Hollywood Strip

by Shamron Moore

“Close your eyes for me,” said Ming Lee, the key makeup artist, and lined Callie’s eyes with metallic shadow. “I’m going buck-wild with your makeup today. Layla’s going to look especially special for her close-up.”

  Callie held a copy of USA Today and flipped to her favorite section, D. Prominently featured on the cover were Gabrielle, Tom, and the two lead actors from Blow It Up. Gabby, resplendent in a strapless gown and fur stole, beamed next to her director. His thick arm circled her waist.

  “Is that Tom and Gabby?” asked Ming. She stopped swirling her makeup brush to examine the picture. “Wow, she looks gorgeous. She’s got a body for days. Check out those boobs, holy smokes! I wear a 36C and she makes me feel flat-chested.”

  “Try standing next to Gabby with a 34B; I’m a two-by-four,” quipped Callie.

  “Haha. Man, is Tom ever caught up in her. I caught them making out the other day.”

  “You did? Where?” Callie exclaimed.

  “In his trailer. The door was cracked open and I could see them in a lip-lock. Not just any little peck but a full-on tonsil hockey session. Romances always start on set, don’t they? Every set I’ve ever worked on, there’s been hook-ups; actors banging other actors or directors or crew members. Between you and me, I can’t imagine letting that man touch me. He’s so unattractive and hairy. But, he’s got beaucoup bucks, so on second thought, if I were a hot, young thing…” She warbled a throaty laugh.

  “I wonder why she didn’t mention that to me when we talked yesterday,” Callie said.

  “She seems like a very private person. Maybe she doesn’t want to advertise certain things, even to her friends.”

  “Maybe…”

  Larry, the production assistant, strolled through the room and handed Callie a sheet of paper. “We have your schedule figured out for the next few days. You’re off Tuesday.” He looked at the newspaper and whistled.

  “We were just talking about them,” Ming said. “They’ve got a little hanky-panky going on.”

  “You think?” Larry said sarcastically. “We all figure they’ve been knocking boots for a while. Tom is one lucky guy, I gotta hand it to him. He must have had a bomb-ass time last night ’cause he didn’t make it to bed, unfortunately for us, so proceed with caution, Callie. Just a friendly warning. Hey, Sal, how’s it going?”

  “Hunky-dory, thank you.” Sal Saunders took a seat in the makeup chair next to Callie. A mixture of Old Spice and BO plugged her nostrils. His face was dehydrated and gaunt from forty years of smoking. Except for a shock of snow-white hair, he looked identical to his film characters that Callie remembered watching as a child.

  “You’re good to go, sweetie,” chirped Ming.

  Callie hopped to her feet and approached Sal. Her palms were clammy. “Mr. Saunders, I’m honored to be working with you. I’ve been a fan ever since Hollow and Haunted.”

  “You’re Layla, I presume?” Sal said. His slate eyes pierced through her with laser-beam intensity.

  “Yes. We have a scene together today.”

  “I’m aware of that. So, you’re the one they call ‘One-Take Callie,’ eh? That’s good to hear. I hate wasting time.”

  “I do, too. Fortunately, memorizing lines comes easy for me. I could really use your advice about a scene, what with all your experience—”

  “But more than that,” Sal said, “I hate babble. Excuse me. I’d prefer silence while I prepare.” He closed his eyes as Dotty, his personal makeup artist, applied foundation.

  Callie turned on her heel. “What an asshole,” she said under her breath. An hour later, she met up with him again to film the first of their five scenes together. Although distant when the cameras weren’t rolling, Sal sprang to life when he heard “action.” He exuded devilish charm as Hamburg and kept the crew entertained with his knack for physical comedy. Even Tom, who stomped around like a stormy cloud, lightened up from Sal’s performance—if only momentarily. When Tom wasn’t shouting for silence, he was barking orders at anyone within a foot radius.

  “Craig, tape these wires down for me! This is the second goddamned time I’ve tripped over them. And where in the blazes is the cappuccino I asked for yesterday? Christ almighty, people, work with me.” Tom rubbed his bloodshot eyes and turned to Callie. “Now, you, young lady. Your big monologue is next up, the heaviest scene in the whole film. How do you feel about it? Prepared?”

  Callie had gone over the dramatic scene countless times but hadn’t mastered crying on cue, a glitch that made her doubt her abilities as an actress. “I’ve got it down,” she said. Liar.

  “Good girl. Can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with,” Tom said.

  Two hours and twenty takes later, Callie’s eyes remained dry as the Sahara. Try as she did, she couldn’t muster any tears. She wondered when Tom would start screaming profanities. He sat in his director’s chair and nibbled the tip of his thumb, waiting for her performance to happen. Callie finally threw her hands up. “I’m sorry, Tom—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t do it.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. “It’s not an easy scene. I rewrote it a million times and almost axed it entirely. Do you want to break?”

  “No … I don’t know … I guess I just don’t have it in me,” Callie moaned.

  “Malarkey. Don’t be goddamned ridiculous. You can do it. I’m positive on that, otherwise I wouldn’t have hired you. Hmmm … Let’s try this.” He crouched next to Callie on set and lowered his voice. “Layla is upset because every single person in her life has double-crossed her. There’s no one for her to turn to and she feels lost. Utterly alone. Tell me about a time when you felt most alone and scared and vulnerable, when you wondered how in hell you’d make it out alive and in one piece. Think about that … a friend or pet or family member who’s no longer with you. You will never see your loved one again on this earth. They’re never going to touch or hug or kiss you. Ever. Just think about that for a few, let it soak in. Tell me when you’re ready, but don’t feel the need to rush it. Just take your time, let it soak in.…”

  Callie thought of her father and suddenly her eyes poured. Finally! She did her scene. And another take. And another. And another until she couldn’t shed any more tears and her body felt weak from dehydration.

  “And, cut!” Tom said. “I got what I need. Well done, Cal. That last take was especially spot-on. All right, boys and girls, it’s three A.M. and it’s a wrap.”

  Callie wiped her eyes and blew her nose; emotionally, she was spent. Home had never sounded so good. She bumped into Tom on the way to her car.

  “Say, Callie, before I forget,” he said, “I’ve got a good friend who can help you work on your acting. One of the best coaches around. Her name’s Deirdre.”

  “Deirdre Coleman?”

  “That would be her. I’ll buzz her and see if she can give you some pointers. You’re good, don’t get me wrong, but with a little coaching, you’ll be brilliant.”

  “Thank you, Tom. I really appreciate that.” It was easier obtaining a one-on-one with the pope than booking a session with Deirdre Cole. Coaching three decades’ worth of Oscar-winning actors made her the most sought-after teacher in town. Callie had auditioned for her class several months ago—and was turned down flat. (“Not bad, but you’re too green,” said Deirdre. “And your tone is nasally. Come back after you’ve worked with a voice coach and have some credits under your belt.”)

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, go and get some rest. I for one am fucking beat.”

  25

  Callie staggered into her apartment building. Her weary expression turned into one of puzzlement as she approached number 10; music and a jumble of voices were audible before her key entered the lock. Candice was splayed on the floor along with two people Callie had never seen before, all of them glassy-eyed. Cocaine was piled on a glass platter—a treasured Christmas gift from Grandma Esme—and plastic cups with cigarette butts littered the place while hip-hop boomed from an iPod.


  “Hi, Cal, I didn’t know you’d be home so soon,” Candice said nonchalantly.

  “It’s three thirty in the morning, Candice! What do you mean you didn’t think I’d be home so soon? Who are these people and what are they doing in my apartment?” She marched over a gangly-bodied man and flipped off the music.

  “I just thought I’d invite a few of my friends over. We came back ’cause all the clubs closed. This is Ian and his brother, Ted. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up. Sit down and party with us.” Candice scraped a line of coke with her credit card.

  “I just had a long day on the set, I’m dog-tired, and I want my apartment back! You don’t get it, do you, Candice? You live here rent-free, raid the refrigerator without offering to buy food, bring strangers into my home without asking me, and, to top it off, do blow off my grandmother’s china!” Callie’s face and neck were crimson.

  “Callie, let me explain. It’s not what—”

  “Explain what?! How you’re a mess? How you blow off auditions and piss off casting directors because you’d rather get wasted? I’ve had it with you using me. Not anymore, the party’s over. Pack your shit. That goes for all of you—get the hell out of here. Now!”

  Ian and Ted rose to their feet and left, but Candice remained. Tears filled her eyes. “Callie,” she said, “you can’t really mean that.…”

  “I really do, believe me. I love you, but I can’t help you anymore. This is the last straw. Leave, and take your shit with you,” Callie said.

  Candice scooped up an armful of shoes and garments and dumped them in a garbage bag. “I’m missing some stuff. I left some dirty clothes in the hamper, I think. Will you call me if you find anything?”

  Callie nodded but avoided eye contact. Candice stumbled out the door.

  * * *

  Paul Angers’s Hollywood office was just five minutes from Callie’s apartment. She didn’t want to risk being so much as one second late and arrived a half hour before their scheduled time. The office was bare bones in decoration; two chairs and a steel coffee table sat forlornly in the middle of the room. A few framed movie posters—clients of his, Callie presumed—hung on the otherwise barren walls. Ursula presided behind a desk, her frame easily dwarfing the hefty piece. Her diminutive, high-pitched Southern drawl stood in sharp contrast to her size.

  “Hello, there. You must be Mr. Angers’s one thirty, Miss Callie Lambert,” said Ursula.

  “Yes, I’m a bit early.”

  “Now, there’s somethin’ I don’t hear every day. That’s a rarity in this town, usually everyone is runnin’ behind. I’ll tell Mr. Angers you’re here.” Ursula cradled the receiver in her shoulder while her immaculately manicured nails clicked away on the keyboard. “Mr. Angers, Miss Lambert is here … yes, sir. Of course, I’ll tell her. He’ll be right with you, sugar. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you.”

  Paul emerged from a room behind Ursula’s post. “Come on in, Callie. Have a seat anywhere you like. Glad to see you brought your headshots. I’ll take a look at them in a bit. So, how’s Nympho Cheerleaders treating you?”

  “I’m having a ball letting my inner diva rip. The only thing I’m nervous about are those sex scenes.”

  “Ah, yes, there’s a racy exchange between you and the other girl. What’s her name? The blonde…”

  “Gabby. She’s a friend of mine, so I’m hoping that will make it easier.”

  “I’m sure the crew will be the first ones on set and the last ones to leave,” Paul chuckled. “Even though the subject matter is fluff, the script is a well-written satire and you get the whole tongue-in-cheek tone, too, which says a lot about you as an actor. You have a natural aptitude, and finding a pretty girl who understands comedy isn’t easy, believe it or not. So, tell me—what do you want?” Paul leaned back in his swivel chair, hands pressed together.

  “I want an agent who believes in me as much as I believe in myself,” she said in steely earnestness.

  “Bold and to the point. I like that. The Wilders think very highly of you and if you’re on their side, you’re golden. The only reason I stopped by that day was because you really impressed Will and he thought I should have a look. I was an agent at Metro for twenty years before I opened my own agency eight years ago, so believe me, I’ve seen a lot of actors but not very many talented ones. The thing I like most about running a boutique agency is I get to focus on each client as an individual; that’s why my roster is made up of less than sixty. Let’s have a look at your headshots. Hmmm…” He leafed through her photos, the corners of his mouth bent downward. “When were these taken?”

  “Six months ago. No good?”

  “No good,” he echoed. “They look very amateur. I have some recommendations for photographers and they’re not too pricey, either.”

  “What about my comp card? I’ve been using it for modeling for over a year.”

  “The comp isn’t bad. In fact, this one could work as a headshot.” He pointed to a three-quarter-length photo of Callie attired in a white tee and jeans. “I like it because you look fresh but still sexy. You’re not trying too hard. You remind me of a young Raquel Welch—only a friendly version.”

  “But I don’t want to look like anyone. I just want to be me.”

  Paul rested his elbows on his desk. “Relax. I don’t think you’re trying to be anything you’re not. I like your spunk, though. So many kids come to Hollywood thinking they’re the next Marilyn or Jimmy Dean and I find it sad. The truth is they never will be. It cannot be done and you know why? Because there can only be one. Individuality cannot be duplicated.”

  “What types of actors do you represent?” asked Callie.

  “An eclectic mix—character types, some leading men, and way too many Ethels and not enough Lucys. No one like you, and I’ve been hunting for a leading lady.” He grabbed a stack of headshots. “There’s this girl, Gretchen, who has a similar look but she’s shorter and British. Taylor, here, just booked a Spielberg film. She’s only sixteen, moved here from Florida last month. Josh, this fellow, has been a regular on Son of the Hamptons for three years.”

  Paul’s frankness appealed to her similar straightforward nature. He wasn’t another Doug Starr peddling five hundred look-alikes. And—most important—he had faith in her abilities.

  “Paul, you’ve found yourself a new client.”

  26

  The breeze carried the tangy smell of molasses through the air. Meat sizzled on the grill; the flames licked hunks of beef and ears of corn. Diego’s Catering made Callie’s mouth water. She hadn’t had barbecue, her favorite, since living in Michigan. For four straight weeks she’d religiously maintained a diet of steamed vegetables and grilled chicken. The camera added ten pounds and looking as svelte as possible was the number one goal. With all of her nude scenes safely behind her, though, she saw no reason to continue torturing herself. Happily indulging her appetite, she gorged on carbs and red meat until the seams of her jeans were about to burst.

  “Gabby, bite her neck. Ooh, yes, just like that.… Throw your hair back, Callie.… And again! Don’t look so strained, you should be in ecstasy—this goddess-of-a-woman is devouring you. Hair! I need hair on set. Bigger, tease the fuck out of it.… More, more … Give me I-just-fucked-the-shit-out-of-you-for-two-hours-straight sex hair, damn it! That’s more like it.… Terrific…”

  She thought of her sex scene earlier in the day and blushed. Callie was as nervous as Gabrielle was comfortable, but then it wasn’t the first time she had had simulated sex; Wicked Seduction, a late-night cable movie, had given her plenty of experience. Love scenes were as easy for Gabby as reciting the Lord’s Prayer and Callie was relieved the script called for Kiki to seduce Layla instead of the other way around. It was enough just worrying how her naked body was positioned for the camera. Who would have thought a sex scene had to be so perfectly choreographed? Tilt your head farther back; don’t hold your knees so close to your body—it creates an unflattering shadow across your stomach and bloc
ks your breasts; tear her panties off before she kisses you, not after.… So many dos and don’ts to remember! One page of script took five hours to perfect. And yet, despite all the technicalities, Callie was aroused. Gabrielle’s sizzling kisses and bold sexuality would excite a ninety-year-old impotent gay man. Callie had never been intimate with a woman, behind closed doors or otherwise. A peck on the lips was as far as she had ever gone.

  Six grueling hours later, the girls kicked back in Gabrielle’s trailer and ate lunch.

  “I saw you in USA Today; you looked amazing,” said Callie, gnawing on a spare rib.

  “I was shocked they ran that picture! My parents called when they saw it. They seemed proud of me, for once. Finally, their daughter gets a write-up in something mainstream and respectable,” Gabby said dryly. “Tom and I had a lovely time. It’s amazing the number of people he’s connected to; he knows everyone! And he’s so generous, too. On the way there, I mentioned I was a little cold, so he told his driver to pull over—we were right by the Grove. He actually went into Barneys and came out five minutes later with a mink stole! Can you believe that? Mink. He insisted I wear it—wouldn’t take no for an answer. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.”

  “Did you spend the night?”

  “Yes, and every night since. He says he’s in love with me.”

  Callie swallowed. “What did you say to that?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. He’s so good to me, naturally I care about him. He’s not exactly the most handsome man, like Justin. But what he lacks in the looks department he makes up for in personality. He keeps me in stitches most of the time. There’s never a dull moment, which is great, because I hate monotony as well.” She lowered her tone. “Plus, he’s hung like a horse. We had sex four times last night, I kid you not. The libido on that man! He wears me out and I’m twenty years his junior.”

  The visual of a naked Tom Johannesburg sporting a hard-on induced Callie’s gag reflex. “So are you two exclusive?”