by Dyan Sheldon
“Hey, you know what?” says Abbot. “I caught your first show last night. You were pretty good.”
“I just do what they tell me,” says Oona. “It’s not that hard.”
“I guess life would be a lot easier if we all had a script,” says Abbot.
It’s the first joke he’s made in a long time.
The smile stays on Oona’s face until Paradise Lodge comes into view. She sighs. Home again, home again, jiggity jig…
Inside the house, Arthur snores and Maria packs the breakfast she’s made Oona.
Outside, Leone stands under the entrance portico, tapping her toe, checking her phone every two seconds and squinting down the driveway as if she’s a general waiting for last-minute reinforcements to arrive. Leone isn’t humming or singing or enjoying the peace of the morning, she’s buzzing like a bee trapped in a jar. At last a figure comes into view – a small, four-legged, multicoloured figure with ears that belong to a much larger dog. Harriet, the Hound from Purgatory. “It’s about time!” Leone mutters, and goes click-clacking off the stoop, waving her phone like a semaphore. “Where on earth have you been?” she demands as Harriet’s owner appears around the bend. Strolling along as if she thinks she’s going to live for ever. “I was worried sick! I thought something must’ve happened to you!” The gold of Leone’s phone glitters as she holds it out to prove how late it is. “We really should’ve left for the studio ten minutes ago.”
“I was taking Harriet for her morning walk.”
Leone, however, seems to be unaware of this routine even though it happens every day. “Now?” she sounds genuinely mystified. “You had to do it now? When we’re in a hurry?”
“It’s her morning walk,” says Oona reasonably. “So she usually has it in the morning.”
“But you know we have to get to the studio early today.” As if Paloma Rose was ever on time for anything that wasn’t an appointment with her stylist. “I don’t make the schedule.”
She would if she could.
“I make a lot of sacrifices for you, you know,” says Leone. Meaning that going to the studio every day cuts down on her shopping, lunching and being seen time, but she’s far too afraid of what might happen if she leaves Oona unsupervised to stay away. It’s bad enough when she is there. Controlling Oona has turned out to be a lot like herding cats. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to at least be on time.” Leone shakes her head sadly, pained, as always, to have to be critical. “I depend on you, darling. I need to know that you’re responsible.”
“I am responsible, that’s why I always take Harriet for her walk.” Oona passes Leone. “I’ll just let her inside and I’m ready to go.”
“Like that?”
Leone’s voice stops Oona and pulls her back like a Vaudeville hook dragging a bad act offstage.
Oona looks at her. Blank as a steel door. “Like what?”
“Like that.” Leone flicks her fingers at the T-shirt and jeans. “You look like a street person.”
“No I don’t. Mom.” She looks like a regular kid. “These are Paloma’s clothes. I didn’t pick them, I just put them on.”
“Well they look different on you than they do on her.” Her frown seems almost to cast a shadow. “And you’re not wearing any make-up.”
Wars have been fought over far less than the make-up argument between Leone Minnick and Oona Ginness. Leone thinks that a woman should wear make-up every waking minute of the day, even if she doesn’t plan to leave the house. Who knows who might drop by? A package may be delivered. There might be an emergency that requires an ambulance or the fire department. And if you are leaving the house – no matter where you’re going – you have to look as if you’re about to be photographed for Vogue. Even if you’re being arrested and carted off in handcuffs with a jacket over your head, underneath that jacket your face should be fully made up.
“But they’re going to make me up when I get on set, Mother dear,” reasons Oona. “What’s the point of putting any on now?”
Leone neither hums nor sighs. Her foot taps, her fingers flex, her mouth gets very, very small. “The point, sweetie, is that you are Paloma Rose. Icon and idol. And, as Paloma Rose, you must always look perfect. Always.” Neither fire, flood, nor alien invasion shall keep our heroine from her walk-in closet and her make-up case. “Everyone expects it.”
Not everyone. “That’s ridiculous,” says Oona. “And anyway there isn’t really any such thing as looking perfect. It’s completely culturally subjective.”
Leone grips her phone so tightly she breaks a nail. Here we go, she thinks, more philosophical babble. The Socrates of East LA strikes again. She’s never known anyone like Oona, and definitely didn’t feel that something was missing in her life. “You what?”
“You know what I mean. Different people have different ideas of what’s physically perfect. It depends on who you are and where you are and when. Just look at human history. Powdered wigs, tattoos, body piercings, bustles, elongated lips, codpieces, bare breasts, togas, kilts, three-inch feet…”
If Leone’s mouth gets any smaller it may disappear. “This is Hollywood not Canton, darling.”
“Exactly.” Oona smiles for the first time since she saw Leone lying in wait for her. The only thing that comes close to giving her as much pleasure as talking to Abbot or walking Harriet is bickering with Leone. “Let’s ignore the fact that this is one of the least restrictive and formal cultures that’s ever existed, with an incredible range of styles and ethnicities. The point I’m trying to make is that if there isn’t any objective definition of perfection, then a person is free to decide for her—”
“Life’s way too short for this.” Leone takes out her keys and starts towards the car. “At least wear your shades. You can do that much. And get rid of that stupid hat.”
“I could always ride in the trunk,” says Oona.
Hahaha. A philosopher and a comedian, too.
“You don’t have to do that, darling,” purrs Leone. “Just duck before we get to the road.”
Conversation as they drive to the studio isn’t pleasant, but it is limited. Leone wants to know what the hell that is that Oona’s eating, and Oona says it’s an egg and bean burrito. Maria, like Grace Ginness before her, won’t let Oona start the day without breakfast, even if she has to eat it in the car.
Leone says Oona’s supposed to be watching her weight.
“I never put on weight,” says Oona. “And anyway, I eat what you say when there are people around. I didn’t think I had to starve myself the rest of the time.”
Leone says to open her window, she’s making the car smell like a taqueria. “There’s breath spray in the glove compartment,” says Leone. “Use it.”
Oona sighs. “Yes, Mother.”
“Damn it, there he is again,” mutters Leone. They’re being followed. There is one photographer with the single-mindedness of a tracker dog who has made it his business to shadow them every day, as if, on the way to the studio, Paloma Rose is suddenly going to jump out of the car and hold up a bank. Sometimes he’s right at the foot of the driveway, sometimes he’s tucked into a side street or parked further down the road; today he’s waited until they’re several blocks from the house. “Hold tight.” Leone steps on the gas.
Oona holds tight. “Maybe I should’ve ridden in the trunk.”
“It would only ruin your hair,” says Leone. And then, picking up where she left off, says, “I do hope that you’re going to try to do everything right today. I don’t want to have to remind you again that you’re supposed to be impersonating the Sphinx.”
Oona watches the car behind them in the side mirror. “You want me to break my nose and be buried in sand?”
“I want you to be silent and mysterious.” They take a turn a little sharply and both tilt to the left. “I don’t want you offering your opinion on things that don’t concern you.”
“Are we talking about the slippers again?”
Yesterday Oona pointed out a co
ntinuity error. It was towards the end of the day and everyone was ready to finish up and go home when Faith Cross, instead of saying, “But hope is the fuel of life, Lucinda,” said, “Weren’t you wearing slippers before?” They had to start the scene all over. Making Leone late for her dinner.
A shrub that is clearly standing too close to the road brushes against the passenger window.
“They have a person whose job it is to do that, sweetie. And that isn’t you. I want that to be the last time you do something like that.” It wasn’t the first.
“I said I was sorry. It just came out.” Oona stretches her legs as if braking as they sail around another bend. “I was only trying to help.”
“You’re not paid to help. You’re paid to act. Just stick to the script.”
They drive the rest of the way in their usual uncompanionable silence.
There’s already a whirlpool of young fans outside the studio entrance. If the girl beside her really were Paloma, Leone would stop the car and let them get pictures and autographs, but Oona won’t just sign her name and smile as Paloma would. Oh no, not Oona. She’s a girl of the people, Oona, always starting conversations. Always asking questions that lead to long answers. All Leone wants now is to get her inside. She drives through the gates as if she’s in a tank; everyone gets out of her way.
Oona tenses, takes a deep breath, and steps out of the car.
Jack Silk calls every evening to see how things are going. And every evening Leone tells him that things couldn’t be better. This is true. Leone might wish that Oona would be a little less pleasant, enthusiastic and cooperative, but even she sees that this very unsphinx-like behaviour has had a beneficial effect on the show. Because Oona gets along with everyone – even with Audrey Hepplewhite – and treats them all with the charm Paloma Rose always reserved for network executives, the atmosphere on set has improved at least two-hundred per cent. The filming is on schedule for a change, morale is high, energy is up, and there have been no scenes of high drama that aren’t in the script – and no time lost because someone is grumpy and won’t come out of her dressing room. But because Leone is living proof of that old saying “a man only sees what he wants to see”, she doesn’t realize that the changes in Paloma Rose have been noted and discussed. Everyone knows that something is up.
Oona does realize this. Which, of course, is what makes her as tense as a soldier going into combat every time she enters the studio. She’s aware that everybody watches her as if they’re looking at one of those pictures with another picture hidden in it. Comments have been made. The make-up woman wanted to know what she’s been using on her skin, the head costume designer said she thought that Paloma must have shrunk, the hair stylist asked if she’d changed her salon. Comments have been overheard. Someone wondered aloud if a new charm school had opened up in Beverly Hills. The grip said he thought somebody must have hypnotized the Princess Brat. After a conversation initiated by Oona, Audrey Hepplewhite asked the actor who plays her husband for a reality check.
Because she is aware of the cast and crew’s suspicions, Oona tries to keep herself aloof and uninvolved, but her efforts never last for long. She can’t stop herself from being friendly. She can’t stop herself from being helpful. She can’t keep her mouth shut when someone isn’t wearing slippers and should be. Her co-workers were wary at first (and certainly surprised), smiling back like prisoners and answering in monosyllables, but gradually they’ve accepted the user-friendly Paloma Rose as normal. Cracks have even been made about how Paloma has finally learned to tell the time, to pronounce words of more than three syllables, and to say “please” and “thank you” – though never when they thought Leone was listening. The first time Oona herself made a joke there was a stunned silence of several seconds, broken by someone on the crew shouting out, “Who said that?” Oona has tried not to make many jokes since.
They are late today, but since it’s a good two hours and forty-five minutes short of the record Paloma set in the winter no one starts shouting as soon as they arrive – the way someone once might have. Several people look up. Someone calls out, “She’s here!” Someone else calls out, “OK, everybody, battle stations…”
“There you are!” The director, known to Paloma Rose as the dictator, comes striding towards Oona.
Oona immediately forgets that she’s supposed to keep her mouth shut unless repeating a line written by someone else and starts apologizing. “I’m really sorry,” she says, her eyes on the director, “but I had to walk my dog. And we kept running into people and dogs we know. And so I guess I just lost track of the time.”
Leone gives her a look that would kick her if it were a mule. “Let’s also mention the traffic.” Leone speaks very loudly, hoping to obliterate Oona’s explanation by sheer volume. “I don’t think we can be held responsible for the traffic jam otherwise known as the streets of LA.”
The director doesn’t so much as glance at Leone. “You walk your dog?” He shakes his head as if someone just bounced a ball off it. “You know, I never thought of you as a dog person.”
“Or a walker,” mutters his PA.
Someone nearby stifles a laugh.
“So what kind is it?” The director is also a dog person. “What’s its name?”
“Her name’s Harriet.” It’s always such a relief to be able to tell the truth that Oona can’t stop herself. “She’s a rescue dog. She was really badly treated and someone found her in a garbage can. She’s really smart, but she’s kind of a ten percenter. You know, ten per cent of this… and ten per cent of that…”
The director laughs. “Really.” If it had ever occurred to him that Paloma Rose owned a dog he would have guessed something small and expensive. An accessory dog, not a rescue dog. “That’s very interesting.” And indeed he does look interested; as does everyone else.
“Yeah. She was—”
“Come on, sweetie.” Leone grabs her by the arm. “There isn’t time for this now. You have to get ready.” She squeezes her hard enough to cut off the blood flow and starts to propel her forward.
“Slow down a minute, there, Leone.” The director puts a hand on her. “I want to say something to Paloma.”
“You do?” Leone is so surprised that she lets go of Oona. “I was only thinking of the schedule.”
“I’ll worry about the schedule, you worry about whatever it is you worry about.” He puts an arm around Oona’s shoulders and turns her around so that Leone is behind them. “I just wanted to thank you. That was a good call about the slippers yesterday.”
“Oh, I didn’t know if—” She can feel Leone glowering at her back. “I mean—”
He lowers his voice. “And also that inaccuracy…” Something Oona mentioned to him that she happened to notice in the next episode’s script. “You were completely right. He could never have sent that telegram then. The first transcontinental telegraph wasn’t until 1861.” He gives her a hug. “You saved us about a billion Tweets about that!”
It isn’t until he takes his arm away that Oona looks up to see everyone watching them. Smiling. And suddenly realizes that they don’t care who she is. Some of them may know she isn’t really Paloma Rose, some of them may only suspect, some of them may just think she’s found religion and become a better person. But none of them cares. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the show. Nobody would care if Paloma were being impersonated by a dybbuk out to take over the whole of Los Angeles and annexe it to Hell, so long as Angel in the House isn’t cancelled and they don’t all lose their jobs. And with that realization comes a question: did Leone and Jack Silk’s scheme ever have anything to do with giving Paloma Rose a holiday – or is it to do with something else?
“What’s wrong with you?” Leone hisses as at last she drags Oona away. “A rescue dog! What are you, Daryl Hannah? Paloma Rose does not rescue dogs.” A door shuts behind them. “And what was all that muttering about? Since when are you two so chummy? What inaccuracy?”
Oona can’t believe that Leon
e’s hearing is that good. She must have used mirrors; it goes without saying that she can probably read lips.
“It’s not a big deal,” says Oona. “It was just something I noticed in the next episode. Something that couldn’t have happened then.”
“But noticing that kind of thing is totally out of character,” snaps Leone. Paloma wouldn’t notice if the Victorians had power showers. “You’re going to ruin everything.”
Oona sighs. She almost wishes she could.
Leone takes Oona home at the end of the day, but is off again in less than an hour for dinner with friends. Arthur, of course, is out, and it’s Maria’s night off. The absence of Maria makes the house feel as warm and inviting as a deserted airplane hangar with broken windows and pigeons roosting in the rafters. Oona sighs.
Armed with a large flashlight and a can of pepper spray (in case they are attacked by coyotes), she and Harriet go for their evening walk. Most people are inside now. Mrs Makinpaw and Sunshine are sitting together on the sofa, watching something on TV, as they are every night at this time. Mrs Makinpaw looks up and waves. When they get back to Paradise Lodge Oona microwaves a frozen pizza and calls her father. Her father doesn’t answer, which is less unusual these days than it once would have been; she’s too tired to eat. She takes a shower and goes to bed.
In her own life, Oona would read for a while before turning out the lights, but now she puts on a movie she’s seen before, just for the sound of human voices, watching it in the dark with Harriet stretched across her. She’s asleep before the opening credits.
And so another day in the glamorous life of a Hollywood star comes to an end.
Living the dream.
Home, Home on the Range
Paloma Rose would have to agree with Oona Ginness that it’s a lot easier to act when you have a script than when you have to improvise.
