by Bey Deckard
“My clothes are as dirty as I am,” I said regretfully. “Thanks anyway. Really.”
She grinned a little wider as if she realized how much I wanted to be convinced.
“You can use my washer. I’m sure I could lend you something to wear in the meantime.”
“Yeah?” My tone was blatantly hopeful, and she laughed.
“Yeah,” she replied and pointed down the hallway. “There’s a stack of towels in the linen closet. Take one of the black ones—they’re new and really soft. The washer is in the bathroom… There’s a sliding closet door in there. While you do that, I’ll find you some old sweatpants or something.”
“You sure?” I knew I was belabouring it, but my ego felt a little shredded.
She very nearly rolled her eyes at me, and I finally had to grin.
Three
IF A SHOWER COULD BE magical, this shower was certainly that. I was in there a good ten minutes before it occurred to me that maybe hot water was really expensive in Canada. I really had no idea, seeing as I was always booked into fancy hotels when I was abroad. Hurriedly, I rinsed myself—the soap smelled really good, like cedar and nice cologne—and turned the water off.
The towel turned out to be huge and just as soft as she had promised, and I watched my clothes spinning round and round in the tiny washing machine as I dried myself. Then I opened the medicine cabinet and took down the bottle of pills and shook out another capsule, washing it down with some cold water from the tap. Without even thinking, I grabbed the deodorant and put some on. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped and frowned down at it. It was the same brand as mine, though with French writing on it and in a different scent: men’s deodorant.
I glanced around the bathroom, a little perplexed. The walls were olive green, and the counter and sink were black marble with an industrial-looking, silver-toned faucet. The only art on the wall was a set of small photographs set in boxy black frames—close-up shots of some sort of machinery.
The bathroom was nicely decorated… but not very feminine, given my host. I knew that it was sort of sexist to think in those terms, but I couldn’t help it; I was used to Claire and her floral patterns and fruit-scented soaps. I looked in the medicine cabinet again and found no perfume, only cologne. In fact, the only clue that a woman had been here at all was a black pencil and mascara in a little drawstring pouch by the sink—which I agonized about opening until my curiosity won out. Then something dawned on me: maybe this wasn’t her apartment at all. Maybe this was her boyfriend’s? Or maybe she was house-sitting… I flattened down the cowlick at the back of my head before I opened the door and peered out. The woman was still at her laptop across the vast sitting room and didn’t look up as I left the bathroom.
In the bedroom, a pair of faded black sweatpants waited on the bed. I slipped them on and then contemplated the T-shirt the woman had left me. It was an old Metallica shirt. I’d owned the same one and seeing it now, on this stranger’s bed, made me smile. However, when I tried to put it on, it was obvious that it would never stretch over my shoulders without ripping. With an ear cocked towards the door, I quietly opened the closet and saw that it was filled with button-downs that wouldn’t fit me. Obviously the flat belonged to a much smaller man.
Well, I’ll just go without. I figured if she knew who I was, chances are she’d seen me without a shirt before. I looked over myself again in the mirrored closet door and straightened my shoulders.
With my second foray into the sitting room, the woman looked up. Her eyebrows rose a little at seeing me standing there shirtless; feeling a tad self-conscious, I crossed my arms and shrugged apologetically.
“Too small,” I explained.
Her brow smoothed out, and she shook her head though her eyes looked strange when they met mine.
“I’m sorry. I thought it would fit. I could see if I have anything bigger?”
“Please, don’t put yourself out on my account. I’ll be fine… It’s not like it’s cold in here. I mean, unless you don’t want me traipsing around half-naked… ?” I smiled crookedly and she chuckled, shaking her head.
“No, it’s ok. If you’re fine, then I am fine, and we will be fine,” she said. The woman had dimples in both cheeks when she smiled. She also had nice lips.
Nice lips… The memory of kissing her came back to me, and I felt my face catch fire.
“Listen. About last night… If I acted inappropriately in any way, I am very sorry. I apologize for my behaviour…” I was babbling, very nearly wringing my hands like some old peasant in an historical. The woman’s cheeks went a little pink, but she waved at the air.
“Forget about it,” she said, and we fell into an awkward silence. I looked around, rocking back on my heels as I tried to think of something to say.
“Do you want some coffee?” she asked. “There’s some made.”
“Oh yes!” I answered, relieved. “That would be lovely. Really… lovely.” Go on, Stu. Say lovely again. I cleared my throat and held out a hand before she could get to her feet. “I can get it. Thank you.”
I went over to the kitchen and started opening cupboards. I chose a bright-red mug out of the motley collection and then poured myself some of the dark, wonderful-smelling coffee.
“Shit… I’m sorry I don’t have any milk. I could run out…”
“Oh! No, that’s fine. Really. Thank you.” Without bothering her for some sugar—she hadn’t offered after all—I lifted the mug to my lips and took a gulp of the scalding coffee. The pain must have shown on my face because she laughed again, and the throaty chuckle brought a sheepish smile to my face.
“This is bloody awkward, isn’t it?” I said.
“Sort of.”
We both laughed this time, and then I took a more careful sip from my mug.
“So,” I said once I’d swallowed. “I just want to thank you again for rescuing my pathetic self from a bad situation.”
“My pleasure,” she replied. “I’m glad I was there.” Her cheeks went pink again before she turned back to her computer.
“What is it that you do?” I asked, hoping to stimulate a conversation. I found her interesting. Yes, she was rather pretty, but there was something about the woman that felt oddly familiar. It was obvious that she was shy, and what people don’t realize about me, despite my fame, is that I am too. Two shy strangers alone on a rainy, grey day in autumn. It felt like the beginning of a romance movie.
“I’m a writer,” she answered.
I really wanted to ask for her name again, but it felt like I’d missed my chance. Then, I noticed some mail peeking out from under a folded magazine on the kitchen island, and I stepped up to get a better look. I thought I might be able to spare myself some embarrassment.
“What do you write?” I asked, prompting her. “Novels?”
The woman laughed.
“Ah. No,” she replied. “I write movie reviews.”
“What? For a living?”
When she nodded, my eyebrows shot up, and I put down my cup.
Anyone who made enough money to live off writing movie reviews was someone I must have heard of—unless of course, she only reviewed Canadian movies. That’s when I glanced down at the mail on the counter and saw that the top few letters were all addressed to the same person: Timothy Leblanc. I frowned. She had introduced herself as Tim. Timothy… ?
As I contemplated this new, confusing information, I noticed that the sticker on the magazine was to a T. White. It occurred to me then that “Leblanc” translated to “the white”… but that meant…
“Wait. You”—I blinked at her, not believing what I was about to say—“are Tim White?”
Tim White, an influential movie reviewer whose acerbic wit and shrewd observations made him a favourite among those who believed they had discerning tastes.
Tim White who had ripped into the last two movies I starred in, writing such gems as “A story for mindless masses that delight in bein
g spoon-fed flavourless, money-grabbing pap” and “insipid, paltry nonsense that has all the charm of a visit to the dentist”.
The woman nodded, looking a little apprehensive.
It made no bloody sense. Was she posing as a man? Why would she have introduced herself as Tim? I thought about the bathroom. The man’s deodorant. The cologne. She was rather androgynous. I only realized I was staring openly at her when she broke eye contact and turned to look out the window.
Had I assumed something about her? Hell, had I assumed that…
“At the risk of sounding like a complete idiot,” I said quietly, “are you… a man? Male?” I remembered my first impression of her and wondered if my drunken brain had spotted something crucial about my rescuer.
When a crease appeared on her brow in a slightly pained expression, I thought I was wrong. But then she met my eyes and nodded mutely.
“Oh.” I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. She… he… Tim obviously hadn’t been born male. And… bloody hell, I was confused and uncomfortable and felt like I would just melt into the floor; I desperately didn’t want to do or say anything stupid.
“I’m sorry,” was all that I managed, and then I realized how that sounded and followed up with: “For assuming. Anything. At all.”
Fuck.
To my surprise, Tim laughed.
“Stuart, it’s okay. I know I don’t make it easy, looking the way I do. I assume—wrongly most of the time—that simply introducing myself as Tim will do the trick, but… well…” She—He—Tim gestured at my flummoxed state with a little headshake. Getting my brain to accept this sudden change of perspective wasn’t going to be easy.
Tim stood and crossed the room to perch on one of the high stools. She… fuck… He pushed my neglected cup of coffee towards me, smiling.
“Go on. Ask.”
I took a few sips, trying to look as nonchalant as I could. Like I’d been hanging out with transsexuals my whole life.
Yeah. Right.
So I swallowed my unease and just went for it:
“You’re a transsexual… um… transgendered?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“But… Are you a new transsexual?” Lord, I sounded like a fool, but thankfully when Tim laughed, it held no mockery in it.
“No. I consider myself fully transitioned.”
Transitioned. I tried to recall everything I knew about transsexuals. A few years earlier, a well-known British politician had made a very public announcement to the effect that he was born female, and I remembered being fascinated—and skeptical—over the coverage of his transition. However, when Herbert had emerged as Gladys, a woman who was a fair bit more attractive and feminine than my own mum, I had felt ashamed of my own preconceptions.
“But your voice?” I said and then gestured to my own face where the black stubble was thick over my jaw. “And… ?”
“And my lack of beard? Easy: I don’t take testosterone.”
“Why not?” My reticence was melting away under Tim’s friendly smile.
“A few different reasons. There aren’t any studies about the long-term effects of using T. Also… The therapist who helped me through part of the process agreed with me that it might be a bad idea,” Tim’s eyes flicked away from mine for a moment. “It took me a long time to get over my anger issues. I’m just now at a point in my life where I don’t feel a constant undercurrent of rage, and taking T would just up my aggressive tendencies, and I don’t want that… But I dunno.” Tim smiled, and it looked a mite sad to me. “Maybe I’m just afraid. A big ol’ coward.”
All I could do was shrug. Tim laughed again, and I thought it sounded a little self-mocking.
“Yeah. How about we just chalk it up to ‘It’s complicated’? There’s a reason I don’t socialize much—and no, don’t you dare apologize again. I’m the one who dragged you home with me like a stray.”
I grinned at Tim. I liked the way she… he talked.
“Okay. No apologies.” The hell with preconceptions… I was going to approach this with as much of an open mind as I could. I didn’t want to keep asking questions because it was beginning to feel like an interrogation, but I thought of something else I could do. “Let me make you breakfast,” I said. “As a thank you for being my valiant rescuer.” I was damned if I was going to leave without repaying Tim somehow. And, despite all the awkwardness, I wanted an excuse to stay a little longer. There was something unsettling about Tim. I knew that it was probably a terrible word to associate with my host, but that’s how I felt—like my world had been shaken up and I wasn’t able to find my footing just yet. And the thing with Claire…
“Sure,” replied Tim, looking a bit more relaxed. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I had company, let alone the last time someone cooked for me. I don’t have a whole lot, but use whatever you like. Mi casa es su casa.”
Happy to have something to occupy my head and hands, I raided the fridge and cupboards and found the ingredients I needed to make frittata. While I busied myself, Tim retreated to the laptop once more. Music started playing from the speakers in the bookcase, and I recognized the soundtrack from the gangster movie I’d starred in back a few years. When I laughed, Tim looked up and we smirked at each other—as I recall, Tim had given the movie a dismal score—and then I set to work making breakfast.
Four
SO YOU CAN COOK,” SAID Tim, scraping together the last of the egg on the plate. “I’m impressed. And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”
“Hey!” I tried a scowl, but it was ruined by my smile. “You know… I thought it was weird that you didn’t even seem to bat an eye, like you were unimpressed by me or my fame. Now it makes sense. You think I’m complete rubbish.” I was teasing, but in reality Tim’s reviews of my movies had really bothered me. Still did.
Tim sat up, looking bemused. “You obviously didn’t read them.”
“Oh I did. You called Summer Heat ‘pure garbage’, and said that you wished you could destroy every copy of The Memory of Mr. Moore in existence so no one would ever have to suffer through it again.” Normally I didn’t pay attention to reviews, but the illustrious Tim White was quoted so often it was hard to brush off.
“I did, yes. But did you write the movies?” Tim asked.
“Well, no.”
“Direct them?”
“No.”
“And what did I say about you in particular? What did I say about your acting?” With brow furrowed, Tim watched me.
“Okay. Yes… You said that my acting was the only thing that saved Summer Heat from being the equivalent of a lobotomy…”
“Right. And my reviews still bothered you?”
I nodded.
“You know why that is, right? It’s because you agree with me. Stuart, those last two… Hell, the last five have been complete and utter shit. You had that big blockbuster, what, eight years ago? Rotten Tomatoes gave it a ninety-nine point seven percent and said it was the ‘must-see movie of the year’. I gave it a full five stars. You know how fucking rare that is? I’ve been giving your movies shit reviews because the movies have been shit and you know it.”
Tim was right, of course.
“You can do better. Why aren’t you doing better? You’re a world-class actor, Stuart.” A little colour mounted in Tim’s face. “You’re an amazing actor.”
I looked down into my almost empty plate and clenched my jaw. The movie I’d starred in after Babel’s Following had done well but was nowhere near the blockbuster that Babel’s had been.
“You used to pass on scripts all the time. You picked quality stuff, once upon a time, and apart from one or two exceptions, everything you were in was good if not fantastic. Then you started saying yes to complete shit… and that pisses me the fuck off.”
Claire and I had gotten married a year or so after the success of Babel’s, back when I thought I had finally broken into American movies. Back whe
n the world was my oyster and I thought I had it made. Then, when that next great script just didn’t come my way, Greg had started pressuring me to accept more roles, crappy-but-well-paying roles: romantic comedies, shallow dramas, absurd science fiction movies, historical pieces that only paid lip service to history. Then Claire had gotten pregnant…
“So, I’m washed up. Yeah, I know it,” I said to Tim, without lifting my head. “Why does it piss you off so much?”
“Stuart.” I looked up and was startled to see apprehension in those warm brown eyes. Tim nodded towards the far wall. “Go take a look.”
Confused, I rose to my feet and walked over to the huge bookcase.
“Middle shelf.”
I frowned at the collection of movies grouped together and then quickly searched the other shelves before returning to stare in stunned incomprehension at what sat on the middle shelf. Everywhere else, the discs were arranged alphabetically within their genres. Here, instead, was every movie I’d ever been in, no matter how small the part, arranged in chronological order.
My entire career.
“I don’t… what…” I looked over my shoulder and Tim shrugged self-consciously.
“You’re my favourite actor,” came the surprising confession. “I’m a huge fan.”
I turned back to the collection.
“But you hated Human Error…”
“Sure. The movie was shit. But you know what? You were amazing in it. Absolutely perfect.”
I shook my head slowly, trying to take it in. There was a rather unmanly giggle trapped somewhere in my chest. Normally people who utter the words “huge fan” creep me out, but this was Tim White. Tim White, whose reviews could pull a movie prematurely out of theatres. Tim White who had called Jim Lonney’s acting “as transparent as passed gas” when he won Best Supporting Actor the previous year—a pronouncement so often quoted that Lonney blames White for losing him roles. Tim White whose very name could spike my blood pressure.