The Dimple Strikes Back (6 page)

“That’s not true! I watched you on TV, the one about scientists during World War II. Very funny.” I’d done an arc on a one-season hit wonder called
Manhattan Projectile
. It was a black comedy spoof about science, inequality and America, which naturally meant that no one in America had watched it. “You have a real spark. I’m the one who put your name on the list for this role.”

“Really? I thought that the producers just called in everyone cited in the latest issue of
The Hollywood Reporter
.”

He chuckled, a warm sound, friendly. The word ‘gentleman’ doesn’t have much meaning nowadays, but, by my first impression, it seeped from every attractive part of him—and there were no unattractive ones visible to the naked eye. He was kind to the caterers, calling them by name, had a handshake for everyone in the room, and it didn’t seem put on. I laughed and stared at my Diet Coke. “Well, thank you. I’m very happy to be here.”

“We’re happy to have you.”

It came out so lilty that I flicked a glance into his eyes and felt myself blush. He extended his arm towards the table, where folks were sitting down again. I rushed to my spot and thought Sam-like thoughts—stealing stuff, fake driver’s licenses, Hot Pockets.

I was sure I’d see Sam tonight. I was only lusting after movie stars because of our strange evening last night. And because movie stars named Daniel Zhang were skin-meltingly hot when they tell you how glad they are to have you.

But I’d learned that being had wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

* * * *

As I left the studio, Danny squeezing my hands while his eyes promised unending love—it could happen!—I mentally worked through the next few days of prep. Wardrobe fittings, stunt rehearsals and the like. It would be a busy few days until my first actual set appearance.

I rushed into my apartment to find no one there. I checked my phone for the hundredth time—nothing from Sam. Dammit, dammit, dammit! And damn
him
! Should I be worried? He often went on radio silence when it suited him. “Gggggaaarghh,” I growled, picking up Captain Taco for the cuddles I wished his daddy were giving me. The cat grimaced and turned his nose away like he’d rather be anywhere else. Just like Daddy!

A knock at the front door. “Yes! Oh, thank God.” I plopped fur face on the couch and ran to the door.

“Surprise!” screamed my best friend Ellen. She rushed in and picked me clear off the ground in a hug. Taller than me, she practically strangled me with love and tiny, yet squishy, boobs.

Her girlfriend, Nicolette, walked in after, a look of bemused resignation on her face. Nicolette was the cop who’d busted the evil art theft ring wide open during the Picasso debacle. With my help, of course. She hadn’t liked me since, what with my interactions with known felons, and letting one get away only to return to my bedroom. But I was working on her. This past year, I’d helped Ellen plan Nicolette’s surprise birthday party, and I’d brought one of her favourite bisexual starlets with me to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the enraptured, mostly-female audience. Now, if that didn’t earn one lesbian brownie points, I don’t know what would.

I squeezed my Ellen back and rested my head on her shoulder. We’d been BFFs since high school, and nobody knew me like she did, embarrassing haircuts and all. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ellen shuffled everyone to the couch, the gracious hostess straddling the worlds of friendship and friends-with-benefits-ship. “We just flew in! You said you’d have a little time before the filming got nitty gritty, and we’re overdue for our first official vacation together, so here we are to crash Europe with our awesomeness.”

I grabbed her and held her so hard she squeaked. And then I cried on her shoulder. Literally. She wiped the moisture off her button-down before setting me nicely aside, raising her eyebrows to Nicolette and saying, “Let me guess—it’s so hard being a movie star.”

“Shut up.” I punched her and she obligingly rearranged herself between Nicolette and me.

“What’s wrong?” Ellen asked.

Nicolette handed me a tissue from her purse. “That is so nice,” I said, new tears flowing. Maybe she was starting to warm to me! Nobody is concerned about the snot situation of a person they despise. I cleaned up a little and put on a pot of coffee for everyone. Upon my return to the couch, they stopped making out—whoops—and I said, “So, I have a situation that involves a boy.”

Nicolette quirked an eyebrow. Ellen gasped and said, “You banged Daniel Zhang! Good girl!”

“I didn’t bang him!” Perhaps I shouldn’t have confessed to her the threesome fantasies I’d been entertaining about Danny and Sam. I’d have to learn to keep these thoughts between myself and Colin Firth. Colin Firth is the name I’d given to my Hitachi Magic Wand, because is there any straight woman who doesn’t need a little Colin Firth from time to time?

I served the coffee and prepared to recount my sordid tale. Ellen sat up straighter and pushed her brown hair behind her shoulders. Captain Taco leapt onto the couch and danced from lap to lap until he settled on mine. Even Nicolette appeared interested. “I’ll begin by saying that I am definitely not talking about a man who ever committed a crime of any sort.”

Nicolette’s face got pinchy. Ellen grabbed one of her hands and they shared a look I chose to interpret as them being fully in my corner, grimaces notwithstanding.

“This not-a-criminal man, let’s call him…Ham.”

Ellen grinned. “I like him better already.”

“Don’t taint my favourite food,” Nicolette said.

“How about…Bam?”

“Acceptable.”

“Okay, so Bam, everyone’s favourite upstanding citizen, surprised me here in London—he picked me up at the airport. Wow.” I leant down to unzip my boots. “Three of you flew all the way to London to surprise me.” I sucked in a halting breath and let it out in stutters. “You all l—l—love me!”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Nicolette turned her amber eyes away and took a sip of coffee.

“No more crying!” Ellen leapt forward, tissue in hard, and smashed it against my nose. She relented after my gasp of pain—my honker was stinging so much, those flying birdies almost made an appearance around my head.

I did not cry any more, but removed my boots quite calmly. “Anyway, if I may continue—”

“You’re the one stopping you. Does this story end in time for dinner?” Ellen asked.

“Bam picked me up. We went out for food. We left the restaurant and got frisky in the alley.”

“You classy bitch.”

I nodded, accepting this honour as my due. I continued, “And then three men appeared from nowhere and tried to kidnap us into an awaiting car.”

Finally! Ellen and Nicolette stopped playing footsy and paid attention to the serious matter of Bam and the mystery men. “We got away, and Bam stayed the night here. Then he left yesterday morning, saying he was going to make inquiries about the attempted kidnapping, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“You almost got kidnapped!” Ellen yelled.

“Bam is missing!” The outbursts startled the cat, who jumped away and hid under the table.

Ellen crumpled and put her head in her hands. “Once again, Dipshit McGhee misses the point.” She glanced up to me. “The
kidnapping
is the problem, Samantha. His disappearance is a mitzvah. Besides, he didn’t call or email you for the entire month of August last year, which I remember because I heard whiny updates about it all thirty-one days.”

I fumed, angry that, per usual, Ellen had cut right through my lust-brain haze and sliced into the heart of the matter. And I hadn’t whined every day of August! Even if I had, BFFs are not supposed to count the small shit that way. I never brought up the fact that for the first four months of Ellen’s and Nicolette’s relationship, I was treated to exhaustive and detailed accounts of every sexual act via text. Although, in her defence, I had learned a few things, and I’d be much more effective now if I were ever cast as a lesbian character.

“I know, I know.” I grabbed Ellen’s hand and held on. “I know Sam is probably just…contacting nefarious underworld persons in an attempt to secure my safety.”

Ellen put her arm around me. “Yes, he is.”

“I mean non-nefarious,” I amended, glancing at Nicolette.

“You also mean Bam, not Sam,” she replied with a wink. She leant forward and put her coffee on the table. “Look, girl—is this really so bad? I know you care about him, but,” she huffed, “you are an up-and-coming thing right now. Do you need this bullshit in your life? Instead of pining after this mess of a man who doesn’t even give you the courtesy of a reply, and you here crying and carrying on, why don’t we get a drink, go dancing and forget losers who don’t deserve us.” She stood, looking fresher after an intercontinental plane ride than anyone had a right to be. Her black hair fell across her shoulders in waves, and her brown skin positively glowed. She was so pretty and confident, it was compulsory to do what she said. Plus, she was a cop. Ellen gaped up at her, enraptured and practically drooling.

Dammit, Nicolette and Ellen were right. “Dammit, you’re right,” I said, standing as well. “Fuck it. We’re in London! Let’s go party, eh, mates?”

“You are not good at accents,” Ellen said. “This is one instance in which you should listen to your mother.” My mother, Suzie Lytton, felt that my stardom was a fluke of nature and that I could ruin it at any moment by being myself. That hadn’t stopped her from moving from Vegas to L.A., the easier to surf my coattails and give sparkling interviews to low-level morning TV shows.

In a cringe-tastic Cockney, I replied, “Bugger you in the crikey, ya chit!”

“That’s not a phrase people say.” Nicolette grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me towards the bedroom. “Now put on something tight and let’s go. We’ll find you someone not wanted by Interpol.”

This was a side of Nicolette I’d heretofore not seen. Although I had heard about it around the two-month mark via text. My bill that month had been obscene for several reasons. “Can it be a man?”

“Hasn’t California turned you gay yet?” She grinned and started going through my suitcases. “That’s what my mother warned would happen to me when I moved from Atlanta. Ooh, is this Alexander McQueen?”

“I wore that to my first premiere. I’d never spent so much on something that wasn’t a car before in my life.”

We all sighed—women bonding over expensive couture that took off five pounds the moment you slipped it on. My two wardrobe assistants settled on a black, halter-neck jumpsuit I’d picked up but hadn’t actually had the guts to wear anywhere. Ellen explained, “It’s Europe! You’re expected to look like a disinterested courtesan.”

“How do I do that?”

“Stop shaving your legs.” How that would help me tonight in a pair of pants, I had no idea. Perhaps the superior European attitude to beauty didn’t need to be seen, just felt. I think ‘
je ne sais quoi
’ means ‘fuck you, I’m awesome, and I do what I want’.

Nicolette and Ellen decided to dress and makeup me into what they considered to be an acceptable level of vampiness while we sucked down mid-grade whisky leftover from their flight. The idea that I might dump Bam caused Nicolette to grin at me like never before. But it could have been the booze.

They both selected garments that fit them more or less—Nicolette a wrap dress that fell to knee-length on me, but was a mini on her, and Ellen a miniskirt and tank top with a leather jacket on top. If there were three hotter ladies in London that night, I’d deny it.

We went to an Italian restaurant with a famous chef’s name on the front and drank enough wine and ate enough carbs to power fifty drunken marathon runners. Then it was another bar, a dance club full of sleazy, grabby guys, and another dance club full of respectful, non-grabby ladies. While I doubted I would find my next true love at the all-woman disco, I did get enough business cards pressed into my palm to tell me that my non-hetero fan base was an enthusiastic group.

“I bet you make the gossip blogs tomorrow,” Ellen hollered over the din to me as I posed with another fan, this one delivering a gin-ny kiss to my cheek when the cell phone shutter went off. Oooh, that would make my agent, my manager, my publicist and my attorney so happy! Gay rumours for a Hollywood actor meant big trouble, but bisexual rumblings about a woman made her more interesting to some.

Sometime around two a.m. my body started shutting down from lack of sleep, heartache and whatever the hell was wrong with my feet—my four-inch heels had acquired switchblades and were in the process of carving me up like a side of beef. I plopped into a booth—in the VIP section, y’all!—and was soon joined by my compatriots. Thereby began the sloppy ‘I love you so much’ portion of the evening. You know, the one where you tell each other how beautiful you are despite the fact that your mascara is now gracing your cleavage?

I opened the proceedings. “Nicolette, I think you’re so awesome and good and beautiful for my friend, and I’m sorry you don’t like me because I screw criminals.” I paused to yawn. “Criminal. Just one at a time, because I’m a fucking lady, thank you.”

Nicolette put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re kind of annoying, but I don’t hate you. Especially if you’ve dumped him. Did you dump him? I don’t see why you couldn’t date…Ryan Gosling. He seems like less of a turd than most of them.”