An Accidental Affair (10 page)

“Did everyone leave?”

“Everybody and the paparazzi. We’re all that’s left.”

“Then, no. I’m not waiting on anyone.”

She asked, “What are you sitting here in the dark drinking and thinking about?”

“The imperfections of the universe.”

She said, “We were designed to be unhappy for life, make love while we could, and reproduce whether or not we liked children, to have children whether or not we could afford children, and live miserably ever after. We have to constantly replenish the overpopulated and jobless world with more unnecessary people who won’t be able to find jobs and will be unhappy for life, making love while they can, and reproducing whether they like children or not.”

“Geesh. You’re actually quoting part of a scene from
Toto Against Hercules
.”

“Loved it. It was a nice political thriller. I had auditioned for the part of the female lead.”

“Thanks. Sorry you didn’t get the part. But Hathaway gets what Hathaway wants.”

“You’re intelligent and it shows in your work. Brilliant. I’d love to pick your brain.”

“Everyone I meet tells me that they want to pick my brain. I don’t like having my brain picked. Sounds too painful. I don’t need fools on an expedition inside of my head.”

“Don’t you teach as well?”

“I just finished a series of three-day story and screenwriting master classes.”

“L.A. Dallas. New York. That was two weeks ago.”

“So you already know. Feel free to sign up for the series in three months.”

She said, “I heard that your next script is pretty hot. I heard it’s very A-list.”

“There is a rumor.”

“Everyone was talking about it at the party tonight. Who’s attached?”

“Too early to say. But that’s not my department. I’m just the writer.”

“Your last one was brilliant.”

“So they said. But I have to give the actors credit for bringing it to life.”

“I’ve studied you. Your mother was British. She had you in San Francisco, then raised you and your brothers in Hackney and in Tottenham, and moved to some European place with an atrocious name, then brought you back here to America when you were a teenager.”

“I know a little about you too, Golden Globe nominee from Livingston, Montana.”

“Do you?”

“Nice Golden Globes, by the way. Hiding them in that dress, brilliant move.”

She laughed and her breasts jiggled. Electricity moved between my legs.

I said, “Well, physically, you’re in the eight percent of women with that much-desired build. I read that in a magazine. Five-nine and size 34-23-36. I read that in the same magazine.”

“You read magazines? You’re a top-shelf guy. You don’t seem like the magazine type.”

“I keep a few in the bathroom. In case of emergency.”

“That was
Cosmo
. Well, you’ll have to blame those imperfections on my mother.”

“You went to university at sixteen. B.A. at nineteen. M.F.A. at twenty-one.”

“Broke at twenty-one. Student loans up to my neck. Don’t leave that part out.”

“Intelligent with a strong imagination. You like the Stanislavski method of acting.”

“I came from theater. I have been acting since I was six years old. Everything, every moment, every step across the room, every action, every reaction, which is one of the keys to being a great actor; reacting is about motivation. The most important goal of Stanislavski is to
have complete understanding of the motivations and intentions of your character in each moment.”

She told me that she had arrived in California big in talent but lacking in social graces, in second-hand clothing, wearing the wrong makeup. She came here penniless and busted her butt as a singing waitress in Beverly Hills and used that money to pay rent and study her craft. She had done everything from community theater to student films to indie projects, union and non-union, and had endured countless auditions. For a while she had been part of an improv group.

Like everyone else in town she had been trained, taught how to stand, how to sit, how to get out of a car without giving a revealing vagina shot, how to smile and wave and laugh in the proper tone. The Montana girl had scored movie roles and was photographed on the arms of handsome men in no time. Being photographed with the right people increased net worth.

Her cellular rang. Bobby Holland’s face popped up on the caller ID. She answered.

“Hey. Just about to leave the event. Boring. Heading toward my car.”

I heard his voice, his North Germanic cadence that sounded like a cross between Swedish and Dutch.

Regina Baptiste told him, “We’ll have to talk about it. My publicist is concerned. Not if what you’re saying is true. Yeah, I trust you. I’ll be home soon. You too. Bye.”

She hung up. And in that moment she looked stressed. Very pissed. She tapped her glass with her nails and bounced her leg before shaking her head and taking a deep breath. She sipped her whiskey twice. In the meantime, I checked my cellular again. I had a message from another employee, a tall and thin Latin man we called Flaco. His message said that superstar Johnny Bergs had called. He wanted free admission to Club Mapona. I approved the request.

I asked her, “You need to leave?”

“No rush tonight. Never know when I’ll get a chance to chat with you again.”

“How are you and your favorite director Bobby Holland doing?”

“Come on now. You’ve heard the rumors. The women. Everyone in Hollywood talks.”

Then I did an unflattering imitation of Bobby Holland, put on a thick Norwegian accent and said a few very vulgar things. Regina Baptiste’s eyes widened and she howled with laughter.

She said, “My, God. You sounded just like Bobby. That was scary.”

She sipped her whiskey. A lot of women in Hollywood bypassed Jenny Craig and used alcohol to stay thin. She had on a silky beige dress that was inspired by the barely-there dress that had made J. Lo famous in the 90s, and heels that cost at least three grand.

I said, “Nice dress. I assume that it was designed by either Viagra or Cialis.”

“Actually they collaborated on this one.”

“The part you have on is very nice. Where’s the rest of it?”

“They charged two grand to rent this much. Couldn’t afford to lease the rest.”

“You rented that number?”

“Same for the jewelry and purse. Rentals. I pay a monthly fee and belong to a club.”

“Sounds like it’s as easy as renting DVDs from Netflix.”

“Comes in a box and you mail it back by UPS or FedEx. You can rent a two thousand dollar Escada for two hundred bucks, or find a Halston for a C-note. Shoes too. I rented these Jimmy Choos for three days. I must be tipsy as hell. Don’t believe that I’m telling you my secret.”

That night I had on a British-made Ozwald Boateng suit over a twelve-dollar T-shirt that I had bought on Vermont Avenue. It was a deep red T-shirt with golden lettering that said:
I THINK THAT I JUST FELL IN LOVE WITH A PORN STAR AND GOT MARRIED IN THE BATHROOM
HAD A HONEYMOON ON THE DANCEFLOOR AND GOT DIVORCED AT THE END OF THE NIGHT AND THAT’S ONE HELL OF A LIFE.

She read my T-shirt and laughed. “Yeah, that would be one hell of a life.”

I sipped my drink. Back then it was Jack and Coke, more Coke than Jack.

She said, “You look at me. You act like you’re not looking. Am I wrong on that one?”

“I have looked at you a time or two hundred thousand.”

“Almost as many times as I’ve looked at you.”

“I’ve seen you. You come into a room and all eyes are on you.”

She said, “You don’t come on to me. Actually, you don’t even speak to me.”

“The trades said that you and Bobby Holland were engaged.”

She waggled her left hand. “No ring on my finger.”

“But you’re sleeping together on the same mattress.”

“Sleeping is about all we’re doing. On opposite sides of the bed. It’s a big mattress.”

“You’re too beautiful to nap with. Some women you sleep with, others you stay awake with. You’re definitely one a man would want to stay awake with. Well, for at least an hour.”

“Would be nice to have a man who would stay awake with me for at least an hour.”

“Most women don’t last thirty minutes.”

“I’m not
most
women. And don’t try and threaten me with a good time.”

“You and Bobby Holland are on the covers and on almost every entertainment-driven magazine. The good-looking, controversial director from Norway and the hot actress from Montana. You looked great.”

“Yeah, they love me in Montana. Well, now that I’ve left and I’m famous, they love me.”

“You came to Hollywood and left your boyfriend behind.”

“How did you know? Was that on a Web site or something?”

“Calm down. Every actress out here left a boyfriend behind.”

“Most of the actors left good-looking boyfriends behind too.”

“Now who’s making the jokes?”

“I was serious.”

“I stand corrected and will calibrate my humor to meet your level of entertainment.”

“Those with no dreams and without ambition have to get left behind. Same for out here. They teach us all the same thing: Drop a guy for a film, but never drop a film for a guy.”

“How did your family end up in Livingston?”

“My mother grew up there. She’s a schoolteacher. Music.”

“Dad?”

“Laborer. My father is a tall, handsome, curly haired, hardworking Conky Joe from Spanish Wells. Small, quiet island. Only a half mile wide and two miles long.”

“Guess they won’t be having a marathon there.”

She laughed. “His father was a fisherman. Dad grew up in Spanish Wells then went to work for the government in Nassau. He worked at BEC. He’s a career electrician.”

“Baptiste. From a former British territory called Spanish Wells to Montana to Hollywood. Saw you in
Vogue
,
Allure
, few others. You’re taking up all of the eye-level shelf space at the newsstands.”

“Doing my best to over-saturate the market with my face before the next It Girl shows up.”

“I think the interview I liked most was the one with you in
Elle
.”

“In which I was happy sitting out by the swimming pool with the three dogs.”

“Yep. The one with you and Bobby Holland and his rug rats and pedigreed mutts.”

“Hate dogs. I have allergies. But posing with animals makes a
statement. Says you’re kind. People like people who like animals. I think that it’s a nurturing thing. His kids are the worst behaving kids I’ve ever met. But since I don’t have kids, posing with his regrets was a way to reach out to all of the mothers and stepmothers of the world and say, ‘Hey, I’m just like you.’”

“Only with nicer ankles. Nicer knees. Nicer buttocks. Nicer breasts.”

She looked toward the entrance. “Felt like I was being watched.”

I asked, “Where’s Bobby Holland’s spread?”

She laughed.

I asked her what was so funny.

“I thought that you were about to ask me where Bobby Holland is spreading my legs.”

“I guess one response can answer two questions.”

“Thousand Oaks. Where do you spread legs at night?”

“Los Feliz. Just moved into a small home right below Griffith Park.”

She said, “You have no idea how cold and uncomfortable I am in this outfit right now.”

“I would offer you my coat, but I don’t want you to put it on and spoil my view.”

“Glad someone appreciates the mountains and valleys.”

“You look like that and Bobby Holland isn’t being a caveman every night?”

“Yeah, I look like I should be getting ridden hard and put up wet, but I’m not.”

“My mistake was assuming you were the happy couple.”

“And the
professional
drama is the killer. He doesn’t want me to work with certain directors. People whom he considers his competition, he doesn’t want me to do their projects, but I refuse to wait on him to come up with work for me. He doesn’t want me to work with certain actors.”

“Really? Sounds like he’s a jealous fuck and controlling your career.”

“Or with a certain a writer named James Thicke.”

“I’ve heard of that guy.”

“If Bobby saw me chatting you up he’d go ballistic.”

“Is that why you keep looking toward the door?”

“I thought somebody was watching us. Only takes one fool with a camera.”

“No one is there.”

Not until then did she look across the room and see Driver.

She shifted away from me and asked, “The guy in the corner?”

“It’s okay. He’s with me. He’s on my payroll.”

“You have a confidentiality agreement with him?”

“Of course. And at this moment, you’re underneath my umbrella.”

A moment went by with no conversation between us. My eyes were on the movie. But my mind was somewhere else. With someone else. Wishing my phone would vibrate with a text.

Regina Baptiste sighed. “I can tell you how many times we had sex in a month.”

“So we’re back to talking about sex.”

She stared at her whiskey. “When living with a man becomes worse than a marriage and that marriage becomes business and sex goes out the window, that’s when a woman starts looking for a place of comfort. But in Hollywood, you have to be careful what and who you do.”

“So you’re ready to take things into your own hands.”

“I’d rather be in the hands of a capable man.”

“You have needs.”

“I am a woman with the needs of a woman, and those needs require a man.”

“I’m a man with the needs of a man, and those needs require a woman.”

“What a coincidence.”

“So you’re looking for someone to take care of your needs tonight?”

She smiled. “Got my eye on somebody.”

“And?”

“I’ve had my eye on him a while. Especially tonight. Too nervous to approach him.”

“Too nervous to approach him because you don’t want to damage your brand.”

“No. He’s just a hard one to read. One moment joking, the next brooding and serious. Hard to tell if he’s interested or if he’s just being polite and enjoying the view from his barstool.”

“All of a sudden you’re nervous.”

“Because of what I’m thinking.”