In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson

by Maidwell, Sandra Jane

  But maybe hallucinating was a new type of stress. Maybe his worries about the new movie were getting to him.

  “The beach could be significant,” his mother continued. “Maybe you need a holiday.”

  “I just took a holiday, remember? Lola and I went to Paris for one week.”

  “Paris Smarish! Your head is saying ‘beach’ without Lola.”

  And it struck Bobby, like a cold bucket of water thrown onto his face: he could go to the beach. This beach! Maybe she was real. Maybe he could find her.

  He was so excited by this revelation that he almost spilt his tea as he jumped up. “Mother, you are brilliant. I think I do need a beach holiday.”

  “But what about Devil Take You?”

  “Shooting is almost done. I’ll start planning my holiday and that should bring the stress down. I have to get back to the city, but thanks again.” He planted a big smacker of a kiss on Tillie’s cheek and maneuvered his way through the pool furniture and back to the house. He was smiling. Bobby Anderson had a plan.

  CHAPTER 3

  “And, action!”

  “Behind you!”

  “What?”

  “Duck!”

  “Cut!”

  “Oh, Bobby, you were great!”

  “Thanks, umm ….”

  “Clarissa. I’m with makeup.”

  “Oh, sure, thanks.”

  Bobby wanted to get back to his trailer in case the girl in the red T-shirt dreamt about him again. He didn’t feel like chit chatting with Clarissa, although she was cute―blond bob and blue eye shadow. If she called him five minutes from now and asked him the color of her eyes he wouldn’t be able to tell her.

  “Well, okay. Gotta go rehearse.” Bobby started to turn his back on her.

  “Good luck!” But he was already out the door.

  Bobby lay flat on his back on the sofa of his trailer and folded his arms across his chest. Eyes shut in some resemblance of a meditation, Bobby waited. His great idea, the one he’d had at his mother’s house, hadn’t materialized at all, which was to communicate with the dream girl and get her to tell him her name and location.

  He thought he might be able to find the beach and meet her there in real life. He didn’t doubt that she existed, not for a minute. If she didn’t exist, that meant he was going crazy, and he wasn’t even close to admitting that. Not yet

  But why wasn’t she dreaming of him? At first it had been a nuisance, being caught un-aware in his gym or shower; or worse still, caught off guard during an acting scene. It could even be dangerous, he’d realized. He’d imagined himself driving down the freeway, only to find himself on the beach. Only thing was he’d probably wake up in the hospital (if he woke up), instead of on a hard floor somewhere like he had been doing.

  He’d worried about it, of course, but now what he worried about most was not seeing her. Man, what he’d do this time if only she’d just think of him. He’d do more than throw pebbles into the water, that was for sure.

  His cell phone buzzed a pleasant tune. It was Lola.

  “Hi honey,” he said.

  “Hiya. I want to go to Marty’s tonight.”

  Bobby cringed. Marty’s was an all right place, and he was sure to run into some paparazzi there, which was probably why he and Lola liked it so much, but he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to go out tonight. He was too absorbed with the girl in the red T-shirt.

  “Bobby?” Impatient sigh. “Did I catch you at a bad time, Honey?”

  Lola was like that: demanding, whining, impatient, and finally, sweet. Bobby was sure she would go far, with or without his help. Though, besides spending his money and dying her hair the perfect honey shade of blond, Bobby wasn’t quite sure what Lola’s ambitions were. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, though. Maybe in truth, Lola was the smartest person he knew. “Yeah baby, I’ve gotta be on set in five, but sure, Marty’s sounds fine.”

  “Great!” Lola squealed. “I’ll tell Rosalind.”

  Bobby groaned. Not Rosalind. She was Lola’s BFF. The fact that the term BFF applied to a girl over twenty was bad enough, but that she was also attached to a guy named Fred was worse still. Bobby couldn’t think of Fred without thinking “slime ball”. Rosalind and Fred were attached by the hip; not literally, but they might as well have been.

  Bobby frowned just picturing the two of them. Sure, he wasn’t much better when it came to being a bit of a slime ball; after all, he’d hooked up with Lola, hadn’t he? She’d seemed like the next best thing to a bag of candy at the time, but Lola was like a rubrics cube―basic idea, but hard to put together. And once you start it becomes a mess, he thought, shaking his head. Yeah, he was probably a slime ball as well, but at least he was aware of it, whereas Fred probably wasn’t aware of much at all.

  Bobby couldn’t understand how Fred had become such a success. He’d started up a gym about five years ago called Baby Face, geared towards a specific group of successful under thirty-year-olds. It had become a huge success. Who would have guessed? Members were more into social networking than weight loss, and Fred had turned Baby Face into a lucrative franchise. Bobby just wished he could respect the guy more.

  “Does Rosalind have to come too?” he found himself whining.

  “Like you and I have so much in common to talk about?” Lola laughed, playing with him.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh God, Bobby! It’s fun when she comes. She has all that gossip from the spa, and Fred is such a laugh.”

  Bobby couldn’t remember Fred being a laugh. Sure he laughed, a lot, but about what exactly?

  “Bobby?” he could practically hear her scowling.

  “All right, sure, whatever.”

  Lola squealed again and made a happy clappy sound. “Pick me up from Heathers, will you?”

  Heathers was a beauty salon that Lola frequented. “I’m not sure what time I’m finishing.” Bobby didn’t feel like playing chauffeur. Let Fred and Rosalind pick her up.

  “Don’t be silly. Patrick said you’d be all done by six o’clock. I’ve scheduled my hair around it.”

  “I should have known.” Bobby felt a surge of anger towards Patrick, followed by relief when he heard the warning knock on his trailer door. “Have to go. I got the knock.”

  “Sure sugar. See you later.” Lola made a smooching noise into her cell phone and Bobby wondered if all girls did that. Of course he’d had other girlfriends, but Lola was all he could remember. The others had all faded into background noise, like those microwaves in space scientists talk about. There were only two types of girls in Bobby’s life now: Lola, and the girl in the red T-shirt. Would she make smooching noises into a phone? Would she get her beautiful red hair cut at Heathers? Was her natural hair color even red?

  He felt a tightening in his stomach and realized with some concern that it wasn’t stage jitters like he used to get when he first started performing. This was a totally new feeling all together. He put his hand on his chest and tried to breathe deeply, just as he’d been taught to do in his early acting classes. Was it stress? Panic? Love?

  He didn’t want to accept what he felt, but the more he felt it, the more he knew. He had to see the girl again.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Bobby! Cool shades man. What are those, Cartier?”

  Fred was all over Bobby as usual, checking him out at every angle. Fred was exhausting.

  “Got myself a new pair of Diors yesterday,” Fred continued. “But now I wish I’d got the white ones like you. That sales lady really worked me. Told me silver was the new black. Y—eah, right!”

  “I told you!” Rosalind said, a little too loudly, the way she said everything. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You sure did, baby.”

  “I said, get the white ones, like Bobby. But does he listen?”

  Lola laughed and shook her head, her blond bangs dancing wildly around her eyes. She loved this kind of banter, and normally so did Bobby, but tonight he lacked patience. It seemed too meanin
gless compared to what he was going through. Would the girl on the beach buy Dior sunglasses? Bobby was almost sure that she would not.

  “I couldn’t care less about the color, man, as long as they block out the sun.” He was being arrogant, and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop himself. Before he ruined the night completely, Bobby left the standing group and headed towards Marty’s entrance.

  Lola, Rosalind, and even Fred were left staring at him, frozen to their spots.

  “What?” he asked, stopping and looking back at them. What a strange bunch. They hadn’t seemed strange last week.

  “Bobby, are you serious?” Lola stood in a well-practiced pose, hands on hips like she owned his tongue and the words that came off of it.

  Bobby shrugged and laughed. “Whatever. Let’s eat you guys.”

  They silently eyed one another and followed him in, each one glad to be seen with their star, each one secretly wondering what was getting into him.

  * * *

  Bobby wasn’t sure how it happened, but halfway through the lobster legs he started enjoying himself. Reflecting back now, he could see it was the champagne Lola insisted on ordering.

  So it was the alcohol, and after sipping on it for over an hour he was relaxed. Lola seemed sweeter, prettier, and friendlier. She was so real as well. She, at least, was there for him—in the flesh. And Rosalind? Rosalind was such a great friend for lovely Lola. And where would Rosalind be without successful Fred? These were his people!

  Bobby was so filled with love and champagne that he didn’t realize the disaster he was steering himself into. With lobster fingers and wet lips, he leaned over and planted a big kiss on Lola’s forehead.

  “Eeeuw! Bobby!” Lola shrieked.

  Even though Bobby was half drunk, he had the sense to realize that Lola was angry. There was a flash of a camera from somewhere and Lola reacted with the killer instinct he knew so well but had momentarily forgotten. She planted a big fake smile on her painted lips and cried, “Bobby!” (laughing this time) “You’ll get sauce on me, silly.”

  Lola wiped her forehead with her napkin and promptly excused herself, making a beeline to the lady’s room with Rosalind in close pursuit.

  “Smart.” That was Fred. Yeah, wasn’t he so cool with his silver shades?

  The fun was over and the champagne had worn off. But there had been the flash. Bobby looked around the restaurant. No photographers in sight. He wanted to go home. He wanted out of Marty’s, and he wanted to get far away from smug Fred twirling his knife around the table. Bobby didn’t want dessert or coffee or after-dinner drinks. He didn’t want to show up in some fancy club with scowling Lola on his arm and Fred and Rosalind like snakes behind. He wanted his house, his bed, and he wanted the girl on the beach.

  Standing up, Bobby threw a stack of bills on the table. Fred’s jaw dropped. “Get Lola back safe, all right?”

  He didn’t wait for a response. More flashes. Where were those cameras? Damn it! Bobby felt exhausted. Would this day never end?

  CHAPTER 5

  “You’re on the cover.”

  “What?” Bobby hadn’t gone to bed late, but mornings were never his forte.

  “You’re on the damn front cover, man.” Patrick was overly excited. “People, Teen Wonder, Relax, and Stars.”

  “I don’t get you. When?” Bobby grabbed the first magazine Patrick handed him. There were more in his arms. “Come on in.” Bobby waved Patrick into his living room and nestled into his over-sized sofa.

  Patrick chose a modest armchair close by and proudly sat back to admire Bobby. He loved it when his clients got their act together, but mostly he loved it when Bobby got his act together. The young star was his creation. He’d spotted him in some low budget soap commercial and had instantly seen his potential. Patrick had got him his first movie role. He had been behind him all the way, through thick and thin, one hundred percent; and now, getting into so many magazines in a single day for something good, well, that was close to a miracle. And of course it also reflected well on him. As manager, when his boy slipped up it was his fault, but when he was good, well, Patrick could be credited for that too.

  “Oh man, I look like a wuz.”

  “A what?”

  “A wuz, man. A whiner. A sloozer!”

  Whatever. Bobby could invent his own language for all Patrick cared. “It’s going to work wonders for you,” he said. “This is awesome publicity for the movie.”

  “What are you talking about? Rosa! Rosa!” A forty-something-year-old Mexican woman in a black and white maid’s uniform came running into the room. “You call me, Bobby?”

  “Rosa, I need coffee.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And a muffin. Do we have muffins, Rosa?”

  Rosa scrunched her lips, “You know we don’t, Mr. Bobby. We have juice, scramble egg, no toast. I bring the coffee first.”

  “Where’s Lola?”

  “Lola not come home last night, Mr. Bobby.”

  Bobby groaned and dropped his head into his hands and rested the whole pose heavily onto his knees. Bent like this he tried to speak with Patrick. If only he didn’t have to speak at all. Why couldn’t he have his breakfast in peace? Didn’t he deserve at least that to himself? Patrick was on twenty-four hour duty or something.

  “What does it mean?” he asked, eyeing all the front covers

  Patrick leaned in, excited. “These articles make you look like the sweetest darn date in Hollywood. That’s what it means.” Patrick leaned back again, triumphant. You would have thought he’d staged the whole affair himself. “There will be gossip, but it’ll only be about good things this time.”

  This time, meant not that time, which referred to the time Bobby had got so drunk on shots he’d stripped down to his jocks and proceeded to dance on the bar top of a respectable night club downtown. An argument, a police fine, and fifteen minutes in jail had served as a reminder that publicity isn’t all good.

  It had been especially upsetting seeing his mug shot publicized that time for one and all to scrutinize. That definitely had not been good publicity; but at least it had been a story. At least there had been a reason for all the fuss. But now Bobby didn’t get it. Okay, so he was caught kissing his girlfriend. So what? That wasn’t headline news for four major magazines.

  And it wasn’t just the one picture either. It was a whole story of pictures: Bobby kissing Lola, big smile, he’s a happy guy; stomp, stomp, his girl is angry; she’s off, leaving him to pay the bill by himself; sad, sad Bobby, what a bitch! Bobby leaves the restaurant alone; that’s no way to treat a loving boyfriend; the end.

  Ooh, Lola was going to be pissed, and for some absurd reason, Bobby felt a little bit afraid.

  Patrick, on the other hand, loved it. He practically beamed at the scandalous nature of it all. Not for the first time, Bobby wondered about his manager.

  Bobby stood up. “I have my final shoot in two hours. Do you mind if we talk about this later?”

  “Sure, sure. Catch you on set.” Patrick wasn’t a difficult guy. In fact, he had made his career by being as easy as pie when he needed to be. As long as his commission came in each month he would let his clients dismiss him so nonchalantly.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Carl, what’s come over you?”

  “Julie, I’m not the man you thought I was.”

  “I love you Carl, that’s the man I know you are.”

  “You can’t love me, Julie. You don’t know me. I’m the guy they sent to kill you.”

  “Kill me? Carl, sweetie, you know, and I know, that you’re not going to kill anyone.”

  “Not true, Julie. I am going to kill someone…”

  “Cut!”

  “This light is making me sweat like a pig!” Bobby was nervous. Had the scene gone well? Hard to tell by looking at Neil. He had a permanent scowl on his face that he probably even slept with. Who’s opinion could he ask?

  “Stay still. I’ll wipe that off for you.

  Was that Clari
ssa? Hmm, it felt good to get fussed over. Sometimes he loathed it, but today it felt fine. “So, what’d you think?”

  Was he seriously asking his makeup artist what she thought of his acting? How desperate was he? And where the hell was Patrick? This was the last scene in the movie; why wasn’t anyone there for him? He’d heard about this. It was called paranoia. But even the beach girl wasn’t thinking about him. Maybe she’d lost interest. Maybe. “Damn it!”

  “Sorry, did I do something?” Clarissa looked upset. She was young, twenty-one perhaps, not an old hand at dealing with movie stars. “I said you did great today. Did I say something wrong?” She held a makeup brush in one hand, a bottle of beige cream in the other, a trembling pout on her neon pink lips.

  “Sorry. It’s nothing to do with you. Can I get up now?” He rose before she could answer and headed towards the exit.

  “Be back in one hour, Bobby,” the director’s assistant yelled out to him. Barney, or Barley, or Brady. Too many goddamn names to remember in this business.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The waves lapped the beach. It’s you, Bobby thought, and there she was, walking towards him. The stresses of Devil Take You ebbed away with each retreating wave, and Bobby knew that this was definitely not stress related. This was just pure magic.

  This time he didn’t wait―who knew when the dream would end? He wasn’t about to waste time throwing stones, even though he had an incredible urge to do so…

  “What’s your name? His voice broke through the sunrays and soft breeze. “What’s your name?” he asked again. His need to know so strong.

  She looked at him, puzzled. She kept walking up to him, as she always did, but never before had he seen the frown.

  “What is your name?” he asked a third time.

  Now she stood right in front of him. He reached out and took her hand in his. It felt soft and smooth and oddly cold in this heat.