Bliss (30 page)

Not knowing tormented Sophia. If she'd gotten drunk and hooked up with a stranger, she'd regret it in the morning, but that would have been her choice, her mistake. What happened at the Supperclub had put her fate into someone else's hands without her knowledge or consent. She used to think being groped at CRUSH was dehumanizing. That was a cakewalk compared to this.

Every day for three weeks, she thought about calling Renee. She might have seen something. Sophia was pretty sure Renee and Brody made out that night. Maybe she could get in touch with him. Sophia held off on calling, though, waiting to see if she'd get over it and stop obsessing. Even in her current mental state, Sophia was still a cocky optimist.

But that Monday on the ride to work, she broke down and made the call.

Renee answered. “You're calling me,” she said. “I'm so flattered.”

Not a good start. “How's it going? What have you been up to?”

“Is it about a job?”

From the tone of her voice, Sophia got the idea that, unless it were about a job, Renee might hang up. So she lied. “I heard something. A movie. I'm giving the producer your name.”

“That's awesome! Tell me about it. What's the title?”

“I can't say anything yet. I'll let you know when I have more info.”

“Cool. Thanks! I have to say, I'm surprised. Last time I saw you, you were kind of a bitch to me.”

Sophia's heart leapt to her throat. “About that night. I can't really remember what happened.”

“You were
wasted
,” said Renee. “Like, falling down drunk. Not a good look on you—on anyone, but especially you. You told those guys that I was the national spokesperson for ‘old man erections.' It wasn't funny for the first ten times you said it, and really fucking annoying the next ten times.”

“Sorry,” said Sophia. “I wanted to ask you, did you talk to the guy with the beard? Brown hair, big teeth?”

“You mean the guy you were humping against the bar?”

Oh, god. “I think someone might've put a roofie in my drink. I drank the wine you gave me, and did a couple shots, and then everything went blank.”

Renee paused. “Are you accusing me of drugging you?”

“No!” The thought had crossed Sophia's mind, as far-fetched as it might be.

“Jesus Christ. For the last time, Sophia, fuck you.”

Renee hung up. Another dead end. It was possible she'd never know what happened to her that night. The private horror of wondering wasn't going away. Sophia lost it for a few minutes. (Thank god for LA traffic.) When she pulled into the studio, she had a tenuous grip on her emotions.

They were shooting episode 102 today. The premise: a female college professor is sexually assaulted by a male student, a football player. Valerie had an emotional scene to shoot, a flashback to when she was in college, and her boyfriend accused her of being a cheater.

So, yeah, Sophia had to deal with that today, a scene of begging someone to forgive her for making a bad mistake.

*   *   *

“Cut,” said Henry Chapman, the episode director. “Sophia, more desperation. The love of your life is leaving you. Let's do it again. Action.”

Sophia as Valerie was seated at the foot of her bed. Her “boyfriend” was standing with one hand on the doorknob. He said, “You did this. You ruined everything.”

Her line: “I messed up. You have to give me another chance.”

On the page, the line wasn't that exciting. But a great actor could turn it into a wrenching moment. Her character was full of regret and guilt, in abject terror of losing this man. Since regret, guilt, and fear had been dominating Sophia's thoughts, it wasn't difficult to bring those emotions into her eyes, her voice, and her body language.

Then she got off the bed, and rushed to him. “Please stay,” she said, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away from the doorknob.

In her heart, she was begging for relief from very real pain. Her scene partner seemed taken aback by it, and spontaneously took Sophia's hands in his and said, “It's okay. It's okay. I'll stay.”

She said, “Thank you.”

“Cut!” yelled the director. “That was
incredible
, Sophia!” said Henry. The crew standing around the set applauded. “I really felt that. Great work. We need to do it again for a close-up, okay?”

She wiped her tears and nodded. “Yes. I'm good to go.”

“Pick it up with ‘Please stay.' Action.”

Sophia channeled her emotions into the second take, and the third, and kept going until the scene was done. She played it cool all the way into her dressing room, running a gauntlet of applause and congratulations from the cast and crew along the way. As soon as she was alone, she crumbled.

When her tears subsided, she drew a few deep breaths, and put her legs up against the wall, an inversion pose from yoga that always calmed her down.

“You got this,” she said. It might take time to work through it. But, as the saying goes,
You're only given what you can handle
. She would handle this.

Part of her knew she shouldn't handle it alone. She had to tell someone. Another part superstitiously refused to open up. If Sophia kept the secret inside her, she'd be a better actor. Look at how Henry reacted to her scene. The crew applauded. She was proving herself to be worthy of the show. She'd turn acting into therapy, and therapy into art. Her scenes would be like a valve on a pressure cooker, letting off steam, releasing emotion, a bit at a time.

When Cassie and Paula asked her out for a drink that night, she thought,
If I were okay, I would go
. So she went. They suggested the Supperclub, and she thought,
If I had a great time there before, which I told them I did, I would love to go there
. So she agreed. A casual observer would have seen three women at the bar, having a blast, laughing. It was exhausting for Sophia to keep her smile painted on.

She was half asleep when she got home to Rosewood Mews. Pretending everything was fine was exhausting. If she could only remember the details, maybe she could one day forget them. She walked through the courtyard. The light was on in their apartment. Demi was home and awake. Sophia was in no mood to talk to her about her day, or listen to Demi's stories.

“Sophia, hold up,” said David. He emerged from his apartment just as she walked by it. Had he been watching and waiting for her to get home?

There was no way she could deal with him now. “I've got a splitting headache. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“One second.”

“What?” she snapped.

“I just want to know what I did wrong.”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you blowing me off?”

“I'm tired, David, okay? I'm working my ass off for twelve hours a day and when I finally get home, I just want to sleep. Why are you forcing me to tell you something's wrong with you? Look, just wait until the week's over. Don't take it personally. It's not you. But putting me on the spot doesn't make it easier.”

He deflated before her eyes. “I was worried…”

“I'm fine. Really. I'm a big girl in big-girl pants.”

Sophia ran up the stairs two at a time, and banged into her apartment to find Demi on the couch, a notebook on her lap and pen in her hands. “You're home,” she said, stating the obvious, as she liked to do. It pissed her off, and gave her ammo. Usually, she'd come back at her, and they'd be bantering and laughing by now.

“I'm going to bed.”

“I have news,” she said. “Aiden is letting me develop the menu for Dory! It's like a dream I didn't know I had is coming true. I've always loved to cook, and I definitely have strong opinions about menus. But getting to conceptualize one from scratch, it's lighting up new parts of my brain.”

“Is Aiden giving you more money for this?”

Demi looked down at her pad, away from Sophia's eyes. “We started to discuss it but we got sidetracked.”

“Sidetracked, how?”

“You don't approve?”

“I'm sure Aiden is just awesome,” said Sophia, finding any conversation excruciating after the day she'd had, but especially the subject of Demi's bad boyfriend choices. She could not be held responsible for whatever came out of her mouth. “He's an older man who holds all the power in the relationship. And you're falling right into line, turning him into some kind of hero savior who becomes the focus of your life. Sleeping with
your boss
, Demi? That's be a monumental mistake.”

“Easy, tiger,” said Demi, keeping it light. “He's not James, not even close.”

“Well, if it all goes to shit, you can disappear into a bottle and wait for your friends and family to pull you back out.”

Demi's face darkened. “Wow.” It was all she could muster.

“Good night,” said Sophia. She left the living room, and went directly into her room and locked the door.

Demi knocked on it, hard. “Open this door.”

Sophia ignored her.

“We need to talk about all those tests in the trash and the way you've been acting. I know something happened. You have to talk to me. Open this fucking door.”

The knocking and imploring continued for ten minutes, which felt like hours to Sophia. She just couldn't let Demi in. The door had to stay shut. If she opened up about her feelings and fears, it would be impossible to maintain any control of them. When Demi stopped knocking, the apartment became oppressively quiet. Sophia lay on her bed in savasana, palms up to receive gifts from the universe. She repeated her mantra, “You got this, you got this,” until she stopped thinking at all.

 

21

a whipped cream emergency

It'd taken an hour in LA traffic to get from Harris's mansion in the Valley to Red O restaurant on Melrose Avenue. He sulked when she told him about her plans to have dinner with Sophia. He missed her terribly when they were apart, but for a couple of hours he'd just have to survive without her.

Red O turned out to be a Mexican restaurant where you felt like you're on vacation. A perfect place for cocktails with the girls. Inside, Leandra felt right at home. Everything, from the paint, seat covers, cushions, tablecloths, lighting, and fixtures, was gold. It was like walking into Fort Knox. The surfaces glittered. The light flattered her tanned skin, white-blond dye job, and rose gold jewelry. She caught her reflection in a gold-framed mirror and knew she had never looked sexier, as if her entire shopping and pampering life had been leading up to this moment.

Leandra followed the maître d', walking like she owned the place. Eyes followed her as she walked, as well they should. She kept her smile to herself, not sharing it with any of her admirers, just because.

She spotted Sophia in a cushioned booth table in front of a golden backlit bar with dozens of bottles of tequila. She could pick her out of any crowd, but her old friend jumped up and ran toward Leandra, wrapping her in a tight hug. “You made it!” Leandra melted into Sophia's arms. It'd been months since she'd had physical contact with a female and it felt great.

As exhilarating as it was to get a hug from Sophia, it was annoying to see Demi, also seated at their table. From the expression on Demi's face, she was just as surprised to see Leandra. Sophia had set them up, springing the reunion on them. Leandra put on her game face, which was as lacquered and placid as her basic bitch face. Demi, not nearly as skilled at hiding her emotions, looked like she could gnaw through her fork.

“You look amazing, Leandra,” said Sophia. “Are those Louboutin boots?” Uh-huh and they retailed for $1,500, but price was of no concern for Harris.

“Hello, Demi,” said Leandra, oozing charm and grace. “You look fab.” She looked like a boy with her Fedora, T-shirt, and jeans.
If she was trying to make an antiglamour statement, it came through loud and queer,
thought Leandra.

Demi said, “You look great, like a real LA woman.”

As usual with Demi, Leandra couldn't tell if she was being insulted. They air kissed politely. Sophia took a few pictures, capturing the all-too-awkward moment.

“My boyfriend got me this dress at the Gucci on Rodeo Drive. He's such a love.” Leandra took her seat. “You'll never believe who did my hair. Ken Paves!”

“Who?” asked Demi.

“He cut Jessica Simpson's hair.”

“Who?”

Leandra blinked. How could Demi not know … “You're fucking with me.”

Demi smiled acidly. “Sorry. I can't help myself. It's like a mental disorder. I'm
compelled
to mock. Your hair looks good. Big and bouncy. You've got a lot more going on here than last time I saw you.” Demi gestured to Leandra's exposed cleavage.

She was wearing rubber cutlets in her bra, just as a trial to see how she liked having bodacious hooters. Harris preferred a full rack, and even offered to pay for implants. “I thought they might like to get some air,” she said, and arched her back.