The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s great to meet you again.’

  Lila nudged him. ‘Hey, dorkhead, is that all you can say? If it wasn’t for Jules –’ She turned to me. ‘We’re going to take you out for dinner, real soon.’ She turned back to Trev, nuzzling him. ‘Aren’t we, hon?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  They moved away.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ he said. ‘Take care.’

  I remember that I walked along Ocean Avenue, afterwards. It was dark. The blood-red sun had long since sunk behind the rim of the sea. The film unit had gone; it was as if they had never been. The beach had been returned to the night. All I could see was a glow of phosphorescence on the water. It was getting chilly. The pedestrian signal chirruped me to cross, but I wandered over to a bench in the little strip of park. The bench was concrete, and painted with an advertisement. DRUGS. BANKRUPTCY. DIVORCE. BARNEY TOVEY, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

  I sat down on the cold concrete, between BANKRUPTCY and DIVORCE. On the other side of the street was a row of restaurants, lit for the evening. In some of them I could see the kitchens; white chefs moved around, behind plate glass windows, stirring sauces. In Los Angeles you didn’t go to the theatre, you watched your dinner cooking instead. We’re going to take you out for dinner real soon. Somewhere Trev and Lila would be stuffing themselves with food, greedily. Eating each other.

  I had lost count of the number of cigarettes I had smoked. The wide street, busy with traffic, separated me from the restaurants. Once you are an outcast, you suddenly notice that you are not alone. Santa Monica was full of bums. Like cockroaches, they came out at night. They panhandled the streets, their faces looming in the headlights; they weaved amongst the cars, pushing supermarket carts crammed with their belongings.

  I sat there, numbly. Behind me, I heard something flapping. A man was shaking out a piece of plastic bedding. I realised, with surprise, that it was eight-thirty. Along the stretch of park, in the shadows, people were settling down for the night. They lay amongst the yuccas, muttering their grievances to the stars. Wrapped in ghostly grey plastic they looked like cocoons. The sound mixer had told me he had worked on Cocoon 2 – or did he mean Cocoon, too?

  I wandered around for ages, vaguely looking for my car. I had forgotten where I had parked it. Fixed to a palm tree was a sign: Bluff Subject to Slide: Use Park At Your Own Risk. The concrete steps down to the beach were cracked and broken. Out here on the West Coast nothing was stable; all my old certainties had shifted, from under my feet. I was in the desert now. They had stitched it over with plastic grass but it didn’t fool me.

  Next thing I knew the phone was warbling. I jerked awake. I was in bed in my hotel room. It was midnight.

  ‘Jules?’

  It was Trev.

  ‘Listen, Jules,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon, I felt such a shit. I want to explain everything. You’re not working Thursday afternoon, are you? How about a nice cup of tea at the Four Seasons? Four o’clock, OK?’

  Five

  YOU START A love affair in the Warwick because it’s so private. And you break it off in the Plaza, because it’s so public you can’t beat each other up. Somebody had told me that, once. The Four Seasons Hotel at teatime seemed about as public as you could get. Who could start a fight amongst dainty cups of Earl Grey? He’d planned it all out, the bastard.

  I dressed that morning with great deliberation. My face looked pinched; unhappiness had desexed me; it had aged me alarmingly. I couldn’t bear to hear what he had to say.

  I stood in the middle of the carpet. I felt utterly exhausted, and I hadn’t even met him yet. There were ten hours to go. What if he told me that the thing with Lila wasn’t serious, he was just using her to get into the movie business? Could I believe that? What if he told me that this was just a mad fling, and that he’d come back to me in the end?

  I felt sick. I pushed some more bangles onto my wrist, and brushed my hair. For the hundredth time I asked myself: what would Lila do if I told her the truth, that Trev and I had been lovers for the past two years? How would she react? Would she be outraged, that he had lied to her and that, by doing so, he had shown himself capable of lying to her again? Would she be sorry for me and break it off? Or would she just say to me, ‘Tough shit, cookie-face. That’s the way it crumbles’? They had both betrayed me terribly.

  At seven o’clock I drove to the location. We were shooting a scene on Rodeo Drive. Jane Eyre goes into a jeweller’s shop to get her watch-strap mended. Whilst she is standing at the counter Mr Rochester and Blanche drive up in his Jaguar XJ-S convertible, park outside, enter the shop and choose an engagement ring. You might think it sounds unlikely for a shrink to get her watch-strap repaired in Van Clees & Arpels, but there you go.

  It was a complex scene to light, because the shop was an Aladdin’s cave of precious jewels. They winked at me; they hurt my eyes. I stood for hours at the counter, resting my hands on its glass top. Jon, the cinematographer, shouted instructions to Andy, the gaffer, and his scurrying crew. They darted around, pulling clothes-pegs off their t-shirts and pinning up screens and filters.

  ‘I’m getting a kick off that necklace, move it to the left . . . Lose that piece of white paper, next to the cash register . . .’

  I’m losing you, the love of my life.

  I stood there, numb as a cow waiting at the slaughter-house.

  ‘Soyou’re an actress, then?’ Trev, wandering around my living room, picking up books and inspecting them. His jeans were torn at the knee. ‘Should I know you then?’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  His grin, flashing.

  A light-meter was held in front of my face, impertinently close. Why were they doing this to me? Maybe I should speak into it. Christ it was hot. I was suffocating.

  ‘Fancy a drink? I’ve got the van outside.’

  Assumed indifference. My heart hammering. ‘OK. Just a quick one.’

  I was locked in limbo. Around me, bejewelled clocks were displayed in their illuminated niches. Their hands had stopped. On the other side of the counter stood the actor who played the shop assistant. He was chatting to me, from far away. The words came out differently.

  ‘Let me guess. You’re a gin and tonic.’

  ‘Pint of bitter.’

  ‘Ah, the woman of my dreams! I’ve been searching for you all my life.’

  Around me they banged and hammered; the whirr of a Black & Decker drilled into my skull. I didn’t even like beer. I only drank it so I could have the same liquid inside me as was inside this guy who had delivered my chimney pots. Wasn’t I foolish?

  ‘You OK?’

  A face loomed up, close.

  They sat me down for a while. They thought I was ill. Lila seemed to be there now. She was particularly skittish that morning; she exuded such sexual gratification I could smell it. She flirted with Grant, the focus-puller. She always flirted with focus-pullers, I had noticed it for months. They were out front with her, in front of the camera; they were the willing accomplices in her sensual relationship with the lens. Revolting, wasn’t it?

  The warning bell rang; it made me jump. They went for a take. Lila spoke her lines to the shop assistant, lifting her watch and showing it to him. Somebody seemed to have brought me a glass of water; they must have done, because I was holding it in my hand. At the back of the shop, faces were clustered around the video monitor. They were lit an eerie, misty blue.

  Trev, walking round that restaurant, his napkin over his arm. ‘Are you ready to order, sir?’ Walking from table to table, in his black suit.

  Me, watching him. My hand clapped to my mouth, giggling into my fingers.

  The door opened and the camera dollied round as Lila turned to stare at Mr Rochester and Blanche. They entered the shop arm-in-arm and laughing. Members of the crew watched, poised and hushed like doctors gathered around an operating table.

  When we broke for lunch I couldn’t eat. I went into the make-up trailer to fix my face. Sonn
y was sitting in there, eating a toasted muffin and watching I Love Lucy on his portable TV. He was an amenable guy; he sat me down in front of the mirror and got out his powders and brushes.

  ‘Got a date? he asked. ‘Someone special?’

  I smiled mysteriously. He didn’t just touch up my face, he had his professional pride. He gave me the full works: sooty eyes, sculptured cheekbones. Forgotten in the corner, Lucille Ball yacked at Desi Arnaz.

  ‘You have a fabulous face,’ he said. ‘Plenty of character. It doesn’t jump out at you all at once. Kind of releases its secrets, slowly. I’ve been longing to get my little paws on it.’

  He stood back and looked at me proudly, like a cook inspecting a perfectly risen soufflé.

  ‘I can always recognise my work,’ he said. ‘Some extras, they don’t wash it off for days, they just touch it up each morning. I met one on Melrose, once. She said, “I’m taking care of my investment.”’

  I thanked him and left, walking down Rodeo Drive. I wasn’t needed that afternoon, they were shooting scenes with Mr Rochester and Adèle. I had three hours before I had to be at the hotel.

  I felt weak with dread; it came in waves, flooding me and then retreating, leaving me drained. Rodeo Drive was flanked with stores – Armani, Valentino, Christian Dior. Parked Rolls-Royce Corniches and Range Rovers gleamed in the sunshine. Their drivers were propped against them like dolls. Flowers blossomed in tubs; they looked as perfect as plastic. The whole street had a toytown unreality. When I was a little girl I dreaded the dentist because in those days it hurt like hell. The hours before my appointment had the same glazed artificiality; my impending pain set me apart from the passers-by, who went about their business sealed off from my terror, as silent, colourful and innocent as fish in an aquarium.

  I walked down Olympic Boulevard and went into the Nieman Marcus department store. It was full of rich women with time to kill. I wandered around, my face stiff and hot under its mask of cosmetics. Maybe Trev wouldn’t recognise me; maybe he would fall in love with me, all over again.

  I went up to lingerie. Everything was made out of silk and ostrich feathers and cost about $3,000. Maybe Lila shopped here. Blonde women fingered the underwear; they had stretched, wolfish faces like Joan Rivers. ‘Sure she had plastic surgery; I cut up all her credit cards.’ Soon Lila would be due for her first nip-and-tuck. Even a film star couldn’t stop the clock. She had a Polish granny with loose skin on her hands. She and I had giggled together like sisters in the changing rooms.

  Next to lingerie there was a roped-off snack bar called The Fresh Market. More paper-thin women sat there, toying with low-sodium salads. I sat down. A server approached. He was a small, swarthy man; his name-badge said Jesus.

  ‘And what would you like today?’ he asked.

  I thought: a miracle. If Trev were sitting next to me, he would grin and say to him, ‘How about a couple of loaves, with fishes on the side?’

  Suddenly I missed him, desperately. I missed his jokes.

  Jesus stood there, fiddling with his order pad. He looked embarrassed. That’s because I was crying again. At least I wasn’t making a noise; I managed to do it almost silently.

  Wasn’t I stupid? All that lovely make-up ruined.

  I waited until ten past four before I went into the Four Seasons Hotel. I did have some pride.

  The hotel was not far from Rodeo Drive, on Burton and Doheny. I had spent the afternoon wandering around in the sunshine, feeling nauseous. I knew Trev so well; I could guess exactly what he was going to say. And yet I didn’t know him at all. Not now. I had re-run so many different conversations that I felt dizzy. My rehearsals had confused me.

  The Four Seasons was a luxury hotel surrounded by foliage. I had imagined so many versions of it that the reality gave me a jolt. As I arrived, gardeners were planting ornamental cabbages in the flowerbeds. Stretch limos were sighing to a halt outside the lobby; bellhops were scurrying around, valet-parking cars. There was a brass plaque beside the door, warning me that Trev was inside. DANGER. This Area Contains Chemicals Known to the State of California to cause Cancer, Birth Defects and other Reproductive Harm. Funny, wasn’t it, that there was a law forbidding smoking, but no law forbidding the possession of an armoury of automatic machine-guns and Kalashnikov rifles with which to blow people’s brains out. Trev’s brains, for a start. Insane place, America. It drove me insane, in the end.

  The lobby was all marble floors, carved stone tables and huge, spotlit bowls of lilies. A Vivaldi lute concerto played over the sound system. Trev obviously believed in disposing of me in style.

  I went into the Rest Room, brushed my hair and inspected my tense, glistening face. I put on some lipstick and returned to the lobby. My heart thumped. To my left was an ornate drawing room, all creamy silk settees, mirrors and obelisks. It was empty, except for a sign pointing to the Microsoft Strategy Briefing. Where was he?

  I asked the concierge for instructions and he directed me across the lobby. On weightless legs I walked through an archway and into the bar area. I glanced around. No sign of Trev. He hadn’t arrived yet.

  I sat down at a table. It was an elegant room with a grand piano, recessed lighting and trompe l’oeil murals. A waiter came up and I ordered a pot of Darjeeling tea for two.

  I lifted my wrist to look at my watch. My hand was trembling. It was 4.15. A brochure on the table informed me that I was in an oasis of privacy and calm, where my every moment would be cushioned and pleasured by the incomparable Four Seasons service.

  There was only a handful of people in the room. At the next table sat an intense-looking Jewish woman and two young men.

  ‘It’s a relationship picture,’ she was saying, ‘and I’ve added the environmental issues.’

  Should Trev find me casually reading my book or gazing into space? The young men were telling the woman how much they admired her work, and how she could give this project a lot of edge. They said it was very much a go project now. Her cloudy black hair was tied up in a spotted ribbon; she wore a black trouser suit and white Reeboks. She said that since she’d had children her writing had a stronger dramatic centre.

  ‘Having my two kids, it’s like, a reality base,’ she said.

  It was 4.20. The tea arrived and the lute concerto started replaying its loop all over again. Trev was always late; how many times in the past had I waited for him impatiently? How many times had my suspicions stirred? I’d never let him know, of course. I opened my Maya Angclou novel and pretended to read, but the print danced in front of my eyes.

  A phone warbled. I jumped. The woman opened her tote bag and pulled out her phone. For a mad moment I thought Trev was calling. She’d pass the phone over, saying, ‘It’s for you.’

  She was speaking into the phone. ‘I’m still in my meeting, Max. Why don’t you call Nicky Stein and ask him over to play? Put Fiona on . . .’

  It was 4.25. A man came into the bar; I froze. But it wasn’t Trev. The man walked through to the garden.

  ‘Fiona?’ said the woman. ‘Go into my office, press button 6 on my phone, that’ll connect you to the Steins, and ask Nicky if he wants to come over and play.’ She put the phone back into her tote bag and said to the men: ‘I’m a high-tech housewife.’ They laughed. She said, ‘I’ll give this project some serio-comic thought.’

  They started talking about their favourite Monty Python sketches. People in LA were always talking about their favourite Monty Python sketches. She liked the Silly Walks and they liked the Dead Parrot. It was 4.40. This was a designated smoking area and I had smoked three cigarettes, threatening reproductive damage to both my neighbours and myself. I had drunk two cups of tea, the cup chattering like teeth against the saucer.

  I gazed at the large, leather-bound folder that contained my bill. It was as heavy as a library book. At five o’clock I finally admitted that he wasn’t coming, the low-life, snivelling little coward. So I paid up and left.

  Trev phoned me late that night, when I was in bed.


  ‘Where the hell were you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Honest.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘I meant to,’ he said. ‘Honest. Straight up.’

  ‘Think I liked just sitting there?’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to be quick.’ He paused, lowering his voice. ‘I started out. I got into the car and everything. Then I thought: what’s the point?’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Where would it get us? We’d have all these recriminations. You’d just get upset.’

  ‘Upset?’ I gasped. ‘My God, your grasp of vocabulary . . .’ I took a breath. ‘Look, we’ve got to talk.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to hear it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You just wouldn’t.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Try me.’

  ‘Look, we knew it wouldn’t work out in the end.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

  ‘No. What?’

  I heard him taking a breath. He had prepared this. ‘When I realised that you put your career first, that it was more important than your life with me –’

  ‘You lying creep!’ I yelled. ‘You suggested I came to America –’

  ‘You were always too intellectual for me, you knew that. Come on. If you’re honest. Listen, Jules, you’ll find someone more your level. You’re incredibly attractive –’

  ‘Christ almighty! The condescension!’

  ‘It’s you who were condescending,’ he said. ‘You were always analysing me, you made me feel inferior –’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ I shouted.

  ‘Now I’ve found someone who’s not superior, who just loves me –’

  ‘When did you two get together?’

  ‘Look, I didn’t ask to come out. I want you to know that.’ His voice was spuriously sincere. ‘Her office contacted me. What could I do?’

  ‘You could’ve told me!’ I yelled. ‘When did it all start? Before you went to Scotland?’

  He sighed. ‘That’s why I thought we shouldn’t meet. What’s the point? You’d just shout and scream –’