Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Gwen steps aside as I enter my dressing room. “You okay? Take your time. We have a car ready to take you wherever you want to go. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Great. I’ll just be a minute.” I close the door, toss my bag on the dressing table and stare at myself in the mirror. Fully made up, I don’t look bad. I’m still slim, my face holding up nicely. I’d have to work out, get back in tip-top shape to play Jinx, but I could do it. I pop the hat, give it a twirl and flip it onto my head, cocked over one eye.

  Yeah, looking good. I could do it. I grab a half-empty water bottle off the dressing table and chug the remains. No doubt about it!

  My cellphone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen. It’s Pat, my agent. “Hey, there!”

  “Hey, there, yourself. You sure make me proud, kiddo. You were magic.”

  “Thanks! So what’s all this about a new Holiday series?”

  “That’s what I’m calling about. Just got word that it’s a go. You believe it? They’re thinking mid-season replacement.”

  “Fabulous! I’m thrilled. Can’t wait to see a script. But what about Winston? You think he’d come out of retirement to do it?”

  “Winston? No—wait a minute, cookie. This’ll be a whole new cast, you know?”

  My mouth goes dry. “A new Jinx? Another actress?”

  Even as the words slip from my mouth, I glimpse myself in the mirror as I am—looking okay, especially for someone who hasn’t been nipped, tucked, lipo’d or Botoxed, but I’m not a kid. I’m not immune from sags, bags and crow’s feet. What was I thinking? Me? In shorts, flouncing around, bantering with Winnie the way we did some twenty years ago? What was I thinking?

  “Of course, Pat,” I murmur. “A new Jinx. I figured that. But, I mean—didn’t you say they called you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, they’ve already hired a young gal and they’d like you to give her some coaching. You up for that? They really liked what they just saw of you on The Today Show. Of course, I’m pushing for a recurring role for you. You know—make you a part of the series—but in the meantime, hey, I figure it’s some dough in your pocket, right?”

  I hear Pat fumbling, and she doesn’t normally fumble. She deals it straight and knows damn well I went skittering off the tracks, momentarily delusional that I would be cast as Jinx. “Sure, I’m up for it, Pat. You never know—I mean, sure, I’ll coach her. Why not?”

  “Great. The gal’s name is Chelsea Horne. And by the way, they changed the name of the new series. Instead of Holiday, it’ll be called Jinx.”

  “Jinx?”

  “Yeah, it’s all about her, not the Magician. We’ll talk when you get back. Call me.”

  Mercifully, she hangs up.

  I take the top hat off my head and snap it closed. Someone else playing Jinx? Sure, why not? A countless number of actors have played Hamlet. How many gals have played Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire? Okay, maybe Jinx isn’t quite in that category, but it’s a good role, one I created. She’s mine! Was mine.

  I glance in the mirror and see sad, hurt eyes looking back at me, eyes that I mustn’t let anyone else see—not ever. Nor can I say out loud what I’m feeling—that no other actress is going to get Jinx right.

  I slide the hat back into its scuffed box, tying the fraying grosgrain ribbons. Whoever plays Jinx is going to have to get her own damn hat. This one is mine. Or, rather, it’s Donna’s. Some things are sacred. Damn!

  I hate myself for feeling this way, but I can’t help it. I wonder if all the Catwomen feel this way about seeing another actress suit up in the ears and leathers?

  My cellphone dings. I flip it over and see a text message from Jack.

  Virtually the best, but better in person . . . soon!

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t plan it this way. Chelsea Horne, America’s newly minted Jinx, was supposed to meet me in Holmby Park at three o’clock, forty-five minutes ago. And counting. I arrived early, of course, because I always do. For some time (nineteen minutes, to be exact) I stood near the entrance to the bowling green on the south side of the park, where we’d agreed to meet, alternately watching thickset Russian immigrants playing chess on wobbly card tables and joggers speeding by on the walking paths.

  I’d already filled Jack in on my new assignment, reaching him in Seattle shortly before I boarded my flight back from New York. I’d made teaching Chelsea my hat tricks sound like a lark and he’d laughed, making me feel even better about taking on the job.

  Any remaining misgivings I’d had about training my replacement vanished when Pat told me the fee she’d negotiated.

  I ambled to the north end of the park, past the putting greens, restrooms and picnic area, to the playground, glancing back to make sure I hadn’t missed her arrival. I didn’t. It’s a small park. I would have seen her.

  Meeting in Holmby Park, a charming oasis of trees, meandering streams and a pond, had been my idea, arrived at after a series of text messages exchanged with Chelsea. I thought it would be a better place than Starbucks to get acquainted with my young replacement. We could stroll along the paths, chat a bit, and then find a quiet, grassy area to work out in with the hat.

  What I’ve been able to glean about Chelsea Horne on the Internet is thin but impressive: five foot seven, slim, pretty, with reddish brown hair, a description that matched my own at age twenty-one. But judging from a range of photographs available online, she’s in a class of her own. With an angular face, prominent cheekbones and intense eyes under thick brows, she has a quirky beauty that’s exceptional. She’d be hard to miss.

  Taking a path that crosses a narrow stream in the middle of the park, I spot a chunky young man with curly hair who I instantly recognize as Corky Shaw, the teenage director of Forsaken. I’m about to call out his name when I realize that he’s hunched over, camera in hand, filming something. I watch him slowly circle a middle-aged man wearing a pin-striped suit and an old-fashioned fedora, who is sitting on a bench holding a newspaper. I wait until Corky puts his camera down and the man removes his hat to fan himself.

  “Hey, there! Corky!” I wave as he turns and sees me walking toward him. “What’s up? I thought you’d wrapped the film already.”

  “Meg! Wow, hey, hi!” He grins, rocking from one foot to the other in a boyish display of awkward exuberance. “Just doing some, you know, pickup shots. Hey, this is my Uncle Joe. He’s playing the bookie.”

  “Joseph Shaw. Please call me Joe,” the man says, standing up and extending his hand. “You’re the Meg Barnes he keeps raving about? So I meet you, finally.”

  He’s tall and stocky, with thinning hair and a faint chalky pallor that could just be Corky’s attempt at applying some makeup. Joe smiles affably, but there’s a guarded look in his pale brown eyes. I sense he’s sizing me up, which only spurs me into displaying my most genial side.

  “Good to meet you, too, Joe. I’m playing Gloria, the ‘wronged woman’ in Corky’s film. I’m sorry we don’t have any scenes together.”

  “No, no, please. I’m not an actor. I only agreed to do this today if I didn’t have any lines.” He sets the fedora on his head. “But I think it was the hat that got me the job. It belonged to my father.” In fact, the hat suits him and plays into his old-world courtliness.

  “Meg’s great, Uncle Joe. I can’t believe I got her to play Gloria! I mean, I wrote the script with her in mind.”

  “Yes, so I understand,” he says, with a charming bow to me. “It’s very kind of you to help my nephew out with his hobby.”

  “Not at all. I’ve loved working with Corky and I think this is far more than just a hobby for him. He has real talent. I can’t wait to see the finished work.”

  “Yeah, neat. Thanks! I’ll have a trailer together pretty soon,” Corky says, bobbing from one foot to the other. “I just have some more exteriors to shoot. There’s a house up the street that’s perfect for Gloria’s mansion.”

  “Then we better get a move on, Corky.”
Joe looks at his watch, then turns to me. “Corky’s mother is working this afternoon and he needed a driver. Do you live around here?”

  “Close by.” I gesture vaguely toward a gated entrance across the street from the bowling green. “I’m actually meeting someone here.”

  “Nice neighborhood. You’re very lucky.”

  “I know. It’s lovely.” I glance around and spot a lanky young woman climbing out of a red sports car. “Actually, that might be her over there.”

  Joe and Corky turn to look just as the coltish beauty, wearing jeans, a tee shirt and a baseball cap, leans into the open window of the sports car. The three of us watch, transfixed, as she wiggles her bottom, raises a leg bent at the knee and kicks it back a few times while talking animatedly to the driver. Eventually she thrusts her head and torso through the window and wiggles her bottom again like a frisky puppy. I glance at Corky and see that he’s filming her energetic mating dance.

  “Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “I’m betting that gal’s a member of the Screen Actors Guild.”

  “If she’s not, she should be,” he mumbles, not taking his eye off the camera.

  The girl’s bottom stops wiggling, but she leans farther into the car. Moments later, she stands up and waves as the car peels away from the curb. Still unaware that the three of us are gawking at her, she takes her time checking her cellphone before turning around. When she does, I wave.

  “Meg?” She takes in the three of us, her look wary as she approaches. “I thought it was just going to be us.”

  “It is. But I ran into some friends. Corky and Joe Shaw, this is Chelsea Horne.”

  “Wow, hi,” Corky says, looking at her through a camera lens. “I can’t believe I’m, like, really meeting you in person.”

  “Yeah, hi,” she says, eyeing the camera. “Hey, could you put that down, please? It’s a little pervy.”

  “Hey, yeah, sorry,” he says, flashing her a nervous smile. He clutches the camera behind his back and stares at her, enraptured. “I, like, forget sometimes, you know? I saw you in Winner Take All. Awesome. Really awesome.”

  “Yeah?” She stares at him blankly. “Thanks.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Joe says. “We have to go. Ready, Corky?”

  “Yeah, sure. Nice to meet you, Chelsea.” He turns beseeching eyes on me.

  “Actually, Cornelius Shaw is a filmmaker,” I say brightly, picking up on his desperate cue. “Corky’s just wrapped a project called Forsaken.”

  “Awesome,” Chelsea says, her delivery modulated a tone above boredom to mild indifference. “Cool.”

  “Yeah,” he nods, his dark curly hair bouncing around his pale, cherubic face. “Cool.”

  Chelsea looks at her cellphone again as Corky rocks back and forth on his heels. Joe prods his arm, then takes his elbow and pulls him away.

  “Bye, Corky. Say hi to your mom and dad,” I call out as the two head up the footpath. “Nice to meet you, Joe.”

  While waiting for Chelsea to finish checking her messages, I reflect on how much she and Corky managed to express to each other in a handful of syllables. Hang in there, ET, there’s still hope for intergalactic communication.

  Meanwhile, with time on my hands, I take stock of the millennial generation’s version of Jinx. She’s thin, not quite anorexic. Her face is sculpted alabaster with full lips, large hazel eyes and thick brows, all familiar from the online photos, but in person there’s a bonus—a rich, throaty voice that gives her an unexpected dimension. I’m intrigued. She is her voice, I realize; mysterious and mesmerizing.

  When she finally looks up from her cellphone, I ask, “So, what happened? I thought we were meeting at three.”

  “Yeah. Am I late? Sorry. You know, costume fittings. My manager, something or other . . . Anyway, I’m here now. Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  I could have done with a bit more of an apology, but I’m not in the mood to scold. Nor am I in a rush to speak. I’d sooner let her set the tone for this meeting. She, apparently, is in no hurry to do so. I wait. I have no idea what she thinks of me, but her hazel eyes are sizing me up.

  “Hey, I’ll bet you don’t think much of having someone else play Jinx.”

  “You just better be good.” I smile.

  She smiles, her eyes appraising. “With your help.”

  Okay, that’s a start. I realize that I’ve lowered my voice a register and thrown in a little huskiness that doesn’t come naturally. I hope she doesn’t notice. I point my feet toward the path through the center of the park and she follows. “I hear you have a table read coming up and start shooting a week from Monday. That’s not a lot of time to prepare.”

  “It’s what I’ve got.” She reaches into her shoulder bag. “Show me your hat, I’ll show you mine.”

  I take the box with the grosgrain ribbon from my own shoulder bag and pull the ties. “It doesn’t belong to me, you know. I have to be careful with it.”

  “Sure, it’s an antique. I get it.” Her cat’s grin sets my teeth on edge.

  “Yeah, yeah, and yours probably has lasers and GPS. Besides, let’s be honest about this, you screw up and post-production fixes it. I had to get it right, first take.”

  “No computer-generated imagery, Meg. I’m not going to be flying and walking up walls thanks to CGI.” She drops her voice even lower and purrs, “Not that I couldn’t do it on my own, of course.”

  I smile. I’m beginning to like her. “Where did you study?”

  “Acting? Same as you.” She gives me a sly look, letting me know she’s done as much research on me as I’ve done on her. “New York, of course. Did some Off-Off Broadway, a couple of commercials, a few months on a soap before it got cancelled, then some episodic and a small role in an independent feature. That’s what got me out here. Did you see Winner Take All? Played at Sundance.”

  “No, but I heard about it. Good for you. Who did you study with?”

  “George DiCenzo. Harry Mastrogeorge. Dirck Heyward.”

  “Good, all good. I knew George. Studied with Harry. And you probably know already that I was once Mrs. Heyward.”

  “Oh, yeah. He said that he taught you all you know about acting.”

  “Dirck?” I whoop with laughter; can’t help it. “Let’s just say I learned a lot from Dirck. Acting might’ve been some of it.”

  “He thinks the world of you, you know. He mentions you in class all the time.”

  “Well, we spent a lot of years together.” What else can I say? We married. We divorced. I have no idea what he may be saying about me and, frankly, it’s not something I want to talk about with someone I barely know. However, I am impressed that Chelsea bothered to check me out on IMDb. The Internet Movie Database sometimes gets things wrong (I’m not about to correct the birth date, as it’s in my favor!), but it’s otherwise fairly complete.

  We sit across from each other at a picnic table and I get an even better look at Chelsea. She’s more relaxed than when we first met but there’s still a guarded look. Something tells me she’s the real thing, with natural instincts. She knows to let her voice do the work, without embellishments. There’s no need for her to pump up sincerity, concern, vitality; her warm, supple voice signals it all whether she means it or not. I’ve known other actors with great voices—deep, husky, velvety, raspy or whisky-soaked with a burr—who lay it on and become tiresome. But however seductive her voice, I’m not sure I trust the girl. And her face has a disturbing familiarity.

  “So, let’s see your hat.”

  She plops a shiny polyester-sheathed disk on the redwood table, then bangs the rim and the hat pops open. I watch it wobble on the table, not unaware that it sounds like a spinning penny. “Nice. Probably lightweight, too.”

  “So, let’s see yours.”

  I hold my black satin disk lightly between two index fingers and delicately tap a concealed mechanism with the little finger of my right hand. Magically, the hat pops open, and I set it gently on the picnic table, where it assumes an elegant,
yet cocky pose.

  “There you are, a thing of beauty in all its grandeur.”

  “I’ll bet it could talk if it wanted to,” Chelsea says. I know she’s kidding, but my hat has enough personality to beg the question.

  The two hats sit side by side, one still wobbling. Chelsea is going to have her challenges with this synthetic knockoff. “Yours lacks heft, that’s the problem. Even if you land it on your head perfectly, without the weight it could fly off again. It’s just not a real magician’s hat and I don’t think the prop master understands that. It looks more like a party favor, you know? A disposable New Year’s Eve kind of thing.”

  “Got it, Meg. It’s a piece of trash, okay? Meanwhile, the clock is ticking. I’ve gotta nail this before filming starts.” She looks around. “Any chance we could go somewhere else to work on this?”

  “Sure.” While her charm isn’t as abundant as I would like, that’s no reason to forfeit the coaching job. “C’mon, I live nearby.”

  “Can we walk? I don’t have a car.”

  Her words resonate. “No car?”

  She shrugs. “A friend dropped me off.”

  “Really.” I know it’s true because I saw the guy in the fancy red sports car, yet my stomach flip-flops. How many stories have I told about being “dropped off”? Until Donna offered me a spare room in her house, I lived in my Volvo, parked curbside at this very park. I washed up in the public facility. Holmby Park was “home” to me. Now it’s just my backyard. “Okay, let’s walk.”

  Nobody walks in Holmby Hills, although there’s no shortage of tour buses scouting the neighborhood for movie stars out checking their mailboxes. In addition to Aaron Spelling’s former 56,500-square-foot chateau (“the Manor”) and Hef’s Tudor-style Playboy Mansion, Holmby Hills has also been home to Judy Garland, Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, among others.

  “Blond Bombshell” Jean Harlow, who died at the age of twenty-six, lived in one of the most magnificent homes in the area, a brick house, originally painted brilliant white, built on a generous slice of prime real estate. Donna’s grandfather, a Belgian immigrant and maker of the popular hand-milled Savoir beauty bar, became a close friend of Harlow’s when she built her home in 1932, not far from his. One of Donna’s prize mementos is a sepia photograph of her grandparents drinking highballs with Harlow in her hidden speakeasy just off the kitchen. During Prohibition, a speakeasy concealed behind sliding walls was as common as a butler’s pantry in these luxurious homes.