Outside In Read online

“Okay. I’m heading into the tunnel so I’m going to lose you in a second. Bye-b—” The end of her sentence was cut off as she entered the tunnel that connected Malibu to the San Fernando Valley.

  “Damn it,” said Michael into the empty phone line, realizing she had succeeded in keeping him on the phone for her whole damn drive.

  7

  Kate woke with a start at six a.m., her body flooding with adrenaline. She struggled to remember what day it was, whether she was supposed to go to work today, whether, in fact, she was already late for work. She had fallen asleep on the couch—her anxiety over her fight with Hamilton finally exhausting her—before she had had a chance to call Sam to find out about her call time for today. She strained to remember what he had said when she’d left work last night. Stay close to the phone. Oh god, had they called last night? She tried to talk herself down as she picked up her phone, the beep-beep-beep of the voice-mail system telling her that there was a message. It’s okay, she told herself, trying—but failing—to take a full breath, it’s probably not them. There are probably not a hundred and fifty crew members waiting for you to show up at work, expecting your car to pull in at any moment so that they can start their day. She punched in her voice-mail code and waited the interminably long three and a half seconds for the irritatingly calm robotic voice (didn’t she realize what was at stake here?) to tell her that she had received a call at 11:12 p.m. Oh no. “Hi, Kate, it’s Sam.” Oh god. “You’re off the hook for tonight”—thank god—“but in terms of tomorrow”—Kate felt as if her heart were going to pound right out of her chest while she awaited the verdict: good girl or bad girl?—“you are still on the hook.” What time? Get to the fucking time, Sam. “I still don’t have a time for you, but”—but what? But what?—“I can tell you it won’t be early.” Kate felt as if she were melting into the couch, both her held breath and her anxiety draining out of her. “Anyway, you are on a ‘will notify’ for tomorrow while we try to figure out what the day looks like. Apparently, Sapphire has a conflict of some sort tomorrow afternoon, so we need to do some shuffling around to find stuff to shoot without her. Our first choice would be to shoot the pool-boy scene, but the guy we hired to play the pool boy obviously wasn’t expecting to work tomorrow, so we are waiting to hear if he can find an understudy to go on for him at his Chippendales show—do they really call them ‘understudies’ in male strip shows? Anyway, my point is that it doesn’t look like we will get to you tomorrow, but I won’t know until at least ten a.m., maybe as late as noon. You know the drill: wait by the phone, and if you go out make sure you have your cell with you. Sleep well.”

  Ironically, she had slept well, which wouldn’t have been the case if she had heard the phone ring and had talked to Sam last night when she should have. She would have been too worried about her scene and too annoyed that her life was once again at the mercy of her erratic costar. What was it that made Sapphire feel that her personal schedule took precedence over those of almost two hundred co-workers? Kate would no sooner announce a “conflict of some sort” during a workday than she would, well, hold up the crew while she had her minions scour the ends of the earth for the world’s most slimming skirt. For one thing, she didn’t have any minions, and for another, she just couldn’t imagine being that clueless about her effect on other people. Granted, she was lucky that her first and best acting teacher, Mr. Faldwell had drilled into his students that a piece of theater, whether on a stage or on a soundstage, is a communal creation. “You may get treated differently because you are one of only a handful of actors, but you need to understand that you are, more importantly, a member of the crew. Get your own coffee; treat everyone with respect. It is far better to be in the trenches with a hundred friends than to be up in your ivory tower with only your royal ego to keep you company. Besides, when the chips are down, it is always the queen that gets beheaded first. Remember that.” Kate had remembered, and it had kept her in good stead. Of course, she could call Sam back right now and say, “You know, I just remembered that I have a conflict, too. So, you see, I am just not available.” Or, even better, what if she just never called at all, turned off her cell phone, and went to a spa?

  Yeah, right.

  She knew she would never leave her phone off, just as she would never put her own schedule ahead of production’s. It just wasn’t in her nature. She was a good girl through and through. So her time would be controlled and wasted by an insecure, immature actress. At least she could hang out with Paige and Sam while she waited.

  While she waited…

  Kate’s heart sunk when she remembered that the reason she had fallen asleep on the couch was that she had been waiting for her husband to come home—waiting to find out if she still had a husband. Had he come home to make up with her, found the bed empty, and assumed that she had left? Had he come home at all? She jumped up and headed to the kitchen, hoping that he had somehow snuck past her. She paused when she got to the door, saying a quick prayer that she would find Hamilton sitting in “his” chair (the seat facing the view of the backyard) at their little table, having his daily breakfast of a single piece of low-carb toast with fat-free cream cheese and low-sugar strawberry jam and a cup of Splenda-sweetened green tea. When she opened the door, she was shocked to see that her prayer had been answered and braced herself for a continuation of last night’s fight.

  “Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” said a very cheerful Hamilton, jumping out of his seat and coming over to envelop Kate in an energetic hug. “I was beginning to think you were never going to get up. No work today?”

  “Uh…” stammered Kate, trying to figure out what she had missed. Everything, apparently. “I’m on a will notify by ten a.m. When did you get home?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…midnight-ish. You were sound asleep on the couch, drooling away, just as cute as a bug in a rug.” He gave her chin an affectionate little pinch and headed toward the counter. “What can I get you, my little princess? Tea? Decaf coffee? Wait a minute—your scene is done, isn’t it? You could even have a piece of toast if you want. Shall we celebrate with a little sugar-free fruit spread? Yummy!”

  Still trying to figure out how she had gone from the brink of divorce to being offered carbohydrates (well, carbohydratelike foodstuffs), Kate stepped gingerly into the minefield of communication with her husband. “Thank you, honey, that would be great. Although we didn’t actually get to my scene yesterday. I didn’t have time to tell you last night before—well…before you had to leave for your…thing, but yesterday was pretty much a waste of a day.”

  “Really?” Handing her a cup of tea and leading her to the table (apparently the toast offer was completly scene dependent), Hamilton was the picture of chivalry and husbandly concern. “Well, isn’t that too bad? Why don’t you sit right here and tell daddy what happened?”

  “Well,” said Kate, relaxing into his attentive mood, “it was just another high-drama day in the life of Sapphire Rose. Apparently, her new diet isn’t working—again—so her skirt didn’t fit—again—so we lost a whole day. Can you believe that?” Kate shook her head and grinned, ready to share a laugh with her husband at the absurdity of Sapphire’s behavior. Instead, her grin was met with a very serious expression and a compassionate sigh.

  “Poor Sapphire,” said Hamilton, as if they had been discussing a dear friend who had just lost a parent to cancer. “It must be so difficult for her.”

  “What?” Kate was confused again. Was he kidding? Being sarcastic? Humor had never been Hamilton’s strong suit, but maybe a sense of humor was part of his new, toast-offering personality.

  “Well, I just think it must be difficult for her, being an artist in such a shallow medium. She is an artist surrounded by technicians. I bet it is lonely for her.”

  “Are you kidding?” Kate was hopeful, but her hope faded as Hamilton continued his ode to her tormentor.

  “No, Katie-Cow, I am not kidding. I’m trying to help you understand what it must be like for Sapphire so that you can help
her in her creative journey instead of focusing on how her struggles affect you and your little day.”

  She wanted to shake her head rapidly from side to side à la Scooby Doo, hoping to bring herself back from the alternate reality in which this conversation seemed to be taking place. Instead, she calmly said, “Honey, I understand the artistic temperament. I am an actress, too, you know.”

  “Oh, Katie…Katie, Katie, Katie.” Hamilton placed his hand on top of hers where it rested on the table. “Of course I know you are an actress. I do your deals, don’t I? I’m just saying that you are a different kind of actress than Sapphire, that’s all.”

  “A different kind of actress? What does that even mean?”

  “Now, let’s not get all dramatic here.” Kate’s voice had been rising with the realization that he wasn’t kidding, and Hamilton got up to get himself another cup of tea, clearly annoyed by her outburst. “There is nothing to get defensive about. The world needs technicians as well as artists. There is nothing wrong with what you do. You get paid quite well, for one thing, and for another, you get to work with one of the greats. I just don’t understand what you think you have to complain about.”

  Too stunned to speak, Kate tried to process what her manager/ husband was saying. Did he really believe that she was lucky to be in Sapphire’s presence? That the spoiled star’s tantrums were a sign of her artistic integrity and, as such, were to be honored and somehow admired instead of controlled? Kate didn’t want to completely destroy their morning truce, so she concentrated on keeping her voice calm. “Hamilton, I can see that you admire Sapphire as an artist, but I really don’t see how holding up an entire crew for eight hours because of a wardrobe issue has anything to do with the creative process.”

  “Of course you don’t, darling, and I wouldn’t expect you to. That is exactly my point.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “That’s the beauty part, isn’t it, Katie? You don’t have to talk. You can just sit there and look pretty.”

  Pinned to her chair by the blunt force of hearing her deepest fear spoken aloud, Kate was unable to talk, unable to stop the tears that filled her eyes.

  “Oh, come on, enough of that, pretty girl,” said Hamilton, pulling up a chair and taking her in his arms. “Is it so hard to be beautiful?” Lifting her chin with the forefinger of his right hand, he brought her eyes up to meet his. “You know the last thing in the world I would ever want to do is hurt you, don’t you?” Kate nodded—whether it was of her own volition or powered by Hamilton’s hand under her chin, she couldn’t be sure. “Of course you do. So let’s not get all teary about a simple fact of life: you are a gorgeous girl who looks great on camera and has created a career out of it. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Then why do I feel so ashamed?” Kate was barely able to manage through a fresh wave of tears.

  “I don’t know, baby. That’s probably a good thing to bring up with Penelope. Did you call her yet?”

  “Yes. She hasn’t called back.”

  “Well, I’m sure she will. It’s probably best if you stay home this morning and wait by the phone…with some cucumbers and tea bags over your eyes. We don’t want you looking even puffier, do we?” asked Hamilton, giving her a kiss on the cheek before standing up and gathering the teacups and his toast plate. “So, you go ahead and set up a few appointments with her as soon as possible, and in the meantime, I will go by the Generations set and see what I can do to be of help to Sapphire.”

  “Help to Sapphire? What about me?” Kate knew she sounded desperate—probably because that’s exactly how she felt.

  “What about me,” mimicked Hamilton, his patience wearing thin. “Oh, Kate, don’t you see? This is exactly why you need help as soon as possible. You are obviously so threatened by Sapphire that you can’t even see that she has been given a gift from God. All the rest of us can do—must do—is whatever we can to help her share that talent with the world. Now, I have to rush and get over to the gym in the next ten minutes or David Hasselhoff is going to horn in on my training time with Thor again. I really hope that by the time I get back you will have spoken with Penelope. And get those tea bags on your eyes immediately.” Hamilton looked closely at her face for a moment, clearly not happy with what he was seeing. “Actually, a steam wouldn’t hurt either. Of course, that might dry out the skin around your eyes.” Noticing the clock on the wall behind Kate’s head, Hamilton jumped up, grabbed his keys, and headed toward the door, talking rapid-fire over his shoulder. “I don’t have time to figure this out for you, too. Just get rid of the water weight in your face and belly while trying to keep some semblance of moisture in your skin—and go see Penelope.”

  With that, he was out the door to meet his trainer, leaving Kate feeling puffy, dry, and bloated…and ashamed of it all.

  8

  Standing in line at the Pacific Palisades Starbucks, Michael felt as if he had been dropped into a twenty-first-century remake of Leave It to Beaver that featured only extraordinarily wealthy, attractive, and slim families. He occasionally stopped here on his way to work, when the traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway forced him to take the Sunset Boulevard route to his office in Beverly Hills. He was struck every single time by the seemingly contradictory feelings that, on the one hand, he was in the only real neighborhood in Los Angeles, while at the same time, the entire town felt as if it were actually nothing more than an elaborate movie set, the people too damn gorgeous and too well dressed to be real. He often fantasized about living here with his own family one day, wondering idly if his future wife and children would make it through the rigorous Pacific Palisades casting process or if they would all be gently directed over the hill toward the Valley.

  “You’re next,” said a quiet voice at his left elbow, waking him from his reverie.

  “Oh, right, I’m sorry,” he said, intending to turn and place his order but finding himself frozen, looking into the cutest face he had ever seen, surrounded by a mop of wet hair, tendrils falling haphazardly from a tortoiseshell hair clip.

  “Sir?” The clear-skinned teenager behind the counter was trying to move the amusement park–size line along as best he could. “Sir, would you like to order?”

  “What? Oh, yes, I would like to order.” Michael tore his eyes away from the freckle-faced vision on his left and ordered. “Coffee, please.”

  “Just coffee? Don’t you want a triple-caf decaf mocha frappe superdoody?” The girl grinned up at him, treating him to a view of her greenish blue eyes. Well, greenish blue–reddish eyes. Had she been crying? Stepping past him she smiled at the teenager clerk and said, “Decaf soy latte, please. The big one.”

  “Venti,” said Michael, trying desperately to think of something clever or charming to say to keep this girl near him, to keep her talking to him.

  “Right, venti,” she said. She accepted her change from the counter girl, dropping a dollar into the tip jar. “Of course, tomorrow I’ll be right back to saying ‘the big one.’”

  “Yeah, you’d think they’d learn and just start calling it that.” Damn it, Michael chided himself, charming and clever, not inane and redundant.

  “Yeah, you’d think,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She grabbed her drink off the counter. “Well, have a good day.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, trying to figure out if her smile meant she was interested or if she was just being kind to the sad inarticulate man. “In fact, I may even go for a venti day.” At this she laughed—victory!—but did not slow her fast walk toward the front door. He did get one more knee-buckling smile, though, as she turned to let someone enter. Man, is she cute, thought Michael. And there’s something about her…She looks familiar.

  He was still smiling thirty minutes later, in spite of the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Sunset Boulevard. If anything would make him leave Los Angeles one day, it would be the suffocating traffic. Unless, of course, his soy-latte-ordering future wife wanted to stay in L
os Angeles to raise their beautiful, well-behaved children near the Starbucks where they met and began their fairy-tale life. First you need to get her number, numnuts, Michael berated himself, but even his own self-flagellation couldn’t dampen his spirits. After all, she had told him that she would ask for “the big one” again tomorrow, meaning that she was a daily user. Thus, Michael need only go back to the scene of the crime and wait for his angel to appear. And if she didn’t appear, he would simply go back the next day and the next, ad infinitum, until her need for a soy latte drove her into his arms—or at least close enough to his arms so that he could get her number. Granted, his repertoire of charming repartee would need to expand past the current variations of descriptive words for big cups of coffee, but he had at least a day before there was the possibility of seeing her again and a long drive with nothing to do but plan spontaneous witticisms.

  He was still thinking about his mystery girl when he pulled up to the Generations soundstage. He had been called back to the set for a meeting organized, apparently, by the agent of one of the other actresses on the show, to discuss “ways to make the days go smoother.” Michael knew that was code for “ways to control Sapphire,” and he also knew that he probably should have felt threatened by the fact that someone else was taking the reigns on an issue involving his star client’s star vehicle, but he just couldn’t work up any substantial give-a-shit anymore. Even the worst-case scenario—the other agent stealing Sapphire right out from under him—didn’t sound so bad. In fact, it was almost as seductive a fantasy as his coffee-shop girl.

  “Michael, you’re here!” Walking toward him at a fast clip, with a nervous smile plastered across his desperately pleasant face, was Jerry Smith. Jerry was Generations’s line producer. As such, he was in charge of the show’s budget, which made him the go-to guy for most problems on the set. It was his job to make sure everything stayed on track. It was the ideal job for a tough, disciplined, Doberman pinscher sort of a guy. Unfortunately, Jerry was more of a chocolate lab, all needy good humor and physical awkwardness. “I’m so glad you made it!” he exclaimed, grabbing Michael’s hand and pulling him into an awkward half hug.