I'm Glad About You(70)

Alison stretched. As she drifted back into consciousness of what she had been up to the night before, she had to admit that making Lars wait had not been such a bad idea after all. Having finally landed herself in a movie director’s bed, she also had to admit it was not a bad place to be. Lars was handsome, rich, and emotionally unavailable. After their second round in the sack they took a shower together, lounged around the apartment until noon, and then had sex again on the blond wood floor of his pristine dining room. The next day a pair of stunning silver earrings arrived at her apartment two hours before he did, carrying two bottles of Veuve Clicquot and one of the very finest olive oil. The olive oil was not for cooking.

“Well, you must have had quite a weekend.” Ryan was positively cooing over the phone lines. It was only Monday afternoon.

“What are you talking about?” Alison felt a quick panic. She already knew that Lars had an absurd, even paranoid obsession with privacy. If he thought that she was out there bragging about their sexual escapades, the whole thing would immediately fall apart. “Tell me what you heard and who you heard it from.” It crossed her mind that Lars might have had security cameras taping their activities in his apartment. She prayed there were no crazy photographs or sex tapes on the internet.

“I didn’t hear anything! But you have been getting some very interesting attention from some very interesting people.”

“Stop being coy or you’re fired,” she announced.

“That’s my little spitfire! Louise Nagler just called. Lars has talked to the studio. They’re moving ahead with an offer for you on Last Stop.”

Her heart stopped. Would he do that? Would he cast her because she had f*cked him? The idea seemed too ludicrous to even entertain. “Oh, for crying out loud, Ryan,” she said. “That’s—impossible.”

“Oh, no it’s not, my dear.” His tone was brisk, excited, confident. “You don’t need to think about this side of it. Let me do my job. You just keep doing yours.”

The words went through her like a knife. “I didn’t sleep with him to get a job offer,” she protested.

“No no no, of course you didn’t. That is not what I meant. I meant acting. You are a brilliant actress. Stay focused on that. That is why they want you.”

It hit her sideways. Kyle’s accusation, that she was “brilliant.” This was all moving too fast.

“Ryan, it’s not Sophie’s Choice. It’s an action flick in the middle of the jungle.”

“Okay, fine,” he replied. “You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want.”

“Of course I want to do it, I just—you know, I’m surprised. I didn’t see this coming, I really didn’t.”

“Alison. Get excited. This is tremendous! Just give yourself a minute to be happy, okay? I’m going to get you everything you deserve. And then some. Now, go kiss your boyfriend, he’s going to make you a movie star.”

Boyfriend? She had spent the weekend having sex with the guy, and now he was her boyfriend? The radical disconnect between Lars and Kyle—with whom she had spent so many years, not having sex—was not lost on her. After that ridiculous dinner party where she and Kyle had accused each other yet again of so many mysterious failures, Alison had just decided to get back on the track of her own life. Calling Lars up and apologizing to him was simple good manners. Wearing a black slip dress with no underwear to a dinner date was something else entirely, but Lars was sexy, she was lonely, and she was mad at herself for even talking to Kyle in the grocery store, much less going to a stupid dinner party at his house. Having a hot date with a movie director seemed like a reasonable idea, in the wake of that nonsense.

This new development—he wanted to offer her a part in his movie?—was the last thing she had looked for. She had spent half the day wallowing in a walk-of-shame insecurity; having wild sex with a big Hollywood director for two solid days had truly made her feel like a slut, the fact that she had enjoyed every second of it notwithstanding. There was no question of love involved; obviously they did not love each other. What is this then, a business arrangement? Her brain was having its way with her; she wanted to tell it to shut up. In any event, when Lars’s assistant called at six to find out if she could meet him for a late dinner at ten, she agreed immediately. She didn’t hesitate when he let her know that Lars would love it if she could meet him at his apartment.

She also didn’t think twice about wearing the maroon silk Prada mini dress which showed up at her door minutes later. Lars’s eye was, not surprisingly, impeccable; the dress fit beautifully and the color was both slutty and glorious in its classic grace. Alison looked like a whore and a goddess. It was the first breath of an inkling as to what Lars was going to try to do.





eighteen





AGAINST ALL ODDS, the script was good. Having expected it to be total junk, Alison was caught off guard. The dialogue was sharp; the jokes were funny. The hero was world weary but determined—because of his tragic past he had lost all hope, but a shred of the hope for hope remained. The action sequences were terrific and on the whole the script was surprisingly careful not to kill extra people. Those who lost their lives in the black-op showdown with the local drug dealers were mourned. There was no meaningless carnage.

And her character—well, it wasn’t her character yet, but the one they were considering her for—was fantastic. Laila was a hippie waitress who had split the States three years ago, following a boyfriend to the middle of Mexico. He subsequently disappeared, carelessly informing her he was going to Belize for a weekend from which he would never return. The girl stayed on and became a local legend. She ran the only decent restaurant within a sixty-mile radius of Salusito, the mountain village in which she found herself. Her cook, Diego, was fiercely loyal and protective of her. She fronted for some of the local kids when they tried to play rock and roll in her cantina on Friday nights. The whole town adored her. What a part, Alison knew. Her Midwestern practicality informed her quite firmly that the chances of her actually getting it were slim to none.