by Mel Gough
“I left a message, about his painting. The big one in the bedroom,” Brad lies. He doesn’t want Maria to know they spoke that day. Better not give her the impression that there’s still an open line of communication between them.
“He’s not gotten back to you?” she asks.
“Just texted to say someone will pick it up.” Brad very much wants to finish this conversation now. He regrets that he agreed to this lunch. His head aches, and he misses the quiet solitude of the last few weeks.
Maria lets go of his hand and leans back. “I just don’t see why this has to be the end. I know Aiden isn’t easy to be around sometimes, but…”
Brad shakes his head. “It’s been coming for a long time,” he says, and doesn’t let her interrupt him. “Please, Maria, can we leave it at for now? I can’t deal, not yet…” His voice breaks. Her eyes soften. In all likelihood, she can see the tears he tries not to shed.
“Oh honey,” she says. “Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll leave it alone. Let’s eat, okay?” She motions to the waiter again, before Brad can protest and tell her that he’s not hungry. He automatically orders unagi and hosomaki rolls, his favorites. But when the food comes Brad pushes the sushi pieces around the narrow plate, finding chewing and swallowing almost impossible. A second beer soon sloshes around his half-empty stomach, making him feel queasy.
Maria does her best to keep a conversation going, and catches Brad up on her life since they last saw each other. He’s grateful for the distraction, but finds it hard to make all the right noises.
She keeps talking, accepting his brooding silence as only Maria can. The familiar rhythm of her voice is soothing, and by the end of the meal Brad feels a little better.
They don’t linger in the restaurant like they usually would. Maria takes care of the check. “Your turn next time,” she says.
“You want me to come home with you?” she asks when they step out of the restaurant.
Brad shakes his head, softening the blow by rubbing her shoulder. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
He kisses her cheek, but today that’s not enough for her. She pulls him close, and her soft breasts squish into his chest. Holding on tightly she murmurs, “You’ll be all right.” Then she lets him go, and with a wave and an encouraging smile she turns away, and is soon swallowed up by the shoppers thronging the street.
Brad sets off toward home. He feels like shit for holding out on Maria. She’s the one person he should be able to tell everything that happened with Aiden. She would be on his side regardless, there’s no question about it. But he’s kept all of it in for so long, it’s second nature now.
It’s his fault that Aiden left, however Maria tries to explain it away. Brad has watched Aiden’s mental health erode for years, and it wasn’t hard, in this worst and final fight, to push his lover way beyond what he could endure. Brad said all the things he knew would hurt Aiden the most.
He’s a coward. He had tried to break up with Aiden before, but could never just tell him it was over. So instead, he hurt his feelings beyond repair and blamed him for everything that had gone wrong.
Brad failed Aiden, and he’ll have to live with it.
4
Victor has a headache. The air-conditioning keeps the sleek, stylishly bare office at a steady sixty-eight degrees, but the floor-to-ceiling windows in this meeting room aren’t tinted. The midday sun bakes their side of the Downtown office block. It’s early April, and LA suffers from the earliest heat wave Victor can ever remember. Patricia, the casting director, has ordered her assistant to shut the blinds, but the taupe-colored vertical strips are ornamental at best.
They’ve been in here since eight a.m. without a break, and Victor is convinced he’ll leave the room half-blind.
Of course, if Patricia had listened to him and auditioned Damien Thomas first, before wasting half a day on unemployed—and, frankly, untalented—actors, they could’ve spared themselves the whole circus. Hell, if this was Victor’s show, Patricia would find herself unemployed. Victor has known for months who he wants for the part of Reymund. If only he had the money to float this whole film enterprise himself, he wouldn’t have to contend with Patricia and her ilk at all. That day gets closer with every blockbuster he releases to the unwashed masses, but for the moment he still needs to keep his financial backer happy. And Harlan insisted they go through this casting call crap for every role except Viv’s, despite Victor’s most sincere assurances that they’re a waste of money and time.
“Your favorite is gonna be on the list every time,” Harlan said when they had discussed the financing agreement’s small print. “But let Patricia make up the numbers. She’ll bring in some real talent, she knows everyone in the biz.” After sitting through that morning’s auditions, Victor doubts that.
But he puts up with her, for the sake of his big dream. Once Dark Core becomes a box office hit, V-Ink Inc. will take off, and after another hit or two he’ll have the money to finance his ventures by himself. Right now, his production business is nothing more than a P.O. Box on La Cienega—hence the need to hold the casting in this rented meeting room Downtown—but soon his name will be spoken in the same breath as Harlan Chow and George Lucas.
And the fact that Harlan still holds the purse strings won’t stop Victor getting who he wants for the role of Reymund.
A knock on the door interrupts Victor’s maudlin thoughts. In strides Damien Thomas, the knight in shining armor himself. He doesn’t look all that knightly today, in faded jeans and a worn T-shirt, but Victor’s creative vision lets him look past all that. Thomas’s broad shoulders help him imagine his star in the body armor and military-style uniform for Dark Core.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” he says and gets up to greet the new arrival, a first today. “I’m Victor Cahn, the director.” He extends his hand.
Thomas smiles. “Hi Victor, nice to meet you. I’m Damien.” His hand in Victor’s is warm and dry; the short, broad fingers hold his firmly. “Thanks for considering me for the role.”
Victor nods in a fatherly manner, which is ridiculous since they’re almost the same age. He read on Thomas’s IMDb profile that the actor’s thirty-sixth birthday is just past. He can’t believe it. As the fearless, charismatic warrior Bard on Gaukur, Thomas displays a gravitas well beyond his years. That—in contrast to his handsome boyish face, those piercing gray eyes, and the raven-black curls—is what has made Victor so desperate to get Thomas onto his project.
He gives the man a wide smile, then nods at Patricia, indicating that she can take the lead from here. Patricia glares at him, but Victor doesn’t care. This is his movie, and that makes him the pinnacle of the pecking order.
Victor sits back down as Patricia leans across the table to offer her hand to Thomas as well. “Patricia McNott, casting director,” she says, and adds after a brief pause, “Nice to meet you.” It doesn’t sound sincere. She points toward the far corner. “And this is Gus, our tech guru. He’ll record your performance today.”
Thomas shakes her hand, then goes over to Gus and shakes his hand, too. Victor raises an eyebrow at the unnecessary gesture. If Thomas thinks they’ll be impressed with him for acknowledging the geek, then he’s mistaken. Gus looks taken aback, his pimply face in awe to be noticed by an actual celebrity.
Ah, well. Victor’s used to his talents’ peculiarities. These actor types seem to think they’re gods’ gift to the human race, just for having a pretty face and an acceptable screen presence. But Thomas is the biggest name interested in the role, and Victor will grin and bear a lot if he gets him on board. Naturally, Thomas doesn’t know that, and for the sake of the pay negotiations Victor will keep his eagerness to himself.
“Have a seat, Damien.” Patricia indicates the chair opposite her side of the table. “And the script is right there. Page five.”
Thomas picks up the paper and squints at it. Then he glances up, and Victor notices his eyes are teary. Victor raises and enquiring eyebrow, and Thomas grimaces. “When I left t
he set in Winnipeg yesterday it was snowing. Bright today, huh?”
Victor silently agrees. His headache has just wandered from the left over into the right temple. But out loud he says, “Pretty realistic, though. Gets us in the mood for the desert location.”
Thomas bites his lip and wipes his eyes, which are now an angry red. “True enough.”
A pair of sunglasses is tucked into the neck of Thomas’s gray shirt. Victor almost suggests the actor should put them on. But there won’t be sunglasses to go with the Dark Core costumes, so if bright light is an issue for Thomas they should address it before they start shooting in the desert. “I’ll get used to it,” Thomas says firmly, and Victor decides to drop it for the moment.
“Start with line seven, please,” Patricia says to Thomas. “I’ll read the Empress.”
As the two of them read the dialogue written for today’s casting exercise, Victor ignores the words, which he knows by heart. Instead, he watches Thomas’s body language. The actor’s legs are open, and he leans back in the chair. He’s not exactly sprawling, but it’s clear he’s comfortable. And he seems to have forgotten about the glare bothering him. This is his show now. He knows what he can do. The earlier candidates, much less seasoned, were nervous. Thomas, on the other hand, is focused but at ease.
Victor wants this man as Reymund, the Emperor’s most important knight, but as he watches Thomas perform, his gut instinct balks at something nevertheless. He doesn’t like the guy much. Thomas shows too much confidence in his own skill, and it’s already getting Victor’s hackles up.
That’s easy enough to explain One of the big turning points in Dark Core is Reymund’s affair with the Empress. And since Viv is playing the Empress, Victor’s visceral dislike of the man she’ll cheat with makes sense, even though he wrote that into the script himself.
As Thomas and Patricia move through the lines, however, Victor forgets his jealousy and his wife. Thomas is a natural. He isn’t just good. He reads the lines as if the role of Reymund had been written specifically for him, exactly as Victor pictured it. While writing the character, Victor watched the first two seasons of Gaukur, the TV show that’s been Thomas’s breakthrough, on repeat.
Victor hates Reymund. He wrote him that way on purpose. The guy is too strong, too perfect, too righteous. But he has an Achilles’ heel. He falls in love with the beautiful Empress, seduces her, and then plans to lead the rebellion with her by his side. And that’s the moment Victor likes best in the screenplay: The rebels are betrayed, and the Emperor himself kills Reymund. Impaled on the anachronistic longsword the regent likes to carry, it’s a fitting death for a traitor. The Reymund sub-plot could carry a whole movie, in Victor’s not-so-modest opinion of his own writing.
And Thomas, with his suave, irritating confidence, will deliver, there’s no doubt about that. Not once does he stumble over the stilted, faux-medieval dialogue. He sounds like a knight, with his dark, smooth voice. And he looks the role, to boot. His wavy hair will fall perfectly over the collar of the sumptuous, archaic costume, and his broad chest and narrow waist will make him look great in both chain mail and waistcoat. Even the fact that, at five foot seven, Thomas is on the short side no longer worries Victor. The guy has presence. And women love him, too. With his high cheekbones he looks like royalty, and even Victor, who is as straight as they come, can appreciate the objective physical appeal.
“Milady,” Thomas says in a carrying timbre as he reaches the end of the short script. “So long as I live, I shall forever be your servant.” He dips his head at Patricia in the imitation of a bow, giving the end of the scene its proper due. Then he turns and smiles at Victor. “Can I just say,” he adds in his usual voice, “regardless of whether I get the role, this is one hell of a script!”
Victor smiles and gets up. “Why, thank you,” he says, pleased by the praise. He extends his hand again. “Thank you for stopping by. We’ll be in touch soon.”
He should’ve let Patricia dismiss Thomas, but he likes messing with her. Without looking around, he knows she’s shooting daggers at him.
Thomas gets up and takes Victor’s hand, then nods at Patricia and Gus. “Thanks very much for having me.” He sounds sincere but not cowed. No further pleasantries are offered or any words of flattery. Thomas knows he can let his talent speak for itself. He gives a wave in Victor’s direction and leaves the room, unhurried. Victor frowns, but then shrugs. So what if Thomas is confident? He’s got the talent to match. Victor tries his best to be generous in spirit.
As the door closes behind Thomas, Patricia turns to Victor. “Well,” she says sourly, the lines around her mouth very pronounced as she presses her lips into a thin line before conceding, “you got your wish, as I’m sure you know. That’s our Reymund, right there.”
5
Viv loves the Chateau Marmont. When she first came to LA she’d been excited every time she was invited to a party there. But it didn’t take her long to cotton on. Being in love with the Chateau isn’t something you admit to if you want to be part of the ‘in’ crowd and continue to feature on the guest lists. These days, she doesn’t mention her fascination with the hotel tower that looks like it came straight from a fairy tale, with those tiny little Juliet balconies and the feeling of enchantment that overcomes her every time she steps into the lobby with its arched windows and exposed beams. She has lived in Paris, of course, and is familiar with the palaces of Europe. But the Chateau is where her own magic happens. It’s where she slept with her first movie producer, and where Victor proposed to her. So, for Viv, it’s the most romantic place in Hollywood.
Today, she won’t attend a party. She’s at the Chateau to give the first interview about Dark Core. An interview is even better than a party, of course. Viv won’t just be seen by people that matter, she’ll be asked about herself and have a professional photo shoot. There’s only one dark cloud on her horizon. At first, Victor agreed to come along for the interview, maybe even be in a few photos, too. But he hates the lens on himself, and having to sit still for hair and makeup irritates him, so he bowed out. A few shots of them as the hottest power couple in Hollywood would’ve been nice, but it wasn’t to be. Viv tries not to be too disappointed.
So it’s just her and Stefanie, the inept assistant Victor insisted on hiring for her a few weeks back. Viv usually ignores Stef. She’s pretty enough, with her almond-shaped eyes, black hair, and perfect, milky skin. But she wears the most boring, off-brand clothes Viv has seen in a long time, and she looks like she’s just out of high school. Viv has never asked her age or where she’s from. Victor hired her as an ‘anniversary gift.’ Viv had no choice but to accept Stef after that pronouncement, but she doesn’t have to like her.
Stef’s got some uses, though. When they step into the hotel lobby, Viv makes a shooing motion toward the concierge. “Go check if they’re ready for us,” she says, exasperated that she has to prompt the girl to do her job. While Stef hurries off to do as she’s told, Viv wanders around the entrance hall, trying to look haughty and bored as she scans her surroundings to see if anyone noticed her arrival. But it’s early in the afternoon, and apart from a few oblivious tourists there’s nobody here.
The air-conditioning is put on high, and Viv can feel its light, cool breeze against her heated skin. It’s a gorgeous, early-summer day outside, but now Viv is glad for the cardigan she brought along in her faux-Croc Louis Vuitton tote. She shakes it out and puts it over her shoulders. Together with her dark Armani sunglasses and the scarf she uses as a hairband today, she feels very Audrey Hepburn. Even more’s the pity that there’s nobody here to appreciate it.
Stef scuttles back to her side. She looks relieved, even gives Viv a trembling smile. “They’re setting up in the penthouse. We can go up right away.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Viv snaps and stalks toward the elevator. She doesn’t even know why she’s like this with the hapless girl. There’s just something about her assistant that sets Viv’s teeth on edge. As they wa
it for the elevator—which Stef calls at last after another icy glance—Viv contemplates sending her away. But as the elevator doors ping open she decides against it. Victor pays that girl good money for being a useless twit; the least she can do is be present. Maybe something will need fetching later.
They ride in silence. Viv throws Stef a glance from behind her dark sunglasses. The girl’s face is turned away, as if she’s sulking. Viv purses her lips. This is why she hates having staff. She doesn’t care to be judged by people that work for her. Who is Stef to have an opinion of her, anyway? If she wants to make it in Hollywood, she’ll have to learn how to behave toward her betters.
Time to find the girl something to do. The elevator shudders to a stop on the top floor, and Viv pulls out her phone. “Here, you can take pictures. I want some of everything we do today.” Stef isn’t all that great with the iPhone camera, but it’s better than nothing. Viv will be too busy to do it herself. As they start down the corridor, Viv adds, “And check the last dozen posts or so. Delete the shitty comments.” She walks down the corridor, and her Miu Miu strappy sandals click on the checked black-and-white tiles. “I want there to be no mention of ‘pussy’ or illiterate comments like ‘C u Next Tuesday’ when you’re done. And block those idiots who harp on and on about that fur coat photo shoot. Idiots,” she adds under her breath. Thinking about the gross comments on her Instagram puts her in a bad mood. She’s no prude, but some of the stuff her horny, pathetic followers write on her posts ruins the glamor she tries to project.
There’s always a risk that Stef will root around the phone, but that doesn’t faze Viv. She hasn’t hooked up her emails to the iPhone; she likes to let people wait a little before she sits down at her MacBook to respond. Her texts are all business. Victor isn’t into sexting, even if Viv sometimes wonders if it mightn’t spice things up a bit. The only not strictly work-related things on the phone are her Instagram and half a dozen apps for celebrity magazines. And Stef has a copy of her address book anyway and is bound by a nondisclosure clause in her contract to never give out any of those numbers.