by Ruth Kaufman
The ILMM wrap party is at a swanky new club in the hipster neighborhood Logan Square. Booming rap made my head hurt seconds after walking the step and repeat, a short red carpet where they take your picture in front of a large banner covered in logos. Every few steps I get asked for my autograph or a selfie, but all I want to do is find you-know-who amidst the crush. I endured two slow weeks without him. Weeks made slower by the lack of auditions and articles about the film.
I recognize most of the cast and crew, of course, but most smiling faces passing by are unfamiliar. Tatti is stunning, I must admit, in a clingy jersey mini with a low back and front. I’ve lost a few of those pounds I gained and am in an LBD with strategically placed cutouts and long, sparkly earrings.
My heart stops, then races. There he is. Just seeing him again, fabulous as ever, makes my knees weak. The pink Mistresstini someone puts in my hand threatens to spill. No man has ever gotten to me the way he does.
Our gazes meet, probably because mine was hot as a Game of Thrones dragon’s fiery breath so he felt it across the bar. Does he have a date? Did he miss me?
Apparently not. I know he saw me, but he doesn’t even smile or nod. He turns away. He’s given me the cut direct, as they say in Regency-set romance novels. A public snub.
My stomach aches. My heart, too. I have to hold my head up and continue to party.
Scott makes sure we’re never in the same group. No, I’m not being paranoid. If he weren’t trying to avoid me, at some point we would’ve at least exchanged pleasantries. The double cheek kiss-kiss. Perhaps apologies. Probably caught up on recent developments.
I can’t follow him around like a hopeless GSG. Several tried to crash the event by wearing black pants and white blouses and pretending they were with the caterers. So I maintain my distance, doing the best I can to watch him out of the corners of my eyes while laughing and talking and drinking Mistresstinis. He’s equally great from every angle. Every time he smiles, I smile. And my heart skips a beat in unrequited hope.
Even though I cave and give him a couple of expectant looks, which I can tell he sees, he won’t speak to me.
Which is probably for the best, right?
“Marla. Scott Sampson calling.”
As if I wouldn’t have recognized his voice from the first syllable. My pulse starts tap dancing, reminding me of my zucchini days. “Hi.”
Despite what Stariety says about our hot and heavy affair, I haven’t been in his presence since the ILMM wrap party a week ago. Not a pleasant memory.
“I need to talk to you. Can I stop by?”
“Of course.” I hope I sound matter of fact, but I can’t wait to see him. He needs to talk to me. He’s missed me so much, like I’ve missed him, he can’t stand it. And seeing me again made him realize— “When is good for you?”
“How about now? I’m outside your building.”
“Now? Now is good.”
My fingers shake as I buzz him in. I zoom around faster than a contestant on The Amazing Race trying to be first to reach Phil at the pit stop. I
1) stuff the tall pile of tabloids stacked on my coffee table in a closet
2) grab a handful of the half-empty water glasses I leave all over and toss them into the dishwasher
3) catch sight of myself in a mirror, and after emitting a small scream at my dishevelment
a) change into cuter, better fitting yoga pants and a fitted purple tee
b) swipe on a little lip gloss and mascara
c) pull my hair into a ponytail.
The doorbell rings. This will be my first time alone with Scott since he kissed me in my trailer. Since he blew me off. Yet now, over a month later, here he is, on my doorstep. When I’d just read he was filming part of his next film in West Africa, a land so far out of my frame of reference I had to look it up.
“Hi, Scott. Come in.” Words can’t describe how excited I am to see him. And flattered. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He gives me one of those kiss-kisses, but steps back so quickly I can’t even get a whiff of him. “Water, please. I can’t stay long. I had a layover on my way back to L.A., and thought I’d stop by.”
That’s all? I fetch his water. Hope filtered from the fridge is good enough for this busy director.
In my head, I’m writing a letter to the newspaper’s advice columnist. A formerly close friend I haven’t talked to in a month stopped by unannounced during a layover. Shouldn’t he have at least called or texted from the airport and told me he was on his way? Am I wrong to be annoyed? Should I tell him how I feel or let my joy in seeing him prevail? Confused in Chicago.
“What was Africa like?” I ask. Someone has to get this party started.
Scott sits on my couch. “More beautiful than I expected. I wished I’d been able to go on safari or see Victoria Falls.”
“And the shoot? How’d it go?”
Meaning, why are you here? You can’t be so bored by O’Hare airport when I know you have a tablet and an international calling plan that you’d spend more than half an hour in a cab each way and have to go through security again to stop by without even knowing if I was home.
“Brill. Language barriers raised a few challenges at first, though. My AD had to say everything in English and Shona for our multi-national crew.” Then, silence as he drinks his water. He hasn’t even taken his olive green parka off.
I put in a CD of Mozart symphonies. I need soothing.
Scott closes his eyes as music fills the room. For a few minutes, we sit and listen.
“I do enjoy Mozart. You must be wondering what I’m doing here,” Scott says.
“Good guess.” I sit forward.
“To be honest, I’m not sure. The plane landed, and instead of transferring out of the international terminal, I got in a cab and gave your address. I suddenly wanted to see you.”
“Oh. And now that you have?”
“Our last conversation was rather odd.”
This seems rather odd, too. “So it was.”
“I’ve been told I can be too straightforward. That many Americans like their unpleasant news sugarcoated. I suppose I wanted to be sure I hadn’t hurt your feelings. Left you gutted.”
Good that he’s been thinking of me. Bad reason.
Just my soul is gutted. “I was very disappointed. But I appreciated knowing how you really felt. Telling me couldn’t have been easy.”
“Marla, would it be all right if we remained friends? I don’t have many female friends. I just know I want to know you’re in my life.”
Huge internal sigh. The old saw, so the breaker-upper can make peace with himself. But I guess that’s better than nothing at all. Friends can call or text each other, go out for coffee, stay in touch, can’t they? Follow each other on personal social media accounts? “Friends. Sure.”
“Well then, I’ll see you at the premiere.”
“See you then, Friend.” Why does that word actually hurt to say?
I stand by the door for a long time after he leaves. My heart is emptier than his glass in my hand. Unrequited feelings are the worst.
Mozart no longer soothes.
The Family Unit has gathered for Sunday brunch in my parents’ dining room, with its custom painted mural of an Italian piazza Mom had done after she watched some program on HGTV.
“What are you wearing to the premiere? Or should I say who?” Mom asks as she pours coffee from her stainless Cuisinart carafe. She loves these FU meals and her role of matriarch of the manor.
Everyone has a part to play, even if he or she doesn’t realize it. This, of course, is true for every family in the world. I hope you’re happy with wherever you fit in your family, because once you’ve been cast, it’s awfully hard to change the script. I learned my best acting techniques at Mom’s table.
“I hope something of Linda’s,” I answer with a glance at my sister.
Assuming she’ll let me borrow anything after what happened to her Ro Ro Ro. The cleaner got out the chocolat
e stain, but a small section of the bodice isn’t quite as smooth as it once was.
Mom sets down her fork. She looks as horrified as when I told her I’d quit my fairly secure, well-paying radio station job to write and act full time. “You aren’t planning to buy something new? You must’ve made quite a sum from that movie. You should have an after-five dress of your own.”
The last thing I need right now is my mom’s opinions on what I should do or what I do wrong. Maybe someone will change the subject.
Closest to the kitchen is Mom. Dad sits at the other end of the long table draped in Grandma’s hand-embroidered wisteria tablecloth. Both wear their retirement uniform of khaki shorts and polo shirts. Retirement means Mom can putter around the house all day. To Dad, it means watching as many sporting events as he can fit into his waking hours.
My brother Larry and his wife Monica are on one side of the table. Monica, like Linda, always looks like she just stepped out of a beauty salon, from her perfectly manicured nails to her lipstick, which never seems to need reapplying. How she does this with two kids, I’ll never know. I have enough trouble looking good some days taking care of just me.
PG is now old enough to sit in a regular chair, which Mom cleverly covered with plastic. He throws clumps of rice on the area rug made to resemble paving stones. No one seems to care. PG talks a lot, but mostly to himself. Baby Chloe, aka PG2, is dozing in her car seat.
On my side are Linda and me. Brad’s chair is empty because he had to work. Lucky Brad.
“Let’s hear about PG,” I suggest after swallowing a mouthful of cheesy scrambled eggs. One of my favorite meals, which comforts me a bit. “Surely he did something fascinating today?”
“Now that you mention it,” Monica says, “Zachary and I were at the grocery store this morning. He started pulling cereal boxes off the shelf saying he wanted this one and that one, and oh, it was the funniest thing….”
I tune out. I prefer to wallow in missing Scott. Maybe it would have been healthier for my withdrawal process if he hadn’t stopped by, for the same reason I rarely have candy in the house. Knowing something I want is close at hand and easily accessible makes me want it all the more. Right then, with no patience for waiting until later. And one piece isn’t enough. I need it all.
Not getting what I want makes me cranky.
Months have passed since the movie wrapped, and thinking about him—okay, dwelling on happy memories and imagining countless scenarios of what should have been—is a waste of time, if not pointless infatuation. But I can’t seem to stop, because everything in my life right now is building toward the ILMM premiere…where I’ll see Scott again, maybe be photographed or even interviewed with him, at the actual event and/or on a media junket.
Sadly, this après ILMM period has been quite a letdown. I’d hoped to gain some momentum, but haven’t been offered new roles or gone on many good auditions. I did audition for two lines in a local car dealership spot, the monster truck rally kind that only run after midnight. Which no longer count in my book. I aspire to national ads.
Don’t give me that “no small parts” adage.
The characters in the book I keep wanting to write have had nothing to say beyond a few pages, though I’ve had plenty of time to listen. My muse has disappeared, probably to aid some other, more deserving, author. The blinking cursor scoffs at me.
My friends remain engrossed in their husband and child-filled lives. I haven’t had any dates, despite attending assorted networking and singles events that turned out to be a waste of time and money. I have, however, managed to lose those rapidly gained pounds.
The only excitement: this week I hired a publicist. I asked Audrey how to make the most of the upcoming movie release. She suggested I fork over cash to hire Sandie Thomas, supposedly one of the best.
Sandie sure charges like she’s one of the best. But you have to spend money to make money, I keep reminding myself. When I’m not scouring print, online and TV for news of Scott. When I’m not imagining him cuddling with me on my couch. Or sleeping in my bed. Or stepping out of my shower wearing only a towel.
Is that the best I can do? Not even my imagination is X-rated.
“If that wasn’t funny enough, today was the first time he’d seen a kiwi fruit. He said it looked like hairy poop, well, he calls it poopop because….” Monica launches into another overly detailed tale of PG’s amazing abilities.
I’ll spare you.
The rest of the FU laughs uproariously. This prompts Monica to embark on a minute-by-minute rendition of PG2’s day. I’m not exaggerating.
Later, Mom, Linda and I are cleaning up while the others watch Thomas the Train’s Calling all Engines. Though everyone, including PG, already knows the entire video, and every other TtheT video and book by heart.
I load dishes into their Miele as fast I can. In mere moments I will have completed this week’s familial duty and be free. My cozy condo awaits, where I shall curl up with a good book and temporarily inhabit the characters’ problems instead of mine.
“Mortgage rates keep going up,” Mom says. “Don’t put the silver in the dishwasher.”
“We know about the silver, Mom. You tell us every time.” Linda examines her chipless French manicure, then picks up a dishtowel covered with embroidered grapes. “You never know what the stock market will do. Glad I’m diversified.”
They both stop and stare at me. This lets me know they really mean: “You need to buy a bigger condo but you probably can’t get another mortgage because you don’t have a real job.”
And, “Responsible adults add to their investments on a regular basis. You’re getting left behind.” And, “How can you tolerate not having a steady income? You weren’t raised to be an irresponsible incompetent.”
After I’d finally found the guts to ask my parents not to criticize me or my choices, they moved on to this approach. I should be used to their not-so-subtle digs and meaningful looks, but the subtext of their comments still stings. And make me doubt myself. What if they’re right?
“I’m not going to explain myself to you,” I say. “You choose to live one way. I’m taking a different path.”
“We just want to help,” Mom says.
“No. You want me to be like you. Like the other pod people.” I work hard to keep my pitch and tone level, fighting its natural tendency to get high and whiny when I’m upset. Think of an irritated Minnie Mouse. “Many of whom are drowning in the nine-to-five happiness-is-saving-for-retirement-and-having-lots-of-stuff mainstream mentality.”
Linda and Mom raise their eyebrows in unison.
“I hated being squashed by the thumb of corporate America, where upper middle management changed the rules whenever they felt like it while the worker bees bore the burden,” I continue. “But I stuck with my job for more than ten years because the world tries to convince everyone that’s what they’re supposed to do. I refuse to be a rat in a maze. I need more control over my life.” Even though, to be honest, right now I don’t feel like I have any.
The green apple smell of Mom’s Palmolive soothes my nerves. I take a deep breath as the bubbles shimmer beneath the track lights.
Linda moves to stand next to me. “But you don’t have more control. Of your time, I’ll concede you do. But not your life. If you did, wouldn’t you have gotten another part by now? Finished and sold a book?” She sets down the dishcloth she hasn’t even used. “We’re worried you’re under an even heavier thumb. That you’ve exchanged one maze for one even harder to solve. Now your success is at the whim of agents, editors and casting directors.”
“And you’re at the whim of corporate executives as to whether or not your deals close. Sometimes you put in months of work and never seal the deal. You spend hours and hours writing reports, negotiating and traveling to meetings, for what?”
“And you’re not earning income or enjoying employee benefits while you wait for auditions,” Linda adds. Nobody wants the spotlight of disapproval turned on her. “You sho
uldn’t whittle away whatever you’ve saved on monthly expenses. And what about health insurance? COBRA costs a fortune and won’t last forever.”
Pride won’t let me agree with her even an inch. COBRA is expensive and does eat into my savings. But I have to defend myself, because no one else will.
“Who are you to judge me? You work eighty hours a week, have no friends, no outside interests. You have no cultural literacy. Name one current hit movie, top-rated TV or streaming show or bestseller.”
“Freakonomics?”
“Not business nonfiction released years ago. Fiction.” I pause, but she doesn’t say anything. Because she can’t. “Despite your luxurious manse, you live a life of deprivation. As if relaxing on your comfy, designer-selected chaise for an hour or consuming a piece of chocolate would destroy you. How many calls did you ‘have to take’ during brunch, and on a Sunday? I counted: three.” I load more dishes so I don’t have to see her reaction. A plate lands with a thud so loud I’m surprised it doesn’t break. I move on to loading the not silver silverware. “You have no social life, and wouldn’t even make time to go on a fabulous, exotic, romantic vacation with Brad.”
“Don’t bring him into this,” she hisses through clenched teeth.
“Aha.” I whirl to face her, then turn to the pots and pans in the sink. “Brad isn’t working late tonight. He’s not here because you’re fighting again,” I crow with glee, childishly thrilled to have turned the tables.