My Life as a Star

by Ruth Kaufman

  “You’d better have a condom,” he says.

  I hate to leave him to get one, but I do. I pull the foil packet out of my wallet. I hope it hasn’t expired. Indecision nags, quashing some desire. Is it better if he puts the thing on or should I?

  His pants have disappeared, but he still has his shirt on. I bask in his beauty.

  “I don’t want to wait another minute.” He solves my dilemma by grabbing the condom out of my hand, ripping the foil and sliding it on. He lies back on the narrow couch and holds out his arms.

  Has there ever been a more beautiful sight?

  I slip off my sweats and undies, leaving my fitted sweatshirt on. Somehow having only our bottom halves exposed seems more intimate than full nudity. I straddle Scott’s waist and bend to kiss him.

  “Tell me you want this, too,” he says softly. The uncertainty in his gaze shocks me.

  “I want this, too.” More than words can express. “Let me show you.”

  There’s a knock at the door. Are you kidding? Not now. Go away.

  Another knock. The thin panel vibrates.

  “Scott, what are you doing in there? Everyone’s waiting for you. Open up.”

  Sheila, who else. Always watching, like she can’t bear to let him out of her sight. Like she wants him for herself. But then, I think every woman wants Scott. Maybe she’s just doing her job.

  Scott freezes, but doesn’t pull away. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. I savor the slight scrape of his cheeks against mine, the way one hand tugs gently at my hair. I sniff his singular scent, take in the way small lines form at the sides of his mouth when he puts his lips together.

  “I know you’re in there,” Sheila calls.

  We mobilize and throw on our clothes.

  “I must go.” Scott runs a finger down my cheek.

  As we move apart, I screw my courage to the sticking place. “We’re not finished.”

  He puts his hair in a low ponytail, opens the door and leaves without another word.

  When can I get him alone again?

  The minute I get home, I hurry to my computer to search Scott’s name and November 9. Nothing incriminating in sight. I visit the Official Great Scott Groupie site and several other fan sites I now follow religiously. I find many stories about the film he was working on at that time, Mortgaged Moments, some great pictures, and more Facebook groups and Pinterest boards devoted to him than I expected. I even visit a couple of tabloid sites. Still nothing bad.

  Though it’s late and I need sleep, I call Linda, knowing she’ll still be at her office. It’s easier to avoid dealing with your significant other or any sort of intimacy if you’re always at work.

  “Linda Goldberg.” Surprise, surprise.

  “It’s me. I need you to track down some information.”

  “Why? What company?” she asks.

  I can tell I’m on speakerphone, and hear her keyboard clacking in the background. Linda’s so busy, so important, she must multi-task at all times. I wonder if Brad gets her complete attention when they’re in bed. Or if she makes love with her earpiece on.

  The conversation would go like this: “Uh-huh. Ooh, aah. Uh-huh.”

  A laugh escapes me.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Just something that popped into my head.” I clear my throat. “I don’t need info on a company. A person. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. We do background checks on key executives and possible purchasers all the time. Who?”

  How does she manage to pay attention while she’s typing?

  “Scott Sampson.”

  “Sorry. Who?”

  Ha. She doesn’t.

  “Scott Sampson,” I repeat.

  “The director?” A pause, with more clacking. “Of your movie. Isn’t his life an open book by now?”

  “Not the part I need to find out about. I already searched online. One site even listed his favorite toothpaste and fabric. Aquafresh Extreme Clean and stretch fleece, in case you were wondering.” I imagine him in my bathroom brushing his teeth and wearing stretch fleece leggings that highlight his muscular thighs and other hard body parts. And long to be with him again. “So I can’t understand how no one seems to know about this.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Linda says. To me? Not. “I’ve got to get on a conference call with an overseas client, but I’ll see what we can find out. Exactly what are we trying to find?”

  “As soon as you can get it to me, anything he might have done or been involved with that could get him into trouble or damage his reputation. Particularly around November 9 seven years ago.”

  We’re filming on the streets of Chicago today, getting exterior shots for the opening credits montage. Each of the three of us will go about our everyday lives.

  STACEY will sit and walk in Millennium Park, a concert venue with an amazing titanium bandshell, gorgeous gardens and a shallow fountain with tall towers featuring images of spitting faces that kids can frolic in during the summer. Though it’s early September, the lake breeze is cool and bites through the sweater set STACEY wears.

  I’ve been an extra here three times. Twice I froze my butt off by the ice rink. The other time, on a hot summer night, I got to relax and eat fabulous desserts while roller-skating extras didn’t and Sandra Bullock walked by with some guy I recognized but still can’t remember his name.

  A crowd gathers. Some guy in a backward baseball cap keeps waving at the camera, which isn’t even on yet. Production assistants do their best to keep random passersby from making their way into the shot.

  STACEY sits alone at a small table in the outdoor area of the Park Grille, beneath the reflection of the skyline on a huge silver bean sculpture, officially called Cloud Gate. This is to reveal STACEY’s isolation from the world around her.

  Scott walks over to me. My heart speeds up, my stomach flutters and I smile. I can’t help it.

  “Marla. All I need is for you to look slightly off to the left. A bit wistful. Not depressed or sad, though. If you can convey her confusion about her marriage, that would be great. Thanks.”

  I don’t see anything special or personal in his gaze or expression. He’s all business this morning. If only I could put our sexy moments behind me so easily. And not want more.

  “Sure. Scott, can I talk—”

  “No. We’ve got to get this shot while the sun is behind those clouds.”

  Despite his need for haste, it takes a while to get the shot set up. STACEY is getting a bit bored.

  I, Marla, look for Scott, who’s within shouting distance, gesturing to the cinematographer. We haven’t had the chance to talk privately since Sheila wrenched him from my arms, though I hung around and made myself available in case he seemed interested. He didn’t text or call. I spent too much time writing him a few texts I deleted before sending.

  If I have to wait for him after we wrap today, I will. This may be rather high schoolish behavior, but I need to know what our almost making love meant to him.

  Several dozen extras are positioned around me, ready to walk and, via careful choreography, create the impression of a bustling plaza. They don’t talk to me or ask for autographs, because they’ve been instructed not to talk to the actors. If they do, or try to take pictures, they could get sent home without their eighty-eight dollars for eight hours.

  If this seems harsh, too bad. That’s the life of an extra. I should know, having worked as one numerous times.

  There’s a calculated mix of extras dressed as business people, tourists and shoppers, all of whom have been given or brought role-appropriate props: briefcases, newspapers, coffee cups, ear buds, cell phones, shopping bags. The inside of their wrists has been stamped so they can prove they’re with the movie.

  I watch the group, totaling nearly one hundred, preparing to film my character. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how much better it is to be the actor than the extra.

  “Quiet on the set.”

  “Rolling.”

&n
bsp; “Speed.”

  The digital clapboard snaps.

  “Background. And…action.”

  Extras walk where the assistant director told them to go. As I look into the distance, a breeze provided by a fan—because the lake breeze blows the wrong way—tosses my hair.

  Suddenly a man appears in front of me, blocking me and my light. This isn’t part of the shot.

  “Marla?”

  It’s Adam, my ex. Wearing a tie I bought him. I donated or got rid of most things he bought for me. I wanted to start fresh.

  “Cut! Back to one.”

  Extras return to their starting places as I tamp down surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just walking to work and saw you sitting here.”

  “Can I see your stamp? No ladybug. I’m sorry, sir, you can’t stand here,” a PA tells him.

  “Why not? This is a public plaza.” Adam frowns. He hates being told what to do. At least he used to.

  “I’m filming a movie. This is today’s set,” I explain with a wave indicating our surroundings.

  “Oh.” He takes in the crowd, lights and large filter screens, the camera on its dolly track and various carts. “Can I watch?”

  An odd mix of anger and triumph hits me. Back when we were married and I had an audition, he’d say, “Break a leg,” in the most patronizing way. Meaning, “You go have your fun, but there’s no way you’ll get the part. Good thing I made you keep your day job.”

  Having him see me as the focal point of a movie shoot on Michigan Avenue is extremely gratifying.

  “Sure,” I point to the watching crowd. “But you have to stand over there.”

  “Marla, who are you talking to?” Scott calls. “Can you carry on your social life after we get the shot?”

  “I’m Adam, Marla’s ex-husband,” Adam says as if that’s a claim to fame.

  Scott doesn’t seem surprised or jealous. Just impatient.

  Adam joins the spectators. We resume filming.

  Knowing Ex is watching is bittersweet. Where was all this interest when we were married? Have I changed, or has he?

  I don’t even notice when he leaves.

  After a couple of hours, the crew is packing up the equipment to move to the next location for Tatiana’s shots. Scott is sitting by himself, jotting something in his notebook as I approach.

  He glances from side to side, obviously to make sure no one can hear us. “Marla. I know what you want to talk about. It won’t happen again.”

  My stomach and heart sink painfully fast. “Why?”

  “Because kissing you was a mistake, on my part anyway. I cannot get involved with you.” I’m working on a reply when he continues, “I admit I’m more than attracted to you. I’m quite drawn to Porsches as well, but I’m able to moderate my impulses by not going to a dealer and test driving, much less buying, one. Do you see? I hope you will respect my views on this issue.”

  “I’m very sorry you feel that way. See you tomorrow,” is all I can say. The ache of his rejection weighs on me like a strong man’s barbell. I think he’s afraid to care, but doubt he’d want to hear that from anyone, much less me.

  The next day, I’m filming my last shot. Surrounded by piles of moving boxes in her once welcoming, though in Marla’s opinion too-flowery living room, STACEY stares out her rainy window, crying over all she’s lost.

  In the past, I’ve hummed “The Way We Were” to summon tears. Today, no acting is required. I think of Scott, how I’ve enjoyed his company. The wonderful things he said. The way he and his kisses make me feel. How he left me in my trailer, throbbing with unfulfilled desire. His willingness to run from our obvious connection.

  And the tears flow.

  STACEY then conveys by subtle change of expression that she’ll find the strength to move on. For inspiration, I become Vivien Leigh as Scarlett in Gone with the Wind after Clark Gable delivers Rhett’s famous parting line. And I can’t help but think, does Scott give a damn?

  Not today. For the past six hours, he hasn’t said one word to me that didn’t relate to the shoot. Not even hello. Sheila sticks to him like pilling on a sweater. The way she smirks over her clipboard makes me wonder if he asked her to stay close so I couldn’t catch him alone. Maybe she’s just smirking generically, as if to say, “This is your last day. I still get to be with him every day.”

  “And cut. Print that,” Scott says. “That’s a wrap on Marla.”

  The crew bursts into applause, as they do whenever a principal completes his or her scenes. I wipe my latest tears away and wave. My smile wavers when I catch sight of Scott, who’s got that intense, inscrutable look. A thrill rushes through me. Sheila steps in to face him, blocking my view.

  I can’t let our almost relationship end like this. I can’t, despite what Scott said. Nor can I make a scene in front of the crew. As I walk off set, about to leave this chapter of my life behind me just as STACEY must start anew, I rack my brain for inspiration. I could

  1) wait in Scott’s trailer. No, that seems desperate, and more up a GSG’s alley.

  2) pray that he’ll show up at the final wrap party. But I don’t want to wait two more weeks for resolution.

  3) ???? Nothing else comes to mind in the clutch.

  How can I be proactive without making a fool of myself?

  “Marla, wait a minute. Can I get a few shots of you and Scott before you go?” Danny, the set photographer, saves the day. He holds up his camera.

  “Of course,” I say.

  Candy, the makeup woman, hurries over to repair my tear-ravaged face. As she works her magic with powders and creams, an idea pops into my head.

  We line up for the picture. Me, Scott…and Sheila slips into the middle.

  “Sheila, would you mind? I just need Scott and Marla,” Danny says.

  Sheila steps away. Ha.

  Scott and I stand and smile, but tension simmers. Can everyone else feel it, too?

  “Um, can you get a little closer, please? Thanks, that’s better,” Danny adds after we comply.

  Perfect. My smile comes more naturally now. Inhaling what might be my final whiff of Scott’s enticing scent, I slip my card out of my back pocket and slide it into his, resisting the urge to linger over the curve of his butt.

  The ball, small as it is, is in his court.

  When I get home, I notice a message on my cell.

  “Marla. Scott here.”

  My heart leaps with joy. He already called! Tonight will be our night of romance. I’ll sit on his lap as we sip Champagne and then we’ll rub strawberries all over—

  “I do appreciate your gesture, but I have your numbers memorized. I…simply cannot use them except to say this. I must finish Mistress without any distractions, pleasant and pleasureful as they may be. After that…I’ve post-production, which we’re stepping up because of pre-production for my next film, which shoots in L.A. I see no reason to hash over whatever happened or didn’t between us. As you may recall from that day in your trailer, I’m not comfortable with personal conversations. I will say you were brilliant as Stacey, and a delight to work with. I enjoyed meeting you.”

  As gentle a letdown as a man can give, but agony flows from my head to my toes. I replay the message five times, seeking hidden meaning in his words. Something like, “I do want to be with you, but real relationships frighten me. Plus, distance and long filming days are a problem even with Skype.” Or, “I need more proof that you want me for myself, not merely what my hot, successful director persona can do for your career.”

  I can’t hear anything but what he says. I call Andrea on my landline.

  “Listen to this message,” I demand after she answers.

  “Can I call you back? I’ve got to take—”

  “No. I need you to listen right now.” I press play and hold the phone to the phone.

  “He’s just not that into you. I read the book,” Andrea says. “I’m sorry, Marla. It’s clear as day.”

  “But all those thing
s he told me….”

  “Marla,” is all she says.

  “We kissed a lot in my trailer. Amazing kisses. We almost made love. He had a condom on and everything.”

  “Marla. The book says over and over that if a guy really wants you, he’ll find a way to be with you.”

  I sigh. “Thanks, I guess. Bye.”

  I collapse on my couch, fresh tears filling my still-red eyes. I get it, finally. Scott’s life is movies. And casual flings, not relationships.

  Maybe he knew I was into him and strung me along so I’d be at my best for the movie.

  No. No. I could tell he truly wanted me. He’s not like that. He wouldn’t do such a thing.

  Would he?

  What difference does it make? I still want him.

  Already I feel his absence, like a part of me is missing. This may sound foolish or border on obsessive, but I’ve gotten used to seeing him every day, watching him work, talking with him. Being part of his world. Hoping he’d give me one of his looks and kiss me again. None of that was quite enough, but it was something. And something is better than nothing.

  If Scott’s not at the wrap party, I won’t see him in person until the premiere. That’s months away.

  Online images and videos won’t cut it. I hope I can survive that long without my daily dose of Scott Sampson.

  Chapter 13

  ILoveMyMistressTheMovie.com/Scott

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

  Last Day

  Today was our last day of filming. Now on to post-production and editing. Chicago is truly a fabulous city. Perhaps I’ll return someday to partake of the bounty it has to offer, but I leave now with fond memories and, I hope, a great film in the making. News forthcoming soon about ILMM’s release and my next project.

  STARIETY MAGAZINE

  ILMM: Premiere Place

  by BB Beans

  In an unexpected move, the premiere of Great Scott Sampson’s I Love My Mistress has been moved from L.A. to Chicago. Great Scott says, “Chicago deserves the premiere since we were so well-treated there during filming.” How? Is he referring to the city as a whole, its wealth of talented crew and its production tax credits, or the ministrations of one resident in particular? Word is that he and Marla Goldberg are dating seriously (or whatever euphemism you choose) in secret so the media doesn’t pick apart their actions the way we adored doing with Brangelina when they were together and other famous couples. Can you imagine if Antony and Cleopatra were alive today?