Chapter 9

 

Dylan

 

I don’t slow down. If I do, I know she’ll say something. Voice another note of concern about going out the night before shooting, another question about a night even I have no plans for, another hesitation. Gemma can’t go with the flow – and for all my faults, that’s one thing I’m an expert at.

The only time I stop the bike and put my feet on the ground is when we reach our destination: the private airstrip. It takes all of three seconds for Gemma to leap off the bike, take off her helmet, and begin telling me all the reasons this is a bad idea.

“Where are we? Is this an airstrip? I can’t go to Vegas, Dylan. I have to submit some budget forms, and anyway, I’m still dressed in my work clothes. I can’t go to Vegas looking like this.”

I take my time getting off the bike, and when I look at her face, and the mixed tones of anxiety, panic, and helplessness across it, I almost feel sorry. Not for taking her to Vegas, but for the fact that she can’t let herself enjoy it.

I wave at the steward who’s waiting outside one of the hangars. He nods back, a well-worn routine, as impromptu trips are something of a habit of mine.

“I’ll have the hotel put some stuff out for you, they usually do a pretty good job of choosing nice stuff.”

“There’s no plane here,” she continues, the pitch of her voice getting higher and faster, “we can’t be waiting around for—”

She’s interrupted by the thrum of engines as the jet taxis out of the hangar and rolls up the strip towards us. She looks at me, her eyes full of defeat, then covers her face in her hands.

“Gemma,” I say. “Hey. Look at me. It’s just a night out. We’ll have a few drinks, play a few hands, and then tuck ourselves up in bed. That’s all it is. It’s barely a one hour flight, so we’ll have plenty of time to get back tonight for an early bedtime and make our call tomorrow, which isn’t until—”

“Ten am,” Gemma says, softly, mulling it over. She sighs. “Ok. But you’ve got to promise me that’s all it will be.”

“Sure.”

She stares me down, her jaw tense. “I mean it. No getting drunk. No crazy…unpredictable…wild…ness. You will be responsible and pleasant. Promise me.”

“Yeah. I promise,” I say, laughing.

Seconds later we’re walking up the extended steps into the plane, nodding a greeting to the prim flight attendant.

“Good evening, Mr. Marlowe.”

“Hey, Rachel. This is Gemma Clarke. My…colleague.”

“Hi,” Gemma says, somewhat embarrassed, and for the first time I truly realize just how unused to the high life she is. We make our way into the cabin and sit opposite each other on the luxury seats.

It’s not until we’ve taken off, ordered a couple of stiff drinks, and made the arrangements for the hotel in Vegas that she leans back into her seat and stops glancing around like she’s looking for an exit. She stares out of the window, and I take the opportunity to really appreciate how beautiful she is. I can think of a dozen actresses who would kill for eyes as mesmerizing as hers, for lips so delicate they look like brushstrokes – hell, most men would kill for a face like that.

I sip my whiskey, and before I know it, I’m thinking out loud.

“Some women have the kind of beauty that hits you like a punch, and starts to fade soon after. Other women have looks that don’t seem like much, but under the right circumstances can take your breath away. A few have the kind of beauty that takes a long time to appreciate, but when you do, it never dies.” She turns her face from the window to look at me. “But you…you’ve got all of it. Every kind of beauty going.”

She holds my eyes for a second, a tremble in her lips so slight that I wouldn’t notice it if I wasn’t studying them so intently, then she rolls her eyes and puts her drink on the tray.

“Please, that cheese is way too strong for this wine.”

I laugh and turn away.

“You really aren’t a stargazer.”

“What do you mean?” she says.

“Nothing. I just thought you liked movies – most people who work in Hollywood do.”

“I’m no different.”

“So why do I feel like a regular Joe when I’m with you? Most people tend to treat me either like a fragile vase, or the Queen of England.”

“Doesn’t your ass get sore from all that kissing?”

“It does,” I laugh, taking another satisfying sip of whiskey. “It most definitely does.”

We both look out of the windows, though I’m only pretending, and I see the change in her face, as if a cloud is lifting from it, and she’s allowing something deeper to show.

“I love movies,” she says, still staring out the window, “I just think actors are overrated.”

She turns and notices my raised eyebrows, laughing nervously.

“I mean…I’m not saying acting’s easy – and I know it’s important. It’s just…” She looks around as she thinks about what she’s about to say, then notices how eagerly I’m waiting for her to finish and relaxes a little. “My dad worked on movie sets; designing and building beautiful, amazing things. I used to spend a lot of time on sets myself. I saw how many talented people it takes to make great movies: screenwriters, camera men, gaffers and grips, editors, costume designers, electricians, makeup, prop masters, production assistants – I could go on forever. There’s so much artistry and hard work that goes into it – but it’s the actors who get all the praise.”

I shrug. “I can’t argue with that. Although it’s the actors who get criticized, too.”

“Sure, I know. But the way people talk about actors,” she says, leaning forward, hands flying as she makes her point, “you’d think that they just make it up as they go along. That they just ‘invent’ their own characters and improvise.”

“I agree.”

Suddenly she looks down, as if catching herself opening up and feeling a little ashamed of it.

“Sorry. You’re not really the person I should be saying that kind of thing to.”

“No, I think you’re absolutely right.”

She sips her wine and looks away, as if looking for a change of topic.

“But,” I continue, “I still don’t understand one thing.”

“What?”

“Well, if you’re so into movies – and obviously you think a lot about them – why are you working in the financial department? That’s like…I dunno…working in the fork factory because you like food.”

She puts her empty wine glass down and Rachel appears within seconds to offer a refill. I can tell Gemma’s about to make a default expression of ‘No, thank you’ so I down the rest of my whiskey and order refills for both of us.

“I was good at numbers,” Gemma says, with a small shrug, and a slight note of disappointment in her voice that you’d need radar to detect.

“You’re good at a lot of things,” I say, trailing off, hoping for her to fill in the gaps.

The drinks come and Gemma sighs.

“Actually…accounting isn’t really my true love. I wanted to be a writer. I’ve been working on a script for years.” She looks away, as if this is the most shameful secret she could have possibly told me.

“Whoa! Really? That’s awesome. I’m impressed.”

“Really? You must be impressed a lot then – it seems like in LA everyone and their dog is working on a script.”

“Yeah, true – but you’re smart enough to know how to write something decent, and focused enough to finish it. What’s it about?”

“Oh no. I’ve said too much already.”

“Come on! Tell me! I’m an actor, maybe I can help. I’ve read enough scripts to fill a library – or to wipe every ass in America, if their quality was anything to go by.”

Her cheeks are pink now, and she won’t meet my eyes. “I can’t explain it, it’s too complicated.”

I open my hands out and shrug.

“This isn’t Europe – if you can’t explain it in a couple of sentences you’ll never get anywhere. Come on, try, at least.”

Gemma sips her wine and shakes her head. I glare at her, sending telepathic signals that let her know I won’t give up until she tells me. After going through a few more sighs and fidgets, she gives in.

“It’s silly…I’m just doing it for fun, I don’t expect anything to come of it. It’s…” Gemma checks my face for signs I’m genuinely interested, and it’s only when she’s satisfied that I am that she continues. “It’s about a guy whose wife dies…about the weird emptiness it leaves in his life…and how he goes about trying to mend it, to move on. It’s kinda quirky, I guess.”

She’s looking down between her feet now, almost like she’s bracing herself for a blow on the head, and I realize just how much she’s opened up, how vulnerable she must be feeling. I reach out and place a hand on her chin, lifting her face up to look at me.

“It sounds…beautiful. It’s a character piece. Independent film loves that kind of thing. Have you—thought about showing it to anyone, trying to get it made?”

She laughs awkwardly as she settles back in her seat.

“It’s a silly idea. I probably won’t show it to anyone. I know it’ll never get made. There’s no real plot – no happy ending. Just a little philosophy and a lot of broken people. Searching for something…more. But I don’t think they find it.”

I chuckle.

“You don’t believe in happy endings, right?”

“Not really, no.”

Just then, there’s a small jolt, accompanied by the sound of skidding wheels, as we land in Vegas. It breaks the fragile, intimate thread between us, as we turn to look out of the window and see the glittering skyline of Sin City.

 

The waiting limo whisks us off towards the hotel, where a suite has been prepared for us. Champagne on ice (they know me well), and a wardrobe of clothes for Gemma. The sizes aren’t perfect, but Gemma looks good in anything, and she steps out of the bedroom in a loose-fitting blouse and pencil skirt with her palms open, anticipating my opinion.

“What do you think?”

I lean forward from my seat on the couch.

“I’d probably get in trouble if I told you what I’m thinking.”

She groans and smiles, but her body relaxes in the clothes as she steps towards me.

“So…” she says, swinging her arms and pursing her lips, “what are we going to do?”

I stand up and nod towards the door.

“There’s a private member’s casino in the hotel. I’m thinking we have a few drinks, lose a little money, and just have some fun. We can even turn in early if you insist.”

She shrugs an agreement and smiles.

“Ok. Sounds like fun.”

When we reach the lobby we’re soon surrounded by about half a dozen people, pens and pieces of paper materializing in their hands.

“It’s Dylan Marlowe!”

“Oh my God! You’re even bigger in the flesh!”

“Would it be too much trouble to get an autograph?”

I glance towards Gemma, who smiles understandingly, and I get to work scribbling a vague approximation of my name and putting on my poster-smile for some pictures. Once I’ve done just enough for them not to tweet, blog, or post about me being a complete douchebag, I return to Gemma.

“I never understood that,” she says, as I lead her towards the entrance of the members club.

“What?” I say, nodding to a couple of hotel clerks I recognize.

“Signatures. What’s so special about them? It’s just a scribble.”

“It’s a symbol, I guess.”

“Of what? ‘Hey I was within five feet of someone famous – and this proves it.’”

I laugh as we approach the doors.

“Mr. Marlowe! A pleasant surprise!” says the girl beside the door. “It’s been quite a while since your last visit.”

“I was here last month.”

“As I said, quite a while,” she says, winking.

“I’ll always come back to you, Marcy,” I smile, as she opens the doors and leads us through.

On weekends the casino is the hottest one that most people in Vegas don’t know about. It’s the first place anyone with a recognizable face in Hollywood thinks of when they want to throw some dice. Tuxedos, tight dresses, and enough money flying around to bankrupt a small country. Me, I prefer it the rest of the week. The names are just as famous, but the atmosphere is even more so. If there’s any place the saying ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ is true, it’s here. I’ve seen Oscar winners tip over tables after a bad hand here, knights of the realm get into fist fights, and heard stories that would make your toes curl – I’ve been involved in a lot of them myself.

Heads turn toward us as we enter, and almost collectively they smile and raise their arms.

“Dylan!” screams Danny, a bear of an actor who seems to make about three comedies every year. “Holy shit!”

He shoves the guy next to him, a muscle-bound action movie star who has a face that looks like he’s always on the verge of killing someone.

“Whoa! The night’s getting better!”

I put a hand on Gemma’s back and usher her into the room, where I exchange bone-shaking hand-clasps with Danny and the bruiser.

“How’s it going, man?”

“Good,” I say, as the four of us make our way to the bar.

A woman in a backless dress turns on her bar stool to face us, and I recognize the face as Alison-something – a singer-turned-actress with green eyes that compel you to look at the magazine covers she always seems to be on.

“Is it true?” she says, huskily, as she spins an olive around her drink.

“Is what true?”

“That you’re doing the next Christopher West movie?”

A silence seems to envelop me like a cloud, and I can tell there are more than just the people around me at the bar listening in.

I chuckle a little, then hold my hands up.

“Guilty.”

Excited shouts and happy gasps resound around me, and I feel multiple slaps on my back. The hums and chatter meld into a wave of positive enthusiasm that seems to catch throughout the room.

“Get this man a drink! He’s about to go into space!”

“I knew it. I just fucking knew you’d have a comeback, man!”

“Shit! If Dylan can make a movie with Christopher West, anything can happen! Get him a single malt on me, I want him to remember me!”

I look for Gemma, but all I can see is a flash of those blue eyes for a second before the crowd around me gets closer.