Jenny and I had trailers—our dressing rooms—in the alley next to the stage. I knocked on her door, opened it, and peered inside. Already dressed in her street clothes, she wore a short black leather skirt, black tank top, and a lush emerald green cashmere-wrap sweater. She looked not only sexy but also her age. As if she didn’t care or didn’t want to look at her reflection, she sat with her back to a large mirror surrounded by lights. She was talking on her cell. When she saw me she quickly disconnected.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said. “May I come in?”
“Are you going to lecture me?” She dropped her phone into a very expensive leather purse that was slouched on the makeup counter.
“I’m not your mother. I only play her.” I stepped up into the trailer and closed the door behind me.
“If you can call that a mother.” She snorted, baring small sharp teeth. She was oddly beautiful, like a pretty animal. But nonetheless an animal.
Sitting down on the built-in sofa, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. Out from under the set lights, my makeup looked harsh, exaggerating the lines on my face.
I pulled off my wig. “God, this is giving me a headache.” My own hair was bound flat to my head with a gauzy net. Jenny eyed me warily as I took that off too and dumped it inside the wig. Then I shook my hair loose and asked casually, “Want to have dinner tonight?”
“Can’t. Going clubbing.” She shot me a hard look. “And why would you want to suddenly have dinner with me?”
“Is too much clubbing the reason you’re having trouble remembering your lines?” I rubbed my scalp and fluffed my hair.
“The assistant director told me I won’t be needed tomorrow, and is it any of your business what I do?” Her chin jutted defiantly.
I thought about telling her that making a movie was a group effort, each person dependent on the other for success. But I decided that concept wouldn’t have much meaning to her. She seemed to be a very insular young woman. She sat on the set observing, never entering the camaraderie that formed among the actors and the crew.
“Yes, I do think it’s my business,” I said flatly. “I want this movie to work because I’m good in it and it will help my career so I can get another role and another, thereby earning money so I can eat and live. In other words, I’m a professional actress.”
She laughed a surprisingly deep harsh laugh. “I heard you gave up your career to get married. Doesn’t sound too professional to me.”
Trying to control my temper, I leaned back and stroked my wig as if it were an agitated pet dog I had to calm. “I made a choice knowing I couldn’t do both well.”
But was that true? I remembered my mother, my husband, Colin, and I sitting on the beach one afternoon. We had watched a pelican high in the summer sky spot a fish, then tuck its long wings to its sides and drop like a guided missile into the ocean.
“Only hunger can teach you to do that,” Mother had observed, squinting into the sun, her hair as determinedly blond as mine is now. “I had that kind of hunger. I would’ve done anything to be a star. And did.”
“I never had that kind of hunger,” I said.
“No, you didn’t.” Colin had hugged me.
Now Jenny said, “So you chose the man over acting. And you come in here blaming me for potentially hurting your career? I don’t see it.”
“You don’t have to. Zaitlin asked me to talk to you. Find out if you’re on drugs.”
“Drugs? Is that what he thinks? Oh, God, something’s wrong with Jenny, it must be drugs,” she said, imitating a stupid worried parent.
“He’s trying to figure out why you, who has a role other actresses your age would kill for, are such a fuck-up.” I flung the wig aside
Offended, her lips pursed, and her checks flushed. “Is that what he called me?”
“No. That’s what I’m calling you.” I held her gaze, glad that I didn’t have children of my own.
“Why isn’t he here telling me all this? Is he afraid of me?” She seemed pleased that a big time moviemaker like Zaitlin couldn’t control her.
“I think he’s at his wit’s end with you. So he asked me to help because he knows I need this movie to go well.”
“He’s such a manipulator.”
“That’s what producers do, Jenny. So why are you fucking up?”
Thinking for a moment, she spoke with an unnerving honesty. “Because I don’t want to be an actress. I don’t get make-believe. I don’t get pretending. I don’t get any of it. I get reality. I get doing what you need to do to attain what you want. But why play dress-up and imagine you’re not who you really are? I mean, I never even did that when I was a child.”
“Then why did you read for the part?”
Her expression hardened and she fell silent, staring down at her hands.
“Does your mother want you to be a movie star?” I edged forward, resting my elbows on my knees, trying to create some kind of intimacy between us.
“My father.” She didn’t look up at me.
I nodded. “Well, the problem is not your father at this point. The problem is, you are in a movie and you happen to be good.”
“Really?” Surprised, she lifted her chin.
“Really. You’d be fired by now if you weren’t.”
“I doubt it.” She moved back in her chair, crossing her legs.
I wondered why she doubted it, but I let it go. “Okay, here’s the deal. You go clubbing tonight. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to go over your lines with you.”
“No way. I won’t be up.” She tossed her head, flipping her hair back from her shoulders.
“Eleven o’clock then.”
“Three. Sometimes I wish I did want to be an actress.” She looked away, momentarily letting her guard down. “It’d make my father happy. He’s such a dreamer, at least about me. But I know exactly who I am even if he doesn’t.” Her defenses were in place again.
“Well, maybe you’ll want to act after you know your lines and start behaving like a professional.”
She lifted her chin. “Maybe I’m more capable than you think I am.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are. Where do you want to meet?”
“My place.” She dug around in her bag and came out with a crumpled cocktail napkin and a pen that had specks of face powder and a stray strand of her auburn hair stuck to it. She blew at the pen until she was satisfied that it was clean, then wrote her address on the napkin. We both stood and she handed it to me. “It’s a condo on Beverly Drive near the Four Seasons Hotel.”
I took the napkin. “Nice shoes.” She was wearing black peep-toe pumps with high, shiny, chrome-like heels. They were as pricey as her purse and her clothes. “They remind me of the god Mercury. Silver wings on your feet.” I winked at her. “See you tomorrow at three o’clock.”
Grabbing my wig and stepping down out of the trailer, I turned back to close the door and glimpsed her standing stock-still, arms crossed against her chest, green eyes narrowed to slits, watching me with a cold calculating suspicion. I didn’t exactly feel a chill, but her expression brought me up short.