House of the Blue Sea (11 page)

“The
right
people?”

“The people that make award-winning movies, I suppose.”

“So it’s all about the awards?”

“No, not really ... they’re just a way of measuring what’s ... valuable.”

“And so we’re back to what adds value to people’s lives.”

“It would seem so, unfortunately. You’ve tricked me!” Mark pointed his fork at Sandra.

She was starting to enjoy the conversation. When she could forget he was famous and that he might bristle at a wrong turn of phrase, he was fun to talk to. “I believe you stepped into this trap all by yourself. So, would you say that all Academy-or-other-award-winning movies add value to people’s lives, in the way that you want to add value?”

“No, probably not, but there’s more potential for it.”

“Okay,” Sandra thought for a moment, “so if you were to look back over your career, what role gave you the greatest satisfaction, as an actor?”

“It would have to be Rochester. I won a BAFTA for that one.”

“So was it the role or the award that made it satisfying?”

“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may incriminate me.” Mark responded in his best American accent.

“Very good.” Sandra clapped her hands. “But what’s your answer?”

“I enjoyed the challenge of the role. I enjoyed the accolades. I enjoyed the money. Did I feel I had given something of value to the world? Not really.”

“So, would this new role, the one given to the other actor, would it have added value in the way you think is important?”

“Are you sure you’re not some kind of therapist, masquerading as an artist?”

“Answer the question.”

“No, wait, perhaps a barrister.”

Sandra stared at him.

“All right then—no, probably not. It had the potential to make the award lists. The subject matter was not of much interest to me and I doubt it would have changed the world. But what movie ever does?”

“So if movies don’t change the world, what does? Who does?”

He began counting on the fingers of his left hand, tapping the pinky as it rose from his fist. “My brother does. He’s a surgeon; saves lives nearly every day.” His ring finger stood next, empty of any ring. He smacked them both with the index finger of his other hand. “My father does. He’s a history professor at Newcastle; builds young minds.” His middle finger joined the other two and Mark thrust his hand toward Sandra. “My friend Norman definitely does. He’s an old school chum who runs a humanitarian organization that’s brought aid to a dozen different countries, horrid situations most of us aren’t even aware of.” Mark looked out to the sea. “He called me last week, asked me to narrate a documentary for him, on the high rates of child mortality in Mali and a couple of other African countries.” Mark’s gaze came back to Sandra’s expression. “Don’t feel bad. I hadn’t heard of it either.”

“Well doesn’t that fit with your definition of work with value?”

“A low-budget documentary that will be shown by film societies and universities? My agent was horrified. I believe he called it
euthanasia
for my film career.”

“Perhaps it would be, but maybe it’s time.” As soon as the words passed her lips she wished she could pull them back.

“Time to put my sorry career out of its misery?” Mark slammed his hand on the table top hard enough to make the cutlery jump. “Is that what you think?” Heads turned toward them from the surrounding tables.

Sandra glanced toward the exit, wondering if leaving would be more or less uncomfortable than staying. She leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone, “Number one—trying to help; number two—public place.” She was surprised at her own boldness.

“Right. Sorry.” Mark signalled the waiter and ordered another beer.

“What I meant to say was that if your career is no longer satisfying, why not venture out into something different?”

“Because I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not ready to call time.” The edge was still there. “I’ve invested more than thirty years of my life in this business. I can’t just throw that away.”

“Fair enough.” Sandra leaned into the back of her chair and took the last swallow of beer from her bottle. It seemed the fun part of the conversation was over.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it. I rest my case.”

***

S
andra followed Mark down the steps to the sidewalk in front of La Perla. She pulled her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose.

“The marina is a short walk down this way. Care for a stroll?” Mark asked. “I’m rather an admirer of the floating craft.”

The remainder of lunch had passed without incident. She’d gone back to Paul’s recommendation and kept the conversation away from career and ex-wife. Twice they’d sat across a table from one another, twice he’d had some excessive display of anger. Driving was fine, shopping went well. Maybe the key was to keep him moving. A walk sounded like a reasonable idea and she was wearing her new and comfy sandals. What the hell. “Sure. I haven’t seen the marina.”

The two-lane roadway running in front of La Perla had parking on one side and La Paz’s famous Malecón with its wide sidewalk on the sea side. They ambled southwest on the paving stone walkway, red stones flowing through the grey ones in bands, the palm trees like sentries every fifty feet. White wrought iron benches placed at regular intervals seemed more befitting of a Victorian garden than a Mexican resort town, but they provided great stopping places for tourists wanting to enjoy the view or rest their feet. Mark seemed content to walk without conversation, whether out of discomfort or lack of anything to say Sandra didn’t know or care. Between his stardom and his temper it was fatiguing spending the day with him, and the walk along the Malecón was a refreshing reprieve. She loved the waterfront here, and being outdoors always helped to ground her.

Mark broke the silence. “The marina is beyond the end of the walkway, but we can take the street the last bit.”

Masts came into view as they rounded the corner past a large condo complex. “Sticks,” Sandra said, more to herself than to Mark.

“I’m sorry?”

“S
ticks
, it’s what my ... friend used to call them—sailboat masts. He thought they looked like a bunch of sticks all in a group like this.” Nick had had a unique way of seeing many things, often amusing, always interesting. She still missed him so much. She felt the slight burning in her eyes that came right before they filled with tears and she dropped her gaze to the new sandals making their way along the pavement.

“I don’t suppose you’ve sailed, given your landlocked location.”

“I have actually. I sailed some with my husband’s family, back in Toronto, on Lake Ontario.”

“Husband? I didn’t realize you were married.”

“I’m not, anymore. That was a
very
long time ago. It almost feels like something I saw in a movie rather than lived through. Have you ever felt that way about a part of your life?” They’d stopped at the entrance to the marina near a large flowering shrub. Its pale pink flowers gave off a heady scent similar to lilac.

“I feel that way about many parts of my life, but in my case, it’s often true.” Mark laughed.

Sandra blushed. “Of course. I should have thought of that. Is that the case, can real life and acted life get confused?”

“Not really, at least not beyond filming. When you’re in a character’s head all the time the line between yourself and your role can become blurry, but it goes quickly once filming is wrapped. Should we go in?” Mark nodded his head toward the open gate.

“Can we? It’s not for members only?”

“Some of the members offer boat charters so I’m sure they’re happy to have us poking about.”

They walked past the marina office and down to the docks. Each pier had a gate at its end, preventing access to anyone without a code, but many of the boats were viewable from the shoreline boardwalk.

“And you? Have you sailed?” Sandra asked him.

“I have, as a boy, in London—my brother and I took lessons—and then again about ten years ago when I was working on a movie. I enjoyed it so much I certified with the
Royal Yachting Association
.” He’d made his accent even more posh than normal. “I know enough to charter a boat and generally keep myself out of trouble.” Mark stopped and turned to Sandra. “Would you like to go?”

“Go?”

“Sailing. I’m sure someone must charter sailboats for the day.”

Sailing. Now did that qualify as a moving activity or was it more of the sitting and talking variety that had proven problematic? It might depend on the weather and water conditions.

“Um ... so ... where would we go?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve not sailed here before. But I’m certain there are a number of day sails in the area.” His brown eyes were locked on her face. “Well?”

Sandra felt immediately claustrophobic at the idea of being on a boat all day with Mark and yet the words came out of her mouth. “Okay then. Let’s do that.”
What? Who said that?

“We’ll need to bring the paintings in for the art show next week. Maybe we drop them off early and go sailing the rest of the day?”

We? Now we’re a we?
“Sure, that seems like a good plan.”
Or not!

If her words sounded as unconvincing as they felt, it didn’t show in Mark’s reaction. “Splendid! It’s a date then. I’ll look into getting a boat organized and plotting our destination.”

Her head was starting to throb.
Splendid. Indeed. A date?
She turned back in the direction they’d come. It was time to go home. Her balcony at Mar Azul was calling. “Shall we go and get your case of wine then?”

“Good idea. And following that I have somewhere I’d like to show you.”

“Y
ou lucky thing!” Trisha squealed from the laptop screen.

“But I don’t feel that way, Trish. I feel like I want to relax and paint and swim and he keeps ... inviting me places.” Sandra plopped herself down on the bed, her face toward the monitor.

“Oh you poor doll. A rich and famous gentleman—oh, and did I mention incredibly handsome?—is ruining your alone time with his invitations. Forgive me if I’m having a hard time feeling sympathetic.”

“From your perspective, I’m sure it’s difficult to understand, but it’s so hard to relax around him. When I’m not focused on the fact that his face has been on the big screen and the entertainment news, I’m scrambling out of the way of his temper. I have these fleeting moments of enjoying his company, because he can be quite charming, but it’s too much stress for me. I come here for the tranquility of the place!”

“Well, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but tell him to go away then. Say no when he asks you to spend time with him.”

Sandra let out a sigh and dropped her face into her hands. “I’ve already agreed to go sailing with him next week, and I’m living here at his friend’s hotel. What are the chances of avoiding him without appearing rude?”

“So I guess you have a decision to make, endure his company or endure the discomfort of being rude.”

“Ohhh ...” Sandra flopped over on her back, her arms landing on the pillows above her head.

“So tell me about the charming part, those moments when you forget he’s
MARK JEFFERY
and just enjoy yourself.” She spoke his name like Vincent Price may have narrated it in a horror film.

“Ha ha. Well, most of today he was on good behaviour. We went shopping and he was helpful ... fun even—”

“Ooh, sounds terrible.”

“But then, over lunch, he apologized for that little outburst at breakfast yesterday, the one I told you about—”

“Apologized? The cad!”

“Just listen, would you? I can mute you.” Sandra poised her hand over the touch pad on the laptop’s keyboard.

“Go on then.” Trisha rolled her eyes.

“He went from pleasant to spitting mad as soon as he started talking about what’s going on in his life and I was ready to head for the nearest bus stop. Although ... he did get some control and we managed to have a decent conversation about what’s bothering him. That is, until he pounded his fist on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump. He had the whole restaurant staring at us.”

“So what’s got him so riled up?”

“He got dumped from a role, a good one, apparently.”

“Well that’s got to hurt. You have to cut him some slack Sandi. He’s got a high profile life for getting fired.”

“I know, and I’m trying. But then he’s off on some chair-tossing, fist-pounding hissy fit and I want to crawl under the table.”

“So what set him off, when the conversation was going well?”

“I suppose I did, with a comment I made ... that I probably should have worded a bit less ... bluntly. BUT, his response was still over the top. He apologized, again, but the tension didn’t leave his voice until I changed the subject.”

“So stay off the subject.”

“That’s what Paul said, and what I did for the rest of the day. But I don’t like tiptoeing around people. You know that.”

“I know, love, and you’re good at talking people through things, but maybe not in this case.” Trisha’s hand went out of the camera’s view and returned with a coffee mug, a green ceramic with leaves circling its rim, undoubtedly the work of one of her gallery potters. She took a drink from the steaming mug. “So, the rest of the day in La Paz was ...?”

“It was nice.”

“Nice? Really? Can you come up with a less descriptive word?”

“Okay, fine, we had a lovely walk along the waterfront down to the marina, which is where he came up with the idea to go sailing.” Sandra closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “A whole day on a boat, Trish. How will I manage it? What will we talk about?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Or, you could always leave town.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m kidding, you ninny! You can’t leave town. He’ll be there when you get back, unless you come home. Is that what you’d like to do? Let this man chase you home?”

“No. I don’t want to go home. I want to paint!”

“Well paint then, and go sailing with the actor hunk next Tuesday and try to enjoy yourself. If you can’t do it for you, do it for me!”