The Actress: A Novel (3 page)

“We’ll be there,” Dan said, so quickly that Maddy was almost embarrassed.

“Do you have a car here?”

“No,” Maddy said. “We ride El Cheapo. The festival bus.” Dan glared at her, as though not wanting Zack to know they were losers, but she didn’t understand the accusation; it had been
his
decision not to ask the backers to cover a car rental.

“Then we’ll send one to get you,” Zack said. After he headed away, their condo address in his phone, she wondered who “we” was. Zack, his mother, or his agency?

It didn’t make a difference. They were going.

H
aving been to many films and bad Off-Broadway theater in his time at Bentley Howard, and countless premieres with his mother as a teenager, Zack was not easily impressed by actresses. But Maddy was different. Her performance had been luminous, thoroughly unself-conscious, and he was intrigued by her figure, which was un-Hollywood, with its small, natural breasts and enormous shoulders.

Zack had been at Bentley Howard since right after graduating from Skidmore. His primary responsibility was to serve the needs of his boss’s clients. George Zeger was a sloppy, corduroy-wearing man who had been at the agency nearly forty years. As an assistant, Zack had listened in on George’s calls and heard him negotiate, manipulate, and rage when dealing with employers, but speak softly and gently to his clients.

In addition to George’s clients, Zack had a handful of his own, most referred to him by Bridget, but he had come to the festival in search of more. George had said Zack could go if he paid for his own lodging. Reluctantly, he had asked his mother if he could crash. He made $49,000 a year at Bentley Howard, which meant that his mother paid the rent on his loft in Tribeca and thus kept him under her thumb, inasmuch as she could from Brentwood. He would not have access to his trust fund until he turned twenty-eight, four long years away. For his entire childhood, the contingency age had been twenty-one, but at Skidmore he’d run into problems with coke, and when he wound up at Silver Hill, she changed it.

Zack was dizzy as he headed up the street, dialing his phone. He had stayed till five
A.M.
at the
Rap Sheet
party, playing foosball and doing tequila shots, and then a young, dorky network-comedy star offered him a few bumps, and because of the bumps, he couldn’t sleep. By the time nine
A.M.
rolled around, he’d decided to get a coffee in town and see the movie.

When his mother answered, he told her about the extra invitations. “I’ll have to redo the seating arrangement,” she said with a sigh. “Who are they again?”

“The girl from that Vermont movie. Maddy Freed. You met her at the Entertainer. And her boyfriend. He’s the director.”

“Was she the blonde?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you trying to sleep with her?” she said.

“I am not trying to sleep with her, Mom,” he said. “I want to sign her.” It was scary, what she picked up on. Zack had always had an intense relationship with his mother. As his many shrinks had reminded him, it was a by-product of his father being out of the picture. There were lots of nannies, and he had resented her absences. Lately, he was working on resenting her less. He had been in therapy on and off since he was ten, for being antisocial and later for doing drugs, and he was enjoying not being in therapy for the first time in many years.

“Just let me have them over, Mom,” he said. “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll make sure they have a good time.”

“Not too good a time,” she said. “This is a classy party.”

“Y
ou need to watch this right now,” Bridget told Steven in his suite at the Niels Lundtofte Lodge. “
I Used to Know Her,
it’s called.” They were standing in his kitchen, and she was holding the DVD in its clear case.

She had called Ed Handy, immediately after hanging up with Zack, to request the screener. When Ed said Maddy had been at the opening-night party, she remembered Steven watching her with an odd, intent gaze. That look, then Zack’s call. Bridget had been so transfixed, she didn’t stand up until the film was over.

“Never heard of it,” Steven said from the kitchen island, sipping a green smoothie. “What’s her name?”

“Maddy Freed.”

“What makes you think she’s right?”

“She can handle the material.”

“The material is very sexual,” he said, “and it needs extreme commitment. A lot of the girls have had trouble with it.”

“It will make her career. Come on, now. How could any bright, talented actress turn down the role of a lifetime?”

“I’ll watch it tomorrow,” he said, noticing a ring of water that the smoothie had left on the countertop, and wiping it with his fingers.

“She’s coming to my dinner party. With her boyfriend. He directed it.
I want you to see it before they come.” Bridget knew not to push him too hard. A manager’s job was to walk in the client’s shoes and guide him to the decisions that were best for him, like a therapist teasing out insight from a patient. If he watched this movie and didn’t like the girl, they would be back to the drawing board. But it was his decision to make.

She looked at Steven evenly for a few seconds. Finally, he sighed. She smiled as she walked past him to the DVD player.

A
s
I Used to Know Her
began to roll, Steven prepared to be disappointed. He had been to many film festivals and seen a lot of atmospheric shots of toothless men, tetherball courts, and snow—and more than enough protagonist-toting vehicles. But as soon as he saw the girl, he remembered. He had noticed her at the Entertainer. She had a type of beauty that you took in slowly. Striking without being striking. Her eyes were open and widely set, her mouth turned down slightly. She had baby fat around her chin, untrimmed eyebrows, and a mole on one temple that he found fetching.

The girl greeted her mother. You could sense the ambivalence she felt about coming home for a visit. The mother was talking, the girl frustrated. She moved naturally, a little tomboyish, hunching her shoulders in an adaptation to being tall, and unlike many actresses of her age range, she didn’t fry her voice when she spoke.

Around the sixty-minute mark, she wasn’t speaking to the best friend, and after an ugly fight with her mother, she stormed out the door and peeled off in her mother’s truck. She met up with a chubby former high school classmate, and they got drunk on bourbon and made love in his car in the parking lot. As she came, there was a hint of sadness behind her eyes, as though the orgasm brought her into contact with her disappointment. She was melancholy. Steven didn’t know how much was the actress and how much the character. He wondered if the girl had the same depth in real life.

When the movie was over, he said softly, “I want Walter to read her.”

“I knew you would,” Bridget said. He could tell she wanted to say “I told you so” but was holding herself back.

He moved to the window, looked out at the mess of pine trees. They’d had several near misses for the role, but casting was ninety percent of a project, and he was unwilling to compromise. Ellie had to show sexiness, determination, and sadness. They couldn’t cast just anyone. Audiences needed to feel there was no one else on earth who could play her.

It would be hard to make much headway at the party with the boyfriend there to distract her, but he was emboldened by the challenge. Though Steven Weller had many talents, one of his greatest was his ability to connect with men.

3

The car that ferried Dan and Maddy to Bridget’s lodge was a large black gas-guzzling SUV. On the ride, Dan stewed about the competition. An NYU classmate, Bryan Monakhov, had already gotten his film acquired by Apollo Classics:
Triggers,
a Jewish-gangster crime caper set in Brownsville, Brooklyn, during the 1930s. Monakhov had won Best Dramatic Feature before, for a mother-son incest picture. Dan was worried the early deal would hurt
I Used to Know Her
’s chances, because the studio had only a finite amount to spend.

But that morning’s screening had twice the audience of the first. The reviews had come out—in its roundup,
The
New York Times
had called
I Used to Know Her
“a pitch-perfect study of the pleasures and pains of female friendship,” and
Variety
had cited “two knockout performances and a spare smart script.” The
L.A. Times
review was mixed, saying that Dan was “more comfortable as a writer than a director, framing his shots with little originality.” Dan was furious, and Maddy felt protective, but she told him to focus on the other two.

With the reviews had come other firsts: Two agents had given her cards after screenings, and she was scheduling coffees. Nancy Watson-Eckstein was a self-assured, petite, African American woman who worked at Original Talent Associates. The other, Galt Gurley, was an anemic-looking older white woman at United Creative. Maddy couldn’t believe that she could have a choice.

Reid had authorized a few interviews for the cast, and Maddy was taken aback when an indie-film blogger brought up the Special Jury Prize for Acting. Maddy laughed and said she had no chance because their film
was too small. But then she couldn’t help it: She imagined herself holding up the award at the Mountain Way Theater. It was a variation on the old Oscar-acceptance fantasy she’d had as a girl. Except in those fantasies, her father was in the audience, cheering her on.

Her dad was the reason she had grown up in Potter, which, in a way, was the reason the film had gotten made. A Jewish Philadelphian, Jake Freed had gone to Dartmouth, where he met Maddy’s mother, née Dorothy McHale, in an Eastern Religion class. They discovered Potter on a road trip with friends, and Jake fell in love with the Northeast Kingdom. After graduation, he sent out his résumé for teaching jobs and landed a position as an English teacher at the Potter Ski Academy, a private school that churned out Olympians. Dorothy was a nurse in nearby St. Johnsbury before she got sick with breast cancer; she died when Maddy was seven.

Jake’s memorial had been packed with all the friends and family members who were in such high spirits during the shoot. Many cast and crew members came, wanting to pay their respects. Neighbors stood at the podium and told stories of his generosity—letting kids crash at the Freed house when they were going through rough patches, caring for a fellow teacher who became ill. Jake Freed was a thinker, a teacher, a mensch. People like him weren’t supposed to drop dead in their sixties. He made too many people happy.

The SUV ascended a steep hill and Maddy felt the familiar grief welling inside her. In the dark of the backseat, she reached for Dan’s hand, but he was studying his phone. She tried to snap herself out of her reverie by imagining the dinner. Weller would be there, undoubtedly, and Cady Pearce. Probably other stars, too. It was one thing to hostess people like this at La Cloche, another to dine next to them.

The SUV pulled up to two stone pillars and a gate, which opened as if by magic. Maddy wondered who controlled the gate—a guard, unseen in a little booth behind the house, like the man in
The Wizard of Oz
.

A snaking driveway let them out at a parking lot where a dozen luxury cars were already stationed. She worried she and Dan were out of their league. At the door, a girl in a knee-length parka searched a clipboard for their names. The entryway had huge stone columns and picture windows with views of the forest.

They checked their coats—what kind of hostess had a coat check person in her home?—and made their way into a living area decorated with moss art and a slate fireplace. Tall steel candlesticks flickered on small finished tree trunks.

Dan edged over to the freestanding bar to get their drinks while Maddy took in the assembled guests: the star of
Triggers,
Munro Heming, the rising sandy-haired heartthrob who spoke like Marlon Brando; Ed Handy; Todd Lewitt, the director of
The Widower,
who dressed like a 1970s computer programmer; and Lael Gordinier, a redheaded late-twenties actress who specialized in femmes fatales. As Maddy accepted a glass of chardonnay from Dan, she felt like she was in a scene in a movie about Mile’s End.

A handsome young guy with slicked-back hair came over and Dan introduced him as Bryan Monakhov. “Crazy to see you guys here,” Bryan said. “I didn’t know you knew Bridget.”

“Well, we do,” Dan said tightly.

“Congratulations on your acquisition,” Maddy said, hoping Bryan wouldn’t notice Dan’s scowl.

“I’m going to try to catch your movie,” Bryan said. “Good luck with the screenings. I’m rooting for you, man. That’s why I come here. The brotherhood of celluloid.”

“I think that was a gay doc here a couple years ago,” Dan said.

“Good one,” said Bryan. “You are one funny cat.”

Bryan went to greet a partygoer, and then Bridget strode over and kissed Dan and Maddy, each on both cheeks, as though they were old friends. She was wearing a royal blue organza skirt that flared out at the ankles. “You are an absolute wonder,” she said to Maddy. “It was so original and so moving. Dan, you are such an actor’s director.” Maddy was surprised; she hadn’t seen Bridget at any screenings.

“I really appreciate that,” Dan said, his voice steady.

Zack came over. “I was just telling them how great the film is,” Bridget said to him.

“You went to a screening?” Zack said.

“Ed sent me a screener,” she said. “Steven watched it, too.” Maddy couldn’t imagine why Steven Weller would be interested.

“So what did Steven think?” Dan asked shamelessly.

“Absolutely loved it,” Bridget said.

“How did you get him to see a little film like ours?” Dan asked.

“He does whatever I tell him—though many years ago, I told him never to act in a movie with the word ‘bombs’ in the title.”

Zack started to say something but was drowned out by Weller’s loud chuckle. He was moving through the room as he had at the Entertainer, clapping guests on the back. Maddy waited for the girlfriend to emerge just behind him, but this time he was alone. Cadyless.

Weller appeared to be coming right toward them. Dan blanched. Maddy looked over her shoulder to see if there was someone famous behind them, but there was no one there. He extended his hand to Maddy and said, “I loved your performance.”

His palm was warm and rougher than she expected, the hand of a man who might use a rowing machine without gloves. He kept his eyes on her for a long moment, and she couldn’t decide whether he was flirting with her or was one of those people who flirted with everyone. Celebrity was automatic sexual charisma.

“And you, sir,” he said to Dan, “are a very talented director.”

“I, sir, am very uncomfortable right now,” Dan said, and gave a nervous laugh.

“There were so many little moments,” Weller said. “Like when Heather is at the bar and she kisses the one guy and then kisses the other. The rhythm. It was like a piece of music. And the subject matter—to me, it was about the futility of long-term friendship.” Maddy was impressed that Weller had not only seen the movie but had insight about it. “And the fact that they’re women,” he went on, “but their breakup is not about sex per se, is all the more interesting. Usually in film, when two women have a falling-out, it’s over a man. It was brave of you not to turn it into that.”

“Wow, you really got our movie,” Maddy said, immediately wanting to kick herself for saying “wow.”

“I want to ask you about one of the scenes,” he said, turning to Maddy. Other guests were glancing at them, curious that these nobodies were monopolizing his attention. It was embarrassing. She wanted to release him back into the fold of successful people, where he belonged. “You know the fight they have after the rehearsal dinner?” he continued.
“There was this moment when it looked like you were breaking. What was that about?”

Maddy knew the moment he meant. It was part of a long monologue, and she and Kira had done a few takes, but Dan wasn’t happy. He kept saying that the scene lacked nuance. Maddy had been getting frustrated when she remembered a lesson from one of her professors: The best auditions contained an element of surprise. In the next take, she threw in a smile right after the line “You never cared about me.” Almost as though Alice didn’t believe her own words. The smile had enraged Kira, and the take had contained an energy that the other takes lacked. When they finished, Dan had said, “That’s the one.”

“I wasn’t breaking,” she told Weller. “I was playing the contempt instead of the hurt.”

“I hope everyone’s hungry,” Bridget said, gesturing toward the dining room. Zack and Bridget walked ahead, leaving Weller, Dan, and Maddy behind. Maddy could see Zack whispering furiously at his mother, but when Bridget glanced back at Maddy, she smiled.

As they turned toward the dining room, Weller’s arm brushed Maddy’s through his soft blue sweater. Her whole body came awake, even though all she had touched was alpaca.

In the dining room, a long distressed walnut table was set for twenty. Maddy took Dan’s hand and led him toward two empty seats, but Weller said, “Bridget had place cards made up. Dan is next to me.” Dan glanced at Maddy anxiously. “Maddy, you’re next to Lael.”

Weller led Dan toward one end of the table, and Maddy spotted Lael Gordinier at the opposite end. Siberia. She didn’t like that Dan would be so far away. She wanted to experience the party with him. But Lael was a jury member, which meant she would judge the competition films. It could be useful to sit next to her. She could help their film.

After the two women introduced themselves, Maddy said, “I really liked your work in
Die Now
.” It was a neo-noir in which Lael seduced her ob-gyn into killing her husband. Lael had a reckless bravado that she brought to all her roles. She also brought her voluptuous and much discussed figure.

“I was so fucking young,” Lael said, staring ahead mordantly.

“Wasn’t it, like, two years ago?”

“Yeah, but I was emotionally immature.” Suddenly, Lael pivoted toward Maddy and said, “Your movie rocks. I’m very threatened by you.” She said it like she could be either joking or serious. “It was brave how you didn’t wear makeup.”

“I did wear makeup.”

“Oh.”

At the opposite end of the table, Weller was speaking intently to Dan. Over the din, Maddy heard Weller say, “She’s looking for what’s best and what’s next,” and gathered it was industry-speak. She knew Dan didn’t care about the business—or at least he hadn’t before Mile’s End—but now he seemed transfixed.

Weller caught Maddy’s eye, and she turned toward Lael, not wanting to appear to gawk. On Lael’s other side was a rangy model turned actress, also in her twenties, Taylor Yaccarino. The women were talking about some actor Maddy had never heard of, with whom they had both played recent love scenes. “He
always
pops wood,” Lael was telling Taylor. “No one told you?”

“No!”

“Oh God, it’s the worst. Then he spreads rumors that the sex was real. It’s disgusting.”

“You think he’s telling people we did it?” Taylor asked, seeming horrified. “That’s crazy. He had a cup.”

“He probably put Vaseline in there to excite himself,” Lael said.

Soon the women had moved on to industry gossip and a film for which they had auditioned. Maddy thought she heard Taylor say
“Husbandry.”

“I didn’t know you went in for that,” Lael said.

“Yeah. I thought I would just put myself on tape, but he only does face-to-face, so I flew to London.”

“Me too,” Lael said. “I heard they’ve been casting for a year. I don’t think it’s going to get made.”

Servers were coming around with the amuse-bouche, a creamy squash soup. The table had gotten quiet. Weller was telling a story, and the guests wore the same hyper-alert expression Maddy had seen on the faces at the opening-night party. The story was about a television star named Clay Murphy who had been mocked several years before for having written
a novel that became a
New York Times
best seller despite its abysmal reviews. “So Clay had to give a speech at a book fair,” Weller was saying. “And he asked me for help with his speech. He said he wanted it to be about his love of reading. He told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand.” The group chuckled snarkily. “So he says to me, ‘Steven, I think I’m going to lead with the story about buying my signed first edition of
Atlas Shrugged.
What do you think?’

“Well, Clay is a sweet guy,” Weller continued, “and I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I know if he says that, he’s going to look like an idiot in front of these literary types. So I say, ‘Clay, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ He says, ‘Why not?’ I think for a second and I say, ‘It’s still so controversial.’ He pauses a second and goes, ‘I understand.’ ”

Everyone howled with laughter. It was a funny story, obviously delivered many times before. Maddy watched Dan sit higher in his seat as though soaking up adoration by association.

After the four-course dinner, guests mingled in the living room over liqueur and dessert wine. Maddy grabbed a glass, and after spotting Dan alone on a couch, she went to him. “So tell me all about Taylor and Lael,” he said. “That sounds like a folk duo.” He was sipping from a glass of something green.

“Horrifying,” Maddy said quietly. “They spent half the time talking about how awful it was to do sex scenes and the other half talking about every famous guy in Hollywood they’ve fucked. But Lael loves our movie.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. What did Weller talk about?”