Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  “Really?”

  I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet. How exciting! Who else gets to say their latest haircut was performed on the set of their favorite TV show? I could use a trim, and if that means they’ll use Roberto’s products on me, I’m game as hell.

  The AD flips the index card over so I can see. My character name and real name are printed at the top, with the brothel owner’s original description below: “50s, portly, balding.”

  A premonition slithers through me.

  I grab the premonition with both hands and strangle it. Janine assured me I didn’t need to match the age or description. Everything’s fine.

  The AD calls out to a woman scurrying past: “Donna. Donna! He’s the guy.” Donna slows down and waves at me. She looks my age, with a mohawk and green eyeshadow, ripped jeans and a white T-shirt that appears to double as a rag; smears of foundation, eyeliner, and other spackling decorate her shirt from the bottom hem to the V-neck collar.

  “Follow her to makeup,” the AD tells me. “When she’s done with your hair and prosthetics, we’ll block the scene—show you where to stand—and rehearse with the girl, okay?”

  “Prosthetics?” is what I should be thinking. Instead, I wonder how Heather’s faring this morning. You can bet her costume isn’t oversized; they’ll want to accentuate her body. I’m curious what wardrobe plucked for her to wear. Rumor has it wardrobe doesn’t make mistakes.

  I’ve settled into my swivel chair in front of the bulb-framed mirror in the hair and makeup room with Donna, when a pair of scissors rises up behind me. Reflexively, I duck and weave away.

  “Careful,” Donna says. “Hold still.”

  Snip.

  My ponytail is on the floor.

  MY PONYTAIL IS ON THE FLOOR.

  “What! Why?” I bellow.

  “They wanted to shave your head. I said there isn’t time. Put this on,” Donna replies calmly, and hands me a flat, shriveled-up, circular contraption from her drawer of horrors. It’s a pinkish, Sebastian’s-flesh-tone-colored bathing suit cap.

  I’m so stunned I comply, tucking and shoving my shorn locks inside, stretching and pulling at my scalp. My eyebrows have relocated upward in a perpetual state of surprise, which seems an accurate summation of my morning thus far.

  Donna’s only getting started. The prosthetics turn out to be a fake belly strapped under my XXL tunic, and remarkably realistic boils on my cheeks and forehead, attached like barnacles to my makeup-thickened skin with some type of glue gun.

  Presenting: Brothel Owner as Interpreted by What’s Left of Sebastian.

  Donna scrutinizes me in the mirror and nods to herself, pleased.

  I really don’t feel like saying “thank you,” but I can’t risk a reputation as a surly under-five, especially since I’ll be coming back several times per week for the production briefcase.

  The words “I appreciate your help,” fall quietly from my lips. The boils pinch each time I move my mouth.

  “Happy Moon Day,” she chirps as I wobble out the door like a swaying egg.

  I’m so relieved to see Heather on set for our scene that I open my arms for a hug.

  She screams and backs up.

  “Oh God. Sorry. It’s me, Sebastian,” I say, arms falling dejectedly to my sides.

  “Holy shit,” she says tentatively.

  “You look pretty and . . . painful.” The pretty: She wears blond hair extensions that have been curled into thick, tumbling locks, and her makeup accents her lovely cheekbones. The painful: a cinched-tight corset. I remember wearing tight blue jeans for Vachère and release an empathetic shudder.

  “Do you want me to free you?” I mutter out the side of my mouth. “Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  She laughs, then winces. I wince too. Corsets are the most vindictive outfit ever devised. She wore something similar but less punishing the night of the costume party in Emerson Hall.

  And look at us now.

  “What did they do to your face?” she asks, her hands traveling up toward my “naked scalp” before she thinks better of it and halts, midair.

  “They gave me boils. And this belly, obviously.” I pat my stomach. “I think they used it for Lucinda’s pregnancy in season four.”

  Our scene takes place outside the doorway of the brothel bedroom, where the orgy is being staged. We huddle together, two clothed ships in a storm of nakedness.

  “You’d think nudity would provide a pay bump on par with, say, horseback riding, wouldn’t you?” I ask, motioning to the poor saps entangled with one another in what looks like an obscene sculpture.

  “Nudity’s not a skill, though,” Heather points out.

  “Depends if you’re doing it right,” I say with a shrug. “It’s never happy sex on this show, is it?” I sigh, watching as the orgy rehearsal segues into a choreography of death. Hooded, sword-wielding bandits pour in to lop off heads and limbs left and right. Donna and the rest of the makeup team stand by, ready with buckets of blood for the actual take.

  She grins. “I forgot how funny you are.”

  The AD walks among the bodies, frowning. “Dead people don’t twitch. You’re dead, be dead.”

  Someone referred to as an intimacy coordinator trails him, leaning down to consult with the naked actors and offer them support. Hiring said intimacy coordinator was Janine’s doing; she told me it never would have occurred to a male producer.

  An hour passes before the assistant director gets to us, and once he’s satisfied with our blocking, he digs into our dialogue.

  Brothel Owner/Me orders Heather/Reluctant Sex Worker to join the orgy with the straightforward command, “Go on and join them, then.”

  “No American accents,” the AD interjects. “Try the line again.”

  “Go on and join them, then,” I repeat with a sneer. My boils pull against the skin of my forehead and cheeks each time I talk.

  The AD frowns and speaks to someone via his headset. “I thought you said he had an accent. That’s why we Taft-Hartley’d him.”

  I tap his shoulder. “I do have an accent.”

  “Barely,” he says, into the headset, but also at me.

  “What do you think British people sound like?” I mumble. “That we go around saying ‘What ho, Jeeves’ all day?”

  “Or cockney rhyming slang?” Heather adds. We indulge in a discreet low-five.

  “Just give me . . . more,” the AD demands vaguely.

  “I am actually British, though,” I say. “This is how British people talk.”

  “Please, I’m more British than you. Look, we’re wasting time. Repeat after me, exactly like this: ‘Go-wan ’n joy-ner, den!’, and give her a smack.”

  My vision goes blurry. “What?”

  “Give her a smack. A spank. On her butt,” he clarifies.

  Good God. “I’m so sorry, Heather,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay. I can’t feel anything from the neck down,” she replies, hands pressing on the thick lines of the corset frame.

  * * *

  We somehow record the scene, assisted by the intimacy coordinator (who was activated the moment the AD yelled the word “butt”). I’m glad Heather and I could laugh about it at least.

  On my blessedly sunnier drive back to Alex & Co. Productions three hours later, briefcase handcuffed to my wrist, I replay the rest of the morning in my head.

  Heather and I finished our day by helping each other scrub our makeup off and grabbing a quick bite together in the cafeteria. We lamented my ponytail-ectomy and wondered if we could find it on the makeup room floor and graft it back on somehow. I apologized again for the unnecessary spanking.

  “I had no idea he would make us do that.”

  “I know you didn’t.” She waves me off. “Though if you want to make it up to me . . .”

  “Anything.”

  Her voice takes on a suggestive timbre. “Cook me dinner some night.”

  “Done.”

  Should I invite her to Janine’s, w
here she can bask in the best view of LA, or wait until I’m back at Park La Brea? I’d have to hit six different grocery stores to stock Janine’s pantry, and I’m more comfortable in my own kitchen, but when else would I have the opportunity to show off Janine’s luxe apartment to a pretty girl?

  Also: Does Heather consider our dinner plans a date, or a platonically friendly catch-up between exes? I wonder, as I exit the 405. Then it hits me. This is the perfect opportunity to prove to Nina that I took her words to heart. I can call her tonight from Janine’s, tell her about my conversation with Heather, and ask for her insight. She’ll see how much I trust her and value the idea of opening up to her about my dating life.

  She’ll want to hear every detail about my day on set too. We’ll need hours for that.

  I’m so caught up in the idea of chatting with Nina all night that I don’t notice at first that Janine’s car is parked in the reserved spot in the underground parking area.

  She’s back from Minnesota early.

  CHAPTER 14

  NINA

  After another workday in the books (spent mostly on a twenty-five-page “postmortem” doc on Stu Stu’s social media reveal), I take an actual honest-to-God subway and then a bus back to Sebastian’s apartment. Public transportation in LA? A freakin’ miracle.

  I immediately recognize several things as I enter the apartment: my lower heart rate, a sense of independence at not having to rely on Ennis to get me home (cue some Beyoncé please), and the novel feeling of not bracing myself for whatever lunacy awaits me courtesy of my roommate. This is the first time in my life I don’t have a roommate. I enter an empty apartment with no one to answer to but myself.

  It is delicious. I change into my tank top and shorts and realize I don’t have to wear a bra. I find a karaoke version of the CoRaB theme song on YouTube and tunelessly belt it out to my heart’s content:

  ’Twas a castle, of rust and bone

  And all who lived there, died alone.

  An inheritance of fools, thieves, and tricks.

  For all who reigned o’er the Kingdom of Six.

  I’m just about to get to the meat of the song (a soaring chorus all about the merits of Queen Lucinda), when I hear a tinny instrumental version of the same melody coming from the couch.

  It’s my phone, a FaceTime call from an unknown number with a foreign area code. The UK?

  With a strange premonition, I answer it.

  Suddenly my screen is filled with a familiar face, though much more grown-up than I’ve ever seen her. She has the same sandy blond hair and adorably crooked teeth as her brother, on full display as she grins at me.

  “Nina!” she squeals.

  “Millie!” I squeal back.

  “You look amazing!” she says.

  “You look amazing!” I respond, and it’s true. Nineteen, as it does on most people, looks good on her. She doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on that I can tell, but her fresh face is beaming, smooth and unmarred by the worry lines that seem to come standard with your college diploma (or whenever you are forced to enter the real world). “What’s going on with you? Tell me everything.”

  “Gap year before uni. Still living at home with Mum and Dad for the time being, though might get a dorm next year. Blah, blah, blah. Now you tell me everything. I heard that you met Roberto Ricci.” She waggles her eyebrows.

  “Sure did.”

  “Is he just as handsome in person?” she asks and I can hear a hint of the twelve-year-old girl I knew best.

  “Yes,” I answer truthfully. But before I have to go into any further detail about how the inside does not match the outside, I change the subject. “How are Jane and Harold?” Sebastian’s whole family came to Ithaca for spring break of sophomore year and I stayed behind too. They were kind enough to invite me out to practically every meal they had, so I got a delightful dose of the Worthingtons. By the end of the week, I felt like an honorary daughter/sister.

  “They’re great. They were just as excited as I was to find out that you and Sebastian had reconnected,” she says as I see her grab a cat from out of frame and bring it into her lap.

  “Me too. I’m so glad we met up.” I squint to see whether the cat is still Tigger. He’d be well over twelve by now so . . . maybe not?

  “CoRaB brought you together!” Millie gushes. “Just like it did in the beginning.”

  “You’re right,” I reply, catching sight of the telltale orange triangle at the tip of Tigger’s tail as he jumps out of Millie’s arms. I smile, relieved. “I owe CoRaB for one hell of a friendship.”

  Millie blinks at me and looks as if she’s lost her train of thought. “Right. Yes. So . . . are you seeing anyone?”

  “I am,” I say, settling into Sebastian’s couch. “A very nice guy named Ennis.”

  “Ah. I see.” She nods and crosses her legs to settle into her own couch. “How long have you been together?”

  “About two months.”

  She inexplicably brightens up. “Oh. Okay!”

  “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.

  “I’m attempting to woo a girl I met last month at a pantomime show,” she says. “But I doubt anything will happen before my TrekUSA trip. I might have to settle for an American this summer.”

  She wrinkles her nose and I laugh, but am impressed at her unaffected confidence in what a catch she is.

  “I hope it’s okay that I called you,” she says, suddenly sounding unsure for the first time. “I asked Sebastian for your number.. . .”

  “Of course it’s okay!” I exclaim. “I’m so glad to hear from you, Millie. You have no idea.”

  I really don’t know if she has any idea that I’ve always considered her to be the little sister I never had. I mean, I have my own little sister, of course, but this is one who actually seems to look up to me and find my thoughts and advice worthwhile.

  Case in point, Millie starts asking me about what classes I think she should pick for her first semester.

  “There’s this really cool class on the Arabian Nights. Has nothing to do with journalism of course but . . .”

  “Take the really cool class,” I say firmly. “Trust me, you don’t have much of an opportunity in real life to explore a subject just for its own sake. Take advantage.”

  She grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Just then, I get a text on my phone. “Hold on, Millie. It’s Sebastian.”

  “Of course.”

  Bad news, he writes. My boss’s trip got cut short so I’m no longer housesitting. Would it be okay if I came back tonight?

  Okay? It’s your apartment! I write him back.

  I know. But I realize you need more time to find a place. And I can always crash at Sam’s.

  Come back. The kettle corn’s on, I write, referencing our favorite TV-watching snack. That is . . . if you have some.

  I’ll come back with something better.

  I smile as I switch back to Millie. “Sorry about that. But looks like your brother is heading back here tonight if you want to call later.”

  “Nooooo problem,” she replies. “I’ll give him a call soon. Maybe I can catch you both together sometime.”

  “Definitely,” I say. “Well, until I can find my own place, which will hopefully be soon. I don’t want to impose too much on Sebastian’s hospitality.”

  “I’m pretty sure you can impose as long as you like. See you later, Nina!”

  * * *

  Why is it so hard to find a place to live in a city that, according to Google, has 110,000 empty apartments?

  The answer is: because the half-empty apartments, aka the roomshares which are the only ones I can currently afford, are apparently filled with lunatics. I cannot deal with a Celeste of a different color.

  Maybe it’s time I asked Sean for a raise. I reluctantly open up my work calendar and add a note to myself to maybe put a meeting in his calendar. I need to summon up the courage first.

  I’ve gone back to the depressing j
ob of scouring whatever the latest roomshare site endorsed by Jeff Goldblum is when I hear the door open.

  “Honey, I’m home!”

  I look up from my laptop to see Sebastian walking in with two paper bags of groceries: one from Trader Joe’s, and one from Sprouts. Did he hit two separate stores on his way over? I go to help him.

  “What’s all this?” I ask.

  “Our snack!” he says.

  And then I notice his hair. It’s lopsided with a particularly floofy tuft sticking up in the back. It’s short. “What’s all this?” I exclaim again, taking my hand to the poufy section.

  He grimaces. “Right, so . . . being on the show might have come with some sacrifices.”

  “Oh, man. And your Link cosplay was going to be so good this Halloween.”

  “I know!” he says. “Now I need a thoroughly unconvincing wig.”

  “Do you have scissors? I think I can try to at least even it out.”

  “Um . . . yeah. Let me put this stuff away.”

  He takes out a jar of fancy-looking mayo, a couple of pomegranates, a package of thick bacon, and a tub of ice cream that I immediately notice is Talenti Pacific Coast Pistachio—my absolute favorite. I doubt that’s a coincidence and I smile at his back as he stacks the items away in the fridge. The rest of the bags he leaves on the kitchen counter.

  Then he rummages around in one of the drawers until he emerges with a pair of kitchen shears.

  I look at them skeptically. “Is that all you have?”

  “Yeah. Why? You don’t think they’ll work?”

  I immediately think of Sayeh and her three-part series on cutting your own bangs. “Rule number 1,” she said. “For God’s sake, get a pair of hair scissors and only use hair scissors.”

  I take the kitchen shears and test them out. To Sebastian’s credit they at least seem pretty sharp and clean.

  “Listen, it can’t really look worse,” Sebastian says in response to my thoughtful expression. “I trust you. Just go for it.”

  He gets one of the barstools from behind his kitchen counter, brings it to the middle of the floor, and plops down on it.