MOVIE STAR

by Pamela DuMond

  I rake a hand through my short hair.

  Anger rolls off Easton in jagged waves.

  Amelia seems to pick up that I’m hitting meltdown. She strides across the lawn.

  I stand up and slip on my shoes because I’m getting as far away from this guy as my legs can carry me. Amelia can’t get here fast enough.

  “Leaving already?” Easton asks.

  “Yes.” Amelia can fuck him. She can suck his cock. She can roll around in all his stack of credit cards and money and whatever else it is he’s buying her. I am thanking God it is Amelia or Victoria or anyone else in the world who has to deal with this man. As long as it’s not me.

  “Why don’t you hold onto what happened thirteen years ago for the rest of your life, Easton,” I say. “Why don’t you hold onto it tight, like a lover? Even better, carve it into your skin.”

  “It’s already carved into my skin,” Easton says. “I have a scar that goes from my hip to my thigh from where the bone was fractured, and splintered pieces punctured the muscles. It took three surgeries to put my leg back together.”

  I cringe.

  Amelia approaches. ‘What the fuck?’ she mouths.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Easton. My heart twists in my chest. “Maybe the accident wasn’t completely my fault. I wasn’t behind the wheel. I wasn’t driving the car, you know.”

  Amelia places a hand on Easton’s shoulder. She’s wearing a new diamond tennis bracelet. “Hey guys,” she says. “Gorgeous place, isn’t it? Everyone tells me the Valley’s a little rougher to live in than the Westside. But if this is roughing it the Valley, count me in.”

  “Count me out,” I say and walk toward the house. Toward Jake Keller. Toward my job and far, far away from my past.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude, Evie,” Easton calls after me.

  “It’s Evelyn,” I call back. “You can call me Evelyn.”

  17

  Watching the Children

  WATCHING THE CHILDREN

  Victoria’s gig with the submissive businessman is over and she’s flying back to Chicago this afternoon. I meet her for an early bite at a hole-in-the wall diner on Pico Boulevard. Autographed 8 X 10 pictures of Hollywood B and C list actors line the interior like wallpaper. I spot Nikki’s headshot high in a corner. She looks younger, lighter, hopeful.

  “Did you crack open the mysterious Jake Keller yet?” Victoria asks, smearing cream cheese on a bagel.

  “Not yet.”

  “I saw him last night at the party. He didn’t look completely disengaged. You must be doing something right.”

  “I hope so. But whatever’s working him feels complicated.”

  “That means you’re getting close,” she says. “You know what they say. It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

  “Yeah, well this dawn has heavy shit clinging to it. I haven’t identified the belief that’s messing him up.”

  “You will,” she says, downing her coffee and signaling the waitress. “I talked to Amelia last night. She’s having a great time out here.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Are you thinking about telling her that your story with Easton Wolfe isn’t over?”

  I choke on my eggs. “What are you talking about?”

  “Honey,” she says. “I saw you two angry eye fucking each other.”

  I swipe a napkin across my mouth. “Easton and I were not angry eye fucking each other.”

  “And I am a Princess of Nigeria and will give you one million dollars if you help transfer my money into a US bank.”

  “Stop,” I say.

  “You’re lying to yourself.”

  “Am not. There’s nothing between me and Easton. Besides, my focus is on Jake Keller.”

  “As it should be.”

  We stand on the sidewalk and peer into the window of a thrift shop filled with gently used treasures as we wait for Victoria’s ride. “What are you going to do when you get back to Chicago?” I ask.

  “Get a salt scrub and a two hour massage. Dominating men isn’t the easiest of jobs. I think I’m getting a repetitive motion injury in my shoulder. Maybe I should file for Workmen’s Comp.”

  “I don’t think Ma Maison covers that.”

  “Nonetheless I’m marching down there when I get back. I’m wrestling Madame Marchand to the ground and I’m going to make her tell me what’s going on with the change of ownership.”

  “The ownership change worries me,” I say. “You?”

  “Same.”

  “Is it even happening? We heard about it a few times and then Madame goes def con silent.”

  “Oh, it’s happening,” Victoria says. “Next few weeks I think.”

  “I hope they don’t let people go.”

  “Management doesn’t give a shit about us.” She waves her arms at a green hatchback and it pulls over. “All bets are off.”

  “I hate change. Update me if you hear anything?”

  “Will do,” she says. Her ride pulls away from the curb. She rolls down the window and sticks her head out “Hey. Good luck cracking open Movie Star.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what it’s worth?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do yourself a favor and fuck Easton Wolfe for real.”

  I flip her the bird.

  She blows me a kiss.

  It’s the morning of the premiere. I step into the foyer at Jake’s house, the sun streaming through the windows. It’s as though even the weather knows this is supposed to be a happy day.

  The adrenaline’s flowing at Casa de Keller. Rock and roll blares from the jukebox. The house is a hub of activity, the people that make Jake’s domestic life run like clockwork moving and grooving because they too are fired up. One of the guys from Jake’s crew passes me in the hallway carrying several Henri’s garment bags. “Happy Tuesday. Where do you want these?”

  “Happy Tuesday,” I say. “Upstairs in the bedrooms, thank you.”

  Brandt answers the door, fielding a delivery of an enormous flower arrangement. He juggles gift baskets and a bottle of Champagne.

  “I’ll help.”

  “Perfect,” he says, and walks toward the kitchen.

  I grab a few boxes and follow him in.

  “Everything goes on the table,” Nikki says, directing the flow like she’s done this before.

  I set down the box. “Morning.” I walk to the fridge and make myself a bowl of yogurt with fresh fruit and granola. The gifts are piling up on the kitchen table. “This is better than Christmas.”

  “You have no idea how much money goes into properly sucking up,” Nikki says, shuffling baskets around, trying to make room for more. “This gift box alone probably has five hundred dollars worth of crap. Organic chocolate from the Netherlands. Natural bath salts from Peru. Wine from Argentina.”

  “There’s like ten of those,” I say. A mishmash of envelopes is piling up on the corner of the table. “Who sends all the cards?”

  “Well wishes inked inside by folks who want to stay on Jake’s radar.”

  “What does he do with all this stuff?”

  “He gives most of it away. His crew gets first dibs.”

  I hold out my hand. “I’ll take the Netherlands chocolate bar, please.”

  “Yours,” she says, passing it to me.

  I peel back the wrapper and sink my teeth into the chocolate, my taste buds falling into an orgasmic coma. “Holy moly, what do they put in this stuff? Crack?”

  Nikki holds up a letter and squints. “This envelope’s addressed to you. ‘Miss Evelyn Berlinger’ care of Jake Keller, care of Ray Stark’s Management Company. That’s weird.”

  I stop chewing.

  ‘Oh, Evie. No.’ Hope flutters her hands in my heart. ‘Not today.’

  ‘Crap.’ Queasy stretches in my gut. ‘Here we go again.’

  “How is this possible?” I ask, feeling a little lightheaded.

  “Someone knows you’re staying with Jake but doesn’t know his address. The
y probably looked up the name and address of his management online,” she says and hands me the envelope.

  “Thanks.” I wander outside, clutching the chocolate bar and the letter. I take a seat on a chaise next to the pool and open it up, my hands already shaking. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Hazel O’Rourke, my neighbor in Chicago, wants Jake’s autograph.

  But it’s not from Hazel.

  Dear Evelyn:

  * * *

  Have you ever noticed that most folks are so busy with the drama playing out in their own lives to look in front of them?

  * * *

  Example. Busy mom or dad takes their kids to the library. It’s a fun outing. The kids wander around the book stacks. They run their hands over them, pick them up, flip through the pages, hear the flutter.

  * * *

  Mom sees a flier for ‘Story Time’ at the library when she’s checking the books out at the front desk. It might be a nice experience for little Ashley and Josh and give her an hour break so she can catch up on some of her busy work.

  “Hey,” Jake says walking across the lawn. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

  “In a minute,” I say, and keep reading.

  Does Mom notice the guy who sits at a table too close to the children’s section? Does she see the same guy seated once again too close to the children’s section the next time she brings the kids to Story Time?

  * * *

  Does anyone notice this guy isn’t really here for the stories?

  * * *

  He’s here watching the children.

  * * *

  One day Ashley goes missing. Mom and Dad are out of their minds with worry. The cops trace back all the routines, all the patterns until they stumble upon the guy at the library who sat too close to the children’s section during Story Time.

  * * *

  I know you were upset that I left the box on your bed but I also know you’re smart. You had to understand that gift’s symbolism.

  A jewelry box.

  How many times have you been gifted jewelry since you started this consulting job? More than a dozen? Less than a hundred? Hair – well that should be obvious. A covering – do I even have to explain that part?

  I grow weary of explaining all this to you, Evelyn.

  Jake sits down next to me and kisses my neck. “The hair and makeup person’s arrived. Deal with whatever this is, later.”

  “In a moment,” I say and keep reading, my muscles tensing.

  Do you think corporate consulting job is the right job for you? Maybe you should think about giving up this line of work. Maybe you should think about going home. Maybe your family needs you.

  * * *

  I only want what’s best for you, Evelyn.

  * * *

  I am, as always,

  * * *

  Your Devoted Fan

  I drop the letter onto the grass and I must have dropped my breath along with it because suddenly I can’t breathe.

  Jake picks up the letter. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” My hand flies to my chest and if I press it hard enough I might be able to find breath somewhere within me. I might be able to inhale and exhale again. I glance around at the house, the pool, the eco-friendly landscaped yard with the pretty flowers. It’s all so beautiful and yet all the fame and money in the world can’t buy you peace of mind if somebody’s stalking you. All of a sudden I’m crying.

  Jake springs to his feet, coiled and angry. “What kind of sick fuck would write something like this to you?”

  “I don’t know.” I wipe away tears. I’ve never seen an angry Jake Keller. He is formidable.

  “Probably some asshole who’s jealous you’re with me. I’m going to get Ray and his people on this.”

  “It’s not the first one,” I say. “This happened a few years ago. It happened before I flew out here to see you. I need to give this letter to the cops back in Chicago.”

  “Oh, Evie.” He reluctantly passes it back to me. He pulls me against his strong, secure chest, and into his sheltering arms. His kindness. His sweetness. “Oh, Evie, I’m so sorry.”

  18

  Break a Leg

  BREAK A LEG

  In my room, Glynnis the makeup lady – a middle-aged woman who with blue hair, lip piercings and tattoos looks fiercer than I’ll ever be – applies finishing touches to my face while Nikki watches. “Look up,” Glynnis says.

  I tilt my head and Glynnis brushes bronzer under my jaw, then down my cleavage.

  “You look great,” Nikki says. “You feeling any better?”

  I nod. “Thanks,” I say, slide a bill from my purse and tip Glynnis.

  “Thanks doll. Have fun tonight.” She grabs her kit and leaves.

  “I’m sorry about the letters,” Nikki says. “That’s so creepy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. The cops back in Chicago are handling it.”

  “Can you compartmentalize this? Ignore it for tonight? It’s an indie film with an indie budget, but your first premiere is always special.”

  “Good idea,” I say.

  “Have fun. And turn off your phone.”

  “An even better idea.”

  A few cop cars are parked on the streets of Westwood. Bleachers are set up on the sidelines holding cheering fans. A red carpet stretches down the block cordoned off by velvet ropes. Security guards dressed in black T-shirts and pants wearing sunglasses and earpieces are stationed every twenty feet all the way to the theatre’s entrance.

  Nikki pulls the Range Rover up to the entrance and slips the car in park. Jake looks at me. “You ready?”

  I apply a coat of lipstick. “Yes.”

  “You look gorgeous,” Jake says. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.” I hear the fans hollering from outside the limo. Flashbulbs are already popping. “I’m good.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Ready?” Nikki asks.

  “Yes,” Jake says.

  Someone opens the car door. Jake steps out and the crowd cheers, flashbulbs pop. He smiles down at me and holds out his hand. We walk to the red carpet. The actors pose for photographers.

  Behind them I see Easton Wolfe not paying attention to the cameras, he’s absorbed in his phone, scrolling. His brow is furrowed, his face pulled into a frown and yet, he’s still so handsome.

  I remind myself that I don’t give a damn about Easton. I don’t care about the way he moves, his ass tight, his shoulders broad, the set of his jaw, firm, the angle clean and sharp.

  And it dawns on me that something or is it someone is missing from this picture. Amelia’s nowhere to be found. I thought for sure she was going with him to the premiere. I check my phone but there’s nothing from her. Maybe she’s already inside and he just got here late.

  ‘Not your concern,’ Queasy says.

  Queasy’s right. I’m here for the man who’s walking next to me. The handsome sweet man holding my hand. I remember Nikki’s advice. I shut my phone down and slip it back in my bag. I smile up at Jake Keller and brush my shoulder against his. “Break a leg.”

  The after party’s at a small winery in Malibu. The driver drops us off in front and the crowds part for Jake. Inside, multi-colored balloon lights dangle from wooden rafters. Uniformed waiters circulate with wine and appetizers. Bars and buffet tables are stationed in clusters along the perimeters. A DJ plays Reggae fusion music. You can practically see the endorphins flying through the air.

  People gather around Jake like he’s the second coming shouting congratulations. He smiles. It’s his night and so far it’s a good night and I couldn’t be happier for him.

  “I’m going to freshen up,” I say. “Back in a few.”

  I’m walking out of the bathroom as Pinkie Stein’s walking in. “Evie,” she says, placing a bejeweled hand on my arm. “Spare me a moment.”

  She steers me off to the sidelines. “The movie’s been well-received. Jake’s going to get
offered meatier parts because of this. He’s upping his game, handling all the attention better. I know that Ray Stark gave you some shit when you first got here, but I just want to say thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “But I haven’t really done anything yet.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree on that,” she says. “You know, one of these days we should have a drink or five. Hop a red-eye to Cabo. We could be sipping Bloody Mary’s lying next to an infinity pool overlooking the ocean. I know just the place.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say, covering a smile.

  An hour later I’ve chatted with a third of the people here. Now I’m making small talk with a few investors from Cleveland. Jake’s mingling. He circles back to me every fifteen minutes or so, and kisses me on the cheek. He seems happy. Ray keeps an eye on him from a few yards away. Pinkie’s holding court with a few young actors. She reclines on a couch in the far corner, her feet up on some guy’s lap.

  Easton divides his time talking to money types and checking his phone. Amelia never showed up and even though I don’t know why, I’m okay with that. But now Easton’s been sitting in the same chair for half an hour, glued to his phone. Something’s wrong.

  I’m having a hard time even looking at him because every time I do I get chills. Something is dark and heavy and just plain wrong. His anger is replaced with sadness. His bravado’s shuffled to the side, swapped out by grief. He stuffs his phone in his pocket, and slips onto the patio.

  Other than the guys from Cleveland, no one at this party is paying attention to me. I’m not a producer or a studio head. No one’s going to pitch me a story. The only person who cares about me here is Jake and he’s still running on adrenaline. “It was awesome meeting you,” I say to the Cleveland crew. “Have to run.”