Hollywood Boulevard (27 page)

    Jonas Campion studied him for a brief, who- let- the- pestilence- in minute. "And just how difficult will the dismissed actress be for us?"

    Here a legal eagle who'd been quietly nursing the sidelines stepped in: "Her people are demanding full compensation for the original contract— they won't get that, of course—
and
they want damage control from the director; a generous statement from Mr. Lucerne on the order of saving her image and future worth, et cetera. We are working up a statement now and a walk- away offer—"

    "She was fired for
incompetence
," Andre said, the last C like a snake's hiss. Kurt Tayker held up his hand, palm facing Andre.

    Paul Thames threw in a shrill, "We can't possibly say
that
!"

    Kurt Tayker again, eyes on Andre: "I don't see why not. She did not live up to expectation or reputation." His strategy seemed to be to give no quarter; get the smear machine going at once, discredit the bitch.

    Legal Eagle put in, "We don't want to be libelous . . . Mr. Tayker."

    "No point in that," Jonas Campion added calmly. "I'll need a figure, and soon, what she'll agree to, and of course with our regrets things did not work out. Could we say she's preggers, or whatever sends her quietly off into the night? Let's find
something
to use. . . . We have a situation, money flowing into the abyss, and that has to be staunched either by canceling the project or getting back on track as close to immediately as possible."

    Kurt leaned back, satisfied, apparently, that no one was suggesting raking his client over the coals, firing him too. It looked as if, so far, daggers would remain sheathed.

    Campion continued, "Any chance of Matterly threatening to pull out?"

    "Not yet," Paul Thames said, "but I wouldn't be—"

    "Fine," Campion said, cutting the lackey to the quick. He then turned to me with his deep, almost black, blue eyes revealing not an iota of emotional susceptibility. I tried to hold his gaze, suddenly wishing I had Harry at my side, his girth to hide behind, or that I could just dive under the table. "Ms. Thrush, you are prepared to step into the role?"

    Ms. Thrush, you are prepared to what?

    Who shot that rifle into the room, sent the bullet ricocheting past my head, shattering the glass and the view with it? Who turned out the lights and sucked the air out of the vents so that it was suddenly impossible to breathe, like a window popping out of a plane at thirty thousand feet, the pressure dropping fast? Who was playing such a sick joke? Was that my name uttered as the shot rang out?

    Instead of looking at Andre, I looked to Carola, perhaps because she seemed incapable of subterfuge. She appeared genuinely surprised. I knew then that the designing Judas among us at the conference table was Andre. Slight chance I was wrong and it was that limp rag, Thames. He looked badly uncomfortable. Andre? Cool as Cheryl Li, not a ruffle to his countenance. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. After that I was pretty much a numb blur. The gunshot I'd imagined hearing made my ears ring.

I 
insisted on driving back. The reverse route was more or less as crowded with evening traffic. The occupants of Andre's car rode in stiff silence; I might as well have been driving a hearse. I must have been the only one who'd failed to see the proposal squatting like a rhinoceros in the middle of the conference table. It must have been there all along, but I hadn't been let into the loop, wink, wink. I was the only one blind to an idea as big and obvious as Mount Everest; the last one in is the loser. Of course it made perfect sense, and so convenient: Ardennes Thrush steps into the role of Anne Dernier. Even better, her coming out of retirement takes the focus off dear old dumped Luce Bouclé. The press runs in the other direction: "Actress Ardennes Thrush teams up once again with husband- director Andre Lucerne." Who cares anymore about Luce? Some might suggest that was the plan all along: to stage a dramatic comeback in what is reported to be Lucerne's greatest work.

    If there ever was a time when I did want to throw a first- class, foot- stomping, actressy hissy fit, this was the day and Jonas Campion's conference room the place. But I couldn't; doing that would sabotage Andre. If he'd acted out of desperation . . . if he'd had no choice . . . even if he never really believed I quit, I still couldn't shut the door in his face in front of everyone. I will shut it— slam it— but not until he has found another actress. What if the Australian, what's his name, said to sign me or he pulls his money? Then Andre had to try the gambit. Or did Paul Thames or Jonas Campion make ugly threats to sue? No; why would the Aussie insist on me, or Campion or Thames? Reasonably good actors are a dime a dozen in this town. Something else was up.

    I was glad for the traffic moving at a quicker pace, which meant I had to pay closer attention. Good, pay attention to the road, not the screaming voices inside my head. How could Andre
do
that? How could he not approach me first? Because he knows . . . he knows I don't want this . . . knows, but he has a need . . .

    He
betrayed
my trust! Andre traded on my goodwill, or counted on it. And he got it; I didn't say no. Did I? I felt like yelling into the car, in front of Carola: I slept with a cop today! The Detective, Billy, Devin, a very desirable man. What a thirst he brought up in me. . . . what about Eddie Tompkins? . . . I wish I was on a plane right now, sailing through the air toward New York City, nestled in deep and innocent night. . . . I should move back uptown, leave the Soho loft. . . . Why isn't Andre's phone ringing off the hook? . . . The silence of a dead project . . . the phone stopped ringing: Sorry, buddy, "The End"? But how
did
the meeting end? I didn't say anything. Never leave the stage silent for more than a minute.
Hamlet
, Act V: the silence of bodies strewn all over the boards; the silence of dead characters. Was it over? How did we get out of the conference room, the building? Did Sharp Latino bring the car around? I only remember saying, "I'll drive," and nobody objecting. I did not say, "No, I will not do the part." I couldn't think for that rifle shot reverberating in my head. What a lousy mess . . .

I looked over at Andre. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't

asleep. Carola sat shoved all the way into the corner in back, staring out the window; a caged animal searching for a way out. Andre's phone was not even in sight. He looked severe, the lines of his face, his cheeks, cragged, beaten up around the chin. No question, he was a good- looking man, like granite today. When was the last time we— no, no, don't go there.

    It was solidly night by the time I parked at the hotel. Andre kissed both of Carola's cheeks, bade her good- night. "No thinking," he said. The morning would suffice for that; rest was what was called for. Carola returned a halfhearted smile and saluted the director. Would there be a movie to report to in the morning?

    " There isn't much here if you're hungry," I said to Andre once we were inside. "I can make popcorn."

    "Okay." He was already at the scotch bottle. It was getting low; I'd have to replace it in the morning.

    We acted as if nothing had gone wrong. As if he were off for the weekend and we were just ad- libbing, suddenly finding ourselves alone together without a plan.

    I popped the corn in the microwave. The cheddar and crackers were still out on the plate where I'd left them earlier. We sat outside on the dark balcony. I wrapped the cashmere shawl over my shoulders and lit the single candle on the table. Andre was on his who- knew- what drink. I sipped a glass of red wine. We didn't talk but sat for a long time. A silver- white moon crept up into the eastern sky. The usual spotlights were waving intermittently from some Hollywood locale, meaning nothing, a symbol of a gone era, now just a tepid gesture of pre- fabricated glitter. Everything seemed cheapened to me. Even the Frenchie hills opposite. White Shirt's car was in the garage, the same dim light on. A few people were on the patio of the Spanish house; a dinner in progress?

    " 'The night is fine,' the Walrus said,' " Andre said. "A pleasant view," he added as if seeing it for the first time. What would he do if he lost his film?

    "I'm tired," I said, gathering the popcorn bowl and empty cheese plate, my glass.

    "I will sit a while longer."

    I nodded in the dark and went inside to wash the few dishes. When that was done I turned out most of the lights. I closed the curtains, up to the balcony door, and glanced over at White Shirt's; one lonely light was on upstairs and the flicker of a screen. The dinner party at the Spanish house had moved inside. I'd sat for hours on the balcony where Andre now sat and never once had a mosquito shown up. I couldn't remember if I'd ever experienced a mosquito when I lived here in a house with a garden. I guess the trade- off was snakes and coyotes. What a crazy city. I felt a sudden fondness for old L.A., for the hotel I was living in and had been wandering and— now— sinning in, for the city that had once been my home away from Joe that I'd associated with all that went wrong with us, with Joe's everlasting disapproval and my guilty misery, except when I was working. Except when I was working L.A. was an empty pit to me, a loathed, sprawling place without content . . . why did I now feel affection?

    I washed up, and when I came out of the bathroom Andre was standing in the bedroom. I might have imagined it, but he looked forlorn, like a boy who has lost a favorite toy, a baseball mitt or postcard, a kid's precious object, leaving him perplexed that a dear thing could suddenly go missing. A probably unhealthy mixture of desire and shame— or did I mean pity?—took hold of me and I moved toward him. I approached and he reacted coolly, nothing boyish or vulnerable in his emotional shift. I embraced him anyway. He put his arms above my shoulders: not a return embrace. How furious he must be with me. . . .

    I pushed into him, my legs on his, wrapping a hand around his neck, bringing my face in close until I could smell his familiar odors. My right hand pressed the small of his back into me, and I could feel his penis lying in his trousers. He lightly pushed me away. Not harsh, just turning me down, firm but gentle. But I wanted him; or did I want Billy, or to make up for Billy? Apparently either one would do. Or was I trying to prove something? Like what?

    "Andre . . ."

    " There is no need for words. This was just something thrown on the table, you stepping in." I wanted to protest. "Shhhh," he said softly.

    I stepped back. "No need for words?" I tried not to shout. "What are you going to do?" I meant about his movie.

    "Are you asking the right person?"

    "Am I asking the right person
what
?" Frustration was rising, ready to explode. I wanted Andre to be angry, to tell me I was selfish, that I was ruining his film and for what reason?
He
should raise
his
voice and let me have it from the gut, smash in my teeth, something, anything but that cool, collected calm.

    "We won't get anywhere shouting."

    "I wasn't shouting," I hissed. "Do you have to act like my father?"

    "I am not quite old enough," he said, heading for the bathroom. I followed.

    I lowered my voice, remembering how sounds travel via the bathroom vent. "I meant so, so
rational
when you know perfectly well you're bitterly unhappy with me."

    He unbuttoned and took off his shirt to wash up. I looked in the mirror at his taut, wiry frame, abdomen every bit as tight as Detective Collins's. What kind of animal was I to desire my husband only hours after consuming another man? And Andre had just rejected me, wouldn't even argue. His cold response was more punishing to me than shouts or threats.

    Joe and I never had that problem. No makeup sex with us; we went at it even in the middle of whopper fights, no matter if we were talking or not. Sometimes it was better when we weren't talking, exciting, as if we were perfect strangers on a train. . . .

    Andre went into the small toilet chamber. I followed. "Are you coming in here too? Fine, come in." He lifted the toilet seat, and I turned and left. I tore the covers open and fell into bed. Andre flushed, came in, turned out the lights and climbed in next to me.

    "Andre, listen, please—"

    "It has been a long day. If you don't mind I'd like to sleep now."

    
"I do mind!"
There, I shouted. Now what? Not a word of protest from Andre. "I
won't
do it. Do you understand? I won't." There, I said it.

    He sat up, tossed the quilt back and got up out of bed. He reached for his pants and pulled a clean shirt out of the bureau. The bedroom doors were open, I watched him take his wallet off the dining table, his watch and phone, stuff them into a pants pocket. He started to go, turned and unplugged his phone charger and put it into his pocket. I sat staring from the bed. I wanted to scream, to beg him not to go, but I was numb again and too afraid to say a word.