by Ruth Kaufman
Even Tatiana’s nasal presence and not-so-subtle digs about how she should’ve been in Stariety can’t detract from my joy. Only one thing does: Scott himself. His eyes couldn’t be icier if they were the Night King’s on Game of Thrones. He’s a step up from morose and hardly talks to anyone. Maybe it’s concern about how the movie will be received. I thought by now he’d have learned to put on his public persona even when life intrusions bothered his private one. I’ve already learned that lesson, even if I’m very nervous inside.
Somehow, I’m assigned a seat next to Scott. An exciting and stress-inducing honor.
As the movie gets underway, it’s so tempting to look around and see what Scott and others are thinking, but I keep my gaze forward. I do look unpleasingly plump, but think I held my own against the other actors and that final product turned out great. Hope reviewers agree.
Applause and cheers resound through the theatre as the film ends. I hold my breath…wait for it. There it is. Marla Goldberg. Seeing my name on the big screen…just wow. And doing so beside Scott…wower?
“Leave with me,” Scott whispers in my ear as the rest of the credits roll. He stands and waves to the crowd. “Straight away.”
Though we haven’t spoken in weeks and I fear my lingering feelings for him can only lead to more grief, I hurry up the aisle after him, aglow in the radiance of my first movie premiere. I hope you don’t think I should’ve said no.
People applaud us. Call our names. This is another time when being recognized is fun. Faces whirl past as I acknowledge a friend or fan. But most of my attention is on weaving around those milling in the aisle and keeping sight of Scott’s back without tripping over my gown.
Scott paves our way through the swarming, high-ceilinged lobby. Flashes spark everywhere, microphones and tiny recorders appear out of nowhere. Suddenly we’re in a tight circle of clamoring reporters and photographers. Someone steps on my Stuart Weitzman studded heel, borrowed from Linda, who will be furious if every crystal doesn’t return to her. I keep smiling, though my lips are about to freeze in place from the smiling I’ve already done.
“Scott, did the audience enjoy mztras muchz tht?” a trench-coated reporter bellows.
“Marla, (unintelligible) so convincingly? Is it because of your divorce?”
“Smr riffle argle award buzz?”
The questions come in such a jumble my head pounds. I’m dizzy and my hands are clammy. Thank goodness Scott is with me to handle the onslaught. Dealing with the media in person is more nerve-racking than movies and TV shows make it seem.
“We appreciate your enthusiasm, but we cannot stay.” Scott’s hand finds my back and steers me through the throng. “To schedule an interview, talk to my assistant, Sheila,” he offers, sounding far more gracious than I bet he feels. “Wherever the hell she is,” he adds, low enough that only I can hear.
So immersed was I in the thrill of my first movie premiere, in seeing Scott again, I hadn’t missed the ever-efficient, ever-present Sheila.
Outside lurks another throng.
“Scott!”
“Marla! Can I have your autograph?”
“CAN I…”
“CAN I…”
“CAN I…”
“Over here!”
“Here!”
“Here!”
Repeated demands reverberate like echoes through a canyon.
Scott’s grip on my hand tightens. I keep smiling, though I’m as scared as Dakota Fanning in War of the Worlds when that mob of displaced citizens wants Tom Cruise’s stolen truck. Or like Scarlett when she’s driving her buggy through Shanty Town and those nasty men grab her reins. Scott is my Rhett, he’ll save me.
We squeeze our way through and make it inside the Hummer limousine without slamming the door on one of the women trying to get ahold of Scott. Immediately a sea of grasping hands and yelling, gaping mouths surrounds the limo. If it didn’t have such thick windows, the parasites would be upon us. Like walkers in The Walking Dead. Nipping, gnawing, grasping whatever they could of our essences as if we can make their lives better.
Maybe we can, or the placebo effect of us can. I remember the excitement that infused me before and after I first met Scott. That internal delight returned with renewed vigor tonight. Am I any different from the cicadas crawling and buzzing outside? Don’t I want him, too? The difference is I want to give to him in return.
“Where the hell is security?” Scott grumbles. He’s sitting as far from me as he possibly can without leaning against the door.
My breathing slows as I point to three uniformed guards on the far side of the crowd, shoving their way toward us. “Over there.”
I don’t ask where we’re going, though I hope our destination is the premiere party. Showing up there with Scott would feel terrific. He offers no information, though I get the sense he’s already sorry he asked me to join him. The silence is not comfortable.
“Sir, I think we’re being followed,” the driver says once we’re under way.
Scott and I turn in unison to look out the rear window. Several cars are behind us, but how can you tell a follower from a regular driver?
A telephoto camera lens appears out of the first car’s passenger window.
That’s how.
“Turn at the next corner,” Scott says. The only indication of how this affects him is that he folds his arms across his chest.
The limo turns. Three cars follow, one barely making the yellow light.
“Do whatever you have to do to shake them, Harry.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Harry hits the gas so hard Scott and I pitch back, bouncing off the cushions. I put on my seat belt and cling to the door strap as we weave in and out of traffic. Scott braces his arms on the seat. Several cars honk.
“Scott?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve been crash free for years.” His tone doesn’t reassure me.
Buildings zip by. The brakes screech as Harry narrowly misses a truck. Scott and I jerk against our seatbelts.
I close my eyes, but that only heightens my fear and makes me nauseous. “This reminds me of The Blues Brothers.”
“Filmed here in 1980. No longer holds the record for most cars crashed in a movie, though,” he replies.
“Hope we don’t end up like they did.” My voice shakes like the rest of me.
The limo swerves sharply. My head swings so hard I fear I’ll get whiplash. The front bumper nicks a garbage can, which tumbles across the sidewalk but doesn’t open.
“Sorry. They’re gaining on us!”
“If only California’s stalkerazzi law applied here,” Scott says.
After several more harrowing twists and turns, which turn me into a queasy pinball, Harry shakes them. We backtrack to Scott’s hotel, The Ritz-Carlton.
Harry gets out. He surveys the covered driveway behind Water Tower Place, a high-rise shopping mall with condos above, checking to see if anyone is still on our tail. Finally, he opens my door.
Scott and I glide through a revolving door and ride the elevator to the hotel lobby on twelve.
A man holding a newspaper watches us pass the couch he’s sitting on. Does he recognize Scott? Me? I swallow hard. I get the eerie sense all eyes are on us, but that can’t be true. Can it?
If life as a star means never walking into a public place again without feeling self-conscious, I don’t want any part of it.
“How do you do this?” I ask softly as we head toward the elevator to the rooms.
“What?” Scott says as if he’s just returned from miles away.
“The fans, the media…always wanting to know more. Staring at you. Hounding you. Chasing you. Speculating.”
“Ah. Annoying and even frightening as they are at times like tonight, I couldn’t do my job without them. They’re part of my life equation.” He glances at me, and must see my consternation, because as he pushes the up button, he adds, “Followers on social media plus press coverage equals fame. I’ve been pressured to cast YouT
ube influencers whether they can act or not. More fame equals more tickets sold. More tickets equal more fabulous scripts and more financing coming my way. Which allow me to pick and choose my films. On the other hand—”
He clams up.
I say, “My equation is more like: Marla on Stariety plus Marla on national TV equals too many amazing opportunities for Marla to deal with at once. I’m grateful, but I’m also the new baby panda at the zoo everyone crowds around to see.” The limo’s twists and turns linger in my equilibrium, the way passengers who just disembarked a ship still feel the ocean’s movement. “At least my radio station sales job taught me how to act as though I’m in a good mood all the time. I thought I’d enjoy the attention and people wanting to know about me, but the spotlight is exhausting.”
I’m scrutinized like a gnarly amoeba under a microscope. I used to think being in the public eye would make me feel better about myself. More worthy, more special. I’d be so flattered that others found me interesting enough to photograph and write or comment about. But often it creeps me out, the way Frank’s pursuit does. I don’t say any of this. Scott doesn’t need to know about my insecurities.
“At first I felt like a tightrope walker,” Scott admits as we get into the elevator. “One misstep, and the landing would be so damaging you’d never be able to perform again. Wait ’til your hard work is rewarded with, ‘This film wasn’t as good as her last.’ The pain remains part of you longer than it should.
“They aren’t happy until they uncover every flaw. Every secret.” Which only heightens my self-consciousness, and keeps me on edge about what they’ll think about every word and gesture, and every piece of clothing I wear.
I’d like to believe reporters’ and critics’ opinions don’t matter, but of course they do.
“You can recover from setbacks. Or you can leave the public eye. As soon as you do, it shall greedily focus on the next victim. Like Sauron’s eye in Return of the King.” He opens the door to his suite.
My heart sounds louder than the snap of the clapboard scene marker before each take. Scott Sampson has led me to his hotel room.
He stops short in the narrow marble entryway, and I bump into him.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
For an instant I fear he’s woken up from some sort of spell and is talking to me. But another woman answers.
“I thought you’d want to see the first reviews and stories about the premiere. So I came here to monitor the ’net and set up some RSS feeds for you.”
I swallow a burning acid surge of jealousy. I don’t need to peek around Scott to know who’s ensconced in his room. It’s his assistant Sheila, with an excuse that sounds plausible. Why doesn’t he sound happy about her being here? Oh. Because he doesn’t want her to know I’m here.
Scott steps into the suite and tugs at his bowtie.
“Hello, Sheila,” I say.
Her yellow eyebrows shoot up so fast I’m surprised they don’t fly off her forehead. “Marla.”
Actress that I am, my eyebrows stay where they belong when I see what she’s wearing: a slinky black dress, or maybe a nightgown, cut so low half of her breasts are revealed.
“Thanks. I can take things from here.” Scott doesn’t meet her gaze.
“Very well.” Sheila gathers up her satin purse, pashmina and laptop clearly more slowly than necessary. Perhaps I only imagine that she glares at me.
Scott heads toward the sizeable bar and doesn’t seem to notice her display.
A more seasoned starlet would know what to do. Should I recline on one of the many pieces of furniture? Help Scott with the drinks? Make the first move and kiss the back of his neck or put my arms around him? That’d set Sheila off, for sure. I slip off my raincoat and drape it over the couch’s arm.
Sheila leaves without further ado. Scott and I are alone, at last. The only sounds are clinking ice cubes and the susurration of traffic below. I’m as unnerved and excited as when I first caught sight of him while flat on my back in my zucchini costume last August.
But I won’t let myself fall that hard again. No pun intended. Trying to get over him was too difficult. I’ll simply enjoy our time together, as I would with any friend I haven’t seen in a while. Though of course Scott is my only hotter-than-hot-famous-director-who-I-still-desire friend. No. It’s more than attraction and desire. The glimpses I’ve savored of the caring man within the gorgeous exterior make me fear I could really care about this guy. I think the Scott who took care of me when I choked at the restaurant, who stayed with me all night, is too often squelched by the Scott who’s afraid of being hurt or betrayed.
“How are you?” He hands me a drink, then sits on a plump loveseat.
I move to the other end and taste mostly vodka and a splash of tonic. “Great, thanks. And you?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
We’ve plummeted from steamy kisses or at least interesting conversation to banal greetings. This is sad.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Why did you come?”
“Why did you ask?”
“What did you think of the final cut?” he counters.
A safer topic, but one we could have discussed in public. At the party.
“I loved the movie,” I say. “Seeing it come together…there’s nothing like it. You and the editor did an amazing job of showing the viewpoints and emotions of the different characters. It surprised me how quickly I got over the breathtaking joy of seeing myself talking on the screen and got into the story.”
“What did you think of your performance?”
Instantly I go on the defensive. “Is that why you brought me here, to deconstruct my acting?”
“I want you to be comfortable with what your portrayal reveals about you.” He holds his drink in both hands, looks at it, then at me. “What the media is already picking up on.”
“That question about my divorce?” I hadn’t quite caught the first part of the reporter’s question, but the second had jolted me. Reporters unearths the past, seeking maggots that eat away at success.
“Yes,” he says. I read concern in his gaze, nothing more. “Marla, your character came across as so vulnerable, her pain so openly exposed, the media could have a field day excavating your personal life and wondering how you were able to dig so deep.”
I’d so hoped Scott had reasons to be alone with me other than wanting to offer advice on how to handle the press. Once a fool, always a fool? Stop wanting more than you get. My throat tightens.
“Just don’t let them catch you unawares,” he continues. “Anticipate their questions and prepare answers in advance, so you reveal only as much about yourself as you choose. Keeping reporters and bloggers on your side is essential. You don’t want to seem like you’re avoiding them or hiding something. You’ve got to give at least a bit of what they want so they don’t turn on you.”
Is this conversation about me, or is he reliving his own experiences?
“How do you keep them from finding out whatever they want to know these days? The internet, cell phone cameras, that Smoking Gun site….”
“It’s difficult, yes, but not impossible.”
“And you know this because you managed to keep something out of the tabloids and away from the public…like whatever happened on November 9?” Since I’m not going to get any romance, I might as well try to find out what I want to know.
He swallows the last of his drink and gets up to mix another. “Yes. Like that. No matter how that…incident was reported, I would’ve looked bad. Americans are supposed to believe a man is innocent until proven guilty, aren’t they? But we know that isn’t always the case. Sam paid off the only witness.”
“Blackmail.” Suddenly my drink tastes bitter.
“At the time, a signed settlement agreement seemed my only option. Now you see why I didn’t want you, or anyone, to know.” He turns to me with an accusatory glare. “You automatically assumed the worst of me. And if you jump to conc
lusions—you, who’ve worked with me, spent time with me—imagine what the media will do in its quest to sell more copies, claim more viewers, followers and shares. To claim the latest scoop. Even if all accusations are eventually proven false, the taint from the charges and rumors persists.”
I flush, either from remorse or vodka. “I’m sorry, Scott. You’re right. Tell me the whole story so I’ll understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” He returns to the other end of the loveseat.
“Yes, it does. I think that ‘incident’ changed you. Maybe whatever happened helped you access your darker side and made your work more introspective.” Perhaps I’m overstepping my bounds, but I’m on a roll. “I get the feeling that anxiety over the story coming out keeps you laying low. You hold back. I can’t remember the last time I read one of those juicy stories about you and your women in Stariety.”
That earns a smile. My insides fizz with joy.
I wish he’d sit next to me. I wish he’d kiss me and we could make love, even once.
Wait a minute.
With DT, once wasn’t worth my time and energy. Yet with Scott, once would fulfill my dream, because I’ve been missing him for so long. How could I expect more from such a famous, desirable, changeable man?
I’m not falling for Scott. I just want him for one night. Two completely different things.
“Your observations are frightening. As is the fact that you read Stariety. I don’t want to know what that rag, or any of its ilk, has to say about me.”
It’s not a rag, it’s a popular magazine about celebrities.
“Scott, why did you bring me here? I’ve been thinking, maybe too much, about our time together during Mistress. One minute you were all over me, the next it was as if we’d never shared any intimacies. As if we’d never kissed or almost made love. We’re apart for weeks without communicating, then suddenly we’re alone in your hotel room. Why?”
He draws in a breath, but I can tell from his expression he’s planning to wrangle his way out of an explanation.
“I deserve the truth. No easy-way-out excuses, changing the subject or vague blah blah blah. And don’t you dare say, ‘Don’t press me.’”