by Ruth Kaufman
Everyday Marla would be too chicken, too I’m-a-nobody-and-he’s-an-important-rich-somebody to approach a potential producer for anything, much less seven figures, but nothing stands between Marvelous Marla in Ro Ro Ro and what she wants. What her handsome not-a-date date and hopefully future director needs.
My feet in Linda’s Giuseppe Zanottis click and slide across the parquet dance floor.
“Marla. Hold up. What are you going to say? Maximilian Senderov is the sort of bloke…if you get on his bad side he’ll never forget it. With Max, you need a detailed plan of attack. Wining and dining, all that rot. I’ve been cultivating a relationship for months and he still hasn’t committed to the film. You cannot simply….”
We’re in front of Maximilian and his date.
“Scott. What took you so long?” Maximilian Senderov is a gothic movie hero: tall, brooding, with a mysteriously husky voice and piercing black eyes that make you think he can see your every secret thought. Slightly graying temples add to his allure.
His date is the kind of woman I pictured with Scott…model tall, model young and model thin. Not a bulge mars the flow of her strapless champagne satin gown. Her arms are so scrawny I wonder if chocolate has ever passed her lips. Or perhaps passed and came right back up again. A necklace of diamond flowers and matching earrings, the kind the stars borrow from Harry Winston for their strolls down the red carpet, glitter as she moves.
“And who is this?” Maximilian booms, looking down at me. “Where’s Amber?”
Max’s date makes a tsk sound. “Maxie, I told you Scott and Amber were so yesterday. Now he’s….”
More fascinating factoids. He’d recently dated an Amber, and now he’s—what?
Scott cuts her off, saying, “Max, Tiffany, I’d like you to meet Marla Goldberg. Marla, this is Maximilian Senderov and Tiffany Abernathy. I worked with Marla on a…national commercial recently and am considering her for a role in Mistress.”
Considering me for a role? He’d said the words out loud, and to a possible investor. I feel faint.
I know what I have to do. Though I’d hated my account executive job, I’d been surprisingly good at it, bringing in hundreds of thousands in advertising revenue for my radio station and winning national, company-wide sales awards. Snooty chitchat may not be my element, but selling is.
I shall apply to Max all of the skills I used on potential clients. He’ll be eating out of my hand in no time. Note: my consultative selling techniques only work in the business arena. I haven’t been successful in adapting them for potential boyfriends, to motivate myself to write or to my acting career. TO DO: put more effort into that.
Scott made it clear he doesn’t like to be helped. I hate to annoy him, but I must worry about myself. No money for Scott means no movie, no possible role for me.
I draw in a breath, ready to speak.
Scott squeezes my elbow, as if warning me to be careful. Or encouraging me? Hard to tell.
“Max, how are you enjoying the benefit?” Never start a sales call with your true purpose. As Scott said, build a relationship.
“Typical fancy event…too many flowers, too many people. Why do these things always have those dang pink lilies that smell to high heaven? Make me sneeze. They call that an appetizer, two scallops on a lettuce leaf with drops of sauce? Give me a great burger at Au Cheval any day. But tonight’s cause is sound.”
“You’re a supporter of the fine arts?” Encourage the prospect to talk as much as possible about himself and his interests to expose his needs and wants.
“Proud to be. On the board of the Lyric, too. More Americans should recognize the value to society of good opera.”
“Maxie, dance with me. Talking about opera makes my heart hurt,” Tiffany whines. She touches a mauve-manicured hand to said heart, directing everyone’s attention to her chest. Her voice is screechy, like that silent movie actress who does her first talking picture in Singing in the Rain.
“I know, I know.” With a long-suffering air, Max pats her shoulder. “And going to see one gives you a headache.”
“I simply adore the opera,” I volunteer. “I subscribe.”
Scott is turning as red as my gown.
“So, Scott, when can we talk business?” Max asks.
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Nope, in meetings all day.” Max turns his gaze to my cleavage. More lip-licking. Yuck. “Now’s as good a time as any.”
“Maxie, you promised this would be our night. No business.” Tiffany pouts her clearly collagened lips. “I’m going to powder my nose. If you want your nooky later, you’d better be done by the time I get back.”
“Why I keep her around I just don’t know.” Max leers at Tiffany’s ass as she swivels away.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” Scott says, “but Marla has an early shoot so we’ve got to get going.”
“I do? Oh, of course. I do.”
What have I done wrong? Max and I are getting along swimmingly. I do love opera, and could talk about it all night.
Maybe Scott doesn’t want me involved in his business dealings. Talent is talent and all that. Or maybe for some reason the timing is wrong? But he’s in a hurry to get Max’s money. And he violated the unspoken rule that says meet at the prospect’s convenience.
“Say, I’ve got an idea,” Max says. “Alice Briggs is giving a brunch recital at my place Sunday. We’ll talk after that. I’ll expect you both, ten-thirty sharp.”
Expect us both? My pulse speeds up. Not only would I get to be Scott’s not-a-date date again, I’d get to hear a famous opera star sing. For free. And enjoy another free meal, too.
Please don’t think me a greedy, miserly moocher. I don’t cook, so well-prepared food is hard to come by. While employed, I’d grown accustomed to tasty takeout and expense account meals while entertaining clients. Eating out and those at-home meal boxes cost too much now that I’m watching my hard-earned savings dwindle faster than a leaky balloon.
“Right. Sunday brunch,” Scott replies. “We’ll be there.”
Do I imagine reluctance in his voice? I will not assume any such reluctance means he doesn’t want to spend more time with me. Perhaps Sunday cuts too close to his deadline. He couldn’t let Max know that.
“And no one’s leaving yet. You’re not a party pooper, are you, Marla? Let’s all dance,” Max says as Tiffany returns, with, if possible, even more gloss heaped on her lips. He leads her to the dance floor.
Scott and I follow, though in fact I am a party pooper. I’m a morning person. Nothing like getting an early start on your day to help you feel productive.
“What are you doing?” Scott whispers as he whirls me into a waltz.
“What are you doing?” I whisper back, despite yearning to savor the sensation of being in his arms, of dancing with such an attractive, talented, interesting man. Through the thin silk of Linda’s gown, I feel each of his fingers beneath my shoulder blade, the subtle changes in pressure as he skillfully leads me around the floor. He could be on Dancing with the Stars, he’s so smooth. And he’d do a sexy rumba or paso doble with his satin shirt hanging open…. “Max wanted to talk to you. You should be available when the prospect is. Why did you put him off when you need his money?”
“Why did you go off about liking opera? I agree with Tiffi. Don’t know a thing about it. Or care to.”
The swirling and twirling makes me dizzy. Though it could be the not-so-subtle thrill of touching Scott.
“Are you saying you can’t stand not being a knowledgeable contributor to every conversation? That you only like to talk about things you know about?” Like his movies. Could Great Scott have a flaw?
“In the case at bar, high finance is the important topic, not screeching wenches in Viking helmets brandishing spears.”
That remark lost him a few points.
“I was buttering Max up for you,” I shoot back.
A nearby couple turns to look at us as they pass. I smile at them ever so sweetly.
>
I can’t believe I’m arguing with Scott Sampson, possibly ruining my chance at getting a role in his movie, but I’m no namby-pamby. I won’t let the gorgeous, rich and famous intimidate me, or make me feel I’m not as good as they are. At least I won’t let any intimidation show.
Why do celebrities make so many of us want to gush and kowtow? Because they’re mostly beautiful or because they’ve achieved fame and/or wealth, which our culture holds in such high esteem?
Admit it. If a celebrity passed you on the street, you’d
1) whip around for a double take
2) gasp, squeal or drool
3) try to snag a selfie
4) text or tweet everyone you know about who you just saw
5) all the above.
I lower my voice as Scott whisks me across the floor. “Don’t you know anything about sales? You’re trying to sell Max on your movie and on you. You said you’ve been wining and dining him. You should know getting results is about building a meaningful relationship.”
“Somehow I’ve managed to make quite a number of multi-million-dollar feature films without your advice, Ms. Marla who makes her living as a dancing zucchini.”
Oooh. Scott’s playing dirty. Nothing will keep me quiet now.
“This time you’re too close to the situation,” I begin. “I think you need to take a step back, or let someone not so involved help.” I’d said “help,” that word he hated. “Whatever hold Sam has on you is making you so uncomfortable you’re not thinking straight.”
“Eavesdropper.”
“Not. The two of you weren’t exactly whispering. Next time you bring up your secrets in public, you might want to have Mack check out your surroundings first.”
“No one talks to me like that.” Scott’s hand tightens on mine. “Who do you think you are?”
“Someone who wants to be your friend.” And maybe more, but I can’t say that. Even the new live-for-myself-and-not-everyone-else me couldn’t be good enough or confident enough to date a superstar. I force myself to meet his gaze. “Someone who no matter how much she wants to be in your movie will always tell you the truth.”
I see his anger fade. The adorable half smile returns. “Brilliant answer.” Scott brings me so close I feel his body heat and smell his refreshing cologne. “A person like that is a rarity in my world. I’m glad I met you, Marla.”
His gaze holds mine as his hand on my back presses me closer still. We are the only two people in the world, moving as one. We’re dancing more passionately than Belle as she swirls in her yellow gown while falling for the Beast. My head tips, my lips part slightly. His eyes darken and narrow, exactly as I’d imagined. I feel his breath, which smells faintly of chocolate. He’s going to kiss me. Right here on the dance floor.
The music stops. As everyone bursts into applause, Scott releases his hold on me. He walks back to our table without a word.
I follow, plotting my next move. I do want a line in his movie. I do want to be his friend. But I also want him to kiss me. Can I have all three? It’s unprofessional to romantically pursue one’s possible future director, but I may never have such a perfect opportunity again.
I’m determined to have my strawberry moment, so I detour to the chocolate buffet. After choosing several of the fattest dipped fruits, I return to Scott.
Scott is downing his drink, something called a Pink Gin, which resembles a Cosmopolitan. Dare I think our almost-not-only-in-my-imagination kiss made his mouth go dry?
I’m definitely hot and bothered. My vodka cranberry—no craft cocktails here—is gone, so I sip water. I hope what I’m about to do doesn’t look stupid. If only man magnet Linda were here to offer advice.
I pick up the biggest berry by the green stem and bring it to my lips. “Mmmm,” I moan softly. “Doesn’t this look delicious?”
Scott eyes me over his almost-empty glass.
My mouth opens. I bite off the tip. “Mmmm,” I repeat.
Scott licks his lips as I chew. Somehow when he does it, it’s enticing, not gross like when Max watched Tiffany. He leans forward, as if to capture my every move or to open his mouth and bite the other half. Excellent.
I am Marvelous Marla, creating a sensual, lust-inducing moment to entice and arouse the man I desire. And really enjoying the flavorful, juicy fruit. I part my lips for another juicy bite.
But the chocolate shell slips off the strawberry and plummets down my cleavage. Where my flushed-from dancing skin liquefies it almost instantly. A melty brown drop zooms toward Linda’s new dress, the one she didn’t want me to wear. I stick my pristine dinner napkin between my breasts.
A bright light flashes in my face. With hand and napkin still inserted in my chocolate-smeared décolletage, I look up in surprise as my vision clears. A freckly-faced Jimmy Olson-like photographer stands near our table. Several cameras with huge lenses hang around his neck. He snaps a few more shots.
“Any comments on this FOTA event, Mr. Sampson, sir?” he asks earnestly. “I’m with Chicago Scene.”
Great. Tomorrow Chicagoland will see me with my hand down my dress. Look on the bright side. To prove tonight isn’t a dream, I’ll have a picture of me sitting next to Scott.
Who is trying not to laugh. “See that man over there?” Scott points to Max. “He adores being quoted in the press.”
“Thanks!” The photographer scurries away.
Linda and her longtime significant other Brad will get yet another good laugh out of my latest misadventures. I think I’ll title my memoir The Misadventures of Marvelous Marla.
Scott dips his napkin in his water glass and hands it to me. I blot the chocolate.
“There. All better,” Scott says.
“Thank you.” I smile bravely.
He leans forward and kisses me. Lightly, on the lips, leaving a faint taste of sweetness and gin.
“You look like you needed that,” he says with what should have been an endearing smile.
This time he doesn’t make me melt but want to disappear. Because gorgeous Scott Sampson has given me the worst kind of kiss ever. Instead of the romantically delicious, tingle-inducing meeting of lips and tongues that leads to yearning and more kissing, I got a pity peck.
I’ve had enough of high society. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
I stand and wobble toward the door. My feet are throbbing and probably blistered.
I’d visualized our exit from the Four Seasons more than once. Scott and I would sweep through the luxurious lobby, me held close on his arm, adoring fans and GSGs watching us with envy and awe. Oohs and aahs would ensue. I’d be graciously glamorous as he posed and signed autographs and bestowed smiles on giggly fans. We’d depart amidst applause.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
There should be a way to get a partial lobotomy where they’d only remove the piece of the brain in charge of hopes, wishes and dreams. Patients would come out deliriously happy and satisfied with whatever jobs, possessions, families and relationships they had because they’d no longer be able to imagine or want anything better. Though we know how well that kind of thing turned out in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
I’d line up for that operation or drug in an instant, despite any risks. Vividly envisioning how events should play out down to the sounds and smells, but more often than not ending up with the complete opposite, is surprisingly painful. Every time.
Why had I thought going out with Scott would be fun? His fame, his success, his fabulous features combined with my cosmic crush made me nervous and awkward. The harder I tried to impress him, the more self-conscious I became.
Maybe that’s the answer: don’t try to impress. It hasn’t worked, anyway. I could survive another event in his company only by being myself, not the Marvelous Marla I thought I wanted to be. But how can the woman I already am be good enough if the woman I want to be isn’t?
Is anyone comfortable with his/her various selves? I’ve spent so much time being how I think other people want me to be that the
re are so many of me: the Marla
1) with my perfectionist family
2) who worked at WZRJ
3) when I dealt with clients
4) with friends
5) on dates
6) at auditions.
Then there’s 7) taking on a character while shooting a commercial or performing in a play. And 8) when I’m alone.
That’s probably the happiest me, because there’s no one else I need to satisfy, no compromises to make. No need to worry I’m not good enough, because no one’s judging me.
Stop that. I am good enough. It’s just hard to remember sometimes when I’m out of my element.
“Marla. Marla?”
Scott has followed me into the lobby. I’d expect that to happen in my mind, a book or movie, but not in real life.
His tie is untied and he’s undone a couple of his studs. If there were a Golden Globe for Best Looking Guy in a Tuxedo, he’d win for sure.
“Marla, let me take you home. I doubt you can go much farther in those heels.”
He kneels and holds out his hands, precisely like Cinderella’s prince. I draw in a happy breath as I hold out a foot. His hand is hot on my heels as he slips off the sandals. I’ve shrunk about five inches. He stands and hands me the shoes.
“Thank you.” My heart is going pitty-pat.
“Would you like me to carry you?”
Yes! Even I hadn’t imagined that. Every cell in my body wants to be swept up in his arms. The grooves worn into the record of my brain, the ones that refuse to let anyone do anything for me, which is why I understand why Scott hates it, make me want to say no.
You want it, go for it. Don’t be a chicken.
For once the voice in my head is right.
“Yes,” I say. “Please carry me.”
With a devastating smile, Scott sweeps me into his arms. He smells amazing.
I feel amazing.
He carries me through the crowded lobby. And the tourists and fans don’t just applaud, they cheer.
Chapter 6
Caption of Chicago Scene’s FOTA benefit photo: Film Director Scott Sampson in Armani with Marla Goldberg in Ro Ro Ro and Napkin.