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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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But then, I’d never married Lang so maybe I didn’t really know what Cris felt about being dumped or about having been Mr. Jennifer Lopez. And when I look back on my affair with Lang I still didn’t know how I felt about that glimpse into the surreal world of Hollywood stardom.
What I do know is that John Langdon took a hard look at me and smiled, so I smiled back, kind of thrilled. I wanted to glance around and see who’d noticed. I wanted to shout, “Hey, everybody! Somebody famous noticed me!” as if this would somehow validate my existence on the planet. (My shallowness shocks me sometimes.)
After the smile, Lang strode over to me on his next break and started up a conversation. I was still working, however, and didn’t have a lot of time to do anything. Also, my producer at the time was such a ravenous bitch that I really had to mind my p’s and q’s. Hence, I scarcely glanced up when Lang started in.
“You’re all in black,” he observed, “and it’s eighty-five degrees.”
We were on location near Joshua Tree, east of LA. I was baking and so was everyone else. Shading my eyes against a very hot late-August sun, I said, “This is standard-issue production assistant attire. Besides, sweating is good for you. Exudes the poisons.”
His brows lifted. “You’re into that stuff? Mud baths and hot steam? Pulling out the poisons?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I just kind of like the word ‘exude.’ Ecks—oooood.”
He smiled lazily, then repeated, “Exudes the poisons.”
I nodded.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly poetry, but it served the purpose in catching Lang’s attention. He seemed to think I’d said something really, really smart, which should have clued me in right there that he wasn’t exactly brain-surgeon material and maybe ought to be left well enough alone.
My producer snapped at me then and I hurried to do her bidding. But Lang’s appreciation of my designed insouciance left me with a good feeling all day.
Late that night, I was one of the last people working. A PA’s job is never done. Dog-tired, I climbed in my car for the hour’s drive back to our rented rooms. The production staff’s rooms were not located at the same place as the talent; we were motel, they were spa/resort. After I’d changed and showered I found I had a second wind. There was this little excitement buzzing beneath my skin. I drove back to the spa/resort and caught up with some of the above-liners. They invited me into the resort bar and I sat down just as Lang walked in.
I’d taken the time to wash and dry my hair and change into a clean set of clothes. Unfortunately, I’d brought nothing outstanding to wear, so I was relegated to another pair of jeans and a slightly wrinkled white shirt. I’d pulled my hair into a ponytail, worked studiously on my makeup for a good three minutes, then sworn at my vanity and headed out.
When Lang strolled into the room, all heads turned. He said something to the man he was with—the spot’s director—then beelined toward my table. I decided to make a pre-emptive strike, so I stood up at that very moment and turned toward the bar. “Would you like something?” I asked.
I’d definitely caught his attention. “What are you having?”
I wasn’t a master of the drink list at that time. I glanced toward the bar and my eye fell on the Ketel One bottle. “A Ketel One vodka martini,” I said, as if I drank them all the time. In actuality, it was my first. Impressed, he asked for the same.
And then ... one thing led to another and Lang and I ended up back at my not-so-high-grade motel room. I tried not to be mortified at the scattered clothes I’d strewn around the room in my frenzy to get ready. Lang didn’t care. He flopped down on my bed fully clothed, still wearing a pair of worn westernish boots that he proudly told me he’d possessed for a good ten years. I lay down gingerly beside him, my head swimming a bit from my three martinis. Lang had managed about five. I’d lost count. He kissed me once, hard, on the lips. I remember thinking my lips felt numb, but I suspect that was more from the effects of the vodka than the pressure of his lips.
The next thing I knew my phone was shrilling in my ear. Fumbling in the dark, I snatched up the receiver, “Hullo?”
“Goddamnit, Ginny! Where the fuck are you?”
My eyes flew open. It was the production manager. “What time is it?” I croaked.
“Eight o’clock! You were supposed to be on set at seven-thirty.”
“I’m on my way,” I mumbled, leaping off the bed and switching on the light. It was then I realized I was still dressed from the night before, even to my shoes. Lang, too. He was lying on his back, snoring, still wearing his boots.
I hesitated, torn, wondering if I should wake him up, too.
“John,” I whispered. “John? What time do you have to be on set?”
He opened one eye. “Today? Shit. I don’t know. Noon, maybe.”
“You’re in my room. I just—thought you should know.”
“Oh ... yeah ... hmmm ...” He turned over onto his shoulder.
“And I’m taking the car, so ... how will you get back?”
“Eh,” he muttered dismissively.
I had no choice. I had to leave. I scrambled around and ran for the door, driving like a maniac to the set where my duties included standing at one side of the shoot and making sure no extraneous outsiders got past me and stumbled into the shot. This included the costumer’s dog, who somehow had escaped earlier and frolicked amongst the equipment, much to the roaring fury of the director. While I worked I ignored the worried comments the crew made about the missing John Langdon, then I ignored John when he sauntered in, looking rather refreshed, as he’d slept till late afternoon.
My producer came over to me, eyeing me suspiciously. She mentioned that Lang had arrived by taxi and someone had thought they’d seen me leave with him. I answered that we were all at the bar and that’s all I knew about it.
I survived the rest of that shoot by becoming a blank slate. Vapid vacantness was my salvation. After a while, everyone believed I knew nothing. A noteworthy acting job on my part; actually better than anything Lang was offering up for the commercial.
I was worked way too hard by my suspicious producer for anything further to develop on the job site, and though Lang had my cell phone number, I didn’t expect to hear from him. Therefore, I was shocked and thrilled when he called. I was living in West Hollywood at the time, in a true dive, sharing with a gay couple who somehow managed to make the bedroom they shared liveable and inviting while mine was pretty much unopened boxes, a twin bed, and a beat-up dresser I’d inherited from the person who’d lived in the room before me.
When Lang called I instantly said I would meet him somewhere. I didn’t want to have to make any explanations. We met at a small Thai restaurant where no one noticed him. He was a vegetarian, I soon learned, and though he encouraged me to order whatever I wanted, I went for the tofu. I’m glad the Thai can make it edible because it’s terrible stuff, in my opinion. White, spongy, tasteless. Forget the bean curd; give me the whole bean.
Anyway, my relationship with Lang developed from there. We stayed at his place—a condo in West LA—ate our meals in bed, watched TV. Somehow, because I didn’t have sex with Lang that first night it made me special to him. At least that’s how I explain his fascination with me. It lasted a whole four months, which believe me, was a tour of duty that left me wishing for reassignment with anyone else. At that point I think I might have even been willing to switch genders. Lesbianism never looked so good.
Why was it so exhausting? Because after a brief wooing period, and some fair-to-middling sex, I learned that my function was to make John Langdon feel good about John Langdon. This included constant reassurance. Let me say that again:
constant
reassurance. And sick puppy that I am, I was right there, cheerleading away, telling him how great he was, how misunderstood he was, if he didn’t get the part he was after, how fantastic-looking he was, how amusing, intelligent, all-around terrific he was, how he was the best lover I’d ever had, bar none. If I’d had pompons and a bright cheerleading outfit, I couldn’t have been more the part. Again, better acting than anything Lang was putting out at the time.
And still ... we would go someplace and he would be recognized. A gaggle of girls would interrupt our meal, drinks, whatever. He would pretend that the attention bothered him but he ate it up. He insisted that he only had eyes for me, that he didn’t find them attractive, though I never acted as if I believed he did. His hollow excuses, however, convinced me that he was lying. He could lie with a smile, kiss me, and still be looking, winking, at someone else.
I began to feel anxious. Suddenly it seemed superimpera-tive that I break up with him before he had the chance to do the deed himself. (This is a flaw of mine, as you can probably tell, since I tend to feel this way about every impending breakup though it can’t possibly matter in the grand scheme of things.)
But ... he beat me to the punch anyway. Like Nate. Things had slowed down between us. Lang was doing a series of guest spots on one of the most inane sitcoms on the air, and he just couldn’t be reached anymore. Finally, I got all huffy and hostile and demanded a Saturday lunch out of him. We went back to the original Thai place and he yawned and yawned. He’d hung out with a couple of the actors from the show the night before. They’d hit some Hollywood hot spots. These “actors” happened to be a pair of voluptuous babes who played total bimbos on the show. Lang assured me they were both really, really smart.
My answer to this was, “They’d have to be smart to be able to play so dumb.”
He gave me a sharp look, trying to see if I was kidding or not. He couldn’t. He said, “What’s the matter with you? You look like shit.”
Stunned by this unexpected attack, I said, “Sorry. Guess I forgot my false eyelashes and haute couture.”
“You’ve just been bitching me out.”
This was so blatantly untrue that I stared. “I don’t think so.”
He glanced away from me, jaw set, glowering at the reader board of today’s specials. “I think this is it, Ginny.”
I sat there numbly. Later, I read in the tabloids that he and one of the really, really smart bimbos were shacking up. It hurt like hell.
He called me once, about a year later, just to check in. We talked for a while, but I’d definitely learned my lesson and when he suggested we go back to “our spot,” the Thai place, I made up some excuse even though I truly, truly wanted to see him again.
I told all this to Dr. Dick, who listened patiently and said I’d made the intelligent, adult choice. This was when he’d made that comment about me being so frightfully well adjusted. I don’t know why I’ve resented it so much, but I have.
As time’s marched on, I’ve been gladder and gladder that my time with Lang was so limited. I’ve watched actors on set, talked and flirted with them, even met one or two for a drink here and there. The ones I’ve met are all the same; I’m not kidding. Peel back a layer and there’s nothing underneath. This isn’t to say I don’t like them, I do. But they’re bad for me. Like refined sugar. Empty calories that taste so good, but at the end of the day, you would have been better off with the—tofu.
Anyway, by the time we were wrapping it up for today’s Waterstone shoot, I was feeling less hostile toward the actor whose car had been accidentally sideswiped. It wasn’t his fault, specifically, that I distrusted actors. I told Joe the video guy to leave the actor in, but Joe said it was too late. He’d already talked to the film editors and the guy was going to be on the cutting room floor, period. Joe didn’t like him, either.
As I headed for my car I chastised myself for being so petty.
Holly was leaving at the same time. I said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why was I at the pre-pro meeting?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Owen likes you.”
Owen was our scowling director. I said, “Really? How could you tell?”
“He asked you to the pre-pro meeting,” Holly responded with perfect logic.
I did a quick mental review of my feelings for Owen. He liked me. Did that mean he
liked
me? If so, could I
like
him?
Thinking of his angry, black brows and snapping, snarling commands, I shook off that idea before it could take root. I’ve fallen for directors before, too. I haven’t written them off as completely as actors, but the next time I plan to step a toe into that pond again, I want it to be with someone a whole lot more worthwhile than Owen the Ornery.
Chapter
8
M
y head was so far into the Waterstone Iced Tea commercial that I didn’t keep up with my friends for over a week though they left me a series of cryptic phone calls, reminding me of their current fates. Daphne was now over the moon about Leo, who seemed to be managing to keep himself
mano y woman-o
, at least for the time being. Kristl was either working or spending her time with Brandon. She’d made no comment on Sean, so I’ve had to assume she missed seeing his bare ass. Since her birthday party, CeeCee had had her nose to the grindstone at work, much like myself, only reporting on my voice mail that she’d been on a date with a coworker and it had gone all right. I wondered if the coworker was Mr. Mane. Then she startled me with the bad news: the guy she’d nailed with her cigarette, Richter, had obtained a permanent position at the radio station. CeeCee sounded mildly contrite about it all, but she rallied back at the end by adding, “At least he’s no longer working at Sammy’s, but I wonder whose dick he’s been sucking at the radio station?” to which I called her back and left my own voice message: “Your boss’s, obviously.”
“No way,” she said, phoning me back almost instantly. “My boss can’t stand him. It’s the owner he’s in tight with. He hired him in the first place, but he’s not around. He just swoops in and creates havoc from time to time. Trust me. It’s not my immediate boss.”
“Okay.”
“And Cheese-Dick’s going to be heading right back out the door if he even looks at me funny. My boss is with me on this.”
“Good.” It all sounded weird, but hey, I don’t know what goes on over there. It was CeeCee’s gig. “So, who was your date at the party? The guy with the singed hair?”
She snorted in disgust.
“You’re not dating him?”
“He’s a total waste. Works mornings bringing coffee. He just heard about my party when I was inviting Gerald, so I invited him, too.”
“Who’s Gerald?”
“My boss. He couldn’t come.”
She jumped off the phone after that. I was left with the impression there might be something percolating between CeeCee and the boss. Cheese-Dick looked like he was a political hire, someone no one wanted but who knew people at the top, but he was going to have a tough time if CeeCee and Gerald became partners.
My thoughts turned to Jill, who of all my friends was worrying me the most. She’d catered the shoot as if in a fog. For all anyone knew, Jill and I could have been strangers, that’s how little she’d talked to me. But she caught me after work one night and I quickly learned that what had started out as Jill merely dogging Ian’s heels appeared to be turning into something far more serious. I’d cautioned CeeCee about loaning Jill her car, and that was a huge betrayal in Jill’s eyes; she thought I’d torpedoed her, somehow. I’d just been trying to keep things from going over the edge, but Jill hadn’t seen it that way. Two days ago she’d chewed me out, big-time.
“You think I’m a sicko, don’t you?”
“You’re the one who told me what you’d been doing.”
“And you kind of brushed me off!”
“You’re mad at me?” I said, a bit hurt.
We’d met for a quick drink at the teensy wine bar across the street from my condo and not far from the garishly lit Sav-On store, which was where I bought everything from Tide to Beringer’s Founder’s Estate Chardonnay, my current favorite white wine. I was tired and just wanted to go to bed, otherwise Jill and I might have trekked the couple of blocks to the Love Shack and indulged in an Amethyst. We were through filming and heading into post-production, but this had been Jill’s last day. I had wrap ahead of me, which meant nearly a week of balancing and closing the books on this job. I had to make sure that all monies were accounted for, that all rental equipment was returned, that every penny was coded and marked and logged where it belonged. My head was working out a knotty conundrum all the while Jill was yammering at me, so, okay, maybe I wasn’t as empathetic and attentive as I could have been.
Still, I didn’t expect her to suddenly scrape her chair back and march out of the place, leaving me with staring eyes all around and the bill.
I threw down some money and charged after her. “I don’t deserve these histrionics,” I told her in short order. “You’ve got a problem. I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
She stopped short in the parking lot and rounded on me. “Can’t you just be on my side?”
“Your side?” I questioned.
“You told CeeCee to stop loaning me her car. How do you think that made me feel?”
“I guess I was hoping you’d realize what you were doing before things got out of hand.” I was getting hot under the collar.
“That is so unfair,” she said, wounded.
“He called you the night of CeeCee’s birthday party. You told me you were meeting with him, but you never told me about it. I gotta tell you: I got the impression it did not go well.”
“It went okay.”
“Yeah? Then, why are you—” I stopped.
She gazed at me. “Stalking him?”
I spread my hands. We were talking in circles.
She hesitated, looking oddly uncertain for someone usually so bullheaded. Then she burst out, “It’s all such crap! It’s so silly. I
know
him, but he acts like we’re strangers. How can he do that, after everything?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either. I mean ...” She sighed and her lips trembled slightly. Pressing them together, she drew a deep breath. “He wants me to stop by tonight.”
“Well ... good.”
She shook her head. “I have that stuff your friend Sean gave you. Maybe I should try some.”
“Before you see Ian?”
“I’m nervous as hell. I feel like everything’s fallen apart. I don’t think I can see him stone-cold sober.”
It had scarcely been three weeks since he’d offered up the diamond engagement ring. “Sometimes,” I said, picking through my words, “there’s a point in a relationship when a decision has to be made.”
“What does that mean?”
“It
means
that you’ve probably hit that point.”
“No.” Jill shook her head in utter denial. “Why does it have to be all or nothing? It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”
I shrugged by way of an answer, effectively ending our conversation, and Jill went to her car without another word. She hadn’t called me since her meeting with Ian, and I’d been reluctant to phone her. We’d entered that weird zone of friendship where nothing was safe. I had this mental picture of myself jumping from one floating piece of ice to another, all the while afraid I would miss my footing and fall into frigid water and go into hypothermia and drown. I was afraid Jill wouldn’t talk to me again. I was afraid she’d transfer her upset and anger from Ian to me.
This had bothered me more than I cared to admit. My answer was to make an appointment with Dr. Dick. His receptionist smugly told me that he was booked up till the following month. I really felt I needed some serious counseling a bit sooner, but I scheduled the future appointment anyway. I had a moment of pure bliss when the receptionist called back, clearly on Dr. Dick’s orders, as she would never go out of her way to do anything to help me, and asked in a clipped voice if I could make it for the following Wednesday, as they’d had a cancellation. Grinning, I told her I was delighted and would be there with bells on. She hung up without a goodbye.
Today was that Wednesday. Thinking about Dr. Dick, I glanced at the clock. I’d just gotten off the phone with one of our PAs and now had a throbbing headache. All the PAs had been given several hundred dollars of petty cash at the start of the shoot. This was money they needed to either a) bring back if unused, or b) bring back receipts for proof of purchases. However, a group of them had been running errands and had apparently passed around the cash to each other as if they were dealing cards. So, Mike had ended up with five hundred dollars whereas Carlos only counted $60.00. Sean was short about a hundred and ten, and someone named Bettina, whom I’d never even seen, was supposed to come back with a pile of receipts and straighten it all out. I’d screamed at all of them about the dangers of passing money around, how they were ultimately responsible, how they might not be offered future jobs because of their negligence and to a one they’d responded with hurt and apology and loaded silence that meant, “What a hysterical bitch.”
Holly appeared in the midst of my search for some aspirin, or whatever available painkiller I could get my hands on. I would have settled for Sean’s/Jill’s devil weed if it had been nearby. “What’s up?” I asked, as her role in the job was basically over.
“We’ve been hired on for another job. In Sedona.”
“Arizona?” I asked, though I knew full well where Sedona was.
“Uh-huh. Pre-prop next week. Can you do it?”
I’d really wanted a week off between jobs. I hesitated. Working with the Holy Terror again so soon might be bad for my health.
“Well?” Holly demanded impatiently.
But it was good for my financial health. “Yeah, let’s go. Who’s the client?”
“House About You?
Will Torrance is directing.”
She left and I sat back a moment. I’d heard of Torrance. I’d heard he was kind of a player. Attractive as hell. Dangerous. . .
“Anyone’s better than Owen the Scowler,” I said to the room at large, just as a young woman who looked like a flower child in a long flowing skirt and mane, peeked tentatively into the room and dropped a cascade of receipts onto my desk, which had been crumpled in her grimy little fist.
“I’m Bettina,” she said with a sweet smile. “Sean’s friend.”
I looked at the messy, crumpled pile. I should have been nicer to Sean.
 
 
Settling myself into one of the uncomfortable blue office chairs in Dr. Dick’s waiting room, I picked up a magazine and studiously ignored Janice, as her name tag read, the snooty receptionist. She shot me a superior look and, without bothering to hide her delight, told me Dr. Dick had been called away on an emergency and that I would have to wait. If I hadn’t traversed the Greater Los Angeles area to get here—and been desperate for the appointment—I might have turned on my heel and left right then and there. But that would have been admitting defeat in our cold war, so I smiled instead and said brightly, “That’s great. I’ve got phone calls to return,” and promptly started dialing merrily away, leaving messages and talking to my friends—even some mere acquaintances—as a means to while away the time. There was no one else in the waiting room at this time, as, I supposed, the receptionist had managed to actually phone Dr. Dick’s other appointments and warn them of his absence. This left me to chat, chat, chat away. I had the satisfaction of seeing the snoot’s generally pissy expression become downright black with suppressed fury. Life is full of unexpected pleasures.
Dr. Dick breezed in, looking decidedly unwound from his usual appearance. He shot me a surprised look, said, “You waited? I’m sorry. Janice should have rescheduled you.”
This instant blaming of Janice—rightly so—warmed the cockles of my heart and caused her expression to change from disgruntled glower to ashy horror. I became the “bigger person” and said, “Oh, no problem. Actually gave me some time to get some stuff done.” I lifted my cell phone.
Dr. Dick came back to his usual in-control self with a bang, picking up the nuances very quickly. He ushered me into his inner office and said he’d be right in. I chuckled to myself and settled into a squooshy mocha suede chair. The outer office was all clinical chic, but inside the furniture was made to melt inhibitions. It sure as hell worked with me.
Apparently it was taking a few minutes for Dr. Dick to switch gears from his emergency. However, by the time he entered he was once again calm, competent, and pressed: his usual demeanor. He’d also changed clothes, and was now wearing a different pair of jeans and a white shirt. I could see the crease. I’ve got to admit, I envy people who actually iron their jeans. They look fantastic. Not that I would ever bother.
He said again, “Sorry about the delay.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was called in on an emergency.”
“One of your patients flipped out?”
He shook his head. “One of Dr. Drenmill’s.”
“Psychotic break?” I’m nothing if not nosy.
“Interruption of meds,” he explained, then gave me that straightforward look that means it’s time to get to the matter at hand. I find this look very sexy, actually, and I felt an odd twinge of guilt for a moment before searching around in my head to find the cause: Sean. A rush of disbelief followed. Sean? I felt guilty about lusting after Dr. Dick because I felt somehow beholden to
Sean
?
“So, what’s happened since we last met?” Dr. Dick asked.
“Nate and I broke up. He took up with a junior-high student and now they’re living together.”
“How old is she?” He was used to my hyperbole, which is really just a fancy word for exaggeration which basically means lying. I’m into hyperbole, as Dr. Dick well knows.

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