B009R9RGU2 EBOK (22 page)

The intimate environment isn’t helping.

Clutch’s VIP lounge is predominantly a coral velvet circular settee. Thick brocaded drapes wrap a private changing area. An enormous framed mirror with a few shirt options hanging casually from the frame leans against the damask wallpaper, reflecting my bemusement. It’s definitely not Starbucks.

Way to stick to your guns, Soph. Does he have to wear a shirt at all?

I can’t decide if Billy is the most devilish Don Juan or I’m just utterly clueless.

“Take a seat. Get comfortable,” Billy says, moving aside a set of scripts topped with his sunglasses. “Can I offer you a drink? There’s vitamin water or chilled Sancerre in the mini-fridge.”

It takes all my willpower to request the sensible water. Billy helps himself to a glass of wine, resting the stem glass and open bottle at his feet as he joins me on the upholstered seating.

“What’s new?” I ask, pretending it’s just a casual catch-up.

“Other than losing my favorite publicist? I know I said it before but I feel really terrible about what happened.” He turns to me and winks. “Well, the fallout at least.”

“I prefer to see it as a sabbatical.”

“Just hurry back, will you? If I have to listen to Priscilla’s haughty voice much longer, I’m hiring a personal assistant just to take her calls. What’s her deal anyway?”

“Vampire blood, I suspect.” It feels good to laugh, to release some of the bottled frustration.

“Did you, um, catch my Malibu beach ‘date’ with Eva Mendes in the papers? That’s purely Wanda’s handiwork.”

This nugget
is
news to me. I’d self-quarantined all entertainment media the past few days, partly in fear of finding myself in a blind item. Or Priscilla lurking in the background with any of my clients. The era of studio “matchmaking” may be over, but it’s not uncommon for crafty agents and managers still to pair up their clients for publicity or deception. There’s no better guaranteed attention than when a fresh pair of shiny stars align.

“Eva’s pretty amazing,” Billy continues, “but she’s not my type.”

“Yeah, she’s awfully heinous,” I deadpan.

“How are things with Jake?”

No pussyfooting around.

“
Jacob
. Over.” I close my eyes but still see Jacob’s crushed expression, hear the angry parting words. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, if it helps, anyone who accepts losing you is a fool.”

“Says the man who shrugs at Eva Mendes.”

Billy laughs, raising his palms in surrender. “What can I say? The heart knows what it wants—even if it sometimes confuses the hell out of us or others.”

“You know, I
will
have a glass of wine.”
Just one
. Billy gets up to fetch me a stem glass as I ponder his last remark, connecting it to Mom’s words.
In matters of the heart, no one has all the answers
. Why has everyone but me gotten the memo? “You are a very wise cowboy.”

With a pretend tip of his hat, he responds, “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

“So… you needed my fashion ‘expertise’ for…”

“Oh yeah, sorry.” Billy retrieves the scripts, but instead of handing me a copy, he holds them to his chest. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

That gets my attention.

“You know how the whole zombie craze won’t die?” he continues.

“Undead, so to speak,” I say to tease.

“Well my agent and Wanda think I should do one. A horror project. Connect with a younger demographic—particularly teen boys. Raise my Q Score.”

I’m not an agent or a manager, so I’m not supposed to have an opinion on projects… and as of just recently, I’m not supposed to have any opinions at all when it comes to one Billy Fox so… “Aha. Okay.” I demur. “So this is…” I peel back the stack of held scripts and even upside down can’t mistake “BRAINS FOR BREAKFAST” emblazoned across the title page. It’s impossible not to laugh.
“Seriously?”

Now he’s laughing too. How could he not? “Hey, it’s only the working title!”

“But I thought your next project was the one you were so excited about? Where you get to go all Meryl Streep with the new accent…”

“Still happening, but schedule-wise there’s an opportunity to squeeze in this other shoot first. Screen tests with potential costars are next week and I want to bring my A-game out of the gate.”

“Well you know what they say: breakfast
is
the most important meal of the day. And if they’re serving—”

“Yeah yeah,” Billy says, playing along. “Keep it up and someone won’t get to borrow my future Teen Choice Award surfboard.” He holds up a stunning, easily $300-plus blue button-down. Then swaps it out for a gray T-shirt. “Which shirt should I wear to meet the producer? I need to seem… you know, capable of saving the world, but I didn’t really dress for it.”

“Well, what does your character do? I mean… what were you doing before the zombies arrived?”

“Actually I have to work on memorizing the scene too. You want to help me with that? Then you can make a more educated decision.”

“You win. Hand it over,” I say, indicating the script. “Who do I get to read? And please don’t say Zombie number forty-two.”

“Nah. You’re playing Emily.”

Emily
. I test the name out, ready to become this mystery girl. The lean script can’t be more than a hundred pages. I quickly flip through my copy, pausing at the presumed audition scene, tagged with a Post-it.

“She’s kind of my girlfriend,” Billy says.

“Oh.” I take a deep sip of wine.

“Wait, what
kind
of movie is this again?” I say, interrupting the scene.

“Relax. It’s strictly R. Although there’s always the Director’s Cut.”

“Mhmmm.”

“It’s nearly a family movie,” Billy says, clearly enjoying messing with me.

“Yeah… one where they get eaten.”

“For real, this is an important, character-building scene. Okay?”

What the hell
. I nod.

And then Billy—or rather Max, my “boyfriend”—takes my hand. It seems silly but the sudden intimacy is startling, even if it’s plainly scripted. I’m very aware of his close physical presence, the crisp trace of deodorant, the buffed manicure of his nails, the rise and fall of his breathing—and that we’re alone.

Billy turns my face toward his and looks deep in my eyes. His own eyes’ intense shade of pale blue is positively hypnotic. “When we get through this,” he says calmly, “
and we will
… everything’s
going to be different. We’re going to go somewhere safe and warm—just the two of us. And have our chance to start over. Can you picture it?”

Yes
. And there it is echoed on the page in black-and-white. I read on. “Yes. Where there’s no more pain. No regret.”

“And life is simple again. The open beach. Smell of salt in the air. Cry of gulls circling overhead. The sun on our shoulders. Toes in baked sand. Your hand curled in mine.”

Despite my parents’ and Izzy’s standing ovation for my fevered performance in sophomore year’s production of
The Crucible
, I don’t consider myself a particularly good actress. But in
this
moment, I am practically Method. Emily and I are one.

I grip my script tightly. Emily doesn’t have that many lines.

“Everything happens for a reason—even this,” Billy/Max says. “And as long as we stick it out together, we’ll survive.” His hand runs tenderly through my hair. “I was a fool to take you for granted. It’s taken all this—the chaos around us—to understand how I feel about you. Surviving isn’t worth it alone.”

Yes, even in my rhapsody, I can tell it’s a little cheesy. But it’s exactly what I need to hear… from someone… and the affirming words resonate inside.

I believe him.

Billy/Max leans in and we kiss. A passionate, open kiss that leaves me a bit woozy.

“Oh Billy.”
Oops. A little off-script
. But Billy, ever the professional, doesn’t break character.

“Shhh.”

“Sorry!” But again I’m off-script, the two worlds confusedly overlapping.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers urgently, eyes now wide, his fingers gripping my forearm. He silently edges off the settee and stalks toward the changing area. “I thought I heard something.”

My heart is in my throat as Billy grips the curtain folds and, without warning, flings it open. “
Oh my God. Run!
”

Billy’s horror is so convincing that I nearly dive off the settee, tossing my script to the floor. I’m half-expecting to find the walking dead shuffling toward me, a willowy salesgirl with dead eyes and a blood-smeared mouth craving my flesh. A beat later, I don’t know whether to laugh or be humiliated. Either way, my pulse is still racing.

“It’s ridiculous, right?” Billy says, referring to the script, but his words—and their larger truth—trigger an epiphany.

The “love” between Billy and me isn’t real.

Or at least it’s very different than Jacob’s. I can see it clearly now. This isn’t
Romeo and Juliet
or
West Side Story
. We’re not star-crossed lovers. The only tragic ending may be my reputation and stalled career.

And the fact that I hurt Jacob, losing the one guy who loved me most.

I wanted a future, a commitment with Jacob. And when it didn’t happen on my own timetable, insecurity twisted into frustration. Instead of exploring
why
, I left myself open to the exciting yet totally unexpected possibility of Billy.

I got swept up in the moment—seduced by the easygoing charm and sexy attention Billy embodies.

But there’s no real future with Mr. Fox and me. And so, as with poor promised Emily, the happy ending isn’t guaranteed—or, let’s face it, even likely.

With all I’ve seen in my job, why didn’t I realize sooner that I was beholden to make-believe?

Now, Billy isn’t a bad guy at all. He may even care for me. But this exercise puts my infatuation—because ultimately that’s what it is—into belated perspective.

“You okay?” Billy says. “You seem miles away.”

“I’m good,” I reply. “You’re going to nail the audition—screen test—whatever. Really. I totally bought it. But I’ve got to get going.”

An escape
is
in order. And I know just the place to help clear my head.

But first I’ve got to do something long overdue.

Back home I boot up the laptop and log on to my personal email account. Lots of unread or unanswered messages. I’m too ashamed to simply pick up the phone and call.

On the open road, flipping through radio stations
, I’m amazed to discover just how many country music stars relate to my current situation. Whether they’re losing at love, not knowing how they’ll get through another day, or enduring the unemployment blues—I find myself totally nodding my head, grateful that at least Keith Urban and Lyle Lovett understand what I’m going through.

The drive east to Palm Desert usually takes about two and a half hours from Brentwood. Given that I “cleverly” decided to make the drive during peak hours, it will be closer to four. Luckily I brought some good company. In the passenger seat, Lizzie alternates between poking her head out the half-cracked window—pink tongue blissfully lolling out of her mouth—and curling up to nap in the increasingly warm sunshine. The old girl may be light on conversation, but she offers plenty of comfort and unconditional love.

It’s only fitting that she joins me on this getaway. My family originally picked Lizzie out at a breeder’s house on our way home from the desert one winter. I remember knowing immediately she was the right dog. It’s not that she was the only one who came running up to me with wishful puppy eyes. Nor was
she showing off or trying to get her brothers and sisters to play with her. Instead, Lizzie had a rope chew toy in her mouth and wouldn’t let go. As an only child, I related to how self-sufficient and independent she was. And knew for certain we were meant to be together.

This morning my parents were gracious enough to loan me Lizzie and the keys to my childhood vacation home. After seeing things for what they are with Billy and belatedly confessing all via email to Izzy last night, I need a little off-the-grid time. And visiting Palm Desert, a city in the heart of Coachella Valley, approximately eleven miles east of Palm Springs, in the arid early summer, is definitely going against the grain. Dry heat or not, once the average high temperature settles in at triple digits, only the year-round aging Baby Boomers, sun-loving die-hards, and absolute masochists stick around.