The Princess Diarist(21)

I hadn’t looked at Harrison yet to see how my portrayal of him was going over—too busy appearing indifferent and impatient with my surroundings. I’d get around to him in good time. Until then, what criminally inept person had decorated this room I was in? Decorated? More like defiled! Wow. I was amazed my eyes weren’t bleeding from the insult some referred to as interior—shouldn’t that be inferior?—decoration.

As I continued to portray his inner monologue as I imagined it, I finally let at least one of my eyes slide wearily over to his face and saw that he was not only laughing, he was laughing that silent and hard laugh reserved for true enthusiasm. Almost forty years later, I still think of it as one of the greater moments of my life. My “love” life.

I tried not to let my relief interrupt my imitation and returned my gaze to the disenchanting room around us, but I didn’t intend for my portrayal to go on much longer—why press my luck? I mean, this could really be a game changer. If my portrait of my costar as a smug, scruffy-looking nerf herder went well enough, Harrison could unexpectedly (but gently and responsibly) leave his wife, and after a barely noticeable, dignified amount of time, he would marry me (in an unsentimental, tasteful way) and we would subsequently astonish everyone—including ourselves—by remaining together for the rest of whoever died first’s life. And all because I dared to do an imitation of him, for him, in the pub one night! That was the beginning of his realizing that I was the only person with whom he felt comfortable enough to be . . . well, still uncomfortable, but now at peace with finding the world a constant disappointment. I continued to swagger toward him, and then next to him, finally letting my eyes return to him.

To my amazement I now saw that he was still laughing, which almost caused me to laugh, but instead I was able to maintain my portrayal, stretching my lips to their side limits to indicate what perhaps might be identified as a smile, but what turned out to be a cease between scowls before returning my expression to its relaxed smirk mode. I remember distinctly that this was the part of my impression that amused him the most.

Not that anything could convince me that our little dalliance was much more than that. A summer romance without the romance—or without the summer for that matter. Now that I had elicited this amazingly enthusiastic response from him, the danger was that I would want to get him laughing like a human during all our upcoming evenings together. It was bad enough that I was doing it already tonight. Please, God, don’t let me feel the need to encourage him to be Mr. Chuckles on the set as well.

That would be a great idea, right? Making it my life’s work to cause Han Solo to giggle his way through an asteroid field or howl with laughter at how ridiculously hairy his Wookie copilot was. How about a spit take in full view of some unobtrusive mynocks?

No, Harrison was not on this earth for me to goad into uncontrollable fits of laughter. I would have to control the impulse to entertain him, most importantly so as not to call attention to the possibility that we were more than just costars. Maybe not much more where he was concerned, but I was not so lucky.

Ah, men.

If I’d never succeeded in coaxing this coveted laughter of his out into the waiting world, I would never have known what I was missing—just that I was missing something, besides his not being single or accessible or, for the most part, warm. I wouldn’t have been able to imagine his laughing wholeheartedly, or known how amazing it felt to actually be with the person you were with and feel that he liked you! You know, in that ongoing, let’s-keep-seeing-each-other way.

This was the first time I felt as though Harrison liked me. Not because he wanted to sleep with me, or because no one else was around in a way that was convenient. He liked me. I’d made him laugh. I’d done an imitation of him, for him, even though I was afraid of how he’d react, and it had worked out! Take a risk, win a prize—or borrow someone else’s prize for the duration of the film and hope things aren’t too awkward when you film the sequels.

When he’d returned to his paranormal self, we sat smiling at each other, each waiting for the other to—what? Say something! Say something!

“I do other imitations,” I finally offered, my shoulders up to my ears in a shrug. “But I don’t think they’d go too well in this particular environment.”

He lit a new cigarette and I quickly retrieved one of mine, letting him light it with another match while avoiding his eyes.

I went on. “Judy Garland for one—but you probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Why?”

“It’s pretty loud and includes some dancing and a lot of makeup.”

He nodded, picking some nicotine off the tip of his tongue and flicking it away. “Any more quiet ones? Like mine?”

I thought for a moment, searching for a funny reply. What to say? Make him laugh! Make him like me! Oh, please make him like me! Then everything will be fine or thereabouts. But no punch lines came to deliver that body blow that would reignite the blaze of his smile. What a jerk I was. I’ve always been a jerk and always will be. He hates me now and thinks I’m boring and stupid. B & S.

“I could do an imitation of my college boyfriend. He was super quiet.” “Super”?! Who says “super” and lives? Certainly not me.

Harrison raised his eyebrows slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah, well, maybe all boyfriends are quiet.” Not boyfriends! Harrison wasn’t my boyfriend and would never be. Fix this!