by G J Morgan
All the girls in my classes were caught up in it, they’d whisper about his potential arrival, and the longer it went on the more absurd were the stories of this nameless visitor. He trained at La Scala, one of them said, he’d met with ballet mistresses in New York, apparently – it was all complete lies. The truth was, Max later told me, he was on his last legs. His last two productions had bombed, he’d parted company with his theatre house, and all he had was a self-penned screenplay that a small film company had agreed to make on the smallest of budgets. But to any dancer in the know, Max Salter was the ticket to the big screen, even if at the time he hadn’t even a ticket for himself.
The day, or should I say night, he turned up at our dance school I was the only one there. The last class had just finished, I’d stayed back with one of the younger ones as their Mom had gotten stuck in traffic, so I waited with them till they turned up. It wasn’t a big deal, some nights I closed shop, the manager was an old friend, so occasionally I locked up, switched on the alarms. By the time Max showed, I was just about to turn off the lights and start the security checks.
“Excuse me, miss. I take it I’m too late to see the show?” he said, stood at the doorway.
“Just me, I’m afraid. Hardly much of a show.”
“That’s a shame. I’ll come back another time.”
Despite the rumours of a mystery man’s arrival, no one actually had a clue what he would look like or even his name, me included. To look at Max he did not carry himself in such a way that would make one feel he could control a room, or direct an actor or actress. At the time, I would’ve guessed he was late forties but I later found out he was a good decade younger.
“Do you want me to leave a message?” I asked him.
“No, you’re fine little darlin’. I was just passing on the off chance.”
I picked up my things, walking towards him, the clock above him told me it wasn’t long till I had to start my late shift. That was me back then, dancer by day, counsellor at night.
“Do you mind telling me where the nearest dance school is from here?”
“There are quite a few. Probably best you try tomorrow though. Not many will be open now. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I had some time spare and I don’t tend to get much of that. Thought it was worth a punt, see if anywhere was still open, stupid really. Why would a dance school be open at this time?”
“Are you looking to enquire for your daughter?” He found that funny. “Or son perhaps?”
“No,” he laughed again, “I’m enquiring about dancers, actually. Well, a dancer, to be precise.”
“Oh, you’re him. The director.”
“Him? I didn’t know I was a him. I prefer the latter. Sounds far more influential,” he said as he walked into the middle of the studio.
“Sorry, that sounded rude.”
“That’s all right. You are right, at least anatomically.”
“Are you looking to hold auditions?”
“Eventually, I expect. Would you be interested in trying out?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“That sounds rather defeatist.”
“There are better dancers here than me. I’d rather not waste your time.”
“You don’t even know the part yet!”
“You haven’t seen me dance.”
We both laughed, talked for a little longer, I told about my new job at the Dream Centre, he said it sounded like a cult, I assured him it wasn’t, he told me about his movie, till finally we got around to exchanging names.
“Look, Lilly, I can see you are busy and we can’t proceed to talk in doorways like vagabonds. Here is my card, please give me a call. I think this role could be perfect for you and I would like to see you dance with my own eyes. That way, I can judge for myself.”
“Sorry, I appreciate the offer, Mr Salter. But you can find other girls here with better ability than myself. I can give you a few girls’ names who I know would love to speak to you. Girls that can really dance.”
“That is the problem, Lilly. I have too many girls that can really dance. I’m actually sick to death of girls that can really dance. I’m not looking for perfect, the complete opposite. Believe it or not, this role requires an actress who is unable to dance.”
“Sorry, Mr Salter. I’m confused. Why visit dance schools if that is your aim? It doesn’t make any sense. Look I really need to go now. I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Apologies, I’m not portraying myself in the right light here. I didn’t mean to offend you. I mean I’m looking for an actress who dances to – how can I put this? – to a tolerable level. One with flaws and inconsistencies, imperfections. Look, you’ve got my card, ring me. I’m here till next week and I’d love to meet up with you. I’m not some strange perverted old man, promise, least not perverted anyway. Bring your parents, or a friend with you.” He started to walk off.
“I can’t act either.” I followed him onto the street.
“Good,” he shouted from his car door. “That’s means you’ll be cheap, clueless and malleable.” He closed the door, smiling as he drove off.
It’s hard to explain what happened next. I couldn’t tell you how or why, luck mostly, suddenly I became an actress, reluctantly and without any intention. The critics went wild. I’ve kept all the paper clippings.
Goodridge’s powerful portrayal of a young dancer crippled by grief is both nuanced and real.
Raw, maddening, a bravura performance, virtuous.
Unsurprisingly, some noticed my inexperience in front of camera, rabbit caught in the headlights; monkey in silk – had to ask Max want it meant, he asked me what I thought it meant, he said I wasn’t far off. All I knew was my life would never be the same – agents followed, scripts next, money, condos, paparazzi.
By that time, me and Max were inseparable, from filming in LA to promoting overseas, from red carpets to awards ceremonies, Max and I would eventually become lovers. Officially, according to internet rumours, I had been sleeping with Max since before the film was even made, viral trolls suggesting I slept my way into the role like a lot of women were forced to. But in all honesty, it wasn’t till the night of the Oscars that anything physical happened between us, and even more the revelation, it was myself that initiated the encounter.
I loved Max in every way possible at the beginning. Normally, it was the other way around, least with all my previous boyfriends, so it was strange that I felt nothing physically towards Max, that came much later. But my initial attraction to Max happened pretty much instantaneously, from that very first night at the dance school. Watching Max, being directed by Max, observing how he got the best out of people, I found a powerful form of seduction. He had a way about him, a quiet unassuming position, but one that was very persuasive, to make you believe that what he told you, no matter how far-fetched or ridiculous, was always with the intention of making things greater. Hey, he convinced me, and even my dad for that matter, that I should go half-naked in my first feature film, that took some doing. He was a master at his craft and knew the power he had over people and me for that matter.
Despite our differences, Max was great at what he did – I didn’t realise it till I worked on other sets. Max did this thing on our first day, made us shoot a really intense scene off the bat, and after it was done he shouted “Cut.” That was that, no second or third takes, just “Cut.” I thought nothing of it, I was a virgin in all this, but I could sense it wasn’t the norm, judging by everybody else’s reaction. After I watched the movie for the first time I asked Max what happened to that scene. Max told me he never intended to use it. I asked why, of course. He just laughed, said it was a tight schedule, but I could tell by his wink there was a method to it, playing with people’s motivations, making everyone up their game, behind and in front of the camera. Max’s movies were made with more than entertainment in mind, he w
anted to take it a step further, for those making it and watching.
I did find it attractive, his complexity, his intensity. I knew what it must’ve looked like, young girl of twenty in the arms of a middle-aged man. Like secretaries who fall for their boss, or pupils that lust for a teacher – predictably and regrettably, I fell for Max, and the world fell for us, too. Max hated it, of course. He wanted adulation and fame, yes, but based on merit, not the girl on his arm. But he changed his tune over time. As much as he hated celebrity, he knew how important it was, and in turn he knew how to use it for his own gain. I never knew if it was his intention, or some master plan, but he suddenly became known as a bastard, and not in a bad way.
Whether it was planned or not, it made him a superstar. Some said it was down to me, but I didn’t take any credit. Men like Max were born for Hollywood, he would have got there with or without me. Funnily enough, despite his many female conquests, there were rumours he was gay and I could see why people would think that. A man working in dance the obvious one, but he had a certain demure, a way of carrying himself. But I never believed it, still don’t, he loved women far too much. Night of the Oscar ceremony, after too much celebration, too much Tequila Patron, I asked Max if he was gay. He laughed. Later he walked me to my hotel room, me in my dress, him in his tux, bow tie loose, Oscar in one hand and cigar in the other. Jeez, he loved cigars, he’d even got me smoking them that night, even though I’d always hated the smell. I asked him again if he was gay, this time he didn’t laugh, that was when I kissed him. First, I kissed him in the corridor, the hotel room, then my bed, the rest, well the rest has been well documented. We became Lilly and Max, never just Lilly, never just Max, always Lilly and Max.
There were nice times, he made me laugh a lot, he was and still is a kind man. I’ve only ever seen him lose his temper twice, the first was enough to make me worry, the second was enough to make me leave. Fame changes people, I knew it had changed me, certainly it changed Max, I didn’t know if it made us better, it made us something different.
We split up in June of last year, the day after Michael Jackson died, for once we weren’t headline news. August, I found out I was pregnant. Max would say it was a joint decision – as I said, he was a master at his craft, made me believe it was my choice. It was never my choice, I signed the forms, spoke to doctors, sat in hospitals. Sally would have known, might have agreed with Max that it was a necessary outcome. Frank would not have seen it that way. Regardless of how logical it may have sounded, my age, the point in my career, the point in Max’s career, Frank would have stopped me. How could he not? He told me himself, he was an illegitimate child, he would have treated it as murder and he would have been right. Forget the fancy words ‘termination,’ ‘removal,’ ‘expulsion’ – in the cold light of day, it was murder. I never even got to see a scan. I don’t think I could have done it once I’d seen a scan, once it became real, an outline, a baby. I read later it would’ve been around 6cm, the size of my little finger, thirteen weeks old. Even now I find it hard to look at myself, mirrors are difficult, I find it hard to smile sometimes, though I try. I have never regretted anything so much in my life. If Max hadn’t been there, holding my hand, reassuring me it was the right choice, I wouldn’t have gone through with it. Without a doubt I would have not done it, but I did go through with it.
I tossed my toenails into the fire and watched them crackle and glow, I would need a glass of wine tonight, Max had that effect. You know, he sent me a message the first day I arrived in England. ‘Hope the shoot goes favourably,’ it said, ‘remember not to over-think it, just be you, Lilly G.’ I deleted it with no reply, I’d seen him twice in the last six months, first time I hit him, the second he hit me, made us even, though I think he came off worse.
Upstairs I pondered the inside of my wardrobe. Eventually, a pile of rejected alternatives carpeted the floor. In the mirror was the finished product – I looked pretty, simple tee, expensive shoes. The door knocked, thoughts changed to oysters and wine. One glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, I thought. Sally says I am always one drink away from a tabloid front page. It was her little mantra. Surely one wouldn’t hurt? It would numb the senses, make me forget. Didn’t make me stop thinking of Max, though. Max the Director, directing me from afar.
11
I didn’t remember much, there was singing, loud singing, far too many scallops. I remember me and Sally hugging, Frank may or may not have given me a piggy back at some point, I remember making a toast, there was a possibility I made a move on Chris Rogan, or was it the other way around? I have no recollection of getting a cab, but somehow I was home, standing in the glow of the fridge, drinking milk straight from the carton. I briefly thought about udders and purchasing my own cow. I’m guessing it must have been around that time I threw up. I couldn’t quite work out why I had muddy feet, but I do have a vague memory of being in my garden, shouting abuse at someone or something that wasn’t there, there were curse words, but there may have been an invitation, too.
I closed my eyes again. It was too early for piecing things together, all I knew was, wherever I had chosen to sleep was neither my bedroom nor a bed. Regardless, I felt myself drift back into a broken sleep, as drunk became hung-over and dreams and memories and nightmares became intertwined.
* * *
The day before I flew out to England, a producer friend of mine had thrown another one of his crazy-ass pool parties up in Malibu, where hundreds descended from every far corner of the entertainment business to gossip and network. The house was ridiculous, I was obviously on the wrong side of the camera – marbled floors, spiral staircases, it was built for parties, grandeur that deserved a grand occasion. The theme was the same every year, a strict dress code to match the décor of the house, ball players in white linen suits, singers in small white dresses, tiny sluts in tiny white bikinis. It was everything you’d expect a millionaire’s party to be, but for all the attendees it was lonely place too, full of fakes – fake friendships, fake boobs – the only way to endure it all was drugs, which this party had on tap and not even discreetly.
Unsurprisingly, Frank had begged me not to go and I struck a promise that I’d be plane-worthy, said I wouldn’t drink, and to be fair I didn’t, I had a line of coke, but only because I was being courteous. For the most part I was being good, sat at the bar, kept myself to myself. The barman was nice, kept me company, kept filling my glass with Virgin Coladas, told me about his career aspirations. I wasn’t listening, my mind was already in England. Frank told me to let him know when I’d had enough, he and Sally weren’t far away with our suitcases and our passports. I was about to message him, I’d shown my face, I was ready for the airport, mentally preparing for the long flight, plotting how I’d slip away from the party unnoticed. That’s when I saw Max making his way toward me through the crowd of cocktails, his eyes on me, my eyes on him, I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape.
“You didn’t get the memo then, Max,” I said, eyeing his clothes. He looked impeccable, but he wasn’t dressed to theme.
“It takes a big man to pull off a white suit and I’m not quite that man.”
“Are you sure it’s not just your way of being the minority, standing out? The man in black.”
“If you say so, Lilly. It’s been too long since I last saw you. When was it, New Year’s?”
“I’m impressed you remembered.”
“How could I not? You slap pretty hard.”
“You deserved it, after the shit you pulled that night.”
“Sweetheart, you added two and two and got five. I was only talking to the girl.”
“It’s never just talk with you, though, is it, Max?”
“You look beautiful.”
“I’m just leaving.”
“Please don’t, not on my part.”
“I think it’s best I go.”
“We can be civil, surely?”
“Plane to catc
h, I’m afraid.”
“I read about that.” Smiling, like he’d remembered a joke.
“And why’s that funny?”
“I’ve heard of Jon, haven’t seen his pictures, but I’ve heard only admirable things. I think it will be good for you to get away, clear your head. I’d like to meet with you soon, I don’t like the way things ended. I don’t like to think I made you run away.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Running away?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
I started to walk off. I’d had enough party for one night.
“Look. I’m sorry about all the unpleasant business that happened before, Lilly. It wasn’t handled in the best way and I take some ownership for that.”
“Unpleasant, Max. Is that what you call it?”
He went to hold my arm.
“Get the fuck off me, Max.”
“Max, is everything OK?” said a voice from behind me.
I looked around, it was a woman, holding two drinks.
“Everything is fine, darling,” Max said calmly. “Forgive me. This is Lilly.” He took her hand. “Lilly, this is Darcey Sterling, she worked over at the American Ballet Theatre. I’m sure you’d get on like a house on fire.” He turned to Darcey. “Lilly is one of us.”
“How wonderful. I feel in better company when with a fellow dancer,” she sipped. “And how do you know my darling Max?” she asked, passing him his drink.
I couldn’t talk.
Max smiled. “Apologies, Lilly. Darcey isn’t one for movies. Humphrey Bogart could say hello and she wouldn’t have a clue who he was.”
“I’d have to agree with Max,” she said. “Dancing, yes, movies, not so much. To be honest, not doing much dancing now either, seeing as now I’ve got this little bundle.”