11. Alana

ELEVEN

Alana

Life is an improvisation.

You have no idea what's going to happen next

and you are mostly just

making things up as you go along.

~ Stephen Colbert

B rigitte meets us for dress selection on Rodeo Drive. Tank isn’t even walking around with us. Rodeo’s a place where you'll regularly see celebrities and high-end influencers, business moguls, famous athletes, and wives of the elite Los Angeles crowd. No one cares that I’m Alana Graves here.

We spend a few hours in and out of shops, trying on dress after dress. We finally land on an asymmetric midi-dress by Oscar de la Renta with floral guipure lace overlay. The lace is all that covers me in spots. It’s discreet but sexy, and of course, it’s white. I feel beautiful in it. And Mother approves. Four thousand dollars later, I’m set for the party.

We say our goodbyes to Brigitte, and I think I see Mom slip Brigitte a hundred dollar tip before she leaves to retrieve her car from the valet. Miguel pulls up not a moment later. The front door of the Town Car swings open and Tank exits the passenger seat to hold the back door open for me and my mother.

“Well, now. I thought I wasn’t going to get to show you my dress, Tank. I know you were dying to see what I ended up picking, weren’t you?”

I wink just for fun.

Tank nods nearly imperceptibly, but he doesn’t crack a smile.

Mother chides me once we’re all buckled in. “You really shouldn’t tease Ken, darling. He’s one of our best.”

“We’re just having fun, aren’t we, Tank?”

I nearly have to scoop my jaw off the floorboards when he actually speaks to my mother. “It’s fine, ma’am. She’s just having fun.”

“If you say so. But you let me know if my daughter makes you uncomfortable. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His voice has notes of something slightly southern. Like he grew up in the south, but left years ago. I’m itching to hear his story. Now I have two bucket list items with Tank’s name on them.

“Where to, Mrs. Graves?”

“The Henry, Miguel. Thank you.”

We ride along surface streets, out through Beverly Hills and into West Hollywood. Tank gets out once we’re at our destination and opens our door. The area is nondescript. The restaurant is one you could nearly overlook amidst white buildings, some one-story, like Chanel across the street, some ten stories high. The Henry has striped awnings and an outdoor patio that faces a clean metropolitan courtyard. The interior is spacious, with a coffee bar and seating, a comfortable lounge area with leather sofas and chairs around trendy wicker petal tables. Past that is the bar and the roomy dining room.

Tank follows us inside and watches until we’re greeted by the hostess, then he heads out to sit with Miguel, I guess. A few people stare as Mother and I walk to our table. We’re not the only notable people here. I’m wearing designer jeans, a floral top and heels. I’ve got my Jackie Ohh glasses back on—my shield—but I remove those once we’re at our table.

Our waitress approaches and starts into “Welcome to The Henry … Oh. Wow …” She quickly composes herself and starts her spiel over. “I’m sorry. Welcome. Can I get either of you a drink before you order?”

Her eyes flit between Mother and me, then she says, “I’m such a huge fan. I’ve seen all your movies twice. I can’t wait for Blasted . I know I’m not supposed to say anything. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“It’s no problem,” I tell her with a smile. “Would you like me to sign something? Take a photo?”

“Oh my gosh. Would you really? We’re not supposed to take selfies with customers, but I’d be so stoked for an autograph.” She brings a hand up to her cheek. “I swear I’m not like this with most customers. Famous people come in here all the time. I’m just such a huge fan. I don’t even like action movies. My boyfriend got me into them. But I love you and every single film you’ve been in. You’re just … awesome.”

Mother is beaming from across the table. She slides me a piece of thick white paper she just took out of her purse. When I lift it, I realize it’s a photo. Of me. My mother is literally carrying around my publicity shots. I shoot her a look of disbelief and she returns it with her version of a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well, look at this, Samantha. It’s your lucky day.” I glance at my mother again. She’s still smiling that supervisory smile of approval. I shift my focus to the waitress whose name tag tipped me off as to what to call her.

“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Ohmigosh.” Samantha’s fanning herself slightly as I scrawl my name in a flourish and add, So nice to meet you underneath.

I hand her the photo and she stares at it with a look of awe in her eyes. I smile up at her, forcing myself not to glance at Mother so I don’t feel like such a puppet. I love moments like this. They are sweet, and sincere, and a reward and compensation for so much of what I deal with in other aspects of this lifestyle and career.

“Thank you so so much. You have no idea. My boyfriend is going to lose his mind over this.”

“You’re not giving it to him, are you?” I ask out of curiosity.

The way she’s clutching that photo, he’d better be one heck of a boyfriend to get that from her.

“No way! Are you kidding me? This photo’s the first thing I’m grabbing in a fire. He’ll have to have his own sighting and accidental meet up. I’m just going to show it to him. And gloat.”

I laugh. And Samantha smiles, settling in a little after the initial amazement wears off.

“Can we get our drinks now, dear?” Mother says.

“Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I … Yes. Of course. What can I get you?”

Mother orders for both of us. Something with lime and watermelon. Then she orders our meals. Both vegan and gluten free. The food here is excellent. I smile to myself thinking of Phyllis and her lemon bars. Mom would pop an artery if she had seen Phyllis feeding me the other night.

No sooner has Samantha turned to walk away than a man starts to approach our table from the front of the restaurant. It takes my mind a few beats to register that he’s not another fan. No. He’s definitely not a fan.

Mom follows my line of vision, turning and grinning and then standing to greet him, lightly grasping his upper arms and placing an air kiss to his cheek.

“Rex! How wonderful!” She exclaims as if she’s surprised. “Do join us. Alana, dear, how long has it been since we’ve seen Rex?”

“A year,” I deadpan. “Hey, Rex.”

“Alana.” He sits next to me, glancing over almost apologetically .

He doesn’t seem nearly as disturbed as I definitely am. Obviously my mother picked up on my hesitancy to commit to anything that perpetuated yet another fake relationship with Rex, so she took it upon herself to arrange for us to be seen out together.

“Please, Rex. Order some food and join us.” Mother beams at him.

“Thank you.”

He looks at me again. “You’re looking well, Alana. Rested. How have you been?”

It’s not his fault, I remind myself. “I’ve been great, hiding out, away from the madness.”

“That explains it. You look refreshed. I’m glad you’re well.”

“How is Ingrid?” I ask.

He purses his lips slightly. “We called things off last year. About six months after you and I broke up.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. She deserves better.”

“You do too,” I say, meaning every word.

We all deserve better in some ways. We are the privileged, the elite. Rex doesn’t elaborate as to what happened between him and Ingrid, but I can guess. Their relationship went the way of so many in our business.

“So,” Mother says. “Now that we’re all here.”

I shoot her a look that makes me feel like I’m thirteen again. I’m a grown woman. I turned thirty last year. I joke around with Joel and with this new water taxi guy. I treat Brigitte like a younger sister. But I’m an adult. And yet, my mother somehow seems to always reduce me to a rebellious teen.

She clears her throat. “I wanted to discuss the details of how this will play out this time.”

“Do I get a say in this?” I ask, shooting Rex an apologetic look.

He smiles compassionately at me. He gets it .

“Of course, dear.” Mother smiles a tight smile. “And keep your voice down, please.”

It occurs to me this setting isn’t an accident either. She knows she can make me behave here. Otherwise, the tabloids will run amok with stories of how I came unhinged on Roberts Avenue at an upscale neighborhood eatery.

Rex places a hand over my mother’s. “Let’s let Alana have a say.”

I could kiss him for standing up for me. Of course, me kissing Rex would end up being photographed. Not that I would kiss him , kiss him. I’d just plant a friendly kiss of gratitude on his cheek. Like I would a brother, if I had one.

Rex is drop-dead gorgeous. It’s an effortless beauty, but with much polishing and some slight augmentation over the years. If you didn’t know he was in film, you’d know anyway. He’s that beautiful. But I don’t feel anything toward him that goes beyond a workplace friendship. It would be highly convenient if we could feel something for one another. I could march along with the Graves parade right into my rightful place as the head of production with Rex at my side.

Instead, I’m that one trombone player, off-key and out of step. The one you notice because she can’t quite get with the flow of the rest of the band.

“All I want to say is this,” I take a breath and collect myself. “I’m fine being seen with Rex. Fine with some rumors starting—officially. If we plant the seeds for those—whatever—I’ll go along. But I’m not doing a whole year of we’re back together and are they getting married this time? A year is too long and it’s unnecessary. Our premier comes and goes, we break this off, amicably as we did last time. And then we never pull this sort of stunt again. For one thing, it’s not fair to our fans. They get all worked up over something that’s never happening. I don’t want to feed the machine.

“And secondly, what if one of us actually falls in love with someone, but the world thinks we’re with one another? It’s messy and inconvenient. So, for now, I’m glad to be seen with Rex here and there. We can do the premier. We’ll go out a few times before that. But I’m not doing this for a year …” I pause, look my mom in the eyes and say, “And that’s final.”

Rex smiles kindly at me.

Mother takes a sip of her water. She’s about to say something when Samantha shows up with our drinks.

“Oh. Wow. Um. You’re here too,” Samantha says to Rex. She looks between the two of us, obviously drawing a false conclusion—one that thrills my mother deeply. “Wow. Okay. Well, can I get you something to drink?”

“Sparkling water is fine,” Rex says with his dazzling smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back with that.”

When Samantha leaves, I nudge Rex. “She drooled over me. Got an autographed photo she says would be the first thing she grabs in a fire. Sorry you’re not her favorite.”

He chuckles. “I never could outshine you, Alana.”

“True. True,” I tease him.

And just like that, we’ve fallen right back into our comfortable friendship.

I’m glad we’re reconnecting. Making movies with other actors is so different from what the public imagines. They picture us all hanging out at one another’s houses, raising our kids together, going on vacations with one another. The truth is, a major motion picture takes about two months to film. We’re just getting to know one another well by the time we wrap up production and go our separate ways. Of course, Rex and I have done more than one film together, so we have built a rapport and casual friendship.

“See,” Mother says from across the table. “You two have chemistry to spare.”

“What we have,” I say. “Is a friendship.”

“Agreed,” Rex says. He can’t say more or he’ll tip the delicate balance that is my mother’s good favor.

“Well, friendship can deepen,” she states, not so subtly .

The subject of our publicity stunt is abandoned for the duration of our lunch. I’m nearly giddy with the outcome of my newly-stated boundary. And for some reason, I can’t wait to get online and tell Wordivore about my success. Only, I can’t divulge details about the lines I’ve had to draw to keep a fraction of my life untouched by fame. In what other universe would two co-workers be forced to put on this kind of a charade? Only in Hollywood.

Over lunch, Rex catches us up on the projects he’s been working on since we finished filming Blasted . I fill him in on my next role. My mother manages to keep things delightful. She is able to be extremely charming and sweet, usually when she’s had her agenda met, but still.

Rex insists on paying. We stand to leave, and I sense a phone being raised in our direction before I even see the person across the room, seated at a table with a friend, snapping a shot of Rex and me. Rex places his hand on my back and leads me out of the restaurant. I fall into my role. This is a show like any other. I just have to follow the script and look believable.

I’m slipping my sunglasses on, Rex still has his palm to my lower back. The door swings open and cameras flash. The din of shouting is like the moment you click the remote and discover the volume was accidentally left at full blast.

The paparazzi are here.

This is not an accident .

We’re at a restaurant where influential people come to eat, but many other local residents dine here too. And the surrounding area isn’t especially bougie. The press were tipped off.

Rex guides me to Tank who is standing directly down the small set of concrete steps, just outside the waist-high, black wrought iron railing surrounding The Henry. Tank nods to Rex as he opens the gate to let me through. Cameras flash and voices overlap with shouts intended to get me to turn their direction. Rex bends and places a chaste kiss on my cheek. I turn and look up at him .

He leans in and whispers into my ear. “It’s going to be okay. This is publicity. It will boost the film. Hang in there.” When he pulls away, I smile up at him. Not because I’m in love, but because I’m not alone in this chaos. He’s here. We’ll muscle through. My boundaries are clear, for once. And Rex is right. The frenzy around our alleged reunification will boost the film.

As soon as we separate, the shouting punches through my awareness. People are screaming my name. “Alana! Alana! Are you and Rex back together? Alana!”

“Rex! Did you leave Ingrid Lund to get back with Alana?”

“How long have you been back together?”

“Look over here!” “Rex!” “Alana!”

Tank swoops his gigantic arm around my shoulders and Rex steps back. I’m ushered into the car, where somehow, my mother already has taken her place in the back seat. The door slams. Tank slides into the front seat. Miguel hits the gas and pulls into traffic, and the sound of people shouting my name dims into the background as we drive away.