Emery
New Zealand was gorgeous. I loved being able to see and learn about new trees, plants, and flowers. I enjoyed the smell of the fresh, clean air up in Skipper’s Canyon. At first, I’d even basked in the relative silence that came with being removed from the hustle and bustle of living in a populated area.
Two days later, the novelty wore off and reality set in, which meant I was homesick and miserable. Being stuck somewhere I didn’t want to be without any form of escape was hell on my frame of mind. I spent so much time tossing and turning each night that I was permanently exhausted, which only served to make me more miserable.
Inability to sleep was why I was awake in the middle of the night—even earlier than I otherwise would’ve been. I stifled a yawn as I stepped out of the trailer that was my temporary home, my mind on the fact that I’d never been so bored in my life. I missed my baby boy, Elvis, my best friend, Kaya, and my Starbucks, on PCH in Malibu, so much that I wanted to scream.
As much as all of that sucked, the primary cause of my unsettled frame of mind stemmed from dealing with the collapse of my “relationship” (I used the term super loosely) with Elliot Adams. Things were so far off the rails that it was nearly impossible to recall the way he’d pursued me, with single-minded determination, a mere seven months prior. Whatever he’d found so fascinating about me during that time had faded, and quickly. After pursuing me for months and then moving into my house—but not my bedroom, which I knew was weird—he’d lost interest somewhere between the time he got a key to the front door and when I signed off to star in the crappiest movie of all time.
More and more I suspected Kaya was correct—Elliot had come on strong because he’d wanted me to sign on to do the movie he’d written and was producing. The very one that had me trapped in New Zealand.
Because Elliot and I were together when Kaya read the script, I’d gotten snippy with her when she’d cautiously pointed out that it wasn’t engaging or dynamic. In retrospect, I realized she had been one hundred percent right. Being stuck in New Zealand filming the world’s stupidest movie all because I’d had blinders on where he was concerned was a bitter pill to swallow. It didn’t get any easier each morning when I’d wake up at dark-as-hell o’clock to drink shitty coffee on my way to the makeup trailer where I would sit for a few hours while they made me up to look dead.
The movie was called Ghosts of You. Set in the mid-eighteen-hundreds in a spooky New Zealand village, my dead character liked to jump in and out of the bodies of the women her still-living fiancé dated. I’m sure you’re wondering so I’m just going to get it out of the way now. The script was always bad but what started out a creepy stalker movie had quickly become garbage. It went from wanting to be like The Village to being an utterly atrocious copy of the Wayans Brothers’ Scary Movies. The over-the-top campiness of the movie was so bad that I already knew it was going to be lambasted by the critics and shredded by Rotten Tomatoes users.
Elliot swore the movie was going to win awards—specifically Golden Globes and Oscars. I agreed that there would likely be trophies—but the ones I saw coming were Razzies, the “prizes” given for the worst of the worst each year. I never thought I’d star in something destined to dethrone Showgirls as the worst movie ever made, but unless magic happened in the editing room, Ghosts of You was going to tank harder than I had the last time I tried to quit caffeine. For the record, I’d lasted a measly fifteen hours and twenty-three minutes before I showed up at Starbucks to get my venti mocha latte with extra whipped cream on top.
On the walk through the little town of trailers, I reminded myself for the hundred millionth time that I was under contract to the studio for the movie, whether it was shit or not. Acting had never been a dream of mine so it wasn’t like I could be all that broken up about the fact that Ghosts of You was going to put an end to my career sooner rather than later.
Knowing that I didn’t want to act forever was why I’d saved as much money as I had. Other than renting a ridiculously pricey house in Malibu—something I'd chosen because it wasn't in the city, which meant Elvis had plenty of room to spread out—I’d been very good with my budget. When the acting thing tanked, I’d have plenty to fall back on while I went on with my life.
My call time was three-thirty in the morning since the makeup I wore took almost three hours to apply from start to finish. I usually stumbled into the makeup trailer precisely on time or with mere seconds to spare, but since I’d slept a total of two hours the night before I was running just over forty minutes early. I knew I’d likely be alone in the trailer for half an hour, but since I needed coffee—badly—I didn’t care. I stopped at the craft services trailer—deserted save for one lone crewmember just starting her shift— and grabbed an extra large cup of coffee. After mixing in cream and six packs of Splenda, I stepped back out into the dark and began my trek to the makeup trailer.
On my way to makeup, I thought about my ‘relationship' with Elliot—more specifically, how to put an official end to it. I didn't like him as a person (so much so that it was nearly impossible to remember that I ever thought he was a decent human being), so obviously I wasn’t in love with him—far from it, in fact. Then again, I’d never been in love and didn’t have any great faith in that happening.
Because my family had owned a bird farm, growing up, I'd been known as bird girl. When I'd started to fill out in ninth grade, many of the boys had tried to walk back their insults, but I’d resisted all of their advances. In high school, I'd dated Tim O'Brien for two years, probably because he was a transfer student who’d never mocked me for having birds. Sadly our relationship had been drama-filled chaos. While I’d imagined I loved him, I’d always known that I wasn’t in love with him.
To some degree, it was a relief when Tim left for the Marines at the end of my junior year in high school. I’d so enjoyed the lack of drama that I stayed single in my senior year. Then shortly after graduation, I was approached to audition for a role in a television show. Getting that role had changed everything and what felt a hot minute later, my career exploded. I dated a few guys after that but never let it get very far—but then Elliot began to hardcore woo me. I fell for it mostly because I’d foolishly assumed he was mature due to his age.
I’d been so blind where he was concerned, which I suspected was because I’d only ever had sex with two people. The first I didn’t regret, but Elliot was another story entirely. Many men who’d tried to date me had argued that my standards were too high or that I was frigid, and over time that had built up in my mind. I'd fought against it but considering all the stuff that happened with Elliot since we’d gotten together, I was starting to wonder if there was anything to it.
Elliot and I had underwhelming sex a total of four times before he'd had Botox on his testicles. Yes, you read that correctly. He chose to have Botox injected into what everyone knows is one of the most sensitive places on the human body—and he’d done it purely for vanity. I'd been astounded when he told me what he was going to do, but he'd waved away my concerns in that dismissive way he had that made me feel like an idiot.
“Scrotox is the new thing, babe. My boys will be bigger than ever and marble smooth.”
The first issue was that the word Scrotox gave me the chills. Every time I'd heard it since the first time it came out of his mouth, I'd felt mildly nauseous. I admit to not having the best attitude about it, but to be blunt, I just couldn't understand the why of it. I tried to see the reasoning in wanting to do it, I honestly did. I knew many women (and men too) who had surgical enhancements—breasts, cheek implants, pectoral implants, butt lifts, collagen, and Botox injections in their faces—and I didn't think any of that was odd. For me, the worst thing about Scrotox—the thing I couldn’t wrap my mind around—was the ick factor of having someone repeatedly sticking needles into your nether region to have the area swell up so there wouldn't be any wrinkles. Fortunately, I’d not seen the results of the Scrotox.
In the thirteen weeks since the first round of Botox, Elliot had continuously complained that getting an erection made his "boys" feel too heavy, yet for some reason, he'd gone back for another round and had already told me he'd continue going every three months for many years to come. When I’d suggested he talk to the doctor about long-term side effects he’d responded that I should mind my own damn business. Frankly, I was worried about how relieved I was when he told me to back off, but still, I'd told myself that things were bound to get better. Then I’d been relying on things magically improving once we arrived in New Zealand, but that hadn’t happened. We were less a couple than ever, even though he insisted on calling me Sugarlips (something that made my skin crawl) whenever other people were around.
It didn't matter what he called me or when he did it—it was apparent we were over, and I knew I needed to break up with Elliot—officially. Our location living arrangements had us living separately, which was something he hadn’t thought to tell me before we’d arrived. I knew for sure that we were over when I wasn’t even a teeny bit upset. In fact, I’d been relieved.
As I closed in on the makeup trailer, I put the Elliot situation on the back burner where it belonged. Reaching for the handle, I pulled the door open and stepped inside before I stopped dead in my tracks as I took in the scene before me. Elliot was sitting in my makeup chair and the lead makeup artist, Jonni, was on his lap. Both were naked and Jonni was leaned forward with his elbows braced on the top of the vanity table that ran the length of the trailer. It was almost comical the way we all looked at each other in the mirror as their gazes connected with mine, and we each realized what was happening. After a few seconds of stunned silence, Jonni scrambled off Elliot's lap and quickly bent down to grab his discarded jeans from the floor.
“Sorry girl,” he said, “I know this is awkward.”
Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. I opened my mouth to speak only to snap it shut. It was at that moment that I realized how foolish I'd been in giving Elliot the time of day. He was a user and an idiot, and I'd fallen for his bullshit because I'd been tired of being alone. I also felt pretty dumb for having had any anxiety about my desire to break up with him. Apparently, he hadn't been worried about me at all. There were so many things I wanted to say, but right at that moment, only one thing mattered. Yes, he was a cheater, and yes, he was garbage, but I was the one who had stupidly allowed him to weasel his way into my life and my home before he railroaded me into a project I hated. Enough was enough.
Elliot's face was an unappealing shade of red as he stood, yanked up his perfectly pleated khaki pants, and spun to face me. “You’re early,” he said. Both his demeanor and tone implied that I was the one who had done something wrong.
My face was so scrunched up I could feel wrinkles on my forehead forming. Flabbergasted, I gaped at the five-foot-eight blond-haired asshole—the one I’d had to sacrifice the ability to wear heels of any kind around, in order to appease his fragile little ego—and bit back an urge to scream. I shouldn’t have been surprised by his attitude but having him behave in such a blasé way in reaction to being caught was appalling to me on a dozen different levels.
“That’s it?” I snapped, my voice brittle. “You’ve got nothing else to say?”
He looked genuinely perplexed by my question. “Like what?” he asked.
I’d never met anyone more frustrating in my life. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said snarkily. “Perhaps some form of explanation about why you used me as a beard to cover that you’re gay?”
Elliot made a dismissive gesture before he bent down and grabbed his pale blue collared Polo shirt. It was the start of winter in New Zealand, but I’d never seen him wear anything with long sleeves. I knew without looking that he’d be wearing a pair of two hundred dollar argyle socks and an immaculately clean pair of Sperry’s. Never had his attire annoyed me more. I didn’t even like preppy guys, much less grown men who dressed like they were on their way to pledging some douchebag fraternity. What had I been thinking when I agreed to the first date—or any of the ones after that?
“For fuck’s sake,” he said snidely, “I’m not gay.”
“You were just fucking a man!” I hissed angrily.
Elliot shook his head and made a face. “On top of being a frigid prude, you’re a fucking drama queen. No one is straight or gay in Hollywood, Sugarlips. I knew you wouldn’t understand—that’s why I’ve made sure only to do things like this when you’re not around. If I’d known you’d show up early for once in your life, I’d have done this elsewhere.”
I’d started to shake with anger. “Jesus,” I said with a harsh laugh. “Does your pea brain understand what cheating means?”
Elliot shot me a withering look. “Dramatic much?” he asked. “You only took the title of girlfriend because I needed a place to stay and you were too prude to let me move in without making it official. Get ahold of yourself and be an adult, for fuck's sake. Things happen. Deal with reality and move on.”
I wasn't cut up emotionally about the fact that he'd cheated on me. I wasn’t even mad that he’d essentially admitted that he’d used me for a place to live. His dismissive attitude, however, was infuriating. I was the wronged party yet he behaved as if I was the one in the wrong. I was well and truly done dealing with him.
I took a breath and blurted, “You know what? You're right. It's time to deal with reality. For starters, you’re a fucking dickbag and this movie is atrocious. The script is garbage, and you're the worst director in the history of directing. You can finish this shit show with someone else—I quit."
I noticed his eyes were bloodshot when he rolled them before he let out a derisive snort. The condition of his eyes combined with the way his jaw was moving indicated that he was coked out. Somehow, that disturbed me more than the fact that I’d just caught him balls deep in a man. On top of everything, he was a drug user. I shuddered to think of the other things about him I’d been oblivious about.
“I could say the same thing about your acting, honey. You suck but I’m dealing with the hand I’ve been dealt and so will you because quitting would be career suicide.”
I was d.o.n.e done, which meant I didn't bother to respond verbally. Instead, I spun on my heel, raised my middle finger in the air, and left, after which I went directly to the producer's trailer and woke him up to break the news to him. In the following hours, I was pleaded with, scolded, hounded, and even yelled at, but I never backed down. Not even when my agent spent twenty minutes telling me how foolish I was before she fired me as a client. I knew quitting the movie would destroy my career, but I didn't have an ounce of care in me considering the movie would’ve killed it anyway. I was through with everything—bullshit hustler Elliot, over-the-top Hollywood, every member of my supposed team, and all that went along with acting. My mind was firmly set on going home, and that's precisely what I set out to do.
Later that afternoon I wore my first real smile in months as I listened to Shakira while an assistant director drove me back down Skippers Canyon and into Queenstown for the last time.