by Alison Bond
She paced the length of her bedroom, adjusting the drapes at the window to distract herself from her loneliness, and thinking that she might order some new ones, despite there being plenty of wear left in these. It wasn’t as if she only changed things when they needed to be replaced. If that had been the case, then Ruby would still have her old browline and her original teeth.
The view of the Pacific Ocean from the pink beach house was the same as it had always been, but today it failed to inspire her. She preferred her home here to the one she’d had in Beverly Hills. She had offered that mansion to Octavia some years ago but Octavia had said she’d prefer Ruby to sell it and give her the money instead. Ruby ended up giving her half.
Welcome to the fabulous life of Ruby Valentine.
She picked up a script. Another lame Movie of the Week that she suspected Max had sent over just to keep her quiet. If she couldn’t even be bothered to read it, what were the chances of her actually getting passionate about playing the part? When was the last time she had been passionate about anything?
She hadn’t made a decent film since the Eighties. For two decades she had tried and failed to repeat her previous successes. Struggling to find parts had been bad in her thirties, worse in her forties, and now she had on her lap the first script that asked her to play a grandmother.
Okay, so technically, no matter how infrequently she saw her children’s children, she was a grandmother, but still, it was mortifying. She thought back to her carefree London days, painting the town red with Ella, poor, sweet Ella who had died a few years ago. Ruby never had the chance to tell her she was sorry. Ella was once her only friend. Now she had no one. Tears of self-pity threatened her expertly applied eyeliner. She needed to shift this grey mood otherwise she would drink the day down to the dregs.
A little buzz of excitement cut through her gloom. There was something she could do that always thrilled her. Something non-alcoholic that never failed to lift her spirits and give her a warm glow. Whenever she was feeling desolate she turned back to herself for comfort. Because if you can’t rely on yourself, on number one, then it might as well be over.
Decided, she walked through to the guest bedroom with a spring in her step. Stashed behind a wall of false leather book jackets was her private video collection. There was a single copy of every film she had ever made. There was a selection of family archives taken when the children were little and life was fun, transferred from super-eight film to videotape. There was some of the finest pornography, imported of course. There were also two deeply buried tapes of Ruby with Dante, intimate gifts she found the strength to watch on special occasions. But Ruby pushed them all aside; they would do nothing for her today.
She selected the tape she wanted and returned to her bedroom. This tape had been a birthday present from Max Parker for her fiftieth. Ruby had tried to hide her excitement when they first watched it together. But Max knew her too well, that was why he had known that this would be the perfect gift for Ruby Valentine. This was her favourite kind of porn.
Soon the drapes were drawn, the candles were lit and a bottle of champagne fizzed in the ice bucket. The bedroom was set for a seduction. Ruby let her hair fall to her shoulders and faced the mirror, letting her robe fall to the floor.
What she saw did not disappoint her, nor did it fill her with joy. For a woman of her age she knew that she looked incredible, but she was old. Ruby had fought valiantly against the signs of the times but nature’s armoury was too robust. She’d had some surgery of course, mostly minor stuff, but it was only barely holding back the tide. She lifted her chin and watched her neck inevitably crêpe. The plastic surgeon who invented an effective procedure for a woman’s neck would be a billionaire. The neck and the hands always give it away. She lifted each plump breast in turn, mourning the loss of their original perfection. Her hair hung limp and lifeless across her shoulders, thin without its usual artificial assistance. A millimetre of grey roots, no more than a few days’ worth, depressed her. But in the muted candlelight, without her contact lenses, it was possible to imagine she was a gorgeous young girl once more.
She pulled her robe back around her body and blew herself a kiss. She turned slowly in front of the mirror and then pushed the videotape into the machine.
The black screen slowly faded up to a face of such physical perfection it looked as if it had been crafted by artists. In a way it had. Her teeth were straight, her hair chopped and dyed, her eyebrows thinned and arched. The result was luminous. Of course, that was when Ruby had youth on her side. That was when she was the girl in the red bikini. The tape in the machine whirred like a lullaby.
The camera roamed luxuriously over her elegant cheekbones, her pale almond eyes emphasized with black kohl and fake eyelashes. A perfect bow mouth completed the face she knew so well. The face that had been her fortune. Strong artificial light washed out any imperfections, her skin looked as smooth as an eggshell. The dodgy soundtrack to Viva Romance had sensitively been replaced with a favourite Rachmaninov symphony. The broad vowels of her accent as a girl were still an embarrassment, buried within a couple of years by dedicated attention to the way she spoke.
Ruby gasped as if a lover had touched her when the scene changed to show her locked in a deep embrace with Earl…? She couldn’t remember his surname; her co-star on Disturbance had slipped into obscurity but she was still here, surviving. That film would always mean the most to her. It was the film that had bound her to Dante for ever.
Of all the many gifts Ruby had received in her life this tape of clips was her favourite. No jewel had the brilliance to compare to a journey through her life. No fur could keep her as warm as these happy memories. This was pure, unparalleled pleasure.
Her favourite section was coming up. With a self-indulgent tear in her eye she watched her twenty-something self glide up to the podium at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion to take her first Academy Award for Best Actress. The camera cut to show Dante in the audience looking proud and head-over-heels in love. She hit the pause button.
Dante Valentine. What would her life have been like if they’d never met? She only ever wanted to be a star to make him happy. She only ever wanted to make him happy so that he would stay. So that she might continue to feel like a goddess in his bed. So much time had passed since his death that he had become almost mythical – a gifted director, victim of Hollywood excess, cut down in his prime. There had been too much written about his bad habits, the drugs and the women, but Ruby remembered the truth. She had loved him because he was the only man who lit the torch inside her, a torch which had died when he did. Call it chemistry, call it desire, call it masochism. He could inspire her.
Ruby poured herself a glass of chilled champagne and walked over to the marble mantelpiece where Oscar stood with his twin. The golden figurine still gleamed with the same brilliance. Taking it with her free hand, she went back to the bed and watched the rest of the tape with the Oscar cradled close to her chest. All her greatest screen moments captured in one unique tape. Another Academy Award, the famous love scene from Fell in Love with a Boy, the best of the rest that she’d done. She adored herself.
By the time the clips ended Ruby was rapturous, drunk on her success rather than the champagne. Her robe fell open and the cool metal of the Academy Award was shocking against her hot, bare skin. Her nerve endings awoke and connected with the emotional intensity of her thoughts. Idly she rubbed the statuette across her nipples, watching them harden in response.
This award was absolute proof. Once, she had been the greatest of them all. She had been everybody’s darling. She had been remarkable.
She felt the smooth shape of it, caressing the clean golden lines, and pushed it further down her body, quivering with anticipation. The Oscar was cold and thick between her legs and she rubbed herself slowly and deliberately with it, knowing exactly where this was heading but not wanting to rush the ultimate ego stroke.
As she pushed and it entered her Ruby gave a scream of unadulterat
ed pleasure. Oscar was the best lover she’d had in years.
34
Later that week Max drove over to the beach with a script called Next of Kin.
It’s a television series,’ he said, and continued before Ruby could speak, ‘No, wait, hear me out. It’s a CMG package. We’ll build the show around you.’
‘TV, Max? I don’t mind doing the Movie of the Week stuff, but a series? Isn’t that just a sexy way of saying soap opera?’
‘Look what President Bartlett did for Martin Sheen.’
‘President who?’
‘The West Wing?’
Ruby continued to look blank.
‘Never mind,’ said Max. ‘Just believe me, Ruby, all the best writers are working on television these days. This show is funny, smart and relevant. It’ll give you job security, isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?’
He had her there. She was too old to be running around town chasing down the few good parts going. Giving corny interviews to magazines just to keep herself in the public eye. Being inordinately grateful that Sofia was making a name for herself in case it reminded a casting director of her grandmother.
‘I’d cut you a killer deal,’ said Max. ‘Unbreakable commitment, awards kickers, profit share.’
‘So you think I should do it?’
Max took his time before answering her. CMG had a lot riding on the success of the show. Ruby was still newsworthy, her involvement would guarantee interest. He knew that if he phrased it right Ruby would take the job. ‘It’s steady and local and you’ll make a hell of a lot of money.’
Money was always the dealmaker with Ruby. Promise her a few fat zeros and she’d do anything. She had millions stashed away that she’d made over the years. Max knew because he’d put it there for her.
Next of Kin was a television show about a dysfunctional family. Ruby was being asked to play Camille, the matriarchal head of the Burden clan.
She looked over the scripts and they perked her interest. Camille Burden was a class A bitch but deceptively wise. Maybe Max had a point. But television? Wasn’t that as good as saying that she’d never be brilliant again? That she was a TV star and no longer a movie name? The line between the two might be blurring considerably but everybody still knew deep down which side had the most integrity. Or did they? She knew this decision was important. She read the scripts again, properly this time, and they were discerning.
That night she imagined how it would be to go to work at the same place every day and see the same colleagues. Didn’t people say that working on a regular television show was like one big happy family? She might make some friends. It would be hard work but she liked that. One final push before she slowed down for good. Life was too short to worry that there were photographers waiting outside your house first thing in the morning or reporters going through your trash. Lately the idea of a Garbo-like retirement had started to appeal. Then it wouldn’t matter whether she was TV or film or goddam Broadway because she’d be sipping Pina Coladas by the beach and counting her money.
‘Okay,’ she said to Max the following day. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’ll set up a meeting with the director and the exec producer.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A meeting.’
‘An audition?’
‘Come on, Ruby. Of course they’re going to want to meet you.’
‘You said this was an offer. I never knew I’d have to test. What? Is the guy going to put me on tape with some reader and judge my improv? No way.’
‘It won’t be like that,’ said Max.
‘Damn right. I’m not auditioning for a television show. I don’t think I’m quite down on that level yet, do you?’
Max was infuriated. Ruby could be so inflexible. The older she got, the more she dug her heels in and complained. He worried that it was symptomatic of her empty life. It had been an age since he saw her with a man.
‘It’s not about being down on any level. This is television; it’s different.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that.’
‘Won’t you just meet them? They’re both huge fans,’ he lied. ‘They’re thrilled about it.’
‘Fine. Whatever. When?’
*
Ruby was on time for her mid-afternoon meeting with Next of Kin and she looked incredible. She’d spent all morning at the Mondrian Spa and skipped lunch to make an emergency appointment with her hairdresser. She wanted to look her best. She hugged an oversized Louis Vuitton shoulder bag close to her side.
There were two men waiting for her in a room that smelt stale like dust. Not the glittering luxury she had hoped for, the high-budget event drama that Max had promised Next of Kin would be. But the younger of the two men was cute and his eyes lit up when she walked into the room. The director, she guessed, they always knew talent when they saw it. The other man was clearly a production executive, dazzling teeth and rigid hair slapped on top of a face that was fighting too many years in the sun.
Maybe the austere setting boded well. She had met many people with the mistaken impression that all you needed to make it in Hollywood was a really good decorator.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ said the director. ‘Seriously.’
‘Good to see you, Ruby,’ said the other guy. His eyes met hers with a judgemental stare and then ran over her body.
‘Gentlemen,’ she said. She sat down in the lonely chair on her side of the desk. ‘So this is an audition, correct?’ Ruby aimed her question at the director.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘But this is an ensemble show, we need to make sure that everyone fits.’
Ruby took a deep breath. She reached down beside her into the Louis Vuitton bag and she pulled out an Oscar. She planted it firmly on the table between them with a resounding thud.
Then she reached down again, pulled out a second Oscar and slammed it down next to the other one.
She met their curious gaze defiantly. ‘That’s my audition, guys. Hope it fits. I’ll be waiting for your call.’
Then she picked up her Academy Awards, put them back in her bag and swept out of the room.
Six hours later she was cast, subject to contract, and her attitude had paid off. She wanted to make it very clear from the beginning that Ruby Valentine was still a star.
35
As far as Ruby was concerned Next of Kin was a disaster. It wasn’t just the outrageous storylines and unfamiliar faces; it was the miserable weeks on location without a single decent scene. It was having constantly to work at a blistering pace, with people who thought that taking time meant wasting money, not that taking time meant getting things right. The seven-month shoot was the hardest work of her life.
She watched the debut at home on her own with a stiff drink.
The following morning she had breakfast with Max to look over the reviews. She threw aside the newspapers in disgust: a dozen flattering write-ups and not one of them highlighted Ruby’s performance.
‘It’s an ensemble show,’ Max explained.
They were breakfasting at the Four Seasons. Max had been fully prepared to cancel if the reviews were unflattering, or at the very least change the venue to somewhere more low-key. He didn’t need self-satisfied commiserations from all the other executives on the shady terrace if things were bad.
The reviews had been solid. Not raves, not slaughters, just solid. Slightly cautious, waiting for the next episode, Max understood that. The overnight figures were good and that was the main thing. It was true that Ruby hadn’t received much individual praise but on the whole things were looking very positive.
‘You should be pleased,’ said Max. ‘Don’t spoil your moment. Everyone knows you’re the star. They’re interested in the new faces, but nothing more than that.’
‘You’re saying they’re not interested in me?’ said Ruby. ‘Do you think they’ve had enough of me?’
Max sighed. Sometimes Ruby could be so steeped in self-pity that she was
painful to watch. He didn’t know if he could face it today.
The sad fact was that Ruby had looked slightly out of place in last night’s show. Her clothes were all wrong – structured suits and flashy jewellery that didn’t fit with the slick, fluid style of Next of Kin. Slightly dated. He made a mental note to speak to wardrobe. The character of Camille was an integral part of the storylines for the next season; after that maybe they could see.
‘Is there anything about?’ said Ruby.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I have ten weeks off. What do you expect me to do?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, taking his time, brain racing. He hadn’t come prepared for this. ‘I’ll have to think, there might be something shooting in Canada. I didn’t know you’d want to work.’
‘Why the hell not?’ asked Ruby. She had no intention of working, but she wanted to see Max squirm. He was earning his money too easily on this one. He was chipping off his steady 20 per cent at the end of every episode, when he hadn’t had to make a single phone call on her behalf since she’d signed her contract. He was set up for years now, 20 per cent for doing sweet FA. She was the one out there risking her credibility, rising at dawn to shoot a twenty-second scene devoid of a good line for Camille. She was backdrop, a straight man, not the star, and she didn’t know if she could do it all over again next season, and the season after that. Ruby was used to being the centre of attention. She had seen the way Max smiled when he read the early edition of the New York Times review, full of praise for some other cast members, also clients of his. Sometimes he seemed to forget that his entire career had been built around hers.
Max was still racking his mental casting sheets for a part for Ruby. If she wanted to make money then he wasn’t about to talk himself out of a percentage. Ruby was obviously going through a high-maintenance period.
