“Semantics, darling,” she said leaning back and crossing her long, shapely legs, revealing as much of her thighs as the slit skirt would allow, not quite turning it into a Sharon Stone moment. She was beautiful and she knew it. Her features were distributed with a sculpted precision, perfectly filling her oval face. Her trademark thick, dark hair, not quite black but a rich coffee brown, usually fell sensually around her head, spilling onto her shoulders. Tonight, however, it was swept up, allowing the chandelier earrings she’d chosen to sway flirtatiously, barely an inch from brushing her shoulders, which rose invitingly out of the strapless silver gown she’d chosen to wear to the premiere of her latest film.
Yes, she was beautiful and the most captivating feature she possessed was not her hair or even her mouth, which was full, begging to be kissed, and could break into a most brilliant rewarding smile. It was her eyes, eyes of the deepest navy blue, “ocean eyes” a reporter had dubbed them, fringed by long black lashes. They were eyes men could get lost in, and many had, mesmerized by one glance. Those entranced ran the gamut from the wizened octogenarian millionaires who financed her films to the awkward teenagers who had mowed her suburban Long Island lawn back when she had been Diana Knight, the home town beauty, an identity she had shed not long after she dropped out of college.
She began modeling, emerged from her adolescent chrysalis and became Carol Kingsley, who signed a lucrative film contract and learned how best to use Nature’s gifts before the camera. And it had worked. She was luminescent on the screen. Not only did the camera love her, but much to her surprise, she discovered that she could act and she enjoyed it. She tried on each role as a frugal shopper might try on a special occasion dress, examining it from all sides, making sure it emphasized her assets and allowed her an escape from herself. More than that, acting was a chance to breathe life into the character who wasn’t fully formed until she spoke the author’s words. In every lacuna she found in a script, there was a place for her to make her eyes grow wider, touch her co-star’s arm, arch an eyebrow, frown in consternation or flash her dazzling smile. She liked period pieces the most because of their elegant and elaborate costumes and because of the many freedoms they provided to her and her directors. That’s how she thought of them: her directors, men at her command whose obligations to the audience were to bring in a good film and to make her irresistible, not only to ticket buyers but also to every voting member of every academy that gave out awards. If that meant that, every now and again, she had to endure the casting couch, so be it. Up until now, all parties had been discrete and, once a film wrapped, had remained civilized.
She had just been answering a reporter who asked her why she referred to Alan Delaney as “her director”.
“Alan is a brilliant director. Why wouldn’t I want to possess him and not share him with any of those other actresses who might want him for themselves?” Ever the coquette, she delivered the lines with the appropriate innocent wide-eyed sigh and admiring smile toward Alan seated next to her, dipping her head and pouting ever so slightly as she alluded to those unnamed but clearly covetous hussies who were just lying in wait to pounce.
Alan reached over and patted her hand reassuringly before addressing the reporter directly.
“To be clear. I am Miss Kingley’s director since I am the man who directed the film in which she stars. But I am also Mr. Clarke’s director and he would be likewise correct in referring to me as his director.”
Near the back of the room, one reporter nudged his cameraman to whisper “You heard it from the horse’s mouth: Alan Delaney swings both ways.” Muffled laughter followed as Alan, standing to indicate that the interview was over, offered an outstretched hand to Carol. She took it, uncrossing her legs and seeming to flow out of her chair to place a hand on his chest and a kiss on his cheek. Then she gave them what they were waiting for: she flashed her megawatt smile as cameras clicked.
Finding an empty seat at the after party, she sipped her drink and thought about her next project. It was a high budget period piece with a star-studded ensemble cast directed by Damien Reardon, a notoriously demanding and intolerant taskmaster who had no qualms about firing anyone who didn’t toe the line. She had fought for the part, even sending him an audition tape, waiting anxiously until her agent told her the part was hers. What to expect, she wondered, looking out over the crowd of partying, glamorous golden children, who, like her, had the good fortune to be born beautiful. Well, she’d find out soon enough. Surveying the room like Ahab searching for the white whale, she thought about which director she might harpoon to make tonight’s extravagant display of hedonism profitable for future projects. Her next thought was “what a spoiled and vapid bunch we are. Celluloid fantasies whose real lives are so remote from the characters we play as to be laughable.” Still, it paid the bills, guaranteed her a beautiful home and, most of all, brought her worldwide fame. Fame had become as addictive to her as heroin was to a back-alley junkie. It opened doors to a life of opportunities that Diana Knight, from whose ashes she arose, could only yearn for. And she didn’t want to give it up. Ever.
“Hey, Carol,” Samuel’s familiar voice sounded in her ear. “There’s someone that wants to meet you.” Samuel was a good friend, reputed to know everyone of importance and for being a behind the scenes power broker. He had her complete attention as she swiveled her chair a half turn. “Who?”
“Can’t tell you. That’s part of the deal. Come on,” he said, pulling her out of her chair by the hand, leading her across the room.
She saw a man in a white linen suit, shirt open at the neck, with his back to the bar, barely leaning on his elbows, watching her as she approached. He had a shock of dark hair, full and flowing, but not unruly. He wasn’t smiling but in what reminded her of a scene from an old Bogart movie, he slowly looked her up and down before meeting her gaze full on. She was used to men losing their equilibrium when they were subjected to the intensity of her eyes. He seemed not only to be completely unaffected, but was now shamelessly appraising every inch of her, to the point where Carol felt like Scarlett O’Hara claiming Rhett Butler’s gaze made her feel as if he knew what she looked like naked. Uncharacteristically, she felt herself blush.
He straightened, offered her his hand and in a rich, deep voice said, “I’m Damien Reardon.” She knew that, but pretended she didn’t, and shook his outstretched hand. As she went to disengage, he held onto her hand, gently turning it over in his. “I’ve reserved us a table,” and drew her along after him. With a glance back at Samuel, who shrugged, she allowed herself to be led away.
The table was in a small alcove which blocked most of the noise from the bar. It was candle-lit, with two enormous platters of finger foods and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. He pulled a chair out for her and once she was seated, he sat to her left instead of across from her. “Louie,” he said, pointing to the champagne, “if you please.” Louie did what she supposed Louie always did and handed each of them a glass of champagne. Taking hers, she leaned back, giving him her full attention, waiting for him to speak. He raised his glass toward her and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” in as poor a Bogart imitation as she had ever heard.
She burst out laughing. “Really? Casablanca? I guess that’s about the last thing I expected.”
His smile made him even more attractive. “Since we’re doing a somewhat similar war time romance, I thought I should remind you what our film and your performance will be compared to.”
“I see,” she said, her mirth vanishing, her eyes flashing. “No foreplay at all. Just get right to the business at hand.”
She paused, put her glass down on the table and turned the full force of her personality on him, wanting to make her position clear. She looked him directly in the eye. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Mr. Reardon.”
The not unexpected “Call me Damien,” interrupted her.
“Fine. Damien. I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I can assure you that when I sign on to a project, I am committed to that project and I will do anything and everything to make it a success, so there is absolutely no need for you to remind me of what kinds of criticism the film may face. I knew that when I signed the contract so…” she stopped speaking, realizing that his expression was one of intense amusement.
“Relax, Carol. Enjoy your champagne. I’m convinced. You’ll be fine. If I had any doubts about your ability to call up intense emotions, you’ve just put them to rest.”
Then he turned on the charm. Carol tried to hold onto her annoyance but she could feel it slipping away as he told her that she had the most beautiful and expressive eyes of any working actress and that she knew how to use them. He told her he had decided to cast her in the part after witching her audition tape.
“It was two things. No, it was three.”
Carol waited, expecting him to tell her what those things were, keeping a pleasant expression on her face.
“Aren’t you curious to know what they were?”
Carol realized that in his version of the scene they were playing, she was supposed to be breathlessly hanging on his every word, beside herself to know what he thought of her. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders and said “You’ll tell me if you want me to know and if you don’t want me to know, my asking you wouldn’t make a difference. So…”
“Miss Kingsley,” he said, raising his glass in salute. “I’m impressed. Taking control of the narrative and shaping it to your will. Expressing your independence. Well done. I do hope you’ll be more compliant,…no, that’s the wrong word. Malleable? No, too harsh.” Pleased with finding a word he thought she wouldn’t reject, he emphasized it with a smile. “More open to taking direction and feeling the rhythm of the scene as we begin our journey together.”
“And have we embarked on that journey?”
“Most definitely,” he said, sipping his champagne. “We can call it Take One, if you like.”
“So, this,” she waved a hand back and forth between them “ is scripted? Has a rhythm?”
“Well, all human interaction has a rhythm. We just have to listen for it and, once we identify it, we have to acknowledge its power, move to it, enjoy it.”
“And what do you think ours will be?”
He smiled. “I think we’re already establishing one, but it may prove to be quite different from what I anticipated. Now that I’ve met you, I may have to rethink it, listen more carefully, to be sure. I may have misjudged you. I’d assumed…”
Her laugh cut him off and she leaned closer to him, whispering conspiratorially. “Surely, you know what they say about the word ‘assume’.”
“Touché.” He looked at her intently, with new interest, making her feel as if his eyes could not only disrobe her, but could probe deeper, trying to strip away the veneer she had carefully crafted. Then, he made a decision.
“You’re going to have to get used to the way I approach a script. You may have your own ideas about how you think the part should be played, but if you and I are going to have a good working relationship, you’re going to have to accept that my plan is the one we’ll go with.”
There it was. The line had been drawn. Or, had the gauntlet been thrown down? She approached people the way she approached her parts and Damien Reardon would be no exception. She would have to find in him those hidden nuggets that unlocked a character and allowed her to shape it to compliment her carefully cultivated public mythology.
Before she could respond, someone rushed over to whisper in Damien’s ear. He listened intently, nodded, then rose from the table and excused himself, apologizing for having to cut their conversation short, and walked away in animated conversation with the man who had come to their table.
She went over their encounter in her mind. “Call me Damien” he had said. Damien. She didn’t know if that was the name his mother had chosen for him when she had rested her hand on her swollen belly, feeling him kick and squirm inside her, anxious to break out and join the world. If she closed her eyes, Carol could envision him as a troublesome toddler, eyes flashing, jaw set, fists clenched in rage before his self-discipline dissolved into the stamping feet and riotous vocal outrage that subsided only after being coaxed by the offer of some lesser prize, but still a prize. As a director, his adult tantrums were not nearly as volatile as those of the child he had once been, but they were the stuff of Hollywood legends, nonetheless, and fodder for every gossip columnist on either coast.
Damien, she thought, is one powerhouse of a man. She’d have to navigate very carefully when working with him. The more she replayed their brief encounter, the more she rewrote it in her imagination, embellishing it, adding layers of flirtation. She found herself wondering what it would be like to feel his lips on hers, to lie under him. She forced her mind back to the present reality, almost as if some unseen director had called “cut!”. Shaking her head at her flight of fantasy, she muttered, “At least you didn’t set it to music.”
Not too long after that night, she joined the rest of the cast at their location shoot in the breathtaking landscapes of New Zealand. Long days of shooting in costumes that were authentic to the period, added to her fatigue. She and her co-star achieved sensational on-screen chemistry and she had only clashed twice with Damien. The second lead was not so lucky. She had been berated and ridiculed for what Damien termed an amateurish and weak interpretation of the character’s reaction to the news that her fiancée was missing in action.
Today’s schedule had been grueling. Her usual response to a day like that was to curl up under the luxurious sheets and quilt, open her book, and read or review her lines for tomorrow’s scene. Tonight, however, she had made her mind up to drink cocktails in the outdoor hot tub and gaze at the brilliant star-studded sky. She chose a dark blue bikini and a lighter blue silky cover up, hoping she’d be warm enough during the short walk between the lobby and the outdoor bar.
Most of the rest of the cast had gone into town but she had begged off, hoping for a more quiet evening, a relaxing soak, and a slight buzz before climbing into bed. Stopping at the bar to get her drink, she looked over at the hot tub and was disappointed to find someone else had gotten there before her. Someone male.
“Shit,” she muttered. The man in the tub turned halfway around, looking horrified. “Shit? Here? Where?” he deadpanned before climbing out, water clinging to his chest hair, dripping off his body and trunks. He pointed to the drink in her hand. “Mind if I join you?”
What happened next, she told herself the next morning, was inevitable. She climbed out from under the sheets, picked up the bikini that lay discarded on the floor, and walked into the shower, letting the pulsing hot water warm her flesh, reminding her of the heat of passion she had felt in Damien’s embrace the night before. Washing her hair, she thought about facing him on set today. He had been a skillful and considerate lover, moving effortlessly with her, timing his climax to coincide with hers. Then, a kiss on her cheek before he was out of bed and out the door. This wasn’t the first morning after she had spent on a set. Other actors and other directors had found companionship in her bedroom. Some were agonizing, like a particularly nasty medicine you just had to take. Others filled the loneliness accompanying an out of the way location shoot. Some were memorable infatuations that ended before the shooting did, both participants realizing that it was their characters and not each other who had ignited their passion. And then, there had been last night. “To be determined,” she decided, drying her hair, dressing quickly and hurrying over to the wardrobe and makeup trailer to be on time for the morning’s schedule.
For the rest of the shoot, she and Damien found stolen moments both during the day and most evenings when they would shelter in each other’s arms, passionately kiss, talk about films they loved or learned from, laughed and with smiles and knowing looks, remained connected throughout the day. Or so she thought.
The day Sarah and the children arrived brought Carol up against Damien’s reality with brutal swiftness. She only saw Damien during filming and he was all business, aloof and impersonal. He barely looked at her. She noticed that he allowed his children on the set once or twice but kept them away from the cast, seated next to their mother who kept them quiet and well-behaved. A reporter doing an interview in advance of the film’s promotion in the upcoming months, asked if he could take a few candids of the family to use in the article he was writing about Damien. “It’ll show you in a different light,” he said. To everyone’s surprise, Damien had agreed.
After Sarah and the children left, things returned to pre-Sarah status. Damien picked up their dalliance where it had left off. Carol convinced herself that Damien was as deeply in love with her as she was with him and that he had avoided her to protect his children. The euphoria that she dwelt in imbued her performance with an intensity that was electrifying. It was turning out to be the best performance she had ever given a director.
She began to think about what their relationship would be once the film wrapped. She was under contract to complete another project with the studio that Damien worked for and she calculated the risk/reward ratio of pressuring the studio to use him on the project. It would let them continue their affair behind the illusion of a strictly professional relationship, giving no one any reason to question the amount of time they spent together. It would allow Damien to quietly separate from Sarah and plan for a different future.
At the wrap party, music blared from the outdoor speakers. Carol sat at the bar, near the hot tub smiling, watching the cast and crew congratulating each other. Someone called out, “That reporter’s article is in the newest Hollywood News issue,” waving it in the air. Damien was nearby, but not near enough. When the magazine made its way to her, she read the article. There was a photo of Damien, Sarah and the two children whose flashing eyes and rich curls left little doubt as to their paternity. But what arrested her attention was the tender expression on Damien’s face, captured perfectly by the camera, as he looked at Sarah. Carol was stunned. How had she failed to notice?
Passing the magazine to the waiting outstretched hand, Carol felt suddenly desolate. She quietly made her way to Damien’s side.
“Miss Kingsley! You look splendid!” was his exuberant greeting as he raised his glass to her, delighted that the film had been completed on time and, miraculously, on budget. When she failed to respond as expected, he switched gears. “Why Miss Kingsley, whatever can the matter be to give you such a solemn look? You definitely do not look like the woman who has just given the academy a glorious performance, something that will guarantee a nomination. You don’t look happy. And you should. You’re brilliant in this film. Incandescent.” He bowed at the waist, straightened still broadly smiling and again lifted his glass to her. Then he waited for her to explain her mood.
She took a breath. “I’m not happy… because…I don’t know… where…we, where we stand.”
He looked puzzled but said, “Where we stand? Why, right here, obviously.”
“Don’t toy with me. You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
That’s what started the sharp back and forth that escalated in volume and intensity until they were screaming into each other’s faces. Every one of the cast and crew knew the mantra “Damien may stray while the picture is being made, but he always returns to Sarah”. Everyone, that is, except Carol. Their unscripted confrontation marked the end of another of Damien’s affairs. The film was over. Carol would be relegated to history. Damien would return to the ever faithful Sarah and the life she made for him. Some even felt sorry for Carol. Not many, though.
Totally embarrassed and humiliated, Carol stormed off to her room, threw some things into her carry-on, left instructions for the rest to be shipped home and checked out, taking a shuttle to the airport to catch an earlier flight. She boarded the flight as movie star Carol Kingsley, but she spent the flight hidden behind large opaque sunglasses, as vulnerable Diana Knight, hometown girl who had achieved stardom. Tears spilled every so often as she berated herself, regretting the scene she’d made, and sure that some gossip columnist would be getting calls from cast mates seeking to curry favor, tipping them off to Carol’s out of control rage and attributing it to…what?
She could see the venom-dipped pens now, declaring that she had acted like a naive ingenue when she should have known better. What would her mother think when she’d read that? Carol played the scene out in agonizing detail. What an absolute fool she had been! Nothing to do now but damage control. She had to try to turn things to her advantage, to take complete control of the narrative in order to protect her career. She had hours before they landed. That was more than enough time to come up with a strategy. She could lick her wounds later. By the time they landed, she had a script ready and had perfected her lines.
No sooner had she entered the concourse than she was surrounded by a clamoring mob of reporters who followed her, shoving microphones in her face, tripping over one another until she stopped outside to the open car door held by her chauffeur. “I’ll answer one or two questions,” she said with a rueful smile on her face, “but it’s been a very long flight and I’m anticipating a luxurious hot soak and a glass of wine.”
“Is it true that you are unhappy with the outcome of the film?” a reporter whose network specialized in entertainment news asked.
“Not at all. Why would you think that?”
“We’ve heard about a huge blow up between you and Damien Reardon at the wrap party.”
“That’s just two passionate artists clashing about a potential future project.”
“We also heard there was a lot of physical clashing as well,” one reporter quipped.
Stung by the crassness of the comment, Carol knew she would have to summon every trick she had ever learned and kept at the ready to be used when a character needed it. Well, no character needed her skills now, unless Carol Kingsley was just another part she had been playing.
An unfamiliar reporter shouted a question at her. In answer to whether the rumors about her troubled relationship with Damien were true, she smiled briefly before invoking her standard reply,
“Semantics, darling. You’ll have to be more precise with your word choice.”
Another reporter shouted, “What would you say to Damien if he were here right now?”
Striking her best Norma Desmond pose as she removed her sunglasses and batted her eyes she deadpanned, “Mr. Reardon? I’m ready for my close up” before waving and ducking into her waiting town car and driving away.
“Bet you’re glad to be home, Miss Kingsley, eh? Like the little girl said, ‘There’s no place like home,’ right?”
Home, she thought. Where was that exactly? No longer the small Long Island town where she’d grown up. No, she’d left that behind, not in a house ripped from its foundation by a tornado, but just as surely if not irrevocably. She had embraced Emerald City and all its glittering occupants unquestionably. And during her sojourn there, she had found no Wicked Witch of the West to haunt her dreams, only men, creating pyrotechnics that eclipsed those of the man behind the curtain pulling the levers. Her “home” if she could call it that, was a rotating set of hotel rooms. Her mansion in the upscale gated community was devoid of the sounds and smells of what she’d always associated with home: her mother’s kitchen, the backyard patio with her father at the grill flipping burgers. So far away in time and space. She thought about calling her mother, but what would she say?
No, she thought… Dorothy had it wrong. That other writer had it right. What was his name? The one who said you can’t go home again? Her driver interrupted her thoughts.
“Where to Miss Kingsley? Home?”
Where to, indeed. “Let’s just drive,” she said, settling into the comfortable seat and closing her eyes.