“We’re here, Mr. Morrison,” the limo driver said.
Ben glanced to his right at the seemingly endless stretch of red carpet and took a deep breath, his heart pounding. He opened the door and swung his long legs out. The minute his face came into view, he was nearly blinded by the popping of flashes. Reporters scurried to meet him, microphones in hand, and the paparazzo’s cries of “Ben, this way,” “Ben, over here,” were undercut by the screaming of the crowd. Ben made his way slowly down the carpet, savoring the moment, stopping here and there to give a quick interview and flash a grin into the cameras. Fans held out their arms over the barricade, and he took a few minutes to shake hands and sign autographs before finally entering into the cool darkness of the theater lobby.
The lobby was filled with actors, directors and producers, all decked out in designer dresses and sharp suits, huddled in small groups of two or three, most with a glass of wine or cocktail in hand. Expensive perfume mingled with the smell of buttery popcorn. Ben glanced over at the old-fashioned concessions counter where the corn was popping away, and Milk Duds rested temptingly under the glass. He’d learned that at premieres, it just wasn’t cool to order candy or popcorn, but he always secretly longed to. Movies just weren’t the same without them.
“Ben!” Mike Carson bore down on him, his gray Armani suit spotless and crisp, a hip turquoise vintage shirt peeking out from underneath his jacket. “Congratulations—you’re a shoo in for an Oscar nomination. Can’t wait to see the film.”
“Thanks,” Ben said, shaking his hand. The agent was renowned in Hollywood, with a roster of A-lister clients.
Mike draped an arm around his shoulders and leaned in. “So, you figured out who you’ll be taking home tonight for an encore performance?”
“Jesus, I just walked in the door,” Ben said, amused.
“No excuse, no excuse. You’ve got to act fast, my man. Stake your claim now.” Mike shook his head in mock despair. “No matter. I can already see three chicks checking you out. Here, let’s get you a drink.”
He steered Ben towards the bar. “So, where’s Artie? Shouldn’t your agent be here to share your big night?”
“He’s always late.” Ben ordered a beer, and regarded Mike with a half smile. “Right down to business, aren’t you?”
Mike shrugged and brushed an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “I’m never late. Every minute I can spend with directors and producers is another minute I can push my clients.”
“Artie knows that I had lunch with you.” Ben thanked the bartender and slipped a tip in the jar. “He says that I’ll just be another client to you, that he can give me personal attention that you can’t.”
“That’s bullshit. I’ve already talked to Spielberg about you. He’s working on his next film—it’s an action movie about a guy on the run from the government after he discovers a massive cover-up to assassinate the President.” He waved his hand when Ben frowned. “I know, it’s been done before. But, it’s fucking Spielberg, man. And, he wants to meet with you about the main character.”
Ben almost choked on his beer. “Spielberg wants to meet with me?”
“Shit, yes. He loved the work you did as North Laue. Loved it. Look, you’re hot now, Ben, and this town has a short memory. You need to jump on these kinds of opportunities, and I know that Artie can’t get that for you.”
Ben glanced up and saw Artie walk through the doors, deep in conversation with one of the assistant directors of the film. He shifted slightly so his back was to the door. “What about Days of Consequence? I’m hearing that character is solid, challenging. Maybe I should go that route instead of another big action flick. I might even be able to get a writing credit as well.”
“God, that movie is a train wreck.” Mike looked bored. “They’ve already been ditched by one studio, and I’m hearing that Yancy is making all kinds of insane demands. Universal is not happy—they’d replace him with another director if he didn’t own the rights. And writing—who cares? Screenwriters are a dime a dozen in this town.” He caught the eye of someone across the room and finished off his drink. “Look, Ben, it’s your big night. Enjoy it. But, know that I want you as a client, and I’m pretty damn persistent. Call me tomorrow, okay? And, congrats again.”
He slapped Ben on the back, and headed off into the crowd. Ben stood for a second, thoughtful, before making his way over to Artie. By the time he wound his way through the congratulations and small talk, Artie had wandered off towards the concession stand. Ben caught his eye and lifted a hand, and Artie nodded. It took Ben a good fifteen minutes to head back the way he came, and by then, the lights flashed on and off, indicating the movie was about to start.
Artie leaned against the counter, popping a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. He extended the bag as Ben neared. “Want some?”
Ben couldn’t help but smile. “That’s not hip, Artie. You’re supposed to have a glass of wine and some of those fancy hors d’ouevres they’ve been passing around.”
“Like I give a shit what people think.” Artie shrugged and pushed himself off the counter. “You stay in this town long enough, Ben, you’ll learn that the ones who survive either run themselves ragged trying to fit in with what ‘they’ think or they just decide to fuck it and do whatever the hell they want.”
They headed towards the theater, Artie eyeing him. “I wonder sometimes which way you’ll go.”
Ben looked over. “I don’t care what people think.”
Artie smiled. “Yes, you do.” He patted Ben on the shoulder, then veered off to the other aisle. “My seat’s over here. Congratulations. Enjoy your night—you’ve earned it.”
Ben stared after him, then shrugged off his irritation when Martin came up beside him. He turned up the wattage on his smile and walked down the aisle to his seat. He was chatting with one of the most famous movie directors in the world, for God’s sake. He should enjoy it. Settling down in his seat next to Brad, he leaned back as the lights dimmed, and the movie began. The audience was soon so quiet that Ben could have sworn they were all holding their breath. And, despite the usual squirmy discomfort he felt at seeing himself on screen, he found himself drawn into the story, just as riveted by it as the audience.
When the credits rolled, the audience’s thunderous applause soared through the theater, and the crowd surged to their feet. Martin jogged over and beckoned Ben to follow him, and as he joined his co-stars at the front of the room to take a traditional stage bow, he looked out into the crowd.
This was it. He’d made it.
***
The next day, Ben slumped in the chair in Artie’s office. He’d had worse hangovers, that’s for sure, but the dull pounding in his head still wasn’t great. Luckily, he hadn’t drunk so much that he didn’t remember the night before—or the wild party that followed. He could remember every detail about the luscious blonde he’d brought home with him. She’d woken him up this morning by wrapping her mouth and clever hands around him. He figured he was pretty screwed when even that memory couldn’t dislodge the ball of tension in his gut.
“So. No pussyfooting around. I saw you talking with Carson last night. What are you going to do, Ben?”
“He said Spielberg wants to meet with me about his next film.”
Artie nodded. “I see. Did you hear from Spielberg or is this something that Mike told you?”
“You think he’s lying? You think Spielberg doesn’t want to meet me?”
“Don’t get all defensive. Spielberg might be interested in meeting you. But, he knows you’re my client. He’d call me, not Carson. This is a typical recruiting tactic—he’s going to dangle this meeting in front of your nose. Once you sign on, oh, guess what? Spielberg is out of town, he’s busy filming. He’s dying to meet you so don’t worry, it will happen. Meanwhile, here’s this other script for you to look at, and why don’t you do that? Just in the meantime.”
Artie sighed and spread his hands. “But none of what I’m telling you matters, does it, B
en? You’ve already made your decision.”
Ben took refuge in the quiet that followed, staring down at his hands. Finally, he looked up and met Artie’s eyes. “I signed with Carson this morning.”
Artie blinked rapidly a few times, then nodded. “I see. I thought you would have the courtesy to fire me first before signing on with someone else.”
“Artie-”
“What’s done is done.” He stood up, held out a hand. “It’s a small town. We’ll see each other around.”
“That’s it, then?” Ben stood, feeling at a loss.
“What else is there to say?” Artie raised a bushy eyebrow. “You want me to beg? To plead? I made my case, Ben. You made your decision. End of story.”
“I’m sorry, Artie.” Ben shook his hand, then let it drop.
Artie nodded. They stood there in silence for a moment, then Artie walked around the desk and laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Best of luck to you. Truly.”
“Thank you. For everything.” Ben hesitated, then gave Artie a quick, hard hug, before hightailing it out of the office. He turned around at the reception area and held up a hand in farewell. Artie nodded. Ben took a deep breath and for the last time, walked down the worn staircase and out of the office he knew so well.
He sat for a long time in his car. He’d expected to feel relief, and instead, he felt a profound sense of loss. He’d climbed a long road to get where he was, and Artie had been behind him solidly every step of the way. His career was going to be different now, and he’d convinced himself he was doing the right thing. But now, he wondered. Had he made a mistake?
His cell rang, and Mike’s cheerful voice boomed into this ear. “I’m taking my new favorite client out to lunch. Cancel any plans, and meet me at Mirabella’s. The reviews are pouring in for New Americans, and they are fantastic. I’ve got scripts piled on top of scripts arriving at the office.”
“Bring the good ones with you,” Ben said as he took one last look in the rearview mirror at Artie’s building before pulling out of his parking spot.
“Jesus, a client who actually reads scripts. What did I do to deserve you?” Mike laughed. “Get ready, my friend. You think your career was taking off before this? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Ben grinned as he disconnected the call, the warm air whipping past him as he punched up the gas. Of course, he was nervous about making such a big change. But, it wasn’t the first time. He’d made the long, hard climb out of the mess that was his childhood. His father literally drank himself to death, and his indifferent mother and shitty stepfather had barely acknowledged his existence. He’d re-invented himself into Ben Morrison, Hollywood star. Nothing was going to hold him back now.
Chapter 3
Present day
Winona tipped her face up to his, lids at half mast over her stunning blue eyes, her pouty lips set to stun, and her body lightly brushing up against him. “Oh, David,” she breathed. “Don’t you remember when we used to sneak away those summers so long ago in…” She paused.
Topeka, he thought, staring down at her with David’s brooding eyes, hoping that telepathy would drill it into her brain.
“Tilpeaka,” she finished and then winced when Paul, the director, let out a groan.
“Cut!” Paul shoved out of his chair and strode across the sound stage.
Ben stepped back from his co-star, Madison and watched as Paul approached. “Close, honey, close,” Paul said, clearly trying his hardest to hide his frustration.
Good luck, buddy.
Madison giggled, a hand coming up over her mouth. With her blonde wavy curls and dewy peaches and cream skin, she looked all of 20. A fact that, just a few years ago, would have delighted Ben, but now, made him feel every wrinkle of his 35 years. “I don’t know why I just can’t nail that one,” she said to Paul, somehow managing to slide a glance over at Ben and inflict just the right amount of double entendre into her remark.
Ben ignored her and looked at Paul. “I’m taking five in my trailer.”
Paul nodded, and turned to gesture to the rest of the crew. “Good idea. Everyone, back in fifteen. We’ll try a few more takes and then call it a day.”
Ben wound his way across the sound stage, stepping over cables and assuming his, “I’m a very busy and important star” look to discourage conversation. It worked. Not that people were chomping at the bit to talk to him today. Everyone was eager to wrap it up—although God knows, no one on this particular movie set was up for any Oscars. But, a few were going, and most would watch at parties and make fun of the attendees, pretending they would much rather be home in their comfortable clothes. They were lying, of course. Just like Ben had lied four years ago when he’d flashed his gracious loser smile for the camera at the ceremonies when he lost out for Best Supporting Actor.
Outside the sound stage, a small row of trailers lined the parking lot, and Ben escaped into the tiny confines of his, waving off his assistant and his publicist, both who were striding towards him with clipboards in hand and determined expressions. He locked the door behind him, headed straight towards the mini fridge and cracked open a beer. He could almost hear every cell in his body let out a collective, “Ahhhhh,” as the cold liquid slid down his throat. He sat at the banquette by the window and stared unseeingly out the window at the busy stream of prop masters and grips and techs hurrying by.
The movie was going to be awful. Mike had assured him it would be just what he needed to recover from the last box office dud, an unimaginative action flick crammed with generic stunts and special effects. It followed, then, that this movie would be just as bad, seeing as how Mike had told him the action flick would be just what he needed to recover from the mediocre reviews of the period drama he’d done before that. This movie, Endless Promise, was the adaptation of a saccharine sweet love story/drama novel that reigned on the bestseller list for some months last year. Ben took another swig of beer.
It was possible, he acknowledged, for someone to make a good movie out of the story. Perhaps even something better than the book had been, with more depth and emotional resonance. However, it was not possible to do so when your leading lady had been cast solely for her lovely ingénue looks and not for her ability to add layers to a character. It was not possible with a director embroiled in a nasty divorce and looking for a way to rake in the big bucks. And, it was especially not possible when your leading man spent his energy mentally rewriting the shitty dialogue and sat in his trailer drinking between takes.
A shitstorm of epic proportions. That’s what Artie would have termed it. Ben drained the last of his beer, stood up and popped a mint. His fifteen minutes were up. His assistant, Kendra, lay in wait just outside the door.
“Don’t forget you have an interview tomorrow morning on the Today show,” she reminded him, matching her strides with his, despite the fact she was a good three inches shorter. Her hair was a glossy chestnut brown, cut in a sculpted bob, her lips painted a discreet rose, and her feet clad in sexy, three-inch black heels. “They’re doing a segment on past Oscar winners and nominees.”
Ben didn’t bother saying anything, just nodded. He felt Kendra’s brown eyes checking him out from head to toe—but not to admire his body. “Are you okay?” she asked. There was no real concern in her voice—not for him anyway. She was calculating whether he was played out, past his time. And if he was, what would that mean to her? It was only recently he’d noticed what a total bitch she was.
“Fine,” he said tonelessly, glancing past her as they walked back into the sound stage. He’d thought about firing her, but his entourage had dwindled of late, and he wondered if he’d be able to find someone to replace her.
“Ben! I’ve talked to Madison, and she’s ready to go. Are you ready?” Paul gave him a toothy smile, ushering him towards the cameras.
“Great. I’m ready. Let’s go make some magic.” He almost winced as the words came out of his mouth. But, no one seemed to notice the sarcasm. Paul just gave him a thumbs up. The m
akeup artist swooped in to dab some powder on his face, and the soundman adjusted his mic levels. Madison chattered into his ear, and he nodded routinely to show he was listening. As he stood there, under the glaring studio lights, he was surrounded by a pack of people poking and prodding and talking at him, moving his feet one way, his arms another, as if he was a puppet. Ben closed his eyes.
He’d never felt so alone.
***
Madison finally nailed “Topeka” after only three more takes. Ben pulled into his circular driveway after the gates to his house opened. The two-story house sprawled across the neatly manicured lot, a hideaway nestled in the heart of the Hollywood Hills. At upwards of 7,000 square feet, it was ridiculously large for one person, but when he bought it four years ago after New Americans, he’d loved the opulence of it, the sheer waste of having sixteen rooms all to himself. Now, his footsteps echoed hollowly as he made his way upstairs to the master bedroom.
He should sell the place, really, he thought as he stripped, kicking his clothes into the large pile that overflowed out of the hamper onto the floor. In the large bathroom, with its expansive marble countertop and gleaming silver fixtures, he turned the shower to blasting hot and waited as the steam began to fog the glass doors. The trouble was, if he sold the house people would think he couldn’t afford it. Just another reminder that the last of his movies hadn’t cut it.
Ironically, while his last pictures hadn’t done well critically, he was still commanding a pretty large fee, thanks to cutthroat Mike. The one exception was this current movie, in which he’d been forced to take a pay cut after the offers had dwindled down to a trickle. Still, financially, he was okay. A least, he thought he was okay. In the two years after New Americans, he made films back to back, and when he wasn’t filming, he was on publicity tours. He’d raked in the dough but had no time to spend it.
Love on the Sound Page 4