Twenty-Four

The next morning, Clare drove them up to the soundstage Max Maurey had rented in Burbank for filming. Marked LYMAN SET, yellow signs arrowed them toward an impromptu village of trailers.

There, a production assistant waved them to where they should park.

"Oh. My. Jesus," Clare swore.

Sally stiffened in her seat. "What?"

"That young man there just told me where to park."

"Um, I know."

"On a movie set. Where I'm going to act."

"Ah." Sally smiled.

"Doing my first real role. In a horror movie."

Clare kept gushing as they walked to the trailers. "And I'm going to be working with Ashlee Gibson. I've had a crush on that girl since the first Jack the Knife. Pinch me. I've died and gone to heaven."

Sally winced. "She's a fine actress."

A horrible person, but she'd grant the lady had talent.

"I saw her holding hands with Nicholas Moody at the audition. They came out as a couple in the press! They're lovely together, don't you think?"

"For sure," said Sally, in full acting mode now.

They entered the trailer village. Few people were about. The rest worked in the nearby soundstage building, a cavernous metal box housing film sets built for the production. Flies nibbled stale bagels on the craft services table. A cool wind rustled over it. The sky appeared overcast, threatening a storm.

"So what now?" Clare wondered.

Sally led her to the production office. "We try to find someone who knows what they're doing."

Dorothy Williams found them first, stomping across the circus in her feathered hat and boots. She gripped a handheld radio.

"Hi," Sally said. "We're looking for the second AD."

The second assistant director, who'd show them around.

"That's me," the writer–slash–casting director said. "Let's roll."

"You wear a lot of hats on this movie," Sally observed.

"So, this is what a movie production looks like," Clare said. "Cool to the max."

"I know, right?" Dorothy replied to both statements, beaming.

"Everything's going well so far, I hope."

"Right on. It's all happening!"

She showed them the wardrobe trailer. As Clare went in, Sally hung back.

"Okay, now tell me how it's really going."

She hoped to gain a sense of the production's vibe. Every set had its own character, depending on the people. Mutant Dawn had splattered across the desert like one long party, while Razor Lips clacked to its finish like a cold machine.

Apparently delighted to dish, Dorothy laughed. "The first day was a shit show."

Nothing surprising, in other words. The first day of principal photography often came together in a chaotic mess. Sally nodded, waiting for more.

"Since then, old Ashlee has been driving Max up a river of his own tears," Dorothy told her. "Demanding another take when he's happy with a shot and refusing when he wants her to do it again. She is good. Where she gets her energy, I have no clue. We spent the whole day shooting yesterday, and I didn't see her eat a thing."

Sally had an excellent idea where Ashlee got her energy but kept it to herself.

"Thanks," she said instead.

"You should know I heard her arguing with Max. She tried to grab one of your scenes for herself, but he wouldn't have it."

Her eyes narrowed to fuming slits. "You don't say."

Wardrobe involved Sally trying on the outfit she would put on at the end of her scene and then taking it off again. Dressed in bathrobes, they padded to the hair and makeup trailer, where Bert, the makeup artist, did Clare's first.

"Relax," the man said. "I'm gonna take great care of you girls."

"I'm just so excited," Clare said.

"Of course you are, honey. You're in the movie business."

"When we're on set, it might feel weird," Sally told her friend. "There will be a lot of men staring at us. Sometimes, one of them can get a little handsy."

Her mind flashed back to Razor Lips. The directors were Hans and Greta, twentysomething West German twins who ran an efficient if frosty production. For that movie, Sally did her first sex scene, awkward to begin with but artistically stylized to the point of being borderline embarrassing. Afterward, Hans congratulated her in that German way that sounded like he was mocking her, and then he gave her bare ass a slap loud enough to be heard across the set.

Startled, Sally had looked around at the crew, who stared back at her and did nothing. Greta even smirked, completing the humiliation.

"Anyone tries that with me, I'll knock his teeth in," Clare said. "Anyone tries that with you too. Watch me."

"Now I'm kind of hoping they do try it."

"If she won't, I'm sure Jim will step up," said Bert. He read Sally's puzzled expression. "Isn't Jim Foster your boyfriend?"

"Only in the movie. He plays Brad."

"Oh, uh…"

"I only met him twice. At the audition and then the table reading."

"Well, when he sat in that very chair you're in this morning, he talked the whole time about your relationship. I thought it was romantic."

She gaped. "Our what?"

Clare cocked an eyebrow. "Problem?"

Sally again wondered if he might be the Breather.

"I sincerely hope not," she said.

Clare closed her eyes to bask in the makeup artist's focused attention.

"Let me know if it is."

The trailer door flung open. Ashlee filled the room like a burst of sunshine.

"Hi," she called out. "It's me!"

The actor beamed a sparkling smile at them, as if her announcement was a source of hilarious excitement.

Then she dropped into the third empty chair facing the mirrors. "I hope you guys don't mind, but I am in desperate need of a touch-up."

"Which you should get on set," Sally said.

"I don't mind," said Clare.

"We're on call. I do mind."

"Pretty please, Sal. I need my Bert." Ashlee batted her eyelashes.

They stared at each other while Bert hung back with his hands in mock surrender. Sally pure stubborn, Ashlee dripping with honeyed venom.

Clare grinned. "I'm trying to be cool, but I am such a big fan of yours."

Ashlee's smile ceased being performative. "That's very kind of you."

Taking advantage of the sudden cease-fire, Bert got to work. Sally put on her Sony Walkman and started a mixtape of old disco songs that fed her wellspring of emotional energy.

"No, I mean it," said Clare. "You're a bit of a role model for me."

Sally glanced away to hide her wince. Her friend had made a severe mistake exposing her belly to a predator like Ashlee.

Or maybe Ashlee was about to make one if she messed with Clare.

"This is your first role?" she asked.

Clare nodded. "My first movie role. I'm so nervous."

"I'm sure you'll do great," said Ashlee. "If in doubt, remember Max picked you for a reason. He saw something in you."

Clare smiled at her reflection, as if seeing something special there for the first time. Sally softened a little. She and Ashlee might not be on friendly terms after the audition at Max's house, but that didn't make her a terrible person.

"Can I ask you for some career advice?" Clare asked.

"Of course!"

"When it comes to film versus TV, which is—"

"Drop the punk thing," Ashlee said.

"You mean…?" She frowned. "It's not a thing. It's me."

"So you're playing yourself. You'll end up typecast for a role that almost never comes up. If you're happy with that, then no, I don't have any advice at all."

Clare no longer smiled at her reflection but instead regarded it as a beloved pet that might require euthanasia. Sally winced again.

Never meet your heroes, she thought.

Ashlee might have been right, but it was the kind of truth Clare needed to arrive at on her own, depending on how much she wanted to commit to acting.

Out in the real world, the tough punk had no qualms about using her fists when required. In this world, she didn't know how to fight. This time, it was Sally's turn to defend a friend. Because, yeah, in fact, Ashlee was a terrible person.

"That's what makes you such a terrific actor," Sally told Ashlee.

"Oh, thank—"

"Because the real you is an evil bitch."

Ashlee laughed as if she'd heard the world's funniest joke.

"And done!" cried Bert, drenched in sweat. "You look wonderful, sweetie."

Taking her time, she inspected her face from various angles. Then she put on a smile—that trademark mischievous smirk that inspired her teen fans to want her.

If only they knew the real Ashlee Gibson… Who was Sally kidding? They wouldn't care. Movies, after all, were all about fantasy.

"Break a leg, guys." Still chuckling, Ashlee left the trailer.

"You too," Sally said sweetly. "Unless I break it—" No point in finishing the thought; Ashlee was gone. She turned to Clare. "You're in a movie. Don't let her get in your head."

The punk replied with a glum nod. As strong as she appeared on the outside, her heart was far more fragile.

"I won't," she said, though she still looked a little stunned.

"You are beautiful just the way you are, honey," Bert contributed.

Sally said, "Whatever you're feeling, use it for your character."

Dorothy returned to bring them to the set. She handed them umbrellas. Powerful winds flexed in the skies over Burbank, now darkened into a false twilight by black clouds. The atmosphere turned swollen and electric. The wind mussed Sally's hair, but she didn't mind as the scene called for it.

As for the storm, it hadn't broken yet, but it was coming.

The soundstage consisted of ten thousand square feet of soundproofed metal structure with a grid of lights and catwalks mounted twenty feet over the concrete floor. Here, the carpenters had built multiple sets, including the bedroom for Clare and Sally's scene, where the cameras set up.

Colored electrical cables snaked along the floor to power various machines. Operators positioned the hulking dolly. Wearing headphones, the soundman checked room tone. Electricians placed lights and scrims. The first assistant director sweated over the schedule. The director of photography measured foot-candles. The grips and prop master stood ready to chip in when needed.

And there was Max in his trademark black suit and ratty bucket hat, surrounded by crew asking what his vision had to say about every detail. Ashlee Gibson's antics had put him in a mood as stormy as the one threatening to burst outside. As usual, under his jacket, he wore a band tee, this one showing the grinning Patrick Nagel girl from Duran Duran's Rio album cover.

He'd grown even gaunter than the last time Sally had seen him, his eyes hollow. Max appeared to be pouring his very life force into this film. Every genius, Sally guessed, must be a little crazy. And she did consider him a genius, this director who wanted to make a highbrow horror movie in the eighties.

Her mind flashed to last night's wild little fling, Clare morphing into his ghoulish visage between her thighs. The memory made her laugh out loud, and she wondered if maybe she had a bit of a macabre fetish.

"What do we do?" Clare asked. "They're all ignoring us."

"We wait," Sally told her. "Don't worry, this is normal."

She led her friend to a cluster of director's chairs scattered atop a rubber mat. She sat, unwrapped a granola bar, and stared at her scene card.

Then she looked up to find Jim Foster frowning down at her.

"And here she is," he said.

"Oh, hi, Jim." Giving him a questioning stare that asked: Are we cool?

"Who's Jim?"

"Um. You—?"

"A friend of yours?"

"What?"

"You know what my name is, Wanda."

Sally went on staring.

"Hi, Brad?"

"Where have you been?"

"Me? I've—"

"I'm a Wanda," he sang bitterly. "I'm a Wanda. I get awound, awound, awound, awound, awound."

God, he was in character.

She'd heard some actors did this. They went so deep into the Method that they lived and breathed their character day and night during the whole production. She did it herself, though in a general sense. When she played the Bad Girl, she was more likely to play one in real life to inform the role with experience.

Embodying the actual character nonstop the way Jim did, however, was different. It took a hell of a lot of discipline.

It could also be draining for the other actors.

"Listen," she said, "I admire your commitment to craft—"

"Thank you."

"But can we please not do this right now? I'm about to go on set."

"I've been missing you." His tone now pleading. "I miss your body. Your smell. Your laugh. Everything. Can we have some alone time soon?"

"Oi. Mate," Clare growled. "Piss off so we can work, all right?"

Jim regarded Sally with a loaded stare. "Sure. See you awound, Wanda."

"Hey," Sally called after him. "Uh, Brad."

He turned with a hopeful look. "Yeah, babe?"

"Have you been calling me at odd hours and hanging up?"

"You mean like checking up on you?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Maybe I should," he said.

Across the soundstage, the first assistant director summoned them. Walking onto the set, Sally and Clare shed their robes and stood in panties, producing a shocked, rippled pause across the crew like a heart skipping a beat. Ignoring it, they climbed onto the bed and lay on their bellies, propped on their elbows.

"You were right," Clare whispered.

"About what?"

"Everyone staring. This is so weird."

"You got this," Sally said. "This is your shot."

"Yeah." Her friend seemed unable to shake her gloominess.

"Nazi punks, fuck off, right?"

Clare grinned. "Right."

The focus operator stretched a cloth measuring tape from their faces to the camera lens. The director of photography called for more key light. Satisfied with what he was seeing, Max rose from his director's chair, plunked into the seat next to the camera, and asked for a rehearsal. Which they did, with Sally ending the scene on her final blocking cue, an X in blue tape on the floor.

Where she smiled, suppressing a fist pump. The soundman asked Clare to speak up a tad on her quieter lines, but the rehearsal had gone well. Then she noticed Jim standing next to the director. In full Brad mode, he'd reacted to the scene with a deep, horrified sense of betrayal, as if he'd actually caught his girlfriend in the act of cheating.

"Goddamnit," she muttered.

"Okay," Max said, "let's do a take—"

"LAST LOOKS," the first assistant director screamed.

Sally got back onto the bed. A makeup artist rushed onto the set to give her and Clare a final once-over. Tongue sticking out in concentration, she repositioned a single lock of Sally's hair and then as quickly fled.

"PICTURE UP," the first assistant director howled next. For such a small man, Sally wondered how he produced so much volume.

"Camera ready," the camera operator said.

"QUIET ON THE SET."

Various crew echoed the call until the clamor dwindled away to utter silence. The transformation appeared nothing short of magical. The first time Sally had done film, she'd regarded the frantic activity as random flailing and banging. Then the camera had started rolling, and she saw how it all had a grand logic, its chaos grinding toward a common purpose like a Lovecraftian machine built by a madman.

"ROLL SOUND."

"Sound speeding," the soundman answered.

Here it comes, she thought.

The sublime joy, the exquisite agony, the raking doubt, all of it.

She couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"ROLL IT."

"Camera speeding," the camera operator said.

"ROLLING." Another call the crew echoed across the building.

Dorothy walked onto the set and held the clapboard inches from Sally's face. "Eleven, take one. Mark!"

Wearing professionally sullen if slightly leering expressions, the crew sat or stood only a few feet from the bed. The soundman raised his shotgun microphone to hang over her head. Max rubbed his chin under his ridiculous hat, as if having second thoughts about something.

Next to him, Jim kept glaring, his eyes searching out Sally's as if demanding she do an improv romantic makeup scene with him instead of this one.

Gritting her teeth, she willed him to disappear.

Max read Sally's face and then cast a sidelong glance at Jim.

The clapper shut with a gentle click.

Put him out of your mind, she thought. Focus on what Wanda cares about.

"Camera set," the camera operator said.

This incantation brought the standard ritual for summoning a movie scene to the trigger point. Only a single word remained, the most powerful of all.

Sally went into the zone.

Camera and crew faded away. A whole different reality materialized around her, a new physical and emotional landscape.

I love you, Jim mouthed.

Picturing him breathing the words into a phone, she glared back at him.

As if waiting for this cue, Max said, "Action."

Sally got ready to deliver her first line.

Then the anger came flooding back, and she flubbed it.