Charlotte blinked heavily. “What? Oh, yes, I was trying to recollect,” she said, struggling for composure. Lord, that extra medication was really kicking in. It felt like her brain was mush. “I…I don’t remember much of my childhood. At least not how I looked.” The lies were pounding in her head now. How much longer did she have to go on?
“What
do
you remember?” Vicki pressed.
Charlotte sighed heavily. “I can remember trivial things. Let’s see—” she rubbed her temple “—I was a bookworm, especially for Charles Dickens. I always wanted a garden and, of course, I remember the games.” She swallowed again, her throat dry, recalling how often she’d been the target of cruel games.
“The gossip that always surrounds a celebrity is difficult to live with,” Vicki continued, changing topics. “But you seem to attract so much gossip. You’ve been on the cover of almost every magazine and seem to be a favorite of the tabloids.”
“I can’t imagine why. I live a rather boring life.”
“Maybe it’s because they’re attracted to the unknown. Your quest for privacy is as legendary as your beauty.”
“Is it? I just prefer to keep to myself. What do they think they’ll find that’s so interesting? When I’m not working, I’m pulling weeds in my garden.”
“Well, for starters—” Vicki flashed a smile “—isn’t it true that you were released from your last film? Rumors circulated on the set that you were loaded with drugs. Perhaps even had a breakdown of sorts?”
Charlotte took a deep breath, knowing without looking that Freddy’s smile was gone and he was leaning forward, waiting for her answer, deliberating on damage control. She decided to face the truth head-on.
“I
was
sick,” she admitted. She saw Vicki’s brow rise in anticipation of a coup. “I had a terrible case of the flu that I ignored.” Vicki’s smile fell and Charlotte knew she wasn’t buying the story. “The role meant a great deal to me. My mother taught me that illness is a weakness to be worked through. Unfortunately, the flu progressed to pneumonia.” She shrugged slightly. “I’m told I had a serious case, and I have to admit I was frightened.”
“You disappeared.” Vicki’s eyes were hard.
“Yes.” The image of Michael again flashed in her mind. His touch, his eyes, his love—they were for her like the sun, soil and air were to the garden. Her smile cracked.
She brought a shaky hand to her face, but a warning glare from Freddy caught her before she betrayed herself. With a clever tilt of her palm, she gracefully settled her long fingers along the exquisite curve of her jaw.
Vicki waited with the patience of a pro.
“I didn’t really disappear,” Charlotte continued. “That sounds so glamorous. All I did was spend some time in the country, alone, to regain my health.”
“Like in
Camille?
You won an Oscar for that role.”
Charlotte laughed lightly, determined to regain control of the interview. “Yes, I suppose so. Life imitates art…or vice versa.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “My health,” she said, emphasizing the word, “was the reason I requested a release from my last film. The pills I was seen taking were prescription. And it is common knowledge that I adhere to a strict regime of vitamins and herbs.” She lifted one hand and flicked her fingers lightly. “I swear, one can’t take a vitamin anymore without being tagged a drug addict.”
Vicki smirked, and Charlotte realized the host was removing her gloves. All bets were off. Charlotte felt betrayed, trapped. As her headache pounded in her temples, she felt the beginnings of a wave of chills. Her hands formed fists in her lap, digging moon-shaped dents into her palms as she fought for composure. She wasn’t up to this. She had warned Freddy. Oh, God, she prayed fervently, don’t let me get sick now, on national TV.
“Can you respond to the rumors of a breakdown?”
Charlotte offered a steely smile. “I thought I just had.”
“Oh, surely you can’t pretend not to have been upset by your breakup with Brad Sommers?”
This time Charlotte genuinely laughed out loud. Freddy’s press releases had done their job. “Vicki, really. Give me a little credit. Brad and I are friends,” she lied.
“If not Brad, then—” Vicki quickly checked her note cards “—what about Michael Mondragon?” she asked, raising her eyes with a gleam of triumph. “Some say that behind your tall, ivy-covered walls you were in fact hiding a torrid love affair with your gardener.”
Charlotte sat back in her chair, dumbstruck. How did Vicki know about Michael? How dare she call him a gardener? Nausea rose up to choke her, forcing her to swallow hard, appearing to the camera, she knew, overwhelmed by the question. Her gaze flew to Freddy standing just offstage, a mute appeal in her eyes.
Her pal the cameraman obliged and shifted the camera focus to catch a glimpse of Freddy, arms now clasped tightly across his chest. He bore a hard grin, but his eyes were flashing. Freddy remained resolutely silent, only waving the camera away. Vicki made a discreet gesture and immediately the camera returned to her.
“Michael who?” Charlotte finally blurted. She sat straighter in her chair, angry at Vicki for digging into her personal life, angry at Freddy for leaking the information, angry at herself for not having enough courage to walk off the stage. “Me and my gardener? Really. This is too much.”
She couldn’t help herself; her hand rose to cover her eyes. The tremors were returning. She felt weaker, dizzy. Poor Michael. If he heard what she’d just said it would hurt him deeply. But what choice did she have? What choice had he left her?
“These kinds of rumors are why I choose to keep my private life private,” she added, raising her eyes. She didn’t realize her hands clutched the arms of her chair. “When Freddy and I are married we’re going to take a long trip, away from public view, so I can regain my health. When I come back I’ll be as good as new and ready to face whatever.”
Vicki retreated, moving into the audience. A sweet-faced woman, obviously a fan, flagged Vicki. “Is there another film we can look forward to?”
Charlotte mentally blessed the old woman. “Oh, yes,” she said, with a smile that lit up her face. “I’m very excited about my next project. I’ve always wanted to play the lead in
Tess of the D’Urbervilles.
”
“Another demanding role,” chided Vicki. “You’re known to become the character you play, but you won’t let yourself die like poor Tess, I hope?”
While the audience chuckled, Charlotte caught her breath. Did Vicki suspect? Was Dr. Harmon right and Freddy wrong? Who should she believe? It was clear she was getting sick again. Worse than ever. She could hardly get through a day without collapsing.
Charlotte focused on the answer by force of will. “Goodness, I hope not!” She flashed a megawatt smile straight at the cameras. “I hope you’ll all come see it.”
Vicki seemed satisfied, and the audience showed their approval with their applause. In the wings, Freddy was nodding with paternalistic pleasure. Everyone was smiling. Charlotte leaned back in her chair and quickly glanced at her watch. It was over. She’d made it through the interview without the truth slipping out. For a few tense moments, she’d thought Vicki had the scoop and would press her hard for a confession, breaking her down like a guilty witness on the stand. What good TV that would have been: the end of a career.
No matter, she thought, pretending not to feel the wrenching of her stomach. In a few minutes more, she could go home to her big four-poster bed, cuddle up under her down comforter, take another dose of her herbal remedy and pray for the illness to pass.
“We only have time for one more question.”
A man in the audience rose. There was something familiar in his towering height and the breadth of his shoulders. Something about the neatly clipped black hair brushed back from his forehead that caught her attention. A chill shivered through her. Her breathing grew shallow as she squinted through the haze of lights to focus on the man. He was moving forward now, down the stairs toward the front stage. Toward her. Each step he took was measured by her gasps. Each inch closer brought her further to despair.
Vicki, sensing something amiss, followed the man who boldly approached the stage. She opened her mouth to speak, but either instinct or memory hushed her. She stilled the security guard with a flick of her wrists and expertly allowed the tension to spread throughout the audience. While the camera whirred, one by one the hands dropped and the heads turned toward the handsome, dark-haired man who now stopped at the foot of the stage and stared with bruising intensity at the frozen actress. Silence reigned.
“Charlotte Godfrey,” he said, piercing the quiet with a voice that carried the clarity of conviction. “You are a fraud.”
A collective gasp surged through the room, and from somewhere she could hear the angry shouts of Freddy demanding that this moron be removed.
Charlotte stared back into the piercing dark eyes that silenced her. No words came for her response. She had no lines, no script. She was rendered mute with confusion, struck dumb by her blinding hatred for this man. And more. Oh, yes. That other, deeper, more excruciating pain. For she loved no man more than Michael Mondragon.
Vicki was talking now, rapidly closing the show, promising the gaping audience that she would schedule a follow-up. Freddy was being forcibly held back, but she could hear his garbled shouts rise up over the din. Mustering dignity, Charlotte stood up, catching hold of the chair to steady herself. Then, turning on her heel, she walked with her chin high, away from the blinding lights, away from the shouts of Freddy, and most of all, away from the tangible pull of Michael Mondragon. He called after her, more a demand, but she ignored him. Faster she walked, almost a trot, back to the seclusion of the green room.
“Don’t let anyone in,” she ordered the guard. He nodded and straightened his shoulders as she filed past him, locking the door behind her.
What should she do now? she asked herself as she paced the floor, holding her flushed and fevered face in her hands. Run? But where could she go?
“Charlotte!” Michael roared outside her door. He pounded, shaking the wood. “Open the door. We need to talk. I won’t let you die!” The door shook. “Charlotte!”
Then Freddy’s voice. Now both of them were calling her name. She threw herself on the sofa, covering her ears. Outside, they took to shouting at each other, like two territorial dogs defending what was theirs. Oh, God, were they fighting? She heard the muffled sounds of fists against muscle, grunts, followed by shouts of alarm from Vicki.
“Go away,” Charlotte screamed at the two men. “Please just leave me alone!”
She curled up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest, shivering. Each bone in her body ached, every muscle trembled. “Go away,” she moaned, over and over, crooning as the chills and fever racked her. She couldn’t go on like this. She wouldn’t. No more listening to Michael or Freddy.
Wasn’t it
her
face,
her
life that was at issue here? She had to make this decision alone. She had to think, to remember, to go back to where it all began.
Her eyelids felt like heavy weights and she could no longer fight off closing them. As soon as she relinquished resistance, she felt blanketed by a languid, drifting blackness. Her mind called out to the ghost of the child evoked earlier during the interview. As she slipped deeper into the darkness, from somewhere she heard the high-pitched, singsong voice of a little girl saying over and over, “I told you so….”
September 1976
Charlotte sat on the periphery of the playground. Her yellow dress hung limply around her knees as her feet dangled over the bleachers. Humming a nameless tune, she watched the other kindergarten children cover the ground, laughing, playing the many silly, exciting games that she knew by heart: hopscotch, jump-rope, cat’s cradle. But no one invited her to join, so she sat, swinging her legs, and watched.
Suddenly two young girls she knew well darted past her to hide behind the bleachers. Charlotte sat up, tense with anticipation. She marveled at how their pretty cheeks were pink with excitement. Their voices were shrill with feigned alarm.
“Come back here, Charlotte,” one of them whispered.
“They’ll see you and guess our hiding place. Hurry!”
Charlotte jumped up with a rush of joy to join them.
“Me? You want me to play?” No one ever wanted her to play.
“Hurry up!”
They were playing with her! Charlotte scurried around the green wooden bleacher and huddled with the other girls, her hands tight against her chest in excitement. She imagined her own cheeks were as pretty and pink as theirs. When the group of young boys spotted them, they pointed and charged. The girls took off, squealing in the chase.
Charlotte’s heart pounded gleefully as her little feet soared across the hard-packed grass of the playing field. She was running with them and, oh, she was fast! She could feel the wind kiss her smile and flap her dress hem against her thighs as she sprinted. Behind her she heard heavy footfall, and, feeling cocky, she looked over her shoulder teasingly. She knew she was smarter in school, and now she knew she was faster, too. The boy who chased her flushed and frowned furiously.
Charlotte’s laughter pealed and she ran harder. As she began to tire, she sensed a subtle shift in attitude. Them against her. Instead of one boy chasing her, now there were three, and they were frustrated and closing ranks. Where were the other girls?