D’ARCY POKED HER head into Milton’s office. “Sir, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Not now, D’Arcy.” He was about to call the Steering Committee to share the latest developments. The ship had been righted, as it were. The Crawl was coming to an end, women’s groups had been mollified (albeit with some generous funding), and the historical scourge of fraternities would soon be over. All in the last week. It felt good to lead.
“Sir, it’s Camille Thornton,” said D’Arcy in an exaggerated whisper.
“Camille Thornton? Here?” He’d always hoped they might meet, but she’d never come back to campus. Until now.
“Yes, sir. She’d like a moment of your time. I’m supposed to remind you she went to the drama school.”
“Yes, of course. Send her in!”
“Right away.”
“Oh, and, D’Arcy, please reschedule the call with the Steering Committee.”
“Of course, sir.” Milton tried to compose himself, but when Camille swept into Milton’s office, his heart fluttered. That smile!
“Ms. Thornton. I am honored,” he said, beaming.
“Thank you, President Strauss. The honor is mine.” She flashed her trademark smile again. It was broad and elfin and had melted the hearts of a generation of moviegoers. If it had lost any of its luster, Milton wasn’t noticing.
“Please, call me Milton.”
“Milton. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment. And call me Camille. Please.” She touched him lightly on the forearm.
“My pleasure, Camille. It’s always good to welcome back one of our lost lambs.”
“Lost no more!”
For a few moments, Milton just stared, grinning foolishly.
“Do you think I could sit?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Milton led her to the sitting area. “What can I get you? Some coffee? A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“So tell me, how can Devon help one of her favorite daughters?”
“I’ve flown across the country to speak with you. It concerns Lulu Harris.”
“Ah, our crawler. Very impressive girl. May I ask your interest?”
“You certainly may. I’m making a film, and it would be helpful if I could talk to her. For research.”
“A new film. Wonderful! Are you allowed to tell me what it’s about?”
“Of course. It’s called Gender Games. I play a woman named Molly Fletcher, the mother of a college-age girl—”
Milton waved a hand dismissively. “College age? Impossible!”
Camille laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, good sir, particularly where I’m from. Is this how you raise all that money?”
“Merely stating the obvious.” A goofy smile was still plastered to Milton’s face.
“Anyway, the girl is off at college, and as it happens, she suffers an assault at the hands of several boys. When the girl publicly accuses them, they set about destroying her reputation. This leads tragically to her suicide. The mother, my character, comes to campus to seek revenge.”
“Sort of a feminist Death Wish? You’re the distaff Charles Bronson?”
“You know your film history! Yes, but perhaps a bit more topical and definitely edgier. My character exacts her revenge in fitting ways, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, dear.” Milton crossed his legs reflexively. “It sounds like a hit!”
“That’s so nice of you. Perhaps we could put you in a cameo. Much of the film is set on a college campus…”
Milton’s face lit up. “You know, I used to be somewhat of a thespian myself! I played the Stage Manager in Our Town my freshman year.” Milton held up a theatrical hand and looked into the distance. “‘So this is the way we were in the provinces of New York … the way we were in our growing up and our marrying and our living … and in our dying.’”
“Bravo!” Camille clapped. “I’m sure we can arrange something.”
Milton visibly blushed. “It’s amazing how easily it comes back.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Anyway, I always like to research my roles thoroughly, and I’m sure you can see the parallels here, so I was hoping I might meet Miss Harris.”
“Have you tried reaching out to her?”
“Well, from everything I’ve read, she’s quite private and hasn’t been talking to the media or anyone else.”
“That’s true. She’s been quite the cipher.” Needless to say, he wasn’t sharing Lulu’s recanting of her story with anyone, not even Camille Thornton. Poor girl was confused. “You know, tomorrow is her last Crawl, which means there’s one tonight as well. It might help your research. In fact, you could watch from here if you wanted…”
“That’s very gracious of you. I think I’d like to talk to Lulu before I do anything.”
“Certainly, if she’s willing. I can’t imagine she’d say no to Camille Thornton!” Milton walked to the door and stuck his head out. “D’Arcy, a moment?” D’Arcy entered with pen and notepad. “Ms. Thornton would like to meet Lulu Harris. Would you mind arranging it straightaway?”
“Certainly, sir, although she apparently never responds to calls or emails. I can walk Ms. Thornton over to Duffy…”
Milton turned back to Camille. “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t I take you over to Duffy Hall myself and we’ll see if we can find the enigmatic Ms. Harris together?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you so much.”
Milton imagined people seeing him squiring Camille Thornton about. Just another day as president of an elite university. Perhaps @FakeUncleMiltie would have something to say …
Camille Thornton wondered how Milton might react if he knew the truth.
At one time she had been the top-grossing actress in Hollywood, starring in a string of massively successful romantic comedies, famous for her girl-next-door persona. As is the way of Hollywood, though, younger actresses asserted themselves and offers gradually dried up. In an effort to stay youthful, Camille embarked on a series of ill-advised plastic surgeries, the combined effect changing her trademark fresh-faced look into something faintly alien. Her lips were puffy from collagen and her skin unnaturally shiny from a face-lift and Botox injections; not the Camille Thornton her fans knew. It also didn’t help that in real life she wasn’t the bubbly sprite she was on-screen. She had a well-earned reputation in the industry for being “difficult” on set. Now forty-five, she hadn’t had a real role in over three years.
Publicists, agents, studio execs … they all fed her the same crap. We love you, Camille. The next great role is right around the corner, Camille.
She was tired of getting smoke blown up her ass.
Walking down Mathers, Milton and Camille got plenty of shout-outs and wide-eyed stares. No one actually stopped her for an autograph, which disappointed Milton, but Devon students imagined themselves too sophisticated. So much cooler to just shout famous lines from her movies.
“It’s so cute!”
That was Camille Thornton’s signature line from That One Weekend, her equivalent of “I’ll be back.” It was her character’s response to this creep who thought dropping his pants on a first date was the path to her affections. She heard it most places she went, and invariably people thought they were being clever. Bill Murray once told her that “It’s in the hole!” was his own particular cross to bear.
It’s so cute. A career, distilled to three words. There had to be more, a role that meant something, a role that changed people’s lives. She believed with every fiber of her being that Molly Fletcher was that role. Gender Games was topical and it was dark. Total Oscar bait. Molly Fletcher was the role of a lifetime, the kind of strong woman audiences were demanding these days. Camille Thornton, girl next door, was about to be buried. Camille Thornton, avenging badass, would be born.
But she needed to take matters into her own hands or nothing would get done.
Just like Molly Fletcher would do.
“All this graffiti, it’s for her?” she asked Milton.
“It is. We call it chalking. It’s not uncommon on campuses these days, but I’m not sure any have matched this.” Graffiti now covered every inch of Mathers Walk.
“Incredible.”
They arrived at Duffy and walked the two floors up to Lulu’s new room. “We moved her to a single so she could have more privacy,” Milton said. He knocked on the door; there was no answer, so he tried knocking harder. “Hello?”
“Who the hell is it?” came a voice from behind the door.
“Lulu, it’s Milton Strauss. May I have a moment?”
After some shuffling inside, the door swung open. Lulu had on a terry-cloth bathrobe and a face mask of avocado-colored cream.
“Hello, Milton!” She sounded hoarse. Primal screams had taken their toll. She appeared pleased, though, perhaps because the president of the university had come to her.
“Hello, Lulu, it’s a great pleasure to finally—”
“Wait.” She’d noted the presence of another, the great Camille Thornton, America’s Sweetheart. “What the fuck is she doing here?”
Milton’s face broadened with shock. “Excuse me, young lady, but—”
Camille cut him off with a dismissive wave, looking intently at Lulu. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?”