already high. I went around with knots in my stomach—fear mixed with excitement. I ran along Malibu Beach screaming till my lungs burst about the million dollars. Daniel not being able to share this joy dampened it just a bit, but hey? How many actors get paid ONE MILLION DOLLARS for a role?
Star and her family went off for a weeklong vacation, leaving me at their house alone. New scripts were arriving by messenger every day, tweaked each time, till finally, they settled on what they said would be the final copy.
I lay back in a bubble bath, reading it, trying to work out the tone of the story.
FADE IN:
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
A naked young woman is bent over the bed, her hands cuffed together, a blindfold on her face. She is in her early twenties, with long red hair. A man – tall, handsome and rugged, and holding a whip, is standing over her, whispering in her ear.
EXT. STREET – DAY
A woman with long brown hair is walking down Fifth Avenue. The street is crowded. The shop windows are decorated for Christmas. The same man we saw before, Jonathon, is running after her shouting the name of Sylvie. He overtakes her and realizes that she isn’t who he thought she was.
INT. BEDROOM – DAWN.
Jonathon is putting on his slacks. A blonde is sleeping in a four-poster bed. He grabs his shoes and socks off the floor and quietly sneaks out of the room.
BLONDE
(Mumbles into pillow) Hey, where are you going?
JONATHON
I warned you I never stay over.
I took a swig of wine, eased back into my frothy bubbles, and continued reading. So far, this Jonathon character was a jerk womanizer—that much I’d gathered. He was screwing around big time. My character, Sylvie, hadn’t appeared yet, but I guessed that at a million dollars my role had to be important. Obviously there were BDSM themes . . . would I end up getting bruised?
Perhaps Jonathon had dead wife issues like Daniel, and like Daniel, was on a fuckathon to try and numb his brain from depression. Sex was good for that—at least that’s what I’d heard; sex addicts didn’t do it for the sex alone but because it validated them and took their minds off the real problem. Just the thought of Daniel fucking around made my insides clench.
Relationships are all about timing. In general, when men get married it’s not just because they fall madly in love. No, it’s because there’s a chip in their brain that tells them they are ready to settle down. To commit. Tells them they are ready for love and it’s okay to let go. Meet the right man at the wrong time and you’re screwed. Some lucky woman would meet Daniel in five years, when he’d be ripe to start afresh, by which time I would have long since given up. At least I hoped so, for my own sanity.
My mind wandered back to the casting of Jonathon. What actor would they choose? I hoped to God he wouldn’t have bad breath or something. We were going to have to kiss with tongues, feel each other up. The camera was only allowed to catch a flash of my side boob—or at least that’s what would appear on the big screen—but I’d still be topless, save tiny nipple covers, and with just the skimpiest flesh-colored covering down below. I needed to get over myself and stop worrying. Nicole Kidman had appeared naked on stage in The Blue Room, in London, early in her career. Lots of actresses had taken off their clothes for the sake of art. But would this be art?
The thought, though, of Daniel in New York, and me here, being directed by a stranger, left me to wonder . . . what would have happened if things had worked out how they were meant to? Daniel was judging me for taking the role, but he didn’t know what it was like to need money the way I did.
It’s easy to have highfaluting morals when you’re rich.
Still, as much as I reveled in my newfound success, I secretly wished he was along with me for the ride.
9
M Y FIRST DAY ON SET was terrifying. Film wasn’t like theater. They put a bit of silver duct
Star and her family went off for a weeklong vacation, leaving me at their house alone. New scripts were arriving by messenger every day, tweaked each time, till finally, they settled on what they said would be the final copy.
I lay back in a bubble bath, reading it, trying to work out the tone of the story.
FADE IN:
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
A naked young woman is bent over the bed, her hands cuffed together, a blindfold on her face. She is in her early twenties, with long red hair. A man – tall, handsome and rugged, and holding a whip, is standing over her, whispering in her ear.
EXT. STREET – DAY
A woman with long brown hair is walking down Fifth Avenue. The street is crowded. The shop windows are decorated for Christmas. The same man we saw before, Jonathon, is running after her shouting the name of Sylvie. He overtakes her and realizes that she isn’t who he thought she was.
INT. BEDROOM – DAWN.
Jonathon is putting on his slacks. A blonde is sleeping in a four-poster bed. He grabs his shoes and socks off the floor and quietly sneaks out of the room.
BLONDE
(Mumbles into pillow) Hey, where are you going?
JONATHON
I warned you I never stay over.
I took a swig of wine, eased back into my frothy bubbles, and continued reading. So far, this Jonathon character was a jerk womanizer—that much I’d gathered. He was screwing around big time. My character, Sylvie, hadn’t appeared yet, but I guessed that at a million dollars my role had to be important. Obviously there were BDSM themes . . . would I end up getting bruised?
Perhaps Jonathon had dead wife issues like Daniel, and like Daniel, was on a fuckathon to try and numb his brain from depression. Sex was good for that—at least that’s what I’d heard; sex addicts didn’t do it for the sex alone but because it validated them and took their minds off the real problem. Just the thought of Daniel fucking around made my insides clench.
Relationships are all about timing. In general, when men get married it’s not just because they fall madly in love. No, it’s because there’s a chip in their brain that tells them they are ready to settle down. To commit. Tells them they are ready for love and it’s okay to let go. Meet the right man at the wrong time and you’re screwed. Some lucky woman would meet Daniel in five years, when he’d be ripe to start afresh, by which time I would have long since given up. At least I hoped so, for my own sanity.
My mind wandered back to the casting of Jonathon. What actor would they choose? I hoped to God he wouldn’t have bad breath or something. We were going to have to kiss with tongues, feel each other up. The camera was only allowed to catch a flash of my side boob—or at least that’s what would appear on the big screen—but I’d still be topless, save tiny nipple covers, and with just the skimpiest flesh-colored covering down below. I needed to get over myself and stop worrying. Nicole Kidman had appeared naked on stage in The Blue Room, in London, early in her career. Lots of actresses had taken off their clothes for the sake of art. But would this be art?
The thought, though, of Daniel in New York, and me here, being directed by a stranger, left me to wonder . . . what would have happened if things had worked out how they were meant to? Daniel was judging me for taking the role, but he didn’t know what it was like to need money the way I did.
It’s easy to have highfaluting morals when you’re rich.
Still, as much as I reveled in my newfound success, I secretly wished he was along with me for the ride.
9
M Y FIRST DAY ON SET was terrifying. Film wasn’t like theater. They put a bit of silver duct
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