by Ruth Kaufman
“Oh, my GOD,” a female voice screams hysterically.
My throat tightens as my head whips toward the sound. Is tudo o que você pode comer on fire?
A woman wearing a sequined halter and low-rise, painted-on jeans is standing and pointing at our booth. “It’s Scott Sampson!” She runs to Scott, bleached hair swinging, boobs bouncing. “I can’t believe it! I’m at the same restaurant as Great Scott! You’re way better looking in person than in Stariety. Oh, God, are you GORgeous. I’ve seen every one of your movies at least three times. I’ve been a fan like forever. Lizzie, get over here and take my picture with Scott.”
Scott calmly stands and smiles for the picture, though Bouncy Boobs didn’t even ask if she could have one or say thanks after he allowed it. More diners, including the hostess, form a line next to him, holding out napkins and even menus for his autograph.
“Make sure to date it, please,” a man requests.
Scott signs a few, poses for a few selfies, then says in his fabulous voice, “I’m out having a nice dinner, just like you. I’d appreciate it if my friend and I could enjoy our meal. Thank you.”
Most of the crowd reluctantly disperses as Scott sits back down. One woman remains. She’s got brown poufy hair, wears a clingy sweater and leans against our booth. Her boobs are almost in his face.
“Hey, Scott. What a coincidence. I’m Tansy. Remember me?”
“Sorry. No, I don’t.”
“Sure you do. From the Golden Globes? I sure had a good time”—she makes air quotes—“‘talking’ with you that night. I thought you were going to call.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t share that recollection. If you’ll kindly excuse me. My food is getting cold.”
“Oh. Sure. Uh-huh.” She glances at me. “I get it, Sweetie.” She mouths “call me” as she leaves, her butt jiggling almost as much as her chest.
I eat, and
1) force myself not to wonder which one of them is telling the truth and if he plans to call the lying hussy. It’s really none of my business.
2) hope none of the fans wonder why Scott is with a woman who chows down more calories than a Strongman training for competition.
3) try to ignore the fact that he called me friend. What did I expect?
I look up from my rapidly emptying plate to see Scott leaning back against the booth, arms folded. He’s staring at me with a strange expression, a combination of the indulgence Clark Gable exudes as Rhett Butler as Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett sucks down a tray of desserts, and the “I don’t really know her” look of Billy Crystal as Harry in When Harry Met Sally when Meg Ryan as Sally fakes that restaurant orgasm.
“What?” I pause between bites of tasty chicken to ask.
His face clears and he sits up straight, as if caught in the act. “Nothing.”
“Please don’t do that. Not with me.” I shove in a forkful of mashed potatoes and chew. “I don’t know how or want to play those games. I believe in honesty. Always.”
“Even if you ask me if you look fat and I say yes?”
Ouch. “Even then. I’d rather hear the truth than go around believing half-truths and lies. Or lies of omission. Otherwise what’s the point?”
“The point is to get through your day. To get what you want and need.”
My next fork piled high with potatoes hovers in the air. “Have you lied to me?”
“Not yet.” Then a couple of beats later, “How do you know that’s not a lie?”
He’s not smiling.
The potatoes tumble onto my plate. I move them around with my fork though my appetite is gone. At least we know where we stand. But how can I ever believe a word he says?
“I’m sorry, Marla.” He sighs. “You’re far too trusting for this business. Maybe that’s why I like you, because I once was, too. I learned that the best way to survive without getting hurt is to believe what you see, not what you’re told. Actions, not words. Otherwise, even those who you think are friends will use whatever they can against you for their own gain.”
All I should’ve heard was that he said he liked me, but I remember the argument I overheard during the AFMA commercial shoot. “Like Sam?”
Scott sips his second caipirinha, a flavorful Brazilian rum and lime drink. Around us the hum of fellow diners and clinking cutlery seems louder than before. “Like Sam. I’m still paying the price.”
“Why? What happened?” I hold my breath for the answer to the question I was finally brave enough to ask.
“Honesty doesn’t mean having to spill one’s guts.” He takes a big swig.
I will find out what Sam has over him.
Another waiter comes by with a skewer of some meat I haven’t tried. Stuffed, I hold up my red card and he moves on.
“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Scott asks. He, who has hardly eaten anything.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“It’s nice to be away from the movie for a bit. And I do appreciate your…enthusiasm for food.”
“I’m only eating this much for you. I mean the movie.”
His answer is a dazzling smile. “We’ll have to do this again sometime soon.”
Scott’s attention is one hundred percent on me. Probably the second best feeling in the world. The first, of course, would be kissing him. No. Making love with him. No. Waking up with him in the morning, getting coffee and reading the Sunday paper together. That would definitely be the best.
I could melt like the hot molten dessert I’m about to eat. My fork pierces the cake, releasing a lava flow of steaming chocolate. The smell is intoxicating. I take a bite.
“Mmmmm. This is soooo good,” I moan. My eyes close as I savor the warm chocolate in my mouth. “Want a bite?” I hold a steamy forkful toward Scott.
His gaze holds mine as he opens his mouth and eats off my fork. “That is good.”
“Mmm. Umm.” I can’t help but moan again with my second bite and my third. This is one of the best desserts ever, and I’ve eaten my share.
“Marla.” His voice sounds funny.
“What? Do you want some more? Help yourself.”
“Do you always eat that way?”
“Chocolate, hot and melty….” I take another mouthful and sigh. “Is there anything better? Mmmmm.”
He slides around the booth until he’s so close I feel him. “Do you know what you’re doing to me? Do you know how sexy you are?”
I can’t move. Scott thinks I’m sexy.
“Swallow, Marla.” His voice is so husky my skin tingles.
Is he going to kiss me at last?
My heart speeds up. I try to swallow. But my mouth has gone dry and the chocolate goop won’t go down. This is like that bagel commercial audition I had where I couldn’t spit out a mouthful of bagel in time to say my line. I try again, sticking my chin out, mouth agape as if I’m doing the chicken dance. Very attractive and romantic, I’m sure.
Why can’t I swallow? Help! I can’t breathe either. My hands wave spastically. I pound my chest.
“Are you all right? Marla. Your lips are turning blue. Good Lord. Call 911!” Scott shouts.
I can’t breathe. My eyes open wide as I struggle for air. Shimmery black spots dance before my eyes.
Fading vision reveals Scott scrambling out of the other side of the booth. He hauls me to my feet and Heimlichs me, fists thrusting into my upper abdomen. Painfully hard. And again.
Nothing happens.
“Come on, Marla. Spit it out.”
There’s no object to expel, just a glutinous glob. The world grows dark. I sink into Scott’s arms. I’ll never know what it’s like to kiss him….
“Marla. Can you hear me? There’s an ambulance on the way. Marla, wake up.”
I’m awake. On the tudo o que você pode comer floor. My cheek rests on gooey carpet. I must’ve spit up the chocolate mass.
“Thank God.” Scott is kneeling beside me. He helps me sit, then wipes my cheek with a napkin. “Marla. Say somet
hing.”
I emit a loud burp.
I am mortified.
“Marla, speak. Tell me you’re all right.”
“I’m okay.” My voice is a little hoarse, but I can swallow and breathe again.
“This is all my fault.” He hands me a glass of water. “I’m worse than a chef who force feeds his geese for foie gras. I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you. Can you forgive me? I—”
The crowd has regathered. People ogle us and take pictures and selfies.
Great. All I need is to be in the paper or online smeared with chocolate again. How absolutely embarrassing to be on the floor of a restaurant with Scott wiping goo off my face as his fans look on.
Everyone steps back as two paramedics rush in and barrage me with questions.
“She choked on some cake, but she’s better now,” Scott answers.
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I whisper. The thought of Scott seeing me in a hospital gown is as frightening as whatever the doctors might do to me there. Patients on Chicago Med and Grey’s Anatomy seem to have a high tolerance for pain, but I don’t.
A paramedic looks down my throat and shines a light in my eyes as the other takes my pulse and blood pressure.
“No hospital,” one agrees. “But you need to go straight home and take it easy.”
“Let me take you,” Scott offers. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Thanks,” I say, not meeting his gaze. Humiliation still holds me in its pointy claws. Even the thought of more alone time with Scott, having him in my home, doesn’t make me feel better.
“Scott, can I have your autograph?” some woman calls out. “Now that you’re done with dinner.”
He doesn’t respond, but helps me to a cab and keeps his arm around me as the cab pulls away. I slump against him, suddenly beyond exhausted.
Outside my building, he pays the driver. He takes my keys, opens my door when I point to it and leads me to lie down on my couch.
I’m feeling a little better, but I can’t bring myself to stop him from taking care of me.
Scott wets a dishtowel and gently wipes more mess off my face. “Do you need anything? Some water? Tea? A blanket?”
Just you. I shake my head.
The cool cloth soothes my burning cheeks. He covers me with my down-filled throw.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He sits. “Rest your head on my lap. I’ll stay ’til you fall asleep, if that’s all right.”
How can I refuse?
I wake up with a start.
It’s morning, and I’m still on Scott’s lap. His head rests on the back of my couch and his eyes are closed. Stubble dots his chin.
Wow. Great Scott spent the night in my condo. With me. As wonderful as that sounds, we know the real reason he’s here. And that nothing at all happened. If my phone was handy, I’d document the event nonetheless.
I hate to relinquish my comfy spot, but I must brush my teeth. I can’t bear to greet him with near-vomit chocolaty morning breath.
After freshening up and changing into clean sweats and a fitted T-shirt, I set a new toothbrush, towel and tube of toothpaste on the table in front of the couch. I really need coffee, but don’t want grinding beans to disturb him.
As I stand there, undecided, Scott wakes up and looks around. For me, or because he can’t remember where he is? How often does he wake up in a strange place?
“Marla. Are you feeling better? What time is it?”
“Fine, thanks. Six thirty-six.” I will act calm, as if his waking up on my couch is an everyday occurrence. “Would you like some coffee?”
He pulls out his cell. “Damn. Battery’s out.”
I hand him my cordless and turn to make coffee. I can’t hear whatever he says to whomever.
“Marla, I’m glad you’re well. Lord, what an incident like that could have done to our insurance costs. No more stuffing yourself. Please accept my apologies.” Scott sets the phone on the island and moves closer. His eyes are weary. I feel the weight of this film, and who knows what else, pressing on him. “Last night was…interesting. I’m off to an early meeting. I’ll see you later.”
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek with that same, strange expression he had at tudo o que você pode comer. The one before, not after, I started to choke.
My heart zooms. My insides dissolve.
Slowly, slowly, he lowers his head and kisses me on the lips. Short but ever so sweet. I look into his eyes, sure that unadulterated longing shines in mine. More. Please?
He kisses me for real, deep, and probing. I am molten, melting, and burning hotter than last night’s dessert. He tastes more delicious.
I don’t think. I desire. I reach for Scott and draw him close, earning a low moan as our bodies meet. Without breaking our kiss, he lifts me onto the island. I wrap my legs around his waist as he wraps his arms around me. From my fingers to my toes, craving pulses with each heartbeat.
Our tongues explore as our kiss deepens. I lean into him, and he holds me tighter.
He pulls away, breathing hard.
I smile. I’ve done this to him.
“Marla.” His hands delve into my hair.
I anticipate another searing kiss, but he simply rests his forehead against mine. He tugs at one of my curls, and it bounces against my cheek.
After a long moment, he says, “Later.”
As in “see you on set later” or “more kisses later?”
The door shuts behind him.
I touch my lips and smile the secret smile of every just-kissed girl in every movie.
The next night, I had a nightmare so real I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Various foodstuffs were chasing me around my condo. After what seemed like hours of all-out running in fear, they finally caught me. An open jar of peanut butter knocked me to the ground, while an enormous, heavy bar of chocolate pressed me flat. I couldn’t push it off. The peanutty smell lingered.
Perhaps in anticipation of the moment I’ve dreaded nearly every minute of the past six days, which is now at hand?
My fingers refuse to unclutch the opening of the fleece robe Angela gave me. Because underneath, my flesh is squeezed into and spilling out of that miniscule black handful that passes for lingerie. Because dozens of crew members bustle about the bedroom set, focusing myriad lights, arranging the area rug, plumping the lavender satin down comforter and pillows and smoothing the satin sheets.
Because I feel Scott’s gaze on me. Anxiety over him seeing my newly bloated self makes me shudder. How could he possibly remain interested in me, want to see where our kisses might lead, when he could have any thin woman he wants?
And Tatiana sits next to him. She’s wearing her lingerie, though her love scene shoots after mine. To give Trent/ALAN the feeling of making love to the two women in his life. Eeeww. From her feline smile, I’m guessing she got into wardrobe early on purpose to
1) heighten the contrast between her slim self, in a creamy satin robe with lace sleeves and tastefully sexy matching teddy, and my ridiculous, flesh-exposing ensemble.
2) expose the difference between black and white, like in westerns and even Brokeback Mountain, in which Heath Ledger always wore a white cowboy hat and Jake Gyllenhaal wore black.
3) show her cool, collected personality and my attempting-to-conceal-major-stress-but-it’s-leaking-out one.
Scott seems to be ignoring Tatiana’s attempts at conversation. As the hairdresser smooths my frizz, I envision Scott in my bed. We’re kissing with utmost passion. He makes those delectable little moans, a huge turn-on. I’m ready for more. His hands weave through my hair, then start their sensual descent past my shoulders to my breasts. As his kisses deepen, his hands make their way past my ribcage.
Scott encounters my squishy stomach folds. He squeezes. He recoils, distaste as clear as if he were emoting in a silent movie. He leaps off the bed and runs screaming from the room.
I shake my head. I can’t even have good fantasy sex.
“Hey,” Mandy, the hairdresser, says.
“Sorry.” To get in the mood, I refocus on things more romantic than personal flab. My character is supposed to seduce her husband, not show how uncomfortable she feels with extra pounds erupting from her clothes. She’s supposed to like herself the way she is. STACEY doesn’t care what others think of her, and that lack of awareness leads to her downfall.
I think she’s one of the few women who truly does like herself. She’s too confident to notice that her husband’s love has faded.
Scott comes over with Trent. I must live in the moment. At this moment, I am the luckiest woman in the world, the focus of attention of two hot, famous men.
I slip on my stilettos, gaining about four inches. I will not worry about tripping over the rug.
At the moment, our stand-ins are lying in the bed, allowing lighting and camera men/women to finalize their shots. When I first met my stand-in, Carol, I feared Scott would fall for her or give her my part. Carol is me, only better. She’s a hint taller, thinner, prettier, and less frizzy. Confidence and charisma ooze from her tiny pores.
TO DO: Stop comparing myself to everyone I meet.
“Let’s review,” Scott says, opening his script notebook. His hair hangs loose today. Every so often he pushes it back behind his ear.
He explains what he wants us to do, line by line. Trent and I listen and nod. How do I describe the squeamy feeling of having Scott, who thoroughly kissed me just hours ago, tell another man how to touch my breasts, and know he’s going to be watching? Pretending I don’t feel that discomfort is truly acting.
The choreography of this sex scene is more complicated than playing “Twister,” nearly as challenging as the fast-paced precision group dance I performed while singing “Favorite Son” in The Will Rogers Follies wearing shiny leggings that had one red leg and one blue, a white blouse under a shimmery red vest, a shimmery red bow tie, and one blue and one red glove.
I will not be nervous. I’m an actress, following my dream. I am STACEY. Clearly my body doesn’t want to listen to my head. Sweat pools between my breasts.
How gross is that. I’m too embarrassed to ask for a towel…but if any sweat drips on the pale satin sheets, it’ll show on camera. And how will Trent Jordan react when he touches my sweaty chest? What will Scott think?
