Screen Play

by Chris Coppernoll

  Maureen Burns had a slithery way of making an invitation to a social call sound like a trap was being set.

  “Tonight? No, I can’t meet with Helen tonight. I’m leaving town tomorrow morning.”

  “Harper, Helen is a kind and munificent woman. She would never say this, but I think you owe her somewhat for where you are today. You’d never have gotten this far without Helen dropping out of the show. If it were up to me, there would have been a lawsuit.”

  The wind turned cold on Bleecker Street, and I moved to the other side of the newsstand. A city bus passed, belching fumes and smoke, making it impossible to hear Maureen.

  “A lawsuit? For what?”

  “All sorts of things, breach of contract, the tarnishing of a beloved actor’s reputation, but that’s neither here nor there. Helen would never injure an institution she loves as dearly as the theater. I just thought you’d want to know how generous she’s been, and I don’t think it’s asking too much of you to honor her request and see her tonight.”

  “For coffee?”

  “Coffee it is. Helen lives in Trump Tower. I’ll tell her you’re available. Around seven thirty?”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, wishing I’d had a better reason to say no.

  “Good. And Harper, why don’t we agree to keep this meeting a secret among the three of us for now?”

  A yellow cab let me out in front of Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. I entered the glass-tiered building through the grand lobby and looked for the elevators. It was my first time in the renowned building, a splashy display of gold and mirrors, shops, escalators, and a walking bridge.

  “Harper!”

  I turned to see Maureen Burns coming toward me. She was dressed in a tweed business suit like the one I’d seen her wearing at the Carney. Her skin was ashen, saved from the ravages of the sun by never wandering out into it. She lived in office buildings, courtrooms, and under florescent lighting. She held out her hand to me as if she could be trusted, and I reached over to shake it.

  “I’m glad I bumped into you. I was just walking out for the night,” she said. “Helen and I only this minute finished our regular business meeting.”

  She guided my elbow like a rudder toward the elevators and pushed the button. The timing of our bumping into one another was too convenient. The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside.

  “Seventeenth floor,” she said, handing me a card with Helen’s address printed across it. “Just ring the bell. Her housekeeper, Bonnet, will let you in.”

  Bonnet? The elevators doors closed like metal theater curtains, and I couldn’t help feeling I’d been invited to coffee much the way a turkey is invited to Thanksgiving.

  Bonnet opened the door after just one ring of the bell. She was a plain middle-aged woman with robin’s nest hair, and she was wearing just what I’d expected: a maid’s uniform, looking like a Bleak House servant from the nineteenth century.

  “Ms. Payne asks that you wait in the den,” she told me without making eye contact.

  I seated myself in the next room on a long cream-colored sofa with bamboo framing. The den was immaculate, like Audrey Bradford’s. The furniture looked expensive and rare, as though it had just arrived in crates, shipped from Asia by slow freighter. There were two birds, parakeets I guessed, locked in a brass cage suspended on a hook, each facing a different direction. The carpeting smelled like it had been professionally cleaned, a chemical odor lingering in the air. Twenty or so framed photographs decorated the lid of a closed baby grand piano. I stuck my nose closer in to read the autograph inscription on a picture of Robert Mitchum.

  Helen surprised me, appearing suddenly through one of three entrances in the large apartment.

  “Harper, I’m so glad to see you again.” Helen greeted me with a friendly embrace, squeezing both my hands in hers.

  “Sit down. I’ve been looking forward to having a chance to talk to you.”

  We sat across from one another.

  “Maureen Burns said you wanted to see me?”

  “I do. I wanted to congratulate you on all you’ve accomplished. You surprised a lot of people, Harper, including me. I was just talking to Maureen about your talents as an actress and how I think they’ll serve you well over a long and prosperous career.”

  Helen’s face took on a conflicted look. “She’s also my attorney and has strongly suggested I file a lawsuit against Ben and the producers of Apartment 19, but I won’t do it. That’s not why I asked you here, Harper.”

  “Why did you ask me here?”

  Helen stood. “I don’t want to sue Ben. That’s not why I got into this business. If I’d wanted to spend my time in a courtroom I would have become a judge. However, that doesn’t excuse Ben for what he did. He humiliated me in front of New York’s theater community. Ben Hughes represents all that is wrong with the current generation of producers and directors. They don’t have the respect for the art form, or the deference required to work with an actress who was starring on Broadway before he was out of his diapers.”

  “Helen, listen, I don’t want to get into why things happened the way they did …”

  “You’re not married, are you, Harper?”

  “No, I … what does that have to do with …” I began.

  “Good, keep it that way. You’ve got a bright future. Don’t spoil it by running off and surrendering your life to some man. They’re really good for very little when it comes right down to it.”

  “I would disagree. My dad’s been there for me, and I know another man who risks his life for people he hardly knows.”

  “Risks his life?” she asked. “What is he, a fireman?”

  “He’s a pilot in the arctic.”

  Helen made a face like she smelled day-old fish. It was the face of Audrey Bradford. I recognized it from all those rehearsals at the Carney, and I was sitting in her apartment, a real life Roxy Dupree.

  “Do you live in the arctic?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know him, do you? I wanted to see you because I want to give you some good advice, Harper. You’ve got real talent. I’d give anything to be young again, like you. But you … you have the world on a string right now. You can do anything you want as long as you don’t let anyone get in your way. Stay focused on the prize, Harper, and someday if you’re lucky, you’ll be just like me.”

  ~ Twenty-two ~

  “Hello, Katie? Hi! No, it’s not too late to be calling me back, unless you’re hoping to grab coffee. I just landed in Los Angeles. Yes, I’m walking to baggage claim right now to pick up my luggage.”

  I pulled my carry-on down the concourse. It was warm and sunny throughout LAX. The Muzak system piped in an old song by Fleetwood Mac, and I could smell California Pizza Kitchen from the food court.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be out here. I have business with my agent, Sydney Bloom, and I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I’m driving to northern California this weekend to finally meet Luke.”

  “You’re going to meet your flying lumberjack?” Katie asked.

  “Yes, finally. He’s flying down to Seattle, and so we decided to meet halfway. Avril’s still in New York, but I talked her into flying out tomorrow to join me. Today was just too soon. Could you do me a huge favor and check up on her?”

  Sydney picked me up in front of LAX in a brand-new white Escalade with tinted windows. I saw the temporary tag taped in the back window when I came around to load my luggage.

  “Oh, Harper. It’s so good to see you.” Sydney wrapped her large arms about me, swallowing me up in her welcome. She looked the same as the last time I’d seen her, with the addition of a large floral-pattern beach hat.

  “I was just thinking on the way over here, it’s been a year since we’ve seen each other. Isn’t that amazing? I can’t
believe time has gone by that quickly.”

  Sydney popped the SUV’s hatch. I picked up my suitcases and carried them to the back.

  “I’ll finish loading your suitcases. You climb in front. I have news I can’t wait to tell you.”

  A minute later we were driving away from the airport. I rolled my window down and stuck my hand outside to catch the warm, thick breezes. Palm trees waved on the sides of the road. I was definitely not in New York anymore. Even the yellow taxis looked like they were headed to the beach.

  “Harper, you’ll never guess who graced me with a phone call this afternoon, asking about your status, about your professional availability.”

  “Who?” I asked, shifting my point of view to watch Sydney as she drove.

  “Jos-eph Ha-gen,” she said, speaking each syllable with care. “He told me all about your black-tie rendezvous at the Society benefit in New York, and that he’d seen Apartment 19 twice. I’d actually never spoken with him before. Joseph’s one of those A-list directors who doesn’t usually associate directly with casting and theatrical agents. Of course, we all know him by reputation as a director with a long and some would say infamous history of discovering leading ladies.”

  Sydney peered over the top of her sunglasses at me.

  “He’s smitten with you, Harper. I can hear it in his voice. He called to say he has a script he wants you to read—and I don’t mean ‘just read.’ He has a script with a strong female role he wants you and only you to play.”

  “My gosh, are you sure? He didn’t mention a word to me when I met him.”

  “Quite sure. He kept me on the phone for the better part of an hour this morning discussing the project and your availability.”

  Sydney pulled up to a stoplight, waiting until the last second to brake. She looked over at me with disbelief on her face.

  “He also said you’d told him you had nothing lined up. Harper, you’re not new at this. That’s the last thing in the world you want to tell a successful director like Joseph Hagen, or anyone else for that matter. They’ll get the idea no one else wants you.”

  “I don’t have anything else going on,” I said, looking out the window at a father and two young boys playing catch in a park; the scene stirred with activity, men fishing, seniors walking, kids on skateboards. The light switched to green, and Sydney pressed her lead foot to the pedal, whisking it all from sight.

  “Well, you do now. In this situation, it probably worked for the best because his production is steamrolling ahead. Get this. He’s been looking for his leading lady for seven months. Can you believe it? They’ve seen literally hundreds of actresses, and while Joseph was in New York on another matter, he heard and read about Apartment 19. You’re the actress he’s set his sights on, and the last member to fill his cast.”

  “Where would it shoot?”

  I’m not sure why that was the first question to pop into my head. Maybe it had to do with meeting with Helen the night prior, or a meeting I couldn’t stop thinking about in northern California.

  “Right here in LA, but does it matter? Harper, six months ago you were invisible, now Joseph Hagen has your head shot stuck to his refrigerator door with Oscar magnets. He can film his movie at the North Pole for all we care.”

  I laughed. “You’re right. Tell me about the script.”

  “It’s not a big-budget picture with CGI effects and car chases. That’s not Joseph’s style. The picture’s called Winter Dreams, and it’s the story of a young woman who feels frozen in her life. Her husband dumps her, and she loses her job, so she moves to Los Angeles to start over. While she’s here in LA, she meets a man, a kind of mysterious rugged stranger, who it turns out isn’t really a stranger at all, but her guardian angel.”

  “Her angel?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s the basic premise. There’s more, of course, like the little detail that he falls in love with her. Are you getting the picture?”

  “That’s called The Bishop’s Wife.”

  “Well, sort of, only it’s not a Christmas picture, and it’s set in sunny LA, not snowy Vermont or Connecticut, or wherever.”

  Sydney stopped talking.

  “So what happens to this woman?” I asked.

  “She learns some heavenly lessons. It’s a drama, a life changer, lots of tears and some laughter, a happy ending. Joseph’s sending over the script. Why don’t you read it and tell me what you think?”

  “You said it has a happy ending. Just how happy?” I asked.

  “She finds true love. Sure, there’s some heartbreak along the way. There always is. The point is, it’s Joseph Hagen.”

  We drove awhile until Sydney pulled up to her beach house in Malibu. She turned the wheels of her Escalade into a parking space at the rear of the house. Over the privacy fence, the Pacific Ocean was a sparkling blue, brush stroked across the horizon. Sydney’s rose bushes burst with red blooms, and the tiered levels of her sundeck had been landscaped with driftwood, natural rock, and sea grass.

  She turned off the engine and looked directly at me. “So, what do you think about the picture? It’s perfect, right?”

  “Yes, it’s perfect. Completely perfect.” I looked out at the sailboats dancing with the wind in the afternoon sun. I wanted to be out there on the water, or at least walking along the beach. “I know there’s more to discuss, Sydney, and I’ll want to read the script, but I can’t imagine not doing the picture.”

  “What’s wrong, kid? You look kind of shocked.” Sydney said.

  “It’s just a bit overwhelming,” I confessed. “The story, the long flight, and everything that happened in New York. I guess I am feeling a shock.”

  Sydney grinned. “That’s Hollywood electricity, Harper. The power company switches it on when you’re offered the role of a lifetime.”

  She pulled the handle on her door, stepping out into the sunlight. I followed, instantly revived by the smell of saltwater and the touch of a dry, warm breeze that brushed my hair with gentle, invisible fingers.

  “Is it, Sydney?” I asked, pulling out my suitcases. “Is this really the role of a lifetime?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re about to appear on the front page of every magazine and entertainment TV show in the country. If Joseph captures half of what I know you’re capable of, you’ll see script after script from the top directors in Hollywood for years. But if the movie is a hit, Harper, you’ll break through the ceiling for A-listers, and you’ll see seven-figure salaries per picture, easy.”

  “Should I ask what this one’s paying?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you. Joseph said he’s sending over the script tomorrow, although I wouldn’t be surprised to see it sitting in my mailbox right now. If we like it, we’ll talk terms.”

  Sydney showed me to my room. It was filled with bamboo furniture, a matching bed frame, and sunlight. Beach-themed knickknacks littered the wicker bookshelves—shells, white sand in a bottle, photos of Sydney’s nieces building sandcastles with lime-green buckets and raspberry-red shovels.

  “I’m running back to the office for a couple of hours, but let’s plan on having dinner around seven, okay? I know I’m needing Tex-Mex, and if you’ve never had Mexican food in Southern California, Harper, you’re about to fall in love. Oh, and I almost forgot to ask. Do you have an update on Avril?”

  “She’s flying out here tomorrow. Why?”

  “I’m just a little mad at her.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s supposed to start work on an independent film in Seattle in two weeks. Well, she called me last week to tell me she wanted to drop out of it.”

  “Did she tell you why?”

  “She just said she needed a break, but she’s the one who told me she wanted all the work I could find. It doesn’t look good to bail on a film production, although admittedl
y, all we gave them was a verbal agreement. Still, I thought it was a good match for Avril.”

  Sydney left, and I decided to take a nap. I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean smoothing the sand and drifted into dreams of an unfrozen life.

  Sydney decided to work from home the next morning. We sat on the wooden deck underneath a blue and white umbrella tilted to shelter us from the sun, eating a breakfast of eggs, coffee, and grapefruit. The morning air had a cool, crisp feel to it, and I found watching the surfers navigate the curling water to be the most relaxing thing I’d done in months.

  “So did you ever get in touch with Avril?” Sydney asked.

  “I’ll call her again this morning,” I said. “She was still making flight arrangements the last I knew, and she’ll probably need a ride from the airport.”

  Around 10 a.m. the phone rang once, then stopped.

  Sydney was working at her laptop at the dining room table. Suddenly the phone rang again as both of us sprang into action.

  “It’s got to be Joseph,” Sydney said, reaching for the phone.

  “Caller ID?” I asked.

  “Not on this one.”

  Sydney pushed on the speakerphone.

  “This is Sydney Bloom,” she said, as we waited for the unmistakable accent of Joseph Hagen.

  “Hey, Syd. It’s Avril. Guess where I am.”

  “Hon, I’m not that good at guessing anymore.”

  Avril laughed. “I decided to take Harper’s advice and fly out of New York. I got stuck in Denver last night, but I’m back at the airport, waiting for my flight. It’s kind of a screwy schedule, but I should be at LAX in a few hours. Sorry I didn’t just come with Harper yesterday, but can I beg you to pick me up this afternoon?”

  “Beg us? Honey, you and Harper are my two favorite girls in the whole world. This is turning out to be one of the best weeks for news. Just tell us what time your flight lands, and we’ll be there!”

  We had a couple of hours to kill. After breakfast, I took a long walk on the beach. I wore light brown shorts and a gauzy yellow summer shirt. The sun and wind warmed and cooled my face as I walked near the waterline, where the sand is wet and firm.