Bliss (10 page)

“I'm fine.”

“Really?”

Demi waved off the concern. “I don't recognize that wall. Where are you?”

“I'm in a Days Inn in Los Angeles for pilot casting week,” said Sophia, reflexively glancing over her shoulder at the cheesy print of fruit and cats on the wall. Usually, for their Skype chats, Sophia was on her bed with her vision board behind her.

“We're in the same time zone!”

“I can almost smell Vancouver from here. Fresh air, good food, and boringness.” They laughed together.

“What's pilot season?”

“It's when every actor in North America flocks to Hollywood, trying to get a TV job. Agnes has arranged auditions for sitcoms, family dramas. I spent the day with a hundred girls in a soundstage, reapplying lip gloss every five minutes.”

“I've been such an absentee friend! Sorry to be so selfish lately. I'm done with that, promise So, Days Inn, huh,” said Demi.

“It's fine. Check out the room service,” said Sophia, holding up the bag of Lays she got from the vending machine down the hall.

“Are you lonely?”

An odd question, but Demi could always sense Sophia's moods. “Not lonely exactly. More like invisible. I'm walking like a star, believe me, but so is every other girl. The casting people and producers don't look you in the eye. They talk to my head shot, not my actual head.”

“No eye-to-eye contact,” said Demi.

“Eye-to-ass, eye-to-boob.”

“Eye-to-crotch. So humanizing!” As Demi spoke, she stood up to give Sophia a close-up view of her underwear. Then turned around and pushed her ass to the camera. Sophia got up and started dancing in her robe.

They laughed, instantly cheering each other up. In all this serious career stuff, Sophia needed the strong hit of goofy that only Demi could provide. If only Demi were here! It had been a long day for Sophia, with another one tomorrow. “You know that actor I met at Ta-Da I told you about? Scott? He's in the room next to me. He's been coming to LA for pilot season for ten years already. He's either a masochist or my hero.”

Demi started putting on makeup, using the Skype window like a mirror. “I can't talk long. I'm meeting Sarah and Jo for dinner in an hour and I have to get ready.”

“How's the new place?” Sophia didn't want to let her go yet.

“It's okay. I made friends with my across-the-hall neighbor. We hang out after work drinking Bailey's. You have to meet her when you come home.”

“Another drinking buddy?” asked Sophia.

Demi snorted. “She's eighty. We bake casseroles and watch
Real Housewives
. She's just someone to talk to.”

“And I'm chopped liver.”

“No! You are in Hollywood, becoming a movie star.” She used this stupid accent. Sometimes it veered Irish, sometimes Indian, and always hilarious.

“Yes,” she replied in the same accent. Sophia missed Demi more than ever. The irony of it was that at first, Sophia was relieved when Leandra left for Thailand, to get a break from her intensity and have some mental space to think about herself. But after a week she couldn't ignore the widening sinkhole of her social life.

“Isn't Renee in LA now?” asked Demi. “Can you call her to hang out?”

Sophia marveled at how Demi could read her mind over hundreds of miles. “I left a voice mail and a text. She didn't call back.”

“Bitch.”

“Scott is taking me to a party in the Hills tonight, so that's something.”

“Maybe you'll meet the man of your dreams.”

“You mean a producer who casts me as the star of a cool new show? Ideally, he's gay, or has no hands.”

“Yes, exactly!”

“You realize you haven't said a thing about James this entire time,” said Sophia. “Not that I'm complaining.”

“I'm giving you a heartbreak breather. Catherine lets me talk her ear off about him. To be honest, I'm kind of tired of beating a dead horse.
C'est la vie!
”

“You should have some French wine to go with the attitude,” said Sophia.

“Way ahead of you,” said Demi, lifting a glass into the frame.

“Whoa, that's a healthy dose. You're not driving are you?” A knock on the door. “That's Scott. Okay, wish me luck at my first Hollywood party.”

“Wear your invisible tiara,” sang Demi. “And have fun in ‘the Hills,' whatever that means.”

She hung up feeling calm. They were so different, but they wanted the same things: for both of them to find their bliss, ideally, at the same time so they could love their lives together.

*   *   *

Driving to the party via Uber was like a sightseeing tour of famous movie titles: Laurel Canyon, Mulholland Drive, the Hollywood Hills. As the car climbed higher and higher into the mountain, the houses were farther and farther back from the road. The hidden ones were the real gems, and she wished she could get out, sneak through the hedge, and take photos of them all. They drove still higher, then made a turn to see the valley stretched out below.

“Sensational view,” said Scott.

“Unbelievable,” she agreed.

“Just wait until you see the house.”

Sophia felt the heat of the city in her body. She adjusted her invisible tiara in her mind and smiled.

According to conventional wisdom, everyone who lived in these mansions worked in the entertainment biz or had parents who did. If Sophia lived here, her imagination would spark up like a forest fire. She would have loved to stop and take photos for her vision board, but Scott would mock her for gawking like a tourist. Instead, she snapped discreetly out of the car window. She loved a good drive-by Snapchat. There was something artistic about it. They scaled the side of the hill until they reached the home on Hilldale of Adam Schlock, the writer/director of the horror series
Butcher
. (Cue stabbing music.)

“I met Adam on
Butcher 1
about ten years ago when I was young and hot,” said Scott, who was only thirty years old. The car pulled to a stop at the end of the driveway. “It was a hit, and he went on to make three more of them, with another currently in the works. You would think he'd run out of ideas after
Butcher 2
,
3,
and
4
, but there's always another sick, perverted way to hack up a co-ed.”

“Were you disemboweled on-screen? Because that would be the centerpiece of my highlight reel,” said Sophia.

“I wish! I was an extra on the beach, just another idiot screaming over a gore-covered body. Fake gore and a dummy, but still thoroughly revolting. I screamed for real the first few takes. But after the seventeenth, I could have curled up next to it and taken a nap. When the day was over, Adam told me I had the best little girl scream of any grown man he'd ever met. We bonded. I haven't managed to get many jobs out here, but I have made some friends. Then again, in LA, everyone is your friend as long as you give them something they want.” They wound down the driveway toward the house, where a few party stragglers smoked or yelled on their phones outside.

“What does Adam want from you?” she asked.

Scott raised his eyebrows. “Are you from Vancouver … or Kansas?”

O-kay
, she thought. Sophia felt herself blush.

Cracking up, Scott said, “Oh, my god, you should see your face! I'm kidding! Once upon a time, Adam and I enjoyed some friendly benefits. But it's been awhile. I call him when I'm in town, and, if possible, we catch up. He always invites me to his all-day parties. And now I'm inviting you.”

“Maybe Adam will want to disembowel me for
Butcher 5
.”

“Please never say that again, you little bitch!”

Sophia made a sexual little face and strutted along down the driveway. The house that
Butcher
built, from the outside, was a seventies retro boring bungalow. Sophia couldn't help feeling disappointed. But then they walked in, and it was like waking up in Oz. The entire back wall of the house was a window. The decorating was midcentury modern, deceptively minimalist, understated elegance. The fixtures and furniture were probably authentic stuff from the thirties and forties. It wasn't her taste, but it was stunning. Demi would die. She snapped a few pictures to send her later. Sophia would have loved to photograph each stick of furniture—she had a fetish for beautiful chairs—but the room was packed with nearly naked models, guys sweating from open and obvious coke consumption, and every piece of riffraff from the Hollywood freak show. It felt like an episode of
Californication
, and Sophia was wowed by it.

It was late afternoon, still plenty of sunlight. Everywhere she looked, Sophia saw bikinis and waxed, tanned flesh—and that was just the dudes. The women wore triangular scraps of fabric that barely covered their nipples and miniscule vag slings. A lot of them were draped in elaborate chain systems that wound around their necks, between the implants, and around their tiny waists. Sophia had worried she was underdressed in a sheer, blowy frock. Compared to these nude goddesses, she might as well have been wearing a bathrobe. It wasn't just the skin on display that astonished her. They were all gorgeous. Each specimen was more perfect than the next, and nothing was left to the imagination.

Scott put a finger under her chin and lifted her jaw back into place. “Welcome to LA. This is why I can't live here,” he said, sweeping his hand to take it all in, the house, the models, the view. “I'd throw myself off those cliffs if I had to see perfection day in, day out.” Sophia must have looked confused. “Let me ask you: Are you appreciating the view, or feeling envious of it? Are you amazed by the beauty, or comparing yourself to them?”

She loved it, and what it represented. She wasn't bothered by the models. They weren't competition, just simply beautiful things to look at while she sipped a cocktail. Before she could tell Scott, a middle-aged man in a white shirt, faded jeans, and loafers came over. “Scott! You made it.” This must be Adam. He looked exactly like she thought a horror producer would, with a neat graying beard, slicked back hair, and bushy eyebrows. He was slim with a colorful tinge to his skin, like he'd been on a carrot juice cleanse for a week. He hugged Scott and then showed her his too-white veneers. “Who's this?”

“My friend Sophia Marcus, a very talented actor I found under a rock in Toronto,” said Scott.

“Is that so? Be sure to introduce yourself around, Sophia,” said Adam. “Now, Scott, you must remember Carlos. He's just back from Belize and looks fabulous. Come say hello.”

Scott shot her an apologetic glance before being led away by the host. So much for Sophia's three-second fantasy that Adam would offer her an audition on the spot. She wondered how many people at this party had the same dream of being discovered, of having their lives change in an instant. She surveyed the room, trying to get a lay of the land. Who seemed approachable? Sophia ventured into the vast living room that opened onto a pool deck. A 360-degree view of nubile bodies, like a Slim Aarons photograph on crack. She took a quick picture on her phone without anyone seeing, and snapped an even more permanent picture in her mind.

“You look lost,” said a guy in a white tank top that showed off his elaborate sleeve tattoos, and board shorts that hung low, exposing abs that were like an arrow pointing to his package. His trucker hat read “Boy.”
Thanks for the tip
, she thought. Now she was embarrassed she forgot a hat that said “Girl.” He had olive skin and green eyes. She'd guess he was mixed race, like she was. “I'm Gavin.”

“Sophia.“

“What brings a girl like you to a party like this?”

“I'm here with my friend Scott who said he was taking me to a little house party, and now I'm
here
!” She bent to the side, palms up like she was presenting the room to him.

“Ah, you're not from here. Canadian, eh?!”
Original.

“How'd you know?” she asked, a touch of coy.

“The way you said HOW-sss,” he said. So annoying.

“Nice to meet you, Gavin, You have a good night.” One douche bag down, a million to go.

Sophia circulated. It'd be extremely helpful if she knew who all these people were. If only there was an app for that. Point the camera at a face, and get a complete IMDB profile. One of the models stuck a key up her nose and snorted like she had a sinus infection.
Classy
, she thought.

The pool was breathtaking. It jutted out over the side of the hill in a stunning feat of architectural engineering. It seemed to be suspended in midair. She couldn't resist taking another photo—the cliff, the glowing lights, the Hollywood sign in the distance. Leandra would appreciate the opulence. She'd text the picture to her later with the caption “Jealous much?”

She made a lap around the pool. Although everyone was in swimsuits, no one was in the water. That would probably change as the night wore on and drinking and drugs got serious. Sophia hoped the water was heavily chlorinated, for all of their sakes. Then again, in this perfect house, it was probably salt water. She stood at the railing overlooking the LA lights below and took a few more photos while eavesdropping on some people nearby. One of the women—Afro, leopard-print bikini—mentioned the name of a show Sophia had auditioned for that morning. She had to get into this conversation.

“Hi, I love your bikini,” Sophia said.

The woman scrutinized her closely. It was almost like visiting the gynecologist. “Thanks,” she said finally.

“I think I auditioned for the show you were just talking about.”

“Which part?”

“The blind daughter.”

“I read for ‘urban neighbor.'”

A pretty blond boy at her side in a purple banana hammock said, “I read for the closeted gay son. Like anyone would believe I could pass for straight!”