Alice in La La Land

by Sophie Lee

  'What was your question?' asked Suki, smiling gently.

  'When will I work again?' shrugged Alice. 'It's been a while,' she admitted to the class, who murmured their acknowledgement.

  'And what did the sardines tell you?' asked Suki.

  '"When you are truly free!" See, I've written it here,' said Alice, pointing to the speech bubble above the blue sardine can.

  Alice could hear a cat attacking one of the corridor walls. She tried to summon the sardine can once more. When would she work again? What did it mean to be truly free? Why was she still asking the same question after all these years? Alice pulled back the covers and got into bed.

  At 9.45 the next morning, Alice drove down Sunset Boulevard towards the Château Marmont for her ten o'clock meeting. 'Château Marmont, huh?' she muttered as she drove along. 'Nice life, Conrad.'

  It was now just over a year since they'd seen each other on the opening night of Citrus Days of the Marzipan Pig. The two had first been introduced at Alice's wrap party for Red Centre, the outback hospital series shot in rural Victoria. Conrad was directing a play for the Melbourne Theatre Company at the time and Flick had a supporting role.

  The party was in full swing at the Imperial Hotel in Richmond when Conrad and Flick arrived. The production company had organised both a band and an open bar and the celebrations had disintegrated early into mania. Alice, Conrad and Flick took full advantage of the free alcohol and began ordering jugs of Illusions, a potent kiwi fruit liqueur cocktail.

  After consuming close to four jugs, Flick disappeared with a gaffer for a smoke outside, and Alice and Conrad sat side by side at the bar. Alice was impressed by his recall of beat poetry under the influence of massive quantities of sticky green alcohol. When he composed a poem for her on the spot, she was completely under his spell.

  Alice glimpsed the Château Marmont ahead on the left. It appeared like a castle on the hill, its turret reaching up above the trees. As she valeted the car in the hotel basement, she caught the valet attendant's briefest of sneers. Like you drive an Aston Martin, she thought. She suspected the valet fee would cost her half a week's grocery budget, but what choice did she have?

  She had dressed carefully in an indigo floral dress with a three-quarter sleeve T-shirt underneath and brown boots. It hadn't got the thumbs up on Shauna's hot-test but Alice felt good in it. It was a bit edgy and a bit fashion-forward, like the character Maisie. She wore her hair half up, half down and had applied her makeup with more care than usual. Alice realised her palm was sweating on the valet ticket and she placed it in her satchel.

  She walked through the black and white tiled entrance and cautiously approached the gothic glamour of the reception desk. An immaculately groomed woman stood in front of lavish curtains. Alice asked her politely to let Conrad Beest know his ten o'clock had arrived.

  A massive vase of flowers stood as tall as she was in an enclave to her right. Alice looked around and absorbed the mismatched grandeur of the Château's salon. Rich red carpet and exposed beams were lit by scores of yellow lamps. Overstuffed couches and handpicked antique furniture lent the room a neo-'40s ambience. Three television stars from The OC were having coffee on the striped couches in the corner, talking to someone with a dictaphone, presumably a journalist. Alice forced herself not to gawp and sat down in a wicker chair to wait.

  Alice had read and re-read the script, and made character notes as well. She wondered how Conrad had managed to make this happen, but wasn't exactly surprised. It had always been his secret ambition to direct a film. Alice pulled out her makeup bag and checked her appearance in her compact mirror. She could see a small red blemish on her left cheekbone.

  'Oh, brilliant,' she muttered to no one in particular, and carefully applied concealer. She checked her watch. She'd been waiting now for fifteen minutes. Alice got up and approached the reception desk again. The woman made her nervous. Alice cleared her throat. 'Excuse me?'

  'Can I help you?' the woman asked pleasantly, as if it were the first time she'd spoken to Alice. She was wearing pale blue contact lenses which made her seem icy and distant.

  'Oh, I'm sorry, I asked before about Conrad Beest?' Alice asked.

  'Uh-huh.' She shook her head dismissively. 'No, they said they'd call down when they were ready for you.'

  'Okay, thanks,' Alice replied, and retreated to her wicker chair.

  'Calm down, Alice. Deep breathe,' she told herself. She sat back and closed her eyes.

  A year into their relationship, Alice and Conrad had taken a weekend break down the Great Ocean Road. They had based themselves in Melbourne at first because the Melbourne Theatre Company was giving Conrad so much work. Alice remembered the trip as the happiest they'd ever been together. She recalled thinking how brilliant and how talented he was, gazing at him sideways as they drove along the windy roads of the Shipwreck Coast. Alice had a red tartan thermos she kept full of Turkish coffee while Conrad fiddled with the radio dial until he found the football. He may have had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the works of Brecht, but he also loved his football. It was one of his many contradictions that she adored.

  They stopped and got out on a grassy verge to inspect the rugged bay where their convict ancestors had arrived centuries ago.

  'Imagine having come all that way only to drown as you came into shore,' he observed, gazing at the grey-green carnage below.

  'They don't call it the Shipwreck Coast for nothing,' Alice remarked. 'Fancy a swim, then?'

  'Come here, angel.' Alice put her thermos down and they embraced on the roadside. The wind was ferocious and they clung tightly to each other . . .

  'Excuse me, ma'am, they are ready to see you now,' said the Château Marmont receptionist, interrupting her reverie.

  'Thank you very much,' Alice replied.

  The receptionist gave Alice Conrad's room number and directions from the lift. Her script had fallen to the floor and she scooped it up and stuffed it into her satchel. It was 10.35.

  Alice got out of the lift on the fourth floor. Judging from the small number of rooms spaced widely apart, she guessed she'd arrived at the hotel's suites. She made her way uncertainly down the corridor to room 48. Her gut was in a knot of anxiety. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her hair and knocked on the door.

  A thin young man in jeans and a Scissor Sisters T-shirt opened it for her. He was holding a Blackberry in his left hand and greeted her in a warm and professional manner that was somehow also condescending. Alice wasn't sure how he managed it.

  'Hey, Alice, I'm Brandon, Conrad's PA. How are you?' he said, in the sympathetic tone one usually reserves for the terminally ill.

  'I'm really well, Brandon,' Alice replied, hoping to sound both hearty and confident. She instantly regretted her outfit. It was too try-hard.

  'Come through,' he said, gesturing with an elegant sweep of a lean right arm. He read a message on his Blackberry as he led her into the lounge room. Brandon walked rapidly with small steps, his small buttocks flouncing like a baby gazelle's.

  Alice looked around at the vastness of the accommodation. She'd assumed correctly; Conrad had a suite.

  The lounge room was large and beautifully appointed. A taupe couch glowed in golden sunlight that streamed through the buttery curtain fabric. An overstuffed moss green armchair stood invitingly in one corner on a nouveau '40s rug. There was an array of bottled mineral water on a large glass-and-timber coffee table, along with an imperial-looking fruit basket. Alice could smell cigarette smoke wafting in from outside.

  'Can I get you something to drink?' Brandon offered.

  'Some mineral water would be great,' Alice replied, looking at the bottles. Brandon reluctantly put down his Blackberry and opened a fresh bottle of water. Alice looked out the window to Sunset Boulevard below. A car had broken down and traffic was backed up to the south. She could hear Conrad's voice from the balcony. Her heart did a flip-flop.

  'Do you really think we could get him to cameo? Okay, sure, that would be amazin
g, right?' he was saying. 'Just call Brandon and get him to check my diary.' Alice detected his usual confidence, only now his intonation was slightly American.

  Conrad turned and squinted back into the suite. He caught sight of Alice and his eyes widened. 'Wow,' he mouthed through the glass.

  'Huh?' mouthed Alice, shaking her head and smiling. She tugged at her hair.

  Conrad continued listening to his phone conversation and shook his head in a gesture of apology, pointing at the handset and rolling his eyes. 'Just a sec,' he mouthed.

  Alice felt a rush of flu-like symptoms. Her gut was knotted, she was hot, she was cold, and above all she was damp. She peeked under her arm and was alarmed to see a white residue on her T-shirt from sweat and underarm deodorant. She sat down on a straight-backed chair with her mineral water and took a large sip. Keep it together, she urged herself.

  Brandon sat on the taupe couch industriously tapping out messages on his Blackberry. He flicked his head from side to side as if trying to loosen up a stiff disc in his spine.

  Alice put down her mineral water and pulled out her diary in an attempt to look busy; she shook her head and sighed, as if trying to make sense of her relentless schedule. When Brandon looked over, she raised her eyebrows and threw open her hands as if to say, 'How busy are we?' and in doing so, knocked over her glass. Water spilled all over the carpet.

  'Alice! God, I'm so sorry. I just had to take that call!' Conrad exclaimed, springing through the balcony door.

  'That's fine,' Alice replied, closing her diary and standing up to greet him. 'Oh, Brandon, I'm so sorry I seem to have spilt . . . Um, Conrad, hi.'

  Brandon leapt up. He raised one eyebrow, smiled and went to the kitchen, presumably to fetch a cloth.

  'How are you?' Alice began again, spinning back to face him. 'Sorry, seem to have spilt that, well, you've got plenty more I suppose, and gosh, don't you look well! How are you?' she repeated, feeling increasingly foolish.

  Conrad didn't seem to notice the accident. He looked lean and rangy in a sweatshirt that appeared to have an extract of a poem on the left-hand side. Or perhaps it wasn't a poem; perhaps it was just a marvellous quote? She could decipher the name Jean-Paul Sartre at the bottom. Alice thought it looked expensive. Conrad's jeans were so dark and stiff, they must never have been washed. She recognised them as Marc Jacobs. His skin looked clear, as though the top layers had been peeled back to reveal the pristine epidermis beneath, and he appeared more energised than ever. He looked like a man on the cusp of a breakthrough.

  'Fine, how are you?' he replied, bowing in an overtly formal manner.

  'I'm also fine . . . this is weird, isn't it?'

  Brandon re-appeared with a cloth and began dabbing at the spilt beverage.

  'Sorry,' Alice winced.

  'Fine,' Brandon mumbled quietly.

  Conrad smiled and raised his left eyebrow. 'So weird.'

  'Huh?' said Alice. She noticed he had radically cut his hair. It was what they referred to as a number two at the barber's. It made his large eyes appear even more intense.

  'Ahem, excuse me, Conrad,' said Brandon, standing upright with the damp cloth, 'I'm going to go and organise that meeting for you now, is there anything else you'll need?'

  He looked at Conrad conspiratorially.

  'No, we're fine,' Conrad answered, grinning back. 'Fine. See you in a bit.'

  'Nice to meet you, Alice,' Brandon said, smiling sympathetically. 'Can I get you another drink before I go?'

  'What? No, no, I'm okay, and sorry again about that.'

  As soon as Brandon had gone, Conrad moved closer to Alice.

  'Brandon's great,' he said. 'He does so much for me. I don't know what I'd do without him.' He appraised Alice with his head cocked to one side. 'You look fantastic,' he commented. 'That's such a cool dress.'

  Alice tugged at her sleeve. She could tell he was nervous because he was paying her compliments. He sat down on one of the mid-century modern chairs.

  'How have you been? Isn't it great here? I thought I'd hate LA but I actually think it's pretty cool.'

  'It is pretty cool,' she responded, nodding and smiling, though she couldn't have agreed with him less. She could taste bile in the back of her throat.

  'I mean, you know, people in the industry who haven't made it like to go on and on about how soul-destroying it is, but it's actually . . . you know, I just think it's so easy to get the job done here. People are so efficient, don't you think?'

  'Yeah,' she said, sitting down again. 'It's great. So . . . who's representing you?' Alice sat very still, for some reason dreading his answer.

  'Huh?' asked Conrad as if it were no big deal at all. 'Oh, you know, CAA.'

  'Oh,' Alice replied, trying to sound pleased.

  'They're so great,' he added. 'I mean, they're huge, right?'

  The 'right?' thing was a decidedly new characteristic and typically American. 'But you can't argue with the people on their books,' he continued. 'My agent also represents Steven Spielberg and Tim Burton. You can't really quibble with his talent list! Right?' Conrad laughed.

  'That's really great, Conrad. Congratulations,' Alice heard herself say. She fingered the fabric of her dress. Why on earth had she worn it and not a pair of jeans? She felt as though some large foreign body had lodged itself in her throat. She willed herself to appear normal and to assume a reasonable tone. 'But I don't get it. How did you move so . . . seamlessly from theatre to film?'

  'Oh, it was a little commercial I directed while I was in Europe,' he said lightly. She could hear his Blackberry emit a beep. 'My future agent at CAA saw it, got in touch and it went from there.' Conrad crossed and uncrossed his legs, peering at his Blackberry, and Alice was reminded of his vast reserves of energy.

  'Do you want to check that?'

  'What? Oh that,' he said, looking over at the device. 'No, it's fine,' he said, forcing his attention away from it.

  'So, a TV commercial? But . . . you hate TV commercials, you think they're the scourge of the modern age,' blurted Alice.

  'This wasn't your average advert. It was pretty subversive actually.' He sighed and smiled but Alice could tell he felt defensive.

  'Oh, was it for a charity or something?' Alice asked.

  'What?'

  'The ad, was it, you know, for Unicef or something?'

  'No, Alice, why would you ask that?' He sounded slightly annoyed.

  'I don't know. Only that you hate ads so much, I thought you'd only really do one for a charity or something . . .'

  'It was for Motorola.'

  'Oh,' Alice blinked, thinking of pineapple chunks. 'Didn't you tell me that Motorola provides the components for landmines and that we should never use their product?'

  'They've changed their policy, Alice,' he answered testily. 'I looked into the ethics of the company before I signed on.'

  'Well, anyway, congratulations. That's great.'

  There was a heavy pause.

  'So,' he continued. 'You, Alice, what have you been up to? Been busy?'

  Alice flinched. 'So busy,' she heard herself say. 'There are just so many people to see here. I'm always running from one, you know, meeting to the next. It's just non-stop.' She paused. Alice had realised pretty quickly that showbiz people used the term 'meeting' when they actually meant an audition or coffee. Hell, they probably said they'd had a meeting when they'd been at the dentist. She felt a wave of shame that she was now using it too. Was it phoney or was it a survival mechanism? She hadn't really been in any meetings; she'd been in a series of cold reads or semi screen tests. She decided to change the subject.

  'Conrad,' she began. He was still looking over at his Blackberry and fidgeting with the arm of his chair. 'Conrad, my dad's pretty sick. He's got to have a big operation and I'm in a . . . predicament at the moment. I need to find a way to sort out the outstanding . . .'

  Alice stopped. She thought for a second that he looked relieved but couldn't imagine why. Just as quickly he was looking at her with ge
nuine sympathy. He leaned forward in his chair. Alice tried again.

  'Well, you know, Conrad, these surgeons are expensive. The outstanding . . .'

  'God, Alice, I'm really sorry. You should have said something or been in touch earlier, I could've . . . so, you're going back to Australia?'

  Oh, thought Alice. 'Well, I'm just trying to figure out how to help them best, considering . . .' She let the statement hang in the air, not wanting to spell out the ugliness of the debt in all its monetary glory. Alice looked down at his feet. She noticed he was wearing a pair of Adicolour trainers, the ones with the Keith Haring design. Alice knew how much they cost and was suddenly angry. His whole expensive designer-cool outfit was worth thousands and she was quite sure the rates for an international Motorola commercial were in a different stratosphere to those paid by Sunripe Pineapple Chunks.

  'Alice, I'm really sorry about the way things turned out,' he said. She was surprised by the emotion in his voice. 'I want to make it up to you. And, well, here we are. You've read the script, right?'

  'Yes. It's really wonderful,' she added, actually managing sincerity. 'It's a very exciting project for you.'

  'And maybe for you too, Alice,' he replied, reaching forward to grab her hand. Alice recoiled at his touch. She had forgotten how wiry it was, and that she had once thought him elegant. 'I want them to see you, Alice, I'll have to fight for you, but I'm pretty confident.' He sounded almost cocky.

  'For the role of Maisie? But . . . it's such a great role, surely even the big names would want . . .'

  Conrad's face dropped. He looked aggravated and jumped up from his sitting position and began to pace. His jeans hadn't been taken up high enough and they scuffed along the floor.

  'Maisie's the lead, Alice,' he sputtered. 'What did you . . . what did your agent tell you?'

  'My manager, you mean? Rebekah, from Amoeba Management. She told me that I'd be meeting with you about the female lead. Why?'

  'Because I see you as Colleen, not Maisie.'

  Alice racked her brain to remember the character of Colleen in the script. She went through a catalogue of roles before the penny finally dropped. 'You mean . . . the lesbian best friend who works in the balloon shop?' she said finally. She picked up her script and started flicking through the pages. 'How much screen time does she actually have?'