He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  8

  Viv has no more filming scheduled for the afternoon. Her plan had been to keep Victor company, with frequent dashes to the air-conditioned trailers. But with Victor gone, that’s out the window. She mopes around the set for a while, watching as Bob tries to get a hold on the process. Nobody pays her any attention, least of all Bob, who has never been able to look at her without going ruby red. After twice being shoved aside by one of the grips carrying equipment, Viv decides to call it a day.

  In the car back to Las Vegas, she feels very sorry for herself. Why didn’t Victor hand her some of the responsibility while he’s away? She could’ve helped Bob plan the shooting schedule. She knows the movie as well as he does. As her driver races the sedan along the ramrod straight desert road, Viv stares out of the window, tears close to the surface again. Victor never involves her in anything. She’s suspected all along that he thinks she’s too stupid to grasp the complex processes of the film industry. But having it confirmed hurts, nonetheless.

  While she watched the production crew go about their business from the sidelines, ignored by everyone, it finally dawned on her just how little she knows about the business side of making a movie. She understands what goes on in front of the camera just fine—how to hit her mark, how to say her lines in a way that’s natural yet carries on film. Even though she always gets hired for her striking physical beauty, Viv isn’t a bad actress. And since she’s got that side of it down pat it shouldn’t be too hard to learn about the behind-the-scenes stuff. As the car enters Las Vegas city limits, Viv makes a pact with herself: As soon as possible, she’ll ask Victor to show her the ropes.

  But for today, she’s had enough. All through the drive, she hasn’t said a word to Stef, who shrinks into the far corner of the backseat, and only when they hit the Strip does Viv turn to her assistant. “Take the rest of the day off.”

  “Really?” Stef’s eyes are round with astonishment. That’s never happened before.

  “Yes,” Viv sighs, half regretting her generosity already. “Get a massage or see a show. Or find one of those slot machine things and get rich.”

  Stef says nothing more, possibly worried Viv will change her mind if she does. She flees the car as soon as they come to a halt outside the motel where the film crew are lodged. Viv is glad to see the back of her assistant. She’s always glad to be rid of Stef, but today especially so.

  As the sedan door closes behind the girl and shuts out that infernal desert heat again, Viv slumps in the seat, staring out of the tinted window once more. There’s nobody here now to see her lower lip quiver as tears spring to her eyes. She can’t believe how Victor treated her. Who does he think he is? And what did she do to deserve it, anyway?

  She gets out of the car outside the Sunbeam Lofts high-rise, one of the ugliest buildings on one of the loudest corners in downtown Las Vegas. She slams the door without thanking the driver, which makes her feel almost guilty, until she’s walked the twenty yards across the boiling blacktop to the sliding double entrance doors. She’s sweaty, smelly, and her tank top sticks to the underside of her boobs. The murderous rage she feels encompasses Victor, the entire production crew that ignored her today, and her driver in particular, who made her walk across half the parking lot.

  As she waits in front of the elevators, ignoring the fat concierge leering at her from behind his desk, Viv contemplates the rest of her day. She could finally try out the rooftop pool. Even though the Sunbeam’s neighborhood is awful, the building is brand new and luxurious. When she first saw the apartment that would be her home for the duration of the desert shoot, Viv nearly felt genuine admiration for Victor’s PA Tracey, who was in charge of finding accommodation for them, along with a handful of the other top-billed talent on Dark Core. The pool on the fifteenth floor is exclusively for the use of the residents in the ten most expensive lots, of which only three are rented out, all to Victor’s company: Luke Dray, who plays the elderly Emperor and who is still on set, suffering under the heat, lives in one apartment. Viv and Victor occupy the penthouse, and Damien Thomas, who starts work tomorrow, has probably arrived in his one-bedroom apartment by now, too.

  When Viv opens the door to the wonderfully cool and silent penthouse she decides that the pool will have to wait. She goes into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Fiji is all she finds. How she hates that brand! Viv makes a mental note that she needs to tell the home help they’ve hired to do their shopping and cleaning to order only Perrier from now on. Viv then goes into the bedroom, stepping out of her sandals along the way and savoring the coolness of the marble floors. The huge penthouse is expensively furnished, and Viv lets her eyes glide over the clean lines and luxurious décor. There’s nobody to talk to, though, and nothing for her to do for the rest of the day, and the thought is depressing enough to bring more tears.

  She strips off her sweaty top and denim shorts and goes into the en suite where she has a tepid shower. The fact that ice-cold showers are a bad idea when it’s hot was one of the things she learned quickly in LA, and it’s even more important here. Nobody likes a sweaty pig. Then she pats herself dry and slips between the silken bedsheets naked. She gropes on the night stand for the remote control that lowers the blinds and shuts out the world for the next three hours.

  When she wakes, the sky has turned pink. The extended nap has done nothing to improve her mood. She stretches, then checks her phone, which lies next to her pillow. No voicemail or messages from Victor. Sure, he’d told her he would call tomorrow. But she’d hoped he might feel bad about snapping at her and get in touch sooner.

  How silly! Victor never apologizes. In Victor’s world, there is only one truth, and that’s his own. Disgusted at the realization, Viv swings her legs out of bed. Maybe she will try the pool. Some exercise might be just the thing to get over this funk.

  She roots through her half-unpacked suitcases. Stef offered to help get everything into the closet and dressers, but Viv said no. She’s particular about her things, though she has to admit that this chaos is worse than having someone handle her silken panties. But she hates having Stef in the house. That’s not changed just because they’re in Vegas.

  Viv finally locates her favorite black bikini, and the Japanese silk kimono Victor gave her as a welcome gift when they got to Las Vegas. She slips them on, then takes the elevator up one floor to the roof.

  The sun is a blood-red half circle resting on the horizon. Mesmerized, Viv walks over to the balustrade that encloses the pool area. This is a spectacle worth watching; even Vegas is less ugly as the light changes into incredible hues of red and pink. The tall buildings, the straight, wide streets with the blinking car lights—Viv can almost believe they are on Prime, Dark Core’s central location, and that she is indeed the Empress, looking down across her magical realm.

  “Nothing beats a desert sunset.”

  Viv jumps and spins around, heart beating fast. The dark, silken voice belongs to a raven-haired man who has just stepped through the doors leading onto the terrace from the elevator vestibule. He lifts his hands, and Viv’s heartbeat starts to settle. She has never met this man, but she knows who he is.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, hovering by the doors. Viv waves his apology away.

  “It’s okay. I’ll survive.” She smiles at him as he comes closer, still looking upset that he startled her. “You’re Damien Thomas.”

  “Guilty as charged.” His smile reaches all the way to his striking dark-gray eyes. He holds out his hand. “And I know who you are, of course. Vivienne Aubert, a pleasure to finally meet you!”

  His hand is warm and dry, and he holds hers for what feels like a long time, all the while looking at her intently. It gives Viv a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. She glances away into the distance, trying to dispel the sensation. But when she looks back at Damien, his quizzical gaze is still on her.

  “Call me Viv, please,” she finally manages, and turns back toward the sunset, gripping the bannister with both
hands, and trying to find a topic for small talk. “How’re you finding Vegas? Did you only just get here?”

  He steps up to the balustrade by her side. “Yeah, I’ve not even finished unpacking. But I got tired of that so I thought I’d have a look at the facilities. I was on the noon flight out of New York, and now I’m trying to stay awake until a reasonable bedtime. Don’t wanna be jetlagged and make a bad impression my first day on the new job.”

  “If you want to impress the boss, don’t stress,” Viv says, a little acid in her voice.

  Damien raises an eyebrow. “Oh,” he says. “Why’s that?”

  “Victor’s away,” she explains, trying her best to sound neutral. “Some mistake with the location paperwork. He’ll be gone a couple days at least.”

  “Ah,” Damien says. Without checking, Viv can tell he’s still looking at her. Her heart flutters. After a few moments’ silence, he asks, “You okay?”

  “We had a fight,” Viv says, surprised with herself. Why would she tell this to a stranger? It’s not her style to air her dirty laundry. But there’s something about Damien that doesn’t just make him likeable. She feels like she could tell him all her secrets, and he’d never betray her, or judge.

  “What about?” he asks, and Viv feels so safe, so soothed, she doesn’t hesitate to share details.

  “He…he was angry with me and made me feel totally useless.”

  “Well, you’re definitely not useless.” There’s a smile in Damien’s voice now, and Viv turns to look at him again. “You’re my welcome committee tonight, and I couldn’t ask for a better one. Hey, I’ve got an idea…” He straightens up and pulls out his phone. “Let’s have a drink! An apartment building with room service, let’s make the most of that!”

  Viv glances at the pool, then down at her swimming attire. Ah well, that’s not going anywhere. It’s not like it’ll be too cold to swim anytime soon. “Yeah, sure,” she says with a smile.

  Damien beams at her, his handsome face transformed into the most striking features she’s seen in a long time. He dials the concierge’s number and orders a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Viv makes a mental note to have that added to Victor’s expenses. The actors lodged here can order food and soft drinks on the production company’s bill, but they have to pay extra for alcohol. She doesn’t know if Damien has read the small print in his contract closely enough to realize that, but tonight, it gives her a little flutter of vindictive pleasure to make Victor pay for her enjoyment.

  As they wait for the champagne they turn back to appreciate the last moments of the setting sun.

  “I’ve never spent much time in Vegas,” Damien says. “The desert is so beautiful.”

  Viv huffs. “Just wait til you’re in full costume in a hundred degrees. After take number thirty-nine you won’t find the desert very beautiful anymore.”

  Damien doesn’t say anything. Viv glances at his profile. His brow creases, and when he catches her eye he looks worried. Instantly, Viv feels bad for what she said. She’s about to tell him not to listen to her, that she’s cranky because of the fight with Victor and the heat. But then the waiter with their champagne appears in the door from the elevators, and Damien goes over to take the ice bucket and glasses from him. Balancing them with one hand on his slender hip, he fishes in his pocket for a twenty dollar note. Viv frowns. She’s about to tell him that the staff will get tipped when they all leave. That’s how she and Victor handle tipping everywhere. But then she remembers that Damien wouldn’t know this custom in any case, since that’s the European way of doing things. Victor is proud of those little quirks Viv teaches him. It gives her a strange twisting in her gut to think of it now.

  When the waiter has left, Damien puts the bucket and glasses on a low table next to one of the sun beds by the pool. He pops the cork and pours two generous glasses that fizz and crackle in the stillness of the twilit roof. Viv accepts one, and Damien raises the other one in a toast.

  “To a new job and new friends,” he says. The crystalline sound when they clink the glasses is loud in Viv’s ears.

  “Vivienne Aubert,” Damien says with a smile, holding her gaze over the champagne flutes. “I’ve been wondering: Why didn’t you take your husband’s name?”

  Viv is taken aback by the directness. She’s been asked this a few times in interviews and, with a stab of irritation, wonders why Damien hasn’t researched the answer, if he’s so interested. She suppresses the feeling and smiles. “Victor thinks it would be stupid to mess with my brand,” she says.

  “Smart man, Victor,” Damien says, and takes a swig of champagne. “And it would be a shame, giving up such a beautiful French name. How come you haven’t got an accent, by the way?” He grins. “Just to warn you: I have a whole list of questions.”

  He looks so impish and flirtatious, Viv can’t help but laugh. “I’m an actor, you know,” she says, teasing. “I can switch the accent on and off at will.”

  That makes Damien laugh out loud. He raises his glass again. “To making money with make-believe.”

  She clinks her glass to his again. “I grew up here,” she says, serious again. “I was born in Washington, D.C. My dad was the French ambassador. Pierre Aubert. My mother was a dancer, from a family of Russian immigrants to New York. She was a principal dancer with most American ballet companies at one time or another.”

  Damien’s eyes grow wide. “Your mother is Annushka Petrov?”

  Viv is amazed how quickly he put the pieces together. Nobody outside the world of dance knows about Ann Petrov, her mother’s stage name. So Damien has something going for him besides his ridiculously good looks. Even though she left the world of dance behind a long time ago, Viv still feels connected to that world which attracts such interesting people. “Yes, she is. How do you know about my mother?”

  “I had…,” Damien begins, then trails off, eyes wistful. “A…friend who was a dancer.” He focuses his attention back on Viv and smiles. “I know the name, and that she was married to the French ambassador, but I never made the connection with you, until now. How did they meet?”

  “While her company toured Europe,” Viv says. “They got married three weeks after they met. It was quite the scandal. Dad had just been called to Washington. After his term was up my mother persuaded him to move to New York and go into business with one of her brothers. He was a lawyer by training, and her family helped him get settled.” She gives Damien a coy smile and a shrug. “That’s my family history in a nutshell.”

  “Well,” Damien says, looking impressed. “Quite the vita. I guess your mom insisted you take ballet lessons since before you could walk?”

  Viv laughs. “That’s pretty much dead on,” she says, then hesitates. Talking about that part of her life always brings on a plethora of emotions. “I moved to France when I was eight, to study ballet at the Paris opera.”

  “What, by yourself?” he asks, surprised.

  “The students from abroad board with French families,” she says and hopes he’ll not ask any more about that. Viv still gets chills when she thinks about her time with the Duponts. Unbidden, memories bubble up of four little beds crammed into the attic room that was damp and cold in winter, and so stifling in summer Viv sometimes feared she and her fellow lodgers would die in their sleep. Never enough food for the hungry little girls that came home exhausted from their dance practice, and the family’s own children tormenting them, pulling on long braids and laughing about their strange accents.

  Fortunately, Damien moves right on to the next question. “Why did you decide not to be the next Ann Petrov?”

  Something inside Viv shifts. She doesn’t ever talk about that, or when she does she blames a back injury for her failed career. She can still hear her mother’s disappointed words, her crying over the crackly, long-distance phone connection from Paris to New York when Viv told her she wanted to turn her back on the second great career effort Ann Petrov had worked so hard for—her daughter. Viv takes a long breath.

  “Dancin
g’s really hard work,” she hears herself say, and can’t believe she tells this stranger her secrets. “When I turned seventeen, I was offered a modeling contract. The work seemed easier, and the money was much better.”

  “And was it? Easier, I mean?” Damien’s gaze on her is very gentle, as if he knows what it costs her to talk about this. Viv hesitates, then shrugs. Many of the things she saw and did while working as a model in Paris and New York now live in the same compartment in her brain as the time at the Paris opera. Damien probably knows a little of what goes on in the fashion industry, but Viv has never been one to garner sympathy for misfortunes, whether self-made or forced upon her.

  “The pay made up for a lot. And modeling opened the door into acting,” she adds. “My favorite part about the ballet was always being a performer, telling stories onstage.”

  “And you do the storytelling really well,” Damien says, smiling. “I’ve seen Eve, and Ghoul Attack, too.”

  Viv laughs, despite herself. “You watched Ghoul Attack, and you think I tell a good story? Oh my God, get out of here!”

  Damien grins at her. “I have a soft spot for cheesy slasher movies. And it wasn’t nearly as bad as some. You were cute, with your pigtails.”

  Viv laughs, deep, invigorating belly laughs. Damien’s a charmer, all right. And he’s right, Ghoul wasn’t bad for her career. Viv met Victor thanks to that movie, at some really weird fundraiser, where a meet and greet with her in the green room raised money for a children’s hospital. Victor was the highest bidder, paying ten thousand dollars for the pleasure of her company and outbidding everyone else. After the meet and greet, he’d driven her home, spent the night, then hired her for his breakthrough film, Eve – Queen of the Underworld.

  For a moment Viv even forgets she’s annoyed with Victor. As she laughs and reminisces, it’s easy enough to push their disagreement into the background. “You’re right, though,” Damien continues. “Eve is miles better. I’ve watched it a couple of times, actually.”