“Hey, everyone,” Todd says, before I’ve even crossed the threshold. “Meg Barnes, this is Lenny Bishop, our director. Melody Cohen, associate producer. Jake Ellsworth, writer. Take a seat, Meg.”
I’m surprised that the young men and woman sprawled on the sofas are complete strangers to me. I feel like someone’s dressed-up mom wandering into a dorm lounge. They half-rise as they repeat their names, each one lifting a hand in a kind of salute. The only name I catch is Lenny Bishop, the director, stick-thin with a stubbly beard. “Hey, glad you could come in,” he says, sinking back into the couch.
As I’m taking a seat, a straight-back chair facing the window, the pretty brunette producer mentions she wrote a high school term paper (last year, perhaps?) on female empowerment, using the character I played in Holiday to illustrate a positive role model.
“You mean Jinx? I can’t believe you watched the series. It was on ages ago.”
“Oh, yeah, but I’ve seen reruns. My dad was a really big fan.” She hauls up a weighty mass of curly hair, flops it over her head, and shakes it onto her other shoulder. “It’s just so neat to meet you in person. For me, it was this really big epiphany when I got that it was Jinx, who was this assistant person, who really solved the crimes, not The Magician, right? I mean, there you have it!” she says triumphantly. “You portrayed this woman who was really hot and super smart—how bad is that?” She settles back on the sofa, pleased with her epiphany. “It really was this seminal thing, you know? You were just so ahead of your time.”
Her colleagues nod, no doubt envisioning a seismic shift in gender relationships should her term paper circulate around Hollywood. Meanwhile, I wonder if her dad also had an old poster of me in the satin shorts and swallowtail jacket hanging over his bed. I was, indeed, hot stuff. But that was then. Today I just hope this producerette can see her way to casting her role model as a murderess.
“Well, thank you all very much. What can I say? Jinxed again!”
Everyone laughs and nods. Then the laughter fades into an awkward silence. Lenny leans toward me and clears his throat. “So, um, we’re sorry to hear about your husband. Had to be awful.”
Melody nods vigorously, her hair bouncing on her shoulders. “For the record, I don’t think you had anything to do with it. I mean, the stolen money, or—well, everything.”
My lips freeze, but all I can think of is that licking them will make me look guilty. I lick them anyway and say, “No, you’re right. Of course.”
I look to Todd, who looks at the ceiling, then says, “Okay, ready then? Let’s do the scene when the detective tracks you down leaving the charity luncheon, and then segue into the meeting with your attorney, okay?”
I shift in my chair, taking a moment before I look up and find Todd staring at me intently, his foot jiggling impatiently.
JANE ELLIS
Sorry, Detective Farraday. You’ve missed the fashion show, but I can tell you this: Stripes are not in this season.
DET. FARRADAY
Oh, that’s okay, Mrs. Ellis. We’ve switched to orange jumpsuits. We might just have one in your size.
JANE ELLIS
Sorry to disappoint you, but my wardrobe’s complete. Now, if you’ll excuse me—
DET. FARRADAY
Just one question, if you don’t mind—
JANE ELLIS
I do mind. You’re perfectly aware that I’m president of the auxiliary and that this is our biggest fund-raiser of the year. Accosting me in full view of everyone amounts to harassment. Would you like me to call my attorney?
DET. FARADAY
That’s probably a good idea. You see, I’ve got orders to take you in. You’re under arrest, Mrs. Ellis.
JANE ELLIS
You can’t be serious. The district attorney’s wife sits on the board with me.
DET. FARADAY
Sounds like you’ve got yourself a good character witness. But murder’s murder.
I flip pages to the next scene, although the lines are so familiar I hardly need look at the script. Todd clears his throat and launches into the first speech, now playing the role of my attorney, Harry Walton.
Still haughty, but now frightened, I insist I had no knowledge of my husband’s infidelity, that it’s ludicrous to suggest I could possibly want to hire someone to shoot him. The scene reaches a climax at the Act One break. I demand that my attorney arrange bail, banging my script on the desk for emphasis.
The casting director blinks at me, then looks to Lenny Bishop as though waiting for him to call recess. Why do I half-expect young Todd to clap his hands like a two-year-old and burble, “All done, all done!”
The assemblage on the couch is a silent chorus of bobble-heads, their faces noncommittal. Lenny Bishop brushes his hand across his stubbly chin and says, “Yeah. Hey, okay. Great stuff. Thanks for coming in.”
“Thank you.” I rise quickly, smile, and beat it out of Dodge. No handshakes, no farewells, nothing that’ll give them second thoughts. I close the door behind me. The hallway is empty. No additional actresses have arrived to read for the role. I scan the names on the list as I sign out. One of us will be getting a call from her agent within the next hour or so.
Great stuff? What does that mean?
I make my way across the steaming lot wondering whether the young Turks in their wrinkled shirts and blue jeans will settle on me, perhaps the only actress on their audition list who hasn’t earned a license to do something else—or forked over the price of a midsize SUV for a facelift. I tell myself it’s not just because I can’t afford to spruce up or that I’m squeamish about cold knives on warm flesh. It’s because I don’t need one. And I sure as hell wouldn’t inject poison between my eyes to immobilize a little crease or two. On the other hand, would that make the difference, give me a competitive edge? There’s nothing like an audition to make an actress feel like she needs a complete overhaul with replacement parts. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. The hardest part is the waiting.
It’s not just the money, though that’s key, after all. But with a job, everything in my day-to-day, godforsaken life goes on hold. I won’t have to think about anything except acting. I’m handed a script, and I’m told when and where to appear for wardrobe. I’m fed, watered, made up, clothed, and led to the set, which is the most gratifying, pleasurable place on Earth as far as I’m concerned.
My shoulder bag begins to vibrate. I scramble for my cell phone, find it, and flip it open. Please, God, let it be my agent.
Instead it’s Carol Baskin, her voice breathy and rushed, so I know she’s on her treadmill. “Meg? Honestly, you’re impossible to get hold of these days. Weren’t we supposed to meet for lunch this week?”
“Carol, I’m so sorry. I meant to get back to you. I’ve just been busy. You know, pilot season.” Lunch with Carol means an afternoon at Fred Segal’s watching her buy shredded jeans at a price that would feed a family of six for a week.
“Well, good for you. I hope you get something. Now, listen. Forget lunch, can you fill out our table Friday night? The Hilton. Cocktails and silent auction at six thirty. Dinner at seven.”
“What’s the disease this time?”
“Hey, some of us give a damn.” She laughs, her signature guffaw making me smile. “Be a sport, okay? Sid had to buy a table, and I have to fill it. I promise you’ll be out before ten. We’ll have fun.”
“Business attire?”
“Suit yourself, pun intended. But I’m going a little dressier. You always look great. Want us to pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Perfect. Hey, it’s been a while. Can’t wait to see you again.”
“Me, too.” I jam the phone back in my bag, still amazed that people can reach me without knowing where I am or what I’m doing. So, what could be better to look forward to than a charity do at the Hilton, with drinks, dinner, and a goodie bag stuffed with the de rigueur T-shirt, CD, and shampoo—maybe even a gift certificate to a nail salon?
&nb
sp; Besides, Carol, my former roommate and an old pal from my studio contract days, is the closest thing I have to a friend these days. She gave up acting years ago when she married Sid and took on the role of Hollywood power wife. It was Sid Baskin, my longtime entertainment attorney, who got me through the worst of the mess with Paul. Unfortunately, the IRS saw my joint accounts with Paul, not to mention the press photos of me accompanying him to dinners and various other events where clients were present, as evidence that I was involved in his scam. In the end, I lost everything. Sid lost a lot, too, but his financial exposure wasn’t anywhere near as devastating as mine.
In the bitter aftermath, when all I wanted to do was hide out, the Baskins invited me to stay in their pool house. I burrowed in like a slug, rarely venturing out. For days on end, curled in a wicker armchair, I napped to avoid thinking. I wasn’t great company, and I’m sure I was a worry to them. But despite their insistence that I was welcome to stay, I moved out after a couple of weeks. Even though Carol and I had once roomed together, I couldn’t handle living within sight of their bedroom window. They meant well, but I began to feel like I was on suicide watch. Either Sid or Carol, sometimes both, would drop by on the hour to ask, “You doin’ okay, sweetie?”
No, I was not doing okay. Not with bankruptcy and foreclosure hearings pending. Not with even close friends wondering: What did she know? When did she know it? Instead, I’d packed up and hit the road, abandoning the few options I had left to salvage anything of my former life. Leaving town wasn’t the smartest move I could have made, but neither could I bear living in a goldfish bowl with piranha circling.
Of course, if I hadn’t set out on what became an extended road trip, I would never have discovered the Ritz-Volvo could be so accommodating. Not since Girl Scouts, sleeping in a pup tent with my gear in a duffel bag, had I felt so carefree and adventurous. Living simply, frugally, became a game. I reveled in my resourcefulness. I rediscovered myself to be an enjoyable, easy-going companion, willing to venture down side roads and indulge in unhurried reflection. I like to think of that time as a sabbatical, rather than my year on the lam.
I find my car where I parked it on the third level of the high-security parking structure. I double-click the remote control on my car key (how often have I used it to actually find my car?) and climb into my pre-owned sedan, bought largely because it had tinted windows and a big trunk and cost a whole lot less to run than my vintage Jag convertible.
Once inside the steamy Volvo, I unbutton my suit jacket and wriggle out of my skirt. A wardrobe change is in order. With cold, clammy sweat drying in salt licks on my face and neck, I kick off my shoes and peel off my hose.
My suit goes on a padded hanger, joining my other dress clothes hanging on a pole wedged above the backseat windows. My good shoes go into a flannel bag under the passenger seat. Jeans and a T-shirt are neatly stacked with other folding clothes on one side of the rear seat. My sandals are in a box on the floor with my running shoes. Tidiness makes all the difference. I try to keep my little nest clean and well dusted. Windex and paper towels are wedged between the front passenger seats. As always, I slide my hand under the folded blankets and feel the smooth surface of my laptop, safely tucked out of sight.
I don’t know whether the Baskins are aware of my current itinerant circumstances, but I’d like to think they have no idea I’ve taken up residence in my Volvo rather than return to their pool house.
Not all that long ago one of their invitations to a charity function would have sent me scurrying to Neiman Marcus and the second-floor designer dresses. Not that I ever wantonly threw money around or lived beyond my means. I saved against the rainy days forecast in any actor’s career, investing even when all I could see down the road was more sunshine and fair weather. Who could have predicted I would open my life to a dam-busting monsoon—then drown in the deluge?
I peel out of the parking ramp, tires squealing on the tight turns. I should’ve traded in for a fuel-efficient hybrid when I had the chance. I could have been both homeless and green. But then, who knew gas prices would go through the roof? My trip to the Valley and back will cost me at least a buck, a hefty investment that’d better pay off with a job.
I unlock my jaw and loosen my grip on the steering wheel. I can’t afford to have a stroke any more than I can afford a trip to Needless Markup. I delve into my storehouse of happy recollections that see me through bouts of anxiety—and, to call it what it is, self-pity. I’d loathe anyone else’s pity, but I feel entirely justified in a private wallow of my own now and again. When I’m really feeling down, I picture my Spanish bungalow in Coldwater Canyon, with its swimming pool, herb garden, sweet-smelling bed linens, and the housekeeper who came three days a week—and imagine having it all back again. What wouldn’t I give for a dip in my pool right now? Tossing a steak on my grill while I sip a Cabernet would be heaven.
With that thought in mind, I could go for a drink. How long has it been since I treated myself to a frosty glass of white wine at my favorite watering hole? I pull off Ventura Boulevard and swing into the parking lot behind the Valley Grill, a ’60s holdover that hasn’t sacrificed its banquette seating, checkered tablecloths, or generous happy hour spread. Easing into a shaded slot near the rear entrance by the kitchen, I check my watch. Ten minutes past happy hour. Dinnertime.
I mount the cracked cement steps at the rear of the restaurant and tug at the old screen door. It comes unstuck and grates noisily at the intrusion. The steamy kitchen socks me with its moist smell of hot grease and fruity disinfectant. Eddie, the fry cook, turns his head and shoots me a gap-toothed grin. “There ya are, sugar. I was hopin’ you’d be stoppin’ in soon. Saw you on Rockford Files the other night.”
“The gift that keeps on giving, Eddie.” A rerun means a residual check will soon find its way to my post office box. “You must’ve been up mighty late.”
“Watched the whole thing when I saw your mug. You don’t age a day. How you do it?”
“A steady diet of your chili.” He laughs. I watch him lift a hefty pot onto the cooker, marveling that his stringy arms can hoist more than a spoon. “How’re you doing, Eddie?”
“Can’t complain.” He dips a ladle into the pot. “Want a taste?”
“How about some to go on the way out?”
He nods. “Sure thing. Don’t forget now. I’ll have it packed up.”
I salute him with a slice of warm corn bread I help myself to from a basket on the counter. I’ve been a sucker for Eddie’s corn bread and chili since the days when he was working a catering truck on location. I’m only too happy to have scored a late-night snack.
Jimmy, the bartender, peers at me as I enter the twilight gloom of the taproom. The former UCLA quarterback, who was Winston Sykes’s stuntman on Holiday, is now paunchy and balding, his hands arthritic. He pulls a bottle of wine out of the cooler and struggles to uncork it. “You barely come around anymore. You tired of the neighborhood?” He slides a glass onto the bar and pours to the brim.
“It’s a long haul, Jimmy. A special trip, but I do it just to see you.”
I climb onto the bar stool and sip the house white. There’s no need to mention to Jimmy that my drop-ins are infrequent because I have to figure in gas money besides the bar bill and tip. He usually pours me a second glass on the house, but even with the free buffet, the margin on grazing to out-of-pocket expense is tight.
“You classy broads are too good for us, that’s what.” He slumps against the bar and folds his arms across his belly, glowering. “Don’t come around at all if you’re not going to come around, know what I mean?”
“Sure, Jimmy.” His hearing’s shot so I make sure not to turn my head when I’m talking to him. Most of the regulars know to do the same.
I bide my time, waiting for the joint to fill up before chowing down. The trick to this—and there is a trick—is to nibble while loitering at one end of the steam table. I eat a meatball, my eyes glued to some hockey game playing on the TV screen. My
toothpick spears another gravy-soaked chunk before I move on to the guacamole and potato skins. High-fat, high-carb, but it’s not like I do this every day. I feed when I can, like a jungle cat. I settle back on my bar stool with a saucer of chicken wings. My glass has been refilled.
That’s when the call comes. As soon as I feel my shoulder bag vibrate, I know it’s Pat, my agent.
“Good girl, you bagged it,” she rasps. “I just had a feeling about this one. Here’s the dope—ready?”
I wave down Jimmy. He hands me a pen. I pin a napkin under my elbow and scribble notes as fast as Pat spits out the deal: money (yeeeeeah!), billing, start date, wardrobe call, and—“They’re messengering a script, so—”
“Wait, have ’em deliver it to your office, and I’ll pick it up tonight from the security guard. Can you do that?”
“Sure, but—”
“I won’t be home to sign for it. Besides, I’ll be going right by your office. It’s less of a hassle, okay?”
“Well, you’re the boss. Congrats, Meg. This is a good one. You deserve it.”
Pat, short, squat, and tough as an old boot, has represented me since my studio contract days. I even followed her when she and two other agents left to set up their own agency. Two mergers later, it’s now one of the top agencies in town. I know I have only to ask and she’d advance me some cash, but I can’t make myself do it. Word gets around, no matter what. I don’t want to be anyone’s lunchtime gossip.
I snap the lid on my cell phone and take a sip of wine. Jimmy sets his meaty forearms on the bar and leans close. “Hey, congratulations, kid. Lemme buy you a drink.”
“Hell, let me buy you a drink!”
He gives me that look. Where is it writ that all bartenders are now in the Program? “You staying for dinner?”
“No, I’d better get back over the hill. Just the check.”
“Your money’s no good here, kid.” He winks. Why is it that now, with a job and money coming my way, the drinks are on the house? I pull my billfold out of my bag to leave a tip. Jimmy smacks my hand. “Forget it. Just dress up the bar here a little more often, okay? It makes life sweeter.”
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 3
