And we became good friends. He was smart. Funny. And thoughtful. He’d do things like bring me my favorite sandwich from Canter’s Deli on a regular day (ham and Swiss on wheat, lettuce, and tomato only), and my favorite bottle of wine after a really stressful day. (And, okay, so maybe he routinely brought me a bottle of his favorite wine, not mine. But his favorite is Opus One, and if I could afford it, that could totally be my favorite wine.)
So, yes. We became good friends. But just friends.
Which wasn’t a problem until I tried to fall asleep at night and couldn’t help but dream about kissing him. Torturous as those thoughts were, they were also glorious: I could imagine exactly where we would be the first time he kissed me, and how it would feel. Those fantasies worked better than Ambien to send me off to a blissful night’s slumber.
I would rationalize that they were just harmless daydreams (nightdreams? wet dreams?). I would tell myself that it’s human nature to fantasize about someone at night, even someone you know. Really, what was the difference between thinking about Theo James, whom I don’t know, or Marc, whom I do know? They’re just thoughts, right? I’ve also thought about eating a pound of pasta followed by an entire cheesecake, that doesn’t mean I will. Okay, bad example: I totally did that last week. But the point is there’s nothing dangerous about what swims around in your head, as long as you don’t act on it.
That was the lie I told myself at the time. Again, I know I’m an idiot.
So it started out with my thinking about kissing Marc. Just a fantasy about one little kiss. No sex, no making out, just a kiss. I just wanted to know how it would feel to kiss him.
And I’ll admit, the obsession crept into my work life. I stopped eating in front of him, because butterflies flew into my stomach every time he walked into the room. During morning run-throughs, I laughed a little too hard at his jokes, and everyone else’s jokes, because I was giddy with infatuation. And when he brought me wine, I invited him to join me in a glass at my desk.
He always did. Then usually a second. One night, we nursed the bottle until midnight, talking about everything and nothing for hours.
Then he walked me to my parking space, gave me a rather awkward hug good night, and watched me get into my car and drive away.
That was the first night I started wishing I could go back in time to when I was twenty-four, and he was still single. I made up entire scenarios in my head of how we would have met in a pub on my trip to London, or when he visited the States while studying abroad his junior year in college.
Talk about crazy thoughts.
Then, on the night of my thirty-first birthday, some thingamabob switch on the set stopped working, and the crew and staff had to stay until eleven o’clock taping the show (we’re normally out by six). Afterward, Marc asked if I “would allow” him “to buy [me] a drink on this most dreadful of birthdays.”
I said, “Sure.”
Frequently after we wrap our shows for the week, I go with several members of the staff to this sports bar down the street from the lot: It’s loud, very well lit, very casual. I just assumed Marc would take me there.
Nope. The bar Marc took me to that night was dark, elegant, and romantic. Instead of a sound system blaring old AC/DC, a three-piece band quietly played jazz. And it was just the two of us who went.
We sat in a corner booth. I felt underdressed, but Marc told me several times how beautiful I looked. I flirted more than I should have. He told me stories that had me bursting out in fits of laughter, and he looked into my eyes when I told my stories, really listening.
I hadn’t felt like that on a date in years. I didn’t even know I could still feel like that—part of me was worried that after all of the years of bad dates, boring dates, and “S’up?” texts at two A.M., I couldn’t feel much of anything anymore.
Around one, Marc leaned in and lightly kissed me on the lips.
It. Was. Amazing. Soft, sweet, perfect. My lips actually tingled.
Naturally, I reacted by saying, “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” Then I grabbed my purse and bolted out the door.
As I ran away, I heard my phone ping in my pocket. I stopped running to my car to check it. Marc had texted:
Come back. I can’t leave until I pay the check.
I immediately typed back:
Absolutely not. See you in the morning.
Then I continued on to my car. But I had stopped running. Naturally, my phone beeped another text:
I’m sorry. I promise not to kiss you again.
You didn’t kiss me, I kissed you. And I’m the one who’s sorry. It’ll never happen again. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I kissed you. And I take full responsibility for it, even if it gets me fired for sexual harassment.
I stopped walking and stood in the cold, staring at that text for at least three minutes. It was exactly what I wanted to hear, and exactly what I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t know how to respond.
So he upped the ante.
I’m falling in love with you.
I leaned against a streetlamp, unsure of what to say to him, or what to do next. Barely remembering how to breathe. I had dreamt of kissing him so many times, but at no point did I ever dare to dream things could go this well.
Or this badly.
What was I doing?
After what seemed like a year, my phone beeped a fifth text:
You’re not responding.
Fuck. Of course I wasn’t. What was I supposed to say? Finally, I slowly typed back:
Don’t say things like that. You’re freaking me out.
Come back.
About a minute later, I was still staring at my phone when Marc magically appeared by my side. I looked up at him and said, “I don’t date married—”
But he pulled me into his arms and kissed me, and I turned to jelly.
We spent the next three hours kissing like teenagers in my car and admitting that we thought about each other all the time. I warned him that this was just for tonight, that we would never go any farther, that I wasn’t going to be one of those stereotypical mistresses who waited for a married man to leave his wife.
For the next two weeks, we stole kisses in each other’s offices during the day and made out with our clothes on for hours in my car at night, with me breaking up with him the entire time.
Then we slept together.
And I’ve been hoping he’ll leave his wife ever since.
“Are you all right?” Marc asks me gently, bringing me back to the present as he kisses my neck, a postcoital gesture I still find irresistible. “I seem to have lost you.”
“I’m just thinking about Game 245,” I lie. “We have a question about Sun Tzu that might be too esoteric even for our contestants. I think I need to switch it out,” I say, killing time while I stare at the ceiling of his Mercedes. “Speaking of contestants, I have got to talk to the contestant coordinator about getting some prettier women. Seriously, he seems to think that women can either be pretty or smart, but not both.”
Marc begins lightly stroking my hair. “Well, I think you’ve disproved that once and for all,” he tells me flirtatiously.
I don’t respond, instead continuing to stare up silently as he strokes my hair. “You’re very sexy, you know,” Marc continues. “There is something so wicked about having sex in a car.”
Marc leans in to give me one of his elastic melting kisses. I kiss him back distractedly. Marc pulls back, squinting at me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Actually, I was thinking about your wife,” I tell him apologetically.
Marc pulls away and sits up straight. “Hello.”
“I know she’s in London,” I begin. “And I know you guys say you have an open marriage. But I’m starting to feel guilty again.”
“Darling, we’ve been through this.”
I put up the palm of my hand and give him an all-business, unemotional, “I know. I’m not telling you to leave her. I’m just having a mome
nt. It’ll pass.”
Which sounds a little cold. But in my defense, I never ask him, “Where is this going?” or “When are you leaving her?” or plead, “Pick me! Pick me!” Because I’m a grown-ass woman, I already know where this is going: nowhere. I know when he’s leaving her: never. And I know he will never pick me. So if there are moments when I seem cold, it’s only because if I don’t keep up those walls, my whole emotional world might crumble.
Marc looks pained. “Can I take you dinner tonight? We could head to that seafood restaurant you love with the view of the Pacific? Or that Italian place you like with the gnocchi?”
“I can’t,” I tell him as I sit up. “I’m seeing Holly and Jessie tonight.”
Marc nudges me with his head like a cat. “Lobster risotto,” he tells me in a tempting lilt.
“Sorry. Remember the place I told you about in Silverlake, Wine O’Clock?”
“The wine bar?”
“Yeah. Wine O’Clock’s owner sold the place for, like, a bazillion dollars to some chain, and tonight is the last night the place will ever be open. Plus, Jessie and Kevin bought a house, and we’re going to celebrate that. Kind of a whole end-of-an-era night.”
“So is Kevin coming?” Marc asks hopefully, hoping to wing an invite. He’s constantly trying to get invited to my events, and I’m constantly thwarting him. Bad enough I’m with a married guy—why flaunt it?
“No. Just us girls tonight,” I tell him.
Marc looks hurt.
“Don’t give me that look,” I implore teasingly. “I’ve been with you every night this week.”
“But Elizabeth comes to town tomorrow,” he whines. “And I won’t get to see you for nine whole days.”
“Is that an argument in your favor? That your wife will be visiting?” I ask, trying to make the statement sound light and breezy.
Marc juts out his bottom lip. I can’t help but smile. “Stop that. You’ll still see me during the day at work. Come on. We should go back. We start taping again in half an hour.”
And the two of us rearrange our clothes, drive his car back to work, and head back onto the set five minutes apart.
Sad emoticon.
Chapter Six
HOLLY
4:00 P.M.
Do you think people know when they’re about to snap? Do you think it’s like a snowball rolling down a hill that just gets bigger and bigger, until the ball is the size of a truck, and it’s about to bitch-slap the next idiot who stumbles across its path?
Because my snowball idiot is sitting across from me at a table with his assistant, his commercial casting director, and some assorted randoms.
Ah, famous (infamous?) commercial director Joseph Chavez. How can I describe this guy? Talented? Very. Although you gotta wonder how much the people surrounding him pay for that kind of laser focus at work. Ridiculously handsome. Like, to the point where you’re almost annoyed with him. His driver’s license would merely describe him as a six-foot-two guy with dark brown hair and blue eyes. But that’s like calling a Stradivarius a fiddle. I always wonder where in the world you find that glowing olive skin contrasting with electric blue eyes.
Personality? Ah. Here is where we hit the problem. A friend of mine who has auditioned for him on numerous occasions once described it as “does not suffer fools gladly.” I think that’s being generous. I would describe him as a raging narcissist, with a streak of OCD and a personality that can only be described as “chafing.”
But I am a fan of his work, and I need this job.
So I close my eyes and let the world drift away …
Breathe, Holly. Take your time. Find your center. You are here to act. In this moment, you are an actress. Nothing else matters.
I open my eyes and burst into a dazzling smile. I lean into the casting assistant and tell her in a conspiratorial, yet excited, voice. “I’m wearing one right now.”
“A diaper?” the casting assistant reads from her script in a deadened tone.
“Not a diaper, an adult undergarment!” I answer with a tone of voice normally reserved for finding unknown ice cream in the freezer. “Designed by NASA for discretion.”
Before I launch into my lawyer-inspired monologue about how the product is not intended for use during periods (as you would when having lunch with a friend), I look over to see the director doesn’t even know I’m in the room. He’s too busy reading his phone screen and pensively thumb-typing back. The casting director nervously glances at him to glean a reaction of any kind.
Type, type, type.
I stare at the director, anger and hatred starting to simmer in my stomach. Yes, it’s a crappy audition for a crappy product (no pun intended), but I drove forty-five minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic to be here and get to act for forty-five seconds. His people called me, which means he called me, not the other way around. The least he could do is acknowledge me.
I watch the guy purse his lips as he reads the response on his screen, then thumb-type again onto his phone.
I slowly put down my script and lean in across the table, so my face is mere inches from his. “You’ve hit your breaking point, haven’t you?” I ask him calmly. “That moment when you just can’t take it any longer.”
The director looks up from his phone, surprised to discover there is someone else in the room. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, you are,” I agree. I interlock my fingers and let my chin rest on my hands as I look him right in the eye. “When you were a kid, you dreamed of becoming a director, didn’t you?”
A bit startled, the guy looks around at his staff for a save. He gets dead-eyed boredom in response. I take that as a sign to continue. “It was all you ever wanted to do. I’ll bet you spent hundreds of hours in your parents’ living room, studying every detail of every Hitchcock, Scorsese, and Kubrick film you could find. The lighting, the sound, the camera angles each one chose.”
The director slowly puts his phone down and stares at me. “Yeah,” he admits suspiciously.
“And you kept studying,” I continue. “And you started sacrificing. And when everyone else went to Europe after college, you took out student loans and went to film school. Then, when everyone else started moving in together and looking at rings, you stayed single, free from distractions, and spent every last dime you could get your hands on finishing your next short film. Maybe even maxing out a few credit cards along the way.”
The douche bag widens his eyes at me like I have a crystal ball and just successfully guessed his weight, age, and third-grade crush. But then his tone of voice makes it clear that I am a piece of gum to be scraped from his shoe as he asks, “Where exactly are you going with this?”
“You had three roommates, a clunker that barely ran, and debt so high you didn’t know why anyone would be stupid enough to loan you money in the first place. But you were a director. They weren’t. You were sacrificing for your dream. And one day all of that hard work and sacrifice would pay off. You’d have your Academy Award, your hot wife, a couple of gorgeous kids who look just like her, and your house on the beach.”
Now I have captured his attention. The guy considers my statement as though it were a question, “Well, I’m not sure if I thought—”
“And here you are, after all of those years of study, loneliness, and sacrifice, directing an adult-diaper commercial. Living the dream, huh?”
He’s about to counter my statement, but I shut him up with the palm of my hand. “Tonight’s going to suck for you, Joe. Because you’re gonna go home and you’re gonna be up half the night realizing what a waste of time your life has been lately. And that being an asshole doesn’t make you an auteur, it just makes you unhappy, and it makes everyone around you miserable. It’s time for a change, Joe. And as you stare at the bottom of your scotch glass tonight, you’re gonna think about me, and you’re gonna wonder, ‘What do I need to change?’ Well, the first thing is, when someone’s talking to you, get off your fucking phone and listen. You might learn something.”
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I pick up my purse and leave.
Oddly enough, no one follows me.
Chapter Seven
HOLLY
“You just waltzed in and announced to one of the most successful commercial directors in town that he has wasted his life. What the hell is wrong with you?!” Karen, my agent, yells at me over the phone.
“Me? What the hell is wrong with you?!” I counter at the same decibel. “Who sends a thirty-two-year-old client out on an audition for adult diapers?”
“They were going for a younger demographic.”
“You know what’s a younger demographic? Babies. Seriously, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but you need to be putting me up for younger things. There’s got to be some happy medium between auditioning for parts as the college coed and going out for the teenager’s mom. Or, in this case, grandmother!”
“Have you thought about starting a Botox regimen?” Karen asks me matter-of-factly.
“A regimen? I’m sorry, is Botox the new yoga?”
“Actually, yoga wouldn’t be a bad idea either,” Karen continues. “Let’s face it: Your ass isn’t as tight as it used to be.”
“Wow. This coming from the woman who once hiked Runyon Canyon with me while sipping from a water bottle filled with vodka.”
“I don’t have to look fantastic every minute of the day—I’m not an actress,” Karen points out. “No one’s paying me to look great. I could wear battleship gray sweatpants from the ’90s to work and have wrinkles as deep as trenches between my brows, and still have a job. You, on the other hand, are…”
Karen’s voice trails off. I drive about ten feet on the clogged freeway before I prod her. “I, on the other hand, am what?”
I can hear a sigh on her end of the phone. “Holly, I love you. You’re an amazing actress and one of my favorite clients. But you’re not the dewy-faced ingénue I signed twelve years ago. It’s not just time to think about going out for older roles, it’s also time to think about what’s next in your life. The time for you to be Hot Girl #3 is over. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
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