Confessions of a Hollywood Star (11 page)

I gave the command. “That’s it! Let’s go!”

We slipped from our booth and went after them.

Ella had her hand on the door, and I had my eyes on the backs of the two men as they crossed the street, when someone accustomed to screaming over the sound of drills and engines shouted my name so loudly that a hush fell over the Dellwood Diner and all eyes turned to us. Ella, who isn’t as accustomed to thinking on her feet as I am, froze. Which meant I froze, too.

It was all I could do not to wail out loud, “Oh ye gods! Why does everything go wrong for me?”

“Lola!” Mr Creek shouted again. “Wait up!”

I looked over my shoulder, smiling with delighted surprise.

“Oh, Mr Creek! Hi!”

Mr Creek slid off his stool with the grace of a man whose tango is a New Jersey legend and moved towards me. “Lola, I was just talking about you.”

“I’m really sorry, Mr Creek, but I’m kind of in a hurry.” I gave Ella a shove.

Mr Creek gestured vaguely behind him. “But I wanted—”

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t now.” I edged myself through the door. “It’s an emergency. Ella’s mother just rang and a raccoon got into the house.” This really did happen to someone in Dellwood, though not to Ella’s mother of course. It’s hard enough for micro-organisms to get into the Gerard house, never mind a largish mammal. I read about it in the local paper.

Mr Creek stopped. “But, Lola—”

“Next time!” I cried, waving wildly as I ran down the steps.

Ella was already on the pavement. “Well they didn’t park on Main Street,” said Ella. “There’s no sign of them.”

I started to run. “Quick! They must’ve parked behind the bank.”

But there was no sign of them in the municipal parking lot behind the bank either.

“They must’ve been helicoptered out,” I moaned as we started back down Main Street.

“Well, we tried,” said Ella. “We came close.”

Close, but no cigar. Not even the stub of a cigar.

Across the street, Mr Creek came out of the diner and climbed into his van. I pulled Ella into a doorway so he wouldn’t see us loitering and wonder what the big rush had been for.

“It’s all his fault,” I muttered. “Why can’t he eat breakfast at home like a normal person?”

The man Mr Creek was sitting next to at the counter came down the steps of the diner, gave him a wave, and got into the maroon people carrier in the next space.

I’ve noticed that sometimes, when something really horrendous happens, to protect you from having a nervous breakdown your mind gets caught on some tiny, mundane detail. I got stuck on the fact that Mr Creek’s breakfast companion had a really long nose. “Ella.” I gave her a poke. “Ella, does that guy look familiar?”

“Only the back of his head looks familiar,” said Ella.

We were too far away and the sun was in our eyes, but I felt like I’d seen him before… you know, like maybe he worked in the supermarket or something.

“No, really. Isn’t he the manager of Food City?”

Mr Creek pulled out of his space and started up Main Street, and the maroon car followed.

“Like you care, right?” said Ella.

“It’s just that I—”

The people carrier was right in front of us, and I could finally see the driver clearly.

A soul-ripping cry (not dissimilar to that of a mother gorilla watching her baby being carried off by poachers) shattered the dull quiet of the Dellwood morning.

Ella jumped. “For God’s sake! Now what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Ella!” I pointed after the vanishing New York number plate. “That was Charley Hottle!”

As If Enough Things Aren’t Going Wrong, Sam Turns Against Me

A
s soon as I’d recovered sufficiently from my shock, horror, disappointment and frustration, I called Sam to see if he wanted to go to a movie that night.

He jumped at the chance.

“I thought you’d forgotten all about me,” said Sam. “We’re a little stretched right now, so I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

Another thing experience has taught me is that nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems. Not even me. Although I’d been so busy that I hadn’t even spoken to Sam since we went to Triolo’s and was really looking forward to seeing him, missing Sam wasn’t the main reason I asked him to go out. Just because I had actually been in the same room as Charley Hottle and had (stunningly) missed my opportunity to introduce myself didn’t mean it was all bad news. Maybe when Mr Creek said he’d just been talking about me, he meant he’d been talking about me to Charley Hottle. Maybe as he’d passed the ketchup Mr Creek had said,
You know my boy’s girlfriend is a terrific actor
. Maybe when Mr Creek said he wanted something what he’d wanted was to introduce me to a Hollywood icon.
Charley, old buddy, this is the girl I was telling you about
. At the very least I expected that, since Mr Creek and Charley Hottle were on a waving-goodbye basis, he might have some useful information to pass on to Sam.

“So,” I said once I’d wedged myself into Sam’s car, “did your dad tell you I saw him in the diner this morning?”

Sam said, “No.”

Personally, I think it’s totally astounding that it was men who invented telephones, televisions and computers, since on a day-to-day level they’re so abysmally bad at communicating.

“No?” I laughed just in case he was actually joking. “He didn’t mention me?”

Sam shook his head. “Nope.”

“Just what do you and your father talk about all day?” I asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what do we talk about’? We talk about cars.”

[Cue: the hopeless, frustrated sigh of every woman who has ever tried to understand a man.] “You mean he didn’t even say that he sat next to Charley Hottle at breakfast?”

“You don’t mean Charley Hottle the director, do you?” Sam gave me a thoughtful look. “Is that why you asked me to go to the movies? To pump me about
him
?”

I bristled with indignation. “Of course not. I missed you. I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

To get us off the obviously delicate subject of Charley Hottle, I told him what had been happening while we drove to town. I guess there must’ve been even more to tell than I thought because when Sam stopped in front of the cinema to let me out while he parked the car, he suddenly interrupted me right in the middle of a sentence and said, “Am I ever going to get a chance to say anything or is tonight going to be a one-woman show?”

I thought he was kidding. “You said all you talk about is cars.”

Sam leaned his head against the window and gave me his who’s-been-stripping-the-gears look. “With you I don’t even get to talk about that. I just about get to say ‘Hi’ and then you’re off on one of your monologues.”

People always say that artists can be temperamental, but in my experience mechanics can be just as moody. “What are you so grouchy about? Bad day in the world of automotive repairs?”

“I don’t have any trouble with engines,” said Sam. “I understand them. You’re what I don’t understand. I haven’t spoken to you for two days and you don’t even ask me how I am. You don’t even think I might have something interesting to say unless it’s about some guy who sat with my old man in the diner. It’s all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, welcome to the Lola Cep Show.”

I felt he was being crushingly unfair. “Oh excuse me if I’ve been boring you, Mr Creek. Maybe if we limited ourselves to carburetors—”

“You were boring me into a coma.”

“In that case I’ll shut up for the rest of the night, shall I?” I clamped my mouth closed and opened the passenger door.

“I don’t want you to shut up completely. I just want you to shut up about this dumb movie.” He gave me a poke. “Please.”

A great actor has to be able to admit her faults or she never corrects them, she just keeps on repeating them, so I could accept that in my determination to be in the movie I may have been just a teeny bit self-obsessed. Besides, my rule is to never hold grudges because it makes your soul small and sour and interferes with fulfilling your true creative potential. (The only exception I make to this rule is Carla Santini.) On the other hand, I didn’t want to give in too easily. I started to move, silent and chin held high.

Sam reached over and grabbed my shoulder, almost tenderly for someone used to gripping a wrench. “I’ll pay for the popcorn.”

Who could stay mad with an offer like that? “And the drinks,” I said as I climbed out.

I stood in front of the cinema to wait for Sam. I’d more or less promised not to
talk
about the movie, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t think about it. I was actually wondering if maybe I should forget about it (not in a serious way of course – just in a
what if?
way, to see if that idea profoundly depressed me, which it did) when the door to the wine store across the street opened and a young man wearing dark glasses and a Panama hat stepped out. It was the hat that caught my attention; men from Dellwood do not wear Panama hats (unless maybe they’re middle-aged and on vacation in Panama). And then he smiled to himself. It was a nuke-your-heart smile I’d seen dozens of times on the covers of magazines and on the big screen.
Good Lord!
I cried silently.
It’s Bret Fork!

He turned right and started walking to where he must’ve left his car.

In my experience, Fate’s pretty stingy and doesn’t hand out second chances very often. This time I didn’t hesitate – not for the smallest fraction of a second. I went after him.

It was a balmy summer evening and the man the newspapers called Hollywood’s strongest babe magnet wasn’t in a hurry. He strolled along, whistling an old Beatles’ song and swinging the Dellwood Wines bag he was carrying in a happy-go-lucky way, and I followed at a discreet distance – close enough to keep pace, but not close enough to make him feel that he was being followed. We didn’t have far to go. His car – a black four-by-four to go with his rugged, masculine image (he does a lot of thrillers) – was parked in front of the gourmet deli. He unlocked it with an electronic beep, but instead of getting in he suddenly turned and went into the store.

In New York or Hollywood you wouldn’t leave your car unlocked while you ran around to the back to get something out of the boot, but Dellwood is the kind of town that inspires an old-fashioned lack of caution. I figure it’s the tree-lined streets and white clapboard churches – it makes you think you’re in a really old Judy Garland movie. Whatever, Dellwood definitely inspired an old-fashioned lack of caution in me. Which is the only way I can explain what I did next.

One minute I was hovering at the edge of the deli’s window, watching Bret Fork choose butter cookies from the bakery counter; and the next I was slipping into the back of his car and hunkering down on the floor.

Since I’d acted spontaneously (an ability that is as important in life as it is on the stage), this was one time when I didn’t really have a plan. I just thought that if I could have a few minutes alone with him I’d be able to convince him to use his influence to get me a small part waving to my sisters on the school bus or something like that.

Bret Fork was still whistling when he got into the car. He started the engine, and pulled into the road as he punched a number into his cell phone.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s me… Of course I’m still coming. If I don’t get out of that house I’ll go nuts… I feel like I’m being haunted. There haven’t been that many princesses under one roof since the last royal wedding. [Cue: sour laugh.] Yeah, right … anyway, I need the directions again… [Cue: grunting and sound of pen on paper.] What’s it called? Bergstrom’s…? OK… See you soon…”

Bergstrom’s! Oh my God! Bergstrom’s Travel Lodge! It was understandable that I’d forgotten all about it – most of the world had. Bergstrom’s is zillions of miles out of town off the old highway. I’d only passed it a couple of times and it didn’t even look open. That must be where the crew was staying. I was so excited I could feel my blood bubbling. This was it! Bret Fork was about to drive me right into the heart of the movie camp. At last my destiny was reaching out to me in a positive kind of way.

But not for long.

I guess I must’ve been even more excited than I thought – excited enough to make some sound that stood out against the steady rumbling of the engine – because as we stopped at a light Bret said, “What’s that?”

Needless to say I didn’t answer. But this precaution did me no good. I could hear him unsnap his seatbelt and heave himself up to peer over the back of his seat.

I looked up, my eyes round and innocent as Bambi’s. It didn’t work.

For a second or two he just stared back at me, and then he started yelling. “Effin’ crazy fans! Who the hell are you? Have you been stalking me? Where did you come from?”

You have to be careful with people who are hysterical, especially if they’re normally emotional and temperamental (which I figured movie actors are if Lucy Rio was anything to go by). I pulled myself up from the floor, reasonable and calm. “I’m not crazy,” I quickly assured him. “And I’m not a fan. I mean I am a fan – I’ve seen tons of your movies. But I don’t want an autograph or a lock of your hair or anything like that. And I definitely wasn’t stalking you. I just happened to—”

“Then what is it you want?” he bellowed. “What the hell are you doing in my car?”

“Nothing.” My voice was soothing and kind. “I just want to talk to you.”

The light changed to green, but Bret Fork was still staring at me and didn’t notice. (He didn’t look nearly as handsome close up as he did in pictures – especially with his face that colour.) Horns started honking behind us.

“The light’s changed,” I informed him. “Maybe you should move.”

He finally decided to pay some attention to what I was saying. He went as far as the kerb and then he stopped again. “Out!” he ordered. “Get out of my car.”

“But Bret – Mr Fork – If you’d only listen for a minute—”

He leaned over his seat and opened the passenger door with much more force than you’d expect from a man who was twisted in such an awkward position – I was a little surprised that the handle didn’t come off in his hand. “Out!”