He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  When Viv gets to the door of the penthouse, she knocks harder than she usually would, still trying to control her irritation about gross male fans and an assistant she doesn’t even want.

  When the man who opens the door sees her, he beams and claps his beringed hands together. “Viv, daaaarling!” He leans down from his lanky height of well over six feet and air kisses both her cheeks. “Let me look at you!” He steps back, one hand on his hip, his eyes gliding up and down her body. “Honestly, doll. What do you need us for? Marilyn Monroe perfection on every inch!”

  Viv beams, Stef and the unpleasant Instagram comments relegated to the back of her mind. The compliment warms her from the inside out. She can’t wait for today. This is where she excels, being the perfect canvas for the stylists, who make her beauty glitter and shine.

  “Stop it, Marcel,” she says airily and slaps him on the arm as she walks into the penthouse’s living room. Looking around, her smile widens. Viv has never been in the penthouse before, but she already loves this room, with the huge blue velvet sofa as its centerpiece, famous from many edgy and beautiful photo shoots, and the generous terrace with the view over LA’s hazy glory.

  “Come through to the bedroom, baby doll.” Marcel bustles past her and throws the double doors to the next room wide.

  “I had no idea you’d come yourself,” Viv says, entering the bedroom and making for the bed where the Dior dress for her photo shoot—yellow silk with Far Eastern flower motifs—is laid out.

  “Darling, would I let anyone else touch your hair on such an important day?” Marcel sounds offended. He stands with his hand on his hip again, studying her. Viv blooms under his gaze. “Darling, you’ll be famous!” When Viv frowns, he amends with a nervous giggle, “More famous, I mean! Baby, before the earth circles the sun another time, you’ll have your first Oscar! Just make sure to remember poor old Marcel when choosing your stylist for the big night, all right?”

  Viv beams, the slip of the tongue if not forgiven, at least relegated to the back of her mind. But enough chitchat, they have work to do. She glances around the room. “Where do you want me?”

  “Here, babe.” Marcel pulls out the chair in front of the vanity table. The products have all been set up in front of the illuminated mirror. The Chateau’s penthouse, so popular for photo shoots, is very well equipped for them.

  Even though the shoot today is on the modest side, Marcel has brought an assistant. “This is Mimi,” he says as Viv sinks into the chair. “She’ll do the makeup while I do your hair.” Viv gives the girl a brief nod, relieved that Marcel is in charge of her waist-long tresses. The girl Mimi’s head is partly shaved, and what remains of her hair is dyed in rainbow colors. Viv doesn’t want her anywhere near her own.

  As the stylists begin to bustle around her, Viv closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She suppresses a shudder as Mimi sets to work. Having total strangers touch her face is not something she’ll ever get used to, even though Viv usually loves the end result of being in a makeup chair. She tries to concentrate instead on the photo shoot ahead. Victor agreed to pay for a double-page spread in US Weekly, the centerpiece of which will be her interview. The dress is a gift from Dior; she picked it out on Rodeo Drive herself a few days ago. Viv would’ve liked more than one outfit, but the offer Victor got from Dior was for only one dress and the loan of some very pricey matching jewelry. Viv didn’t dare ask Victor to pay for anything extra. He likes publicity, but he hates to shell out for it.

  While Marcel unties the scarf from around the loose bun at the nape of Viv’s neck he chats away. She likes working with Marcel because he’s such a gossip. Hollywood’s hairdressers and makeup people hear things nobody else does.

  “Is it true, darling,” Marcel says in a stage whisper, “that Damien Thomas will be in your new film?”

  Viv dregs her memory. Victor throws around so many names, she’s starting to muddle them all up in her head. The name seems to ring a bell. “I think he is, yeah. One of the knights. Should I know who he is?”

  That was the wrong thing to say. The hands that have been busy on her scalp drop away. Viv opens her eyes, and Mimi pokes her lid with a mascara brush.

  “Careful,” Viv snaps. Mimi flinches.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs. Viv ignores her and glances at Marcel in the mirror.

  “Who is Damien Thomas?” she asks.

  Marcel shakes his head in disappointment but resumes work on her hair. “Oh, just the hottest thing on TV right now,” he says. Viv closes her eyes again as he continues in a dreamy voice, “He’s gorgeous. Plays a peasant cum lost prince in that Viking drama. He’s been around forever, but nobody took any notice until he grew that hair out and started working on them guns.” He sighs dramatically. “Female fans follow him home in droves, up in the Canadian woods. Of course, there was a rumor a few years ago that he bats for our team. But nobody gave a fuck about him then, and now they can find the guy who kissed and told.”

  Viv doesn’t watch TV except for a couple of daytime soaps. She remembers Victor spend many evenings while writing the script watching dirty people wrestle it out on the big flat-screen TV suspended from their living room ceiling. She makes a mental note to look up Damien Thomas later. But she doesn’t want to appear completely ignorant. “Oh yeah, him. He is nice looking,” she says, then changes the subject. “You guys almost done?”

  “I am!” Mimi announces. Viv opens her eyes.

  “Oh no,” she whispers, staring at herself in the mirror, a face she barely recognizes staring back. She whips around; the comb Marcel just passes through her hair tugs painfully. Glaring at Mimi she shrieks, “Look what you’ve done, you stupid cow!”

  Mimi backs away, hitting the vanity table with her hip. Perfume bottles clink together, and a few fall onto the carpeted floor.

  “I…I’m sorry. What did I do wrong?” she stammers.

  Viv gives her a withering look, then turns all the way around until she can see Marcel. “Silver,” she wails. “Silver, what the hell? Marcel, you know! Never silver, never!”

  Marcel picks up the fallen comb. He gives Mimi a look of disgust, making a shooing gesture in her direction with both hands. “Go get coffee,” he snaps. The girl stands frozen for another second, tears in her eyes. Then she wheels around and runs from the room.

  Marcel turns to his kit bags that sit next to the vanity table and begins to rummage. “Don’t you worry, Viv,” he murmurs. “We’ll have that fixed before you can say Oscar favorite.”

  He descends on her with cotton pads and makeup remover. “Close your eyes, doll,” he says. Viv does as asked, and Marcel grumbles, “Finding decent assistants gets harder every year.”

  “Tell me about it,” Viv says, and is pleased when she hears Stef’s gasp from the corner of the room. Viv can’t be held accountable for her emotions. Mimi has put her in a terrible mood.

  Marcel is a true wizard, and it takes him a mere twenty minutes to replace the gaudy eye makeup with soft hues of pastel, matching the dress.

  But Viv is still cranky by the time Stef has helped her change into that dream of yellow silk and gauze. She yanks away from the girl’s fingers fumbling with the side buttons. “I’ll do those up myself,” she snarls. “Take some more pictures!”

  It’s not so easy today to slip into the persona of Miss Vivienne Aubert, glamorous and enchanting. Viv finds that hitching a beguiling smile onto her face for the shoot is a real struggle. She practices while Stef takes photos and Marcel tidies away his brushes.

  Finally, Orlando arrives. She—yes, she—is the photographer du jour, and a friend of Victor’s. Orlando has just won a bunch of awards for her art and fashion photography, and everyone wants to be before her lens. Viv doesn’t like her.

  Orlando is all smiles and gentle instructions, but she never seems very impressed by Viv’s appearance or the beautiful clothes she wears. Viv is used to photographers who understand how to build a rapport, who compliment and fawn over her until she feels like a queen. V
iv isn’t stupid; she doesn’t believe they all adore her. But even if it barely scratches the surface, their attention flatters and soothes her. Orlando is efficient and professional, but she doesn’t seem all that interested in Viv most of the time. Her eyes are trained on the camera, the background, or how Viv holds her arms; she never makes eye contact. But her results are hard to argue with. Viv doesn’t understand how, but the small, plump woman’s photographs of her are some of the best she has ever done. That’s why she didn’t protest too much when Victor hired his friend yet again.

  As Orlando and her male assistant move around her, adjusting lights, suggesting poses and giving instructions to Marcel and Stef about Viv’s hair and makeup, Viv observes the photographer with a strange feeling in her gut. Orlando is successful, and she takes shit from nobody. Maybe she’s having an affair with Victor.

  Viv has no illusions about Victor’s feelings for her. He lusts after her, he desires her, and he’s proud to have her on his arm. That’s all because of how she looks, and Viv doesn’t mind. She’s a pragmatist herself. She isn’t even very bothered by the thought that Victor might be looking to dip his wick elsewhere. But they have standards, and this dark, stocky woman is nowhere near her league, regardless of how good she is at her job.

  Or maybe Viv sees ghosts. Why would she even think that Victor isn’t faithful? In bed, he’s still as much in lust with her as ever. Viv forces her attention back to the present. She’s just having a bad day, that’s all.

  Orlando appraises the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead onto the terrace. “The light’s perfect,” she announces. “Let’s finish off outside.” Without consulting Viv or asking if that’s all right with her, she marches from the room.

  Put out, Viv trails her through the double doors onto the pièce de résistance—the penthouse’s terrace with its breathtaking view of Los Angeles. She wanted to come out here and be photographed, yes, but being ordered around like one of Orlando’s assistants galls. Her come-hither smile is even harder to conjure now.

  They spend fifteen minutes on the terrace, then Orlando lowers her camera. “Nicely done, Viv,” she says, nodding. “Thanks very much.” And that’s it. As the photographer and her assistant begin to pack away their equipment, Viv wanders back into the penthouse. Orlando no longer pays her any mind.

  Viv sinks into an armchair and waves her hand at Stef, who has been her shadow the entire time. “Give me my phone and run down to Starbucks. I want an iced latte.”

  Stef complies hurriedly. She knows iced latte means fat-free soy latte with sugar-free caramel syrup. At least Viv hopes that her assistant remembers.

  She scrolls through her photo roll and gives a great sigh. As expected, most of the pictures Stef took are blurry or poorly lit. She’s about to give up and wait until Stef comes back, to force her to take more until they get it right. But then she sees it, one perfect shot. She has scrolled past it already and doubles back.

  It’s a candid picture of her out on the terrace, looking over her shoulder while Orlando changes lenses. Her profile is a mere glimpse, most of her face hidden under silky waves of hair. What Viv knows to be a concealed scowl looks like a dreamy, innocent expression in the photo. The over the shoulder shots always make Viv’s Instagram followers go wild, especially when she shows her bare back like in this very low-cut dress. The hazy LA light makes her skin glow, and the makeup Marcel did such magic with gives her a translucent, elven-like look. It’s a perfect shot.

  She scrolls through the filters until she finds one that enhances the hazy effect. Before pressing Share she hashtags the post #usweekly #photoshootandinterview #soexcited #darkcore and adds a couple of hearts. Just when the first volley of likes flashes in the notification bar at the top of the phone, the penthouse door opens. In comes Stef, followed by a tall, skinny woman with black hair held in a severe bun.

  “Laila!” Viv exclaims with genuine pleasure. Laila Velasquez is her favorite celebrity journalist. She’s powerful and smart, and most importantly, she genuinely likes Viv and always makes her shine in interviews. US Weekly, Laila’s employer, is Victor’s preferred gossipy go-to publication to promote his work to his female audience.

  Laila comes over and kisses Viv on one cheek, then settles down opposite her on the velvety sofa. Viv raises an eyebrow. “I thought Phil was going to do the interview?” Viv doesn’t dislike Phil, another of US Weekly’s staff reporters. But Laila, who is more senior and writes up her interviews in an elegant, polished style, is even better. She makes her subjects sound sophisticated and likeable. Viv considers Laila almost a friend.

  “Phil was busy,” Laila says, rummaging in her bag and taking out a notebook and her phone, which she sets on the table, recording app switched on. “Right, shall we begin?”

  Viv is taken aback by the abruptness. Apparently, Laila has no time for small talk today. And why isn’t she meeting Viv’s eye? But Viv hasn’t got time to contemplate any of it. Stef hands her the latte she was sent to fetch, but Viv doesn’t want it any longer. She puts it on the table.

  Her unease, it seems, is unfounded. Laila now looks up, smiling. “How are you, Viv? This is all so exciting!” The reporter’s words sound genuine. “Congrats to you and Victor on getting Dark Core off the ground. It’s so ambitious. I bet you can’t wait to start filming?”

  “Absolutely!” Viv says with enthusiasm. She and Victor have practiced for this. She can answer any questions about the movie or her part in it that anyone could ask at this point. “Victor works around the clock; everything is nearly ready.”

  “How long before filming starts?” Laila asks.

  “Six weeks until principal photography commences,” Viv reels off. Victor has made her say it many, many times in practice at home.

  “You’re going to Las Vegas first, is that right?” Laila gives Viv all the right prompts that make her role easy as pie. Viv relaxes.

  “Nevada, yeah. We’ll film out in the desert. Death Valley, on a nature reserve.” Viv doesn’t relish that prospect, but Victor has promised her it won’t be uncomfortable. She hopes she sounds excited about the adventure when she continues, “We’ll have a whole tent city, and trailers with air-conditioning. But it’s all been designed to be extra environmentally friendly, and part of the box office proceeds will go to the nature conservation NGOs in the area.” Victor has told her it’s important that this gets printed in the interview. “And when we come back we’ll be at the studio for a few weeks, here in LA,” she concludes.

  “Tell us more about the movie.” Laila leans forward.

  “The story is amazing,” Viv says with a wide smile. “It all takes place in this galactic empire. They’re fighting a massive war.”

  Although she can put on a pretty decent pretense, it’s not her kind of story. She doesn’t understand the excitement. But Victor has promised her that it’ll be a huge hit. He makes her watch all these Sci-Fi movies, and she usually falls asleep halfway through, after three glasses or so of Merlot. But she isn’t an actress for nothing. She leans forward. “It’s like Star Wars and Dune, but bigger.” She waits until Laila’s eyes grow wide. Then she bursts into laughter. “Gotcha!”

  Victor told her to say this like it’s a joke. It isn’t a joke at all, he’d explained, but if she makes it sound like one, people will remember her words, without thinking she is full of herself.

  Laila smiles politely. Viv is unsure if it worked or not. She’ll have to remember to tell Victor that maybe his joke idea puts it on a little too thick.

  “And you play the Emperor’s wife?” Laila asks.

  “Oh yeah! It’s a great role!” Viv beams. She knows everything about her part and is genuinely excited. She takes a deep breath, reminds herself not to give away any plot points or crucial details, and begins. “Empress Cassilda is not just the wife, though. I have actual fight scenes! I’ve already started work with a martial arts teacher.”

  That she hates every minute in that smelly gym with the guy who looks like Bruce Lee is so
mething Viv keeps to herself. There are pictures on her Instagram feed that make her look like she was born to do Karate and Thai boxing.

  “And the love story is great, and really…complex.” She winks at Laila, who looks riveted now. What the complexities are Viv can’t reveal, of course. “Spoilers, sorry. You’ll have to wait for the movie. I can talk about the costumes, though…”

  And she’s off. She describes the fittings she’s already attended, the fabrics she’s discussed with the costume designers, how the robes for the cast go perfectly with the fantastic set designs.

  After a few minutes of this Viv becomes aware that while Laila still listens, she isn’t taking notes anymore. The reporter’s hands lie in her lap and have been for a while.

  Viv’s monologue slows down. Has she been prattling on? It happens sometimes, that she finds something so interesting that she doesn’t even notice other people switching off. She can’t say that she gets it, how another woman can be not absolutely in love with the idea of beautiful gowns and fabrics, but she has learned that not everyone think like her. She supposes that if a woman isn’t very pretty, or too fat, that it might upset her when Viv rhapsodizes over costumes or the clothes she loves to wear. But Laila is beautiful and slender like a willow. Yet she seems to want Viv to stop talking. Viv feels a frown crease her brow but catches herself and forces a smile. “Sorry.” She tries to mean it. “I do get carried away.”

  Laila waves her elegant hand. “That’s okay, hon,” she says. “It’s very interesting. And, of course, very exciting for you, too. Such a big role and working with Victor again.” She smiles a complicit smile. “It must be nice to see so much of each other. You two just had your first wedding anniversary, didn’t you?”

  Viv nods, finding it hard not to feel annoyance bubble up again. You know we did, she thinks. You were at the wedding! And you wrote the exclusive!