The Actor and the Housewife

by Shannon Hale

  “If I didn’t look like a lower-middle-class mother of four?”

  Karen smiled sweetly. “Go to Rodeo Drive before you head back to Utah. Splurge. Have a heyday. You’ve earned it.”

  “Sure thing,” Becky said oh-so-casually.

  Then when she and Mike were ensconced in the car, she gripped his arm. “Shopping for a ‘wardrobe’ terrifies me more than the first day of shooting. More than labor.”

  Mike nodded and offered the best advice he could. “I think you should call Celeste.”

  Two days later, Becky and Fiona were wandering Rodeo Drive with Celeste. The mother and daughter wore jeans and one of their nicer T-shirts. Celeste wore—well, Becky didn’t even know what kind of fabric that blouse was, and didn’t suppose she could really refer to Celeste’s denim trousers as “jeans.”

  “Oooo,” Celeste squealed, “this is divine. Rebecca, you were right to phone me. This is my world, and you’re going to flower in my world.”

  “Yeah, I’m a bit uncomfortable. I don’t want to be dishonest about who I am. I don’t belong here; I know I don’t. And dressing up like the natives feels—”

  “Come on, Mom, you should totally get something fancy,” Fiona said. She’d aged five years over the past three months, leaving the teenage whine behind in Utah and suddenly becoming a woman. She even looked taller, and older, with her brown hair up in a pretty ponytail. “What’re you gonna wear to your movie premiere—your church dress? And while we’re at it, we should get me something too.”

  “Listen to your daughter,” Celeste said.

  “It feels so vain. I can’t help but think, every penny I spend on clothes takes away from my kids’ college funds.”

  “Don’t think of this as a frivolity. For you now, a fine wardrobe is a necessity. Besides, you are with an expert, ma puce. For the premiere dress, at the very least, I will get a designer to lend something gorgeous to the star of the new Felix Callahan movie.”

  “You can do that?”

  Celeste made a beautiful pouting gesture. “This city bends to my will.”

  “I believe it,” Becky said.

  “Me too.” Fiona was staring at Celeste as if at Aphrodite riding an oyster shell.

  And there she goes, Becky thought. She felt a twinge of regret that she was not her little girl’s idol. Of course, she hadn’t been Fiona’s epitome of fashion since Fiona had learned to dress herself. Still, it was a loss, and Becky the Mother felt each one as they came, keeping them close like charms on a bracelet.

  But after about five minutes with Celeste, Becky couldn’t blame Fiona in the least. The woman was magnificent.

  It was all very Pretty Woman as they entered boutiques, Celeste attracting the sales attendants like wasps to raw meat.

  “We have precisely five hundred dollars to spend in your store,” Celeste said, running her hand over a turquoise blouse. “Please help this woman look as fabulous as she deserves. If you manage to dress her brilliantly from blouse to toes and still have money left over to buy something for my darling Fiona, I’ll send you an autographed glossy to hang on your wall. You understand?”

  And so it went all afternoon. One thousand four hundred and fifty dollars later, Becky stepped into a cab with her bagged wardrobe: a sweater, slacks, two blouses, two skirts, a dress, a pair of black boots, and a pair of heeled sandals. Becky nearly administered CPR on herself at the sum, but she also realized the price would have been much higher if she’d been shopping without the goddess of fashion. And Fiona made off with a couple of shirts and a scarf, which she promised faithfully to share with Polly. She was clutching her bag with white-knuckled hands, her gaze far off , as if imagining how her life would magically change from mundane to majestic whenever she donned her new attire.

  No premiere dress was found, but Celeste pooh-poohed any worries. She would get a designer to provide one on loan. “It will be good publicity for the designer, as you will be photographed at the premiere.”

  “The dress can’t have cleavage or a low back,” Becky said. “No sleeveless or spaghetti straps, no see-through spots, and the skirt will need to be at least as low as my knees.”

  Celeste looked as if she would protest, then changed her mind. “Fine. It will be a delightful challenge to find the right dress for you, and all the more rewarding when I see you dressed perfectly.”

  “Thanks. Thank you so much. I’d be—well, you can imagine what I’d look like without you.” She tugged on her nice T-shirt, which seemed thin and drab. “Hey, do you know if anything is going on with Felix and his mother?”

  Celeste shook her head, but her eyes were hopeful. “He doesn’t talk, and I don’t ask. But I think there was a phone call. There is very, very good work there, Rebecca. Very, very good. We will see someday.”

  The Jacks returned home in time for the kids to start school. Becky had loads of laundry, a house to put in order, dance lessons and Little League practices, church responsibilities, and a scrapbook to update. Life was busy but blessedly normal, and the California summer shifted in her head to a dreamlike memory. She was so accosted by daily living that she rarely phoned Felix or thought about him at all. The pining had just started to pinch when the time arrived to meet again.

  “Sometimes I forget how much I miss you until I see you,” Becky said, hugging him at the LAX baggage claim.

  “I never forget,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “Not for a second.”

  “How come you’re so sweet?”

  “Because you are.”

  She poked him in the stomach. “What’s going on? Are you up to something?”

  He shrugged and wouldn’t answer as he shouldered her bag.

  First they had to shoot a couple of pickup scenes, replacing ones that hadn’t gone over well with test audiences. There was some looping, recording audio over lost lines or scenes with sound problems. Celeste was in town, so Becky stayed at the Callahan-Bodine home in Beverly Hills.

  “Ten thousand square feet? Do you really need ten thousand square feet? You both take up about ten square feet with your arms outstretched, spinning in circles.”

  Felix said, “The west wing is for Celeste’s wardrobe.”

  Celeste said, “And the east wing is for Felix’s ego.”

  Back home again, the Jack household seemed much louder than Becky had remembered, and she noted for the first time that they had somehow neglected white carpet and stainless steel furniture in their home decor. She only had time to clean and kiss and noodle and love and bake and sleep, and then it was on the road for publicity.

  First Becky met Felix in Chicago to appear on Oprah. (Oprah!) Most of Becky’s friends and family thought it was pretty cool, if strange, that she was in a movie. But the fact that she would be on Oprah—that’s what catapulted her to superstar in their minds.

  Becky wore a sage green silk blouse with black slacks and black boots and the pearl earrings Mike had given her last Christmas. Thank-fully, she didn’t have to do her own hair and makeup. She walked onto the set feeling prettier than she’d ever felt. It didn’t hurt to have Felix holding her arm. The sleepless night she’d spent racking her brain for clever things to say quickly proved unnecessary. She was just with Felix. They were just chatting.

  “Doesn’t she look great?” Felix said to Oprah. “Usually she wears some ridiculous T-shirt with her children’s faces ironed on.”

  “I love that shirt!” Becky said.

  “Yes, but should children be decoration? I ask you.”

  “Never was there a straighter man more concerned with wardrobe.” Becky leaned closer to Oprah. “And he gets manicures. Seriously. I’ve never had a manicure in my life.”

  “If only she would. Backstage, Becky chipped a nail and you know what she did? Filed it down against a brick in the wall. I would not lie to you, Oprah.”

  “No, that’s true.” Becky held up the nail. “Bricks don’t do a fine job, but it smoothed the nail down enough so it wouldn’t snag my blouse. That would’ve been a
tragedy. This blouse cost more than my car.”

  “I should clarify,” Felix said, “that explains more about her car than the blouse.”

  “Just because I’m not Mr. Fancy with his . . . weird, I don’t know what kind of car you have.”

  “I have never driven a car in my life.”

  “Seriously? You never have? Ever? Well, I’m speechless.”

  “And yet you cover up the infirmity admirably.”

  “Thank you, Felix. You see, Oprah, he really is a nice boy when he gives it a shot.”

  “Now you’ve got to give us the dish,” Oprah said. “Are you two really best friends or is it a publicity stunt?”

  Becky and Felix looked each other over.

  “Yeah . . . he’s okay,” she said.

  “I’m growing on her.”

  “Like a mold.”

  “All right, all right, you want the truth? As painful as it may be? I adore this woman.”

  “Six years now. It was best-friendship at first sight. And nothing more, mind you. I had to kiss him in the movie, and I won’t be repeating that experience, thank you very much.”

  The audience made sounds of doubt and sorrow. She’d had the chance to smooch Felix Callahan and hadn’t enjoyed it? Say it isn’t so!

  “Easy now,” Becky said. “Imagine it this way—it doesn’t feel like kissing Calvin the sexy pet shop owner as much as, say, your older brother.”

  Oprah made some suggestive comments, wondering if there was more going on than they admitted. It was a setup question, allowing Becky to bring out her prearranged props.

  “This here is me.” She held up a blown-up photograph of herself in a swimming suit, taken at a neighborhood pool a year before the movie shoot. It was a grandma suit with the little ruffle around the hips, in a shade of pink that made her skin look extremely white—not Nicole Kid-man peachy-white but old woman bluish-white. “And this,” she brought out a photo of Celeste in a red bikini from a magazine, “this is Felix’s wife, Celeste Bodine. If there’s any doubt which of us is Felix’s best friend and which is his wife, just shut your eyes and visualize these images.”

  Felix grabbed her photo for closer examination. “Truly, that is a horrible picture of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a swimming costume. Did you alter it somehow to make yourself look worse?”

  “Nope, I’m just that pasty and soft. Mother of four, baby. That’s what a real body looks like.”

  “Come here,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to kiss her cheek. “Show all the unflattering photos you like, you can’t fool me. You are stunning.”

  Oprah gushed. The audience applauded.

  Becky said under her breath, “You’re such a ham.”

  “I mean it,” he said. And she believed him now. She wondered how he conceived of her, what genus he fi led her under. Perhaps she was gorgeous to him the way a crocodile was gorgeous to Steve Irwin.

  The next day they were off to New York for the Today show then back to Los Angeles for The To night Show. The latter one made Becky’s heart pound so hard she was afraid it would rip her new sweater. Backstage was tense, with dozens of crew members and assistants with headphones scurrying around as if preparing to protect the queen ant from hostile intruders. But when Becky walked out into the bright lights and ocean of applause, Felix was beside her again. And sitting beside him anywhere felt so normal, so comfortable, that she forgot to be nervous.

  The next morning they had a press junket, where Becky and Felix sat in a hotel room while reporter after reporter came in for private interviews, four minutes apiece. Almost every reporter asked a variation of the same three questions: “What’s the movie about? Are you two really best friends? Any funny incidents from the filming that you could share?” The first forty times Becky and Felix told the garlic and herring story, it was still mildly funny. By about Telling 53, Becky was fantasizing about putting a spike through her own temple. Soon they gave up altogether.

  Reporter: “So, what’s this movie about?”

  Becky: “It’s a western . . .”

  Felix: “A scifi western.”

  Becky: “Yeah, that’s right, a scifi western. I play the harlot with the heart of gold.”

  Felix: “And I’m an alien lawman. I wear a hat.”

  Becky: “A white hat.”

  Felix: “A big white hat.”

  Becky: “With holes cut out for his antennae.”

  Felix. “A huge white hat with holes. Also, my character doesn’t have ears.”

  Becky: “Or a nose.”

  Felix: “Or a nose.”

  Reporter: “Um . . . are we talking about Blind Love?”

  Becky: “Or eyes. He hasn’t got any eyes.”

  Felix: “And we fall in love. But it’s doomed.”

  Becky: “Because my character is a shady lady.”

  Felix: “And because of my enormous white hat with holes.”

  Becky ( jabbing him): “Don’t spoil the ending!”

  Felix: “Right. Sorry. Forget I said anything about the hat.”

  Becky: “Also, there’s a musical number.”

  Felix: “Becky’s brilliant in it.”

  Becky (smiling shyly): “Stop it. You steal the show with the tap dancing.”

  Reporter: “Tap dancing?”

  Felix: “My mum taught Little Clodders tap school. I re-create one of her signature numbers in this film. It’s quite emotional, given that my character doesn’t have any eyes.”

  Becky: “Or a nose.”

  Felix: “Or a nose.”

  Reporter: “I see. Uh, sounds like fun. So, moving on . . . um, are you two really best friends?”

  Becky and Felix: “No.”

  Reporter: “Alrighty then. Um, any anecdotes you can tell us?”

  Becky: “You tell it, Felix.”

  Felix: “Okay, okay. There was this time when—you remember this, Becky?—when I was in my trailer and I was opening an envelope, and I got a paper cut.”

  Becky: “A paper cut right on his finger! Can you imagine?”

  Felix: “I had to wear a ban dage, and there I was, about to shoot another scene!”

  Becky and Felix laughed heartily. They paused and looked at each other, and then broke out into a second round of guffawing.

  Reporter (trying to laugh): “Wow. Such fun. Guess my time is up.”

  The next reporter came in.

  Next Reporter: “So, tell. What is this movie about?”

  Felix: “It’s a disaster flick.”

  Becky: “That’s right. I play the plucky young scientist who sees it all coming.”

  Felix: “And I’m the world-weary sheriff who saves the day.”

  Becky: “After he kills me with molten lava.”

  Felix: “It’s irony. You don’t expect it, then, wham! A nice twist.”

  Becky: “A disaster flick with a twist.”

  Felix: “And no special effects.”

  Becky: “Also, it closes with a Broadway revue.”

  And then, at last, the premiere.

  Celeste was true to her word, and Becky had a fabulous gown. It was black, with elbow-length straight sleeves, the neckline and skirt reminiscent of a 1950s house dress, the fabric not clingy, sparing too much detail of the shape of her hips and butt. She’d pulled her hair back in an elegant bun, wore silver hoops in her ears and new black heels, and felt as pretty as she had any right to.

  She and Felix (in his five-thousand-dollar tuxedo) arrived together in a chauffered Rolls-Royce. They pulled up to the theater and someone in a headset opened the car door, muttering into the tiny microphone, “Felix Callahan is here. Repeat, Felix on the red carpet. Also his costar.”

  Felix stayed in the car a moment, squeezing Becky’s hand.

  Felix stayed in the car a moment, squeezing Becky’s “Did I tell you how happy I am that you’re here?”

  “You did, but you can tell me again.”

  “I lose myself in these things.”


  “I know, sweetie.”

  He smiled. “You’re not going to be able to pull off the unattractive, frumpy house wife after tonight. You look stunning.”

  She was wearing a girdle. She didn’t confess this to Felix, but it should be mentioned—she was wearing a girdle.

  “You look fairly photogenic yourself, Felix Callahan.”

  Fans outside were screaming. Through the white noise of hollers and hoots emerged a rhythmic shout. Becky strained to understand.

  “Felix, they are chanting your name.”

  Felix nodded. “You see, this is exactly why I need you here.”

  “To tell you what they’re chanting?”

  “To laugh at it, darling. Or I might take it seriously.”

  He helped her out of the Rolls. Cameras were fl ashing. Not a lot of cameras—the romantic comedy was a small release, by Hollywood’s standards, and the premiere was no circus. Still, there was a line of entertainment television reporters to pass through, and the mob of fans behind barricades.

  Becky and Felix moseyed through the polite chaos, answering questions, stopping for photographs. When Celeste pulled up after the more famous of the supporting cast members, everyone wanted photographs of her with Felix, and Becky stepped back. And back. And a little farther back.

  Occasionally one of the reporters would ask her, “What was it like working with Felix Callahan?”

  “Splendid,” she’d say, or sometimes, “Wonderful.” She made a game of it, tapping into her mental thesaurus: “Terrific, amazing, astonishing, startling, staggering, shocking, appalling . . . also, really nice.”

  Her own family arrived in a rental car at the tail-tail-tail end of the motorcade, and Becky grabbed Mike’s arm. He was wearing his best church suit, dark blue. Fiona and Polly strolled down the carpet, self-aware and trying fiercely not to grin. They were holding each other’s hands as they hadn’t since they were little girls. Hyrum and Sam ran about until a production coordinator asked Becky to rein them in. She put her arms around their shoulders and whispered promises of ice cream cones.