by Ruth Kaufman
The next morning, I pop out of bed at 5:30 AM, despite my late night. Unfortunately, no nooky occurred after the benefit. Scott took me home in a cab and left with only a quick European double-cheek-kiss-kiss. The remnants of Marvelous Marla weren’t brave enough to kiss him or ask him up, though visions of him licking chocolate off my chest almost convinced me.
Wide awake, I rush to my front door, where I remain glued to the peephole until my morning paper hits. I don’t want to see the digital version on my iPad, I want to touch the real pages. I snatch it up and flip on the light.
“Please, no,” I whisper over and over as I rifle through the sections.
My fervent prayers fail, for there, in living color in Chicago’s most popular newspaper, is my chocolate-coated, wide-mouthed self. I’m on the front page of the Friday Arts section just above the FOTA benefit recap, seated next to sultry Scott. My mouth is open, my hand is down the dress. One end of the starched napkin sticks up like a rabbit ear over my shoulder.
Soon after, my cell and landline phones ding and ring. Conversing with and answering texts from vastly amused friends and family takes up most of my morning. Swallowing down embarrassment takes the rest.
Sample comments include:
Mom: “Everyone saw you in today’s paper. Why is your mouth hanging open? Couldn’t you have smiled?”
Friend Andrea: “Ro Ro Ro and Napkin? Maybe you’ll start a fashion trend.”
Finally, the one call I’ve been dreading arrives.
“You got chocolate on my Ro Ro Ro,” Linda accuses. “Did you ruin my new gown? The one I specifically didn’t want you to wear? How could you?”
Guilt hurtles through my veins. “I’m taking it to the cleaner this morning. It’s not bad. If they can’t get the stain out, I’ll buy you a new one.”
“It was the only one in our size at Neiman’s. And I told you it cost $900. Before tax.”
Ouch. Some risks teach expensive lessons.
It’s Saturday, two long days after the FOTA ball, with no word from Scott or my agent. I hope we’re still on for Sunday brunch at Max’s.
I’m at the Ritz-Carlton during another black-tie benefit. No, I don’t live a life of upscale glamour. I’m working this event—the City Opera’s 50th Anniversary Gala.
Management has hired a bunch of actors to wear costumes representing key characters from various operas. Stationed around the long, fresh flower-filled room there’s a stunning Cio-Cio-San from Madama Butterfly replete with wig, kimono and white makeup, and an Anna Bolena in an amazingly detailed bejeweled and gold-embroidered red velvet gown with a vast train.
After a special concert featuring famous opera stars, which unfortunately I won’t get to hear, guests will pass through a column of Rigoletto soldiers holding tall gossamer banners. Then they’ll come upon us.
Other actors get to stand and pose on platforms decorated with props and furniture to match their opera, serenaded by appropriate arias from hidden MP3 players.
Then there’s me. I’m a Rhinemaiden from the first Wagner Ring Cycle opera, Das Rheingold, wearing clingy blue velvet sequined leggings, tank top and wide cummerbund. Add blue leather jazz shoes and a blue velvet helmet with my hair tucked inside. Like Marvin the Martian from those Bugs Bunny cartoons. With a fellow, lithe Rhinemaiden and a hideously lumpy and hairy gnome, Alberich the Nibelung, I clamber and pose upon huge rocks in a large fountain, the real hotel fountain. They turned off the water, but puddles linger here and there. I avoid getting my feet wet as I enticingly tease Alberich, who wants our gold.
Wagner’s familiar music plays as corks pop and laughter trills. Flashes go off, tuxedoed men and evening-gowned women dripping jewels promenade while sipping Champagne in slim flutes.
I’m on my back, arched over a rock, reaching behind me toward Alberich. All the guests appear upside down, shimmery and sparkly in their finery. Do I recognize anyone from my years in corporate America?
Can it be? I blink and focus to make sure I see who I think I see. Have you guessed who’s watching me? Who has a slithery, vaguely familiar blonde clinging to him as intimately as I cling in unflattering stretch velvet to my hard, cold, uncomfortable rock?
Scott Sampson, of course.
I’m thinking:
1) Why didn’t he ask me to this benefit?
2) Who is that woman?
3) What is he thinking?
There’s a slight, enigmatic smile on his face. He’s not paying attention to Blondie though she’s practically chewing on his ear and clutching his arm as if it were the last life preserver on the Titanic.
He’s watching me, intently.
Blood rushes to my head. Because I’m upside down, not because I care why he’s with her or whether she uses double-sided tape to keep her obscenely low-cut gown from malfunctioning.
I can’t look at him anymore. In time with the music I stand slowly and gracefully, keeping my back to Scott. As I take a new pose, I sense his gaze still on me. Does he find me enticing, interesting or silly?
I hear my erstwhile therapist Dr. Smythe saying, “You control your thoughts, they don’t control you. It’s how you let events affect you that matters.”
Eventually the crowd thins, and we’re released from the Rhine. I don’t recognize any of the remaining guests. No Scott in sight. Or his date. Too bad. I’d been thinking up snappy comments about my time with Scott to make her and him as uncomfortable as they made me. Not the nicest plan of attack, but somehow it makes me feel better. Whether I’d have had the guts to verbalize my jealousy-inspired witticisms, we’ll never know.
I’ll endeavor to control my thoughts and not let seeing Scott with another, younger and more beautiful woman bother me. We’re not dating. It’s not like he’s cheating on me. I want him to be my director, not my lover.
Ha.
The other Wagnerians and I make our way to one of the freestanding bars and claim a glass of Champagne before we change to our street clothes. We join a few of the other actors. The music has been turned off. Glasses and bottles clink as waiters clean up.
“I’ll be doing Beauty and the Beast at the Candelabra,” Cio-Cio-San says.
“I did Annie Get Your Gun there,” a Rigoletto soldier says, reaching for another glass just before the bartender dumps it. He downs the sparkling beverage in one gulp. “I’ve got a few auditions next week, but no bookings lined up.”
I don’t belong. I have no auditions or bookings to share. I wish I could say, “I’ve got a role, not a line mind you, a role, in a Scott Sampson film.” But I can’t, not yet. Or ever?
Alberich begins, “I’ve been driving for Uber. If I don’t get cast in something soon—” He stops abruptly.
Cio-Cio-San’s red-painted bow lips form an O.
As I take another sip, behind me I hear, “Marla.”
I recognize the voice instantly and freeze. Fortunately, the bubbly brew doesn’t go up my nose. Nor do I spurt what’s in my mouth. The other performers are staring over my head, eyes wide.
A thrill zips through me. Scott Sampson called my name, in front of working actors. I’m on a first-name basis with a famous director they recognize. Who came over to talk to me. Determined to maintain better control over my undeniable and unfortunately powerful crush, I swallow calmly before turning. “Scott.”
He’s beyond handsome as usual, and he’s alone. What happened to Blondie? I suck in my stomach, hoping my blue-velvet-clad and sparkly self doesn’t look too preposterous up close, and wait with bated breath. I want to whip off the helmet and have my luxurious locks tumble down like in a shampoo commercial, but I’m sure by now I have helmet hair.
“Talk to me.” Scott starts toward the exit.
Like a lemming, I follow.
“Oh, Mr. Sampson, welcome to Chicago. I hear you’re going to be filming here. May I have your autograph?” A Botoxed matron in powder blue chiffon with Barbara Bush pearls holds out her program and a fountain pen. “I’m Mrs. Marcus, no relation to Neiman. Hee hee. If you
could make the time, I’d love to have you speak to our Opera Women’s Auxiliary. We raise money to sponsor up-and-coming singers.”
I imagine Scott being the only man in a roomful of fawning biddies and clear my throat so I don’t burst into laughter.
“Mrs. Marcus, do you have a card?” He signs her program with a flourish. “I’ll have my assistant check my schedule and get back to you.”
She tucks her program under her arm, digs into her Judith Leiber crystal-studded evening bag and retrieves a gold-embossed card. “Oh, oh, thank you, Mr. Sampson. We’d be quite honored to have you.” Mrs. Marcus blows delicately on her autograph and leaves with a smile.
We enter the vast lobby featuring several seating areas and a restaurant. Scott pulls a thick stack of cards from his pocket and files his new addition alphabetically as we keep walking. Even in today’s digital age, cards matter.
I’m not sure I want to hear about Blondie, so I ask, “Are all those from tonight?”
As if I’d needed proof of how in demand he is, even as a guest or speaker.
“Yes. My assistant Sheila handles this sort of thing. Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to gad about once filming starts, even for a good cause or to promote my work.”
I know how draining the twelve-hour or longer days of filming can be, and I’ve only spent a few days on set at a time. I can’t imagine how busy and tired I’d be during a two-month shoot. Yet I yearn for the chance to find out.
He moves close, into my personal space. His eyes are blue, blue, blue. If I tip my head I could kiss him. My skin begins to tingle and he isn’t even touching me. Why can’t I stop thinking about him this way? Or thinking about him at all?
“I saw you on the rocks. Did you see me?” Scott asks softly.
I wonder if he
1) wanted me to see him for some reason
2) didn’t want me to see him so he doesn’t have to mention Blondie
3) is just making conversation.
Here’s my chance to trot out one of my pre-planned anti-Blondie quips. VIH might be catty, but usually I’m not. “No” isn’t really an option. With me, honesty trumps lies. My opinion and my word are all I have to give.
“Yes, I saw you. We were told not to talk to the guests.”
“The Mistress producers asked me to escort the female lead.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say, because I’m not sure why he’s telling me this. He doesn’t owe me an explanation. But I do want to find out about Sunday’s brunch.
Scott is very hard to read. Maybe because I want to see things in his expressions that aren’t there. I make sure my face is as blank as his.
“She’s Tatiana Farraday,” he adds.
Of course. From upside down I hadn’t recognized the previously short-haired brunette as a blonde, probably with extensions. Tatiana Farraday, whom the media describe as “hot hot hot” like the Buster Poindexter song. Thrice-divorced star of stage and screen, known for her sultry, sensuous performances and equally fiery temper. Good thing I’m not competing with her for Scott’s affections. Or a part.
“I’m glad I ran into you, Marla. There’s something I’d like to say.” After an extended pause, Scott takes a deep breath, then sighs. As during the AFMA commercial, I catch a refreshing whiff of Listerine strips. What’s making him so uncomfortable? “The reason I—”
“Scottie, hon, are you ready to go? Who are you, blue person?” Her smile and voice seem fake, all famous actress. “I’m Tatiana Farraday, soon to star in I Love My Mistress. Directed by Scott Sampson here. I’m playing the mistress, Audra. A fabulous part. Are you one of those Great Scott Groupies I hear so much about?”
Tatiana invades our moment, crowding us with her height and overwhelmingly sweet perfume. To make matters worse, she slides her arm most possessively around Scott’s waist. I feel better when he steps away. I burn to know what he was about to tell me.
“Tatiana, this is Marla Goldberg,” Scott says. “I’m considering her for one of Audra’s sisters.”
She looks down her clearly operated upon nose at me. “I can see that. She might do for the plain, older sister, Jennie. Who has only six lines.”
I will not let her get to me.
“Nice meeting you, Tatiana.” I yearn to quote the song “Paramount,” about busy busy Hollywood professionals from the musical Sunset Boulevard, but don’t. She probably wouldn’t get it, anyway.
“Are we still on for Sunday morning, Scott?” I dare to ask, then regret it. If he shoots me down in front of her, how will I hide my disappointment and embarrassment?
“Sunday. Right,” Scott agrees. “I’ll pick you up around nine forty-five.”
I smile.
Tatiana’s famous green eyes squinch into cat slits.
“Sounds good,” I say, still smiling. I’ll probably smile until I see him again. “Looking forward to it, Scott.”
Not only did he confirm our not-a-date, he offered to pick me up. And showed Tatti he knows where I live.
As I walk away, Tatiana asks, “What’s going on Sunday morning?”
Ha.
Saturday afternoon I’m at the outlet mall with Andrea, my friend since college, desperately seeking the perfect ensemble for tomorrow’s brunch. No time to order online even from Amazon with their fast delivery, plus all the scrolling and browsing makes me dizzy and even free returns are a pain.
So far, I’m like Goldilocks: nothing is just right. Jeans are too casual, this dress is too dressy, too revealing, too expensive, etc.
“If all that wasn’t enough, Emily’s been pitching fits because she wants to continue with soccer,” Andrea says as we browse the next store. “But Dan worries that her ankle hasn’t healed from the bad sprain she got a few weeks ago. He’s insisting she sit out for an entire term. They fight constantly. Neither of them listens to me. I always have a headache. Maybe we’ll buy stock in Advil.” She plucks something from a rack. “Here, this sequined shirt looks like you. Might be too sheer without a cami, though. Now Emily’s retaliating by refusing to practice her violin and I’m afraid she won’t do well at her audition and make the sixth-grade orchestra….”
As you can see, I haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise. Not during the hour drive or the two hours we’ve been making our way through crowded stores.
Why do children’s issues trump developments in so many parents’ lives? Perhaps because they’re so engrossed in schlepping kids from place to place, arranging play dates and buying stuff for them that parents forget there are interesting and fun grown-up things to do. Or that they need and deserve some time for themselves.
The only reason Andrea agreed to come with me when I called is because her kids need new school clothes and throw fits in the store if she doesn’t buy what they want.
“So how was your week?” she’d asked. “I watched Zootopia for the millionth time and did infinite loads of laundry.”
Before I could answer, she’d hung up. Because two of her kids were fighting over whose turn it was to use the iPad, I heard through the phone. I didn’t even get to tell her why I needed to go shopping.
She said she’d call back later, but I’ve learned with a mom that means as much as when a guy you’ve just met at a party or a bar says it. Very little.
As we wait in line for a dressing room, Andrea takes a deep breath.
“I’m going to brunch tomorrow with Scott Sampson,” I squeeze in before she can start up again.
This is news enough to catch her attention. “As in the Scott Sampson who’s on the cover of Stariety I saw in the pediatrician’s office when Suzie was getting her ankle re-taped? How on earth did you swing that?”
“I met him at a commercial shoot and saved him from a gaggle of screaming fans. He took me to a black-tie benefit.”
She looks at me to make sure I’m not joking. “Marla, you lead the most interesting life. Mine is all Mom, all the time.”
“I thought that was what you wanted? Husband, house, kids
, the American Dream?”
“As they say, the grass is always greener.”
I’m thinking my grass is pretty green right now.
Chapter 7
@INSTANTGOSSIP #GreatScott w/a new #flame? Who’s @MarlaGoldberg? She only has 66 followers. Couldn’t find her on Instagram or Snapchat.
“Marla, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me do the talking,” Scott says as he drives his rented BMW up the private, tree-lined road toward Max’s mansion.
My fingers tighten on the smooth leather seats. I bite my tongue before snapping out a snide or brutally honest comment:
1) “I may not be a condescending, arrogant, famous heartthrob director, but I am a national award winning salesperson.”
2) “Two great minds are better than one, even if the one thinks it’s superior.”
3) “It hurts that you don’t think I can help you. I want you to need me.”
I say nothing.
Basic, pleasant chitchat has filled our long drive north from the city to the ritzy suburb of Winnetka. Scott hasn’t even glanced at my adorable black stretch capris and short, fitted jacket with V-neck red satin halter, dangly multi-stone garnet earrings and beaded mules.
I remind myself, this is not a date. He doesn’t have to care what I look like. He’s hot in dark jeans, a French blue shirt that brings out his eyes and a navy jacket. Basking in his glorious presence still makes me a little nervous, but enthralled at the same time. I let him do most of the talking instead of me babbling on and on, which I tend to do when keyed up. And most other times. If that’s why I’m not in a relationship, and want to change, how do I hold my tongue for the rest of my life?
The brunch, held in Max’s endless backyard with a stunning view of Lake Michigan below, is as expected. Around twenty perfectly coiffed and St. John-garbed women dot the wide wood porch, sipping mimosas or Bloody Marys, rings asparkle in the dappled sunlight. I recognize the opera singer amid a cluster of said women, lovely in a flowery sundress. Men in polo shirts and khakis jabber about those Cubs and the market, punctuated by hearty laughs. Uniformed waiters amble about with trays of drinks and canapés. On the lawn, a long, white-clothed table is laden with tempting platters. A three-tiered tower of frosted cupcakes catches my eye.