The Actress: A Novel Page 12

  “I knew it! I bet you’ll eat sashimi for breakfast. I read that Steven Spielberg does. You know you’re really rich when you eat savory in the mornings.” Maddy giggled but felt an undercurrent of hostility from her friend.

  As they wolfed saag paneer and drank bad red wine, Irina told Maddy about some recent auditions and a grant she’d gotten to develop an experimental dance-theater piece on Cape Cod. Maddy told her about the Husbandry script, and Irina seemed supportive, though she said Juhasz’s work objectified women.

  After the dishes had been taken away and they were lingering over wine, Maddy mentioned the strange homemade wine she’d had in Steven’s Venetian kitchen. “So that’s what you really want?” Irina asked. “Italian wine, and your own palazzo, and a mansion in L.A.?”

  “It’s not about any of that,” Maddy answered. “It’s about Steven.”

  “You don’t have any regrets? After all those years with Dan, you just wash your hands?”

  “You know, I think I was in denial. He was so loving after my father died that I convinced myself it wasn’t already over.” As she said it, she started to believe it. “He wasn’t as into sex as I was. And he was in a bad mood all the time. Steven’s nothing like that. I’ve never met anyone who enjoys life the way he does. Food and drink and art. He has this incredible collection. Ed Ruscha.”

  Irina narrowed her eyes, a look Maddy remembered her giving right before she gave a scathing critique of a classmate’s work in Blood Wedding. “What?” Maddy asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Just say it.”

  “It’s—I always thought creative respect was the most important thing to you. In your relationships.”

  “It is!”

  “But how can you respect Steven Weller?”

  “I do respect him. You’re the one who doesn’t.”

  “Is it possible you’re in such a sex haze that you’re deluding yourself into thinking you like his acting?”

  Maddy tensed up. “No. It’s not just about sex. He cares what I think about his work. Like, he wants my feedback. I want to sleep next to him every night and wake up looking at him.”

  Irina gave her another long, level gaze. Maddy knew she would feel the same way if the roles were reversed, and yet she wished Irina could be the slightest bit happy for her. Steven Weller wanted her.

  But Irina saw the world in terms of hacks versus artists, and to her, Steven would always be a hack. “You promise to come visit,” Irina asked, “even after you’re making a million dollars a movie and you have a stylist, a hairdresser, and a personal publicist?”

  “I don’t know about all that stuff,” Maddy said, “but of course I’ll visit. I’ll be back and forth all the time.” From Irina’s look, Maddy could tell her friend thought she’d never see her again.

  Bridget and Steven were in the backseat of Steven’s Highlander, where they conducted most of their business. Steven had a vintage Arcadian-blue Mustang for pleasure, but his everyday car was the Highlander. Usually, Bridget would join him on his way somewhere, and during the hour they spent in traffic, they would get more business accomplished than they did at her office.

  It was a sweltering late-April Thursday, and Steven’s driver, Alan, was taking them to the set of Jen, a network comedy about a single girl living with her brother. Maddy had booked a guest spot, and Steven had taken the afternoon off from his own film, Declarations (about an unhinged underwriter), so he could watch her on set.

  Bridget had been surprised when Steven told her he wanted to watch Maddy; usually, his shoots overtook every aspect of his life, including romantic. But she was pleased to see him taking such interest. It was a good sign for Husbandry that he was engaged by her process.

  When Bridget left them alone in Venice, she had wondered when it would happen, but she had not been sure. One morning in Bulgaria, after Steven had phoned Bridget to update her, Dan arrived on set in a rage. “You did this! You drove them together!” the boy screamed in front of the Valentine crew, who were readying a complicated crane shot. Bridget whisked him away, explaining to him that she had done nothing of the sort. People loved whom they loved. “Try to see your work as an escape,” she had counseled him. “It’s a gift to have this job to keep you busy.”

  The next few days, he had been distracted at work, but he soon regained his focus, though he was visibly colder to Bridget, which she didn’t mind. She preferred him blaming her to blaming Maddy. She was used to taking the fall for clients; it was part of being a manager. Rachel Huber spent a lot of time talking to him, which Bridget felt was kind of her, looking out for him in a time of need.

  In the Highlander, Steven and Bridget had been discussing the upcoming DVD commentary for The Widower, and he was glowering. It had gotten its theatrical release a few weeks before, and it wasn’t performing. She had been convinced it was one of Steven’s best performances, but reviewers had called him “stiff” and “miscast as a loser.” She had reassured him that it took time to reinvent oneself as an actor, to make risky choices. He had to keep being brave; they were reshaping an almost fifteen-year-old image.

  She was confident that Husbandry would establish him, once and for all, as an actor and not just a star. Juhasz and Weller were a collaboration for the ages, old Hollywood and new. Whenever Walter made a film, critics rewatched and remembered all the great movies he had made in the 1970s. Louis was a braver role than the lead in The Widower. A husband with rage and erectile issues. Anger and ED were practically guaranteed Oscar bait.

  When her phone rang, she hesitated. She never liked to take calls while conducting business with Steven. But he was looking down at an email and nodded for her to answer. “Tim Heller,” her assistant said. Bridget and Tim had been trading calls.

  “I just saw the screener for I Used to Know Her,” said Tim, an officious Brit. “And I was dazzled by Maddy Freed. My next project is Freda Jansons, and I want her to read for me.”

  “Tell me more,” Bridget said, though Nancy Watson-Eckstein had sent her the screenplay a few days ago to pass along to Maddy. Bridget had taken a quick glance at it—it was a long and long-winded biopic—but when she saw that the shoot dates conflicted with Husbandry, she had tossed it.

  “It’s based on a true story in the 1950s about an autistic scientist,” Tim continued, “who figures out how to cure a senator’s son.” Steven had finished his call and Bridget put Tim on speaker. “It’s a biopic with a lot of freewheeling elements.”

  “You know she’s doing the Walter Juhasz in June, July, and August.”

  “We go into production in July,” Tim said.

  “Well, there you go. She’s unavailable.”

  “Has she read the script?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She should. I’m sure Walter would accommodate—I mean, he’s known for a lot of production delays.”

  “You know, Tim,” Bridget said, “I’ll certainly take you up on a general, but I can’t put her in two places at once. Besides, she signed the contract. There’s nothing I can do.”

  After she hung up, Bridget looked at Steven. He had changed so rapidly since he’d met Maddy. None of the other girls had affected him like this. His hair seemed thicker and his complexion was ruddy. What those two had together, it wasn’t just sex. When he was in Maddy’s company, he gave her his full attention. He leaned in when she spoke.

  “There’s something different about you these days,” Bridget said.

  “What?”

  “You’re more playful. And you seem healthier. It’s in your step.”

  “I cannot tell you how lucky I am to have such a bright, talented woman in my life.”

  Bridget inspected her nails and turned to Steven. “It makes me happy to see you so happy. You’re less . . . tethered.”

  “I used to think all the time about what other people had to say about me,” he said. “Not no
w. When you have someone who loves you unconditionally, the less important things fade away.”

  “Yes,” Bridget said.

  They rode in silence until Steven typed something into his phone. Without looking up, he said, “I didn’t think she signed her Husbandry contract yet.”

  Bridget shrugged. “That doesn’t matter.”

  He smiled. “You did the right thing. But sometimes you make me want to take a shower.”

  “You just said how much she’s changed you. We need to keep her focused on what’s important. And nothing is more important than working with you.”

  Maddy was surprised to find that there was a reserved parking spot for her right outside the soundstage. She got out of her Prius, and a production assistant was already coming out to meet her. Had the guard called, or was there someone whose job it was to stare out a window of the building, waiting for the cars to roll up?

  The role on Jen was the second she had booked since moving to L.A. and into Steven’s mansion. The first was a psychological thriller, a supporting role as a shrink. Another girl had backed out at the last minute, and Maddy had stepped in. It was only a week’s worth of work, but she got to join the Screen Actors Guild, and when she deposited her $20,000 paycheck in her new Los Angeles banking account, she felt she was building her future. Even if Steven wouldn’t let her help pay for living expenses, and insisted on giving her the Prius and a black credit card, the money from work helped her feel she wasn’t completely dependent.

  Maddy’s role on the comedy was Jen’s brother’s new girlfriend—it had a lot of physicality, plus half a dozen great zingers. Less confident in comedy than drama, Maddy was only so-so on her audition and had been shocked when Bridget called to say she’d booked it.

  After she walked inside, Maddy was introduced to the costume designer, show runner, makeup, hair, director, assistant director, and a bunch of PAs. A PA took her to her trailer, which was elaborately decked out—it even had a flat-screen TV. On the dining table, she found three beautifully wrapped packages: gifts from the show runner, the director, and the star. A gorgeous black-and-white Hermès scarf, a funky red leather watch, and a basket of expensive bath salts. Each had a tasteful note wishing her luck.

  She suspected not every day-player on a rising sitcom got this kind of attention. Such things happened to her frequently these days, expensive gifts from executives, cosmetic companies, and designers coming by messenger to the house.

  On set, as the director had shaken her hand, she’d sensed him looking at her too closely. It was a glance she had become accustomed to in her short time as Steven’s “new girl,” a glance she saw at the charity balls and premieres and dinners out. It was a glance that said, Why her?

  She had no answer. They just loved each other, that was all. Maddy knew she wasn’t the prettiest or even the youngest girlfriend he had ever had. She couldn’t pinpoint what made her worthy of his love, and yet she believed him when he told her what she meant to him. She didn’t care if she was delusional to think it would last. She felt she would follow him anywhere.

  During a long rehearsal, Maddy was shocked to see Bridget and Steven slip into two directors’ chairs by Video Village. She was both honored that he had come and concerned that he might distract her coworkers.

  Maddy hurried over on her next break. “How’d you get off the film?” she asked him, pecking him on the cheek.

  “I’m a very powerful person,” he said, drawing her close. “Or did you not know that?”

  “You’re doing great, honey,” Bridget said. “We’re having such fun watching you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, loving his hands on her, getting turned on. “But Steven, you’re causing a fuss.” She nodded toward the set, where the other actors were staring and pretending not to stare. “It’s not fair to those guys.”

  “I won’t stay long,” he said. “I just want to catch a few minutes. I love to watch you work.”

  His compliment made her feel like a balloon. She realized what it meant to her that he had come. Not only because it showed the cast and crew that he cared, but because he did care.

  Back on set, she did her next few takes with elevated energy. Later, when she looked out to see that Bridget was alone again, she felt a twinge of disappointment.

  On her lunch break, Maddy went to her trailer and ate a walnut-and-chicken salad that had been prepared by Annette. Bridget, who had come in to sit with her, said, “Your physicality is fantastic. You remind me of Jean Arthur.” Maddy and Steven had watched Mr. Smith Goes to Washington in the screening room of his house, and it had helped her prepare. She wondered if Steven had told Bridget they’d watched it. Then she decided there was a simpler explanation: In two decades of working together, they had a common vocabulary of stars, living and dead. Steven seemed closer to Bridget than anyone else in the world.

  “Honey, what is it?” Bridget said, patting her arm.

  Maddy set down her fork. “Do you think I got this part because—because of him? So they could bill Maddy Freed as their special guest star? My audition was not that good. I got some of the comedic beats, but the girls in the hallway, they were really funny. They’d all done improv in New York.”

  “Maybe it is because of Steven.”

  “You say it like that’s okay. How can I know, from this moment on, whether any job I get is deserved?”

  “You won’t. Everyone knows you’re Steven’s girlfriend when you walk into an audition room. But you knew you were talented long before you met him. You have range, you can handle different kinds of material, you can use your body as an instrument. If you continue to do everything you do naturally, for most roles, it’ll come down to you and one or two others. At that point, when it’s just a few, anything can tip the scales. The color of your hair. The shape of your mouth. Your chemistry with a costar. If a director likes you because of Steven, that’s no different from another girl booking it because she’s curly and you’re straight. Your talent will get you ninety percent of the way. What gets you the last ten percent of the way is out of your control. Why think about it?” Bridget opened her purse and pulled out a manila folder. “While I have you, you need to sign this. The contract for Husbandry.” Bridget, Nancy, and Maddy’s new lawyer, Edward Rosenman (who was also Steven’s lawyer), had negotiated her a salary of $200,000, far more than Maddy had expected for her first professional feature. Maddy had agreed to full nudity with a merkin, a pubic wig. Bridget had explained that they used merkins on shoots to avoid X ratings; prosthetic hair was an R, but real hair was an X. It sounded ridiculous to put fake hair on top of real hair, but as Bridget liked to point out, that was only one of many ridiculous things about the film industry.

  “I can’t believe my first big movie is going to require all this sex,” Maddy said.

  “The sex is important to the character,” Bridget said, “and I’ll be there to protect you. And Steven will, too.” After Maddy signed, Bridget said, “Congratulations, my darling. You’ve just signed the contract that is going to make you a star.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I knew it the moment I saw you on that horrible bus in your movie. Give me some credit. I’ve been in the industry longer than you’ve been alive.” She put the contracts back in the folder and plopped it into her handbag. “Now don’t let me keep you another second,” she said. Maddy started to say she didn’t mind the company, but Bridget was already gone.

  “How come you’re not ready?” Steven asked, stepping out of the walk-in they shared. “We have to leave in five minutes.” He arrived everywhere at least twenty minutes early; he became agitated in the back of the car if there was traffic, even though Alan knew every obscure shortcut in greater Los Angeles. He and Maddy were going to a Housing Project USA house-raising in Oxnard. Steven was on the board.

  “I’m almost ready,” Maddy said from in front of the Biedermeier vanity table where she wa
s sitting naked, doing her makeup.

  Steven’s mansion was intimidating, a 1920 beaux arts. He had bought it while he was still on Briefs, then spent five years restoring it to its original splendor. It was ten thousand square feet, with eight bedrooms, columns in front, and a wide iron gate. Maddy was hopeful that one day she could convince him to move someplace smaller, warmer, and more heimish, as her father would have put it.

  “Don’t wear a lot of makeup,” Steven said, kissing her neck and looking at the two of them in the mirror.

  “But when I go out without makeup, the photographers put me in that spread.”

  “Fine, but only a little,” he said. “You hardly need it, anyway.”

  A few days after she’d moved in, a tabloid had snapped a shot of her exiting Yuki Sushi with Steven, looking bedraggled. Bridget had sent over a makeup artist to give her a tutorial. But it was hard to know how “natural” to be when there would be camera crews at the event.

  Aside from makeup skills, Maddy had learned other rules in the time she had been living with Steven: Don’t read tabloid magazines, don’t Google your boyfriend, and don’t Google yourself. Though she tried to adhere to them, on occasion she would be at her laptop in her study, watching a comedy clip, and begin to surf, and spot an item on the side or bottom that said “Maddy and Steven in Lover’s Tiff” or “The Shocking Truth About Weller’s Girlfriend!” Feeling sheepish, she would click and read a complete fabrication, and it would upset her so much that she’d vow never to go on again.

  Bridget had also gotten Maddy a stylist who’d brought a mix of designer dresses for evening events and casual, high-end pieces for every day. Steven helped her select items, watching as she paraded around. It was clear the bill would go to him; there was no way she could afford the pieces.

  If their time in Venice had been a world that consisted solely of the two of them, Los Angeles was the two of them in the world. Every night, it seemed, was a different event. And everyone wanted to be near Steven. Women ogled him openly. Gay men were no better. At a fund-raiser at the Pacific Design Center, she had seen two effeminate guys whispering to each other when they passed. If Steven noticed all of this, he hid it well. She tried to follow his lead: He let it all roll off of him, the good parts of celebrity as well as the bad. People could speculate and gossip as much as they wanted, she told herself, but she was the one who shared his bed.