In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson (3 page)

“Carl
, what’s come over you?”

“
Julie, I’m not the man you thought I was.”

“I love you Carl,
that’s the man I know you are.”

“You can’t love me, Julie. You don’t know me. I’m the guy they sent to kill you.”

“Kill me? Carl, sweetie, you know, and I know, that you’re not going to kill anyone.”

“Not true, Julie. I am going to kill som
eone…”

“Cut!”

“This light is making me sweat like a pig!” Bobby was nervous. Had the scene gone well? Hard to tell by looking at Neil. He had a permanent scowl on his face that he probably even slept with. Who’s opinion could he ask?

“Stay still
. I’ll wipe that off for you.

Was that Clarissa? Hmm, it felt good to get fussed over. Sometimes he loathed it
, but today it felt fine. “So, what’d you think?”

Was he seriously asking his makeup artist what she thought
of his acting? How desperate was he? And where the hell was Patrick? This was the last scene in the movie; why wasn’t anyone there for him? He’d heard about this. It was called paranoia. But even the beach girl wasn’t thinking about him. Maybe she’d lost interest. Maybe. “Damn it!”

“Sorry, did I do something?” Clarissa looked
upset. She was young, twenty-one perhaps, not an old hand at dealing with movie stars. “I said you did great today. Did I say something wrong?” She held a makeup brush in one hand, a bottle of beige cream in the other, a trembling pout on her neon pink lips.

“Sorry. It’s nothing to do with
you. Can I get up now?” He rose before she could answer and headed towards the exit.

“Be back in one hour, Bobby,
” the director’s assistant yelled out to him. Barney, or Barley, or Brady.
Too many goddamn names to remember in this business
.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The waves lapped the beach.
It’s you
, Bobby thought, and there she was, walking towards him. The stresses of Devil Take You ebbed away with each retreating wave, and Bobby knew that this was definitely not stress related. This was just pure magic.

This time he didn’t wait
―who knew when the dream would end? He wasn’t about to waste time throwing stones, even though he had an incredible urge to do so…

“What’s your name?
His voice broke through the sunrays and soft breeze. “What’s your name?” he asked again. His need to know so strong.

She looked at him, puzzled. She kept walking up to him, as she always did, but never before had he seen the frown.

“What is your name?” he asked a third time.

Now she stood right in front of him. He reached out and took her hand in his. It felt soft and smooth and oddly cold in this heat.

“What’s your name?
” he whispered, looking into her flashing green eyes, admiring her soft lips. He couldn’t keep his eyes from roaming her face. Freckles spread out from her delicate nose all the way to her rosy cheekbones. She was gorgeous.

She opened her mouth
, but no words came out. She still looked confused. She closed her mouth and opened it again, “D―don’t you know my name?”

Now it was Bobby’s turn to
look confused. He was about to say something when he saw that the words on her T-shirt weren’t fuzzy anymore. As clear as day they spelt “Susan”.

“Susan. Your name is Susan.
”

The girl smiled with relief, “Yes! That’s my name.” She
seemed so happy about it, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Bobby was thrilled
. He’d discovered her name
and
her voice, which was young and clear and plain beautiful, like the rest of her. He couldn’t place her accent though; New York perhaps, but definitely American, like him.

“
You’re Bobby,” she said. “Bobby Anderson.”

“Yes, that’s me. What’s your last name?” Bobby looked at her T-shirt
again to see if it would give him the answer, but all it said now was “tired”.

Bright lights.

Faces looking down at him from above.

Bri
ght lights again.

A woman smiling.

A man frowning.

“Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes.” Ooh, what pain.

“You fell, Mr. Anderson.
”

“What?”

“On the floor.”

“Oh Christ, Bobby.
”

“Patrick?”

“Mr. Anderson has to rest.”

“Five minutes. Just give me five minutes.”

“Five minutes and I’m sending the nurse in.

Do
or opening and closing.

“Bobby! Holy shit! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Bobby felt his head. It wasn’t wrapped in bandages, but there was a bump at the back. “What happened?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know, man.
Clarissa from makeup says you were walking out when you stopped, just stood there, and keeled over. You were lying on the floor for maybe a minute and nothing, no movement at all. So she called out, and I guess Neil called the medics.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the First Aid room they have here. I mean, you’re not, you know, concussed or anything, just a blow from the fall. You haven’t been out for long or anything either; but Jesus, what happened?”

Boy, Patrick could ramble.
Should he tell him about the beach girl? Had the moment finally come to confess all? “Where’s Lola?” he asked instead.

“Lola? Now, Bobby, we have to have a plan of action. This is the second time something weird has happened o
n set. If you cause a bad buzz and this movie suffers because of it, you’re going to get burnt big time.”

“Movie
s—suffer?” Bobby sputtered, which made his head throb even more. “This movie is going to be something
because
of me.”

“I know that Bobby, but those guys on top,
the producers, they don’t have love for anyone. They only want to see a profit. You and I have got to come up with a plan.”

“Well, yo
u’re the manager. What’s the plan? Because I just got me into I don’t know how many magazines. You loved me this morning, remember?”

“
Sure, I remember, Bobby. But we still need a plan. And the plan, Bobby, is that you dump Lola.”

“What?”

“Hear me out here. You dump Lola and you tell the press that things haven’t been working out for a while and it’s been affecting your work.”

Dump Lola? Just like that? On principle he would say no. He didn’t
appreciate people telling him what to do. He’d had enough of that on his career climb up; now that he was up, he made his own decisions. On the other hand, when he thought about dumping Lola his brain said, why not?
Why not dump Lola?
He could finish this godforsaken movie and concentrate on Susan―what a beautiful name. The only place he wanted to be right now was with her; and the fact that he had to be in some cold First Aid unit with Patrick offended him greatly. However, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t just dump Lola because Patrick told him to.

“When are we finishing the shoot?” he asked.

“If you’re okay, they want to do it tomorrow. They’ve already stopped shooting today because of your ‘incident’.” Patrick made quotation marks with his fingers in the air. “And Neil is dropping bad jokes about you like a horse drops flies.”

“Whatever!”

“Whatever?”

“Yeah. Tell Neil I’m fine now. Tell him
it’s Lola if you want. I’ll deal with her when and how I want to.”

“Sure man. Just say it and i
t’s done.”

“What’s done?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said
, “It’s done”. What does that mean? I’m not asking you to kill anyone.”

“God! No, Bobby, o
f course not.”

“Well, that’s how it damn
well sounds.”

“I just meant, you know, make your dec
ision and I’ll back you.”

“Of course you will. You’re my
manager.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“Now, again, where is Lola?”

“How am I suppose
d to know, Bobby? With all due respect, I’m your manager, not your girl patrol officer.”

“Well, didn’t someone call her when they took me here?”

“I’m not sure. It wasn’t me. I came running, and you know where my concerns lie.”

“Keeping things quiet?
”

Patrick laughed. “Just trying to protect you
, Bobby.”

“Yeah, I know that for sure. You’re all heart Patrick.
”

“Lola?”
Bobby had seen her car in the driveway, but the house was quiet. She usually had music playing at least. “Lola!” he called louder this time. Still no answer. Man, now he’d have to walk the house. Her cell phone was off and he’d never installed that intercom he’d been told was vital. Did he look like some intercom guy? He’d get an intercom when he had five kids to track down and not a moment sooner. But right now he wished he had the damn thing. “Lola!”

“Miss Lo
la having a nap.”

Bobby spun
around and sighed. It was Rosa, his housekeeper, or maid, or whatever she liked to call herself; or perhaps she was his personal assistant. No, that was Lester. Or was Lester still called a butler?

“Napping? It’s two
o’clock.”

“Yes, Mr.
Bobby.”

Bobby frowned. A
ll right, it wasn’t Rosa’s fault. He shouldn’t take out his frustrations on her. “Thanks, Rosa. Can I have a cold beer?”

“Coming up
, Mr. Bobby.”

Rosa
scurried away and Bobby stretched out on the sofa.

“Bobby?”

“Susan?”

“We should
build a shelter.”

Bobby looked
around. He was on the beach and Susan was talking. He sighed with relief. Was this
his
dream now? No, he still felt that it was hers. He got up off the sand and stood next to her. She came up to his chest, like a kid. Bobby was used to the tall Hollywood type who came with stilettos and attitude. He decided that he liked the smallness of her.

A shelter? Th
is was new. Finally they were doing something. He wanted to talk more, ask her the rest of her name, but all he saw was her back as she strode off towards a dense coconut forest at the edge of the beach.

“Susan!” But she didn’t turn around.
I guess I’ll have to jog.
No problem, that’s what gyms are for; for getting you fit enough so you can run after your dream girl.

But running in dreams isn’t easy, or at least
it wasn’t easy in
this
dream. His feet sank into the soft sand, and with each step forward Susan seemed to gain a mile.

“Susan, w
ait up!” he called out pathetically. Why wouldn’t she wait? He could only see a bit of her red shirt now as it disappeared through the coconut trees. “Come on feet!” He encouraged himself. “Get going or you’re going to lose her.” And so he ran. Left foot. Higher, higher. Right foot. Run.

Huffing and puffing,
Bobby arrived at the edge of the coconut perimeter. “Susan!”

“O
ver here.”

Bobby spun in the direction of
the voice and saw Susan sitting on a fallen tree.

“A storm
must have brought this one down,” she said.

Bobby approached her. He could make
out the letters of her T-shirt, but they didn’t spell “Susan” this time, or “tired”. What he read was “Wednesday”. Wednesday? So what?  He didn’t want to know the day of the week. He wanted to know her name.

“We can use this one,” she
said.

“Use it?”

Susan frowned. “I can’t do this on my own, you know.”

“Do what?” Was she still talking about building a shelter? How was he
supposed to build a shelter? At first he had liked the idea of action—five seconds ago, before he exhausted himself running—but building a shelter was a monumental task, and with a fallen coconut tree? He wasn’t a carpenter, just a humble movie star. Besides, even
he
knew a carpenter needed at least a few tools, like a hammer, or some nails maybe, or even a knife―a knife would be good, but in retrospect, not for cutting down coconut trees.

Susan
didn’t look so good. Sitting there on that fallen tree, she appeared pale and sad. Had he done that? Was he making her sad?
Fix this Bobby
. “Susan?”

She looke
d up and he wanted to die for her. To lay himself down and declare his last breath to her, like in the movies. She was so beautiful. Her eyes were like soft giant pools existing with the sole purpose to lose himself in, her skin there for him to touch, her lips… “Oh Susan,” he walked up to her and joined her on the tree trunk. He kept his gaze on her eyes, “You are so beautiful.”

Susan lowered her lashes
and a smile played with the corners of her mouth.

Bobby
couldn’t believe his luck. He had made her happy again. The reward he felt was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Even winning the Golden Globes last year hadn’t compared with this feeling of pure accomplishment. Well…

“You think
so?” she looked up at him, still toying with the idea of a true smile.

“
Sure. I think you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. What’s your name, pretty?”

She laughed,
“You know its Susan, and I’m sure you’ve met a lot of girls much, much prettier than me.”

“No, I haven’t,” he said in all honesty. “
What’s your last name?”

But Susan
shook her head and looked away, her expression blank.

“Mr.
Bobby?”

“Huh?”

“Your beer Mr. Bobby.”

“W
—what? My beer?” Bobby wanted to scream. Rosa had woken him. But, no, that wasn’t possible; the dream was already over. Susan had turned from him. He had slipped up again. He wanted to cry and shout and throw a fit. But he knew, with all his twenty-four years of experience that temper tantrums were never going to get him what he wanted.

“I leave it here Mr.
Bobby.”

“Sure. Is Lola awake?”

“Lola
esta
by the pool.”

“Sure. G
ood. Thanks.”

Dazed and disappointed, Bobby grabbed his beer and headed to the pool. It was
the star feature of his mansion. He had practically bought the place because of it. His pool wasn’t one of those marble exotic over-the-top waterslide cherub fountain kind of pools.

His
pool was an elegant Olympic-sized oval starring a naked Venus de Milo at the far end. It was old Hollywood, and when he looked at it he felt a surge of pride. More than the house, it was the pool that made him feel like a real movie star. Not the kind of star who rose to fame one day only to be gone the next, but rather the kind that stuck around and became a permanent feature of Hollywood.

Lola hated it. She had said
more than once that it lacked just about everything. So-and-so had a bigger pool.
His was Olympic! What was bigger than Olympic?
So-and-so had a jet propulsion lane.
If you have an Olympic sized pool you don’t need any jet propulsion, you just swim!
So-and-so had glass walls, a glass bottom, a bar, for Christ’s sake! How could he have a pool with no bar? “I have a butler,” he’d said in his pool’s defense. But Lola had spelled it out for him that it wasn’t the same thing. Even poor people had a bar in their pools. Bobby didn’t know any poor people with a pool, so he questioned whether Lola’s perspective on life was accurate.

She didn’t look like she minded hi
s pool or his butler service much now, though. She was stretched out on a sun bed, bronzed back to the sky, a cocktail drink posed carefully next to her right hand, eyes closed, all her concentration directed towards the improvement of her golden tan. A perfect West coast specimen.

“Lola?”

No response.

“Lola?”

“I’m mad at you.”

“I didn’t write that article.”

“You should sue.”

“Sue for what?”

“Sue for what? Are you kidding me?” Lola looked up at him through her thick Cartier sunglasses. “They made me look like a fool!”

Bobby sighed. Was this the right time? Probably not, but he didn’
t want Lola in his house anymore. He should have dated her a bit longer before he’d allowed her this much entry into his life. What had he been thinking?

“Lola, do you love me?” It was a simple question,
but not something they’d ever discussed before. Of course she had blurted the excited, “Love you, baby!” when he’d bought her the gold Rolex, but he’d never had that “I love you”
moment he kept acting out in the movies.

For a second
, Lola appeared shocked and Bobby felt instant gratification. But she recovered nicely and put on her coy face. She was about to swoon him and purr and tuck in her claws, but Bobby wasn’t having any of it. “Lola, please just get your things and get out.” He turned on his heels and headed to the garage. Lola was still trying to gather her words, but the shock was too much for her, and besides, Bobby had already disappeared.

In the garage, Bobby found his favorite toy: his Lexus LFA, a beauty of a car that put him in a good mood no matter what. With the turn of a key, he was gone; and he wouldn’t be back until Rosa could confirm that Lola had left the building, for good. He didn’t even want to find a breath mint of hers lying around. He was glad that Lola didn’t love him. It made leaving her so much easier. Patrick could use the story to his favor. He could twist it however he wanted to; the truth was, Bobby didn’t care. All he wanted now was to finish filming and spend all his time with Susan, building shelters, or whatever she wanted. He yearned to make her smile again. He wanted to look into her eyes, and with some luck, he wanted to hold her, and kiss her, and more. Much,
much
more.