The Actor and the Housewife (24 page)

“Felix . . .”

He grabbed the arm of her shirt and pulled her back into her chair, his gaze mindful of the watching crew. “Calm, quiet, silence, I beg you. Anyone could be a tabloid spy.”

This was not the sort of thing they usually discussed, but still Becky asked, in a whisper now, “Will you tell me?”

Felix glanced at the crew setting tracks for the camera, as if judging how much time he had left.

“We had a spat, and after she remarried—”

“No, start from the beginning. Or Celeste will tell me her version. You know she will if I ask—she can’t help herself.”

Felix groaned. “Right. But—fine. So. My mother was intense. Piano lessons, singing lessons. She was always there, hovering over me, constant. Until I was ten, we slept in the same room.”

“Oh, Felix.” Becky’s heart was aching for this mother somewhere.

“Don’t be dramatic. She cared less about me than how the neighbors saw her, determined to prove to them that she was a good mother even without a husband. Despite the forced culture and odd home, I did all right in school, mostly because I was a decent footballer. But she didn’t know how to mother a teenage boy. I attended Cambridge and she’d call me several times a day. When she came to visit for the fourth time in the Michaelmas term, I . . . well, I fought with her. I was nasty. I wanted to knock her away.”

“What did you say?”

He shrugged, his eyes on the director of photography, who was helping secure the camera to a dolly. “It wasn’t so much ‘what’ as
how
. She claimed I was being ungrateful, listing all the things she’d given up for me, including marriage. There’d been a bloke by the name of Herbert, a real pillock. She said she would have married him, but I hadn’t liked him and she always put me first. So I told her to let off and go marry Herbert, and I’d be happier if she did.”

“And then? You made up and lived happily ever after?”

Felix chucked Becky’s chin with mock gusto. “That’s right, princess.”

“Did she marry him?”

“Yes, she married the pillock. They came to opening night of a play I did in London. Herbert wasn’t impressed. I had a cast party to get to and couldn’t stay. Herbert hates London, it turns out. So I stayed in London for many years.”

“And you didn’t visit home? You didn’t call?”

“After a time, neither did she. It was the best for both of us.”

“Felix—”

“Mom!” Sam came running for her, flinging himself onto her lap, his arms around her neck. He was the number-one most snugly kid she’d ever known, and she needed it right then; her insides were roiling with the thought of a mother somewhere, for fifteen years missing her son. Becky nestled her face into Sam’s hair and breathed in, smelling chlorine.

“You’ve been swimming?”

“Yeah, there was a floating alligator and me and Hyrum made it attack Polly, and she swam all around screaming, but she was just teasing. Do you think we could get a real alligator?”

The rest of the Jack family was right behind, Mike done working for the day. Several crew members (the ones Becky was particularly fond of ) shouted hello to their regular visitors. Fiona went off immediately to confer with the wardrobe mistress, who let her leaf through costume design books and try on dresses. Felix greeted Polly, transparently relieved for the diversion, and the two of them sang a duet for a crew member’s personal video camera.

Becky sat Mike in her “star” chair and gave him a shoulder rub while he and Wally talked golf, making a tee-off date for Wally’s exclusive country club. Mike couldn’t stop beaming about it.

“Hey, you weren’t this excited about the time we went golfing,” Felix complained.

“Are you kidding?” said Becky. “He made a ‘My Day with Felix’ album, and taped in his scorecard and a blade of grass that had stuck to his shoe.”

Mike shrugged. “It’s just that I figure Wally actually knows a five iron from a putter.”

That made Felix laugh. Becky smiled to hide the pain—or rather, the plotting.

She was on the phone with Celeste that evening.

“How do we reunite Felix with his mother?”

“Rebecca, it’s a lost cause. But . . . perhaps not for you.”

Biddie Callahan-Coxhill was living in Devon, Felix’s hometown, married to the aforementioned pillock Herbert. So Becky wrote a letter:

I was aghast to learn recently that he hasn’t been in communication with you for a number of years. At the risk of meddling, I have hopes of reuniting you two again. Slowly might be best for Felix, would you agree? I’d thought if you could write a letter to him, that could be a start. If you felt so inclined, I think he might be ready and happy to hear from you. I’m attaching his mailing address in Los Angeles.

I don’t know the details of all that has transpired, but I hope you can forgive Felix. Every boy needs his mother.

“It came! And he opened it. I watched him read. Once he muttered your name.”

“Was he angry? Amused? Annoyed?”

“Annoyed, I would say. But he did not tear up the letter. And he does tear up things sometimes, so that’s good?”

“That’s very good.”

Becky didn’t inquire further, proving a restraint that Mike called “legendary.” But Celeste suspected that Felix did write back.

Felix gave Becky some knowing looks, smoldering with accusation, but besides that, nothing really changed—at least, not for the worse.

The fourth week in production, Becky was in makeup. Cynthia, the makeup artist, was dusting Becky’s face with an unseemly amount of powder when Felix hopped onto the counter and began to twiddle with a brush. In the mirror, Becky caught the brief look of happy longing in Cynthia’s eyes before she pretended Felix wasn’t there, giving the star the illusion of privacy that all makeup artists apparently learn in the trade. It made Becky smile. At her best guess, all the women on set were a little in love with Felix.

“So,” Felix said. “I just heard from Larry. They offered me the lead

for a new picture,
One Thousand Bedrooms
. Seems the story of my karaoke performance spread about town.”

“Ooh, there’s singing? What’s the story?”

“It’s a biopic, but Larry says the script is good, puts a real twist on the story, doesn’t get bogged down in covering every detail. Says it’s funny too. It’s about Dean Martin.”

Becky inhaled sharply then began to cough out powder while exclaiming, “Yes! You have to do that. You are so loungy. And you’ll get to sing. Felix, what a perfect role for you. If you don’t take it, I might punch you. Again.” Becky looked at Cynthia in the mirror. “I hit him once, and he assured me that it actually hurt.”

“Oh yes, she has a mean right hook. Don’t buy the innocent-housewife act.”

Cynthia smiled politely.

“Felix, I’m really excited about this one. You’ll be so great. You can do impersonations, you can do comedy and drama, you can sing. It’ll be a Felix Callahan showcase.”

“Or it could be disaster.”

“Not a chance.”

He rubbed the brush back and forth across his fingernail. “Would you take a look at the script? Give me your professional opinion?”

“What?” she said, replaying his question in her mind, searching for buried sarcasm.

“Your professional opinion, as a screenwriter.”

She stared. Cynthia had to press a finger against her cheek to make her turn her face back around. “You want my opinion?”

“Of course I do.”

Something had changed. He’d never considered her a real screenwriter before and never asked her opinion on anything. She knew he adored her in a with-a-side-of-onions way, but there were areas in each other’s lives they just didn’t poke at. This was so startlingly new that Cynthia had to stop working with her blush brush until the color faded from Becky’s cheeks.

“Sure thing,” Becky said casually. “I’d love to. You bet.”

Felix hopped off the table and said, “I’ll call Larry. See you on set.”

“Okay.”

Becky glanced at Cynthia’s expression in the mirror. She wished the incident had happened in private. Curse those observant makeup artists!

That night she read the Dean Martin script while Mike snored in bed beside her. It was brilliant. She knew it was brilliant because she couldn’t wait to turn each page and not one line irritated her and begged for rewriting.

She handed it back to Felix the next day.

“Do it,” she said.

He flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialed his agent. “Larry? Felix. Becky says go.”

And that quickly, he was resolved to it? Becky thought. All he needed was her opinion?

Something had changed.

But she didn’t ponder it. Becky wasn’t much of a ponderer in any case, not when there was so much to do. Days off with her family were one long, wonderful vacation. Days working were scores of hours with her best friend.

Every day when she got her call sheet outlining the schedule for tomorrow, she felt relieved that the last scene wasn’t up yet. She was preparing on the sly, hoping a rush of confidence would overtake her and she’d look back and laugh at her anxiety. What, me, worried about kissing Felix? Ha!

Time ticked forward.

In which Becky readies for the kiss

Why, oh why, did she write that?

Of course back when she blithely composed the script, she never dreamed that she herself would be the one doing the smooching. And when she rewrote some scenes to lessen her part, she didn’t even think to touch the kissing scene. It just felt right.

Becky believed the kiss was the magic moment a romantic movie reaches for, works toward, finally achieves. Sure, there were the love stories where two characters were jumping into bed the first half hour, sucking each other’s toes, removing clothing to reveal glistening skin. Becky preferred the story where two people connect, there’s the electricity, there’s the compatibility, there’s everything there that should make them the happiest couple in the world, except for . . . [insert insurmountable obstacle here]. And because of that obstacle, they grow, they change for each other, toward each other, until in the end, all it takes is that final symbolic climax, an exquisitely simple physical manifestation of their love, their surrender to each other, their union—the kiss.

She’d angled the entire story to lead to that kiss, so it had to be just right. She could appreciate those directors and screenwriters who like to play with the formula to see what they could make out of it. But there was something so lovely, so perfect, about that classic ending that when done well was enough to make even the hard-hearted sigh and believe in the kind of love that promises to go on after the credits roll.

The kiss not as flirtation but realization. Kiss as epiphany. Kiss as completion.

That was the goal, anyway, the lovely vision she’d had when typing on her computer. Actually carry ing it out was another matter. Acting, she’d discovered, was so much harder than just showing emotions you’re not feeling. Merely speaking lines in a convincing way was a trial. Not to mention being interesting to watch. The toughest thing to do? Laugh. Laughing for real. Tough.

The second hardest thing to do? Kiss beautifully.

Have you ever watched real people make out? Saliva, tongues, teeth clanking, noses rubbing—
blech
. Becky was not at all confident that she could kiss on film and allow it to be a beautiful moment instead of a wince-fest. So she’d been preparing for weeks. First she made a list of her favorite movie kisses of all time:

•
Willow
. That’s right,
Willow
, when Val Kilmer kisses Joanne Whaley in the tent, leading up to her kissing him in the middle of a sword fight. Even that long black wig couldn’t diminish Mr. Kilmer’s appeal.

•
Spider-Man
. The upside-down kiss just looks so yummy.

•
Empire Strikes Back
, between Han Solo and Princess Leia. “I like nice men,” she says. “I’m nice men,” he says. What girl wasn’t in love with Han Solo?

•
An Officer and a Gentleman
, at the end when Richard Gere carries Debra Winger. Say what you will, but it’s a classic.

•
A Room with a View
, when Julian Sands rushes upon Helena Bonham Carter in the meadow, seizes her, and kisses her without a word. Loosen my corset so I can breathe.

•
It’s a Wonderful Life
, while they’re trying to converse with that other guy on the phone, all the while staring at each other, touching, trying to ignore the heat building up between them. Talk about a smoking hot first kiss!

•
Rattled Cages
, of course. Let that umbrella fall away—a kiss so tender, so passionate, they didn’t even feel the rain.

She kept notes:

• No lip sucking.

• Mouths shouldn’t be open wide unless it’s a hugely dramatic, desperate kiss.

• Hands are very important. Too much touching can take focus away from the kiss itself. Around waist and back is good, or on neck and face. For hesitant kisses, hands on chest, as if half pushing away, or held up and not touching the other person at all.

• Hungry kisses are yummy.

• Sweet, slow kisses are a relief to watch.

• To be powerful, a kiss should make a journey, be its own story—begin with hesitation, move to realization, then melt into bliss.

It was an odd exercise. She and Mike had kissed so many times over so many years, they’d fallen into a pattern that felt absolute. So instead of approaching each other with noses to the right, they tilted heads the other way. They tried the old fashioned movie kisses, long moments of lips stuck together with no movement. They pretended it was their first kiss, hearts jackhammering, unsure where to put their hands. They mimicked a sudden rush of passion to see what that does to lips, then followed with a kiss that was a kind of dance, one person leading, the other following, lips moving together. Mike started laughing, the laughter made him seem all the more toothsome, and they got sidetracked into some marital good times. So when Becky reported on set the next day, she was feeling a little tired.

Still, she looked pretty good, maybe her best yet. In this scene more than any other, wardrobe wanted her stunning. She wore an amber silk turtleneck, the color bringing out the more interesting tones in her eyes (and under that . . . ah, the wonders of the right bra!). Her skirt was long and flowy, somehow managing to look casual but in reality a dry-clean-only number. And she wore knee-high brown boots, the heels giving her a lift so Felix wouldn’t have to bend down in the kiss. Her hair was flipped out and sassy, and her makeup superheavy and yet natural. Feeling nice helped calm her squeamish middle, and she’d almost convinced herself she was fine—until she started to mess up her lines.

“You do look a little dreary,” Becky/Hattie said.

The script girl called out the correction, “You do look a little
dreamy
.”

“
Dreamy
? Who wrote these lines?”

There was some polite laughter from the crew, and Felix said, “That’ll make it on the DVD extras.”

She smiled at him and realized with an achy jolt that fear of messing up the kiss wasn’t the only problem. Could she admit it? She tried to recognize the problem slightly, just squint at it, not look at it straight-on. (The other issue was Felix. She was kissing Felix. Her best friend.) The ice pixies in her belly began to perform a full-blown Capades.

She wished Mike were there; his grounding presence would make everything seem okay. But he’d had a conference call he couldn’t miss.

Diana was wrong. Becky knew she was in no danger of unlocking some buried desire for Felix. And ever since Mike had said, “I’m having a hard time,” she’d tried to take such care, check in with herself, maintain a balance. She hadn’t kissed anyone else since falling for Mike eighteen years ago. Could she even do it?

After they filmed the dialogue leading to the kiss, Wally called a break to reset the cameras. Becky caught her face reflected in a window and scowled.

This won’t do at all, she told herself. I look way too cute to waste this moment on fretting. I need a plan of action.

Felix was standing still while Livie, his makeup artist, touched up his eyes. He winked at Becky and asked, “You ready to snog?”

“You For that alone, she would make him pay.

“Lorraine,” she said, hustling over to her craft services friend. Becky had often thought, let others kiss up to the director or the producers—I say, get a friend in craft services and you’re a made woman.

“Lorraine, what do you have on hand that’s terrifically stinky? In the next scene I’m supposed to kiss Felix.”

Lorraine bounced with joy as she rummaged through her fridge. “Ah-ha! Minced garlic.”

“You’re a genius. Smear some of that on a cracker, will you? A lot of it. On second thought, just give me a spoon.”

Becky fed herself a couple of teaspoons of minced garlic and bit off the bulb of a green onion for good measure. It made her eyes water and her saliva glands protest, but it would do the trick.

Creepy Barb was waiting on set while the electricians adjusted the lights. She looked at Becky with her active eye while her lazy eye slid away. Becky shivered.

At last Becky and Felix stepped up to rehearse the blocking for that scene while someone marked the floor with tape. They didn’t rehearse the kiss, just stood close and faked it, smooching the air dramatically. Becky made sure not to breathe on Felix.

“Okay, let’s do it for real,” Wally said.

“Quiet on set!” the assistant director shouted.

The bell rang, then everything hushed. Becky’s stomach performed a 360-degree flip.

She’d heard the crew give those same wind-up phrases dozens of times that summer, but there was something frightening about them now, a doomsday countdown to the point of no return.

“Roll it.”

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Forty-one, take one.”

“Action.”

Felix put his hands on her shoulders. She tipped her face up to his. She ignored her nervous belly, thoughts of George Clooney and Michelle Pfeiffer, and worries of slobbery messy kisses. She pretended not to know that when you write a romantic movie that culminates in a kiss, it must be a good one, had better sum up the entire story, wrap it with a bow and sell it to the audience as a thing of beauty. She disregarded memories of Calvin the sexy pet shop owner kissing wild child Katie in the rain. All she thought was garlic, garlic, garlic.

His lips touched hers. He winced and pulled back, making a gagging noise.

“Whoops, I may have had a
little
garlic for lunch.”

The sound mixer called for a check, pausing to adjust levels.

“Two can play this game. Wally, give me a click?” Felix jogged over to craft services. Becky heard Lorraine laugh.

They set up the scene again. The anticipation was incredible, props people clutching their props, grips gripping things. Becky gave her lead-in line, Felix responded. Then he put his hand on the back of her head and slowly leaned in for a kiss.

She tried to kiss him. She felt bad for the crew waiting while they fooled around. If only she hadn’t breathed in through her nose.

“It’s like . . .” She coughed. “It’s like kissing a herring. A . . . pickled herring, was it?”

“I did have some for lunch.”

“Obviously.”

“And when you imagined kissing me, there was no herring flavor about?”

She considered. “I guess I thought it’d be more like bass or cod.”

“One of your larger sea fish.”

“Exactly.”

“I wonder what’s worse, kissing a fish or an Italian buff et.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Lunch was pretty garlic-intensive. Was it a mood killer, do you think?”

“Just a tad.”

“Hm.”

“Yes.”

The crew was snickering. The director yelled, “Cut.”

“This is good, surprisingly,” Wally said. “We just might keep this.”

Felix blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah . . . What if right here we cut to you two in the bathroom, both brushing your teeth and your tongues? Then you’ll come back to the balcony again. And take it from there, as if you’ve both just freshened up and are ready to try the kiss for real.”

“So, Wally, we don’t actually get to freshen up before the next take?”

“We’re rolling, Felix.”

“Right. We just won’t breathe in through our noses.”

Felix took Becky’s hands. He smiled at her, that warm smile that made her feel snug at home. “Shall we try this again?”

She nodded. Her heart was drumming so loudly she wondered why the sound guy didn’t ask for a break to readjust the microphone levels. She was going to have to kiss Felix. For real. Could she do this? Really do this? The cameras and all these people watching, waiting, the money and time and equipment, and Felix himself. He was a professional. He could do this. But could she?