by Claire Adams
“Do you really think he’d go for it?” I ask as Jace rings the doorbell.
“Who?” Jace asks.
“Mr. Landau,” I answer. “You’ve seen his bits; do you think it’d be worth my time or would it be like trying to make it to England in a rowboat?”
“Seriously, I’m married to a teenage boy.”
“Seriously, that’s gross.”
We’re waiting at the door for a few minutes.
“You know what we forgot?” I ask him.
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Landau did say that he couldn’t make it to the door,” I answer. “Do we just let ourselves in or what?”
“Call him back and let him know that we’re coming in,” Jace says. “I don’t want to give the poor guy a heart attack.”
“How sensitive of you,” I answer.
I give Mr. Landau a call and he gives us permission to enter, so we do. Jace calls out for him, and from the back, a feeble voice answers.
“Do you really think he’s at risk for a heart attack?” I ask as we’re making our way down the hall.
“Actually,” Jace answers, “his heart is probably the only part of him that’s still holding strong. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I tell him.
We get into the room, and Mr. Landau is lying in bed watching the morning news.
“How are you doing today, Mr. Landau?” Jace asks.
“Oh, I’ve been better,” the man says.
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that,” Jace says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my assistant along with me today.”
“I can see her,” the man says. To prove it, his eyes move to me and settle on my breasts as they always do.
“Dr. Churchill?” I ask.
“Yes, Assistant Miller?” he returns in his asshat way. This is why I didn’t take his last name.
“You’re certain the patient’s cardiac health is stable?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, like you said, I should give the poor guy a break,” I tell him, and lift my shirt. “Is that better, Mr. Landau?”
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COSTARS
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
The Loose Bet
Emma
This is it. Today’s the day.
I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life and now that it’s here, I wish I were somewhere else. I wish I were someone else.
It’s not that I lack gratitude or an understanding of just what a big deal this moment is for me personally as well as professionally. I’m nothing but gratitude right now.
No, what’s bothering me is that I can’t remember any of my lines and I’m going to be working with quite possibly the greatest actor of my generation: Damian Jones.
The problem with reaching the top is that there are other people, people who have been there for a while. I’ve been rather clever so far, working in near anonymity and only ever being recognized as that chick from that tampon commercial.
It’s not the best kind of notoriety I could have hoped for, but it paid the rent.
Now, though, all eyes are going to be on me, and I know exactly what everyone’s thinking. They’re all just sitting back, waiting and hoping that they’ll have a front row seat when I inevitably prove just how unqualified I am to be here.
Or maybe that’s just my own personal insecurity.
Regardless, I think it’s time that I start betting against myself here. My cheeks have been red for the last ten minutes, and I’ve been having a hell of a time breathing at what anyone might consider a natural pace.
“Emma,” Lane, my on-set assistant, says, poking his head through the door of my trailer, “they’re ready for you.”
I take a breath.
Here we go.
Ten minutes later and I’m back in my trailer, waiting for them to get the lighting set up for the next scene.
I’ve been in movies before, just nothing you would have seen. There were a few low-budget, sci-fi flicks where I was either the lusty heroine, or more likely, damsel in distress who is rescued by the superpower-wielding hero, or I was the space vixen who’s basically just walking cleavage that completely fails as a character.
My biggest moment before landing this film was in Mega Leopard vs. Megalodon IV: Rise of the Phoenixes, where I had a 30-second monologue in which I’m trying to reassure the rest of the captives—all buxom women like myself, each character with a different reason why the front of her shirt is torn open, exposing everything but areola—they’re going to survive the machinations of the Cult of Megalodon culminating in the glorious words, “We are not fodder for monsters; no! We are women and women fight!”
Sure, it’s a nice thought from a feminist standpoint, but the writing left a lot to be desired.
Now, though, I’m on the set of a motion picture that doesn’t only have one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, but it actually has financial backing and a decent script.
It should be a lot harder to be cynical, but I’m starting to find myself longing for the days where the director didn’t care if the lighting was right or whether the sun was two hours higher in the sky in one shot than it is in the next. At least then, I could put in a day’s work and be done.
Now, all I have is time to sit here and freak out because of where ‘here’ is.
Lane opens the door to my trailer to ask me if I need anything. I ask him what he means by anything.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Are you hungry, thirsty? Is there anything I could bring you that would help to pass the time? I could read lines with you, whatever you need.”
“If I were to ask you to do something to help me pass the time, you’d probably do it?” I ask.
“Sure,” he answers.
“So if I were to tell you that I wanted an eight ball of coke, two hookers of questionable character and gender, a fifth of Jack, along with a quarter of whatever they were giving Snoop Dogg back in the early 2000s, and, just to round it out, at least a dozen people old enough to die in a war but not old enough to drink legally with whom I can enjoy all of the above with me, you’d do it?” I ask.
“Obviously,” he says, “I couldn’t knowingly participate in an illegal action. That said, I haven’t really checked the laws that recently, so I may miss a few things.”
“Excellent,” I tell him.
“So, did you actually want any of that or were you just looking to prove a point?” he asks. “My hooker guy likes to have as much notice as possible—otherwise he has a lot more trouble finding just the right one.”
“You’re not joking, are you?” I ask.
“I guess we’ll never know,” he says. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, I’m good,” I tell him.
“All right,” he says. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be around.”
He leaves the trailer and I take a moment to really appreciate the fact that I have, at my beck and call, someone who has a “hooker guy.”
That’s power.
There’s a knock on my trailer door and I call for whoever’s there to come in.
“Hey, I just wanted to see how you were settling in,” a very familiar voice says.
I look up, and there, ducking his head as he enters my trailer, is Damian Jones.
“Shit,” I say and try to stand up, managing to bend everything except my knees in the process. If it looks half as awkward as it feels, I’m in serious trouble.
; “You don’t have to get up,” he says, a partial smile on his full lips.
Damian Jones is one of those people you can just tell was born to be in the movies. He’s one of those guys you just know came out of the womb with perfectly straight, white teeth and the kind of smile that would provide untold masses of women the motivation to try masturbation for the first time.
It helps that his dirty blond hair always looks like it’s five minutes out of the stylist, and that he’s frequently beefing up for this or that role.
He’s ducking his head a little as he makes his way over to my makeshift couch. He doesn’t find a spot and ends up sitting on my coffee table.
I’m a little messy.
“Just as well,” I tell him. “My legs seem to have forgotten how to work. I’m Emma Roxy.”
No matter what I do at this point, his first impression of me is going to involve the word clumsy. All I have left is the remote possibility that I can add the word charmingly to the front end of the title.
“I’ve seen some of your work,” he says. “You’re good. To tell you the truth, I always thought you weren’t getting the kind of roles that you deserved.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, wondering if I should have put a question mark at the end of the statement. “I’m obviously a great admirer of yours as well.”
“Obviously,” he says.
He’s a little smug.
“So, I hear you got your first scene in and done. How’d that go?” he asks.
My phone starts ringing on the coffee table next to Damian, and for whatever reason, I decide that I don’t want Damian Jones to see who’s calling me. No, it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m still pretty new to this.
I snatch the phone off the table and mute it with my thumb.
Damian is looking up at me, but he’s not saying anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “This is just a little weird for me.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“You’re Damian Jones,” I tell him, “and you’re sitting on my coffee table.”
“Sorry about that,” he says, getting up. “You had to have known that we’d cross paths at one point or another, though, right?” he asks. “We are the main romance plot to the film, you know.”
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“No point. So,” he says with a flash of his dark green eyes, “are you into tall, handsome actors?”
“You know, for someone who’s always in the tabloids with a different woman on his arm, I would have thought you’d have a lot more game,” I tell him.
“Game?” he asks. “What do you mean?”
“You’re hitting on me,” I tell him, “and you’re not the slightest bit good at it. Maybe it’s just one of those sad things that tend to happen when fantasy meets reality.”
“Do you smoke?” he asks.
“Smoke what?” I return.
“Let’s start with tobacco and go from there,” he says.
“No,” I tell him. “I don’t smoke anything. I hate the smell.”
“That’s good,” he says. “It’s terrible on the lungs and it makes you age like crazy.”
“Why do you ask, then?” I question.
“I was going to see if you’d be cool with me lighting up a cigarette in here,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I tell him without thinking. “Just open a window.”
“I think I’d better not,” he says. “You’re not a smoker, so you’re going to get sick of the smell really fast.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I heard you were nervous,” he says. “I also heard that you were trying to throw a party for teenagers involving cocaine and prostitutes and I wanted to see if you were actually that jaded—I was coming here to make sure I got an invite if it went that way—or if you’ve just got a sense of humor.”
“And?” I ask.
“And,” he says, “I have found that I’ve still only just met you and couldn’t possibly pass that kind of judgment so quickly.”
“I see,” I tell him. “Well, I’ve got another scene coming up in a little while, and I kind of like to—”
“Oh, you’ve got your own trailer ritual, huh?” he asks. “Carl Ivan had one of those that involved a rubber turkey leg, a pint of Southern Comfort, and a still of Stockard Channing from Grease. He never really said how it worked or even whether it worked or not. Come to think of it, I’m not sure exactly what he was hoping to accomplish, but—”
“Mr. Jones,” I interrupt.
“Damian,” he says. “You’re Emma and I’m Damian; pleased to meet you.”
“You’re a very strange man,” I tell him.
“Nah,” he scoffs, “strange is for the commoners. I’m rich, ergo, I’m not strange. I’m unconventional, dynamic.”
“The commoners?” I ask.
This is the most surreal moment of my life. I have no idea how to take him. He can’t really be this conceited, can he?
“You know,” he says, “this is going to be my sixth Academy Award.”
“What is?” I ask.
“This film,” he answers, “the one we just started shooting.”
“Are you actually going for the Babe Ruth thing?” I ask. “You’re trying to call your award?”
“I’d almost say yes to that,” he says, “only, I object to the word ‘try.’ I’m not trying to call anything. I’m simply stating a fact. I’ve read hundreds of scripts and I’ve done dozens of movies. Trust me. They’d need to screw this up pretty monumentally for me not to get the Oscar nod. Hey, if you play your cards right, there might be a Golden Globe or something in it for you, too.”
“Got it,” I tell him.
“Got what?” he asks.
“I was trying to figure out whether you’re just doing some kind of shtick or if you’re actually this full of yourself. From everything I’ve seen, the latter is pretty clearly the case and I’m just trying to keep the stiff upper lip and not mourn the person I thought you were when I was growing up. That is, until you’re gone and out of my trailer,” I tell him.
“Wow, dramatic,” he says. “Anyway, just wanted to pop by and offer my services.”
“I don’t think I’ll be requiring them,” I tell him, “but thank you for the thought.”
“Not a problem,” he says. “It’s my duty as your mentor.”
“Mentor?” I ask. “When did this happen?”
“The moment we both signed on to play these parts,” he says. “This is your—sorry, but this is your first real film and you’re working with real people top to bottom. I know how that can be intimidating to a new actor, and I think I might be able to help you get through the initial growing pains with a bit more ease.”
“How admirable,” I tell him. “Your altruism is truly touching and not in the least bit condescending and offensive.”
“I’m glad you see it for what it is,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Now, I should let you get to whatever kind of voodoo it is that you do as a trailer ritual. Just do me a favor and don’t tell me if you make any wax dolls of me. I mean, do what you want, but I don’t want to hear about it. That stuff skeeves me right the hell out.”
“What are you even talking about?” I ask.
“Never mind,” he says. “Keep your secrets. I’m off to talk to a man about something else.”
“I think unconventional might be too mild a word,” I tell him.
“Think whatever you like,” he says. “Mark my words, though. Before filming is wrapped, you are going to come to me for my sage advice. You’re going to say, ‘Mr. Jones—Damian, you were right. This is a big, scary world and I was wrong to so casually dismiss your kind offers of assistance.’ I’m sure you’ll be able to convince me. I just wish we could get to the part where you appreciate me for the supernatural gem that I really am and skip all this other nonsense.”
I’ve been so busy trying to ignore the oozing cesspool issuing from Damian’s mouth that I didn’t notice the
door to the trailer open.
“Emma, they’re ready for you,” Lane says.
“Thanks, Lane,” I answer with a healthy dose of gratitude.
“Make me look good,” Damian says as I get up and walk past him out of the trailer.
What a self-important prick.
Lane walks with me toward the set. I ask him, “Is that guy really as pompous as he comes off?”
“No,” Lane answers. “He’s not really that pompous. He just likes to mess with new people he thinks may be, in some way, intimidated by his fame. He thinks that by giving them a bad impression that confirms their worst fears about him, he can start anew from zero and do a better job showing them how he’s not like that. I guess he thinks that coming off like an ass makes him approachable or something, although I can’t imagine that really working. Of course, the fact that he sees people as playthings, which he feels the need to personally inform them of is pretty damn pompous, so I guess the answer to your question is yes.”
“You’re wonderful company, you know that?” I ask. “Most people would just give a quick answer and be done, but you choose the less taken road of answering just about everything but what’s been asked.”
“I answered,” he says.
“Not in a helpful way,” I tell him.
From here it’s wardrobe. From wardrobe, it’s makeup. From makeup, it’s to the set for my next 20-second scene.
Ah, the life of a movie star is a wondrous thing, indeed.
* * *
Everything’s going fine. I’m nailing my lines and I’m solid on the acting. Really, I should be feeling pretty good about myself right now.
That’s what I’m thinking right up until it’s time for my first scene with Damian.
When he’s not in my trailer acting like he’s the secret and mystical key to an aspiring young actor’s dreams and ambitions, apparently he’s on the set, arguing with the director and basically anyone else that strays too close to ground zero.