by Ruth Kaufman
How gross is that. I’m too embarrassed to ask for a towel…but if any sweat drips on the pale satin sheets, it’ll show on camera. And how will Trent Jordan react when he touches my sweaty chest? What will Scott think?
I’m repulsing myself. I’m so not in the mood.
“First team, positions please.”
“Angie, could I have a small towel?”
She brings one. I turn my back and mop up the sweat. I say a fervent prayer that I stay dry for the whole take.
STACEY & ALAN’S BEDROOM. RAINY NIGHT.
ALAN is in bed reading a business magazine.
STACEY comes out of the bathroom in a silky robe and stilettos. She drops the robe to reveal lingerie.
ALAN
What did I do to deserve this?
STACEY places one foot on the bed.
ALAN
Where did you get those shoes?
I am STACEY, the sexy wife desperate to turn on her husband. If I make him hot for me, he’ll stop taking so many business trips. See him check out my stilettos? Under the sheets, I’ll bet he’s getting hard already. For me.
STACEY
I bought them just for you. I know how much you like high heels.
ALAN
I do. Yeah, I do. Come here, Baby.
Suddenly I’m Marla again, trying to remember what body part goes where when. For now that should be okay, the emotion revealing closeups will be shot later. I climb on top of Trent/ALAN. Gracefully, I hope.
ALAN
Stacey. It’s been too long. Touch me.
He takes my hand and rubs it over his chest. We kiss, count one, two, three, four. And again with our heads at a different angle, to a count of six accompanied by randomly roaming hands. ALAN rolls us over, then showers kisses on my neck and chest above the skimpy bra. My nervousness fades. I must admit it feels good to be touched and kissed by a handsome, well-muscled man, no matter the circumstances.
Well, that’s sad. I’m that lonely. Focus, Marla.
I feel Scott’s gaze on me. What is he thinking?
ALAN
Take it off. I want to watch you take it off. Now.
We sit up. He strokes me over the bra and kisses my neck. I reach behind my back, smiling as seductively as I can. I’m not sweating. I meet ALAN’s falsely smoldering gaze with ease, but knowing that my breasts will soon be exposed to the world makes me shudder. I’m losing my confidence. Imagining he’s Scott widens my smile.
ALAN’s torso hides mine from the camera as the scrap of black lace falls to the rug. His hand slides slowly up my thigh. Still higher.
Whoa. His fingers didn’t slide up to my panties in rehearsal. Where does Trent think he’s going? Instinct urges me to grab that wandering hand, but for the sake of the shot I tilt my head back and moan instead. He pulls the covers up to his waist and begins the age-old hip motions as if he’s inside me.
My head falls back farther, my eyes close, his hands are on my breasts. He squeezes, with a little more gusto than necessary. Now I’m supposed to say “Yes” every so often, moan and gasp.
Why is it that women make all the sounds in movies? I moan and gasp. That’s all she wrote. The scene is supposed to end now.
Now, please.
But no one calls, “Cut.” Troupers that we are, we keep moving. Trent keeps squeezing. I keep moaning.
Finally, we hear, “And cut. Back to one,” from the AD, not Scott. Do I imagine a crack in the AD’s voice, as if our fake lovemaking affected him? Or was he trying not to laugh?
ALAN falls onto his back as if we’d done the deed. I wrap the covers around myself and reach for my discarded lingerie. Angie brings my robe, and, thoughtfully, a fresh towel.
Sam waddles over to Scott, who’s in his canvas chair a few feet from the bed, headphones around his neck.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Sam bellows, loud enough for anyone in a three-block radius to hear.
“Sam, calm down,” Scott says. “What is your problem?”
“Where were you just then? I expect one hundred percent. That’s the deal. Not the half-assed effort you just gave that crucial scene. And allowed your actors to give.”
Scott stands, slowly. He towers over Sam. “The deal is I direct this film my way. I did not agree to have you stand over my shoulder and question my approach to every shot. Question my creative choices.”
Scott and Sam are nose to nose. Sam has turned red and looks as though he’d like to throw his beefy arms around Scott and wrestle some sense into him.
“That was the most pathetic lovemaking I ever saw. Marla sounded like a pack of elephants. Was she that fat when we hired her? Even our budget has room for a damn bra and panties that fit her properly,” Sam continues, clearly not caring that I’m hearing every excruciating word. “For the record, I told you we should’ve gone with another name after Anni got hurt. You wouldn’t even hold auditions.”
By now, every person in the studio has halted his or her activity. We’re all listening but trying to look like we’re not. I’m doing my best not to reveal the sting Sam’s critique of my efforts and my physique causes. A pack of elephants?
“You know quite well we lacked time and money to miss shooting days by having auditions,” Scott says. “We had enough of a challenge rearranging the schedule as it was. Perhaps you’re not aware that sometimes the best work happens when actors improvise as their characters. I chose to let the scene continue a bit longer for that take. To see where Marla and Trent would go when not following scripted choreography.” Scott slams his notebook shut, but his voice remains low and calm. “That is my call, not yours. Sam, I need you off my set.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Do not press me.”
“I know what I know,” Sam counters, his face redder than it was during the AFMA shoot in the hot sun. “Hey, everyone, where were you on November ninth, seven years ago?”
“You have no proof.”
“In this business, I don’t need any. I know what I know.” Sam sounds like a bully at the playground taunting the school nerd.
“Mack, please escort Sam to his trailer,” Scott says.
“Asshole,” Sam grumbles.
“Tell him he may return when he can behave himself.” The teacher comes outside and saves the class from the bully. “Back to one,” Scott orders, his face still as if he were bluffing in a high stakes poker game.
As the shock of their public argument dissipates, I realize I’m one tiny step closer to finding out what Sam has on Scott: a specific date.
We run the bed scene a few more times. My lips are chafed from all the kissing. No one has handled my breasts this much, or this vigorously, ever. I do my best to concentrate on acting and groping and not visualizing stampeding herds of braying elephants.
But the mysterious conversation between Scott and Sam replays in my head. We haven’t heard a peep out of Scott for almost an hour.
What’s going on in his head?
Chapter 11
STARIETY MAGAZINE
Great Scott’s latest – hit or flop?
by BB Beans
Great Scott Sampson’s “I Love My Mistress” promises to be a smash hit though veteran Anni Harper’s back injury the first day of filming forced her departure. Her replacement as Trent Jordan’s beleaguered wife, newcomer Marla Goldberg, is said to be exceeding all expectations. How can this be, when certain production personnel describe her as “a portion past pleasingly plump” and having “a voice like an elephant?”
Has Scott discovered a rising star a là 42nd Street, or is she the latest flash in Scott’s pan? His team remains mum as to why this A-List, overbooked director signed on for this lower budget flick from SJL Films. Inquiring minds….
“And that’s a wrap.”
Finally.
I’m pooped. I never knew how hard dredging up desire again and again could be. I can’t wait to get home. A hot bath, hot tea and some Philip Glass are in order.
Then S
cott says, “Marla, after you change, I need to speak with you.”
When I’m back in my comfy yoga pants and hoodie du jour, my breasts so irritated from all that rubbing they hurt inside my bra, I go to his trailer and knock.
“Come in.” He doesn’t sound welcoming. His focus is on some papers on the small, square kitchenette table. “I want to apologize for Sam’s behavior. I’ve talked to him and made him swear there will be no further outbursts.”
“Thanks.” Though Sam’s words still hurt. “It can’t be easy for you when something like that happens on set.”
“No. Definitely a major mood breaker.” Eyes closed, he tilts his head from side to side.
How tense he looks.
I will give him a massage. Bravely, I take the initiative. My first few squeezes of his shoulders are tentative in anticipation of rejection. When he sighs softly, I squeeze harder and press with my thumbs. “Relax. Your muscles are so tight.”
I work my way down his back, enjoying the feel of him against my hands through the fabric of his T-shirt. But I want skin on skin. I move up to his neck and slip my fingers beneath his collar.
“That feels amazing. But you don’t have to—”
“You took care of me after tudo o que você pode comer. Let me take care of you now,” I say in my most soothing tones. “You don’t have to be in charge all the time.”
“Relinquishing control often results in chaos.” But he leans forward, giving me better access.
My index fingers circle beneath his ears, then against his temples.
“Where did you learn how to do this?” Scott sighs again, then groans softly. His accent, his deep voice combined with that groan…just listening to him is so sexy.
He’s arousing me without knowing or trying. I feel him relaxing. If he gets too relaxed, will he have the energy to touch me, or will he fall asleep in the middle like one of my long-ago dates?
“It’s never occurred to me to hire an on set masseuse,” he continues. “I’ll have to make room for one in my next budget.”
My fingers delve into his long, thick hair. I let the strands slide through my fingers a few times, then slowly massage his scalp.
“Fabulous.” Huge sigh. “How did you learn that?”
“I get one at my salon every time I get a haircut.” Now there’s a sexy rejoinder. I lean down and whisper in his ear. “Take your shirt off.”
Oh. My. I just ordered Scott Sampson to disrobe.
He does, exposing his well-sculpted chest and arms. My fingers itch to caress every inch of him. My woman’s center aches to be touched in return. A shiver of delight skims through me.
I kneel to work my magic on his right hand, then travel up his arm. His chest captures my attention. Without thinking, I lick his nipple.
Scott jumps. I jump.
Desire made me too bold. I bite back an apology, waiting for his response.
He takes my hand and puts it over his crotch. Through his soft fleece pants, I feel him, hard and ready. “See what you do to me?”
Knowing that I’ve aroused him makes me even hotter.
His hand still on mine, he leans down and kisses me. I forget where I am, what I’m doing, and spiral into heaven. Better than my imagination. Scott cups my cheeks and deepens our kiss.
“Marla.” He slides out of his chair and joins me on his knees.
More searing kisses turn me into a mass of sizzling need. We tumble onto the narrow shag area rug. I’m on top, loving every minute. More. I still want more.
Suddenly Scott freezes. He sits. I sit. We’re both breathing hard.
“What am I doing? Marla, we can’t continue.”
Why? Are you seeing someone else, in which case we shouldn’t have even done this? My daily bravery quota is used up, so I don’t voice my thoughts. Maybe I don’t want to know why. His reason might hurt too much.
How quickly the mood in Scott’s trailer has transformed from hot and amazing to amazingly awkward.
He stands, adjusts his pants, then sits in his chair. “I need to get back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Great. Neither one of us can handle our obvious attraction to each other. Scott wants to ignore it, but I burn too brightly. I can’t let this go unresolved. Yet as you may have gathered, relationships haven’t been my strong suit.
Who said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way?”
“How dare you come here,” STACEY says. “We have nothing to say to each other. Drat. How dare you come here. I have nothing to say to you. How dare you come here. I have nothing to say to you.”
Today we’re filming at a house in Glenview that’s supposed to be where STACEY and ALAN live.
STACEY and I are furiously trying to remember rewrites of both my and AUDRA’s, the mistress’s, lines. We just received a new script…the Blue script. After, of course, we’d memorized the previous one. To make sure we’re working off the right version, the script pages are a different color every time we get a new copy.
You’d think, as someone who yearns to write a book, I’d understand and appreciate the delicate semantics of these subtle changes, which require reprinting dozens of copies even in today’s digital world, but I don’t.
“Careful!” the homeowner says from his director’s chair as a lamp being carried by a crew member to the kitchen narrowly misses a tall white vase.
“Let me move this.” His preppy wife grabs the vase and disappears up the stairs.
Jasper, the British audio guy, with his cart and monitors, has taken residence in the dining room. The camera and cameraman plus all of their filters and lights crowd the yellow kitchen decorated with dainty dotted Swiss curtains and matching table cloth. Not my taste at all, but the fluffy, sweet room does suit STACEY.
INT. STACEY’S KITCHEN – CLOUDY MORNING
STACEY
(wearing full apron, standing by open back door)
How dare you come here. I have nothing to say to you.
AUDRA makes her way into the house.
AUDRA
I have something to say to you.
STACEY
Coffee? (sarcasm evident)
AUDRA
No. I just had some with Alan.
STACEY
(STACEY struggles not to reveal her pain.)
Say what you came to say and get out.
AUDRA
Leave him alone. Alan doesn’t want you anymore.
STACEY
Alan is my husband. We’ll work this out. He made a commitment to me. ’Til death do us part.
AUDRA
Then why was he making love to me last night?
“And cut. Thanks, everyone. New deal,” the AD calls. “38A, bed scene wide shot.”
The crew starts hauling equipment up the stairs. AUDRA and STACEY remain in the kitchen, glaring at each other across the white Formica island. I can tell Tatiana’s not AUDRA any more. She’s glaring at me, Marla, now.
I glare back, partly because I’m envious of how fabulous she looks. Her blond hair has been flat-ironed to straight perfection, her lips are red and shiny. She’s wearing low, tight jeans and a cropped satin blouse exposing several inches of flawlessly toned abdomen. I, on the other hand, deeply regret the extra pounds on my short frame. Add no makeup, hair in a plain ponytail, and a muslin apron that turns me into a poorly rolled sausage.
“How are you doing it,” Tatiana demands. “Who’s your publicist?” Her green cat eyes narrow. “How did you get that article about you in Stariety? Why didn’t they mention me? Did you pay them not to?”
“Careful, Tatti, you’ll get crow’s feet from all that squinting,” I retort. “I don’t have a publicist. Yet. Thanks for the suggestion. Very kind of you to offer career advice. Maybe you should consider changing your publicist if you’re so worried.”
“You know nothing about this business. Or you wouldn’t have let them call you a plump elephant. And you’re far too old and ordinary to start learning.” She looks around, I’m sure to see
who else is listening. “Everyone knows you didn’t earn your part. Just beginner’s luck because Anni got injured. Scott was desperate.”
“Is that why he hangs out with you?”
Nice. Where am I coming up with these zingers?
Tatiana stiffens and emits a loud hiss. “Why you chubby little—”
“Ladies, we’re moving on. Save your hostilities for the bedroom discovery scene,” Scott says with an enigmatic smile.
“Marla, we need to talk.” A few hours later, Scott is standing on the steps of my trailer.
Saliva evaporates from my mouth. I’ve never heard this tone from him, so devoid of energy.
Is Scott annoyed because Tatiana and I argued? Does he think I’m not fat enough or sexy enough? Probably because I stopped imagining him as my lover, afraid everyone on set would read the embarrassing truth of my crush in my eyes. What else could he be so serious about? Our hot and heavy moment in his trailer?
At least I’m finally adept enough not to blurt my every thought.
He closes the flimsy door and sits next to me on the small, mauve couch. Our knees almost touch, we’re so close. But he doesn’t look at me.
We’re on lunch break after shooting the bed discovery scene. STACEY comes upstairs unexpectedly to find, you guessed it, AUDRA and ALAN in bed. The twist is that STACEY had been surfing on the computer downstairs in the den when the two entered her house and started doing the deed. Eeewww.