an ongoing standing ovation from me.
Well, as far as I was concerned, that morning he wasn’t going to get it.
I was still fuming when Malcolm picked us up and shot us over to the private airfield at Van Nuys. Did this deter Louis from coveting my affections? Oddly, no, not in the least. At first he was a bit annoyed, however, and decided to show it in the best way he knew how: erotic flippancy. “What say we drop the icy indifference, eh love? Where I come from, we call that foreplay.”
When that didn’t work, he pretended to ignore my pouting altogether under the assumption that he could charm me into forgiving him. In the 40-minute trip from his house to Van Nuys, he chattered away: on industry gossip, the Posse’s post-party antics; he even tossed me a bone about missing me in the Viper Room.
“I’d hoped you’d stick around and save me from all of those horny panting women. Not that I blame you for calling it a day as early as you did. Wish I could have done the same, but, hey, you don’t make it in this town by clocking out after eight hours.” He was hoping that would win him a grudging acknowledgement.
No go. No words were uttered through the polite, albeit frosty, smile on my lips.
Louis smiled, not one to give up so easily. “You left so early, I was sure you’d have had plenty of sleep by the time I called this morning.”
“Oh, sure. I’m always up before the sun,” I muttered. “If you must know, Louis, I’d been out all evening, too, catching up on some—some personal business.”
“Of course. Understandable.” He patted my hand sympathetically. “Hmmm. Mick must have been doing the same. I didn’t see him, but Randy claims he was there, at least for a few minutes. Did you run into him?”
He asked it innocently enough, but the way his eyes bore into mine like two heat-seeking missiles, I suspected he already knew the answer to that.
If not, I’m sure the flush on my neck confirmed it. Still, I answered as noncommittally as I could. “Yeah, I saw him.”
Nothing more. From either of us.
The rest of the ride was taken in silence.
The limo drove straight onto the tarmac, stopping next to the stairwell descending from the plane’s forward door. We were greeted by the pilot and his navigator, both of whom looked as if they had been hired by the studio’s casting department, because they so perfectly fit their roles of stiff-backed flinty-eyed flyboys. After making congenial small talk based around their enjoyment of Louis’s last film and the weather patterns we might possibly encounter en route to New York, they then assisted Malcolm with the luggage.
As we boarded the plane, Louis insisted that I go first. Then, quite solicitously, he steadied my hand when I reached the top step. Ignoring the fawning flirtatiousness of the flight attendant, he introduced me to her as “the one woman in my life I could never do with out” (which had her practically curtseying to me).
From what I could see, the studio’s jet, a Boeing Business Jet, was tricked out with all the bells and whistles, including (as requested) a Zone smorgasbord, to be served once we reached our cruising altitude on Vera Wang’s “Empress Jewel” Wedgwood pattern; a fully stocked bar, with Brut Réserve chilling in a William Yeoward crystal champagne bucket; a custom-made Collezione-Divani built-in sofa and four captain’s chairs, all upholstered in leather so soft that you’d have sworn it had been marinated in butter for a month prior to being hand-sewn onto their frames; the prerequisite in-cabin screening room with a 4700-lumens high-definition digital projection system and a film library that included every new release available, as well as every film the actor in transit had ever made, and every cinema masterpiece attributed to the studio; a dining aft-lounge with a high-gloss Michael Graves-designed mahogany table that could be electronically adjusted for height but was currently set to accommodate that of the typical leading man, who is—according to most studio publicity departments—five-feet ten (but is actually, if that same source could be shamed into admitting it, more like five-feet seven, and that’s stretching it); and last, but not in any way the least, a “master suite” for the weary world traveler, which boasted a round C
al-King feather bed.
The flight attendant, aptly named Caresse, was a five-feet-eleven-inch raven-tressed Amazon tricked out in a way that would make any Hollywood player’s flight less stressful, if not downright enjoyable. Her outfit included a form-hugging, jersey-Lycra Versace-designed catsuit with matching paperboy cap (both imprinted with the studio’s logo). She had a tendency to hover at an arousing closeness, with a scent so enticingly musky that any airborne VIP wouldn’t mind in the least when she did so and a soft, breathy voice emanating from lips plumped into a tantalizing liquid pout. She was trained as a sous chef, should Louis care to ditch his diet and indulge in a craving for, say, pan-seared tilapia with chile lime butter; and she was licensed in shiatsu massage, as well as the Heimlich maneuver and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And last but in no way least, her breasts were buoyed with so much of the requisite silicone that they could have qualified as flotation devices. In fact, I had no doubt that Louis would be clinging to them if, God forbid, our plane should end up in the drink. (I’m sure he was disappointed that this portion of our trip was over land.)
Frankly, I was thankful that the studio had been thoughtful enough to provide so many diversions, since I was in no mood to play handmaiden to Louis. Too little sleep, not to mention coitus interruptus, has a way of making me a bit peckish.
Prior to take-off, Louis insisted that I spread out on the sectional.
“That way, you can curl up and doze off if need be, love,” he murmured. Taken with his sweetness, Caresse gave me an envious look that said, “You lucky, lucky girl!”
With a stony nod, I plopped myself down on the couch as if I owned it and picked up that month’s edition of Esquire, which Caresse had so considerately left on the coffee table. She was fully aware that its cover—which featured Louis in a white Armani suit sans shirt, four models dressed as mini-skirted nuns praying at his feet, and sporting the headline “Why Women Worship This Guy, and Not You”—would certainly be appreciated by the studio’s precious cargo.
Clucking her tongue in shock at my apathy, Caresse commiserated with Louis, who was feigning crestfallen martyrdom, in the best way she knew how: After suggesting that we buckle ourselves up as comfortably as possible, she surreptitiously slipped him a business card containing her cell number, then made a geisha-worthy getaway to the galley.