Click, flash, click. Bobby blinked. Samantha laughed and dashed to their waiting car. Bobby followed, a relaxed smile planted firmly on his face. Headlines, headlines, headlines. It was all about the damn headlines.
Safe inside Samantha’s luxury sedan and whirling by the busy nightlife that is L.A., Bobby turned to his date. “So, what now?”
“My place?”
“No manager after dinner drinks thingy?”
“My parents are my managers, as those boneheads should know, and they are celebrating fine without me.”
“So, your place?”
“Yes, Mr. Anderson, my place.”
***
The night turned out better than club hopping with Tony, Mike, Adrian, and the four squealing girls could ever have. Well, that’s what he told himself.
They spent some time looking out onto the glittering lights of the city. They drank dark expressos with lots of sugar. They shared light conversation about their careers and their next projects. It was fine. Fun even.
Thankfully Bobby didn’t have to go into exhausting detail about his past. He’d already done all that with Samantha last year when she first started climbing her acting ladder of success. For example, he already knew that her parents pushed for success, and that Samantha was their clay image. He already knew that she was going to cut loose from them as soon as she could, although “soon” had already come and gone in his books. Maybe Samantha wasn’t quite ready to let go of mummy and daddy, and Bobby couldn’t sensor her. Even he still needed Tillie from time to time.
Anyway, he already knew all that. And he knew she had a brother who was a wash-up—neither actor nor manager orientated, her parents hadn’t exactly known what to do with him. Bobby didn’t even have to waste his evening asking Samantha politely where her brother was now, because the tabloids had told him: he was apparently sulking in St. Barths with French Top Model Rachel Renesse, sipping margaritas and getting his back waxed.
He also knew that Samantha had suffered from various eating disorders early on in her career. There had been her fat phase, her skinny phase, and her I-like-me-how-I-am phase. He knew about her romances as well. God, he knew it all. And in return, she knew al there was to know about him.
So they were both easily excused from talking much about each other, and after coffee they could go straight on to the kissing, followed by the groping, the passionate love making (without the passion it seemed), and dive straight on in to the sleeping.
CHAPTER 10
“Look at it!” Samantha beamed. “It’s so insane!”
“What is?” Bobby rubbed his aching head and tried to adjust his eyes to the unfamiliar morning vision of Samantha. He felt something drop onto his stomach
“It’s all about us. There’s practically nothing on anyone else in the whole magazine.”
Picking up Star, Bobby grimaced as he saw himself yet again splashed out on the front cover of a teenage magazine. He knew that the tabloids were his friends, but it was always such an odd sensation, the loss of control over the images and information they printed about him.
“It says here, and I quote: “Bobby and Samantha weren’t fooling anyone when they entered Burnies separately. These two are clearly going out”.” Samantha giggled and flopped down next to him on the bed. “Hungry?”
Samantha was sexy eyes again, and he was hungry; but despite his hangover and growling stomach, he felt restless. He wished he hadn’t stayed the night, although he couldn’t have left her after they had been so…what was the word? Together? That was probably the closest he could come to describing the evening. Anyway, he couldn’t have just got up and left her like some cheap one-night-stand. And, anyway, his car was still at Burnies.
Bobby stared at the magazine and wondered what he really thought. He and Samantha had just finished an awesome movie together. It was perfectly understandable that they would continue feeling an attraction. The tabloids were spot on. But she’s not my girlfriend, Bobby reminded himself. We aren’t going out. He decided that he didn’t really want to have breakfast with Samantha, but of course he would: a quick coffee and bagel with cheese. That was what she offered him. That was what he took. He didn’t even bother to mention that he’d given up dairy, much less bagels. Samantha’s eating plans were complex enough without his input.
“Where are you going, Bobby?” Samantha said as she slipped into a purple tracksuit.
They had finished the bagels and coffee, and in Bobby’s mind he was free to leave. In fact, he didn’t believe he was ever coming back. He would call a cab.
Samantha, however, was strangely oblivious to his unrest. As a matter of fact, what was that look she was giving him now? Ah, yes. It was the aren’t-we-spending-the-day-together look. What romance movie did she think she was in? In Bobby’s reality there would be no jogs around the block. He wanted his own shower and his own scrambled eggs, no toast, just the way Rosa made them. Samantha was gorgeous, but he didn’t feel guilty when he reached for his wallet and sunglasses and headed for the door.
“Are you serious?” Samantha’s eyes widened, not quite knowing if they should brim over with tears or give his ass a good kicking as he went out the door. She looked cute, and he was still leaving.
* * *
Out of the shower and laying on his king-sized all natural wool mattress straight from Ireland, Bobby closed his eyes. He willed her to think of him. Although he hadn't allowed himself the full pleasure of remembering her while he was with Samantha, Susan had been lingering at the back of his mind, like an object you see from the corner of your eye. Now he let himself study it full on.
Susan, Susan, Susan. Yes, he longed for her. He tried to remember her exactly as he saw her in the dream, but he felt like a sailor at sea for too long without his lover. A scratchy picture was all he had in his imperfect memory. How long was her hair exactly? And her eyes? He knew their color, green of course, but what shade? What caused all of her smile wrinkles? How wide were those beautiful hips? Why wasn’t she dreaming of him? Where was she? And as Bobby wondered these things, he got the most terrible thought, one he hadn’t contemplated until now: was she actually, physically stuck on an island?
He’d envisioned his own madness and had accepted that the girl probably didn’t even exist, but he’d also envisioned her very much alive, living a life without him, dreaming about him, walking a beautiful beach each evening, waiting for him. It made sense, in a way. There were probably thousands of girls who dreamt about him. Not probably; definitely. He boasted more real twitter followers than any other heartthrob at the moment, and he’d even been elected Hollywood’s sexiest man. Even women over forty said they were attracted to him.
Yes, he’d envisioned a star struck Susan dreaming about him and magically transporting him to her make-believe world, or even real world―it was far better than thinking he was crazy, at any rate. But the reality that she might actually be stuck somewhere and be crying out for help was a sudden scary possibility.
Bobby took a swig of the Rum and Coke Rosa had so thoughtfully prepared for him, and cursed quietly. Why wouldn’t she contact him? Was she already dead? Starved to death? But maybe it wasn’t too late. He could help her. He knew it. She was reaching out to him because only he was capable of, of…something. But, what?
For Christ’s sake, Bobby, this isn’t a Disney fairy tale! You’re no goddamn Prince Charming!
Or was he?
CHAPTER 11
“Wake up.”
“Huh?”
“Wake up Bobby, you’ve been sleeping.”
Bobby tried to open his eyes, shut them, and opened them again. Oh thank God, he thought. It was her. Susan leaned over him, palm trees hallowing her face. She looked amused.
“Where am I?”
“Under the palm trees. We’re going to build a shelter, remember?”
“A shelter?” Bobby remembered now, and he also remembered that he didn’t have tools or know-how or Google search at his disposal. Why hadn’t he resear
ched “How to build a shelter from coconut trees and their leaves with your bare hands” before now? Was he a total moron? This girl needed him and he couldn’t even do some basic research?
He would, though. At least he knew that now. As soon as he got back, he’d go onto the Internet and learn all there was to know about beach survival and coconut tree building. He’d watch every episode of Man versus Wild. Next time around he’d build Susan the best darn shelter from nothing but whit and brute strength.
Next time, but what about now? “Um, Susan?”
“Yes, Bobby.”
“Why don’t we walk the island first? Just to check out if there’s anything interesting on it.”
Susan frowned and gestured about her. “Bobby, I’ve already walked the island. This is the best place to build.
How could he argue with that? “I know,” Bobby stalled and wracked his brain―it wasn’t easy arguing in a dream: sense could be made of nonsense and nonsense could be made sensible. “But can I see it for myself?” Bobby tried his best sorrowful sweet-boy look, hoping it would work as well on her as it had on the rest of the planet.
But Susan only frowned. “I’ve waited enough time already, Bobby. “I’m going to build a shelter with or without your help.” And with that she marched purposely deeper into the coconut forest.
Birds twittered from somewhere nearby and a coconut dropped with a thud on the sandy floor. He woke up on his king-sized bed thinking, I’m not ready to wake up. I’m not ready.
“I’m going to France.”
“What?”
“France,” Tillie said, as if it was the most common word in her dictionary. She was arranging red and white roses into a Chrystal vase. “There. Perfect.” she turned the vase around, admiring her handy work. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris and tour the countryside.”
Bobby rubbed his forehead with his palms and tried to think. France? Sure it was great; he’d recently been there with Lola. But wasn’t his mom too old to travel to France?
“How do you plan to go? Do you need me with you?” He hoped she would say yes and no at the same time. He wanted his mother to need him, but he hardly felt like accompanying her to Europe right now. He had a beach to get back to, and somehow staying in L.A. seemed his best bet.
“Goodness, no, Bobby! I’m going on one of those tours. It’ll be good for me to get out, see some of the world.”
Bobby felt relieved that she wasn’t going by herself and that she didn’t need him after all, but a tour? And anyway, was life so bad here that she had to get away with strangers? Would it be a bunch of over-sixties singing songs and making ice cream stops?
“Oh, don’t look so worried,” Tillie smiled patiently at him. “My friend, Lily, from the old neighborhood, remember her?” Bobby nodded. “Right, well, I’m paying for her to come too. I sold that car you bought me last month and used the money for the tickets and other expenses.”
“The Porsche?”
“Dear, I don’t need a Porsche. I already have the station wagon and the Beatle.”
“But you never said anything.” Bobby felt betrayed. He had bought the new car for his mother out of pure generosity. He wanted to give her something beautiful, and the compact silver convertible was as beautiful as they come. Plus it would be easier to park than the station wagon, and more sophisticated than the Beatle.
“I suppose I should have said something before now,” Tillie confessed. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Well, you’re hurting my feelings now.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
But she didn’t look sorry, and Bobby wondered if maybe his mother was having her own breakdown, perhaps post divorce depression. The kind that takes years to sink in and, bam! before you know it, you’re selling a brand new Porsche presented to you by your one and only son so that you can tour France with a woman named Lily. “Crazy” seemed like the appropriate word. He had been spending so much time worrying about his own sanity that he had neglected his mother’s.
On the other hand, if she wanted to sell something, he couldn’t stop her; and it was actually a relief to know Lily was going as well, although what he remembered about her was her huge cleavage, revealing blouses to prove it, and an addiction to nicotine. What sort of trouble might his mother get up to with a woman like that?
Bobby studied Tillie in her velvet tracksuit, pearl necklace, white hair up in a loose bun, and decided she deserved to get up to any sort of trouble she wanted to. And in all honesty, he really couldn’t worry about his mother’s state of mind as well as his own right now.
“So why are you here, Bobby? What’s bothering you?”
It was sad that she didn’t trust him anymore to just visit her for no reason, but it was what it was, and truth be told, he didn’t really like coming to this place, this brand new museum of a home. It was so empty, even with his mother in it.
“It’s the dream,” he confessed easily this time.
“The one you told me about?”
“Yes, that’s the one. I’m still having it, but now she wants me to build a shelter.”
“So build a shelter.”
“I don’t know how, Mom. It’s not like I have a team of contractors there. All we have are trees, not even a knife. Even Bear Grylls, in Man versus Wild has a knife.”
“Well,” his mom looked dreamily off into the space above her head, thinking… “It’s a dream, so just dream of a rescue boat.”
“But it’s not my dream.” Bobby felt exasperated. “She has to dream it, but she doesn’t want to.”
“Well, get her to want to.”
“How?”
“Hey, you’re the famous actor with thousands of fans who would do anything for you. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“I don’t even know her full name yet. I don’t seem able to get her to do anything.”
Tillie studied her son carefully. There was so much she would have liked to say, but the energy wasn’t there. All she wanted to do now was to get away with Lily and have some fun.
“Don’t worry, dear, you’ll figure it out.”
For some reason, Bobby felt that their conversation was over. His mother was looking around the room, searching for a distraction, anything to get her busy.
“So, when are you leaving?” He decided to change the subject back onto her in the hope that they could keep talking.
“Hmm?”
“Leaving? To France?” Bobby raised his eyebrows and waited for an answer.
“Um, Tuesday.”
“That’s the day after tomorrow!”
“Yes, true. Tuesday follows Monday and Monday follows Sunday and today is Sunday. You are correct.”
“This is all happening too fast.” Bobby felt dizzy. He slumped into a nearby chair and hung his head between his knees the way you are suppose to do when expecting an airplane crash.
“Oh, Bobby. You’re going to be just fine. You finished that movie, right?”
“Devil Take You?”
“Yes. That’s the one. You finished it, right?”
“Yeah, nothing now but a couple of interviews and we travel to London at the end of the month for promotions and—”
“Yes, yes. Well, if you don’t have anything, why don’t you stay here for a while? No one will bother you at my house, and you can work out how to build a shelter in peace and quiet.”
Bobby didn’t know how living at his mother’s house would be better for him than his own house. At Tillie’s there were only strangers and clean corners.
“No thanks. I’m fine where I am.”
“Have it your way,” his mother said, distracted once again with her own thoughts.
Bobby got up to leave and Tillie waved him a quick goodbye.
Bobby realized, with some trepidation, that he was alone. His mother was practically already in France, Lola had been sent packing, his friends were giving him the cold shoulder due to the Samantha episode, and his manager was no where to be seen n
ow that Devil Take You was a wrap. There was only Susan.
CHAPTER 12
“Mr. Bobby, Mr. Carley is on the phone?”
Was that a question? Bobby rubbed his throbbing head and tried to clear the fuzz. He had stubbornly stayed away from the medicine cabinet, determined not to give in to the Tylenol, but, oh, his head did hurt. Maybe Tillie was right; he should have gone to her house. At least aggravated directors couldn’t get a hold of him there. It had been over a week since his mother left, and although she seemed to be having a “whale of a time” as she had put it herself, Bobby was still upset with her.
“I’ll take it.” Bobby reached for the phone and Rosa hurried out of the room. She had met Neil once before. Bobby had invited him and Patrick over for coffee to talk about Devil Take You and Rosa hadn’t liked him one bit, mainly because he had told Rosa—to her face!—that the coffee tasted old. Bobby hadn’t even defended Rosa. At the time he had badly wanted the role and was sucking up to Neil.
“Neil!” Bobby called gaily into the phone piece. “What can I do you for?” He cringed at his own use of words. He really would have to start acting his age one of these days. No wonder Neil wanted a more mature actor.
“I won’t beat about the bush, Bobby—” Beat about the bush? That was an oldie. Bobby didn’t feel so bad anymore.
“I’m listening.”
“No, Bobby, you are interrupting.”
Silence.
“Bobby?”
“Neil?”
“I’m having a dinner party tonight. It’s sort of a publicity thing, so please show up with a nice date, and try to look your best.”
Bobby seriously contemplated telling Neil Carley to take his publicity dinner party and stuff it up his tight ass, but of course he did not. Instead, he clutched the phone and headed to his medicine cabinet where a brand new unopened bottle of Tylenol awaited him.
In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson Page 5
