The Extra (12 page)

“What about me?”

“You seem a little on edge.”

Warren eyed her standing there in her stocking feet, with mussed-up hair hanging in her face.  How could he have fallen so hard for this girl?  She was nothing at all like the sultry, moody Ophelia.  She was thoughtful, and wholesome, and smart.  Warren wanted more than anything to tell Bridget how he felt about her.  He yearned to unburden his soul, but the incident with Craddock sowed just enough seeds of doubt to keep him quiet.  “I’m sorry,” he said instead.

Bridget watched him a little bit longer before she went back to her vegetables.  “I’m glad that things went well for you today.  Maybe we should just go celebrate somewhere.  What do you think about that?”

“I could use a drink.”

“Ok, then,” Bridget smiled with just a bit of reticence.  “Just let me finish my salad, all right?”

“Sure.  Take your time.”  Warren did his best to look cheerful.  Maybe he knew how to act after all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

They sat together at a table in a dimly lit dive bar just off the boulevard.  It wasn’t the kind of place Bridget would ever have come to on her own.  She’d often walked past on warm afternoons, when the front door was open to the sidewalk.  The odor was always the same; that dank smell of stale beer soaked into the carpet and the walls and the upholstery.  She’d wondered what types of people chose to hang out in here, and now as she looked around the room she knew.  People on the margins, worn out by trying to compete in a society obsessed with money, looks and status.  The customers gathered here had none of the above, and these four walls gave them shelter from life’s pressures, waiting just outside that door.  Inside this bar they had their drink, but they also had each other.  Sitting at the barstools, a small knot of regulars was gathered; three men and a woman, with creases in their faces from cigarette smoke and hard living.  The woman, close to Marjorie’s age, bellowed with a raspy laugh at something one of her cohorts had said.  Closer to the door, a beefy bartender with arms covered in tattoos watched a basketball game on a television mounted below the ceiling.  On the stool facing him sat a middle-aged cocktail waitress with too much makeup, dyed-blonde hair and a skimpy white dress she was too old to wear.  She kept an occasional eye on Bridget and Warren, her only customers, who occupied a table nearby.  Bridget wondered if these were Warren’s people, after all.  “Do you hang out in places like this very often?” she asked him.

“Not so much,” he shook his head.  “Not since I lived in New Orleans anyway.  I spent a fair few nights in seedy joints then, but that was different.  I was trying to earn a living.”

“Were you a bartender?”

“No, I told you, I’m a musician!”

“Oh, right!  I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were actually a professional.”

“If you could call it that.  I played with a blues band.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Sure, I suppose, but it’s a hard life.  We weren’t paid very much.”

Bridget used a straw to poke at the ice cubes in her cranberry cocktail.  “Are you bitter?”

“Do I sound bitter?”

“Maybe a little bit.”

Warren furrowed his brow and took a sip from his vodka tonic.  “I suppose I’m bitter about a lot of things.”

“What things?”  Bridget decided to push him a little bit.  She’d never find out anything if she didn’t try.  “There’s a woman involved here somewhere, isn’t there?” she pressed.

“What makes you think so?”  Warren couldn’t help but give her a wry smile.

“Intuition, I guess.”

Warren laughed.  “Are men really so simple?”

“Short answer?  Yes.”

“I guess you have me all figured out, then.”

“What was her name?”

“Ophelia.”

“Did you love her?”

“Short answer?”

“Do you still?”

Warren didn’t want to admit the truth.  “I gave her everything I could possibly give, and it still wasn’t enough,” he said instead.

“I think I know how that feels.”

“Oh?”  Warren saw an opening; to shift the conversation from his own personal life.  “What’s your tale of woe?”

Bridget raised her eyebrows and breathed in deeply.  “There’s nothing special about mine.”

“I’d still like to hear it.”

Bridget took a drink from her cocktail.  Since arriving in Los Angeles, she hadn’t spoken about this with anyone.  Instead she’d kept it bottled up inside, simmering.  She’d had nobody out here to talk it over
with
, but perhaps this was the opportunity she’d secretly longed for, to share her tale with someone who truly cared.  “I was in love,” she began, “with a man named Robert.”  She looked up to see Warren’s response.  He was merely listening attentively, with no indication of judgment.  She continued.  “We were in a play together. 
A Streetcar Named Desire
.  I was Stella to Robert’s Stanley.  Playing his wife was an emotional experience for me because I wanted that so badly in real life. 
We
wanted it.  At least I thought so.  The show got fantastic reviews and it went on an extended run.  The two of us planned to head to New York when it wrapped up and take on the Big Apple.  You know, if you can make it there and all that, right?”

Warren nodded.  He was afraid to say anything, lest he discourage Bridget from recounting her story. 

“So the run went on,” Bridget continued.  “It was just a small theater, without a lot of seats, but we were packing them in most nights.  Somewhere along the way I started to sense that things were changing between us.  I thought maybe it was all in the dynamic of the play.  He seemed more and more comfortable with the ferocity of his role.  Maybe too comfortable.  I tried to tell myself that it was just the pressure of doing ten shows a week.”  Bridget stopped speaking as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

“You don’t need to tell me anymore.”  Warren hadn’t meant to make her cry.

“When we finally closed, I thought we could get on with our lives and move to New York like we’d planned.  Except that Robert’s plans had changed.  He still wanted to move to New York.  Just not with me.  He was going with Blanche.  The pretty one.”  Bridget paused again to regain her composure.  “I packed my things the very next day and drove my little green Saturn all the way to LA.”  She tried to smile.  “Talk about cliché.”

Another man in his mid-50’s came into the bar and joined the regulars at the far end.  Before he’d even ordered a drink the bartender poured him a beer and then went back to his basketball game.  

“I wanted to get as far away from New York as possible,” Bridget continued.  “I definitely couldn’t stay in St. Louis.  Not after that.”  She paused to think back.

“I suppose maybe we have more in common than we thought,” said Warren.

“Two exiles in love, banished forever to La La land.”

“I’m not sure about forever.”

“It feels like it sometimes.”  Bridget was startled find herself lost in the depth of Warren’s blue eyes.  She gazed at him silently for a few more seconds before she shivered and looked away.  Why did she feel like kissing him all over again?  She knew she’d better be careful.  She didn’t want to lead him on.  Yet as long as she took things slowly, perhaps nobody would get hurt...  “So tell me more about the acting today.  I want to hear how it went,” she said.

“It wasn’t as bad as I expected.”

“Did you see what I meant, about trying on a character’s emotions for the day?”

Warren laughed lightly.  “Yeah.  I got to be a policeman.  The irrepressible Casey, at your service.”

“And how did that feel?”

Warren tilted his head back a little as he thought about his answer.  “Wonderful,” he said.

“See?!”  Bridget was excited.  “Maybe you’re hooked now, too!”

“It’s almost as good as playing the sax.”

“Some say it’s better than sax.”

Warren screwed his face up into an expression of pain and then smirked and shook his head.  “Are your jokes always so awful?”

“Sadly, they usually are.”

“I’m willing to bet there are help groups for that sort of thing.”

“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad!”  Bridget wound up and reached across the table to slug him in the arm.  Warren laughed in return.  “And anyway,” Bridget added, “at least we know where it comes from now.”

“Where what comes from?”

“Your talent.”

“Oh?  And where does it come from?”

“The same place your talent in music comes from.”

“And where is that?”

“Don’t you know?” Bridget asked.

Warren didn’t want to answer this question.  He didn’t like to think about such things.  Questions like this only led to expectations and expectations led to heartache.  It was better to take things a day at a time; to live in the present, forget the past, and don’t worry too much about the future.  “How about those acting lessons?” he changed the subject.  “Is the offer still good?”

“Of course.  Although at this point you might be the one teaching me a thing or two,” Bridget smiled.

“Not likely.”

“If you come by tomorrow night I’ll make you some dinner first.”

“Salad?”

“No, a proper dinner,” she laughed.  “I’ll go shopping, I promise!”

“You know I won’t turn that down.”

“All right then.” Bridget was happy at the prospect.  No matter how hard she’d tried to fight it, she couldn’t help but like this guy.  Perhaps, she thought, she simply shouldn’t fight it. 

Chapter Twenty-Three

On set the following day, Warren and Bridget had no scenes together.  He only caught a fleeting glimpse of her as she was shuttled into an adjoining set, but all day long he kept thinking of their previous evening together.  Of course, there was still the question of Roger Craddock.  It was hard to believe that Bridget would go for a guy like that, but Marjorie’s words kept running through his mind.  “When the devil comes calling…”  Well, if Warren had to compete with the devil, he’d take his chances.  For the time being he tried to concentrate on the work at hand; to inhabit his character like Bridget suggested.  So far it seemed to be working.  At least Kaplan wasn’t complaining.  When the director finally called a wrap, Warren felt some relief at having made it through another day.  He retrieved his saxophone from behind a stack of equipment along one wall and then made his way toward the exit.  As Warren approached the door, however, Jessica Turnbull moved to block his path.  “Nice work today,” she said, her perfume filling his nostrils.

“Thanks,” Warren replied with caution.

“You keep surprising me,” she continued.

“Well, I’m doing my best,” he answered, feeling a bit flustered.  He still wasn’t comfortable talking to her off camera.

“It looks like the part is officially yours.  You want to celebrate with a drink?” she said with a hint of womanly guile.

“No thanks.  I have some plans,” he answered, taken aback at her offer.

“Plans?  Do you always turn down movie stars when they ask you for a drink?”

“I don’t know.  It doesn’t happen very often.”  Warren’s confusion grew.  Was she coming on to him? 

Jessica crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side as she seemed to consider a different tactic.  “You’ve got a lot of lines to memorize for tomorrow.  Have you started on that yet?”

“What lines?”  Warren was somewhat perplexed.  Nobody ever told him much of anything.

“You know you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“How many lines?” he added worriedly.  “I haven’t even seen a full script.”

“I suppose I could help,” answered Jessica with a sigh.  “We could read together, at my place.  There are a few scenes I wouldn’t mind practicing.”

“Tonight?” said Warren in awe.

“Sure.  It might be fun.” 

Warren watched as Jessica licked her lips.  Those perfect lips, so like Ophelia’s.  How he longed to kiss them, just once.  The slightest taste would do.  His heart raced at the prospect, but he thought of Bridget and shook his head.  “No, I can’t,” he replied.  “I’m meeting someone for dinner.”

“Don’t tell me there’s someone else?” Jessica said with a pout.  “Besides, it’s not even six O’clock.  If you come right now, I’m sure you can still make it to dinner.”

“Right now?”  Warren’s eyes went wide.

“Why not?”

He thought this over, wondering what it really meant.  “At your house?”

“That’s the idea.”

Maybe she did just want to practice her lines.  He could still make it to Bridget’s house by eight.  He looked at Jessica’s long eye lashes and her perfect figure.  “All right,” Warren relented.  “I guess so.”

Jessica gave him a sly smile in return.  She’d known he’d say yes all along.  Nobody could resist Jessica Turnbull.  “Let’s go, then,” she said.

Warren took a deep breath and followed her on outside.

This time it was Warren’s turn to cruise through the streets of Los Angeles in a fancy sports car.  He held tight to his door handle as Jessica whipped her convertible blue Ferrari around tight corners winding through the Hollywood hills.  Warren was more than a little afraid for his life.  Beads of sweat formed on his brow.  A wave of relief passed over him when she finally pulled to a stop in front of an enormous wrought-iron gate.  Jessica pushed a button on the underside of her car’s sun visor and the gate swung slowly open.  She drove on through, down a short circular drive, and then stopped in front of an enormous Mediterranean-style mansion.  “Here we are, home sweet home,” she said as she hopped out of the car.  Warren followed, leaving his instrument behind on the floor.  “Bring the sax, if you want” she said.  “Maybe you can play me a tune.”

Warren retrieved his saxophone without a word and followed her across a flagstone path, between two sets of manicured palms, and on through a giant arched doorway with white columns on either side.  Once inside the house, Jessica led him through a large foyer with a cathedral ceiling and past a sweeping round staircase.  In the living room she went straight to a bar where she opened a liquor cabinet.

“Care for a martini?” she asked.

“Sure,” he answered.

Jessica pulled an ice bucket from a small freezer under the bar and dropped some cubes into a martini shaker.  She poured in a healthy amount of Grey Goose and a splash of vermouth.  When she’d thoroughly mixed the concoction she poured it out into two glasses and handed one to Warren.  “Let’s take these outside.”  She led him through a sliding glass door to a backyard patio with swimming pool and Jacuzzi.  The Los Angeles basin spread out below, bathed in the light of a late-summer evening.