Hollywood's Secret Baby

Instead of snarling back, Jay simply slow claps. “Look at you. Finally coming along as a fine actress. Once this little amateur film of yours falls flat on its face, you’ll do what you need to survive in Hollywood. The same thing countless girls before you have done.”

I squeeze the phone in my hand, and something clicks in my head. I remember why I’m holding it, and with unsteady steps I move forward, getting right where I don’t want to be. Once I’m close enough to smell the garlic pasta Jay ate for dinner, I say, “You mean like what your brother-in-law did to Sarah?”

Jay’s laugh is boisterous. Proud. “That’s what I love about Jeb. He’s always got to be in the spotlight, which means no one ever suspects the guy behind the curtain pulling the strings.”

My impromptu plan takes an unexpected turn. I don’t have to act shocked when I hiss out, “It was you?”

Jay licks his lips and leans over to whisper close to my ear, “I love a good piece of Asian ass. And how many men who look anything like me get to point at a celebrity like her and know that they’ve tapped that?”

His slippery tongue forming these words reminds me of a pulsating slug, and I’m so disgusted that I turn to escape, but Jay’s fingers wrap around my wrist. His grip tightens so that I yelp. If I’m expecting anyone to notice and help, I’m out of luck; this sort of event attracts the self-absorbed, and everyone is too busy chatting or snapping pictures to pay attention to two nameless people like Jay and me.

“I’m not much of a looker, I know, but I am a shaker. Just one night with me, and I can guarantee you a spot in a real movie. One that doesn’t rely on a film festival like this to get it off the ground. Your boy is done. And if you think they’ll actually convict Jeb, you’re betting on the wrong horse. We own Hollywood, which means if you want to be part of it, you’re going to have to join our little toy collection.” He releases the grip on my wrist. “Think about it. One night and the world can be yours.”

My brain is like a motor breaking down. I’m shaking all over as I back away from this disgusting creature, and when I step back into someone else, I whip around, ready to either apologize or fight my way out of here. But standing behind me, his arms resting protectively on my shoulders, is Cory. He’s frozen, eyes boring into Jay. His only movement is a slight twitch at the corner of his lips.

He moves as if to confront Jay, but I push him back. “Please,” I beg him. “Can we find other seats?”

Cory doesn’t move, so I resort to pulling him away. It’s at times like this that I realize how much heavier he is than me. It makes me feel like a corgi pulling at the leash of a German shepherd whose just caught the scent of an animal it’s been hunting for some time.

Since all the main seating is reserved, our only choice is to move up to the second floor where the media and regular people who bought their tickets sit. We find seats in the back corner where I recount my brief conversation with Jay as Cory cools down.

“He actually admitted to it? He’s the one that did that to Sarah?”

“I got it on video.”

Cory kisses me and says, “You marvelous thing.” Then he goes to stand. “Sarah’s around here. We need to find her. Warn her.”

But just as I go to join him, the lights dim. Our movie is starting.

After I type out a warning to Sarah to keep an eye out for Jay (not mentioning anything about his confession, as that’s really a face-to-face conversation we’ll have to have), I keep a hand on my phone in my purse as the opening credits end and my face appears on the screen.

Although my encounter with Jay remains firmly planted in my brain, and the spotlight of my thoughts occasionally falls back on his lurking shadow, the world dissolves away. This movie-going experience is unlike any other time I’ve been to a theater. The only thing that pulls me out of my own head is the bewildering thought at exactly where I am and what I’m doing. Not fewer than three times, I feel my focus pull away, almost as if I’m looking at myself from a third-person point of view. Even though I’m currently in France at the Cannes film festival, and the movie Cory and I made is playing for an audience of thousands, none of it seems real.

At first I cringe at the sound of my voice, but it’s amazing how quickly that becomes the least of my worries. I see every mistake, hear every flat delivery, and cringe at the me on the screen pretty much every minute. But as this isn’t the first time I’ve actually viewed the film (only the first time I’ve seen it on such a large scale), I take breaks to look around the room.

With everyone’s focus on the screen, no one in the balcony seating has made the connection that the woman up there is me. Or, if they have, there haven’t been any pointing fingers or whispered comments. And while I definitely spy quite a few people checking their phones or even participating in hushed conversations, there are no massive walkouts in protest. Either the audience is simply being polite or this movie has actually got the audience wanting to watch it.

As we near the finale, my heart speeds up. Not only because of the grueling torture scene coming up, but because I know that as soon as the credits roll, I’ll have a pretty good idea as to the reception of our film. I tell myself that as long as people don’t boo at the end that we will have been at least moderately successful. And for my first movie, I shouldn’t hope for more. I’m not like Cory and Sarah who were break outs from their very first projects. I’m just a girl from Alabama who got pregnant at eighteen and who barely managed to graduate from a rather lackluster state university.

There’s nothing special about me.

The same can’t be said for the movie.

The moment the torture scene starts, my sight flickers across the audience once more, and there’s a definite reduction in the number of cell phones lit up. A hush has fallen over the theater, a fact that does nothing to calm my nerves.

After a breathless twenty minutes—during which I hear no chatter and don’t count a single person walking out of the balcony seating—the movie fades to black and the end credits scroll across a black screen. I’m not sure when Cory originally reached out and grabbed my hand, but the firm squeeze he’s giving my fingers now reminds me of its presence.

I don’t think either of us breathes. And the worst part is that I don’t even know what I’m waiting for. I’ve never actually heard people applaud at the end of a movie (because what’s the point when you’re watching at a movie theater where not one single person involved in the production of the film is present?), but this is different. Every movie shown during this festival is bound to have a number of its key players in attendance, so perhaps it’s more common for people to clap. It’s at the point that I wish I’d asked Cory earlier about this, but it’s too late now because we’re both waiting for something to happen.

Then from somewhere at the other end of the auditorium, there’s a distinct sound, clear above the gentle buzz of life returning as the lights come up.

It’s clapping.

Chapter 34

Epilogue

The single pair of hands rings across the auditorium, picking up others like a snowball rolling down a hill in a cartoon. Soon, thousands of hands are slapping against each other, and through the dull roar, eyes turn back and up as a spotlight focuses on Cory and me in the balcony.