The Disappearing Act(61)
When I look back, Nick is studying my face in amused disbelief. “Of course he recognized you,” he continues. “Unless he’s been living under a rock I’d say he’d be well aware of your work.” He gestures to the restaurant as a whole now. “I’m guessing ninety percent of the people here know who you are, Mia. You’re either hirable to them or you’re their competition. You’re not in London anymore, this is hardball. The industry is always on out here. But then people only come to LA for one reason, and whatever they say, it’s not the weather.”
My eyes scan the poised faces of diners around us as they talk, sip their drinks, and push their hundred-dollar sushi around their plates. It’s got the production values of a high-end perfume ad, the clothing colors all in the same palette, the characters clearly defined, the location spectacular. And the product they’re selling, I guess, is what? Success? America’s greatest export: a dream. And yet hardly anyone here is smiling. In theory everyone eating here has made it, except there’s a furtiveness beneath all this, a fear that somehow it might all slip through the fingers. Or be taken, by someone else. Actors and directors and producers, oh my!
Nick’s right, I see it now. Everyone here is on show but they’re also here to watch the show. Hollywood as the performance and the audience rolled into one.
I recognize a few well-known faces scattered through the restaurant crowd. A balding character actor I’ve loved watching for years stands by the up-lit bar, red wine in hand, nodding in agreement as one of his group holds forth.
I see a young indie actress in a booth near the terrace windows, surrounded by female assistants and her manager, as she unwraps a tissue-paper-packed present with delight.
On the smoking terrace a controversial actor-director is guffawing in a group of men.
But it’s clear that the actors are not the real VIPs here, they aren’t the ones with the real money or power. Other eyes, watchful, appraising eyes, flick over the shoulders of their dinner companions and take everything in. These are the people who keep Hollywood running.
“God, this place is packed with them, isn’t it?” I turn back to Nick. “How can you stand it? It must be like having dinner in a work canteen. If everyone at work wanted to eat your dinner. And take your job. And live your life.”
Nick laughs. “That’s funny.” He shrugs boyishly, eyes intent on me. “I thought you might like the food? And, you know, the chance to get the full Hollywood experience. What kind of producer would I be if I didn’t bring an actress to a place like this?” I feel a flush rise up my neck. He brought me here to impress me or at least give me what he thought I wanted. Which makes me wonder if Nick has had many real girlfriends or if he’s just dated a lot of aspiring actresses who wanted all of this. “A lot of people would kill to be here with this crowd,” he continues, his tired eyes playing over the bustle around us. When he looks back at me, he catches my expression, my eyebrows raised sky-high, and he’s laughing again. I clearly am not one of the people who would kill to be here, present company excepted. “To be fair, I had a feeling you weren’t like a lot of people. Well, I kind of hoped you wouldn’t be.”
For a second I wonder if Nick is already in love with Jane. If that’s what he sees when he looks at me. But then, I reason, I was Jane wasn’t I, aren’t I? That was me on the screen, nobody else. I shake off the thought and take a sip of my ice-cold free drink.
The conversation moves on to other things and by coffees we’ve circled back to my screen test tomorrow.
“Are you nervous about meeting him? Your co-star?” Nick asks.
“A bit, if I’m honest. I really want him to like me. Is that lame?” I ask, sipping my sharp coffee. I know I should have ordered a jasmine tea or something to stand any chance of getting an early night and being well rested for the test tomorrow, but it tastes so good. I can already feel the buzz of caffeine kicking through me.
Nick shakes his head. “No, it’s not lame.” He smiles and stirs some sugar into his espresso. “You want some insider info on him?” he asks cautiously.
I feel a yawn of dread open in the pit of my stomach, unsure if I can handle any more insider revelations. I don’t think I could deal with it if Nick told me my potential co-star was a terrible person.
I take another hot sip of coffee and nod. After all, being prepared is half the battle.
Nick leans forward with a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying seeing a moment of, no doubt refreshingly novel, vulnerability. I’m guessing most of the people he deals with have skins so thick that nerves are nothing more than a distant teenage memory.
“He’s actually a really sweet guy,” Nick says with a smirk, and I feel a wave of relief flush through my body. “He’s very down-to-earth, easy to work with, crews tend to love him.”
“And the whole Method thing?” I probe.
“Oh yeah. Apparently, he just starts doing it the first time you meet him. Not like full character, costume and all that, but he’ll set your relationship up in real life the same as it is in the script.” He tips back the last of his coffee. “It’s kind of a love story, Galatea, right?”
Not exactly.
But I’m guessing Nick hasn’t had access to the actual script, and the previous versions of the story have tried to turn it into a love story. “Yeah, sort of,” I say, moving the conversation on.