Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper

by Hilary Liftin

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t you still love him?”

  “No!”

  “Of course not,” he said. “You love me. But doesn’t the twenty-year-old you still love him, in some bittersweet, wistful way?”

  I thought about Justin. My first kiss—first onscreen, then off—my first love. On American Dream we worked sixteen-hour days, but there were awkward chunks of downtime between takes, when they reset lights and we were at loose ends. Justin had been my salvation.

  “Let’s explore!” he’d say. I’d resist, afraid to stray too far from the set. But he’d drag me away, into the rolling Tennessee hills if we were shooting outside, off into a corner of the former city hall that served as the family mansion, and, once, on the soundstage, up a series of ladders to a nosebleed catwalk the lighting crew used only while in safety harnesses. We smoked cigarettes until we set off the smoke alarms, then hid up in our aerie, undiscovered, until the excitement died down.

  Our adventures inevitably turned romantic, and there was nothing better than sneaking off to make out in a former courtroom or coming back from a “nature walk” with leaves in my hair and a blush on my cheeks.

  I thought about who I’d been with Justin: not just Lizzie Pepper, but the first-time-in-love Lizzie Pepper. A once-in-a-lifetime version of myself, glowing with the new feeling of connecting with another person. In the middle of getting notes from the director, a glance from him spread warmth through my body. His hand on the small of my back was everything to me. When I walked, my fingers twitched in the air, remembering the sensation of his skin.

  Years had passed since then. I was over Justin, rationally and emotionally, as much as I ever would be, but I would always feel nostalgia for the heights of romance I had discovered with him.

  “There!” Rob interrupted my reverie. “That was it. I saw it on your face. First love ends but never dies. Go there.”

  When I returned to the set, we shot the scene on the first take.

  That night, back home, I thanked Rob for helping me. “Is that how you connect with each of your characters? Find something from your life?”

  “It’s not quite that simple. Mostly I have to credit One Cell. What practicing at the Studio has done for my acting is incredible.”

  There it was.

  It was so casual, so thrown away that I’d nearly missed it. But nonetheless, there it was.

  In the four months that we’d been dating, Rob had only mentioned the One Cell Studio a handful of times, and only in the most dismissive, don’t-even-ask-me-about-this manner. And yet I knew how important, how present, it was in his life, not just from the tabloids and rumors, but in the many times a week he would go to the Studio to practice, in the meetings that sometimes filled his days, the private phone calls, the time he would occasionally spend inside that office he had behind the gym.

  But really, all I knew about One Cell was what everyone knew, or thought they knew. It was a secretive, possibly cult-y meditation group whose practitioners wore simple burlap robes and, supposedly, used superpowerful magnets to channel their energy, or something like that. I often drove past its center of operations—a massive green marble monolith that loomed over Beverly Hills. Nobody knew what went on beyond those high, Oz-like walls. But there were an unusual number of A-list celebrities among its followers, actors whose work I deeply admired. To my mind, there was no way all of those respectable, successful people, including Rob, were brainwashed.

  Aurora had half-jokingly warned me, on more than one occasion, not to get sucked into Rob’s crazy cult. That never seemed possible. In fact, I’d begun to think that maybe Rob intended, for whatever reason, to keep me separate from that part of his life indefinitely.

  But now, just the tiniest sliver of an opening dangled in the air between us, inviting me—if I wanted—to ask Rob more about the Studio. One Cell, it seemed, was the key to my boyfriend’s acting talent. And—if it really was so core to his life—it could also lead to the deeper Rob I longed to access, the imperfect Rob with doubts and needs and unmet desires, the frog behind the prince.

  I waited a moment longer, then dove in.

  “One Cell. The cult,” I said. “What’s the real story?”

  “There’s a lot of misinformation out there,” Rob said. “But I’ll let you make your own judgments. I first heard about Teddy Dillon and her brother, Luther, about twenty years ago, when they were just starting to develop the One Cell Practice. Not sure what you’d think of Teddy, but she’s a genius. She has her PhD in organic chemistry, but it wasn’t until she spent five years living in the desert with the Aborigines that she put the science and meditation together. My acting coach for The Son sent me to Teddy. Before I began practicing at the Studio, my acting was just . . . seat of the pants. Through the Practice I learned to harness a range of emotions I hadn’t even experienced in my own life. I was so jazzed by what she was doing that I spent six months at the first Studio in Fernhills. My involvement took off from there.”

  “How come I’ve never taken one of the classes? I mean, you’ve never even invited me,” I said.

  “You have your own set of principles. I don’t want to inflict mine on you. I’m just glad you let Geoff steal me away a couple times a week to go to the Studio.”

  “Geoff is involved?” This was news to me, but I had never tried to understand the roles of the many people who orbited around Rob.

  Rob laughed. “Wow, I’m terrible aren’t I? Geoff is actually the head of PR for One Cell.”

  Oh my God! “Geoff is Geoffrey Anciak!” I was an idiot for not making the connection. Whenever the One Cell Studio was mentioned in the press, Geoff Anciak was the one quoted, usually making another futile effort to dispel the rumors of the day. When we’d gone on what I thought was Geoff’s yacht to what I thought might be Geoff’s island—it was all part of One Cell. No wonder my father had known who he was. Geoff was the public voice of the Studio. Naturally he would consult with its most high-profile practitioner.

  Over the next couple of weeks, I watched Rob through a slightly altered lens, wondering which parts of his confidence came from the Studio, and if and when he would invite me into this part of his life.

  Now that I was paying attention, I noticed that sometimes Geoff picked Rob up in his Maserati (to my credit, it never occurred to me that high-ups in an organization famous for group meditation in burlap robes would drive bright red sports cars. Only in L.A.), and, one time, he came for dinner with his girlfriend, Patricia. That night, Geoff didn’t talk much; mostly he exchanged sucking on Altoids for chewing food, but after dinner he and Rob went out to the balcony, leaving me with Patricia. I tried to pry conversation out of that husk of a woman while she wordlessly knit a dreadful sea-foam green scarf. Finally, I just went for it.

  “I know this is ridiculous, but I only recently realized your connection to the Studio. I’m so curious about that part of Rob’s life. I’d love to hear more.”

  Patricia didn’t look up from her knitting, but she did finally speak. “Love and self-understanding go hand in hand. Both require a commitment to the whole, in spite of its flaws—even in your darkest moments, even if it means great sacrifice. We are imperfect without, but we can always strive for balance within. This is a challenge one must choose to undertake. Rob would no more tell you to take up our practice than he would tell you to love him.”

  Wow. That was a lot from Patricia. I understood her message, or so I thought at the time: Rob was privately hoping I would join him in his practice, much as he hoped our relationship would succeed. Loving him—knowing him—meant doing this, and I resolved to try.

  “I want to learn about One Cell,” I said to Rob later that night. “It’s so important to you—will you share it with me?”

  “I’d love to,” Rob said, “but don’t do it for me. You have to come to it yourself.” It was just as Patricia had said. The
effect of Rob’s mildness, his seeming ambivalence, was to pique my curiosity. I had to know more, to be a part of it, to be wanted. My desire for Rob and my desire for One Cell mingled, intense and inseparable.

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  What I didn’t think about at the time was the rest of Patricia’s cryptic comment. What were these “dark moments” of being and love? What kind of sacrifice was required? Only looking back do I see that she was trying to tell me something. Trying to warn me.

  A few days later, after almost five months of dating Rob, I found myself entering the mysterious gates of the great emerald One Cell Studio on Wilshire Boulevard. Nobody knew what actually went on in there, but there were plenty of rumors. Group meditations that went on for twenty-four hours, nonstop. Brainwashed actors chanting in unison to land each other lead roles. Families that joined the Practice and seemed to disappear into a black hole. There was so much speculation about what went on inside this impenetrable fortress that it was impossible not to feel special. Those mysterious doors were about to be opened for me. I texted Aurora, entering the studio. stand by for intervention.

  dying, she wrote back. tell all asap.

  will do, I promised, then shut off my phone. One Cell policy.

  Instead of pulling into the circular drive out front, our driver turned into an alley and dipped down into an underground garage. He dropped us off at an elevator bank in the far back corner. Finally, I was entering the exclusive retreat. I pictured doors with immense locks and secret chambers lit by candles. A bit overeager, I reached to push the elevator’s call button, but Rob grabbed my hand.

  “Easy, girl. Follow me.”

  He opened a door to a bare metal stairwell. I wrinkled my nose. Really? We were going to walk up the seedy, airless garage stairs? (Not to be a diva, but I kind of have a phobia about being trapped in a stairwell—by an earthquake, fire, a stalker fan—the standard stuff.)

  “Trust me,” Rob said. He stepped around the stairs to a plain door. Nailed to it was a tiny brass letter. An “M.”

  “M for Mars?”

  Instead of answering, Rob put a key into the knob. The door opened silently. “M” for Mars indeed.

  “Your private door has a chintzy lock, I want you to know,” I said, poking him in the ribs.

  Rob chuckled. “You’re hard to impress.”

  The cone of silence around the Studio was so powerful that I guess I really did expect the halls to be lined with robed Illuminati, carrying candles and wax-sealed documents containing the secrets to world domination. Instead, the halls were bathed in sunlight, as it turned out that the massive building surrounded a bright, grassy courtyard filled with café tables and babbling fountains. There were people having tea alone with a newspaper or in small groups. Watching these people, chatting and laughing and wiping their chins with napkins, I couldn’t help but be surprised at how . . . normal it all seemed. It reminded me of those photo spreads in magazines showing celebrities doing “normal” things: One Cell practitioners are just like us! They read the sports section! They have sneezing fits! They spill water on their bagels! I’d pictured a lot of things going on behind those walls. This was never part of my image.

  Rob led me to his parlor and office. (Another operational base. Just what he needed. Malibu, Brentwood, Aspen, and New York weren’t enough. Because sometimes a man’s in Beverly Hills. . . .) A one-way window looked straight across Wilshire Boulevard to the ACE offices. Down the block was Rodeo Drive, the high end of the high end. “Drop in for some guided meditation, then pick up some baubles at Walford Diamond,” I joked with Rob. (It was a joke, but Rob definitely did just that on more than one occasion. Not complaining.)

  The walls of his One Cell office were hung with photos of himself: Rob standing with groups of robed practitioners; Rob meeting the Dalai Lama; Rob accepting an award from a tall, auburn-haired woman I would later find out was Teddy Dillon, the cofounder of the Studio. Next to Rob I recognized Geoff, and on his other side an attractive brunette. At first I didn’t get it. What kind of movement was this, giving a celebrity a vanity office suite and handing out trophies?

  I sat down on the couch and beckoned to Rob. He joined me.

  “Thank you for finally bringing me here,” I said.

  “Thank you for wanting to come.”

  I leaned in to kiss him, and he kissed me back but he kept it chaste, turning away abruptly.

  “Sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, “but this really isn’t the place.”

  I felt horrible, like I’d been trying to corrupt him. In a way I was trying to prove to myself that his love (and lust) for me was stronger than his commitment to any organization. Come to think of it, that is kind of corrupt. I apologized and then said, “Rain check?” and I got the familiar smile that told me he was mine enough.

  Rob led me back out to the courtyard. On the way he showed me a simple meeting room that reminded me of the chapel in our church back home. A group of burlap-robed people sat quietly, eyes closed, while a tape played a woman’s soothing voice. I caught a bit of it: “The choices you make determine your fate. One step at a time, you lead yourself forward . . .” It seemed harmlessly yogic. There were offices, a few lounges, and other empty rooms surrounding the courtyard. The “weirdest” thing was that some of the rooms had floors covered with sand. Rob explained that part of the Practice was to meditate while standing on sand or earth as a way of grounding one’s energy. Also, almost everyone seemed to be wearing the same kind of necklace that Rob never took off, a simple string with a few beads. That was all! This was the “crazy cult world” that was so impenetrable and mysterious. There were no mystical totems and idols. No spiral-eyed, chanting actors. No initiation rites. No magnets. No levitating. It was situated on a multimillion-dollar property in the heart of Beverly Hills, but otherwise the place was unexceptional. It looked like a run-of-the-mill community center where senior citizens might learn Spanish and AA meetings happened every Wednesday night in a room with folding chairs and a limited supply of doughnuts. Where was the big mystery? Why was everyone so worked up about One Cell? Headlines would be made if only the press could see how mundane it all was.

  I did, however, see a change in the way Rob carried himself here. He was in less of a rush, walking more slowly, stopping to talk to people along the way. He knew everyone’s name and asked them personal questions, like whether a sick dog had improved and how someone’s audition had gone. He seemed very relaxed, and as we made our tour I started to see why. At events he had to be on—acting the part of Rob Mars. And at home he seemed to relish the quiet. It was only on the rare occasions when we had a dinner with friends and family that I’d seen him let down his guard like this. He wasn’t gossip fodder here; just, it seemed, a respected community member. I could certainly see why that appealed to him.

  I had never been a joiner. My family belonged to a country club, and we went to church on Christmas and Easter, if we weren’t on a holiday trip, but I had never stumbled on a particular community whose philosophy or beliefs inspired me. The closest I’d had to that was being on location for American Dream, with a cast and crew that became like a family, but since I was at least ten years younger than most of the other regular cast members, it wasn’t exactly a community of peers.

  Rob, in the little he’d told me, had said that the basis of the Studio was intense internal work that taught you a new way to be in the world. Rob was famous for having walked on coals to prepare for the role of Jesus in The Son. (Yes, for the record he absolutely knows that Jesus walked on water. It was an exercise in commitment, not miracles.) But what I admired most about him was more subtle. It was his total outlook—the steady confidence, his acting, the complete embodiment that made him a convincing (albeit controversial) Jesus—all this he credited to the Studio. What they called the One Cell Whole Body Principles.

  So now I was trying to see how exactly all that righteous self-kno
wledge went down in this expensive but rather generic piece of Beverly Hills real estate. I wanted to understand One Cell. I had to, if I was going to stay serious with Rob. It was a still mysterious part of my boyfriend’s life.

  But it didn’t turn out to be Rob who really brought me to the Studio. It was Meg.

  When we walked out into the courtyard, we ran into Geoff, and a woman Rob introduced as his friend Meg. I recognized her as the attractive brunette from the picture in Rob’s office. Meg was about my age, tall and slender, her hair even longer and darker than mine. With big, natural waves. It was like my hair after two hours’ prep for an award show. If the Whole Body Principles could give me hair like that without professional help, then I was all in. Except hers had a purple streak down the side. Not exactly what I’d expected from a meditation devotee. She had pale, smooth skin and a dimpled smile that revealed small white teeth.

  “Hey, welcome,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve known Meg a long time,” Rob said. “You guys are going to like each other.”

  “Cool,” I said. But I felt suddenly shy, like I was meeting Rob’s family all over again. The four of us—me and Rob, Meg and Geoff—sat down to coffee. When the four of us were at the table together, my age difference with Rob stood out. Like we were two young women sitting there with our fathers.

  When Geoff and Rob started talking, Meg ignored them and turned to me. “So, what do you think?” She gestured to the buildings surrounding the courtyard. “It can’t possibly live up to the hype.” Her smile was warm and slightly mischievous.

  “Depends,” I said. “Do I have to chant before I drink this latte?”

  She shrugged. “Only if you seek eternal enlightenment. Whatever.” We both laughed, and I immediately saw that we would get along. Also, although I wouldn’t have been able to articulate it at the time, I was eager for a friend who understood my boyfriend’s world. Meg could be my translator.