Aurora 07 - Last Scene Alive (8 page)

I acted like no one.

Celia and Meredith were playing the parts of dazzling celebrities who were being just folks, just like everyone else, no special treatment please! Will Weir, who, Robin had whispered, was actually one of the best known and most reliable cameramen in Hollywood, had a definite air of authority that put him firmly in the club, and Robin had a well-known face since he’d promoted his book on so many talk shows. Barrett was handsome, and he looked like an Actor.

Mark Chesney and I were the nonentities.

I wish I could say that this was just fine with me, that I hardly noticed it. At least, after five minutes of being mildly chagrined, I worked around to laughing at myself. After that I felt much better. Mark Chesney and I exchanged a smile that let me know he was on my wavelength. Barrett was glowing. I’d never seen him look happier. This evening was apparently a significant one for him, and as I watched him speak to Celia, I wondered if Barrett was attempting a conquest. Robin’s claim that he and Celia were no longer a couple seemed to be true; he didn’t seem at all concerned that Barrett and Celia were flirting openly and outrageously.

Barrett mentioned his previous visit to Lawrenceton when he was talking about the difficulty some of the cast was having in communicating with the locals. Our accent might be a little heavy to a Midwesterner’s ear, I guess.

“You’ve been to Georgia before?” Meredith asked, as if our state was remote and inaccessible.

“I thought everyone knew,” Barrett said. He certainly looked genuinely surprised. “My father lived here.”

“He doesn’t any longer?” Celia sounded interested and quite innocent.

There was a moment’s silence. Barrett and I looked at each other. “No,” Barrett said.

“Unfortunately, we lost him last year.”

Though that made Martin sound like a misaddressed package, I appreciated Barrett’s restraint, and I gave him a tiny nod. The subject was dropped, to my relief and, I’ll bet, to Barrett’s.

Robin and I were discussing the latest book by Robert Crais, whom Robin knew slightly—

now, to me that was thrilling—when I became aware that I was being observed. It was like noticing that a mosquito is hovering around your face, a sensation you can’t quite pin down and eliminate.

“But the Joe Pike character, how do you think he measures up compared to Hawk in the Parker books?” Robin asked. I was trying to formulate my reply when I glanced across the table and saw that Celia was silent and intent. She was observing me, and even as I looked at her I saw her hand move in a little hand twist that ended with the palm up. I hadn’t realized it was a gesture I made often until I saw Celia imitate it.

In a flash, I understood the whole purpose of my being invited along this evening. I could only wonder, in that horrible moment, if Robin had known.

I wanted to get up and walk out of the room and never see any of these people again, because I felt that Celia Shaw had been stealing from me. But in a contrary way, I also wanted to minimize the situation, because I was raised to avoid direct confrontations. Besides, what could I say? “You were copying me?” I hadn’t accused anyone of that since the third grade.

What could she reply? “Was not!”

“Just trying to get your flavor,” Celia explained, looking Sheepish with a capital S. She was playing someone feeling sheepish, rather than actually feeling that way.

“I don’t know how you’ve stood it,” I said to Robin, with more frankness than tact. Shoving back my chair and scooping up my purse, I excused myself to go to the Ladies‘.

The ladies’ room was supposed to look like a barn, God knows why. There were hay bales and corrals, and each “stall” was only shoulder high. Talk about carrying a theme too far. There was no place to be private in there. I stood by the pay phone when I’d emerged, trying to decide who could come get me without asking too many questions. I’d just look like that dreaded thing, a Bad Sport, I finally decided, and stomped back to our private room.

Along the way, a starstruck girl asked me to get Celia Shaw’s autograph for her and a man who was trying really hard to look like Johnny Depp told me he could give anyone in that room—male or female—an unforgettable sexual experience. I had no idea what to say to either of them, so I just shook my head.

The food had come while I was gone, and everyone was eating, but there was a testy silence in the room that tipped me off that something had gone wrong while I was out.

I slid into my place and spread my napkin, hoping this wouldn’t be the time I’d spill barbecue sauce on my blouse. I don’t think I’ve ever concentrated so hard on eating neatly.

Every sixty seconds one of the servers would circulate around the table, asking each person individually if he or she had enough to drink, was satisfied in every way.

I was so self-conscious, thinking of the young woman across from me drinking in my every move and gesture, that I couldn’t enjoy a thing. I wished I’d just said to hell with it, and walked right out of the restaurant. I could have called Shelby Youngblood or Sally Allison. Had I been under the spell of Hollywood glamour as much as everyone else? Was that why I’d agreed to come out with these people? I put down my fork with as little noise as I could manage, patted my lips with my napkin, and set it by my plate.

“Ready to leave?” Robin murmured.

“They’re not through eating,” I whispered.

“We can go,” he said. “I called a cab.”

“Thanks,” I said, realizing as he said it that I wanted to leave more than anything. In a regular speaking voice I thanked Celia for the meal, and though I sounded stiff and hostile I had fulfilled the letter of courtesy. Celia was sulky and on the verge of a tantrum. She muttered something at me. I didn’t try to decipher it on the spot; nodding and getting the hell out seemed like the best thing to do.

Robin slid in the cab with me, told the driver where to go, and stared straight ahead.

“Thank you,” I said carefully.

“For being there while you were exposed to Celia at her worst?” His voice was dry and brittle. I realized there had been a serious quarrel when I’d left the room. I was petty enough to be glad.

“I guess she was just doing what an actress has to do,” I answered, hoping to make him feel less culpable. “Anyway, that was certainly an experience.”

“They get so used to being the center of the universe,” Robin told me. “I don’t think I ever see it as clearly until I see them away from L.A.”

I felt uncomfortable. There wasn’t a response, so I didn’t attempt one.

“She’s gotten worse lately,” he continued. “She’s absent-minded, and she forgets her lines.

She’s . . . it’s like she’s going off the tracks, somehow.”

I had to tread carefully. No matter if she and Robin had quarreled about how she’d treated me, this woman had been Robin’s girlfriend. “Does she use, ah, recreational stuff?” I asked, as delicately as possible.

“Drugs? No. Celia might take a hit off a joint if it’s going around, but she doesn’t buy it herself and she doesn’t take pills.”

Somehow, discussing Celia’s problems didn’t interest me right now, but I felt obliged to listen if Robin wanted to discuss them. Up to a point. But Robin sat in brooding silence all the way to my house, where he told the cab to wait while he walked me to my door. I’d unlocked the door and punched in the security code, he took one step inside.

For a moment I felt awkward, in that lit-up kitchen with a man, alone. Then I thanked Robin for the ride home and for my interesting evening, and he gave a snort that suddenly made me feel at home with him. He seemed much more like my friend Robin than a stranger who’d been living in a strange land. Robin looped one long arm around my shoulders and stooped to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“No, I have to work.”

“You don’t want to come back to the set?” He sounded less surprised than he might have a couple of days ago. Robin was reorienting himself to my life.

“No.”

Robin looked down at me, his face inscrutable. “Then I’ll see you soon,” he said finally. I watched as he loped down the steps to cross the yard to the cab waiting on the driveway. There was a car passing by, out on the road, a little unusual for this time of night. Maybe my neighbor Clement had been out late.

What a strange evening it had been. I fed Madeleine and trudged up the stairs, yawning hard enough to make a cracking sound. As I got ready for bed, going through my usual skin and stretching routine, I wondered if I should have foregone my evening out with the movie people.

Then I thought,
That’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Even if I didn’t enjoy it at all, it’s a
good thing to have done
. I was glad it was over, though, and as I composed myself to sleep I thought of Celia Shaw’s clever, sulky, beautiful face. I wondered if she’d ever win an Oscar; I could say I’d known her when.

That would be more fun than knowing her now.

Making a liar out of me, the next morning saw me on my way back to the movie set, which today, I’d discovered, was the Sparling County Courthouse. I was still blinking and trying to feel completely alert. Beside me in the front seat was my friend Angel Youngblood: mother, stunt-woman, and former bodyguard. Pregnancy and motherhood had not had any visible effect on Angel’s long, sleek body.

When the phone had rung at the crack of dawn, Angel’s was the last voice I’d expected to hear. “Hey, Roe,” she’d said, her flat Florida drawl instantly recognizable. “Listen, I need some help.”

“What?” I knew I sounded groggy, and I tried to focus on the clock. It was six, time for me to get up and get ready for work.

“Sorry I woke you up.”

“No, no, I have to get ready for work anyway. What can I do for you?” Angel never called without a reason; she wasn’t a chatterer.

“Shelby’s already at work with his car, mine won’t start, and I need to leave the baby-sitter hers because Joan’s got a doctor’s appointment today. Can you give me a lift to the movie set?”

I ran a hand over my face, and recalled that Angel had told me she’d gotten work on the set.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes or less.”

“Thanks.” Angel hung up.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth, pulled on a long, pale orange tee-shirt style dress and a light sweater, slid into some clogs, powdered my face, and clattered down the stairs and out the front door before I had really attained consciousness. I was a little more alert by the time I beeped the horn outside Angel and Shelby’s ranch-style home.

Angel slid out of the front door like a thief in the night, her Capri-length black stretch pants and her white blouse emphasizing her golden colors and smooth body movements. Her thick blond hair was caught back in a ponytail, and she wore no makeup, which was Angel’s norm.

“How’s Joan?” I asked as Angel climbed into the car.

Angel grinned, and went from looking serious and possibly dangerous to looking like a mother who was proud as hell of the most wonderful baby in the world. “She’s into banging on pots and pans,” Angel told me, and we talked about Joan’s progress for a minute or two. “My neighbor is keeping her today. She has a little boy a couple of months older. Courthouse,” she reminded me, and as I pulled away from the curb to go to Lawrenceton’s fake-antebellum edifice, she began to tell me about a civil confrontation Shelby had had with Martin’s replacement at the Pan-Am Agra plant.

I was listening with great interest, when I stood back and gave myself a hard look. Was I that dreary cliché, the hometown honey? I found the Hollywood people boring, compared to Angel’s fascinating account of little Joan’s first crawling. Maybe I was pulling a double cross on myself, pretending enthrallment with family scenes of the Youngbloods to hide my secret lust for the Hollywood way of life?

It was both a relief and a slight disappointment to touch the bottom of my well of self-absorption and find I was absolutely sincere in my preference for the small details of home.

And I was definitely getting a little too fond of my own navel, I concluded. So I concentrated on listening to every single thing Angel told me. I even volunteered to baby-sit Joan one evening so Angel and Shelby could go out together. Angel rolled her eyes at me doubtfully, but agreed to talk to Shelby about my offer.

Today the trailers and cables and cameras—all the paraphernalia I’d seen yesterday—had been set up in a new location, the front yard of the courthouse. Even the Molly’s Moveable Feasts van was there, with its table set up and attended by the same auburn-headed young woman. (If she was actually Molly, who was doing the cooking?) Today the table was spread with pitchers of juice and doughnuts, and a plate of fruit. I wondered, for the first time, how long the movie people would actually have to stay in town.

Robin had told me that most of the shots filmed in Lawrenceton would be exteriors. Sets would be built back at the studio for interior scenes. So maybe scenes dealing with the trial were being shot today? I wondered why on earth they’d need a stuntwoman, and decided maybe it would be better not to ask.

For the first time, as Angel scanned the street for some safe parking spot, I thought of how difficult it would be to be an actor, to have to imagine how your character would’ve changed as a result of scenes you hadn’t shot yet. You’d have to figure out how the character would react after some of the events in the film, before you’d ever emotionally experienced them. There was more to this acting than met the eye.