Masquerade: a romantic comedy

by Janette Rallison

  “I’m sorry,” Clarissa said.

  “Next time,” he said. “I’ll look for someone who thinks the role of spouse is more important than the role of star.”

  But did he still want a star? She couldn’t ask.

  Slade lifted his book again, done with the subject. “Live and learn. I won’t make those same mistakes again. Although,” he added with a grumble, “if I had it over to do again, I’d still send Brad Nash into that salad bar.”

  Clarissa stared at the pool decking and thought about her own divorce. Would Slade think she was the type who didn’t understand commitment and didn’t want work on her marriage because she had been the one to leave? If Alex had shown up with some bimbo at a salad bar, at least she would have had an easy and understandable excuse for her divorce. But how could she explain to Slade what her marriage to Alex had been like?

  Alex had lived a charmed life, a perfect life. All through school he’d been popular, sought after, and revered. He’d played football in college and had been recognized around campus. When he and Clarissa had married during his last year of college, things were good for a while. Things changed when he took his first job.

  Alex suddenly became just a junior accountant in a big firm that didn’t care how popular he’d been in high school or whether he could catch a football. He wasn’t surrounded by adoring women. He only had Clarissa, and she’d grown less glamorous every day with a new pregnancy.

  Clarissa could see the transformation in him happen, could almost see his dissatisfaction becoming tangible. He complained about everything she did. She was supposed to be always beautiful, organized, and cheerful. The house was supposed to be spotlessly clean, dinner always ready, and Elaina completely under control.

  That way, at least part of Alex’s perfect life could continue. No matter how hard Clarissa tried, she hadn’t been able to meet his expectations.

  She stayed with Alex longer than she wanted to, hoping Alex would find a way to be happy. On the day they married, she’d made a commitment, and she felt bound by it.

  As Elaina grew older, though, Alex turned his unrealistic expectations on her. Clarissa had been willing to put up with Alex, but she wasn’t about to let him drain the joy from her daughter’s life. She gave him an ultimatum: he needed to change, or both she and Elaina would leave. He chose the latter. And he chose it without much struggle or regret. That part still stung.

  “Live and learn,” Clarissa said softly. “That’s the key to life, I guess.”

  He looked up from his book to study her one more time. “Are you happy?”

  She paused for a moment, perhaps too long. “For the most part.”

  “Good. Then your husband is lucky. Even if he is a fool.”

  She hadn’t realized Slade had been asking about her marital happiness, but she didn’t correct him. She stared off at the empty chairs surrounding the pool.

  Slade said, “I think you’re good with Bella.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Meredith probably told you I start work on a movie in a few weeks. I’ll need someone to care for Bella then. Would you be interested?”

  Clarissa ran her hand along the tile on the edge of the pool and considered how to respond. She couldn’t accept the offer without first telling him the truth, without telling him Sylvia had a warped version of the truth she was threatening to print.

  “You’re hesitating,” he said. “That’s not a good sign.”

  She glanced up at his face, found his gaze heavy, and looked at the tile again. “I’m not sure that I’m . . .” She didn’t know how to come out and say it. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes on this trip.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry about the way I yelled at you that first night. I’ve been meaning to tell you that. I know it wasn’t your fault that Bella ran away.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the first night. I’ve made mistakes since then.”

  He didn’t let her finish. “You’re the best nanny Bella has had. You’re doing great.”

  His praise made it that much harder. Her gaze flickered back to his. “I’m glad you think so. I mean, I really do care about Bella.”

  “And Bella likes you. That’s what matters. Say yes, and I’ll have Meredith make up a new contract.”

  “That’s not all that matters. You said so yourself. Remember back when you told me how I didn’t understand Hollywood?”

  He leaned forward in his chair. His response came quickly, overlapping her words, not listening to what she’d said, and yet there was a softness in his voice and an urgency in the way he spoke. “I don’t want to let you go after this trip. That matters too.”

  She pulled herself closer to the pool’s edge. His gaze was warm and intense on hers, and she completely forgot about her explanation.

  Perhaps she’d been wrong to remain silent in the elevator. Perhaps none of Sylvia’s threats to expose her mattered because perhaps Slade wouldn’t care when he found out she was single. Perhaps he’d even be glad.

  “All right,” Clarissa said.

  Slade smiled and relaxed. “If my work schedule picks up, I’ll need you a lot; if not, then maybe a few times a week. Maybe a couple of evenings here and there, if I have a date or something.”

  “Oh.” The inside of her mouth suddenly felt like dust. She’d been right to remain silent. She’d been right the first time when she told herself not to read anything into his compliments. She hoped her voice sounded normal as she spoke. “Of course. You probably have a girlfriend, don’t you?”

  “No, but I think I need to get one.” He looked out across the pool. “I can always hope.”

  “Oh, right,” she forced herself to smile, even though it felt like her lips couldn’t maintain the position. “I’m sure it’s terribly hard for you to find interested women.”

  “Finding women isn’t the problem. It’s finding the right kind of women.”

  “Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

  “Probably not.” His eyes rested on hers. “Where did you say you came from?”

  “Woodland Hills.”

  “Well, there you have it. I’ve never looked in Woodland Hills.” He took his gaze from her and looked at something beyond her in the darkness. “It’s a pity too.”

  Her racing pulse and pounding heartbeat were instantly back. Say something more, she thought. Say anything that will give me a reason to tell you I’m single.

  “Are you finished with your swim?” he asked.

  “I guess so.” She pulled herself out of the pool, toweled off as much water as she could, then slipped into her robe. But even so, the night air felt uncommonly cold against her wet skin. As they walked back to the hotel, she began shivering.

  * * *

  Elaina was asleep when Clarissa picked her up from Meredith’s room. As she walked into her hotel room, she noticed a pale green envelope lying on the floor on the entryway, as though it had been slipped under the door. After she tucked Elaina into her bed, she went back to retrieve it.

  The envelope bore no writing, and the piece of pale green stationery folded inside was also empty. Strange. She turned it over in her hands a couple of times and then checked the floor to see if she’d missed something. Nope. The floor was empty too.

  She was about to toss the envelope in the trash, when the room’s phone rang. She answered and heard Sylvia’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “I noticed your lights come on and knew you had come home.”

  Clarissa’s gaze flew to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. She hadn’t pulled those drapes closed before going for a swim. Apparently Sylvia was out there somewhere watching her hotel room.

  “What do you want?” Clarissa asked, half tempted to hang up. Not only was the woman blackmailing her, now she’d turned into a stalker.

  “I’m just telling you about my system, dear, now that you’ve had a chance to think about some stories.”

  “I don’t have any stories for you.”

&nbs
p; “On the floor by your door, you’ll find a green envelope and paper. Write what you have to tell me on it. I’ll call you back in a day or two and tell you where to leave it for me.”

  A click followed. Sylvia had hung up. Clarissa slammed her own receiver back down on the cradle and stormed to the balcony door. After yanking the drapes closed, she turned, threw the envelope on the floor, and sank into the couch.

  She rubbed one hand over her eyes, then stared at the envelope.

  The woman was absolutely insane.

  Pushing things underneath her door? Watching her hotel room? Telling her where to leave her information as though it was some sort of cloak-and-dagger affair? Sylvia didn’t think she was a reporter; she thought she was an underworld operative. Next she’d be asking Clarissa to murmur passwords to strangers on park benches: The sly dog howls at the full moon. I have a delivery for you, comrade.

  Clarissa wasn’t going to do this. She’d tell Slade everything first chance tomorrow. And then when Sylvia called back, Clarissa would tell her exactly where she could put her envelope.

  But instead of throwing it away, Clarissa picked up the envelope and put it in her purse.

  Chapter 25

  Slade woke to the shrill ringing of the phone beside his bed. He reached for it, still half asleep, and knocked it off the nightstand. He felt around the floor until he’d retrieved it and said a sleepy “Hello?” into the receiver.

  “Hi, Slade,” Natalie’s lush voice said back. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, it’s only—” He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. “12:15. Why would I be asleep?”

  “Don’t be mad at me. AJ finally read your script, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  Slade pulled himself up on one elbow and tried to shake off the remaining sleep that muddled his mind. “Okay, shoot.”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to hear AJ say those words?”

  It took Slade a moment to understand what she meant. “Are you telling me he’s interested?”

  “I’m not telling you anything right now. I want you to meet me out on the restaurant terrace so we can talk about it.”

  He thought of Bella. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

  “No. Definitely not. I need to talk to you before AJ talks to you.”

  So that was it. The news about his script wasn’t good, or at least not entirely good, or Natalie wouldn’t be scheduling meetings with him in the middle of the night.

  He rubbed his forehead. He nearly said, “I can’t leave my daughter. Why don’t you come up here?” But it was better to meet with Natalie out in public—someplace where she’d be more inclined to show up in clothing instead of seashells.

  “Okay,” he said. “Give me a couple minutes to get there.”

  He hung up the phone, got out of bed, and slipped on the nearest clothes. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Bella alone, especially since she sometimes woke in the night, but he didn’t see any alternative. It was too late to call Meredith or Clarissa, so he would make sure his meeting with Natalie was short and hope he didn’t come back to find Bella wailing in her bed.

  When Slade walked onto the terrace, he immediately spotted Natalie. No one else was around. She wore a halter top under a sheer white blouse and a miniskirt that was so short it should have been classified as a micro skirt. It covered a little more of her body than the seashells had, but not much. She sat at a table, sipping a drink in the moonlight.

  As Slade approached, Natalie smiled and gestured to a glass on the table. “I ordered you a piña colada.”

  “Thanks.” He sat down, ignoring the drink. “So what news do you have about my script?”

  She sighed and ran her finger around the outside of her glass. “AJ read it this afternoon. He said there wasn’t enough action.”

  “Action? It’s a story about relationships.”

  “And parts of it were unrealistic.”

  “It’s science fiction. It’s supposed to be unrealistic.”

  Natalie held up her hand to silence him. “Not the time machine, the people. You have a boyfriend and girlfriend who barely kiss. There’s no sex appeal.”

  “I wanted to keep it a PG rating. It has wider viewer appeal that way.”

  Natalie leaned toward him and laid one of her hands softly on his arm. “I understand why you wrote it like you did.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. A lot of actors reach a point in their careers where they want to do a movie they can take their children to. Then they start endorsing kids’ products and showing up on Sesame Street. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Natalie ran her hand back and forth across Slade’s arm. “I think it’s sweet.”

  “But AJ doesn’t see it that way.”

  “AJ only thinks about making a profit, and,” she said slowly, “me.” Her manicured hand moved down his arm until it rested on the back of his hand. “I could change his mind.”

  “How?”

  “I could tell him I read it and loved it. I cried, in fact. I could tell him I think it will appeal to women. He trusts my judgment where women are concerned.”

  Slade looked at her hand, which still rested on his. “Yes, well, heaven knows he’s not the best judge of women.”

  She took her hand off his and reached for her drink. “Don’t be mean, Slade. I’m trying to help you.”

  “You’re trying to make a deal with me.”

  She brought her drink to her mouth, caressing the rim of the glass with her lips. “Deals are what this industry is all about. You know that.”

  Deals. And compromises. Was there some way to take Natalie’s help without becoming a notch on her belt? He knew the answer to that question, and yet he hesitated anyway. She probably could convince AJ to take the script. It was the best shot he’d had so far at turning his goal into a reality. He could almost envision the people lined up in front of the theaters to see his movie—not someone else’s that he was acting in—his.

  Natalie pushed her drink aside and leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her chin supported by her hands. “You know, I’m not so sure you’re the best judge of women, either. You’re dating a woman with a PhD in botany. I mean, honestly Slade, could you possibly have found a more boring person?” She put her hand back over Slade’s, gently teasing his fingertips with hers. “I can’t believe you’d rather spend time with some stuffy little scientist than with me.”

  Slade took Natalie’s hand and placed it back on the table. “I think I’d better go now.”

  “Slade,” she said, “I won’t give you my help unless you ask for it. Nicely.”

  Slade stood up, then paused. He looked into Natalie’s face, and as he did her mouth curled into a smile. She thought she’d won.

  For a moment he saw Evelyn sitting at this table instead of Natalie. Was this the sort of thing Evelyn and Brad had done while he’d been off sleeping?

  Slade pulled his wallet from his pocket and put some money on the table for the drink. “Go back to AJ,” he said. “If he cares for you half as much as you say, you need to stop doing things to risk losing him.” Slade turned and walked through the maze of empty tables across the terrace.

  Instead of going back into the hotel, he turned toward the beach.

  At this late hour, the beach fronting the hotel was deserted. Illuminated by the moon, long lines of waves rolled toward the shore, each mounding up until it broke, flooding the sand with its foam. Slade didn’t notice the beauty, though. He noticed the darkness.

  With every step he took, he considered his screenplay. AJ thought it didn’t have enough action and was unrealistic—not enough skin. The words stung. Maybe AJ was right. After all, his agent had given his script to half a dozen producers. None of them had wanted it.

  When it was rejected before, Slade had told himself it hadn’t been given the proper attention—that it had most likely been passed off to overworked, underpaid, indifferent readers who had barely done more th
an glance at it before rejecting it.

  But this time he’d put the story into the hands of the producer himself.

  So perhaps it just wasn’t any good.

  Perhaps it was a blessing it had been rejected. Perhaps if it were made, it would turn out to be one of those cinematic bombs that would be derided by movie critics all year and end up crippling his acting career.

  So maybe this was a good thing.

  Only it didn’t feel like a good thing. It felt like a kick in the stomach.

  Slade had put a good distance between the hotel and himself. He didn’t slow his pace. His muscles were charged with anger. He was angry at AJ for not liking his script. And angry with all the other producers for not liking his script. And angry at himself for not being a good enough writer to find a way to write around their objections.

  Did movies really need car chases and shoot-outs to be successful? Would the audience refuse to come if there wasn’t a set number of sex scenes?

  Was that realistic?

  Realistic, realistic. He said the word in his mind over and over again. Didn’t he want something more uplifting than reality? Wasn’t the whole point of stories to encourage a better reality?

  So how could he ever write around that?

  Maybe he was doomed as a writer. Maybe the time for his kind of writing was over and now people just wanted to watch naked women and exploding cars.

  He wasn’t sure how long he walked and didn’t even remember retracing his steps back to the hotel. Eventually he climbed into the elevator and pushed the button for the eighth floor.

  He still wasn’t tired and doubted he’d be able to sleep. Perhaps he could turn on the TV and catch a late-night movie. Instead of counting sheep, he could count exploding cars.

  When the elevator door reopened, he trudged down the hallway. As he neared his room he suddenly remembered that Bella was by herself, and he felt a sense of panic. He should have hurried back to her. Still, he didn’t hear any wailing emanating from the room, so she must not have wakened.