Heading back to the Doheny Plaza trying to keep steady on Sunset, I ask casually, “Do you know a guy named Julian Wells?” After I ask this I’m able to loosen my grip on the steering wheel—the question is a release.
“Hey, yeah,” Rain says brightly, fooling with the stereo. “Do you know Julian?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We grew up together out here.”
“I didn’t know that. Cool.” She tries to find a track on a CD Meghan Reynolds had burned for me last summer. “He might have mentioned something about that.”
“How do you know him?” I ask.
“I did some work for him,” she says. “A long time ago.”
“What kind of work?”
“Just like an assistant. Freelance,” she says. “It was a long time ago.”
“I actually know that you know him,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, concentrating on locating the song. “You say that so weird.”
“Where is he right now?” I ask. “I’m just wondering.”
“How would I know that?” she asks, pretending to be annoyed.
“Well, aren’t you his girlfriend?”
Everything is suddenly in slow motion. It’s as if suddenly she forgot her lines. Her only response is to laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“Let’s call him up.”
“Okay. Sure. Whatever, Crazy.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?” I say. “You think this is a joke?”
“I think you’re crazy,” she says. “That’s what I think this is.”
“I know about you and him, Rain.”
“And what do you think you know?” Her voice remains playful.
“I know you were in San Diego with Julian last week.”
“I was with my mother, Clay.”
“But you were also with Julian.” Saying this relaxes me. “Didn’t you think I was going to find out about this?”
At the light on Doheny she stares straight out the windshield.
“Didn’t you know I was going to find out that you’re still fucking him?”
She suddenly cracks. She whirls toward me in the passenger seat. A series of questions pour out in a pleading rush. “So what? What does it matter? What are you doing? What do you think this is about? Will you just leave it alone? What does it matter what I do when I’m not with you?”
“It matters,” I say. “In this situation, for you to get what you want, it matters very much.”
“Why does it matter?” she shouts. “You’re crazy.”
I calmly make the left and start heading down Doheny.
“You couldn’t even play this part for a fucking month?” I ask quietly. “What, you needed his cock so badly that you had to jeopardize everything for yourself? If being with me was so important to you, Rain, why did you fuck it up? You could’ve played me but—”
“I don’t play people, Clay.”
“What about Rip Millar?”
“What about Rip Millar?” she says. “Jesus, you need to get over yourself.”
The blurry headlights from oncoming cars cause me to pull the BMW to the side of the road across from the Doheny Plaza.
“Get out. Just get out of the fucking car.”
“Clay … ” She reaches for me. “Please, stop.”
“You’re panicking.” I smile, pulling away from her. “Look at this: you’re really panicking.”
“Listen, I’ll do whatever you want,” she says. “What do you want? Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”
“End things with Julian now,” I say. “At least until you get the part.”
She pulls back. “How do I even know that you’ll help me get the part?”
“I will,” I say. “But just tell Julian to go away. I’m not even going to try until he’s out of the picture.”
“If you get me the part I’ll do anything,” she says quietly. “I’ll do anything you want. If you can get me that part I’ll do anything you want.”
She grabs my face. She pulls me to her. She kisses me hard on the mouth.
In the darkness of the bedroom Rain asks me, “Why did you do this now?”
“Do what?” I’m propped on a pillow sipping vodka and melted ice.
“Bring this all up,” she says. “Try and wreck everything.”
“I just wanted to prove that you were lying to me.”
“Who told you?”
“Rip Millar.”
She immediately tightens up and her voice becomes chilled.
“That’s not happening anymore.”
“Why isn’t it happening?”
“Because he’s fucked up.” She turns to me. “Don’t bring Rip into this. Please, Clay? Seriously. Just don’t. I’ll handle Rip.”
“He said he’ll hurt Julian,” I say. “He said he won’t be able to help himself.”
“Why can’t you just let this be what it is?”
“Because what it is … is not what I want.”
“If this is going to work the way you want it to”—she sighs—“I need some money.”
“You have a job,” I say. “What about Reveal?”
“I was let go,” she says finally.
“Why?”
“Rip made a call,” she says. “He hates me.”
Things start expanding. I feel more relaxed. Everything becomes possible because the plan starts falling into place.
“Did you hear me?” she asks. “How do you live like this?”
“I pretend I don’t.”
Is she with you now? Where is she, Julian? I mean, I know what’s going on. I know what the facts are. Fuck, Julian, what are you fucking doing? Are you fucking with me again? You’re pimping your girlfriend out? What kind of fucked-up dude are you? Tell me where she is … Where is she? … Oh, fuck yourself. I don’t ever want to see your fucking face ever again and if I see you I swear to God I will fucking kill you, Julian. I mean it. I’ll fucking kill you and I won’t give a shit. I’ll like it because everything will be better once you’re dead.” A drunken message I leave on Julian’s cell phone when I wake up and Rain’s gone in the middle of a warm January night, after the Golden Globes party at the Sunset Tower.
Two catering trucks are parked in front of the casting complex in Culver City and in the courtyard a crew is setting up tables and a DJ stand and the patio is filled with waiting young actors dressed in vintage eighties clothes and they all have blond bangs and then I’m passing the pool and walking up the stairs into an office where Jon and Mark are taking a break from the auditions with Jason.
“He’s back from the dead,” Jon says. “What’s up? Where have you been?”
“Just some personal stuff I had to deal with,” I say. “I had to finish a script.” I put my hands in my pockets and lean against a wall, trying to remain loose and casual. “And I’ve been thinking that we saw someone who’s perfect for Martina.”
“We still haven’t found anyone yet,” Jon says.
“Well, that’s not true,” Jason says. “We’ve narrowed it down but who are you thinking of?”
Mark is just staring at me, slightly amused, maybe bewildered. “Yeah, who is it?” He asks this as if he already knows.
“We saw her a couple of weeks ago and, well, I’ve been thinking about her a lot,” I say. “I think we should see her again.”
“Who?”
“Rain Turner. Do you remember her?” I ask, then turn to Mark. “She was with me at the party last night.”
Jason swings over to his monitor and taps some keys and Rain’s headshot appears on the screen. Jon moves forward, confused. Mark glances at the screen and then, hopelessly, at me.
“Why her?” Jon asks. “She’s older than Martina.”
“She just seems like who I had in mind when I was writing the script,” I say. “I mean, Martina could be a few years older than the others.”
“She’s very pretty,” Jon murmurs. “But I don’t really remember who she was.”
“I think she’s too old,” Jason says.
“Why are you so sure about her, Clay?” Mark asks.
“I just can’t stop thinking about her in that role and, well, I’d really like to have her read again.”
“Has she become a friend of yours?” Mark asks.
I try to ignore the way he asks this. “No, I mean no … she’s, I mean, I know her.”
“Who is this girl?” Jon asks. “Who reps her?”
“Burroughs Media,” the casting director says reading from the screen. “ICM is listed but I don’t think they’re repping her anymore. Her last credits are from a year ago.” He keeps scanning and then stops. “Actually, she got in as a favor.”
“From who?” I’m the one who asks this.
The casting director scrolls down Rain’s page. There’s a sudden hesitancy in the room before Jason says anything.
“Kelly Montrose,” he says. “Kelly made the call.”
Everything goes silent. Things become reversed in the long moment before anyone says anything. Through the open window the palm tree waves in the dry wind and the kids are murmuring below by the pool and no one in the room knows what to say and the hangover I had forgotten about returns the moment Kelly Montrose’s name is mentioned and I want to sing softly to myself to help submerge the pain—the chest that aches, the blood pulsing in my head—and I have no choice except to pretend I’m only a phantom, neutral and uncaring.
“Well, that’s not good,” Jon says. “I think that’s a bad omen.”
“Yeah?” I ask, finding my voice. “You do?”
“I’m superstitious.” Jon shrugs. “I believe in bad luck.”
“When did this happen?” I ask Jason. “When did Kelly make the call for her?”
“A couple days before he disappeared,” Jason says.
Rain calls me after I text her Kelly Montrose?
“Where did you go last night?” I ask. “Why did you leave? Were you with Julian?”
“If this is going to work the way you want it to,” she says, “I have to take care of some things first.”
“What things?” I’m walking out of the complex, holding the phone tightly against my ear.
“You can’t ask me that.”
“I talked to them about you.” I realize I’m unable to move while I’m on the phone with her. “They’re going to see you again.”
“Thanks,” she says. “But listen, I have to go.”
“There’s a party tonight,” I say. “Here in Culver City.”
“I don’t think I can make that, Clay.”
“Rain—”
“Just give me a day or two and then we can be together, okay?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Kelly Montrose?”
“I’ll explain everything when I see you,” she says. “I have to go.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Kelly Montrose got you the audition?” I’m whispering this.
“You never asked,” she says, and then hangs up.
There’s nothing to do but wait for the party and since I have nowhere else to go I stick around Culver City, skipping the afternoon auditions, the fear returning as I walk to a liquor store to buy aspirin, the alcoholic dreaminess of everything, the ghosts swarming everywhere whispering You need to be careful who you let into your life, and I’m pacing the courtyard while I return a couple of calls—leaving messages for the agent, the manager, the movie about the monkeys, Dr. Woolf—and smoking cigarettes by the swimming pool and watching the decorating crew string up lights along the length of a curving beige wall that borders one end of the pool and then I’m introduced to the actor who got the main role of Grant, Kevin Spacey’s son, in The Listeners and the boy is unusually handsome even with the beard he has because of the pirate movie he’s shooting and screens have been set up and headshots of various young actors are flashing on them and then from somewhere complaints are made and the screens are repositioned and I meet another girl who won another modeling competition and the afternoon becomes grayer, the sky shrouded with clouds, and someone asks me, “What’s the matter, dude?”
The party surrounds the pool and paper lanterns are strung along the courtyard and songs from the eighties are playing and everyone’s familiar-looking even though they’re all eighteen and I’m hoping that Rain will surprise me by showing up but also knowing that she won’t. Cade, the trainer from Equinox, is here—I forgot that I had made the call—and now that I understand what his connection to Julian really is I’m embarrassed Cade thinks I’m clueless enough not to know, and I’m standing next to one of Jason’s assistants and drinking vodka from a plastic cup and the boy playing Kevin Spacey’s son keeps asking me questions about his character that I answer in a monotone and he responds by pointing out an owl that’s nesting in the palm tree and then I see the actress—she’s a girl, really—that I hit on in the first-class lounge at JFK before Christmas, maybe a month ago, and Amanda Flew is so much younger than I remember and whenever she glances over at me she smiles nervously at the boy she’s talking to and sometimes the boy whispers in her ear and another boy lights her cigarettes and I’m now aware that I’ve drunk too much.
“Do you know that girl?” I ask the assistant. “Amanda Flew?”
“Yeah,” the assistant says. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I fucked her.”
There’s a beat but when I look over at him he says, “Cool.” He shrugs but he’s creeped out. “She’s hot. She’s slammin’.” Another pause. “I guess she likes older guys, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug too, and then ask, “Why do you say that?”
“I thought she was one of Rip Millar’s girls.”
I’m watching as Amanda gets a text, glances at it and then makes a call. She barely says anything, just listens, and then clicks off.
“His girls?” I’m asking.
“Yeah,” the assistant says and then noting my reaction in just those two words, adds, “I mean, it’s not like a secret or anything. She was part of his pussy posse.” He pauses. “But I’ve heard she’s crazy. Really messed up.”
I don’t say anything.
“But maybe that’s how you like them,” the assistant says.
When Amanda sees me approaching she turns away as if I’m not there. She looks around the party, she blinks, she doesn’t say anything, but when I intimately push myself into her group it becomes awkward for her to ignore me and then I say “Hey” and her smile is there and then it isn’t. She seems upset that I’m standing next to her, that I’ve even approached her, and I realize that after being so flirtatious in the lounge at JFK she now doesn’t want to speak to me but I just stand there, hoping she’ll say something back and behind Amanda a girl is dancing by herself to an old Altered Images song, the tattoo of a phone number inked along her arm.
“Yeah?” Amanda says. “Hi.” Then she turns back to the two guys.
“We met in New York,” I say. “At JFK. I think you texted me a couple of times since you’ve been in L.A. but we haven’t spoken in like four weeks. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she says, and then there’s an awkward silence and the two guys introduce themselves and names are exchanged and one of them recognizes me and says “Oh, cool” and then turns his attention on me but I’m focusing on Amanda.
“Yeah, it’s been around a month,” I say, staring at her. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine, I said,” and then, “But I think maybe you’ve made a mistake.”
“Aren’t you up for a role in The Listeners?”
A photographer snaps a shot of us standing together and it’s either this or the question I asked that becomes Amanda’s cue to leave. “I have to go now.”
I start trailing after her. “Hey, wait a minute.”
“I can’t talk right now,” she says.
“Hey, I said wait a minute—”
She’s backed against a wall that leads to the exit. The conversation is on the verge of becoming an argument
. “You’re being rude,” she says.
“I haven’t done anything,” I say. “Why am I making you so uncomfortable?”
For one flashing second her eyes go wild and then she relents.
“Please don’t talk to me, okay?” She tries to smile. “I don’t even know you,” she says. “I don’t even know who you are.”
It’s raining lightly when I leave the party and I forget where the BMW is and then I finally find it parked against a curb a few blocks away on Washington Boulevard and as I’m about to pull out a blue Jeep rushes by and slows to a stop at the light behind me on the corner. I make a U-turn and pull up behind the Jeep and my hair is wet and my hands are shaking and I can’t see who’s inside the car and it starts to rain harder as I follow the Jeep up Robertson toward West Hollywood and through the windshield wipers the streets seem emptier because of the rain and on the CD Meghan Reynolds burned for me last summer Bat for Lashes is singing “What’s a Girl to Do?” and lightning illuminates a turquoise mural on a freeway underpass and then the Jeep makes a right on Beverly and I keep checking the rearview mirror to see if someone’s following me but I can’t tell and then I force myself to stop weeping and turn off the stereo concentrating only on the blue Jeep as it makes a left onto Fairfax, and then I’m sobering up completely as the Jeep turns right onto Fountain and then a sharp right onto Orange Grove and a left about half a block up from Santa Monica Boulevard into the driveway adjacent to Rain’s apartment. And then Amanda Flew gets out of the blue Jeep.
I cruise by the apartment and turn in to a driveway down the street and park illegally, letting the engine run, and I don’t know what to do—every logical thought has become eclipsed—but I manage to get out of the BMW and move across the front lawn toward the building and it keeps raining but I don’t care, and Rain’s apartment is on the ground floor of the two-story complex and all the lights in the apartment are on and Rain’s pacing the living room, on the phone, smoking a cigarette, and I stand away from the window out of the light and Rain’s wearing a robe and her face is swollen and wiped clear of makeup and the beauty of it is momentarily blurred and despite the panic infusing the apartment candles have still been lit and I can’t hear anything except for a door slamming and then Rain clicks off the phone and Amanda walks in and I can’t hear what they’re saying to each other even when Rain starts shouting at her. Amanda says something that makes Rain stop shouting and she listens to Amanda and then both girls suddenly become hysterical and when Amanda reaches out, clutching at her, Rain slaps Amanda across the face. Amanda tries to slap Rain back but then she falls into Rain’s arms and they hold each other for a long time until Amanda sinks to her knees. Rain leaves her there and hurriedly packs a gym bag that’s sitting on the couch and Amanda, frantic, crawls toward Rain and tries to stop her. Rain throws the gym bag at Amanda, and Amanda clutches at it, weeping. And when I realize that Amanda Flew is Rain’s roommate I have to look away.
Imperial Bedrooms Page 8
