by Bruce Wagner
“I know you are.”
“’Cause I get worried ’cause I’m getting so old.”
“You are not old. And only Meryl has the kind of career you do, so don’t talk foolishness.”
“I’ll take Meryl’s career and she can take mine.”
“Ha! I’ll put in a call.” She stood. “All right, gotta go. I’m checking in with you from London, okay, Mrs. Wilding? And if I don’t hear back, I’m going to worry. I want you to keep me in the loop. Tell me how Allegra’s doing—and how you’re doing. Got it? Ellie’s orders.”
—
Dusty Skyped her shrink from the trailer.
“I had the weirdest dream last night. I was on set, in the movie I’m doing now—kinda-sorta this movie . . . but no one was paying attention. To me. I was . . . completely ignored. Actor’s nightmare, huh. I mean, I was . . . the only one standing still. Everyone was, just, whirligigging around me, with some sort of blind purpose. And I just stood there. I remember wanting to talk, but I couldn’t. Like being frozen. Then I realized I was ‘second team’—a stand-in—for myself! A camera double. They were all, like, getting ready for the ‘real’ me to arrive.”
“Do you hear what you’re saying?” said Ginevra, with a smile.
“Oh God. It’s so transparent!” The epiphany embarrassed her.
“You said you were frozen. What is it that freezes us?”
Dusty let a few seconds go by. “Fear?”
“In your dream, you’re ‘on set’—you already have a purpose. The others have a purpose too, but they’re ‘blind.’ Your purpose is real. Your eyes are open but you just can’t see what that purpose is.”
“Uh huh,” she said, grasping at revelation.
“You’re so close, Dusty.”
“I guess losing the baby brought up a lot of old shit.”
“Maybe some new shit too.”
“Old wounds.”
“Mother wounds.”
“Do you know I haven’t seen Reina in six months?” They sat awhile in silence while Dusty head-tripped. “It just feels so . . . karmically fucked. I was ready for this little girl, Ginevra! All the work I’ve been doing, with you, for years now, fucking years! I mean, an argument could be made that I gave Aurora away, but this—this one was fucking taken from me and I’m fucking livid, Ginevra!” She grabbed some Kleenex and blew her nose. “I can’t start crying, we’re about to shoot . . .”
“Talk about that—this place you go. That you ‘gave Aurora away.’ This so-called argument. Because it just doesn’t sync with the reality of what happened.”
“But I didn’t try to find her, Ginevra! I abandoned her!”
“Who was abandoned, Dusty? Who? It was you who were abandoned.”
“Oh, what difference does it make!” she said, disgusted. “It’s—it’s like that workshop I took on the Hindu gods. Kali . . . the Great Mother, Great Destroyer. Is that what I am, Ginevra? A great destroyer?”
“Not ‘destroyer,’ no. Great Mother, yes—”
“Bullshit! God! How can you even say that?”
“All women are. Honor that, Dusty! But you need to be that Great Destroyer too—to destroy all these terribly damaging ideas you have about what you did and who you are and how you’re to blame. Those ideas will take you down if you let them. You’re on a journey, Dusty, a hero’s journey. And your mother—Reina—your daughter—Aurora—and the baby Allegra lost—that both of you lost—they’re all teachers.”
“O God, Ginevra, I am so fucking sick of teachers and fucking journeys! I just want to graduate already and get wherever the fuck it is I’m going! And be whoever I’m supposed to be . . . I am so tired of playing a role. Playing roles . . . I’ve been playing Mother all my life with everyone I love, even the people I don’t! Protecting and nurturing and taking care of—”
“—of everyone but you. That’s what your dream was saying, can you see? The ‘real’ you is about to arrive on set: ‘First Team.’ Isn’t that the term? The phrase they use? Well, maybe it’s time to go home. Yes, we’ve done a lot of work. You have—brave, hard work. Maybe now it’s time to go home.”
There was a rap at the door. They needed her on set.
“I don’t even know what that means, Ginevra.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what home is.”
“I think you know exactly. Because you’re already there. Open your eyes and you’ll see that you’re home.”
—
On Wednesday, they began night shoots.
She had a few errands to run. On the way out she found Allegra on a chaise by the pool, reading her script.
“Hey there,” said Dusty.
“Hey now.” She barely looked up.
“How’s it goin’?”
“Okey-dokey.”
“Wanna do yoga with me later?”
“When,” said Allegra flatly.
“After lunch.”
“I think I should probably wait.”
“I thought the doctor said it was fine.”
“He did but I think I should wait.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Allegra grinned and went back to her reading. The actress loitered, then said, “You know that perfume dealio? The Swiss thing? They agreed to meet on Sunday. Wanna come?”
“This Sunday?”
“Uh huh.”
“Maybe. Where are they again?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Can I see how I feel?”
“Sure! I think we could both learn a lot. Be fun.” Dusty nudged off a clog and dipped her foot in the water. “Positano when I wrap? Il San Pietro? Or maybe get a house for a few weeks?”
“May-be,” said Allegra, playfully drawing out the word. She tried to make it sound like a yes, to take the pressure off.
“Or La Colombe . . .”
“Oh! I fuckin’ love that hotel.”
“Or—we could just hop in the car and head up the coast.”
“Hippetty-hop on Highway 1.”
“We’ve never stayed in one of those houses at Esalen. They’re right on the cliff—oh! Know what I was thinking we should do? Get a place in the Lake District, for Bloodthrone.”
“That would be awesome.”
“Remember when we went to Wordsworth’s cottage?” said Dusty, cracking herself up at the memory. Her effort was a tiny bit forced—she was trying to build some bridges. “That whole thing about Coleridge having a crush on Wordsworth’s sister? With the wooden teeth?”
“So much fun,” said Allegra. “Oh my God.”
It wasn’t going so bad now. It was pretty much the most they’d spoken since the miscarriage, and Dusty was relieved.
“Or did Wordsworth want to sleep with his own sister? Was that it?”
“I think that was it,” said Allegra. This time her smile was genuine.
Adrenalized by the rapprochement, Dusty stage-peeked at her wife’s pages. “Workin’ on your script?”
“Kind of.”
“I’d love to read it, when you’re ready.”
She’d overplayed her hand and Allegra got moody. Vibing that, Dusty said a hasty “Okay—love you!” then kissed her cheek and left. She refused to beat herself up for her hopeful exuberance, her mothering. That was the gift therapy had given her.
Allegra watched her go. She hated being a bitch but couldn’t help it. She grimaced and said fuck, covering her eyes to suppress the tears.
They still came.
—
It was her habit to arrive late—to escape, or at least divert, attention. (That’s how she went to the movies, taking her seat during trailers.) Across the room, Larissa threw Dusty a so-glad-you-came wink, fetching and funkily assured.
Dusty set her mat down in the space closest to
the entrance. Larissa wove among the sweaty, focused women, making small adjustments to poses while offering whispery encouragement. A few of them spotted the celeb but were quick to look away; this was Larchmont and it was no big deal unless you made it one. Larissa played it cool, in no hurry to approach. When she did, making a correction to the special visitor’s Uttanasana, Dusty felt the same frisson she had on set, when Larissa touched her shoulder. The instructor moved on, careful not to overstay the moment.
After class, Dusty said, “Shall we share a cuppa?”
—
They sat in the shady backyard of The Elixir Traveling Tea Company.
The actress was a passionate studier of people. When she became intrigued by someone new, say, a civilian or below-the-liner, she was greedy to learn everything about them. Being famous, others already knew so much about her—not just from the Internet but through years of fishbowl living—and she thought it poor form if she didn’t at least try to congenially rectify the imbalance. The flattered interviewees tended to be shockingly candid; conversations quickly became confessionals. For Dusty, the intimacy was erotic.
Larissa opened up about her divorce.
“He’s a film editor. Work has definitely slowed but he still manages pretty well—fairly. Derek’s a little older than me. Mostly, he gets jobs from directors he’s had long relationships with. But they’re getting older too—a lot are in their seventies now. They were kind of his mentors but really aren’t doing features anymore. And the cable shows and Web stuff—everyone’s so much younger. All the new technology, bla. He’s kinda freaked, but he usually lands on his feet . . . though he’s had sort of a dry spell. The next time he lands on his feet, he might need a walker!”
Dusty thought it was a funny line—no doubt a staple of the routine.
“Do you have kids?”
“Two. Our son’s twenty-three. He’s kind of on his own planet . . . or maybe he’s just orbiting. But it’s been so hard on my little girl—the divorce. Rafaela. She’s thirteen. Our little ‘surprise.’”
“What happened? With you and Derek.”
“In October, he texted me that he’s in love with his intern—so cliché.”
“He texted you.”
“He texted me! Oh my God, such a cliché, you know, like a joke, except when it’s happening to you. And she’s a baby! Our son’s age!”
“Wow.”
“Derek’s sixty-one! And I’m really doing okay. But it’s only now that I’m, just, beginning to—it’s been tough. I mean, for a while it was . . . fuckin’ brutal. And poor Rafaela! She’s in therapy now. Which is a good thing, apart from everything that’s happened, because I’m a total believer, I almost became a therapist—still might! But he’s losing his IATSE insurance and I had to really go after him to get him to pay. For her shrink. It just really hit her hard.”
“I’ll bet.”
“’Cause she’s very much a daddy’s girl and she is so angry, Dusty. I mean, she really gets it and is so pissed, on so many levels. Because we had the whole family and lifestyle thing, right? I mean, we were always living above our means—hey, old L.A. tradition, right?—but . . . we were a tight-knit little unit, family unit. You know, us against the world and all that. And Derek and I were best friends. At least, I thought we were! And I think that for Rafaela, on some level—all levels!—it just didn’t—doesn’t—compute. (I guess it doesn’t compute for me either.) We used to go away twice a year—Hawaii, Santa Fe, Napa. The whole ring-a-ding-ding deal. We had a pretty good life! Then: enter the intern.”
“Maybe he’ll come back. You know, once it’s out of his system.”
“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t take him back. At this point.”
“Men are weird.”
“Tell me about it! Hey, if I could have gone down your road, I would have.”
It was said offhandedly but the innuendo was there and Dusty let it ride.
“Your daughter’ll be okay.”
“Oh, I know she will. She’s a survivor, like her mom.”
“Children are incredibly resilient. She’s thirteen?”
“Almost fourteen—going on forty-two. Did you ever want kids?”
She was glad Larissa hadn’t pretended not to know she was childless. “I think there was a moment. Man, we tried. Recently, even.” Her words surprised her; sometimes “opening up” went both ways. “I guess my career always seemed to come first. I never wanted to be one of those monsters you read about in some spawn-of-celebrity tell-all. You know, whose presence was defined by their absence.”
“Then it’s probably a good thing. That you didn’t.”
“Right? No kid, no memoir!” They laughed too hard, as if defusing a tension. “But hey, people do it—the kids-and-career thing—and do it well. So maybe I’m just . . . full of shit.” They laughed again, then Dusty paused to silently reflect while the enthralled Larissa took it all in.
“Would you ever adopt?”
“We’re not ruling it out . . . though I’m not sure that’s something either of us have a passion for. It’s kind of a crapshoot though, right? Like, people never seem to get one that becomes a doctor or a lawyer. It’s always either junkie or serial killer—”
“Or both—”
“Or actor!”
Larissa practically belly-laughed. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens to Maddox and Zahara.”
“Angelina’s amazing, I have total respect. But it’s not the little African babies who go south, it’s the Americans. The white Americans!”
“You could always get yourself a little Russkie.”
“Nun-uh. Fetal alcohol syndrome.”
“China?”
“The holiday card photo always looks . . . awkward.”
Larissa spit-taked her oolong tea then laid her head on the table in a summer storm of giggles. Dusty really liked this lady.
She dropped the actress at her car on a residential street behind the Yoga Center, thanking her for the “playdate.” They were shooting tonight from suppertime till dawn and commiserated about the inverted schedule; it could really do a number on your body and your head. They lingered like that, running their merry mouths about circadian rhythms, fractured menses and aging vessels, and even while they spoke, Dusty mused how it’d been ages since she met a peer, someone who’d been around the block a few times but was still open-hearted, still game, still interested. It was way sexy. The thought of fooling around crossed her mind—she could lean over and kiss her right now, just swamp her—but these days that was dangerous, for all kinds of reasons. The omnipresent, cockeyed slaves to fame were a-tweeting, and all the cocksure paparazzi were using drones. Plus, she’d never cheated on Allegra, not really, in any way that counted. There’d been the low-grade emotional affair or two (she took that as an elder’s prerogative) and maybe that time in Pebble Beach when she let herself come during a massage. The masseuse never even knew it, though maybe that was just an absurd lie she told herself.
No, if she was going to be unfaithful, she’d feel better about waiting until her spouse wasn’t so miserable, so vulnerable. It was just too easy.
—
Dusty waited in the car.
She thought Allegra had been holed up in the pool house for the last few days working on her script, when actually she’d been tirelessly sketching perfume bottles. She stepped from the house, in vintage Chanel (her version of a power suit), a green leather portfolio tucked in her arm. That touch—the portfolio—broke Dusty’s heart.
“Do they know I’m coming?” asked Allegra.
“Of course they do,” she lied. The Swiss were thrilled to be having the meeting at all. They wouldn’t have cared if Dusty brought a mob of violent, mentally ill homeless people along.
The Bartok offices were just off Civic Center Drive in that leafy, oddball business park on th
e edge of Beverly Hills. An employee waited for them on the sidewalk. Their youngish escort, face flushed by the surreal proximity of a movie legend on a quiet Sunday, was charmingly beside himself. He shepherded them through a series of empty lobbies with a wabi-sabi aesthetic—Le Corbusier spaces and furnishings fit for a high-fashion zendo. They finally entered a vault-ceilinged room where a dozen elegant men and women sitting around an enormous ebony conference table instantly rose to their feet. It took a few minutes for the marrieds to shake everyone’s hand.
Anton, a beautiful, sixtyish black with a suavely indiscernible accent, spoke up. “First off, we want to thank you for coming to see us during this very busy time—I am sure it is always a very busy time. But we are most grateful and delighted, absolutely. We welcome you!”
The group, smiling in approbation, deferred to the powerful chair, giddily holding themselves in check.
“No, no,” said the honoree. “Thank you. I know it’s taken too long for us to meet and I’m so thankful for your patience. Elise and I have been talking about this forever. And I just wanted everyone to know the delays weren’t a diva thing. My schedule has been out of control.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said the chair—though more, a king enamored of a neighboring country’s queen.
“We are totally honored,” said an insanely stylish Frenchwoman with Gertrude Stein hair. “I was telling Dominic, we will wait forever!” With the last, she tapped her fist to the table, militant and nobly resolute, as if sealing a Rosicrucian blood oath.
“Well, maybe not forever,” twinkled the chair.
“But close,” said Dominic, a few seats away. “Not forever but ‘for-almost.’ I said we would wait ‘for-almost.’”
The room laughed as its expansions and contractions began in earnest.
“I feel so horrible asking you to come here on a Sunday!” said Dusty.
“That you would come to visit on your day of rest from filmwork is really so much appreciated.”
“‘Day of rest’ sounds so biblical,” said the actress.
“But it’s true, mais non?” said the Gertrude. “When you compose a film, you are making the world from Creation.”
“I can only imagine how exhausting it can be,” said the chair.
