Chapter 54
Laine
Paul Messina knew how to throw a party. I’d heard about them, but they were at odd times and never publicized. Celebs didn’t usually show up in droves, and there was no parking on the block, so the events were too much trouble for paparazzi.
I’d stayed until three. Paul wouldn’t let me leave, meaning he kept feeding me drinks and asking when I was shooting his fall line. I was too drunk to answer intelligently, and he seemed all right with that.
I woke up at noon the next day, my head under the covers with a brain that felt broken and a mouth that tasted like glue.
I took a Tylenol and drank a quart of water, then I loaded my shots from the night before while I drank my coffee. I’d got some slightly interesting stuff with Paul, but he was uncomfortable in front of the camera. The great thing about working with actors and celebrities was that, even if they protested, they loved the camera. It fed their inner child. Paul was a fashion designer. He didn’t know what to do with his body.
I flipped to the news. More of the usual. I was thinking of going back to sleep until Phoebe’s Oscar party when I saw him.
Michael, eating breakfast an hour before at Terra Café with Lucy. Clean-shaven and wearing something that fit so well, I could tell he’d lost weight. I froze. My nerves tingled. He was back. I couldn’t read the copy fast enough. My eyes skimmed over everything, and I comprehended nothing. I took a deep breath and a sip of coffee. I tried again.
He’d been back days already.
I’d held onto the thin hope that when he got back from wherever in the world he was, he’d call me right away and say he wanted me. He’d say he was done running, done getting his head together, and just wanted to be with me.
Well. That was that, wasn’t it? He was back, and our little one-sided love affair was over.
I threw myself back into my desk chair, found the blue folders with his name on them, and dragged them all into the trash.
I crawled into bed. I tried sleeping. Couldn’t. I paced in bare feet and pajamas.
My map of Los Angeles towered above me. I touched Monterey Park and dragged my fingers to Rancho Palos Verdes. RPV. The concrete behind the map had a hairline crack, and the map had pulled and ripped there. I fingered it. I pulled. The green expanse and part of the bay came off like a piece of sunburned skin, leaving a curled sliver of map in my hand and a wound with upturned, grabbable edges. I took one of those and peeled. It came off in an arc. I let it fall. The next bit was still partly stuck. I worried it away and let San Pedro from Trinity fall to the floor.
I got all the water off, then Santa Monica and Topanga, until the entire west side was gone to Brentwood.
To hell with it.
I got my stepstool and peeled off Holmby Hills, Bel-Air, and half the Valley into Studio City. West Hollywood all the way to Silver Lake, and down into Wilshire Center. Done with it. Done. I peeled the entire map away, leaving Downtown for last, which I took off in a swath of sticky paper.
I stepped back and looked at what I’d spent hours doing. The wall had streaks of sticky stuff and a few shards of the city on it, but otherwise it was clean. The floor wasn’t so lucky. It looked like a bed of white paper flowers in full bloom.
I didn’t clean it. Not yet.
The only thing you had to bring to one of Phoebe’s Oscar parties was a twenty for the jackpot. She supplied booze, food, pencils, ballots, and a year’s worth of magazines to help you research your choices.
I’d only won once. Seven-hundred-sixty dollars. I’d guessed every winner except the sound editing category because I’d thought the movie was too loud. When I’d said that while hugging my fishbowl full of twenties, everyone in the room shouted until my ears hurt from the vibrations and my sides hurt from laughing.
Rob lived in a half-fixed, half-dead Victorian in Angelino Heights. He’d done the first floor in period-appropriate detail but modernized the layout with a big central room and ramps for his future wife. He intended to fix the house, remove the ramps, and sell it so they could buy a place that was more comfortable for her.
The landscaping was being redone. Everything was dirt. I went up the walk with a bottle of wine and a bag of chips. I always brought something so no one could accuse me of not being raised well, even though the accusation would have been true.
Roger opened the door. “Hey, Laine.” He hugged me, and I went in.
I was late, so I walked into the middle of arguments over film scores and discussions about how much each studio had put into advertising. The people who worked for marketing departments at the studios were very popular at this point in the evening, because everyone knew the amount of money a studio spent on advertising to voters was a huge factor in whether or not a nominee won.
“They killed advertising for best actor when the pedo thing happened,” a guy in a button-down black shirt said. The front tail was tucked in to show off his belt buckle, and the rest hung out over his white jeans.
The guy he was talking to pointed his pencil. “That movie was an ad in itself. Do you know what it grossed its first three weeks?”
That could go on all night, and I had my own opinions—I just didn’t know what they were. I stopped to say hello to a few people on my way to the kitchen, where Phoebe sat at the table with a glass of wine. As soon as she saw me, she held up a glass for me. We kissed hello, and I greeted everyone else at the table before sitting.
“Well,” I said, pencil aloft, “what do we have?”
I never researched but voted by feel, memory of the movie, and instinct. It was easy. I didn’t have to vote for the best or what I liked, only what people had been talking about. I got a sense of who the front runners were from that. In this crowd, the winner never got more than one wrong, and I came close each year.
Of course, as I got to the end of the ballot, I knew I would struggle with one category. Best actor. I wanted to vote for him. He was the best, no doubt, but the campaign had been tainted by me and my past. Also, after months, I was still hurting. I had to admit it to myself. Sure, I’d been the one to leave, but I was still weak and sensitive when it came to him.
Phoebe peered over my paper as my pencil hovered. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s no way they voted for him. Ballots went out before it died down.”
“Yeah.”
“But he was the best,” I said.
“You voting your heart or your mind?”
I looked at her. She smiled a knowing smile, and I ticked the box next to Michael’s name.
“Atta girl.”
The question at the end was the tie-breaking bonus. How long would the show be?
I tapped my chin with the end of my pencil. “What do you think about this one?”
“Short,” Phoebe said. “They’re cutting people off no matter what.”
“They always say that.”
“My client runs the band. They’re serious. Anyone who stops playing gets docked. It was in his contract.”
I scribbled a number and took a picture of my ballot. The procedure was to take a picture of your paper then hand it in as the opening monologue started. Mine went in last, and the show began.
The opener was filled with Hollywood insider jokes and knowing shots at the nominees. This year, Donny Bauer presented fake movies on slate for the following year, which included Gareth Greydon in I Lost my Liver in San Francisco, Britt Ravenor in Crash 2, and… drumroll… Michael Greydon in an NC-17 version of Romper Room.
My face went hot. The show did a quick shot of Michael sitting next to Brooke, his mouth pursed, shaking his head a little and trying to be a good sport.
Rob’s living room went dead quiet.
“That is so freaking rude,” said a girl in a little skirt.
“Bauer’s an ass,” someone said.
“He’s reaching,” someone else said.
The woman next to me punched my arm. “He’s wearing a weave, you know. I screwed him, and it came off.” She made a flopping motion with her hand.
I laughed and nudged the woman, a comedienne who, long ago, had had a regular part on a sitcom.
“It’s fine, everyone. It was totally worth it,” I said.
I got some high fives, but thankfully, the room moved on in a few minutes. Clusters of people talked through the “Dead Actor Segment.” We made fun of the dance number, checked our ballots for sound editing (yes!), costume (another one!), and art direction (nailed it). As director and screenplay came up, all eyes focused on the television. By the time Andrea stood to thank the Academy and her agent, the room was quiet, and everyone whispered about Big Girls sweeping. Andrea thanked Michael for the performance of his life, and the camera stayed on Michael’s beautiful face for so long, I thought I’d melt into the couch. Andrea went on and on for so long the music came up to stop her. Phoebe watched me, and I gave her a discreet thumbs-up. I was fine. A little wistful, but fine.
Actress next. Claire Contreras got up and did her thank yous. Her agent. The studio for believing in her. God. Her husband. Tears flow. Michael Greydon, who… well, without him to play against, she couldn’t imagine…
And his face again, with the “someone is saying something nice about me” look they all gave. I wondered what he was really thinking. I wanted to ask. I wanted access to his heart and mind again.
I was holding together nicely, I had to say, but when they said his name in the nominations for best actor, I felt as if someone had removed my sternum and taken my heart in their fist. I swallowed the feeling. I promised myself I wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t win, and I’d be happy if he did. The presenters made a stupid joke then opened the envelope.
It was him. He’d won.
I cheered, standing by myself and clapping. The audience in the auditorium stood with me as he kissed Brooke, shook hands with Gareth—who yanked him into a back-slapping hug—and headed for the front. He kissed Claire, high-fived Andrea, waved to his friends, and got up in front of everyone.
They sat, and when I realized I was the only one who had stood, I sat too. The sitcom actress next to me patted my knee, and I realized everyone was looking at me.
“I’m twenty-three for twenty-three!” I said.
“Thank you,” Michael said.
Phoebe turned up the volume.
“This is… I didn’t expect it. I came to support the cast and crew and… Andrea, Claire, Max for writing it so I could see it, and…” He stopped himself and looked to the side, stage left. “The Romper Room joke.”
The camera went to Donny Bauer, who stood on the sidelines in his tux, hands folded in front of him.
“I get it,” Michael continued. “I really do, and I hope the laughs were worth it, but”—he waved his finger at Donny—“there’s a person attached to that story, and it’s not funny.” He turned back to the front. “Thank you all for your faith in me, that I wasn’t what they said. Thank you. I’d do it all again. If I had the chance, I’d do it all again, but…” He looked at his statue. And looked.
He was silent way too long. He held everyone in the room in the palm of his hand. Everyone in the auditorium. Everyone in the nation. And me. I was his. He owned me in those five, ten, twenty seconds.
“If I could do it all again,” he looked back at the audience, “I would have scooped her up and taken her with me. Because—”
The music came up, cueing the end of his speech.
He put out his hands. “Don’t! Don’t cut me off!”
The music got louder.
Michael gave in and just shouted over it. “Laine Cartwright, I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
I gasped so loud everyone looked to see if I was dying. But in a second, the cello stopped, then the keyboard. The camera stayed on Michael, who didn’t move. He just looked down at the orchestra, making a “stop” sign. The music died piece by piece.
As if realizing he’d been given a reprieve, Michael straightened and looked at the camera again.
Me, he was looking at me.
“I hear you,” I whispered into my hands.
“I went to a party last night, and I saw you. You were… how can I say this? Perfect. And you looked so happy. I walked out because I thought, what would she want with me? She’s fine. She doesn’t need me. It took me a minute to realize how ridiculous that is.” He looked down again, then he put his statue on the podium and laid his hands flat on it before looking at the camera again.
He had more to say, but how much more would they allow? On the one hand, I needed to hear it, and on the other, I was breaking apart from him.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he continued. “But if there’s no one else, if you still want me, meet me at the corner of O and W for a do-over.” He smiled, as if embarrassed, coughed, then finished. “Thank you.”
The screen blinked to commercial. I looked away.
Everyone was looking at their phone.
“There’s no corner of O and W,” said the guy in the black shirt.
“I keep getting something in Palmdale.”
“You’ll never have two letters crossing. Try Oh, like O and H.”
“West Virginia.”
“Ohio.”
“This can’t be right.”
“I know where it is,” I said, standing. A few dozen eyes looked away from their phones to me for an answer. “Not telling.”
I had to step over people sprawled on the floor as the announcers for best picture came on. “Thanks, everyone.”
The woman who had screwed Donny Bauer stood and held out her arms. “Good luck, kid,”
I kissed her cheek. I was embraced, kissed, and wished luck by people I barely knew. I ran a gauntlet of love to the front door, where Phoebe waited with my jacket.
“You deserve this,” she said as I hugged her, “and I don’t mean a rich movie star.” She pushed me away and held my shoulders. “You deserve to be loved.”
“Thanks, Phoebe. I love you.”
“Go,” Phoebe said. “I’ll call you if you win.” She rolled to the front door and opened it. “Get out.”
I ran to my car. It was night and cold, and I didn’t care. How long would it take him? Would he do his post-win interviews first? Would they let him out without a hundred Hollywood-sanctioned softball questions?
I wanted him back. I couldn’t believe it was even possible, but I hadn’t misunderstood him. No one could misunderstand that. He loved me, and God knew I still loved him.
The streets were dead. I hit a little bottleneck at Fern Dell, but I headed up the mountain undetained. The park was officially closed, meaning I could get towed if I parked, but I kept moving up past the Observatory, going by the memories of my childhood and the last time I’d been there. I got to the end of Deronda, where the gates were closed with signs that threatened certain arrest and prosecution.
The one to the left was wide open. I went past without slowing, but I had to take it easy up the hill. It was dark, and I nearly took the short way down the mountain.
“Slow down, Laine,” I said. “You’re getting there first anyway.”
I took it easy, turn by turn in the silent night. Dirt and pebbles crunched under my tires, and crickets competed with the rumble of my car’s engine. I made it to the electrified fence and expected to be stopped there, but it was open. Had he planned this ahead of time? There was no way he’d done all the post-award activities and beaten me up the mountain.
I pulled in. No car in the spaces. I cut the lights and took a deep breath. I was there, and I’d wait half the night for him to show, because I knew he would. He wouldn’t dump or abandon me, and wherever he needed me to be, I’d show. I knew it in my gut.
I got out and navigated the hill in the dark, the soles of my sneakers steadier than the heels but still imperfect. I was on the WOOD side, the letters black spaces against the bright lights of the city and the dull, starless grey of the sky. I slipped. Rocks rattled down, and I had to grab a branch.
“Are you all right?” a voice asked from above. Michael. He sat at the top of the first O.
“You’re here.”
“I ran out of there as fast as I could.”
I hitched my leg on the support poles of the O and climbed to the top, feeling rather than seeing the cold metal bars. He reached down for me, and I took his hand.
“Almost there,” he said.
I got my head over the top of the letters and stopped myself. “This view…”
“At night? Almost as breathtaking as you.”
I climbed up and straddled the top of the letter, and he held my face and kissed me.
“Michael, I—” But I couldn’t finish. I fell into his kiss, his warmth. His intensity was like a blanket over me, scented in cinnamon. I breathed his name, owned by that kiss more than any other. “I never told you…”
He pulled away and put his nose to mine while cradling my jaw. “Whatever it is, it’s all right.”
“I never told you I loved you.”
“You came. That’s all I need.”
I kissed him. “As if I could resist you. Can you stand it? That we’re so different? Just say yes.”
“Yes. I love you because of it, and yes.”
“I’ll never chase you away again.”
“I won’t be so easy to chase away, because I’m never turning my back on you. Never again.”
I couldn’t get enough of his lips, but he backed up long enough to let me swing my leg over until they both dangled in front of the O. We sat, hand in hand, watching the lights blink and move over the boulevards like right-angled waterways. I put my head on his shoulder, and we presided over our domain, under the starless sky of Los Angeles.
THE END
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