My Life as a Star

by Ruth Kaufman

  We move on to a later scene, in which Jennie says, “Did you expect him to leave his wife?” and “You never did have the best luck with men.”

  That’s all, folks.

  As Scott and the others whisper, I can’t help but think the snippets I’ve read sound a bit cliché. There has to be good dialogue somewhere, doesn’t there? But then, Scott must direct this movie because of whatever he owes Sam.

  “Thank you for taking the time to come in, Marla,” the casting director says. The glint in her eye says she yearns to add, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  I want to melt into a puddle of relief. It’s over.

  I hope for a smile of reassurance or at least a nod from Scott, but he’s busy scribbling on his pad of paper.

  The waiting begins. Not about the movie, because in this business you hardly ever find out that you didn’t get a role. To see if Scott will contact me again.

  Or do I dare contact him?

  Chapter 8

  ILoveMyMistressTheMovie.com

  The official site of Scott Sampson’s production diary for I Love My Mistress.

  Day 9

  Pleased to report all financing is now secured, though only if we maintain a tight schedule. Production greenlighted, filming to begin as planned.

  Many ask why I make movies. Because each picture is its own separate world I am honored to create and build. I leave a finished product behind, move on to another and begin anew.

  WELCOME TO MARLA GOLDBERG’S BLOG

  LIFE AFTER GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT

  Well, that’s all I’ve posted so far. I can’t decide how much I should reveal about Scott and the movie, the main topics on my mind these days. My true thoughts seem too intimate, yet “just the facts” lacks the excitement and pleasure being around Scott brings. I’ve been floating so high since this morning that nothing can bring me down. Which makes me think of Elphaba in Wicked singing “Defying Gravity,” but it’s not the same.

  My phone rang a couple of hours ago. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Marla, this is Sara.”

  Sara who?

  “You got the part of Jennie. Congratulations!”

  It took me a few seconds to process that Sara must be the ILMM casting director.

  “Wow, thank you! I’m looking forward to it.”

  She told me more details would be forthcoming and gave me an idea of the shoot dates.

  I did it! I got a part in a major motion picture! I jumped up and down.

  I have to tell Adam!

  My balloon of delight popped and did bring me down. Because my first thought was to share my fabulous news with Ex. I guess I couldn’t help it.

  Does the pain of divorce ever end?

  Though like all wounds, this too diminishes with time. I don’t haul out our wedding album and cry over the fabulous pictures or dredge up memories anymore. Yet my past hovers in the background like a mysterious disease, prompted into recurrence by random incidents.

  I’d see a tie in a store and think, “Adam would like that.” Or something in a movie or book makes me think of him. Not in a revenge-seeking or “serves him right, the asshole” way, but a melancholy, nostalgic way that reminds you of what you’ve lost. How you’ve failed. And makes me wonder yet again why I still don’t know why I didn’t see it coming.

  Maybe this wouldn’t keep happening if I’d found a man to date who made me happy. Or if I didn’t know Ex had already found someone. Who happens to be:

  1) a co-worker of his

  2) who’d been a guest in our house

  3) with whom he’s already taken an exotic vacation to New Zealand, which he never wanted to take with me because it’d cost too much

  4) his new roommate.

  Why couldn’t Scott have delivered the news? I’d never have thought of Adam then. Unfortunately, I haven’t heard from him in three days (six hours and eight minutes). I can’t bring myself to get in touch with him.

  Thank goodness it’s Wednesday night, time for my weekly dinner with Linda and Brad. Brad being her successful boyfriend. We’re at the hip Hot Chocolate in Bucktown. I check out the dessert menu before the entrees, because it’s important to know how much room I need to save for my favorite part of the meal. I have my eye on a couple of options.

  Even though a famous pastry chef runs this place, Linda wouldn’t consider letting a granule of refined sugar invade her bloodstream. She orders the roasted carrot salad, dressing on the side.

  “I have news.” I raise my gin smash cocktail, surprised my glee hasn’t overflowed before now. “I got my first speaking part in a major film.”

  “Really. Congratulations.”

  I won’t let Linda’s flat tone puncture my re-inflated balloon. She never gets excited about anything. Maybe because she always gets what she wants without trying or working very hard. Or maybe because it takes way too much to impress her, accustomed as she is to having the very best of everything. Or maybe because she’s only interested in what happens in her narrow world.

  Brad, on the other hand, raises his glass. “It’s about time,” he says with a smile.

  “Mom and Dad will be so proud,” Linda says.

  We both know they won’t be.

  I’m so excited I can barely stop myself from wriggling like a puppy when his owner comes home. Today is the first day of filming for the first major film in which I will speak. I have lines. I’m no mere garment bag-schlepping or suitcase-hauling extra who gets $88 for eight hours of work, then time and a half minus lunch after that, and often gets treated as impersonally as the blow-up torsos dressed in 1940s hats and shirts used in one film I worked on to help fill up Wrigley Field. Nor am I a non-paid actor doing a web series for a slice of pizza, hoping I’ll even receive a copy of the final version and that the scene will be good enough to add to my demo reel. I get to have my name on a trailer door and make real money.

  Though the scene they’re starting with involves the husband and wife, ALAN and STACEY, not me as JENNIE in their “home” built at the studio, I had to come watch. Because:

  1) if I stayed home I’d be on pins and needles, feeling left out and wondering what I was missing.

  2) it can’t hurt to assess Scott’s style and how he works with actors as opposed to vegetables. And the more time I spend in his vicinity, the happier I am. He’s even better looking than I remember, though he hasn’t acknowledged my existence.

  3) Trent Jordan is ALAN. I admit to a smidgen of star struckness. If you haven’t heard of him, he’s starred in several intense Sundance Channel type movies, and vaguely resembles Matthew McConaughey from a few years ago with darker, straighter hair.

  If you’ve never been on set, you’d be surprised by how many crew members there are (more than fifty) and how long everything takes.

  Here’s the scene:

  INT. UPSCALE BEDROOM IN MIDST OF RENOVATION, DAY

  STACEY is on a ladder, painting a wall blue. Blue paint smudges her sweats.

  ALAN

  (appears in doorway)

  Stacey. What are you doing?

  STACEY

  (keeps on painting)

  What do you think of this shade? Too pale? I liked it in the store but now I’m not so sure.

  ALAN

  The doctor told you to rest.

  (He steps into the room.)

  STACEY

  (sets roller on paint tray)

  I won’t overexert myself, I promise. I just want everything to be ready. The way it should be. I couldn’t wait for you any longer—

  STACEY slips and falls into ALAN’s arms.

  STACEY

  Oops.

  (She laughs and strokes ALAN’s cheek.)

  ALAN

  Hey, you’re getting paint on me!

  They’ve been at it for two hours and are only on the ninth take. Anni Harper, the “name” actress playing the wife STACEY, is a bit heavier than I remember from her last film. She tumbles off the ladder for the ninth time and drops into
ALAN’s arms.

  But this time he doesn’t catch her. She falls and hits the ground with a loud thump.

  “Aaaaaah!” Anni/STACEY screams. “My back.”

  Everyone gasps, though no one has yelled, “Cut.”

  Trent/ALAN drops to his knees. “Oh, Jesus, Anni, I’m so sorry…I thought I had you. Don’t move. Oh, so sorry.”

  An instant later the set medic, a nondescript balding man in blue scrubs, is by her side. After a quick, whispered discussion with Anni/STACEY, he says, “Call 911. She needs to go to the ER. She can’t work anymore today. Probably longer.”

  Anni/STACEY begins to wail even louder.

  “How long is longer?” Scott’s expression is grim.

  Anni lets out a pathetic little moan.

  The medic looks up with his eyes wide, as if he fears revealing the truth. “I won’t know for sure until I see her MRI. Could be a sprained coccyx. That’s not a serious injury, but could take months to heal. If she’s strained or sprained a ligament, as I suspect, six weeks or more.”

  “Just tell me. Will Anni be able to shoot this film or not?” Scott has turned gray.

  I’d heard that some of the financing hinged on Anni being in the film. And someone else had said that each day of filming cost over two hundred thousand dollars.

  “Too soon to tell. We can hope for a muscle strain. That should be healed in about two weeks.”

  Scott closes his eyes briefly.

  Everyone is motionless and silent as the paramedics arrive. They carefully place a collar around her neck, then they, the medic and two of the grips slide Anni onto a board, lift the board onto a gurney and roll her away.

  “Get well soon, Anni.”

  “Hope you’re okay.”

  Scott’s head is in his hands.

  Max, Sam and a bearded man I recognize as the writer hurry to him. A fast and furious discussion ensues. I can’t hear a word, but their gestures convey what a huge disaster this is.

  “Everyone, gather round, please,” Scott says.

  He, Max and Sam stand with fists on their hips and the grimmest of expressions as we comply. When everyone is perched and quiet, he continues.

  “As we cannot afford even a two-week delay, we’ve come to some unusual decisions. Unfortunately, since we lack the time to hold auditions for a new Stacey, I’m casting Marla Goldberg in the role. Congratulations, Marla.”

  Scott’s face cuts short my burst of fear mixed with exhilaration. He’s finally looking at me, but not smiling. He’s caught between a rock and a hard place.

  Everyone applauds. Some seem pleased, some neutral, others confused or pissed. I smile and nod, because for once I’m speechless.

  “Marla’s former role will be cut. Trimming it in the interest of time had been under discussion before this unfortunate turn of events.”

  Wow. My mouth is hanging open. If Anni hadn’t happened to get injured, my role might have been trimmed or cut altogether?

  “So we can make our day, next up will be scene 24(a), Trent at confession,” Scott is saying. “We’ll rework the schedule as best we can to cover what we can until we’re ready to start with Marla.”

  How can I be so excited, proud and deathly afraid at the same time? How big is the wife’s part? Somehow I must portray her even better than the popular, more experienced Anni would have.

  The situation must be dire for Scott and the others to make such huge decisions in a snap. The pressure’s on.

  The next morning, I’m in the wardrobe trailer trying on hastily purchased clothes. Anni’s a good six inches taller than I am.

  STACEY, the wife, appears in six scenes. Six. Scenes. Far more than I’d ever dreamed for my first movie role.

  Hopefully, not more than I can handle. “Am I a good enough actress?” was an earworm last night, making learning my lines more of a challenge.

  I get four casual outfits like the black jeans and lavender sweater set I have on now. Everything is a little large, as if she hadn’t quite paid attention to the measurements I’d submitted.

  As I study my reflection in the mirror, Angela says, “Here’s what they want as your wardrobe for the first bedroom scene.”

  She holds up a pale pink satin teddy and short tap pants. I’d hoped for a cotton nightgown or pajamas.

  “And for the second one…will you try these on next?” Angela displays a sheer, wispy black thong and matching bra.

  My mouth drops open. I didn’t own anything so barely there even when I was married. I never received any racy undies as gifts, either. Everyone knows this kind of minimal garment just isn’t me. Now I’ll appear in front of Scott and the entire U.S. of A. (on vast movie screens, no less), DVD, Blu-ray, streaming services and probably YouTube in a thong?

  I haven’t even worn a bathing suit for years. I’m not fat and wear size small petite, but I have a good handful or two of belly. My top half and butt are holding up pretty well against the ravages of age and continual consumption of chocolate, but my stomach could use some toning and firming.

  Plus the camera adds ten pounds….

  I grab the “outfit” and rush behind the thick white curtain delineating the tiny dressing room. Still shocked, I stare at the scraps of fabric in my hand, then grimly undress. The bra fits, but lacks support and squishes my boobs into a jiggling cleavage. And it reveals my nipples. Oy. I swallow against a lump in my throat.

  “This is for the movie,” I tell myself. “For my dream. Can’t be as bad as some of the challenges the castaways faced on any season of Survivor. Or Fear Factor.”

  Resolutely I pull on the thong, really two strings connected by a tiny lace rose with a tinier pearl in the middle. You can guess where that pearl ends up.

  I take a deep breath and face myself in the mirror.

  “Hahahahahahahahahaha!” Tears fill my eyes as I double over.

  “What’s so funny?” Angela pulls back the curtain.

  “My-my hahaha stom-ach hahahahaha. My stomach hahahahaha hangs over the front!”

  I can’t remember ever feeling fatter, even after I gained the freshman fifteen. Once when I reached for a roll in the bread basket at a restaurant, my father slapped my hand.

  Gathering my wits and breath, I resist the urge to tug on the strip burrowing busily into my butt. I feel constipated. “This thong looks horrible on me.”

  “Yep. Sure does,” Angela agrees with a happy smile. “It’s perfect. Your appearance is supposed to be one of the shallow reasons your husband leaves. And to show your character lives in a dream world. Stacey thinks she looks great and that her husband still loves her. But we, the audience, know neither thing is true.”

  Oh. My. God. In my haste to learn lines, I’d missed this context. “They want me to be flabby?”

  There’s no way I can refuse, no way to avoid the upcoming public mortification. The thought of Scott seeing me in this unsightly ensemble makes my overexposed flesh crawl. It moves as I breathe. I swallow down panic to focus on what these garments say about the woman who would buy and wear something so obviously unflattering.

  A solution comes to mind. Food is now anathema to me. I can’t eat another bite until this lingerie scene is in the can. According to the revised schedule, I have five days to starve myself and hopefully lose enough blubber to look, if not good, at least less unattractive in these black scraps.

  TO DO: search internet for “lose weight immediately.” Will I have to detox, guzzle formula or diet pills?

  Maybe I’ll get to spend most of my screen time under the covers and not be forced to display my naked rear and bulging belly to the world. I head for the tiny dressing area, eager to put my clothes back on.

  “So how many donuts did you have for breakfast this morning?” Angie asks.

  I pause just outside the curtain. “None, why?”

  The donuts waiting in open boxes had made my mouth water, tempting me with their glistening frosting and doughy smell. There was even a Long John with bacon on top. Before I laid eyes on th
ese strands of black thread I knew better than to eat one. Because then I’d be compelled to eat another. Once I start eating, I lack willpower where sweets (especially Edy’s Slow Churned S’mores ice cream, which fortunately I can’t find in local stores anymore) and Baked Cheetos are concerned. Though of course I know what we put into our mouths is a choice.

  Hmm. What does that say about me?

  “But you only have five days,” Angela says as she hangs my wardrobe on a rack. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Five days until the scene films.”

  “To gain five pounds.”

  “What?” My hand automatically goes to, but doesn’t cover, my plump abdomen.

  “They didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” No, they’d conveniently left that part out.

  Five extra pounds on me is like ten on a person of normal height. It’s one thing for major stars like Renée Zellweger or George Clooney to gain weight for their starring roles. They have oodles of money to hire a personal trainer and can afford weeks at a spa after filming. But I’m not the star, and have to live off my earnings from this film and hope I book another role before I spend it all.

  The only thing that could make this moment worse: if I turned around and saw Scott laughing at me.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I turn around and gasp.

  Scott stands on the metal trailer stairs. One hand holds the rail. The other covers his mouth. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows raised.

  As I grab for the curtain, certain I’ll self-combust in embarrassment, Scott bursts into a coughing fit. His way of thwarting hysterical laughter?

  Behind him, I glimpse something that makes this moment even worse than worse.