Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper (23 page)

I
waited until three in the morning. Even without Meg and Lala we still had at least five staff living in the house—I wasn’t entirely sure of the numbers. And out in the security booth there was twenty-four-hour monitoring. All night a guy watched a rotating scan of the halls, entrances, and exits. It was my house—the absurdity of hiding from the security staff wasn’t lost on me. Nonetheless, I calculated how to get to the gym without being caught by the cameras. I put on workout clothes just in case I was busted. I had a right to work out at any time of the night I wanted. Again:
my
house.

I took a long route to the gym, avoiding the cameras trained on the front door by going up to the second floor, peeking in on the boys, then coming down the back stairs. Once in the gym, I took some jabs at the punching bag. Hitting the bag gave me an unexpected surge of confidence, so I went at it some more, until I hurt my hand. Leave it to me to overdo it in the gym in the middle of the night when trying to expose my husband’s secrets.

Finally, when it was clear that nobody cared what I was doing, I put the key in the doorknob lock of Bluebeard’s chamber. It slid in easily. I turned the knob, and the door opened. With a furtive (and useless) glance
behind me, I crept into the room, feeling silly for sneaking around my own house like a thief, and turned on the lights.

The room was an office. Just an office. Unglamorous, with a slightly stale smell. Unlike our proper offices in the house, which had been done by a designer, this one looked like an out-of-date Staples showroom, with several metal file cabinets and a simple desk with a clunky cordless phone on it. A fax machine dominated half the desk. In a way the spartan room was reassuring. There were no skeletons; it was clearly no love den; and it was utterly impossible to imagine Rob spending any real amount of time here. My husband definitely wasn’t hosting drum-banging male re-wilding sessions in the small, unappealing room off our gym. (Oh yeah, there was
that
rumor about One Cell, too—sorry, no dice.)

What caught my eye was a poster-size photo that was mounted on foam board and hanging, unframed, on the wall above the desk. It was an image of two young boys standing in the middle of a road. They faced away from the camera, holding hands, looking toward an orange sunset.

I took the picture down to get a closer look. Though it was taken straight into the sun, and the figures were only silhouettes, I could tell it was Cap and Leo. The image was expertly lit, the boys perfectly haloed. It had obviously been professionally done. Across the top of the poster, in cursive, read, “A world of opportunity lies ahead . . .”

The photo was obviously a present for me. For all the jewels and cars and trips, this time Rob had hit it out of the park. He knew exactly what I wanted, what was most important to both of us. I bit my lip, feeling bad for having doubted him. My unchecked suspicion, this midnight sleuthing expedition, a key from a supposed rival, and all that was behind the mystery door was a mundane office where my husband was hiding nothing but his love for our family. This must have been what Meg wanted me to see—that whatever secrets Rob kept from me were completely innocent. As was she. Clearly I’d been watching too many crime shows on cable.

Hard as it was to feel truly close to Rob these days, when I looked at his gestures, his words, the way he’d acted with me from the very beginning, I knew that deep down we loved each other and could make it work.

Feeling ashamed, I went to hang the picture back on the wall. It slid down, missing the hook. I tried again, no luck. I turned it over to see where the wire was. On the back of the picture was a phone number. Mommy Brain hadn’t taken my memorization skills away from me. As soon as I registered the number, I knew it by heart. I hooked the photo back up on the wall.

My years of anguish about this room had been for nothing. I had blamed my lack of direction, the disruption of my career, on my children. I’d blamed my loneliness on Rob, for traveling so much. I’d blamed my insecurity on Meg, for having more access to my husband than I did. I’d blamed my discontent on Lala, for . . . well, just for being surly. And, in some way, I’d blamed all of it on this room, for holding secrets that kept me from knowing my husband. Hadn’t I learned anything in all my sessions at the Studio over the past four years? No person or room was the root of my troubles. I had to stop blaming everyone but myself. I saw, at last, that the problem was me. And I knew exactly how to fix it.

“You did the right thing, coming to me,” Geoff said. I thanked him for seeing me on such short notice. If there were any answers to be found, they were here, inside these tall green walls.

Geoff’s mismatched eyes flickered and he looked directly at me. “It’s tough having Rob away, isn’t it?” he said. “You must be lonely.”

There it was, the intensity that made him oddly compelling. Hearing the word “lonely” out loud made tears well in my eyes.

“You let Lala go, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and Meg,” I admitted with some trepidation. He probably already knew, and I hoped he wasn’t angry.

Geoff shrugged. “Your staff is your business. Let’s focus on you—what’s the underlying issue?” Geoff, like Rob, didn’t mince words.

Some people would have said that I was depressed, but in the One Cell Practice, a fluctuation like this always originated in self-doubt.

“I’m having trouble moving past my emotions,” I told Geoff.

Geoff’s office, right next to Teddy Dillon’s suite, reflected his high-up position in the organization. The room was large and well lit, with a westerly view of Beverly Hills. An abstract painting covered one of the interior walls. The blinds were half down against the direct sun, which painted lateral stripes behind his head.

Geoff nodded. “Your emotions are getting in your way. What are you trying to achieve?”

I looked down. “I have everything a person could want. I know that, and I’m grateful.”

“No apologies necessary here. Remember the continuum: emotions, desires, actions. We always want to move like the Practice: from stillness through the mind to action.”

“I’m isolated. Rob travels all the time. It’s hard to connect with people. I feel kind of trapped. I’ve felt this way for a while—I just wasn’t admitting it to myself.”

Geoff leaned back in his chair and rolled a mint in his mouth. “Let’s talk about the children.”

“The boys are fine, thank you. What I’m struggling with is—”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

“No! But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Elizabeth, I think you’re forgetting how this works. Let me guide you. Are you providing an ideal growth environment for Cap and Leo?”

I sighed. “The best I can. But I wish they could have a childhood like mine.” My mouth quivered as I tried to hold back tears.

“Elizabeth. I can see that when I mention your children you have Inner Conflict.”

In the Practice, Inner Conflict stood in the way of happiness, success, and fulfillment of human destiny. It meant that my emotions and actions were at odds, and that I’d failed to follow the Whole Body Principles. Geoff told me that the way out was simple. All I had to do was to follow practical steps, one by one, toward my goal. When the exterior was in balance, the interior would follow.

Geoff went on, “You are in crisis. This isn’t good for you or your family. But it’s going to be okay. We can help you through this. Your nanny is gone and you’re overwhelmed. The first thing I suggest for you is some help with your sons.”

“No, I really want them to be with me. Rob and I both—we want them to be raised by family.”

Geoff smiled. His teeth were pale yellow, and I couldn’t help thinking those Altoids weren’t doing him any favors. He said, “I have some good news for you. We are starting up a new daycare program right here at the Studio, which is as good as family, isn’t it? Your sons will be able to socialize with their peers, and you’ll get some time to yourself. You should give it a try.”

I had to hand it to Geoff—Cap and Leo did need some other kids to play with, and I needed a break. Daycare at the Studio might not be such a bad idea.

“And another suggestion—” Geoff said. “Call your agent. I think you’ll be amazed to find what opportunities are within your reach.”

The very next day I brought Cap and Leo to the Studio at nine a.m. The teacher, Jana, met us at the classroom door.

“The transition is smoother if you don’t come in,” she said. I peeked over her shoulder and saw a clean, bright roomful of educational toys—a dress-up area, a corner full of blocks, a door to an enclosed backyard with a climbing structure and sand tables. I’d never seen this space before—perhaps because I hadn’t been at the Studio much lately—but even so, everything looked new, as if it had been set up this morning just in time for my arrival. And perhaps it had. There were only two other mothers dropping off their children, and both of them introduced their offspring to “Teacher Jana” as if they’d never met before. Leo dashed over to the block area, and even Cap soon let go of my hand and ran straight to the miniature kitchen.

I was the one with separation anxiety. Out in the courtyard I read the paper, checking my watch every few minutes. I lasted all of half an hour. Hurrying back to the classroom, I peeked through the window. Leo was wearing a tutu and calmly hammering wooden nails at a play workbench. Cap was taking turns with two little girls sending marbles down a complex run. My doubts about leaving them didn’t really matter. For once my boys looked like normal kids, leading a normal life.

Following Geoff’s advice had instantaneous results. After dropping the twins off that first day, I went home and immediately called Cherry Simpson at ACE. Aside from social functions, I hadn’t talked to a soul at ACE since the wedding endorsements had died down. It had been more than four years, and I figured it would take a couple of days for Cherry to return my call, but to my surprise her assistant put me through right away.

I started tentatively. “Cherry, I might be ready to work again. I was wondering if you—”

“Okay, honey, I have a great one for you. Parker O. Witt wants you to take the female lead in his new movie. It’s shooting now in Mississippi.”
It was as if she’d known I was going to call, and it occurred to me that someone (Geoff? Rob?) had given her a heads-up.

Actors of the world will hate me for this. I am fully aware that it’s not every day a part in a Parker O. Witt film falls into your lap. But that was the reality of being Rob Mars’s wife, and part of why I didn’t feel like I had a right to be unsatisfied. I was incredibly fortunate—I just had to find my way.
Emotions are a chemical reaction,
I told myself.
Happiness is a choice.

T
he movie was called
The Safe House.
My part was Abigail Warren, wife of a Mississippi cotton plantation owner in the mid-1800s. I secretly fall in love with a slave, Billy. My good-for-nothing husband, who has three children with Billy’s wife, beats my lover to near death, and I engineer his escape. Billy returns—not for love as my naïve character fantasizes—but to convince me to let our barn serve as a station on the Underground Railroad. Conflicted though I am—my brother has just died fighting for the South—I let Billy do it, if only because it’s a way to keep my love close. But then, when Billy dies from the injuries my husband has inflicted, I’m forced to decide if I will continue his work, shepherding escaped slaves through our barn. And (of course) I’m secretly pregnant with his child. It was an Oscar-worthy role if ever there was one.

The doubts that I had in my marriage—my loneliness, Rob’s distance, the impossibility of giving our children a normal childhood—all flew out the window when Cherry told me about the offer. Actors wait years for parts like this, in the hands of the right director, to come along. This was what I had worked for all my life. I wanted it.

I despised my father’s blatant opportunism on my behalf, bartering my love life for my career. And I was equally indignant at the media’s
claims that I’d married Rob to boost my status. When I decided to give up
Skye London
and stay home with the babies, a tiny part of me had done it to show that I wasn’t in this for my career. I wanted to prove them all wrong. And yet, for several years now I’d been ashamed to acknowledge the creeping realization that my dream life as Mrs. Mars wasn’t enough.

But with one brief phone call, everything changed. I felt like a cartoon of a withered flower that, when watered, springs back into bloom. My breath, shallow and restrained for so long, now filled my chest with air. I was buoyant and alive.

When I put down the phone after speaking with Cherry, I walked out to the backyard. The stone terrace was pleasantly furnished with comfortable seating areas. The pool shimmered, and beyond it was a view that stretched across the city. On a clear day you could see all the way to the ocean. Except for watching Cap and Leo’s swim lessons, I barely ever made it out here. Now I stood looking out at West L.A., reveling in all that was mine.

Was it possible that my father knew me better than I knew myself? He had set me up with Rob to propel me to the heights of fame, and however noble I thought I was, maybe that was what I wanted after all. I had tried being a wife and a mother, and it wasn’t enough. I had been reared to fulfill my father’s dream, and, much as I resisted that notion, Hollywood was what I knew, what I did best, where I would find fulfillment.

I was thrilled that all I had to do was pick up the phone to land the part of a lifetime. And if that was so, then wasn’t my father right about all of it? Didn’t I love that my husband was a world-class movie star? Wasn’t I attracted to his screen-perfect image, his fame, his power?

I finally admitted the truth to myself. This was it. This was exactly what I wanted from my marriage to Rob, from One Cell, from Hollywood, from the world. I wanted to be a star. A famous, glowing, trophy-flaunting movie star. And I was willing to accept any shortcomings in my marriage
to get there. Shallow and selfish though it might be, this was who I was. Denying it was no use.

Being offered the part of Abigail Warren helped me envision a new future. The movie would come out, and the world would see that I wasn’t just Rob’s wife. My parents, Aurora, the press, even I myself wanted to find fault in a life that seemed too good to be true. But look at me now! This was the missing piece. I had a perfect life, and making the most of it might help me appreciate it.

Rob did the impossible and rearranged the schedule for the movie he was finishing up in Sweden—
The Life of Digby Dane
—so that he could be home with Cap and Leo for most of the month that I’d be on location in Mississippi. The rest of
The Safe House
would be shot on a soundstage in L.A. I’d grown up expecting whomever I married to support my work. Then I’d married a man whose career was so much bigger than mine it simply wasn’t practical. But Rob understood what I was trying to do—trying to find the balance in my unexpected life—and he couldn’t have been more respectful. Knowing Rob, he’d personally reimbursed his co-producers on
Digby Dane
for the toll the schedule change took on that movie’s budget. Whatever the cost, it was certainly more than I’d earn for
The Safe House
, effectively making it a vanity project, but we knew without saying that it didn’t matter.

Only three months had passed since Rob had been home for Christmas, but in that time a lot had changed: I had fired Meg, ventured into Bluebeard’s chamber, put the boys in daycare, and decided to take a movie. All this to mitigate the loneliness of Rob’s absence. And now, because I’d followed Geoff’s instructions and pursued my goals, he was home.

Before I left for Mississippi, Rob and I overlapped in Malibu for only a day and a half, but I remember that time very clearly. It was a warm reunion (in part because of the big, bushy beard he’d grown for the second act of
Digby Dane
).

The night Rob got home, we both put the boys to bed—something we rarely had a chance to do together. Every night was a juggling act. From the minute I got them into the bath, which itself took a certain amount of creativity and/or bribing (“While you’re in the bath I’ll tell you all about the fantastic subway trains of New York City”), the boys became two slippery fish constantly wriggling out of my grasp. As soon as I had the second one clean and dried, the first was back in the tub. And that was the best-case scenario. Just as likely one or the other was experimenting with Daddy’s shaving cream. Nonetheless, I’d gotten it down to a strict routine: bath, pajamas, read three books, talk about the day, sing “Shenandoah.” But when Daddy was home, as daddies are wont to do, he brought his own excite-the-child-right-before-bedtime rituals. Dripping wet, the boys ran in reckless circles around the upstairs, and each time one of them reached Rob, he’d say, “Do you have a twin brother? There was a boy who looked
just like you
. He went that way.” Cap and Leo would chase each other until they crashed into a pile of giggles that turned to tears at the slightest provocation. At last, a half hour after their bedtime, when I was gritting my teeth, Cap would practically beg to go to sleep. Then we each lay down with one of them (okay, it was always Cap with me and Leo with Rob, but I was in denial about it) and Rob read to them (tonight it was
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
) until Cap was out and Leo could barely keep his eyes open. Rob and I smiled at each over their heads, and our smiles said,
We love them more than anything. This is what life’s about. The four of us.
Everything looked brighter when Rob was home.

In Mississippi, my first day on the set of
The Safe House
was a harsh awakening. To the cast and crew I wasn’t the quirky indie actor Lizzie Pepper. They could only see me as the famous actor Rob Mars’s wife. And, if they’d seen my trailer, who could blame them? ACE had clearly
sent over Rob’s set rider as mine. I knew the minute I walked in because next to the door was a basket with a sign reading “Shoes Please.” Definitely a Rob Mars touch. The trailer was completely tricked-out. There were marble floors and a full kitchen. The refrigerator was entirely packed with just three items: bottles of FIJI water, Rob’s go-to protein powder, and single-use packets of the soymilk he used in his coffee. For privacy, all the windows had been replaced with LCD screens encased in Plexiglas. Cameras mounted outside the trailer projected onto the screens, so you could see what was going on outside without risking actual windows that someone might spy through. On one side of the trailer, all the screens showed a gray concrete wall. On the other, three of them showed the asphalt parking lot, with an occasional person walking past, oblivious to the cameras. The fourth screen on the parking-lot side of the trailer was on the fritz, filled with fuzzy snow. It was a rather jarring sight, but I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off or unplug it. In addition to my bedroom and the living room/kitchen, there was a playroom just in case the boys visited, already stocked with coloring books, puzzles, and a huge plush turtle. Evidently someone had been told that Cap was inexplicably obsessed with turtles. Apparently there was a pop-up second floor, but I didn’t bother to open it since it sounded structurally questionable.

After I got settled, Parker O. Witt’s assistant walked me from my trailer to the set. We were shooting on the wraparound porch that day—mostly preparations surrounding a Christmas feast on the plantation.

When I arrived, my scene was already lit. Parker introduced me to the rest of the cast and told me we would start when I was ready.

Ordinarily, there would be run-throughs, staging, and rehearsals, but Cherry had told me that they would do all of that without me. “It’s not part of your contract anymore. You’re past all that. From now on, you fly in, shoot, leave.”

I had protested, saying that I didn’t want to be a diva. Part of what I liked about being on the set was the camaraderie. But Cherry cut me off. “Don’t be nervous, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll hit the ground running.”

I knew my lines, of course. I’d learned them effortlessly on the plane the night before. But I barely knew my blocking or who my fellow players were before I was on and cameras were rolling. Tony Solo, who played my lover, pointed to a wicker rocker.

“You’re there,” he whispered, but he didn’t return my smile of thanks.

That day it was all business on the set. They had already done a week of shooting, so I expected to feel a little like an outsider, but this was different. Actors aren’t usually so cold.

At the end of the day, I sent Joaquim on a mission. He’s kind of a party boy, and he already knew where the crew would be drinking that night. So I told him to do reconnaissance. Was everyone genuinely weird and stiff, or did they hate me? Also, I had Talia find the best local source and order chocolate chip cookies for the whole cast and crew. It was kind of buying their love, but it was also an old-fashioned gesture to say that I wasn’t a snot.

The next morning when Joaquim showed up to do my makeup, he was very hungover.

“I did it for you, sweetie. It was a self-sacrifice,” he moaned.

I asked a PA to bring him a water, and waited while he hydrated. Finally, he took a deep breath.

“The problem isn’t you. It’s Ellia Lopez.”

Ellia Lopez had originated the part of Abigail Warren on Broadway. “They wanted her for the part?” That made sense. Most of the film cast had come from the play.

“It’s worse than that. She was
here
until yesterday. She got booted.”

No wonder everyone hated me. I’d replaced their friend. “Why? What did she do?”

“That’s the problem. She didn’t do anything. Parker told them ‘No Lizzie, no movie.’ It came from ACE.”

“Oh my God.” My agent, who had ignored me for three years, had forced Parker O. Witt’s hand. And Parker O. Witt had a pretty strong hand. This was the true power of Rob, and it wasn’t pretty. He’d traded something for this favor. An appearance at an event or in a movie. Money. Maybe just his goodwill. I had no idea what the role was worth, but whatever it was, Rob could afford it.

So much had changed. I thought about the day I arrived on the set of
American Dream.
The whole cast knew that Steve Romany had given me the part without an audition and they knew why—I hadn’t been willing to leave my ill grandmother’s side. When I walked into my
American Dream
trailer for the first time, there was a huge flower arrangement with a note that read, “For Lizzie, who knows what’s important. We’re so glad to have you on the team. Love, Your New Cast Mates.”

Gone were the days when I had carved my own way. I wasn’t a true artist, winning parts through sheer determination, and winning friends through loyalty and integrity. Now I was on the other side, part of the Hollywood powerhouse, where connections and status trumped talent. And trailer sizes matched egos. No wonder my fellow actors couldn’t look me in the eye. But this was the deal I had made. My father had pitched me to Rob. I’d fallen for my husband in large part for his status. And Rob was buying my happiness. When you added it all up, this was one very expensive movie role, and I was damn well going to make the most of it.