Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  I rush into the health club in time to take a cardio-ballet class, a strenuous paramilitary session that leaves me sweaty but revitalized. After a quick shower, I head back to Donna’s, my brain churning.

  It’s not until I’m pulling into the driveway that my mind seizes on the underlying thought eating at me since I spoke with Jack. Once the waitress recognized me, she would have made the connection between Paul and me. Why the pretense? If she had her head stuck in a newspaper every day, how could she have missed the stories about Paul being a fugitive? She had to know, yet she said nothing.

  Before I can push my key in the lock, the door swings open. Donna, dressed in her floral caftan, waves me in, her eyes bright. “I was hoping you’d get here soon. Come quick. You’ve got to see this.”

  I follow her into the den. Donna plops onto the chaise and points her hand toward the TV screen. Suddenly my face pops up in a grainy closeup, bleating, “Paw, I can so ride Blackie!”

  “That’s you!” Donna laughs. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  I nod, transfixed by my twenty-two-year-old self portraying an adolescent in pigtails and cowboy hat. An actor, long since dead, grips my shoulder and says, “Hush, now, child. A scrap of a thing like you can’t handle a horse like Blackie.”

  “I can so, Paw. Watch me!”

  Donna, sitting cross-legged on the chaise, grins and thumps her hand on the cushions. I perch next to her.

  I watch myself race across a dusty corral and clamber aboard a stomping black stallion. The horse rears. I appear in close-up again, holding the reins in one hand, my hat in the other. Then there’s a cut to a long shot as the horse bolts out of the corral and we gallop across the prairie.

  “Wow, I’m impressed. You ride well.”

  “Of course I can ride. Actors can do anything. But actually, in that close-up where I’m waving my hat in the air, and that other part where I’m galloping—”

  “A double?”

  “What do you think?” My close-up, with freshly powdered nose, was shot hours later with me seated on a stool on an inclined platform, no horse in the vicinity. “Tricks of the trade. All make-believe.”

  Donna passes me her wineglass, and I take a sip. Meanwhile, on the screen, there’s a quick cut to Paw and me pulling up in a buckboard at a country church. An impossibly handsome young man offers me his hand. I wave him away and climb down on my own.

  “You’re a spunky little devil,” Donna says, “but I bet you kiss him.”

  “Of course. Although I seem to remember kissing girls wasn’t something that particular actor liked doing—but then, actors can do anything. At least he didn’t ask for a stunt double.”

  Donna laughs, and we settle back, sharing her glass of wine while watching the last few minutes of the serial. As soon as it’s over, Donna hurries to the kitchen to check on dinner. I wait to watch the credits roll, catching my own name and the name of the little tomboy with pigtails and freckles that I played—Frankie.

  Suddenly the image of Frankie Cooper, the schoolboy in the photograph, pops into my brain. I flip off the television and head to the kitchen, the solemn, gap-toothed face of Frankie Cooper hovering in my mind. As I near the breakfast nook, I smell tarragon and mustard. Donna has set the table with the French faience, which probably means she’s preparing her chicken Dijon with braised radicchio. Above the din of clattering pans and splashing water, she calls out to me.

  “Yes?” I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle on the kitchen counter. “You were saying?”

  “A fax from that credit card company finally arrived with the printout of the charges. It’s there on the table. It doesn’t matter much, since you won’t be liable for anything. Pour yourself some wine.”

  “I have, thank you.” I pick up the fax, grateful the matter has been settled. I’ve seen enough dunning letters from credit card companies to last a lifetime.

  “And don’t make any plans for Saturday, okay?”

  It’s Donna’s tone that’s a giveaway, a little too bright and way too emphatic. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” she says, pretending absorption in garnishing the chicken with bits of chopped tarragon. “I’ve just arranged something I think you’ll get a kick out of. Anyway, dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Lovely. I’ll just use the facilities. Shan’t be a moment,” I respond, in what I think would pass for a Tasmanian accent.

  I run up the stairs, looking at the fax from the credit card company as I hurry to my room. My eyes travel down the postings, most of them charged in Arizona, but two in California and one from Mexico: gasoline, U-Haul rental, computer equipment, office supplies, airline tickets, meals. U-Haul?

  I toss the fax on my bed and fling open the cupboard where I stashed the school photo of Frankie Cooper. Stuck in my brain is Jack’s comment that “Stephens” isn’t Paul’s birth name. I’m betting it’s Cooper. The Coop. Forget the birth date—that school photo of little Frankie has to be Paul. That makes Dorrie Paul’s sister, the one he claimed was in New Zealand.

  Another thought springs to mind: If I married a man masquerading as someone named Paul Stephens, was I ever legally married? If not, a phantom husband managed to rob me of everything I possessed—and is still at it. Adriana’s warning rings in my ears: Always a different guise, but perpetually evil. Tiring, so tiring.

  I hear Donna’s voice calling me to dinner. I drop the photograph on my bed next to the fax and hurry back downstairs. I retrieve my glass of wine from the kitchen and bump into Donna bustling in from the dining room. “Your cell phone went off in your handbag. Better check your voice mail.”

  I take note of the fact that Donna didn’t rummage in my bag to take the call herself. Either we’re establishing some boundaries, or she’s off duty for the day as my P.A. This roommate thing isn’t easy. Meanwhile, I listen to a message from my agent, Pat. “Hey, Meg. Expect a call from a guy named Steve Dorfman. Hope everything’s going well.”

  Steve Dorfman? Now what? I sip my wine, wondering who he is—and what Donna has in store for me tomorrow. I don’t like surprises.

  Somehow I’m trapped in Luck o’ Lucy’s, clambering onto a jukebox that’s lying atop a pool table blocking a door. I search frantically for a way out. Mice scramble underfoot, squealing and buzzing—buzzing? I roll over, my ears picking up a fuzzy but familiar sound. My eyes open and travel the length of the bed to my throbbing, blinking cell phone, its melody muffled in the folds of the bedspread. Steve Dorfman? Who would call me at this hour? I reach down and flip the lid: CAROL glows on the screen. I note the time.

  “Meg? You there? Hi, sweetie. It’s me.”

  “Who else?” I close my eyes again and sink back into the pillow.

  “Sorry. Am I calling too early? I wanted to catch you before you went out.”

  “Where would I be going at 6:38 in the morning?”

  “Just making sure. Today’s a Focus Day, so I want you to make good use of it. What’s up, anyway? I haven’t heard from you in a week.”

  “I wrapped the pilot, that’s about it. I’m just trying to catch up on some sleep. It’s Saturday. I don’t need to focus.”

  “You’ve forgotten! Honestly, Meg, didn’t you look over those notes I gave you? This is your Pluto day. You’ve got a life-transforming event happening in the next twenty-four hours. There’s a pretty good Jupiter aspect today, too… so come on, get out of bed. Your fortunes could change. On top of all that… Uranus is still hanging around, so… expect the unexpected.”

  She’s begun speaking in small gulps. Her treadmill must have been programmed to move into Steep Incline.

  “Thanks for the warning, Carol. Listen, can I call you back later? Maybe after I’ve had some coffee?”

  “Sure, but swear to me… you’ve got your feet out of bed… on the floor… otherwise I’m not hanging up.”

  I slide my knees to the edge of the bed, my toes peeking out into the chill. “Thanks for your confidence. I could lie to you, you know.” />
  “Don’t. Honestly, Meg… I just know you’re going to blow it. I mean, you’ve got to expect the unexpected and make it work for you. You plan to see Jack today?”

  I mash a pillow behind my back and struggle to sit up, pulling my toes back under the covers. “Nope. Haven’t heard from him. But a friend has something planned.”

  “Really? What’re you doing?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a surprise, but it’s supposed to take up the whole day. I’ll let you know when I know.”

  “Well, maybe that’s it… the unexpected. Fine. Just be aware… this could be a really meaningful day… Like a total change of direction. Hang on a sec… gotta hydrate.” I hear the snap of a twist-off cap, followed by gurgling sounds, then a deep breath. “You still there? Listen, I have to share this with you. I woke up this morning thinking… like, omigod, this is the September of our lives… I mean, think about it. I love autumn and all, but when you think of what it means in terms of—” Carol’s voice grows breathier, and I don’t think it’s just exertion.

  “Easy there, September girl. It means we’re past the dog days of summer. September couldn’t be anywhere near as crummy.”

  Carol sighs. “Leave it to you to take the piss out. You know what I’m saying. Autumn, for God’s sake. You know what’s coming next.”

  “I do, and it’s not more sleep. Boy, am I glad you called. If you would just sleep a little later in the morning, you’d wake up to sunshine. Seriously, Carol. It makes all the difference.”

  “I’m talking about you! How can you lie in bed losing the day? There’s a world out there… waiting for you… don’t let time slip away… Really, I worry about you…”

  “About me?” Once again I’m the designated donkey on which Carol pins her anxieties. “I appreciate your concern, but I think I can handle whatever comes along. How are you doing?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. It’s you… Listen, I’d love to talk, but I have to jump in the shower. I’m off to visit my mother for the weekend. Gotta run. I’ll call you later, sweetie. Stay alert!”

  “Sure.” I drop the phone onto the carpet and slide deeper into bed. I smell coffee brewing. Donna’s up. For a moment I weigh the choice of catching more sleep or heading down to the kitchen. Coffee wins. I throw back the comforter and reach for my robe, my eyes falling on piles of snapshots scattered across the carpet.

  I drop to my knees and take another look at the pictures that kept me awake until well after midnight, all of them from the packet I found in Dougie’s garage. There are two snapshots from our wedding in Arizona, both taken with Paul’s digital camera. He’d tossed the tiny camera to the justice of the peace, who obligingly took our picture after performing the brief spa-lite ceremony. Paul and I are wearing dark glasses and holding champagne flutes in the midday sun.

  But the photos of real interest are those of the Mulholland development. One is of a heavyset man in a rumpled suit and straw hat with his arm around the shoulders of a young man I immediately recognize from Holmby Park, wearing a familiar-looking leather jacket and holding a guitar. The older man is Vladimir Proznorov, the Russian mobster Jack identified in the photos with Paul, Rick Aquino, and Nat Wiggens. The Holmby Hills hunk is likely Proznorov’s son.

  There are several more photographs of the WindStar, and another of a similar sailboat, but the flare of sunlight on the hull obscures its name.

  I take another look at the school photo of Frankie Cooper, struck again by the boy’s resemblance to Paul. I stare at the child’s eyes, his smile, looking for some insight into the man he would become. There’s a hint of mischief, a sense of self-possession in his gaze, the tilt of his head—but could anyone imagine this kid growing up to be a con man? A felon? I try to picture the face of the man I knew appearing in a mug shot with ID numbers printed across his chest, and I can’t envision it.

  I pack up the pictures and stuff the bulky packet into my shoulder bag. Minutes later, I’m brushing my teeth, wondering what Donna has in store for me. I consider the possibilities, none appealing. Wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, I head downstairs.

  “Morning!” I pad barefoot into the kitchen, startling Donna mid-pour. She sets a bottle of prune juice back on the counter, a smile vacating her face when she takes in my outfit. I, in turn, check out Donna’s ensemble, one of her smart St. John pantsuits with shiny buttons.

  “I take it we’re not going rock climbing.”

  She laughs. “Let’s have some breakfast. You’ve got plenty of time to fix yourself up.” She pops bagels into the toaster. A bowl of fancy fruit and berries is still wearing its cling wrap. The breakfast set du jour is pink-flowered Minton on damask place mats.

  “How fixed up?” I can only hope I haven’t been set up for ladies’ day at the country club. Or an antiques auction.

  Donna laughs again, but her eyes are wary. “This’ll be fun, I promise you. Coffee?”

  I nod, and pass her a mug from the dish rack. A bone china cup in a saucer somehow makes morning coffee taste thin. “Then why aren’t you telling me? You have your doubts, right?”

  “Not really. I mean, not once you’re there, if you know what I mean.”

  “And we can always leave.”

  Donna’s smile tightens. “Trust me. You’ll see.”

  I feel compelled to repeat, “And we can always leave?”

  “Whatever you like.” She spreads a thick layer of cream cheese and marmalade on a bagel for herself. She knows I like mine plain. “How about if I just pick out something for you to wear while you jump in the shower?”

  “Will that give me a clue? This doesn’t have anything to do with charity, does it? Or a fashion show?” A terrible thought occurs to me. “This isn’t some sort of retro est seminar, where I’m going to be harangued all day and not be able to pee?”

  “Nope. Or golf. Or shopping. Or even lunch, although we’ll probably eat. Don’t worry, okay? You’ll take all the fun out of it.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  “Not this one. At least I don’t think so.”

  The outfit Donna chooses from my scant wardrobe is not alarming. When I step out of the shower, I’m relieved to find my favorite black pants and a cobalt blue jersey laid out on the bed. Donna is nowhere in sight, so I’m apparently trusted to choose my own underwear and shoes. How odious could the excursion be if I can dress comfortably and leave when I choose?

  We set out shortly before nine, Donna behind the wheel of her Mercedes, and head for the 405 freeway.

  “Got it!” I sing out. “We’re going to the Getty Museum. Why does that have to be such a big secret?”

  “Not today,” Donna says, as we sail up the entrance ramp and lurch into the far left lane. Another ten miles down the 405, just as I begin to think the surprise destination is another trip to San Diego, Donna pulls off at the La Tijera exit and heads for the airport.

  “So where are you taking me? Paris? Las Vegas?”

  “Hang on. You’ll know soon enough.”

  We swing onto Century Boulevard and almost immediately swerve into a parking area—but not before my eyes have caught sight of my name on the hotel’s marquee. My stomach contracts as I take in the words: MEET THE STARS!

  “What the hell! Donna, what’s my name doing up there?”

  “Isn’t that great!” Donna says gleefully, swinging the car door open. “It’s an autograph signing. I know the organizers and help out sometimes. They were thrilled to get you, even at the last minute.”

  “No, wait!” My eyes fly back to the marquee and the other names sharing billing. What am I getting into? “Shelby Stuart’s doing this?”

  “He’ll be sitting next to you. C’mon, give me a hand.” She slides out and hands her keys to the valet parker. I jump out, too, panic lapping at my throat. I race back to the trunk, where Donna’s already rummaging around.

  “Donna, wait. This isn’t something I do!”

  “Why not? Everyone else does. Actors. Ballplayers. Astronauts. Here, take thi
s.” She hands me a box. “That’s two hundred bucks worth of eight-by-ten glossies I had made up. So, do me a favor and give this a try, okay?”

  My dread deepens as I picture that god-awful photograph of me with big hair and linebacker shoulder pads. “This is crazy. Who’s going to want my photo?”

  She nods toward the hotel entrance. “Most of the people over there. And they’ll pay you twenty bucks to sign your name.”

  I see a ragged line of people, of every age and description, standing in a queue that winds around the side of the hotel. Many of the fans have their eyes trained on me. A few are waving. I lift a hand to wave back, realizing my fate is sealed.

  Donna shoulders a big satchel and leads the way. Ten feet from the entrance, as if on cue, everyone with a camera begins snapping my picture. A few call out my name and wave autograph books.

  “Miss Barnes will be happy to sign photos inside, everyone,” Donna says briskly. “The doors open in half an hour.”

  She herds me through the revolving doors and into the relative quiet of the hotel foyer. Signs reading CELEBRITY AUTOGRAPHS direct us toward a large ballroom off the reception area, but Donna seems to know her way. Long banquet tables draped in hotel linen are set up end-to-end in long rows, each with a placard bearing an actor’s name.

  “My God, look at these names, Donna. Do you believe this?”

  “Of course. I told you.” She squeezes through a space between tables and drops her satchel in one of the chairs. I hand her the box of photos and stand back, feeling like a kid about to be dumped at the dentist’s office. Throughout the room, other celebrity signers are claiming tables and setting up their wares. I spot two actresses who appeared in The Poseidon Adventure tacking posters to the wall at the far side of the room. Another actress, gray-haired and bent, slowly unfolds an easel on which she mounts a display of vintage photographs. I recognize her as the star of an adventure series I watched as a child, but the realization that I’ve forgotten her name stabs home.