by Jayne Denker
Alex took his seat, and some of the cast and crew asked him about his trip to India and Thailand. He said it was “awesome” and told a couple of brief anecdotes about his travels, then I corralled everyone and got us down to business. And that was that.
I found out later that he had gone on this trip of “self-discovery” with one of our peripheral players, a tiny, lively blonde named Jenna. That information elicited a sharp twinge of jealousy. I couldn’t help but wonder what part of his self she helped him discover. But I had already squelched any ideas I had had about me and Alex getting together, no matter what notions our little tipsy moment at the party had ignited in my imagination. So what did I care that he had spent a month globe-hopping with a twenty-two-year-old cupcake who could never remember her lines, even when each one was only four words long? Hell, this was Alex McNulty, actor and heartthrob. He could do anything—and anyone—he damn well wanted to. And he did—frequently. I knew that.
It just bothered me that Iwasn’t on his “to do” list.
Sure, I was over him—even though he seemed to want to keep me on the hook, complimenting me on my outfit, giving me a wink while he waited for a crewmember to adjust something on the set, or bringing me the ripest Anjou pear from the snack table just because he knew they were my favorite. I’d catch other folks on set glancing at us furtively, most likely wondering just what, exactly, was between me and Alex. I wished they’d ask me, because I had the answer: Nothing. Absolutely nothing was going on between me and Alex.
I told myself his acts of kindness were simply part of our working relationship, which, apparently, wasn’t going to extend to private meetings over romantic dinners in a secluded corner of a candlelit patio at a chic restaurant. He never asked me out (no surprise there), nor did he mention collaborating again. I was grateful that I wasn’t put in the position of having to turn him down. Because I would have, for either invitation. I was pretty sure, anyway.
Alex’s popularity with the public exploded during our second season. If I thought he had something going on with the viewers in our first season, that was just the tip of the iceberg, just a little taste of what was to come. The more airtime he got, the more our fans lapped it up and demanded more. I tried to strike a good balance—to give them more David (and Sabrina) without making the show all about them. I always said that the show was an ensemble, no exceptions, but of course the studio didn’t care about that. Randy B. was breathing down my neck nonstop, too often literally looking over my shoulder as I wrote, sometimes hinting, sometimes outright demanding that I give Alex more screen time.
I could have given Randy B. what he wanted and, at the same time, given Alex what he wanted too—more complicated story lines, more acting-with-a-capital-A opportunities, and yes, more screen time. But I wasn’t going to. I was stubborn that way.
And then came the day things got messy: Alex McNulty asked me out. Well, to be clear, it was even more fraught with potential—he asked me in. Over to his apartment. For dinner. On—wait for it—Valentine’s Day.
An invitation to dinner from Alex McNulty, on the most loaded of all days? Was he crazy? Was I? I tried to resist, but Alex persisted. “Come on, Faith, it’ll be fun. I’ll cook,” he said, adding one of his patented “special looks” to make sure I buckled. Which, of course, I did, in the end.
I primped and primed the like of which I never do—not for anybody—and showed up at Alex’s apartment, wondering if I had just agreed to a booty call. After all, a first date at the guy’s place? Wasn’t that sort of . . . cheap? But it was too late now; I had already climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.
Alex’s place was surprisingly downmarket for someone on a hit TV show. Sometimes stars resisted trading up as soon as they hit it big; instead they existed in a state of shock, thinking the sudden influx of cash was a mirage, and continued to live like starving actors for a while. It seemed Alex was still hoarding his gold, waiting for it to turn back into straw or something—he hadn’t spent a cent.
He answered the door looking yummy, which was something his dinner wasn’t. In fact, it was nonexistent. He mumbled something about plans not working out, so he ordered a pizza. I was kind of disappointed that he didn’t think enough of our date to plan ahead and make an effort to impress me, but the weaker part of me shouted, “This is Alex! He invited you over! You’re in his apartment!” And punctuated it with a teenage squeal.
So I buried my doubts and told myself to just enjoy the fact that Alex and I were alone together, mere steps from his bedroom. Enjoying pizza and beer and small talk.
Even if the small talk was a little awkward.
Okay, a lot awkward.
I struggled to find something to talk about, and Alex, usually so sexy and suave on the set, looked uncomfortable beside me on the couch. My common sense hinted that maybe Alex was sexy-suave with me at work because he had an audience, and he was showing everyone else in the cast that he had a “special” relationship with me. But my heart decided his fumbling attempts at conversation were evidence that he was feeling clumsy and intimidated, being alone with me, because he liked me so much.
Yeah, that was it. Sure it was.
I resorted to work gossip, which got us through another . . . I checked my phone. Oh shit, twenty-five minutes had gone by. What the hell.
Meanwhile, Alex was looking fidgety a couple of couch cushions down. I decided that enough was enough—I needed to know if this was going anywhere, and to find out, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I put my beer bottle down on his cheap coffee table and edged closer on the pretense of showing him a photo in my phone. That closed the physical distance between us. Now what?
Silence fell. I stuffed all my doubts, all those thoughts about my being his boss, between the rough sofa cushions, and took a breath. It was time. But I was stuck.
Move, dammit! Move! I tried yelling at myself repeatedly, but my body seemed frozen where it was; I could only rub my clammy palms on my knees. I stared at the sand-colored shag rug under my feet and wondered who in the world still had shag rugs anymore. Move, maggot! my inner drill sergeant commanded. What’s the matter? You a pussy? MOVE!Well yes, officer, as a matter of fact I am a— MOVE! Do it now!
So I moved. Against all odds, against my better judgment, even, I forced myself toward Alex. Dimly I heard him start to say, “Faith—” before I descended on him like a zombie in a feeding frenzy. And . . .
I missed.
I didn’t know whether I fumbled at the last second, or whether he turned his head, but my lips landed on his cheekbone, near his temple. Damn. So this is what it felt like to be a fourteen-year-old trying to steal a kiss for the first time. I’d have to create some teen characters and put this in a script. It was totally cringe-worthy.
I realized I was providing running commentary—not to mention taking notes on ideas for the show—while I was trying to kiss Alex McNulty. That was a big ol’ fail right there.
And of course there was Alex, looking at me like I had just killed a puppy. “Faith!” he exclaimed, shocked.
Oh God. That wasn’t what he’d had in mind, apparently. I felt my cheeks flame while he stared at me, horrified. Well shit, why didn’t he just go ahead and wipe his face with the back of his hand while he was at it? It was that kind of look.
I backed away, skittering over the sofa cushions like a crab, till I was hunkered down against the far arm of the couch. I drew my knees up to my chest and stammered, “Oh—oh God, Alex, I—”
“Geez, I like you and everything, but . . . you know.”
I knew. Oh God, I wish I didn’t, but I knew. He had knocked me off kilter, so of course I went on the offensive. “Alex, why in the world am I here?” I demanded.
“I—I thought we could talk about, you know, what we talked about before. My character, and having him do more stuff.”
You know . . . stuff . . . Okay, we were back to monosyllabic Alex. And we were also back to that same ploy he’d been using this whole t
ime, if only I’d paid attention: act all seductive till Faith cracked and gave him whatever he wanted. So it wasn’t just up-and-coming nubile starlets who could bamboozle old male fools and get the geezers to help further their career. It worked on old female fools too.
“So, what, you just had me over so you could con me into giving you ‘meatier’ stuff? We’re back to that again?” How dare he try to play me, just to get a bigger role in the show! And how dare I fall for it. I wasn’t sure who I was angrier at—him or me.
“No! I mean . . .” He sighed and ruffled his hair. I watched it fall back into place, always perfect. “I like you, Faith, really. But not . . . I mean . . . you know how it is. I just . . . I always thought you were the only person in the world who didn’t want anything from me besides a good performance.”
He was trying to make me feel guilty. But I wasn’t buying it. “A good performance? Yeah, you’ve certainly been putting on one of those, haven’t you? Too bad your best work has been off camera.”
“Faith,” he wheedled. “I’m your best actor. And I’m your biggest draw. Why shouldn’tyou give me more to do? You said I know David better than you do; I could really help. Hey, I came up with the Hershey’s Kisses thing, remember?”
He most certainly did not come up with the Hershey’s Kisses thing. Idid. And he was not going to gaslight me. Suddenly I felt wide awake, like I had come out of a yearlong coma. I looked at Alex, without the filter of my crush, which was rapidly disappearing, and all I saw was a hollow pretty boy who was like too many others in the business—only out for himself. Now his “charm” felt like a tentacled monster, grasping at me. He accused me of wanting something from him he wouldn’t give, but in reality he was doing it to me. He was just angling for power instead of sex.
I stood up. “Don’t flatter yourself, Alex. I don’t collaborate with you—or anyone. It’s my show. My ideas. My decisions. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s going to stay. I can’t believe you tried to play me like this.” Suddenly it was awfully hot in his apartment. Or maybe that was just me seething. Either way, I needed some air.
He stood up too. “Faith, I didn’t—”
“Just stop, would you?”
“But—”
“Stow it, Alex. You screwed up. End of story.”
I grabbed my purse and jacket off the coatrack and yanked open the door. He didn’t even follow me, just stood where he was, his fists jammed in the front pockets of his jeans. I slammed the door behind me, and the flimsy wall shook.
* * *
I blinked, refocusing on the ocean glinting in the late-afternoon sun. It was unnerving, how I could remember every vivid, humiliating detail of the night I most wanted to forget, like the whole thing had just happened yesterday.
And I had to admit that the reason it kept coming back to me, and so clearly—and this was the part I hated to admit to myself—was because the whole evening had been one giant blow to my ego. That ego I always said I didn’t have? Yeah, well, truth is I did have one, and it was pretty huge. And pretty darn delicate.
Oh shit, Bea was right. I was one of those Hollywood asshats. But now I knew what I had to do. This wasn’t about me anymore. I had to pop that overinflated ego and get Alex back on the show.
Chapter 7
A hot wind blew my short, olive-colored eyelet skirt against my thighs as I squinted across the vast expanse of asphalt. Christ, I shouldn’t have worn my tallest ankle-boot wedges. By the time I finished this hike, I was going to end up in traction, the skin on my feet sliced to ribbons on the lattice-cut leather of the peep-toes. I adjusted my sunglasses, pulled some strands of hair out of the corner of my mouth, and started hoofing it over the first of three parking lots I had to slog across, never taking my eyes off the buildings in the distance, just in case I blinked and they disappeared, like an illusory oasis in the Sahara. Or did that only happen in old Bugs Bunny cartoons?
Didn’t matter; the point was I had to get to those buildings. Because Alex was there. Yep, it only took three calls to his agent to get him to spill the details on Alex’s secret location.
“Faith, come on. What are you looking for him now for?”
“Will you just tell me, Anthony?”
“Can’t. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“Don’t tell me he’s in a tin-can trailer outside Reno.”
“No!” he scoffed.
“Off ‘finding himself’ in Thailand again?”
“Faith, that was so two years ago.”
“On a private island somewhere, with Gwynnie, Chris, Apple, and Moses?”
“Nope. But I’m not telling you. My lips are sealed.”
Sure they were. All it took was the news that I wanted Alex back—well, “Alex was wanted,” nice and neutral and passive voice—and I could practically feel Anthony crumbling like a sandcastle with the tide coming in.
I went in for the kill. “Anthony, listen. A new contract for Alex means another nice, fat commission for you. And this’ll get him back in the public eye, which could mean movie offers again . . .”
“The paying acting groove . . . ? That’d be nice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s acting, but he’s not getting paid, so I’m not getting a commission.”
“Tell me where he is, and I swear, Anthony, I will go get him and bring him back where he belongs.”
* * *
Around what felt like an hour later, I reached civilization. That is, some scrubby grass and sidewalks, with people on them. I was sure I’d left a few toes behind, and my shoulders had burned to a crisp, what with the parking lot pavement frying me like a strip of bacon in a skillet, but I’d survived. Bonus: I’d be able to find my way back to my car using the trail of blood from my feet.
I couldn’t believe I was doing this . . . and my bloody feet were also feeling a little cold. Time for some moral support before I chickened out. I dug my phone out of my bag and hit my most frequently used contact. Luckily Jaya answered her own phone for once; I didn’t have the strength to deal with Ashley at the moment. “Babe. You will never guess where I am.”
“Tell me you’re on a chaise lounge by a reflecting pool in Istanbul.”
“Nope. Alas.”
“Similar chaise, similar reflecting pool, Vietnam?”
“Not even.”
“At least gimme a beach scene.”
“How about lots of beach, no water.”
“Huh?”
“Very brown, very dry, three-hundred-and-fifty-degree open-oven, gates-of-hell-type heat. G’wan, guess.”
Jaya laughed. “Not on vacation, then.”
“Definitely not. I am working.” I took a deep breath. “I’m in Moreno Valley.”
There was a pause, then an incredulous, “Why?”
“Because here be Alex.”
Jaya let loose a little squeal. “You found him?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
Another deep breath, this one shakier. “I haven’t seen him yet. On my way there now.”
“What’s he doing in Moreno Valley? And—sorry—which is where, exactly, again?”
“An hour and a half, two hours inland from the coast . . . ish. I don’t know; I just followed my GPS.”
“And what’s he doing there?” she repeated.
I limped up the wide, shallow steps of a squat building that looked like all the other squat buildings surrounding it, except it was round instead of square. I heaved open one of the heavy glass doors and practically fell inside.
“I’m here. I’ll have to talk to you later.”
“But where’s here? And why couldn’t you just text him?”
“Later, my pet. All things will be revealed later.”
“I hate it when you build suspense.”
I clicked off. I was in the lobby of the arts building of the esteemed Inland Empire Community College, est. 1969, according to the poking about I’d done online yesterday. I could
n’t see a thing, still blinded as I was by my time in the searing sunshine, but I wasn’t interested in the sights. I only wanted to collapse on the floor and absorb the air-conditioning for, oh, about three days or so.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw a couple of shabby benches with worn checked upholstery and metal legs squatting in front of some narrow, floor-to-ceiling tinted windows on either side of the doors, a couple of modest abstract sculptures on pedestals, and the open doors to the theater proper, straight ahead, where voices, and random clunks and clanks, echoed. I dropped onto the nearest bench, lifted my hair, and let the cool air hit the back of my neck.
What was I doing here? This was a stupid idea. It was stupid of me to drive all the way out here. And where was here? Stupid Tatooine, felt like. I had never been to Moreno Valley before, even though it was only a couple of hours from L.A., but my first impression of it wasn’t all that positive: hot, brown, dry. It might as well have been another planet as far as I was concerned.
Maybe I should have texted Alex . . . but no. I knew I had to do this face to face. He could ignore a text, but he couldn’t ignore me, right in front of him.
So after a few seconds, when I was feeling almost human again, I hoisted my bag back onto my shoulder and headed farther inside. The theater itself was even darker than the lobby, the house lights low, throwing the lit stage into high relief. Alex should be here. I scanned the people scurrying around for some sign of his familiar face. Was that him there? Or maybe—
Thwack. Suddenly something was in front of me, and I walked right into it. The something was hard and soft at the same time, and a slightly pained noise came out of it. My face was between two shoulder blades, and my purse had just swung forward to whack their owner in the kidney. I jumped back as the person turned around.
“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping to the right to go around. “Dark in here.” And I made for the stage again.
But a limb shot out and barred the way as effectively as Bea’s studio gate arm, blocking me right at boob level. Was this person trying to cop a feel? But no—he jumped, apparently as alarmed as I was at where his arm had landed, and removed it quickly. “Can I help you with something?”