The Extra (26 page)

“Good thing I don’t have a phone,” he said.

“Don’t you want to be famous?” said Dorothy.

“He’s famous now, whether he wants it or not,” said Rallston before turning to Warren.  “Your life is never going to be the same again, Mr. August.”

“I can’t say that’s necessarily a bad thing,” Warren answered.

“Yo, man, you gonna need an agent, and a manager and all of that,” said Slim.

“You can be my agent,” said Warren.

“Does that come with benefits?”

“You bet.  All the champagne you can drink.”

“Hey, what about me?!” Smiley protested.

“You can be my manager, how’s that?”

Smiley nodded with a circumspect expression.  “I think that would be ok.  I need a phone, though.  You gonna get me a phone?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be your publicist,” said Duke.  “Or how about head of security?  I like the sound of that.”

“You’re hired.  Just keep the riff raff away.”

“But Warren, man, we are the riff raff.”

“Not anymore.  Those days are over.”  Warren turned to Bridget.  “I know I owe this all to you.  You’re the one held my hand from the very beginning.  You showed me the ropes.  You inspired me to learn how to really act.  I’m not sure how I can repay you.”

“You could take a bath,” she said.  “And shave.  At least once a day.”

“Every single day?!”

“That better not go for the rest of us!” said Smiley.  “I don’t be needin’ no bath every day.”

Warren chuckled.  “No, she’s right, every day!”  He looked to Bridget and took in her face, glowing with contentment.  It was the same face he’d first seen all those months before, peeking out from under a warm winter cap, soot smeared across her face.  Even then she’d looked every bit as lovely.  Warren’s heart swelled with a sense of happiness and good fortune the likes of which he’d never before felt.  As long as she remained beside him, Warren knew it would endure.

Chapter Forty-Eight

When she walked onto the soundstage this time, Bridget felt butterflies all over again.  It was like the very first time, when she’d just arrived in Hollywood, only this time there was a chair set up to one side with her name on the back.  She stopped in her tracks as she read the letters.  BRIDGET PETERSON.  It was really true.  She’d finally made it.  After countless auditions and disappointments, pounding the pavement all over town, she finally landed the kind of role she’d been longing for.  She sat happily in her chair and watched the crew prepare for the scene.  She wore a smart, Navy blue business suit.  Her hair was up in a bun, with just a few loose strands hanging down to frame her face.  The set was a modern office, with a desk, drafting table, and views out the window of the Manhattan skyline.  A production assistant arranged a few magazines on a table in a waiting area outside the office door and then placed a stack of cups beside a coffee machine.

This was a modestly-budgeted independent film, but with a well-respected director attached they’d attracted an impressive cast.  She only wished that Warren was there to witness her screen acting debut.  Ever since the Oscars he’d become the hottest property in town, signing to a major agency and being courted by the biggest producers in the business.  Deals were in the works with all the major studios.  It was a whirlwind that Bridget worried might consume him.  His days were spent in meetings, or photo shoots, or television interviews.  At night he schmoozed with industry hot-shots, all while trying not to leave his homeless buddies completely behind.  He took them out to dinner from time to time and tried to help them when he could, but Warren was being pulled in too many directions at once.   Bridget knew that change was hard, on people and on relationships, and few had ever been through such change as this.  It was a shaky platform for them to build on.  She knew Warren cared for her, yet here she was, about to have the biggest moment in her acting career to date and he wasn’t there to share it.  He’d told her he’d come, but Warren was nowhere to be seen.  Bridget tried not to let it get her down.  She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Ariel’s number.

“Well, hello, I see you’re still talking to me,” he answered.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Bridget asked.

“Now that you’re
famous
!” he raised his voice.  “I’m surprised you’d still associate with us hoi polloi at all!”

“Oh, come on.  Hoi polloi?  You? 
Please
.”

“All right, maybe not, but I’m no Hollywood movie star!”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t talk to you.  At least for the time being anyway.  It’s not like I’ve won an Oscar or anything.”

“Yet, my dear.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Speaking of, how are things with your down-and-outer?”

Bridget laughed.  “Why do you sound jealous?”

“Because I am, girl, I am.”

“He’s super busy these days.  You know how these things are.”

“Sadly, I don’t.”

“I didn’t call to talk about Warren.  Guess what I’m sitting in right now?”

“I don’t know, a beanbag?  A porch swing?  The back of a giant limo?”

“No, silly, a director’s chair, with my own name on it!  Can you believe that?!”

“I’m happy for you Bridge.  You know I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Ariel.  I’m just about to shoot my first scene.”

“Good luck.  I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”

“I’ll do my best.  I think I’ve got to go, but I’ll talk to you again soon.”

“Break a leg, or whatever they say out there.”

“Thanks Ariel!”  When Bridget hung up her phone, the film’s director stood beside her.  He was a relaxed, easy-going man in his late 30’s with short, dark hair, baggy jeans and a loose-fitting brown, collared shirt.  “Are you ready?” he asked.

“I think so,” Bridget replied.

“Remember, you’re a career woman, completely focused on your work.  For years you’ve had little time for anything else.”

“Right.”

“When Nick Bancroft comes walking into your office, all the heartbreak you felt all those years before just comes flooding back.  It’s like you’ve spent the past ten years building a wall around your emotions and then bam!  Here comes this tsunami, washing all of your defenses away.”

“Believe me, I was made for this role.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great.”  The two of them were joined by the other actors in the scene, Bridget’s harried but enthusiastic assistant and her love interest, the irrepressible playboy in a tailored suit, handsome with gleaming black hair.  “All right, I think we’re ready to go,” said the director. 

The actors were placed in position, with Bridget ready to exit a pair of elevator doors up the hall.  Her props included a briefcase and a handful of cardboard tubes.  Bridget had held out some hope that Warren might make it to the set on time, but she knew she had to focus.  It was important to make a good impression.

“Ok, we’ll film this take, so give me your best!” said the director.  “Roll cameras!”

An assistant director held a digital slate in front of a camera.  “No Cure for the Broken Hearted, scene one, take one!” he said.

“And, action!” said the director.

Bridget walked out of the elevator and down the hallway, past her assistant’s desk.   “Good morning Margaret,” she said.  “Anything happening around here?”

When the director yelled “Cut!” Bridget felt a huge sense of relief.  She hadn’t realized how nervous she was until it was over.  Had she even been breathing at all?  One take was finished out of countless more spread out ahead of her, but she’d done it.  She’d remembered her lines.  She hadn’t screwed up, and the director actually seemed satisfied. 

From back amongst the camera equipment Bridget heard a clapping sound.  She squinted against the lights to see a man standing off to one side by himself.  “Bravo!” he called out.  It was Warren, in jeans and a faded green t-shirt.

“You made it!”  Bridget rushed across the set without stopping until she’d embraced him.

“Good to see you, too!”  A broad smile broke out on his face. 

Bridget kissed him on the cheek before letting him go.  “When did you get here?!”

“Right about the time the director shouted
action
.”

“And?  What did you think?  Or maybe you shouldn’t tell me…”

“I think this town better watch out.  You’re gonna take it by storm.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that.  But thanks.”

“Well, what do I know?  I’m just the man on the street.”

“With the Oscar,” she laughed.  “We’re going to make quite the Hollywood couple, aren’t we?”  Before she even got the words out, Bridget was afraid of the answer.

Warren saw the uncertainty in her expression.  “What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing,” Bridget answered.

“You don’t trust it, do you?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Should I?”

Warren placed a hand on either cheek and leaned close to kiss her on the forehead.  “You know the only thing I really care about is right here in front of me.”  A single tear rolled down Bridget’s cheek and Warren wiped it away with one thumb. 

From across the set, the director gave a shout.  “Let’s go Bridget, time for another take!”

Warren closed his eyes and kissed her this time on the lips.  “Go get ‘em,” he said.

“Don’t go away,” she replied with a smile before moving back across the set to take her place inside the elevator car.  Bridget tried to trust the emotions that came over her; a profound sense of well-being.  All of her life she’d wanted to love, to be loved, and to act.  Now it seemed she had them all at the same time.  Maybe dreams could come true.  For the moment, however, she was a harried architect, too busy working to think about love.

“Roll cameras!” called the director.

“Scene one, take two!” shouted the assistant director.

“And…!” cried the director.  “
Action!
”

Warren and Bridget walked side by side from the sound stage at the end of the day.  “Can I give you a ride?” he asked when they got to the parking lot.

“In what?” Bridget asked.

Warren pulled a set of keys from his pocket and pressed the alarm button.  They heard a chirp and Bridget saw the lights on a tan-colored Jeep Wrangler blink on and off.  “What do you think?” he asked with childlike enthusiasm.  “I’ve always wanted one, for as long as I can remember.  You don’t think it’s too flashy, do you?  I’d hate to be putting on airs.”

“In this town, are you kidding?”

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

“I think it’s very nice.”

Warren seemed relieved.  “Would you like to go for a ride?”

“I’d love to.”

Warren opened the passenger door and helped Bridget climb up and in before he walked around and took his place behind the wheel.  He fired up the engine, backed out of the parking space and drove across the lot exuding a newfound sense of pride.  He was a man who seemed to feel that for the first time in his life, anything was possible.  “Where do you want to go?” he asked as they moved past the front gate.

“You decide,” Bridget answered.

Warren turned left and headed for the hills.  Ever since he’d first viewed the city from above, he’d been drawn to high places.  Maybe he’d even get a house of his own up there someday, above the hubbub down below.  He’d have plenty of time to think about that.  For now he’d enjoy the moments as they came.

Bridget kept an eye on Warren as they drove, the wind blowing through his hair.  She tried to remember what he’d looked like on that first day, when he’d wandered onto the set with an air of confusion.  The difference was profound, yet this was the same Warren, with the same lust for life that she’d recognized in him from the start. 

From Franklin Avenue, Warren turned left on Vermont and wound up into Griffith Park, past the Greek Theater and around to the observatory where he parked in a lot and turned off the ignition.  “Should we get out and take a look?” he asked.

“That would be lovely,” Bridget answered.

It was near sunset on a late winter evening and the air was beginning to cool.  Warren reached into the back seat and pulled out his work coat; a remnant of his days as a janitor just a few months before.  “Why don’t you put this on?” he asked.

“What about you?  Won’t you be cold?”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, helping slide the jacket onto her arms.

“All right, but if you change your mind,” she said, knowing that he wouldn’t. 

Side by side they walked across the flagstones to the dome-topped observatory building and then made their way around to the front where they leaned against a railing, suspended above the wide expanse of the LA Basin.  To the west, the sun was low on the horizon.  To the east stretched the San Gabriel Mountains.  Below, the lights of downtown were just coming on.  Bridget pulled Warren’s coat tight around herself to ward off a chill.  “You’re sure you’re not cold?” she asked.

“I’m sure.”  Warren took her in his arms and pulled her close.  “You can keep me warm.”

“Gladly,” she answered.

“And here I didn’t think it would last.”

“Didn’t think what would last?”

“Any of it.  That first day on the set.  Remember?  You said I should stick around a while.  You were right.”

“It’s a habit of mine.”

“I’ll try to get used to it.”

“And what about us?  Do you think that we’ll last?”

Warren loosened his grip on her just a little and leaned back to take a better look.  “You don’t trust it?”

“I want to.  I wish I could…”  Bridget took one hand and gently caressed Warren’s chest.  “I’d like to think it’s a perfect fairy tale, with the happy ending and all, but I’m a realist.  Fame does something to a person.  There are going to be pressures and temptations you’ve never dreamed of.  Do you really think you’ll be able to handle that?”

“With you by my side I can handle anything.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a platitude to me.”

Warren thought a moment about what to say next.  “I love you, Bridget.  More than anything in the world.  I know that you’re worried, that somehow if you open up your heart you’ll end up getting hurt…”

“Do you blame me?”