Hollywood Boulevard by Janyce Stefan-Cole
Authors: Janyce Stefan-Cole
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Suspense fiction, California, Contemporary Women, Actresses, Los Angeles, Hollywood (Los Angeles; Calif.), Hotels, Hotels - Califoirnia - Los Angeles
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was quick and smart and serious. "Ardennes," she called out in that not- shouting shout a good assistant director learns how to do.
    Andre turned around. He cocked his head to the side. It was probably not a good idea for me to just show up on his set. For the director, it's nearly never a good time. He finished his consult with Renny, nodded to Carola, and turned. I walked toward him as he walked toward me. A musical score should have played as we advanced, signaling the emotions, informing the audience what to feel about the key characters approaching each other as if time would stop as their energies meshed like violent destinyâ as if the actors might not succeed in doing that without a musical cue.
    We'd done this before, walked toward each other on a movie set; uncertain on my part, masterful on his. It was the set of Separation and Rain , and my big scene was up, my crescendo moment. As usual with movies, the denouement was scheduled at the start of the shoot. It was six a.m.; I had just arrived and was very anxious. We were toward the end of the first week. Everyone was well tuned in at that point, but no big scenes had been shot yet. I hadn't felt satisfiedâ far from itâ at rehearsal, but Andre had been fine. With typically little to say, he'd said okay, called it a night and walked away. Even if he hadn't walked away I'm not sure I would have been able to say to him, I need more time, I need to get this right, I'm not sure of a thing. So a troop of tap dancers was practicing on my gut; I was jumpy and jittery as a bird. I pretty much wanted out. I'd called Joe in New York after rehearsal. He said I'd be great, to forget everything, especially the meaning of the words, and just go with it. Sure. Just go with it. Of course he was right.
    Andre looked at me that day as we closed in and I understood I was exactly where he wanted me to be: full of doubt. For a split second I looked away, unwilling to be manipulated without so much as a nod. But his confidence won out; he was certain of me even if I wasn't. I clicked to the correct interpretation, shut down the rebellion raging inside and got the scene in three takes. When it was over I stormed off to the dressing room. He may have been right, but I loathed Andre Lucerne at that moment with all my heart.
    So here were Andre and I walking toward each other on a movie set once again, and the tap dancers were suddenly practicing inside me again and I had a bad feeling all over, a déjà vu of massive proportions, a dream coming at me that I'd dreamed before, only this time it was daylight and I was wide awake.
    "Something is wrong?" he asked.
    I'm generally unaware of Andre's accent, but today I realized, as if for the first time: He has an accent. His mother was American, so his Swiss French is tempered, though at his father's insistence he grew up speaking no English. His mother read to him in her language, their little secret to keep her identity alive in her son. Andre and his mother had a world of their own, out of his father's domineering gaze. I pictured him hearing "Hansel and Gretel" in English, sequestered with his mother in his corner bedroom, snow outside the window, a low lamp on the table, a triangle of light illuminating the conspirators. I mentally corrected him: Is some thing wrong? or the old movie standard, Are you all right? But that formal, stiff Something is wrong? the word wrong coming out all wrong, almost made me laugh.
    "I should have called first," I said. We were inches apart now.
    "No. It is good you came." Had he forgotten I was lunching with Harry? I was about to tell him the news, but the head gaffer, Quinn, came over about the lights. Carola followed. She kissed my cheeks, said how good it was to see me. She explained the day was going well so far after the horrors of last night, when everything
    Andre turned around. He cocked his head to the side. It was probably not a good idea for me to just show up on his set. For the director, it's nearly never a good time. He finished his consult with Renny, nodded to Carola, and turned. I walked toward him as he walked toward me. A musical score should have played as we advanced, signaling the emotions, informing the audience what to feel about the key characters approaching each other as if time would stop as their energies meshed like violent destinyâ as if the actors might not succeed in doing that without a musical cue.
    We'd done this before, walked toward each other on a movie set; uncertain on my part, masterful on his. It was the set of Separation and Rain , and my big scene was up, my crescendo moment. As usual with movies, the denouement was scheduled at the start of the shoot. It was six a.m.; I had just arrived and was very anxious. We were toward the end of the first week. Everyone was well tuned in at that point, but no big scenes had been shot yet. I hadn't felt satisfiedâ far from itâ at rehearsal, but Andre had been fine. With typically little to say, he'd said okay, called it a night and walked away. Even if he hadn't walked away I'm not sure I would have been able to say to him, I need more time, I need to get this right, I'm not sure of a thing. So a troop of tap dancers was practicing on my gut; I was jumpy and jittery as a bird. I pretty much wanted out. I'd called Joe in New York after rehearsal. He said I'd be great, to forget everything, especially the meaning of the words, and just go with it. Sure. Just go with it. Of course he was right.
    Andre looked at me that day as we closed in and I understood I was exactly where he wanted me to be: full of doubt. For a split second I looked away, unwilling to be manipulated without so much as a nod. But his confidence won out; he was certain of me even if I wasn't. I clicked to the correct interpretation, shut down the rebellion raging inside and got the scene in three takes. When it was over I stormed off to the dressing room. He may have been right, but I loathed Andre Lucerne at that moment with all my heart.
    So here were Andre and I walking toward each other on a movie set once again, and the tap dancers were suddenly practicing inside me again and I had a bad feeling all over, a déjà vu of massive proportions, a dream coming at me that I'd dreamed before, only this time it was daylight and I was wide awake.
    "Something is wrong?" he asked.
    I'm generally unaware of Andre's accent, but today I realized, as if for the first time: He has an accent. His mother was American, so his Swiss French is tempered, though at his father's insistence he grew up speaking no English. His mother read to him in her language, their little secret to keep her identity alive in her son. Andre and his mother had a world of their own, out of his father's domineering gaze. I pictured him hearing "Hansel and Gretel" in English, sequestered with his mother in his corner bedroom, snow outside the window, a low lamp on the table, a triangle of light illuminating the conspirators. I mentally corrected him: Is some thing wrong? or the old movie standard, Are you all right? But that formal, stiff Something is wrong? the word wrong coming out all wrong, almost made me laugh.
    "I should have called first," I said. We were inches apart now.
    "No. It is good you came." Had he forgotten I was lunching with Harry? I was about to tell him the news, but the head gaffer, Quinn, came over about the lights. Carola followed. She kissed my cheeks, said how good it was to see me. She explained the day was going well so far after the horrors of last night, when everything
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