“It’s a good place to play my sax, if the cops don’t catch me,” he answered.
“You play the sax?” She looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and respect. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? You really are full of surprises.”
Warren merely shrugged.
“I’d love to hear you play.”
“Hang around this town long enough and you’re bound to. Like I said, this is one of my favorite spots right here. Tourists show up by the busload.”
“This is the Dolby Theatre. They hold the Oscars here.” Bridget ran into the entryway and skipped up some steps before turning around to strike a pose. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank the Academy! It is such an honor to be before you tonight!”
“Hurrah!” said Warren, clapping his hands.
“I dedicate this award to all of the little people, thank you so very much!”
“The little people?” Warren asked.
“Extras, bums on the street…”
“Very funny.”
“You know, Michael Caine was homeless for a year before he made it,” she said. “I read that somewhere.”
“Is that so? And look at him now.”
“Look at him now,” said Bridget, walking back down the stairs.
“I’ll see you up there someday,” said Warren.
“You think so?”
“As soon as they add a
Best Extra
category.”
Bridget wound up a fist and slugged him in the arm.
“Ow!” he exclaimed.
“You deserved that!” she said.
Warren smiled and they continued their leisurely stroll up the sidewalk. He remembered the last time he’d felt this way about a woman; the prelude to a long hard crash. But why think of Ophelia now? This was completely different. He and Bridget were just friends. There was nothing between them. Right? He looked at her sideways, wondering. They walked south down Franklin and on past Sunset. On a quiet side street they came to her building. “This is me,” Bridget said, coming to a stop on the sidewalk out front. “I guess this is the end of our date.”
“Was this a date?” said Warren, taken aback.
“It sort of felt like it, didn’t it?” she said, surprised to hear the words coming from her mouth.
“Are dates always this nice?” he asked.
“In my experience, they’re not usually nice at all,” she answered.
“So how is a date supposed to end?”
“Theoretically, if it was a good one, then I guess it ends with a kiss.”
Warren went pale, caught off guard. “Was this a good one?”
Bridget was equally frightened by what might happen next, but when she could stand the suspense no longer, she darted forward and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Good night!” she said, rapidly retreating.
“A good night indeed,” he replied.
Bridget hurried through the garden to her apartment in the back where she unlocked the door and ducked inside. Warren watched until he could see her no more. His heart swelled as he reveled in the pain and the joy of it all, grateful to be alive.
Chapter Sixteen
Jessica Turnbull sat on a couch in her dressing room, flipping through a tabloid article all about her love life. It didn’t bother her a bit that almost none of it was true. Publicity was publicity, in whatever form it came. Some girls might have been upset by it, but as long as Jessica’s picture was on the cover, she was happy.
In front of her, Roger Craddock paced back and forth with a look of anguish on his face. “You’ve been avoiding me lately,” he said.
“Don’t be silly,” Jessica answered without looking up.
“You don’t even return my calls,” he whined.
“Baby, you sound like a wounded schoolboy,” she replied.
“What were you doing last night that was so damned important?!”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said slyly.
“Yes, I would,” he said.
“Such a big, important man, and yet so insecure,” she responded.
“Why do you do this to me?” he cried. “Why do you torment me?”
“I’m a star, dear. It’s what stars do. Besides, I love it when you’re jealous.”
Craddock sat down on the couch beside her. Desperation showed in the worried look on his face. Jessica leaned over and gently kissed him on the forehead. “Don’t believe the Hollywood rumor mill. You know how it is, dear. Atrocious.” Just then they heard a knock at the door.
“You’re wanted on the set, Jessica!” came a voice from outside.
“Duty calls, dear,” said she to Craddock. Jessica stood up and took a last look in the mirror, adjusting her hair slightly before she walked out, leaving her agonized producer behind.
Chapter Seventeen
Warren walked into a café in his baggy suit and gazed around at the empty wooden tables. Along one side, Jessica sat at a counter in a waitress’ uniform, idly drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.
“Afternoon,” said Warren.
“Yes it would be,” said Jessica.
“What are you drinking?”
“What does it look like? Why, you a cop?”
“Just a man looking for something more refreshing than tea, if you know what I mean,” said Warren.
“You’re talking to the wrong girl, then. I wouldn’t know a thing about that,” said Jessica, shaking her head and looking back to her paper.
“Oh, yeah? I heard you were McGhee’s girl.”
“That so? You believe everything you hear?” she said, haughtily.
“I believe he’s a lucky man, if it’s true.”
“Well, if it is true, you might just watch yourself. A man could get in a bad way around here.” She looked at him with steely eyes.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” said Warren. He started to walk off, but Jessica called after him.
“Oh, hell, you look safe enough. Downstairs, knock three times. Password’s ‘The Cat’s Meow.’”
Warren smiled, his eyes glittering. “Thanks,” he said.
“Cut!” yelled the director. “Brilliant! I love it! Moving on!”
Suddenly the set was full of life as the crew scurried around, repositioning their gear. “Not bad, rookie. Not bad at all,” Jessica said to Warren.
“Thank you,” Warren replied uneasily. When they were acting together it was easy to lose himself in the role, but off camera he was still under the impression that he wasn’t meant to speak with her. He looked at Jessica’s perfect skin, that little nose and the depth of those beautiful round eyes. He breathed in deeply and inhaled her aroma. Intoxicating.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes, fine!” Warren stammered.
“I didn’t have much hope for you, to be honest. Even after your audition, but you keep surprising me.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Some men are not easy to act against, believe me, but with you it’s not so bad. I think we might even have some chemistry. Let’s hope anyway. That’s the key to the whole thing, after all, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Jessica laughed at this response. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. Well, just keep doing what you’re doing, and hopefully we’ll make some magic.”
As Warren watched her walk away he realized that he wasn’t just an interloper anymore; or an extra even. He was a colleague. That’s how Jessica saw him now. His heart filled with pride and a burgeoning self-confidence. He was beginning to feel like he could do this after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Bridget sat in a chair away from the others, trying to in vain to read a book she’d brought along. It was a romance, about an architect living in New York City. Bridget was having a hard time getting into it. She couldn’t seem to concentrate. When she looked up she saw Justin sitting on the other side of the tent, on to a new girl; younger and fresh off the bus. Bridget could just make out his voice as he eagerly explained the ins and outs of Hollywood. She felt sorry for the girl briefly, but was relieved to have regained a little of her own space.
“That’s it for the day, everyone! Line up over here to have your vouchers signed!” Kevin announced. The extras rose in unison and moved toward a table on the other side of the holding area.
“How was the big date last night?” Charles asked as he moved past Bridget.
“It wasn’t a date,” she answered.
“All right, fine, it was two single adults having dinner. But it wasn’t a date.”
“How do you know he’s single?” Bridget and Charles joined the end of the line.
“Isn’t he?” Charles asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“You tell me.”
“Look, we had a very nice dinner and that’s all there is to it.”
“Mmm, hmm…” Charles purred, with a sparkle in his eye. “Whatever you say, missy.”
“What do you want me to say?!” Bridget was exasperated.
“Come on, you know I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“Well knock it off already! You sound like you’re in the seventh grade.”
“Just be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt over this whole thing.”
“What whole thing? There’s no thing!”
“Ok, good.”
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
“No. None of my business.”
The two of them were quiet as the line moved slowly forward. Despite her best intentions, Charles’ words did sow seeds of doubt in her mind. She was excited about her burgeoning friendship with Warren, whatever it was, but had she taken things too far? Maybe Charles was right. She should be careful. She didn’t really know much about Warren, and yet she’d gone right ahead and kissed him! She could never admit that to Charles, but when she thought of Warren with his eager smile, dancing around in the street like a chimpanzee, she laughed to herself. No, she didn’t regret it, but she could stand to be a little more careful. There was no sense rushing into anything, after all.
At the front of the line Kevin looked over Bridget’s voucher and signed it before handing over her copy. “Back tomorrow?” she asked. She knew she might get cut any day. It didn’t look good to have the same people in the background of every scene.
“Yeah, we can use you tomorrow,” said Kevin as he looked over her long grey coat. “Check in with wardrobe in the morning. Maybe we’ll set you up with a different look.”
“Sure,” Bridget replied, happy to get at least one more day on the job. As she walked off, she saw Roger Craddock headed straight toward her from across the lot. Bridget froze where she was. Just the sight of the producer made her nervous.
“Hey, you there!” Craddock said as he approached. “What’s your name?”
“Me? I’m Bridget,” she answered with a quizzical expression. “Bridget Peterson.”
“Would you like to earn a little money?” he asked.
“That depends on what you’re asking.” She recalled Marjorie’s dire warning. What exactly did this man expect of her?
Craddock looked flustered. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for two hours. It’s easy money!” he practically begged.
“How easy?” said Bridget. “I do have my morals, you know!”
A hint of comprehension crossed Craddock’s face and he shook his head back and forth. “Oh, no, no, I think you misunderstand me,” he said.
“I hope so,” said Bridget.
“I need a babysitter,” said Craddock.
“What?” Bridget replied, but then the word babysitter sank in. Of course. Why was she not surprised that it was such a pedestrian task? It wasn’t her shot at the stars after all, but then again it wasn’t anything unseemly either.
Craddock pulled out his wallet and looked inside. “Two hundred dollars, cash! For two hours! Come on, how can you turn that down?”
“Why don’t you call a service or something?”
“I don’t have time. Look, you’ll be doing me a huge favor. The nanny is out sick and I need to visit my mother at her home. I’ve got to go right now. Two hours, that’s all I ask! Maybe less. You’ve looked after kids before, right?”
“How old are they?” Bridget answered curiously. Two hundred dollars was a week’s rent.
“One is three and the other is one and a half. A girl and a boy. Lydia is in diapers, but she should be fine. All you need to do is plunk them down in front of the TV and throw in a video. It’ll be the easiest money you ever made, I promise,” Craddock pleaded. It was a side of the man that Bridget hadn’t expected. He almost seemed human, somehow.
“I’d need to be home by seven thirty. I have an appointment,” she replied, thinking of Warren.
“No problem. Let’s go.” He shoved the two hundred dollars into her hand. Bridget followed him toward the parking lot, hoping that this wasn’t some sort of elaborate ploy. When they got to his red Maserati she opened the passenger door and settled into the plush leather seat. This was a car that only a jerk of a producer would drive, she thought, yet she had to admit it was a thrill when they pulled out of the lot and he stepped on the gas, sending them hurtling down the street.
Chapter Nineteen
Bridget sat in a chaise lounge on the back patio of Roger Craddock’s palatial estate. She’d shed her long coat to reveal a more comfortable grey cotton top and short black skirt with matching black shoes and stockings. In front of her, three-year-old Nathan and one and a half-year-old Lydia played on the lawn with their toys. Nathan scooped up small blocks with a bulldozer while Lydia followed him around in her diaper, bending over tentatively from time to time to pick up a stray block and toss it across the grass with a squeak of laughter. This certainly was the easiest babysitting job Bridget could remember.
From inside the house, a French door opened and Sylvia, Craddock’s maid, appeared holding a tray with a pitcher of lemonade three empty glasses and a sippy cup. She moved to Bridget and placed the tray on a table. “I thought you might like a cool drink,” she said, taking a seat herself before pouring the first glass.
“Thank you…” said Bridget as Sylvia handed her a lemonade. Bridget was somewhat surprised to be treated so well.
Sylvia, a solid Latina in her mid-40’s, filled her own glass and took a sip. “Hey kids, lemonade!” she shouted, but the children paid no attention.
“Well, I appreciate it even if they don’t.” Bridget added.