“Oh my god,” Brooklyn mutters. She turns to John and rolls her eyes.
I’m tired, achy and nervous. It’s a terrible combination, and it’s affecting my performance.
“This is a pivotal scene,” Nic says when he reaches us. “Iris, you’re sharing an insight about a regular.” He gestures to the woman sitting on the stool pretending to nurse a coffee. “It’s important that you get this scene right. Let’s take it from the top.”
Everybody groans.
“From the top,” Nic insists, looking at me. “This time I want you to feed Brooklyn only one line. ‘Sometimes you know things about people.’ Just that line. Can you do that?”
Oh man. He’s treating me like a total newbie. My humiliation is complete. I nod.
“You get that line right and we’ll try a take with the whole thing. If it doesn’t work, we’ll do some creative editing.”
Sometimes you know things about people, I repeat silently as we assume our positions. I glance at Brooklyn. She’s whispering to John and smirking. Sometimes you do know things about people. And right now, I know Brooklyn loves the fact that I’m struggling.
“Quiet on the set,” the first AD calls. “Roll sound.”
The camera assistant steps forward. “Mom’s Café, scene eleven. Take thirty.” He drops the clapboard.
“Rolling,” Nic shouts.
John walks out of the kitchen, delivers his line to Brooklyn. She pours coffee for the customer and exchanges a few words with her. Then I walk into the scene, stop on my mark, look Brooklyn in the eye and say, “Sometimes you know things about people.” And for some crazy reason, the rest of my lines just flow, almost like someone has turned a key and unlocked them.
Nic keeps rolling. We’re good for another minute or so, until Etienne blows a line to me. We do a retake. Etienne and I get through our exchange, but I flub a line to John.
“Cut!” Nic hollers. “Take a break.”
My headache stabs like nails behind my eyes. I’m miserable. I wish I could hide in my trailer. Instead, I go to the set bathroom, where I run cold water over a paper towel and blot the back of my neck. When I hear the door open, I hurry into the last stall. I need privacy. I need this pain to go away.
“Lily is pathetic.” It’s Brooklyn, talking to someone. “She couldn’t deliver a line if her life depended on it.”
My headache throbs. I’m not pathetic. Nic sees something in me. And he’s good at picking winners.
“She’s not that bad.” I recognize the voice. It’s an assistant producer named Marnie.
Brooklyn counters. “She is so that bad. She looks odd too. Just not relatable.”
I grit my teeth. Relatable. The Hollywood description for the girl-next-door look. So what? Looking different got me to Hollywood. I keep myself still as they use the washroom. I pray they don’t notice my feet underneath the stall door.
“She needs to stop playing actress and go home to Mama,” Brooklyn adds a few minutes later when they’re washing their hands. “Either that or get a boob job. Have you seen that body?”
Whoa. White-hot fury roars through me.
“Nic needed someone unique,” Marnie says. “Iris is a one-of-a-kind role.”
Brooklyn snorts. “Yeah, so one of a kind it’ll probably be Lily’s first and last movie.”
That’s not fair! When the bathroom door slams behind them, I rush from the stall and bolt out of the bathroom. I want to grab them, shake them, tell them they aren’t being nice. But all I can do is watch them walk away laughing. I’m no one-shot wonder. I stare at Brooklyn’s butt. And so what if I’m skinny? At least I don’t look like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
Infuriated and more determined than ever to prove myself, I manage to get through the rest of the day. By the time we finish, it’s close to nine and everyone is tense, irritable and ready for the weekend.
It’s dark as Etienne and I make our way back to the trailers. Recessed spotlights turn the squat Pallas-Mills buildings yellow-gold. A light breeze rustles the papery fronds of a palm tree. I smell cigarettes. Someone, somewhere, is smoking.
“What are you doing this weekend?”
A tiny thrill races up my spine. Etienne Quinn is asking me what I’m doing this weekend. Who would’ve guessed?
“I’m busy.”
He slides me that sideways look. “Too busy to go out?”
I practically swallow my tongue. With him? For real? Earth to Lily: You are imagining things. “Yeah, too busy. I’ve got homework and…” I need to Skype with my parents. “And other stuff,” I finish weakly.
Up ahead, Brooklyn and John share a laugh. I wonder if they’re talking about me.
“You spend a lot of time doing homework,” Etienne says.
“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a keener.” And I’m lousy at math.
“I know this guy,” Etienne says as we cross the road. “I could give you his number.”
My clunky black shoes catch on a rock, and I almost stumble. Etienne is trying to set me up? With a guy I don’t know? “I don’t do blind dates.”
He laughs. “Not that kind of guy. A brainiac. You hire him to do your homework for you.”
“Seriously?” The question pops out before I can stop it. Naïve, June called me. Maybe she’s right. “I mean, I know they’re around, but…” I shrug. “I hadn’t given it a lot of thought.”
He stops in front of his trailer. “Where’s your cell?”
“Inside.”
He pulls a pen from his pocket, reaches for my hand and turns it palm side up. My knees go weak. “Here’s my number.” He starts to scribble.
My entire hand is on fire. I hold my breath. For a second, it’s like I’m living in some kind of parallel universe. Something I’ve spun from my dreams. Los Angeles and this movie set. My role in Mom’s Café. Etienne Quinn, who smells too good to be real.
“I’ve got his number somewhere at home. Call me if you want it.” He winks, drops my hand and lopes up the three steps to his trailer. When the door slams behind him, I slam back to reality and give myself a mental shake.
This is not a parallel universe. It’s not a dream. This is my life. I watch Brooklyn walk up the steps to her trailer. A life I’ve worked long and hard to create. I stick my tongue out at her fat, Pillsbury Doughboy ass. Take that, Brooklyn Cory.
Chapter Nine
Lily to Claire: It is so his cell number.
Claire to Lily: It’s not. Nobody that famous writes their number on somebody’s hand. Did u try it?
Lily to Claire: I texted. It showed as unknown.
Claire to Lily: See!
Mom to Lily: We need to talk.
“Mr. Basi is concerned, Lily—that’s why he contacted us.” Mom’s movements are jerky with the Skype delay. She’s on our couch at home, sandwiched between Dad and Grandma. I’m on Uncle Mike’s sectional with my iPad resting in the V of my crossed legs. “And we’re concerned too.”
I stifle a sigh. Twelve hundred miles from home, and I still feel guilty. Behind them, I see the view from our living room window. The street’s wet. A woman in Gore-Tex is walking down the sidewalk, holding a yellow umbrella. My throat swells. I miss the rain. It’s so hot and dry here that my hair snaps when I brush it.
“Over half your answers were wrong,” Dad adds.
Three quarters of them, actually. Basi emailed me too. “He’s sending some makeup assignments. I’ll do better next time. Can you ask the bank to raise my daily-withdrawal limit?”
“Why?”
Because I’m hiring that brainiac guy Etienne mentioned. If I can ever get the number. Etienne still hasn’t answered my text message. “I want to go shopping,” I bluff. “There are some great stores here.”
“When will you have time to shop?” Mom asks.
“They have to give me a day off once in a while.”
“Forget shopping!” Dad says. “We want you to get an education.”
I want an education too, but I also want to be an actress, and right now that’s more important. “How ’bout I show you the rest of the house?” I jump up and head for the kitchen. “You need to see the deck.”
Grandma starts chattering in Mandarin; I am saved.
Sunday, I’m supposed to meet June for lunch. The cab drops me off early, so I check out True Religion at Beverly Center, followed by H&M a few blocks away. The breeze smells of ocean and exhaust as I wander down West Third, staring into the shop windows and checking out the people cruising by. After a while, the women all look the same: big shoes + big sunglasses + big hair extensions = smaller-looking butt. I should send a memo to Brooklyn.
I get to Joan’s on Third before June and am waiting for a table when she texts me. Something’s come up. Must cancel.
Typical. She’s probably meeting with one of her other clients. I step out of line.
See U next week, she adds. AJ says U need to be more visible. Don’t hide in trailer so much.
It turns out that won’t be hard.
When I get to the studio on Monday, Nic announces that we’ll be filming on location in Santa Paula on Friday. AJ will be happy. But my anxiety skyrockets. That means shooting the scene where Etienne tries to kiss me.
At least I don’t have to worry about math. At lunch, Etienne gives me the phone number for Mr. Brainiac (aka Sean somebody-or-other). “Sorry I didn’t get it to you on the weekend.” His blue eyes gleam. “Now you’ll have more time to spend with me, yes?”
Etienne would flirt with an empty soda can. I shrug. “I’ll see.”
He just laughs.
I email everything to the brainiac on Monday night, relieved that I can concentrate solely on the shoot. And I throw myself into the role of Iris with everything I’ve got.
“My god, that was brilliant, Lily,” Nic tells me with a broad smile as we wrap up Thursday. “I loved how you ad-libbed that line about forgiveness being something you cultivate.”
“Thanks.”
Some say the ability to act is a gift, but to me it’s about logic. Roles are defined. I know going in what I’m supposed to portray. It’s easier than life, where everyone expects me to be something different and I can never find my footing.
On Friday the car picks me up at 6:30 AM for the hour-long drive north to Santa Paula. It’s an old-fashioned town with brick buildings, flower boxes and angled street parking. A perfect stand-in for small-town Minnesota.
As the driver coasts down Main Street, I spot the crew outside what’s obviously the Mom’s Café set. A sidewalk sign with the familiar red-and-yellow café logo is positioned beside a doorway, probably a functional restaurant they’ve rented for the shoot. Across the street is a temporary sign for the Lucky Tavern, where I rescue a drunken Brooklyn and take her home. I gnaw on a hangnail. Soon after that scene comes my “don’t kiss me” scene with Etienne. With luck, we won’t get to it until next week.
My luck sucks. I’m in makeup when the first AD shows up with my call sheet to tell me we’re shooting that scene first.
“We didn’t consider the angle of the morning sun,” he explains as he walks me down the block to the historic Limoneira building. “So we’re shooting out of sequence.” Doing scenes out of sequence happens often on shoots, so I’m not surprised. But I am disappointed.
As we turn the corner to the set, my shoulder blades tighten. Hundreds of spectators are clustered in front of the beautiful Spanish-style structure, which is standing in as the Harwood Library. Hundreds. Plus, there’s a tent for the sound guys. Extra camera and boom operators. And lights. So many lights.
“Is that somebody?” asks a woman in a jean jacket as I walk toward Etienne and Nic. “She’s in costume and all made up.”
“She’s nobody,” her friend says. They peer behind me to see who else is coming.
Normally, the comment would make me smile. But today I’m uneasy. Seeing a set in the middle of the street, with birds flying around and cars driving past, seems so unreal. Plus, Etienne is going to try to kiss me.
It’s just acting, I remind myself when I reach them. It’ll be fine.
Except shooting outside is so not easy.
“Cut!” Nic shouts ninety minutes later when a lawn mower starts up and drowns out my words. A collective groan rises. First it was wind. Then traffic. Now this.
Somebody is dispatched to find the offending lawn cutter. Ellen rushes forward, her makeup belt slung around her waist, to powder my nose. Nic wanders over to remind us of the specifics of the scene.
“Remember, Iris wants Michael to accept his musical talent.” He turns to Etienne. “And Michael wants to mess around and not think about his gift.”
Nic goes back to his chair. The lawn mower stops. Etienne and I assume our places on the stairs.
“Quiet on the set,” the first AD calls. The crowd grows silent. “Roll sound.”
The camera assistant steps forward. “Mom’s Café, scene twenty-nine, take thirteen.” He drops the clapboard.
Lucky thirteen. I lean against the arch for support. Lucky, lucky thirteen.
“Rolling!” Nic shouts.
I clutch the library books I’ve supposedly checked out and look up at Etienne/Michael. “You’re good, Michael.”
He grins. “You have no idea how good I am.” He walks down a step and puts his arm on the wall beside me. “But we could change that.”
I gaze up, cool and composed. “I’m talking about your guitar playing.”
“I’m not.” There’s a flash in his blue eyes. “Come home with me, Iris. You know you want to.” Slowly, he lowers his head to mine.
My heart stutters. For a millisecond, art blurs with life and I’m plain old Lily O’Neal standing in front of Etienne Quinn and I think, What the hell, but then my training kicks in. “No.” I slide out from under his arm. “I want you to go home and get your guitar. A gift like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”
I walk down the last four stairs. When I reach the yellow mark past the garden beds, Nic yells, “Cut.” Seconds later, he adds, “That’s a wrap.”
Whew.
“Lunch break,” the second AD hollers. “See everybody at two.”
Etienne heads toward me. A cluster of girls behind the ropes shrieks, “Etienne! Over here!”
“Your fan club is waiting,” I say when he reaches me. I’m so relieved the scene is over, I am actually trembling.
“Don’t make me face them alone.” His French accent is back.
“What? You’re shy now?”
“No, I am smart. The last time I faced a crowd this big, some woman tore the shirt off my back.”
I snicker and look at his ugly striped shirt. “I don’t think you need to worry.”
Before I can stop him, he grabs my hand and steers me to the ropes.
“Etienne! Sign this!” Papers and pens jab the air.
“Here, do mine.”
“You too!” The lady in the jean jacket shoves a scrap of paper at me. “You practically kissed him.”
Wait till I tell Claire, I think as I sign and sign and sign. She will die.
“Will you be at the Copper Awards?” someone shouts as we turn to go.
The Coppers are up there with the Golden Globes. A red-carpet night designed to showcase the best in social media. Hollywood turns out big time.
“Of course.” Etienne drops an arm across my shoulders. “Lily and I will both be there.”
My mouth gapes. “We will?”
“Absolutely. Naomi was supposed to be my date, but she’s in a cast. You’re it, Lily.” He winks. “You can’t hide this time.”
Chapter Ten
Lily to Mom: FedEx GAP dress to Uncle Mike’s. ASAP.
Lily to Claire: I’m going to the Coppers with E. PLUS I signed autographs.
Mr. Basi to Lily: Good work. One last assignment attached.
Sean Tribley to Lily: Yes, I can do a science paper. U owe me $180 so far.
The crowd roars as we step out of the limousine at the Copper Awards just over a week later.
“Etienne! Over here!!”
Camera flashes temporarily blind me. When they clear, I see the massive Shrine Auditorium with its yellow-domed turrets…a mile-long swath of cherry-red carpet. My heart stutters. There are hundreds of screaming fans. Smiling reporters. Shimmering celebrities.
“Hold my hand,” Etienne murmurs when I hesitate. I’m wearing a calf-length blue-grey dress with floaty sleeves and high black stilettos. (GAP won’t cut it, Ellen said. She’d called up a designer friend and had them send three dresses and a couple of pairs of shoes to the studio for me to try. It was the best non-shopping trip of my life.) Etienne is wearing a black suit! And cologne. He smells like musky maple-sugar bacon. Total yum.
I take his hand, though I’m not nervous. All we have to do is watch the awards and smile a lot. And talk to reporters, which Etienne does seconds after we hit the red carpet.
As he talks, I scan the people nearby. And I turn cold with shock. There’s Channing Tatum. Only a few feet away. Close enough to touch. Oh my god.
“Yes,” Etienne says, “Lily is my co-star.” I snap back to attention.
The next few minutes are a fast-moving blur of famous faces—Ellen! Sophia Grace and Rosie! Anne Hathaway!—and reporters. It’s so unreal, I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Steve!” a reporter yells.
Etienne’s hold on my hand tightens. “Keep moving.”
“Steve Quinn. Over here!”
Anger flashes in his eyes, but his smile never falters. “It’s Etienne, you prick,” he mutters. Without breaking stride, he spins me to the other side of the red carpet.
“What was that about?”
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