She puts her empty wine glass down and Rachel appears within seconds to offer a refill. I can tell Gemma’s about to make a default expression of ‘No, thank you’ so I down the rest of my whiskey and order refills for both of us.
“I was good at numbers,” Gemma says, with a small shrug, and a slight note of disappointment in her voice that you’d need radar to detect.
“You’re good at a lot of things,” I say, trailing off, hoping for her to fill in the gaps.
The drinks come and Gemma sighs.
“Actually…accounting isn’t really my true love. I wanted to be a writer. I’ve been working on a script for years.” She looks away, as if this is the most shameful secret she could have possibly told me.
“Whoa! Really? That’s awesome. I’m impressed.”
“Really? You must be impressed a lot then – it seems like in LA everyone and their dog is working on a script.”
“Yeah, true – but you’re smart enough to know how to write something decent, and focused enough to finish it. What’s it about?”
“Oh no. I’ve said too much already.”
“Come on! Tell me! I’m an actor, maybe I can help. I’ve read enough scripts to fill a library – or to wipe every ass in America, if their quality was anything to go by.”
Her cheeks are pink now, and she won’t meet my eyes. “I can’t explain it, it’s too complicated.”
I open my hands out and shrug.
“This isn’t Europe – if you can’t explain it in a couple of sentences you’ll never get anywhere. Come on, try, at least.”
Gemma sips her wine and shakes her head. I glare at her, sending telepathic signals that let her know I won’t give up until she tells me. After going through a few more sighs and fidgets, she gives in.
“It’s silly…I’m just doing it for fun, I don’t expect anything to come of it. It’s…” Gemma checks my face for signs I’m genuinely interested, and it’s only when she’s satisfied that I am that she continues. “It’s about a guy whose wife dies…about the weird emptiness it leaves in his life…and how he goes about trying to mend it, to move on. It’s kinda quirky, I guess.”
She’s looking down between her feet now, almost like she’s bracing herself for a blow on the head, and I realize just how much she’s opened up, how vulnerable she must be feeling. I reach out and place a hand on her chin, lifting her face up to look at me.
“It sounds…beautiful. It’s a character piece. Independent film loves that kind of thing. Have you—thought about showing it to anyone, trying to get it made?”
She laughs awkwardly as she settles back in her seat.
“It’s a silly idea. I probably won’t show it to anyone. I know it’ll never get made. There’s no real plot – no happy ending. Just a little philosophy and a lot of broken people. Searching for something…more. But I don’t think they find it.”
I chuckle.
“You don’t believe in happy endings, right?”
“Not really, no.”
Just then, there’s a small jolt, accompanied by the sound of skidding wheels, as we land in Vegas. It breaks the fragile, intimate thread between us, as we turn to look out of the window and see the glittering skyline of Sin City.
The waiting limo whisks us off towards the hotel, where a suite has been prepared for us. Champagne on ice (they know me well), and a wardrobe of clothes for Gemma. The sizes aren’t perfect, but Gemma looks good in anything, and she steps out of the bedroom in a loose-fitting blouse and pencil skirt with her palms open, anticipating my opinion.
“What do you think?”
I lean forward from my seat on the couch.
“I’d probably get in trouble if I told you what I’m thinking.”
She groans and smiles, but her body relaxes in the clothes as she steps towards me.
“So…” she says, swinging her arms and pursing her lips, “what are we going to do?”
I stand up and nod towards the door.
“There’s a private member’s casino in the hotel. I’m thinking we have a few drinks, lose a little money, and just have some fun. We can even turn in early if you insist.”
She shrugs an agreement and smiles.
“Ok. Sounds like fun.”
When we reach the lobby we’re soon surrounded by about half a dozen people, pens and pieces of paper materializing in their hands.
“It’s Dylan Marlowe!”
“Oh my God! You’re even bigger in the flesh!”
“Would it be too much trouble to get an autograph?”
I glance towards Gemma, who smiles understandingly, and I get to work scribbling a vague approximation of my name and putting on my poster-smile for some pictures. Once I’ve done just enough for them not to tweet, blog, or post about me being a complete douchebag, I return to Gemma.
“I never understood that,” she says, as I lead her towards the entrance of the members club.
“What?” I say, nodding to a couple of hotel clerks I recognize.
“Signatures. What’s so special about them? It’s just a scribble.”
“It’s a symbol, I guess.”
“Of what? ‘Hey I was within five feet of someone famous – and this proves it.’”
I laugh as we approach the doors.
“Mr. Marlowe! A pleasant surprise!” says the girl beside the door. “It’s been quite a while since your last visit.”
“I was here last month.”
“As I said, quite a while,” she says, winking.
“I’ll always come back to you, Marcy,” I smile, as she opens the doors and leads us through.
On weekends the casino is the hottest one that most people in Vegas don’t know about. It’s the first place anyone with a recognizable face in Hollywood thinks of when they want to throw some die. Tuxedos, tight dresses, and enough money flying around to bankrupt a small country. Me, I prefer it the rest of the week. The names are just as famous, but the atmosphere is even more so. If there’s any place the saying ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ is true, it’s here. I’ve seen Oscar winners tip over tables after a bad hand here, knights of the realm get into fist fights, and heard stories that would make your toes curl – I’ve been involved in a lot of them myself.
Heads turn toward us as we enter, and almost collectively they smile and raise their arms.
“Dylan!” screams Danny, a bear of an actor who seems to make about three comedies every year. “Holy shit!”
He shoves the guy next to him, a muscle-bound action movie star who has a face that looks like he’s always on the verge of killing someone.
“Whoa! The night’s getting better!”
I put a hand on Gemma’s back and usher her into the room, where I exchange bone-shaking hand-clasps with Danny and the bruiser.
“How’s it going, man?”
“Good,” I say, as the four of us make our way to the bar.
A woman in a backless dress turns on her bar stool to face us, and I recognize the face as Alison-something – a singer-turned-actress with green eyes that compel you to look at the magazine covers she always seems to be on.
“Is it true?” she says, huskily, as she spins an olive around her drink.
“Is what true?”
“That you’re doing the next Christopher West movie?”
A silence seems to envelop me like a cloud, and I can tell there are more than just the people around me at the bar listening in.
I chuckle a little, then hold my hands up.
“Guilty.”
Excited shouts and happy gasps resound around me, and I feel multiple slaps on my back. The hums and chatter meld into a wave of positive enthusiasm that seems to catch throughout the room.
“Get this man a drink! He’s about to go into space!”
“I knew it. I just fucking knew you’d have a comeback, man!”
“Shit! If Dylan can make a movie with Christopher West, anything can happen! Get him a single malt on me, I want him to remember me!”
I look for Gemma, but all I can see is a flash of those blue eyes for a second before the crowd around me gets closer.
Chapter 10
Gemma
It’s easy to see why Dylan’s so popular when he’s in his element like this. He stands out like a beacon, like the centrifugal force that everyone revolves around. He’s funny, charming, unpretentious, and everybody around him seems to fall under the spell of his twinkling eyes and rich voice.
Dylan doesn’t forget me, and he introduces me to as many people as he can – I end up meeting more stars than I would on a red carpet, but as more of them hear news of ‘Dylan’s Big Comeback’ and drop by to share a drink, a joke, and an old story, I find myself getting pushed out to the periphery.
I settle for nursing my wine as I watch Dylan get pulled towards the roulette table by a towering supermodel he obviously has some history with. More famous faces enter, and I begin to feel like the party’s going to get too big for the casino. It’s definitely a party now, and not ‘a few drinks and a few games.’ Raucous laughter and shouts come at me from every angle as stars used to stealing the limelight fight it out. Above them all, you can hear Dylan, conducting the crowd like a master performer, the people around him hanging on his every word, cued by his every gesture, following him like some weird party-prophet.
“Another one?” says a voice from over the bar. I turn to face the bartender – handsome enough to be a movie star in his own right, and smile before checking my watch.
“Shit. Is it really one in the morning?”
The bartender nods behind him towards the clock hanging over the bar, right next to the ‘No Photos’ sign. It’s one am alright.
“Somewhere you gotta be?” he asks, wiping the bar, more for something to do I guess than because it needs it – everything in the casino looks as clean and as expensive as a movie set.
“Bed. And so should Dylan.”
The bartender gives a cursory glance in Dylan’s direction, and almost as if it was cued, there’s another loud roar of laughter, following by the smack of high fives as Dylan wins the round of whatever he’s playing.
“You came in with him, right?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, “I’m his assistant. I’m supposed to keep him in line. Make sure he doesn’t do…well…whatever he’s doing now, pretty much.”
The bartender tuts and breathes in sharply.
“Good luck trying to get him away from the tables. Once he gets going—”
“I know. I’m well aware of how hard it is to keep him focused.”
“He’s focused – just on the wrong things, usually,” he quips, leaning over the bar. “You sure you won’t have another?”
“No,” I say, looking towards the crowd and wondering how I’ll push through. “The shooting starts tomorrow. I have to get him away.”
After a few moments the bartender stands up.
“Maybe I can help. I shouldn’t do this – and Dylan will probably hate me for it, but…”
I look up at the bartender, who swings open a section of the bar and steps through, winking at me as he does so.
I watch with eager anticipation as the bartender slides through the crowd with expertise. There are a few groans and laughs, then he emerges from the crowd with Dylan in tow. They walk towards me, Dylan’s smile plastered on his face.
“So where’s the phone?” he says, before catching sight of me. “Oh, I see.”
The bartender shrugs, and leaves us alone.
“Dylan,” I say, speaking quickly, afraid he’ll bounce right back into the crowd. “We have to go. It’s one am. We have to be on set in nine hours.”
“Yeah,” Dylan says, nodding and shuffling his feet. “I was…uh…thinking. Maybe you could go back now. You know, take the limo, the jet…and I’ll see you on set tomorrow.”
“No.”
“I just want to play a little bit more. You should come over, I’m on a hot streak!”
“No, Dylan, please, we—”
“Come on, there’s something fizzing in the air tonig—”
“No!” I shout, loudly, though it’s drowned in the buzz of the casino. “We have to go!”
Dylan sighs heavily as he looks back at the crowd, a few of them waving him over. He rubs the back of his head and I can see the struggle in his face.
“I can’t. You don’t understand. I haven’t seen some of these guys in ages. And besides, we’re celebrating! How many chances am I gonna get to celebrate a comeback? It’s a once in a lifetime—”
“There won’t be a comeback if you don’t turn up at the set tomorrow.”
“And I will.”
“You won’t, Dylan. We both know that,” I say, losing my patience. “Christ! Why are you so fucking stubborn?”
A dark fierceness fills Dylan’s eyes, and for a split-second there’s a power in his expression that feels a little intimidating.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Look, these are my friends. You should try getting some yourself sometime, it might help you be less uptight.”
“Oh please. Friends? These phonies couldn’t give a fuck about you,” I say, nodding towards the tables. “They’re only latching on to you now because you’re back on track – or so they think.”
Dylan steps back and looks up, an angry smile on his face. I struck a nerve.
“Jesus! Are you for real? I’ve known these people for years, I’ve known you for all of… What? Three days? And you think you’ve got me all figured out?”
“There’s not much to figure out. These ‘friends’ are probably the reason you need a babysitter before they’ll let you anywhere near a movie set. Where were they when your career was being gossip column fodder rather than a movie actor? Or staying up and browsing BootyApp for that matter?”
Dylan snorts derisively.
“I have plenty of people I can call on, don’t worry about that.”
“I’m sure you do. The problem isn’t them, Dylan. It’s you.”
“Where is this coming from? Are you taking out your insecurities about your own shitty life on me or something?”
I don’t know where it’s coming from, the words are pouring out of me like hot lava; a mixture of long-suppressed emotions and frustration.
“You promised me this would be a few drinks,” I say, lowering my voice. “‘Responsible,’ you said. And now? Now it’s the same old shit. Skipping out on your responsibilities, because your ego can’t go ten minutes without needing to be stroked.”
“What the fuck does that mean? You’re just talking trash now.”
“That’s what it is, Dylan. That’s why you always have to be moving, always looking for some ‘fun,’ always picking up some girl, always looking for some trouble, always putting yourself in the middle of things – because if you weren’t, you’d have to be alone for more than two seconds.” I lean forward, towards him. “And you can’t fucking stand yourself.”
I can see the lines of his jaw moving as he clenches his teeth, hear the heavy, hot breaths that emerge from his nostrils like fire, and see the venom and danger in his eyes – but I don’t look away.
“I don’t need anyone,” he says, his voice falling like steel rods. “I don’t need this, I don’t need this fucking movie, and least of all, I don’t need a bitter little jumped-up assistant telling me how to live my life.”
I glower at him for a second, then turn my head down to the bar. I can’t let myself cry. When I look back up, he’s not there. I scan the room, searching for his distinctive frame in the mass of bodies, then look towards the bartender.
“Where did Dylan go?”
He shrugs, and I start moving through the casino, shoving and sliding through the happy crowd in search of the man I’m supposed to be watching at all times. After five minutes of checking every table, shouting out the question to anyone I recognize even vaguely, I give up and head for the entrance, where the girl who greeted us is standing in front of the coat check.
“Did Dylan
leave?”
“Yes,” she says, “he just left a few minutes ago.”
“Where was he going? Was he with anyone?”
She eyes me suspiciously, and I realize I’m barking out the questions like a desperate fan.
“He left alone. I have no idea where he went. He just stormed out – didn’t even say goodbye. I figured he had to be somewhere in a rush.”
I march out through the lobby, scanning my head almost three hundred and sixty degrees. When I don’t see Dylan, I pick out my phone and dial his number. It rings through to voicemail.
“Dylan, it’s Gemma. Look, I’m sorry. Where are you? Please call me as soon as you can.”
After going back up to the hotel suite, and finding it as empty as we left it, I call him again. This time the line dies after only a few rings. I try again, but it goes to voicemail. I pace up and down the luxury room for a few minutes, checking my phone every minute as if I’ll miss something, then call again. Still straight to voicemail. Dylan’s turned off his phone.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head into my hands, breathing deeply for I don’t know how long, trying to regain my senses after the emotional high of screaming at Dylan.
My mind races with the possibilities. I imagine Dylan hitting more bars, getting completely wasted and turning up on the entertainment sites tomorrow. Or even worse, driving out into the desert and killing himself in a cinematic inferno. I imagine all the ways this situation could get even worse – though it’s bad enough already.
I try one more time to get through to him, but the harsh tones of a robotic outgoing message hammer home the knowledge that Dylan’s only interest right now is running away from all of this, from the movie, and from me.
So this is how my career ends. Stranded in Vegas, a pissed-off actor on the loose, and a multi-million dollar film project ruined – all because of me.
I never believed in happy endings – but this is something else.
TO BE CONTINUED…
What happens next?
Dylan and Gemma’s story continues in BOOTYCALL: PART TWO.
Bootycall Page 11
