Sleeping Beauty (13 page)

He’s not even touching my skin, but I feel like I’ve been hit with a cattle prod. I take a step backward. “It’s very heavy.”
Oh, that’s brilliant
, I think.

A familiar voice behind me says, “They really outdid themselves, don’t you think?”

My co-star, Jonathan Varner, sidles up next to me. He’s six or seven years younger than me, as Adonis-like in person as he is on the big screen. His amazing on-set kissing notwithstanding, his existence as international heartthrob seems pretty unenviable to me. Despite what the gossip magazines say–namely, that we’re involved in a passionate love affair–he rarely leaves his house when he’s not filming. If he does venture out, he’s immediately besieged by roving bands of hysterical, screaming girls.

“Isn’t it amazing?” I say, looking around at the details of the ballroom.

“Not the set…
you
,” says Jonathan, taking my hands and spreading my arms wide. “I thought you couldn’t get any tinier. Can you even breathe in this?”

“A little.” I pull one hand away and gesture towards Brendan. “Jonathan, have you met Andy Gordon’s friend, Brendan Charmant?”

Jonathan starts to bow before catching himself. He straightens, looking foolish, and sticks his hand out to shake. “Jonathan Varner. Good to meeet you, Brendan.”

“Ha! I saw that,” I say, punching him in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I accidentally curtseyed to my friend’s mom the other day.” I eye the tight fit of his pants and waistcoat. “At least you’re wearing the right clothes.” I rifle his famous, over-insured hair with my fingers. “And nineteenth century hair.”

“Hey,” he says, ducking away out of reach. “
You’re
the one with the nineteenth century face.”

I laugh and turn to Brendan. “When I first talked to Andy after–after–” Brendan’s face is pinched and severe again. I get flustered and stop.

Moving in carefully against the colossal circumference of my skirt, Jonathan wraps his arms around my barely-there waist and drops his chin onto my neck. “After you got the part…” he says.

“Right. After Andy offered me a screen test, he told me he wanted me because I had ‘a nineteenth century face.’”

Oblivious to Brendan’s hostile stare, Jonathan explains. “Claire thought it was an insult, like saying you have a face only a mother could love.” He tilts his head and gives me a peck on my neck.

“Or a face perfect for radio,” I add while trying to extricate myself from Jonathan’s hold. Because this isn’t what it looks like at all. Because I don’t want Brendan to think that I’m
with
my co-star. And then I wonder: Why do I even care what he thinks?

I don’t know what Brendan’s thinking, but whatever the angry opposite of laughing is, that’s what he’s doing. The muscles in his jaw spasm, his eyes are flashing like pulsars.

“Jonathan!” Alex wails from off-set. “What did you do?

“Oh, great, she saw my hair,” he mutters. “Thanks, Claire.” He releases me and dodges Alex, running backwards across the dance floor as she comes at him with a comb and a bottle of hair spray.

Brendan’s fury has settled into a look of entrenched pain. I try to explain.

“Jonathan…he’s…before a scene–” I take a breath and try again. “He and I…he’s totally Method–”

He cuts me short. “Did your costume come with a chastity belt?”

I feel my face turn as red as my wig. My arm tenses like a snake ready to strike, itching to smack him across his face as hard as I can. I fight the urge and grit my teeth instead. “What kind of doctor
are
you?”

“Claire, I’m sorry,” he says, looking stunned and appalled. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I have no right to–”

“Okay, people!” says the AD, her voice amplified by a megaphone. “Places, please! Ballroom scene background actors only, please take your places!”

I move off the set as quickly as I can, hiding behind an opaque lighting flag. Brendan follows me.

“Look, I didn’t think you would be here!” he says “Andy’s sister emailed me the call sheet yesterday. It said there was a convent scene being filmed today. Your name wasn’t on it.”

“Then you got the wrong call sheet. That shoot was two days ago.

“God, Claire, I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business who you–”

“You’re goddam right! You didn’t want me, remember? You got dealt the ‘Go Directly to Jail Card’ or something.”

“That’s not true. You know that’s not true. It’s just that for me, it’s like I–like we broke up for no reason one month ago. And I know it’s not the same for you, I know you don’t remember…”

“I wish I didn’t!” I say, my hands clenched into tight balls. “Did you think I wouldn’t see the emails? All those text messages? Every time I read something I remember…
things
. And I don’t know if they’re even real!”

“What? What do you remember? I’ll tell you if they’re real.”

I blush and look away. “I can’t–I mean, it’s not like I can
say
.”

His face relaxes, like he’s decided something. He slides his foot forward, his leg pressing into the voluminous skirt. He steps even closer to me, pushing his way into the force field of fabric.. For a moment he freezes, waiting for my reaction. When I don’t move he puts his hands on my waist. I rest mine on his forearms; I can’t really do much more than that unless I want to pole vault across my skirts.

I feel it again, the electric, rippling sensation, and I’m certain that (minus the Little Bo Peep dress ) we’ve stood just like this, touched just like this. He tilts his head down, and I think he’s going to kiss me. My eyes are half-lidded in expectation, my heart thudding in my ears.

Instead he whispers in my ear. “Those things you remember? That was real. Everything and every word: All of it.”

From somewhere on the other side of the set a megaphone squeals to life. “Can we get the talent on the set, please? We’re ready.”

“I think you’re ‘the talent,’” says Brendan when I don’t move. “I’d better go.”

“No, don’t leave–” I blurt out. I blink a few times, my eyes unfocused. “Did I say that to you once? I mean, why do I remember saying it and
not
remember saying it at the same time?” I reach for my temples, but stop when I realize that touching my head will move my wig. I’m getting close to tears again; it’s getting to be a habit when I see him. “Do I have–I mean, I
feel
like I have some kind of split personality.”

He pulls me closer. Any kind of heavy breathing is impossible in a corset, and I’m left with struggling for short gasps of air. The nineteenth century swooning epidemic is starting to make perfect sense to me.

“You
did
say that to me once. Not some other personality:
you
.”

I exhale, relieved. At least I’m not delusional on top of everything else.

“Let me stay,” he says, brushing my cheek with his lips. “If they don’t kick me out I’ll stay all day…until you’re done. I’ll take you home.”

“Okay.”

“Until you remember it all. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Can’t you just tell me what I want to hear? I think that would be easier.”

He chuckles softly in my ear. “I’ll do both. Whatever you want.”

I can’t wait any more for him to make a move. I turn my head so I can reach his lips.

He unexpectedly lets go of me and backs away.

“There you are!” says Alex from behind me. She stops when she sees Brendan, giving him the ol’ up-and-down longer than is polite.

“And Claire?” say Brendan.

I tense up. The last time he started off a sentence with “and Claire?” I was left confused and crying for days.

“Eat something later, will you? I felt like King Kong holding Faye Wray there.”

“Ha!” says Alex. “Told you.”

“Great,” I mumble. “Now I have to hear it from every side.” I touch my wig. “How’s my hair? Am I ready?”

She takes a brush from a kit over her shoulder and starts powdering my face. “Hair’s fine. Face is shiny.” In a lower voice she says, “
Who
the hell was
that
? Is he background?”

I close my eyes and hold my breath until she’s done, then turn and look. Brendan’s already disappeared into the unlit part of the set. I sigh. “
That
was Dr. Brendan Charmant.”

She gets a strange look on her face. “Bullshit.”

“What? Do you know him?”

She shakes her head. “‘Charmant?’ Don’t you speak French?”

“I can barely speak English most days.”

“Oh, this is too good,” she squeals, jumping up and down like a kid. “‘Charmant’ is French for ‘charming.’” She beams. “Get it?
Get
it?”

I look across the set, trying to see if Andy is pulling his hair out behind a camera somewhere. “No, I don’t get it. I have to get in place.”

“
You
have Sleeping Beauty Syndrome.
He’s
charming!”

I roll my eyes, pick up my skirts, and hurry to my spot. “Can you tell the AD that Brendan’s my guest?” I say, as she trots alongside me. “Otherwise some grip’s going to kick him out,”

“C’mon, Claire. Please tell me you remember the fairy tale. Sleeping Beauty falls asleep after she pricks her finger on the Spinning Wheel of Death.”

I think about Brendan’s chastity belt comment and his King Kong observation about my weight. “Yeah, well, I must have done something wrong, because I spun the Wheel of Life, came down with Sleeping Beauty Syndrome, and found a prick.”

“Roll sound!” calls the AD.

“Rolling!”

“Speed!” says the sound mixer.

Alex makes a run for it, covering her mouth so her laugh isn’t picked up by the boom microphone over my head.

Someone yells “Mark!” just as I get into position.

“Scene fourteen, take one!” The clapboard cracks. Now that everyone is quiet there’s no need for her to bellow like an auctioneer. “Background action,” says the AD. All the extras start moving, some pretending to speak to each other, some strolling through the ballroom arm-in-arm.

Finally I hear Andy Gordon’s voice. “And…action!”

Chapter Eleven

August 20
^th

“Breakfast? Why breakfast?” I say to Brendan, phone to my ear, as I shuffle to the bathroom.

It’s not like breaking your daily fast falls outside the bounds of common dating practices, but it’s the way he’s asking me, like this has all been rehearsed, and is part of some master plan. And, frankly, he sounds like he’s laughing about it, just a little.

“Uh, well, it’s what we did before, you know?” he says. “The first time around. I just thought it would help you remember things.”

Then I get it. “Ohh. That day after we ran into each other on the set we–”

“Went to the beach.”

“Because we met at the beach the first time?”

“Right.”

I think for a second. “Our second date back in May was a movie?”

“Yes! You remember?”

I frown. “No, but after the beach this time, you took me to a movie. Are the first four weeks of our relationship this time around going to be like a movie script? Because I have to tell you, that’s going to start to feel like I’m bringing work home with me.”

“Full disclosure and something I didn’t tell you the first time around: First dates for me are always the beach, a movie or breakfast.”

I can hear him practically beaming through the phone, but I guess I don’t get the punch line yet. “Why?”

“Uh, well, they’re all, you know, sort of a restrained activities.”

“‘Restrained activities?’ What’s that mean?”

“They have a definitive beginning and end.”

“Did I ever use to mention to you the first time we knew each other how weird you are?”

“All the time,” he says, still chuckling. “See? I think this is working!”

“Just for giggles, please define ‘definitive beginning and end.’”

“You go to the beach, you swim and hang out for a few hours, then it doesn’t feel weird to say you have to go home, you know, because you’re covered in sand, and the girl usually wants to go wash her hair or something.”

“Okay…”

“Same with the movie. Movie has a start time, it has an end time. You watch it, everyone goes home.”

“What about breakfast? How is it different from dinner?”

“Uh-uh. Totally different. Dinner has a start time, but no end time. You get done when you get done, then all of sudden everyone is trying to figure out what to do for the rest of the night.”

“How’s that different from breakfast? Then you have an entire day to deal with.”

“Totally different. Breakfast is perfect because everyone has stuff to do with the rest of their day. You have a haircut, need to get to the bank, take your dog to the vet.”

“Well, great,” I say dryly. “I’m glad everything’s going according to plan. Again.” I lean towards my bathroom mirror to scrape an eyelash off my cheek. “Got a script you can send over so I can get started on learning my lines for ‘Relationship Two-Point-Oh?’”

“I already brought you a script once. I don’t want to start getting boring.”

“Yeah, by all means, only do everything
twice
. I don’t want to start cramping your style.”

“Breakfast?” he says, like nothing can put a damper on his cheerful mood.

“Sure, but we’re hanging out afterwards, just so you know. And I don’t give a crap how sick your dog is.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Well, see? You don’t have any excuses.”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“See you then.”

I hang up and stare at my phone screen. Then, just to torment myself a little, I scroll back through our old text messages from the four “missing weeks.” They start off sweet and tame. By week three they had become a lot less tame. Week four text messages could have been used as a rough draft for a three-hundred page erotica novel. I still blush when I read them. I feel like I’ve hacked into someone’s cell phone and I’m reading their most intimate thoughts…only the thoughts are mine.

What I do know is this: whatever he may say, Brendan is
not
following the script from the first time, not according to the email and text message trail he’s left behind. We’ve been “re-dating” for over a week now, and if he’d been following The Master Plan, we would have already at least felt each other up a little by now.