Samantha refers to her clipboard.
Samantha Lytton: Oh, wait, no you can’t be—that sort of multifaceted characterization isn’t allowed in LA. Question five. How do you feel about Valentine’s Day, the most important holiday of the year?
Studly Stranger: My vision is fading. I’m so…so cold.
Angle On: The studly stranger falls over sideways into the dust. A zombie limps across the landscape and preys upon him.
Angle On: Samantha sighs and rips the sheet off her clipboard.
Samantha Lytton: Why is it so hard to find a decent man?
I spent the day following our return from Bruges in bed, inhaling macaroni and cheese, staring into space, feeling too zombiefied to even be comforted by Colin Firth.
Plus, I started my period, because God is a hilarious dude. While my uterus tried to claw her way through my belly button, I pressed my heating pad on my abdomen and gave myself over to the Break-Up Wallows. Every hour or so, the BUWs would be accompanied by the FASs, a.k.a. the Forever Alone Sobs. To round out the day, I experienced the I Hate My Fucking Ovaries Stabs of Pain.
But for the first time in my life, even though my romantic outlook was as desolate as a post-apocalyptic landscape, my professional life was still the stuff of dreams. Tomorrow, I’d go back into a couple of days of rehearsals, followed by the switch to nights for the actual shoot. My job still filled me with joy, and what a balm it was. My heart had been kicked around my rib cage by steel-toed boots, but I yet possessed a reason to get up in the morning.
I’d never experienced both the unbelievable grief of losing the love of my life and the unsurpassed joy of my ultimate career. Maybe you can’t have it all, but having something was better than nothing. I was still an insanely lucky woman, and, in my better moments, I held onto that. In my worse moments, I screamed, cried and wrote embarrassing poetry.
I gave myself the day—one day to be greasy and so pathetic that even my cat pitied me enough to stick close by for pettings and desperate hugs—and the following morning I showered, put on makeup and blow-dried my hair like an actual adult. I slipped on some stretchy jeans and a long, loose T, for while I was a fabulous actress ready to do fabulous acting, I still suffered from the IHMFOSoP.
Often I’d entertained the notion that God or the Being or whomever was a woman, but in times of excruciating period pain, I figured that no female deity would have designed so faulty a plumbing system.
Yet another reason to shake my fist at males.
Although bleeding for seven days and emerging victorious was a badass thing to do.
The next few days were fun as the cast began to gel and riff off one another during rehearsal. I allotted myself time to grieve Sam and worry about him, out there, hounded by the Ghosts of Criminality Past, but I kept my emotions separated from Competent Samantha, who kicked butt at acting.
On the warmish evening before the shoot would start, Danny came over to my rental apartment to chat through our characters, and to rehearse our scenes in a relaxed way. This was a professional meeting, so I wore a dress that revealed only half my cleavage.
The premise of the film was that a group of poor, down-on-their-luck work colleagues from a failing company decided to commit a robbery. They had pretty much nothing to lose—Danny and I played a divorced couple drowning in debt, and the others in the den of unprofessional bandits included a father who needed money to put his four kids through college, a computer geek—a lady computer geek, thank you—who wanted a challenge and a woman who must pay for senior care for her mother and father, as well as keep a roof over everyone’s heads.
Feelings came to me easily while we rehearsed, but fear gnawed at me that I wasn’t being terribly funny. I took a deep breath and dived into the scene we’d got to, in which the repressed lust between the ex-spouses came to a boil. The plan was for the thieves to wait in a closet tucked away in the public part of the museum, a place they’d observed to be unused most of the time. Then, once the place closed, everyone would emerge from hiding and rob the joint. I’d wanted to ask Sam about the feasibility of this plan, but I’d forgotten in our most recent kidnapping. Oh, well. Nothing in the media was realistic, just made up by a bunch of dorks in sweatpants pounding on computers, and thank goodness for it.
“You’re far away tonight,” Daniel said, whipping my brain back to the present.
I tried to laugh it off, but my smile was as tired as a mother taking six kids to Disney. “Sorry. I—” While I struggled to concoct a feasible lie, the truth spilled from my mouth like a too-big pile of spaghetti. “I broke up with my boyfriend and everything sucks!”
Oh, good. I was now crying in front of him. The lump in my chest tightened and squeezed. It took me a moment to control my halted breathing and to stop the faucet raining on my face. I needed to take Successful Human Being classes, because everything I did was the opposite of whatever they’d teach.
He scooched closer on the couch and put a warm arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry. That’s the worst.” Rubbing my arm in a manner that made me think ungentlewomanly thoughts, he continued, “This man clearly doesn’t deserve you.”
“Nope, I’m perfect and amazing.” I blew my nose and tossed the tissue in the waste basket I’d moved into the living room for this express purpose. I had emptied it of four hundred snotty tissues and three empty Cheez-It boxes before he came over because I’m not a sad person.
The concern creasing his handsome face touched me emotionally, and also dirtily. “Would you like to talk about it?” he asked.
I did actually crack up at that. Oh, yeah—I’m sure a mega-movie star wanted to hear about my feeeeeeeeelings. “No, that’s okay. Thanks for the offer, but I’m doing you a favour by declining. I have a bottle of vodka that’s serving as my therapist.”
He blinked his brown eyes at that one. Guess he was too together to ever consult with Doctors Grey and Goose.
I blurted, “Let’s rehearse. Work is a fantastic remedy for all ills.”
He gave me one more arm squeeze and turned to his script. Oh, but I was a nasty whorish slut lady, ready to jump guy number two’s bones immediately after guy number one had dumped me.
Hold up, though…
I’d been dumped.
Me equals dumpee.
Moi was the wronged party in the first degree.
That surely negated the Rule of Respectable Waiting Time Before Banging a New Dude, right? And what of my Overwhelming Urge to Screw Now That I Don’t Have a Designated Penis Handy? It was like drooling over a potato on the first day of a low-carb diet. These urges could not be ignored—I might rupture my clit or something. I had my health to think of!
My real smile shone through the confusion in my psyche. I too grabbed my script, even though I’d memorised the dialogue. My hands needed something to occupy them, as adorable Danny did not yet realise that he was going to be my super-hot rebound lovah. I would boink him on behalf of dumpees everywhere, and they’d probably erect a sculpture in my honour.
Ha! Someone would be erect, bom chicka bow wow.
“What are you laughing at?” asked innocent Danny innocently.
“You’ll find out later.”
Oops—that sounded entirely too seductive. I needed to be smooth and cool, like a cigarette marketed to ladies. “Shall we begin on page seventy-two?”
He nodded and swallowed. His casual outfit of a cashmere sweater and jeans made my dirty thoughts sweat. I angled my knees towards his until all four bumped in a sensual collision. Without looking at the page, I said my line. “This was the worst idea you ever had, and I’m including the day you asked me to marry you.”
“Really? I counted my worst idea as the day I met you.”
“I count my worst idea as…you…also!”
“Say it a little louder, Jayde—we’re not in prison yet.” Danny leant forward, in full fight mode now. His intensity robbed me of my breath. Or maybe I was just panting for fun. “But it is lovely to be reminded how everything i
n the world is my fault. I really missed that since our divorce.”
“Oh, don’t worry—I’ve blamed you for plenty since then.”
Danny broke character and laughed. I smiled, flattered, and flipped my hair. “A little professionalism, please?”
“So terribly sorry.” He purred it in his accent, which made my dial go to eleven.
“Harrumph.” My mouth said ‘harrumph’, but my hips said ‘hump’. I leaned in closer. What? It was in the script! I continued the scene. “If we go down for this, I’m putting it squarely on your head. Your failed business is the reason we have no money to begin with, and then your only solution to our money woes is to rob the most famous museum in the world.”
He grabbed my forearm and yanked me until we were only inches apart. His warm breath spilled across my mouth like a Caribbean breeze—the kind that makes you want to strip off your clothes and skinny dip. “I did everything possible for us! As if anyone could make you do something you don’t want to do.”
“I didn’t want to end up penniless, thirty-five and divorced—but it still happened!”
“I worked hard.”
“So did I.”
“Well, sometimes things just happen.”
“I know that!”
“Then why did you leave me?”
I gasped and sat back. My heart leapt from its perch on my sleeve and wedged itself in my throat. This hit me much too close to home. I said, softly, “You didn’t seem to want me there anymore.”
Pain and regret creased his forehead and tugged at his mouth. Damn, he was a great actor. “I couldn’t stand watching you wallow in stress and disappointment. I thought you’d be better off without me.”
I set my script down, the better to fight properly. “I never said that, Chase.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I sagged backward, letting my character’s tense frustration and head-splitting confusion flow through me. This part of the job seemed like magic sometimes—stepping into another skin, putting your own emotions on an overlay with theirs. Experiences may be different, but humanity is universal. We all know what loss is, and I’d been having a brutal affair with the feeling as of late. The painful helplessness of ugly circumstances flowed through my veins as steadily as blood. I continued quietly, “So that’s why we divorced? Because you thought I wanted it? I thought you were eager to be rid of me, the five-foot anchor weighing you down.”
“Who knew anchors could be so noisy?”
“Who knew men could be so…so…”
“Handsome, sexy…”
“Arrogant, deluded…”
“Awesome, good at football…”
“Argh!” I threw my hands up, inspired by the smug look sliming across Danny’s face. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me about what you were feeling?”
“Because we were better when we weren’t talking.” His stopped short, and his eyebrows rose. This was the point in the script in which he was supposed to pull me into his rugged arms and kiss the bejesus out of me.
The new spark in his eye told me he’d broken character, wondering what to do next. He grinned and looked at the coffee table. I should have been roiling in embarrassment—I’d never really been in a romantic role that required this sort of thing—but he’d done it lots of times. His shyness made him all the more attractive. Sam’s face swam in my head, but I took a firm hand and squished it somewhere between memories of having the flu and being yelled at by my mother, then piled it under some traumatic events from eighth grade for good measure.
“I guess we shouldn’t rehearse any further,” I said with a coyness so faux it was practically screaming “liar, liar, pants on fire.” My pants were on fire, and Danny was the hunky fireman sent to rescue me.
“Let’s save the awkwardness until we’re in front of fifty people.” He leant forward and squeezed my knee. I stared at his hand. He stared at his hand. The cat stared at his hand. “I’m so terribly sorry.” Danny snatched his wandering digits back while I made “it’s okay” noises.
But it wasn’t okay—the squeeze should have been at least ten inches higher on my thigh.
I sighed and accepted my fate as a lonely spinster lady. I already owned a cat, so check mark in that box. Did they carry boxed wine in England?
We began the scene again, this time standing, my mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions. Had Sam and I really talked it out completely? Were there feelings he’d hidden from me on purpose? Perhaps he hadn’t seen a clear path for us, so he’d chosen no path at all. Everyone chooses the easier, less painful road sometimes. Cowardice or self-preservation—the line is a fine one. The thought made me heartsick. My stomach curdled like bad milk.
I dived into the scene with a fresh sympathy for both—fictitious—parties. Danny and I fought with the bitterness of seasoned lovers used to whipping out their baggage and boarding the train to Blametown at a moment’s notice.
“Arrogant, deluded…”
“Awesome, good at football…”
The intensity grew, swirling around a point no one was quite sure how to find. The anger in his face rendered it all the more sharp and painfully handsome. His brown eyes almost pierced through me, searching for more than I was ready to show. Searching for more than my character was ready to show, I mean.
I took a step to him without thinking first. He followed suit. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me about what you were feeling?”
“Because we were better when we weren’t talking!” He grabbed me by both arms and pulled me close. I held my breath. His mouth opened and he leant down to close the space between us, fast. An inch away from me, he halted and a furrow creased his brow. I laughed a little, barely above a whisper, disappointed and glad both that he’d stopped what he was about to do. He flicked up to gaze into my eyes. My anxious smile widened. His lips softened into amusement, a what the hell? sort of smirk.
He kissed me.
I wasn’t at all prepared for it. I’d never dreamed he’d actually do it. Who the hell was I, anyhow? Nobody from nowhere! I thought of Sam, of guilt, of obligation, of professionalism. Finally, I thought, Samantha, you are the biggest idiot in the entire freaking universe. A hunky movie star is laying a fantastic liplock on you. Kiss him back—for America!
Danny was clearly talented at this kissing thing, as he’d been schooled by dozens of beautiful actresses—at the least. And he’d obviously taken his sexy training as seriously as his acting training, for his mouth played warm, firm yet soft, and definitely tried to coax mine into naughtiness. I wound my arms around his neck. His body felt solid and muscly, his hips angling against me in a slow, rhythmic way that made certain of my places respond as if we were already naked.
His hands crept to my waist and pulled me closer, if that was possible. He abandoned my mouth to kiss my neck, and I whimpered my approval.
My constant state of befuddlement broke through the haze of sex, and I put my hands to his shoulders to push him away gently. He took the cue, ever the gentleman, and eased his lock on all my throbbing areas. His eyes registered the same conflict that I’m certain was reflected in mine, but before I spoke, a knock sounded on the door.
Sam!
Who else could it be? I stepped back from Danny like he was on fire and nearly somersaulted backward over the coffee table. He caught me with a laugh that only mocked me a wee bit. “Thanks,” I said. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Our saviour, I expect. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. You’re quite sexy.” He grinned. “I mean…oh, whatever.”
“Please stop being so appealing. I obviously can’t control myself.”
God, this guy really was trying to melt my brain, wasn’t he? What even was my life right now? Two different sexy men…international jet-setting…people paying me actual money to do what I enjoyed… I wasn’t prepared for this. I needed a pamphlet from my guidance counsellor entitled So You’re Not a Loser Anymore.
He gathered up his things and said, “
I think perhaps we have the conflicted ex-lovers aspect of the film settled.”
I laughed. “Yuppers.”
The door-knock thudded again.
“Have a good evening, Samantha.” He hurried to the door, then turned with his hand on the knob. “Are you certain I haven’t offended you? I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“I didn’t exactly shove you off.” I walked to him and gave him an arm squeeze. “We just got caught up in the moment. That’s what they pay us for.”
His eyebrows jumped to attention. “That’s what they pay us for?”
“Oh, be quiet and go away!”
He smiled, thank goodness, and gave a gallant bow before opening the door. My muscles clenched, terrified of what Sam would say to being greeted by Daniel Zhang at his ex’s place at night.
But it wasn’t Sam. A woman I’d never met before filled the doorway. “Samantha!” the tall, lovely chestnut-haired woman said. “It’s been too long!” Too long? Yes, I guess ‘forever’ is too long. She breezed into my place, and Danny waved before disappearing down the hallway.
Leaving my door open, I followed the crazy lady a few steps. “I don’t know who you are.”
“No”—she plopped onto the couch—“but we have mutual friends.” Her accent sounded like one of those generally-European jobs, at least to my ignorant Yankee ear, and she wore what appeared to be a vintage 1950s dress of mustard silk, an expensive one. My eyes darted until I found my cell phone. I needed to call nine-one-one. Or the British equivalent. Dammit, jet-setting was hard.
I grabbed the phone and pointed it like a weapon. “I’m calling the cops unless you leave.” Perhaps in a different life, I might have given a strange lady in my apartment the benefit of the doubt, but nowadays it seemed smarter to jump straight to “Ack, she’s trying to kill me!” mode.
“You’re not calling the police. Is she, Sam?”
Her eyes shot to the front door, where he stood, easy as you please, his hands in his pockets. The bastard smiled at me and closed my only means of escape behind him.
The Dimple Strikes Back Page 10
