My Life as a Star

by Ruth Kaufman

  For some reason, the crew had trouble getting the lighting right. Sam kept trying to keep things moving along and got into a huge fight with the director of photography, who insisted on having things just so. Scott banned Sam from the set again. The shoot went into meal penalty because lunch wound up being later than the six hours after crew call time required by union contracts.

  This put the crew in good spirits, because they got more money, but put everyone involved with the budget, from Sam to the insurance company, in a bad mood. Scott spent the whole meal ensconced in conversation with the producers, never glancing my way. So I’d returned to my trailer.

  I cling to my half-full coffee cup. “Sure. What about?”

  My last day of filming is approaching, and I’m already swamped by sadness at the thought of leaving Scott’s set and likely his life. I’ll remember every detail about what it’s like to be so near him. To be a part of his daily world. To touch him and be touched.

  “You’ve said you want the truth, so here it is.” He stops and moves his lips back and forth, like he’s smearing lip balm. I’ve noticed him doing that when he’s trying to choose exactly what to say. “I’m not sure I can finish this picture properly. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.” He catches sight of himself in the mirror, turns and stares out the small window in the door.

  Scott can’t be coming to me for directorial advice. Or advice about Sam. I steel myself to wait quietly, a rather long while it seems, until he continues.

  “Normally when I direct, I see the characters, not the actors portraying them. But when you’re on set, I see you. Not Stacey.”

  Plump elephant that some think I am. “Does that mean I let too much of myself show through?”

  “No. This is my problem. For reasons I cannot fathom, I’m unable to focus on the scene at hand. I focus on you.”

  Flattering. I want to preen like a peacock. Then I notice how annoyed Scott is, lips still pressed together.

  He paces the short length of the trailer. “No matter how good an actor is, I know it’s uncomfortable to have others watch as one simulates enjoyment of intimate acts. Never have I envied my groping stars. But the other day, when I saw Trent slide his hand far up your thigh, and you moaned…I almost yelled, ‘cut.’ Though he was doing virtually what we’d agreed he’d do. Isn’t that ridiculous?” Scott says as he sits back down. “I wanted to be the one touching you, smelling you. Making you moan. That night in my trailer—even sitting beside you now, it’s not enough. Because I’ll have to watch him with you again this afternoon. And the crew will see you together, too.”

  Scott’s admissions have floored me faster than a pro-bowler’s ball tumbles the ten pin. Dare I let him know what his revelations, and he, mean to me? “I’m glad you think my performance is effective. I guess Trent and I are just doing our jobs.”

  I set my cup on the small counter, hoping my coffee breath doesn’t offend him.

  “That’s what they all say.” Scott shakes his head. “You know there must be a bit of chemistry or the scene won’t read. Audiences won’t believe. Marla, I can’t seem to help it. I want you for myself.”

  And you can have me. I press on my thighs to keep from jumping up and down with joy and do my best to match his restrained manner. “So what should we do? What do you want to do?”

  Finally. Scott will say, “Come to my hotel. I’ll order up dinner.”

  No. He’ll say, “I’d like to spend the night with you. Make love with you. Kiss you until sunrise and bring you breakfast in bed.”

  But he says, “Nothing. At all. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. This—possessiveness, this need I feel for you, is disturbing. Unnerving. And it proves my conviction that directors shouldn’t get involved with their actresses.”

  “Then why are you telling me this?” I demand, completely frustrated by this good news/bad news conversation. “Do you want me to relinquish the part? Not get into the scene anymore? Lying there unresponsive while Trent caresses my breasts and thighs and pretends to do the deed would be far easier than making moans realistic enough to convince even you.” Anger churns and burns like hot salsa. “Or should I tell you I want you, too? Or lie and say I don’t want you and I’ll stay away so you’ll feel better?”

  “All of it. None of it. Today, when you stood your ground with Tatiana—I didn’t think you had it in you. You confuse me, Marla. I’ve never been confused by a woman. I’ve either wanted her or I haven’t.”

  So Scott has never had a real relationship, just affairs. I’ve read about the various women he’s been with over the years. Maybe he couldn’t or didn’t want to be faithful. I can understand why he might not choose to remain with one person. Many famous Hollywoodians seem to move among partners faster than the wind changes direction. Even if Scott didn’t seek out others, why would he want to resist when beauty after beauty throws herself at him? On the other hand, what if the articles aren’t true?

  As much as I want him, I can’t take that chance. If we did get together and he cheated on me, I’d be crushed. Permanently.

  For the first time in a long time, I think of Mark. We’d dated long distance for years. His consulting job required him to move frequently and he didn’t want to keep uprooting me. At least that’s what he’d said and I believed.

  Until I went to visit his then current abode in St. Louis. We climbed into bed after a fun day playing tourist and a delicious dinner he’d cooked. I was happy. Until I turned to adjust my pillow and saw a long, straight blond hair on it.

  You may recall that my hair is dark red and curly.

  I leapt out of bed in disgust and horror.

  “I washed the sheets,” he said.

  That was all my boyfriend could dredge up when I discovered he’d been cheating on me. The pain of that moment lingers years and a broken marriage later. Who can you trust?

  “Why me?” The question slips out. At least I kept back what I really wanted to know but feared would expose irritating remnants of low self-esteem: “You could have almost any beautiful, flat-stomached female in the world at your beck and call. So how would I stop fearing you wouldn’t drift to one of them next week? Next month?”

  Maybe a fantastic week or month with Scott would be worth the eventual pain of a break-up. Especially if we set a time limit, I could just enjoy the fling. Maybe I’d be the one to get tired of him if my own star rises and more men take an interest in me. Ha.

  It’s not like I’ve even had a good, real date in a long time. Or sex, for that matter. But once I had Scott, I don’t think I’d stop wanting more. He’s better than Edy’s S’mores. Sometimes, once I took a bite, I couldn’t stop myself from eating more than one serving. Another and another led me to devour the whole carton. A half-gallon, all in one sitting. Well, I searched out the chocolate bits and graham crackery parts and left some of the vanilla ice cream, but still.

  Consumption to excess can be dangerous to your health.

  Scott’s kisses will live with me forever. I can’t imagine how fabulous I’d feel if we made love. If we slept with our arms around each other and woke up together. When we both knew what we were doing, that is.

  “I’m a director, not a writer. I know emotions and pictures. Not words,” Scott continues. “Maybe we’re a simple case of right place, right time. But I’m afraid it’s you. The way your unique combination of intelligence, humor and determination calls to me. And your honesty. I don’t often meet anyone who always expresses her sincere opinions, no matter the question. No matter how her views might be received. Few people I know have the confidence for that.” He meets my gaze for the first time since he arrived. “Marla, I trust you.”

  I should be completely overwhelmed by his intimate words. And fall on my knees and thank God for such good fortune, for such a remarkable gift. Great Scott likes me. He trusts me and thinks I’m confident. He desires me. My feelings are returned.

  “And there’s the way you smell. How your scent melds with your es
sence.”

  And he says he’s not a writer.

  Scott sniffs my neck, sending chills down my spine. After more sniffing, and a little nuzzling, I’m overwhelmed. I’m about to turn my head to kiss him when he adds, “I am content when I’m with you.”

  Content. Is that better than smitten, the way I feel about him? Is content enough? Maybe it’s everything, because he can relax and be his true self with me, knowing I won’t tell him what I think he wants to hear. Won’t judge his every move, but accept him as he is.

  “Why do I get the feeling content isn’t a good thing?” I ask.

  “That night after tudo o que você pode comer, I’d planned to leave your flat as soon as I knew you were all right. But holding you on your couch in the quiet propelled all obligations from my mind. Leaving after we woke up, when I absolutely had to get to a meeting, became a chore instead of a relief. Because what I really wanted to do was climb in bed with you and enjoy a lazy morning.”

  More words I want to hear. But something in his voice brings out the snark. “What am I, your teddy bear?”

  He laughs, but the sound isn’t joyous. “Far from it. And that’s what makes the way I feel for you even more dangerous. You’re always on my mind. Like the title song from Footloose.”

  “What?” I exclaim.

  But as if I’m a dog who just heard the ding of the food bell in Pavlov’s experiments, automatically I see Kevin Bacon (not Zac Efron) dancing in the movie, and the words and melody play in my head.

  “Once you hear that song, the chorus replays over and over until it drives you crazy. The more you try, the harder it is to make it stop.”

  He’s got that right. But the analogy hurts. “You think I’m a drive-you-crazy show tune.”

  “Marla. I feared you might take this the wrong way. I’m opening myself up to you, sharing my innermost thoughts with you, for one reason. One. I don’t want you to be hurt when I leave your life tomorrow. For I must return complete attention to my work. I shall convince myself we simply had a theatre relationship. Do you know what I mean?”

  Unfortunately, I do. It’s happened before. There’s this mystical force that magnetizes actors in a show. Because you spend so much emotionally intense time together, you become closer in a few weeks than is possible in other situations. Yet for some reason, these relationships usually dissolve as soon as the curtain falls on the closing performance.

  I nod, because in that moment no words will pass the lump in my throat.

  “Well, then. I’ll see you back on set,” he says.

  Scott has opened up. Now I must, or there’ll be no hope for us. “I think about you all the time, too, Scott. It’s not easy to find someone you desire who desires you in return, and who you want to spend time with. Maybe this can work. I can be the happy diversion at the end of your long days. The one to greet you with a smile in the morning. If I’m with you, you won’t have to think about me so much. I don’t want to be your problem, I want to be your solution.”

  His hands drop to his thighs. “I appreciate the sentiment. But I’m good at one thing: creating movies. I don’t know how to multitask. Intense focus got me where I am today. If the time comes when I no longer enjoy directing or am no longer physically able, I’ll likely go mad. I won’t know what else to do with myself.”

  “Plenty of top directors thrive by mixing work with pleasure. Take Steven Spielberg…he’s been married to Kate Capshaw since 1991.”

  Scott jumps to his feet and gapes, clearly surprised. “And there’s the most potent reason of all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You read my mind. Even as you spoke of Spielberg, I was thinking how I’d lose my place in the top cadre of directors if I hurtled into a relationship.” He reaches for the door. “No one should be able to anticipate another’s every move.”

  “Scott, I can’t read your mind. We just think alike. That’s a good thing, an amazing thing. It means we see the world in the same way, which should help us last and be a team. I’m not sure why you’re seeing things most couples wished they had as bad. Could we take things one day at a time, and see what develops?”

  Scott freezes, his back to me.

  I wish I could take back that suggestion. “One day at a time” was how I’d lived my life until I finally found the guts a few months ago to quit my radio station job. I learned that we need commitments and plans to get what we want. Living in the moment is all well and good for enjoying little things, like smelling the roses, relaxing with a massage or savoring a hot fudge brownie sundae, but doesn’t get you anywhere in the long run.

  “Don’t press me, Marla,” he says, without turning.

  Ouch. The same, dismissive tone and words Scott used with Sam. He won’t even look at me after I practically begged him to be with me. Owing to the narrow trailer, we’re so close I could put my arms around him. But I’d bet he’d just reject me a second time.

  Scott takes hold of the door handle. “Debating with myself about how much to tell you has already ruined my morning. I must have a productive afternoon.”

  I have the following options:

  1) Take Scott at his word and let him go. Accept that his life consists only of budgets and getting the shots he needs. Because truly loving someone is setting him free, and if he comes back to you, then he’s yours, blah blah blah. Not that I love him.

  2) Let him go for me. Because, as much as I want to be with him, eventually he’d break my heart. It’s too high a leap to believe I’m the one woman who can hold onto him. Normal, everyday men aren’t always faithful. As I well know. So how could such a famous, gorgeous, talented man resist constant temptation? How could I not be jealous when I saw him on TV with other women or knew he worked closely with them on set? How could I trust Great Scott when my own husband wanted to leave me and I didn’t even see it coming?

  3) Follow my heart (and other body parts) and kiss him immediately. Do everything in my power to show him how I feel, how much I want him, no matter what happens, and enjoy whatever I get.

  He turns the handle on the door.

  What would you do?

  Chapter 12

  STARIETY MAGAZINE

  ILMM: Female Friction?

  by BB Beans

  Your BB has learned of a few cat fights on the set of I Love My Mistress, Great Scott Sampson’s work in progress. First, producer Sam Maroney had a tiff with Scott. Then one with the lighting director. Tatiana Farraday and newcomer Marla Goldberg had it out after filming a scene where they, as mistress and wife respectively to Trent Jordan’s character, argue. The topic of the heated discussion, which almost led to fisticuffs? Either Great Scott himself or mushrooming publicity for Marla. You decide.

  MARLA GOLDBERG’S BLOG: ACTING IS HARDER THAN IT LOOKS, TAKE 2

  A film is easier than a play in one respect: only a small amount of dialogue is worked on at any given time vs. having to memorize an entire act or two without stopping until intermission or the end. Hitting my marks and repeating the same gestures take after take and following direction I’d like to think I can handle. To me the hardest thing is starting up again after a break, when I’m expected to return to the same emotional state I was in an hour ago.

  I kiss him.

  I throw caution to the wind, slide between Scott and the door and kiss him. Everything I am, everything he means to me, I convey with my mouth, tongue and body. My heart might explode from a mixture of fear and hope.

  He remains stiff and unyielding. I open my eyes. His are closed. It’s like kissing a cardboard cutout.

  Disappointment slices, dagger sharp. But he’d warned me. I retreat until I’m flat against the door. We remain close enough for his chest to touch mine when he breathes. The moment stretches so long, I wonder if Scott is sleeping on his feet. Tension builds, making my muscles so stiff I fear I’ll shatter in the draft of his next breath.

  Scott’s eyes open. “You don’t treat me like other women.”

  Wouldn’t any
sentient woman kiss him if she had half a chance? “How do others treat you?”

  “They offer more flattery than interesting conversation. They tease and flirt outrageously. Wear clothes they think are sexy, literally dangle their physical attributes. Like those are the only things that interest me. Like I can’t tell most of them are more interested in my standing or connections they might make through me than knowing me as a man.”

  “Would you rather I did those things?” Not that I know how. My voice comes out a whisper.

  Though our bodies aren’t touching, our auras are blending, pulling each to the other.

  “No,” he whispers back. “I like you just the way you are.”

  The words I’ve been waiting a lifetime to hear. My eyes fill with tears.

  “Unfortunately,” he continues, “liking you makes matters even more difficult.”

  I’m half overjoyed and half confused, like a Steak ‘n Shake Side-By-Side milkshake.

  He slips one hand around my waist. The other gently strokes the side of my face and down my neck. He presses me against the door. I feel his heat, his muscular thighs. His eyes are so very blue.

  “I should resist you.”

  I used up all my bravado kissing him the first time. He’s going to have to come to me. Which will also prove he wants this as much as I do.

  Slowly, his lips meet mine.

  Ah. Yes. I put my arms around him.

  The kiss intensifies. As our tongues explore, the synergy of our desire spirals higher.

  Scott clutches me close. “Marla, why can’t I resist you?”

  “Please don’t think,” I whisper. “Just kiss me again. Just be with me.”

  Need pulses through my veins. I thrust my hips forward. The hardness of him against my abdomen heightens my arousal.

  Scott wants me.

  With a sigh, he gives in to the pull between us. His arms move down my back, coaxing me tighter against him. Again he kisses me, long and deep.