by Ruth Kaufman
“Only one question this morning, please. You wouldn’t want me to be late to set.” Maybe they would, so I’d get fired and they’d have even more to write about. I seek out the reporter who seems least likely to ask a controversial or stupid question, and point at a man with the least hungry look on his face. “You, Sir.”
He preens like a happy parrot. “Andy Jasper from Famous Folks. Marla, what can you tell me about this?” Andy holds up an 8X10 photo.
Of me, circa twenty-five years ago.
Everything I have ever accomplished in life evaporates. I morph from a Movie World Award-nominated actress and soon-to-be published author into the nerdy, unconfident, oft-teased and flat-chested teen I was back in high school. I’m Christopher Reeve as Superman assuming his Clark Kent guise, hunched over, awkward and unsure.
Andy Jasper has tracked down my devastatingly horrible and unflattering senior portrait. My hair, which I’d attempted to blow dry straight that morning, had become a vast nest of frizz. This was because my mother hadn’t gotten home in time for me to have the car. I’d had to ride my bike two miles to school on the most humid day ever.
I’m wearing neon-bright blue eye shadow and a vibrant yellow, hooded jacket opened to reveal a white T-shirt with a rainbow star between my breasts.
At least:
1) my teeth are perfect because I’d had braces until the end of junior year
2) only I know that I also have on yellow gauchos and high platform wedges that tied around the ankles and had orange striped soles.
The crowd hushes. Mouths drop open as all gape at the hideous picture. Then, as one, all of the reporters and all of the cameramen begin to laugh. One woman doubles over with glee.
They have hit my Achilles heel with their sharpest arrow. I want to melt into a puddle of embarrassment and disappear as a nightmare comes to life. I know I’m not that girl, but she’s still inside me.
Where is Sandie when I need her?
At last the laughter dies down. All eyes turn from the picture of me to the real me. For the first time, I see true interest in each gaze.
I’m sure I can spin this, thanks to my years of sales and improv classes. The solution pops into my head, a gift from my muse.
“Unfortunately, yes, that was me as a high school senior,” I begin, my voice projecting and utterly confident. “For some of us, not a very difficult role to play. But many teens go through an awkward, ugly duckling phase. How many of you didn’t get to experience high school as the popular girl, the cheerleader or jock? I’m living proof that people can change, grow and achieve their dreams. I’m thrilled to have survived my awkward phase and moved on.”
A few heads nod in approval. Andy Jasper’s smile fades, as if he’d expected much more hoopla over his find.
Mrs. Silvany, the elderly widow who lives below me and leaves scrawled notes on my door complaining that I need to download more songs because she’s tired of hearing Wicked for the thousandth time and wishes I would sing the role of Galinda for a change instead of Elphaba, steps out of our building.
Instantly the crowd turns on Mrs. S.
“How well do you know Marla Goldberg?”
“How many times did you see Scott Sampson?”
“What did you think of Mistress?”
She smiles widely and lets loose such a rapid stream of answers the reporters taking notes can barely keep up. I make a mental note to buy her some of those soft cookies with white frosting she likes.
As I make a beeline for the limo, I hear, “Mrs. Silvany, what’s it like to live with a star?”
A warm glow enfolds me. That’s the first time anyone has called me a star.
I may be a star now in public, but at my parents’ parties I’m still mere kitchen help. April Fool’s Day is the occasion, neighbors and family members make up the guest list. My current role is passing them hors d’oeuvres. Linda and Larry simply mingle. Why? Because they have significant others to keep them company. I, once again, am dateless.
“Rumaki?” I ask, with a smile only an actress can maintain for long periods. My immediate family members know that instead of water chestnuts, the rumaki contain marshmallows beneath the bacon.
“Stuffed mushrooms?” Instead of the usual tasty stuffing, these shrooms are filled with anchovies. The smell alone could wipe the smile off a lesser performer’s face.
Maybe you share my Mom’s sense of food humor on this day of pranks. I don’t.
“Marla. Can I talk to you for a minute?” Uncle Sherm asks, his voice low. He scans the room furtively, as if afraid he’ll get caught talking to me.
“Let’s go over here,” I suggest.
We meander to a relatively deserted corner of the formal living room. I have no good memories of this room. When we were children, it was decorated in shades of white and cream, with fluffy white carpet. Entry was forbidden upon penalty of having our toys taken away. Now it’s bland earth tones in suede-like fabric and barely used.
Uncle Sherm is one of those vaguely related relatives. No one can explain exactly how he fits in because of second cousins and once-removeds. We’ve always called him uncle nonetheless. He’s shorter than me, thinner than Jack Sprat, wears a thick toupee that doesn’t match his eyebrows, and always wears Sans-a-belt pants and Hush Puppies.
“Marla. This is a difficult thing for me to do. I was hoping—I hope you will lend me some money.”
Do I look like Ken Jennings after his millions of dollars run on Jeopardy! in that commercial about how many family members he suddenly had? Did Uncle Sherm already ask Linda, who makes and has more money than I probably ever will?
“How much do you need, Uncle Sherm?”
“Well. Thirty thou should about do it.”
“Thirty thou!”
“Credit card debt. I didn’t mean to let it get so out of hand. But you know your Aunt Adina, she likes her Swarovski crystal collection…so I thought, maybe some cash to tide me over.”
“Thirty thousand?” Takes a lot of Swarovski figurines to rack up that much debt.
Yes, I made a good chunk off Mistress. But take out taxes and the fact that I might not see any money for my books for at least a year, add in my publicist, the stylist she recently recommended, new clothes and accessories subsequently needed, and my part-time bodyguard thanks to the Frank incident, and a sizeable amount is already spent.
“Uncle Sherm, I’m sorry. I’ve only had one supporting role in one movie, and just started filming my second.”
“But you sold two novels.”
“Yes. The first sales of romance novels don’t usually get the kinds of advances you hear about.” Guess my “name” isn’t that big, yet? “And I won’t get any royalties until months after they’re published next year.”
Why am I justifying refusing him a loan? I don’t owe him anything.
He nods slowly, in that way older Jewish relatives have of making you feel guilty even when it seems they’re trying not to. “I understand, Marla. Sure. Your old Uncle Sherm will make do. You have fun on your new movie, hear?”
He returns to the bar area.
I feel awful, though I don’t believe in giving loans to family in the first place.
Aunt Janie’s grating laugh rises above the chattering crowd. And Uncle Jack is telling the same story he always tells about some huge fish he caught twenty gazillion years ago. I cringe. I have so little to say to most of these relatives. And that makes me sad. But then, we don’t choose our families.
“Marla. Why are you just standing there?” Mom looks as exasperated as she sounds. She loves to entertain, but only when everything runs precisely according to her plan. “I’ve dozens more mushrooms waiting and soon it will be time to start the buffet.”
My tolerance is reaching its limit. I just want to walk away from her and the party, but I say, “I’ll get right on it, Mom.”
I don’t want to cause a scene in front of all of these people. I don’t want to embarrass myself or my parents. So I’ll act more interested and be m
ore tolerant. Fake it ’til you make it.
In the kitchen, I’m tempted to cram the anchovy-stuffed mushrooms into the disposal. They probably taste worse than they smell. But this is Mom’s day, so I serve and smile until both my feet and mouth hurt.
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” I call, hoping the new arrivals will finish off the remaining hors d’oeuvres.
Shock and a blast of damp April air freeze me in place.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as a mushroom blows off the tray and plops onto the slate entryway.
No, unfortunately, it’s not Scott.
It’s my ex-husband, Adam. As with the last time I saw Ex, he’s wearing a tie I picked out for him. He’s alone, and looks good. But as I’ve learned, appearance isn’t everything.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says. “I stopped by your place, but you weren’t there.”
I seem to be quite popular today. He’d better not want money. Or be stalking me.
“I didn’t know you’d be having a party. We can talk another time.”
“It’s my mom’s party.”
“It’s cold out. Can I come in for a minute?”
“If you have something to say, why didn’t you just call?”
“I wanted to talk to you in person.”
“What do we have left to say?” I ask, but open the door and wave him in. My temporary tolerance extends to Ex, apparently.
Mom’s calling everyone to the buffet as Adam and I go to that quiet spot in the living room. I don’t feel compelled to offer him anything more than one of the now chilled mushrooms on my tray. He shakes his head and sits on the couch. I choose a chair.
Silence.
“So?” I prompt.
“I broke up with Alicia,” he begins. “This morning.”
More silence.
“And I needed to know this because?” I make circles with my hand, encouraging him. I’m hungry, and my mom makes a pretty good brisket. Unless she ruined it with some nasty April Fool’s surprise.
“Because I realized what a mistake I’d made,” Adam says.
“I could’ve told you Alicia was too persnickety for you. But of course, you wouldn’t have listened to me.”
“I don’t mean about Alicia. I mean about you.”
“What?” Now he has my full attention. Unless…. “Is this an April Fool’s joke?”
“Absolutely not. I finally realized that I made a hasty decision to leave you in a down moment. When things weren’t going as well between us as I thought they should. Then I felt I had to go through with the divorce. I was too proud to go back on my word. I never loved Alicia. I just couldn’t stand being alone.”
“Ah. I get it. Now that you’ve broken up with her, you still don’t want to be alone and think I’m your best bet.”
I sigh. Someday, some man will want me for me, not just as a convenience to keep him from being lonely, have sex with (though that can be fun) or pass the time between films.
“No, it’s not that at all,” Adam insists. “Before you and I split—”
“Before you said you wanted a divorce.” Let’s make that clear.
“Before that, I’d been having problems at work. Big ones. I thought I was going to be fired. Alicia was so understanding, so supportive. I didn’t think you would be, because you just can’t appreciate how cutthroat the accounting world can be. And especially with all of that, I didn’t know how to fix what was wrong with us. I acted on impulse and left you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I guess time has helped me put things into perspective. And it took a while for me to grasp that while Alicia might understand and help me deal with the pressures of my job, you knew me better as a person. You have so much more to offer as a wife.”
Duh. I’m famous now.
“And not just because you’re successful at your new career. Because of who you are.”
He goes down on one knee and time stops. I’m whisked back all those years to the last and only other instance I’ve seen him on one knee. After seeing a fabulous production of Pippin, one of my favorite musicals, we were walking down the street hand in hand, singing “Corner of the Sky” at the top of our lungs. On that perfect autumn day, sunlight glowed through the trees and reddish gold leaves floated to the ground. I don’t know if I ever loved him more than at that moment.
Dropping to his knee, he’d pulled a ring box from his jacket pocket. As I savored almost every woman’s dream, my future flashed before me. Us buying a bigger condo, traveling, making love, growing old together. There was no doubt in my mind right then that we were meant for each other. But as someone said, love makes fools of us all.
I’m no longer a fool, not for Adam at least. Not for Scott, either.
“Give us another chance,” he says. “We can start over. I’ll go to counseling, whatever you want.”
My heart thumps. If he’d said these things while we were still married, my life would be so different now. I probably wouldn’t have become a full-time actress, because the combined pressure from him and my family would have trapped me in corporate America’s harness until the day I retired. I’d still be married, but would I be happy?
Am I happy now?
Close, but not quite. There’s something I simply should accomplish first.
“Adam, thanks for talking with me. I appreciate your telling me how you feel. But I’m not the same person I was before. I’m sorry. I don’t love you anymore, and don’t think I could. Not in that way.” Even if I did, how could I trust that his feelings for me wouldn’t change again?
I don’t want to cause anyone pain, but I must admit turning him down feels slightly good. I swallow back the urge to gloat about how things have come full circle. I’d practically begged him, well, I had begged him to try to work things out, a couple of times awash in tears and a couple more while calm and collected. He hadn’t wanted to even discuss our relationship, much less make any effort to fix it. Now he’s begging me to come back and I don’t want him.
Adam stands, his expression grim. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I guess I should be going.”
“I guess you should. Happy April Fool’s.”
“Same to you.”
“Bye, Marla.”
“Bye, Adam.”
As the door shuts behind him, I finally feel a sense of closure.
Chapter 24
STARIETY MAGAZINE
The #Scorla Report
by BB Beans
America’s sweethearts are doing an amazing job of concealing their love nest from the world. Your BB sent Stariety researchers back into the past to uncover photos of Marla Goldberg’s and Scott Sampson’s earlier years. From left to right: Marla, topless, age 5, as Baby New Year in a dance recital. Scott in the sand, age 5. Marla in her sixth-grade musical. Nice pixie haircut. Scott with his first camera, age 10. Marla front and center in her high school yearbook, dancing in Kismet, age 17. BB wonders why she’s wearing a concealing satin bathrobe while others wear glamorous, midriff-exposing harem outfits? She doesn’t look overweight; could it be lack of material to fill out the bra top? Scott, age 16, filming his childhood home. The ever-fashionable Scott even looks hot in the fashions of days gone by.
@INSTANTGOSSIP We’re pining for lack of #Scorla news! Got any to share?
I’m at Linda’s. She called and said to come over immediately. The last time she issued this type of summons, she’d sold her first company. We drank Champagne and she actually ate a piece of the chocolate I brought to congratulate her. I ate the rest.
I race to her house. I’ve been doing my best to keep a low profile, which seems to be working to some degree. Not one paparazzo/a has followed me this week. Annoying stories about me keep popping up nonetheless. I should know, I read every tabloid and site I can get my hands on. And I now have over 75,000 Twitter followers and 50,000 on Instagram, though I don’t give them much fodder beyond a few set selfies.
My life
right now is Worth It and nothing else. For the moment, I’ve achieved my dream of being a working actress. Where’s the satisfaction? The joy of doing what I set out to do?
Long hours and, I’ll admit, not feeling worthy of my talented, handsome young co-star, who makes dredging up powerful emotions every day seem easy peasy, is draining. I’m worn out.
On our day off, I catch up on sleep. I keep hoping my helpless feelings for Scott will transfer to someone on this film. If only my film husband wasn’t married. There’s a cute cameraman, but so far he’s only looked at me through his lenses.
“I assume you made sure nobody followed you this time,” Linda says when she opens her door. She checks up and down the street. “Wait until you see what I have for you.”
“It’s not my birthday, so…you’ve got info on Sheila! You found something.”
We race up the stairs to her office as fast as I used to chase her when I caught her playing with my toys. She pretty much destroyed my Barbies.
“This took a while, and of course my people had to work on real projects too, but….” She hands me a thin stack of paper. “Everything you need is here. You have great instincts, Marla. Maybe be I should tell you more about the companies I’m interested in and see what you think of them. You could be a consultant.”
I’m so excited I barely register Linda’s rare compliment.
Finally, finally. I scan the information. I read quickly, but now I wish I’d taken Evelyn Wood’s speed reading course.
“Wow. Linda, this is great. Exactly what I needed. I just knew Sheila was hiding something. Thank you.” I give her a hug, though we aren’t a touchy-feely family. “Now I have to figure out a way to get Scott to read this.”
“Send it to the tabloids. This is perfect for them.”
“Scott doesn’t usually read them, though. Plus, I want him and her to know this came from me. Well, from you, but because of me. And he needs to know that it’s true and that I found a way to help him. The last thing I want is to purposely give the tabloids or social media more to say about me.”