5. Alana

FIVE

Alana

“You are not leaving this tower EVER!”

~ Tangled

J oel is waiting at the private dock bright and early to take me across the channel. I’ve got a meeting in Studio City mid-morning today to go over a script in person with the casting director and producer. I’m wearing a hoodie, jeans shorts, deck shoes and one of probably one hundred pairs of sunglasses I own.

The movie star sunglasses are the equivalent of an ostrich sticking his head in the sand. That bird and I both believe hiding one small part of ourselves means we’re incognito, when we both should know we’re the only ones being fooled. Still, I feel safer behind my Jackie Ohh Ray-Bans. They’re one more layer of protection between me and the insatiable world around me.

“Good morning, Layna,” Joel says as he extends his hand to me so I can board his motorboat. I hand him my duffle filled with a change of clothes, my makeup bag and hair supplies.

Layna is such an unimaginative pseudonym. We could have gone with anything from Marge to Bambi or even Aphrodite. Layna is so similar to Alana, but so far it has worked. I even use it when I stay in hotels. Layna Vargas. I’ve had so many personas in my life between the characters I’ve portrayed and the shifting of my own name, it’s a wonder I even know who I am anymore.

“Good morning, Joel. Thank you for arranging to take me on such short notice.”

“I live to serve,” he jokes, taking a half-bow to emphasize his words.

I settle on the cushioned seats at the back of the boat. Joel stands at the captain’s chair, turns the key and reverses away from the dock. Then he turns the boat and we’re off, the bow tipping up over cresting waves, and the spray softly misting across my face.

“Tell me about your normal life,” I shout to Joel over the roar of the engine and the slap of the water against the sides of the boat.

“Come sit next to me so we don’t have to shout.” He looks back at me with a friendly wink.

Joel was hired by Brigitte. She’s a finder of people and solutions. Somehow she managed to discover this guy who’s in his late twenties and has never seen one of my movies and never wants to. He’s completely unimpressed by me. He’s also signed an NDA and went through whatever other security checks we needed before he was granted clearance to be my water-taxi driver and my grocery delivery person, among other random tasks he does for me.

I’m hard pressed to decide whether I should indulge myself in a conversation with Joel or simply sit back here and enjoy the feel of the wind and water on my face. Joel wins out. He’s entertaining and always has a fun story for me if I’m in the mood to hear it. When I’m not feeling so chatty, he respects my privacy and leaves me alone to my thoughts.

I stand and make my way to the passenger seat next to the captain’s chair at the front of the boat.

“Want to drive?” he offers.

I’ve never taken him up when he asks. Maybe one day I’ll confess that I don’t know how to drive—a car, a boat, or any other motorized vehicle. I’ve never needed to. I live on an island where we get around by bike, golf cart or foot. And I spend most of my days on Marbella enjoying my privacy on my property. When I’m in LA, I have a driver. And here’s Joel, shuttling me across the water.

“Nah. You drive,” I answer. “I just want to hear what you’ve been up to. Give me a peek into some normalcy.”

“You want a peek into normalcy? I’d take you out with me to Club Descanso if you wanted.”

“That dance club that only holds one hundred and fifty people?”

He nods.

“I don’t see what could possibly go wrong there. I mean, stars do that all the time—showing up at a local club and fitting right in.”

“We could get you a wig.” He looks so sincere. “And one of those big oafs of yours could come over to the island for the occasion, just to be certain no one messed with you. My buddy’s brother is a bouncer there a couple of nights a week. I’d make sure he was there. He’d keep the fans at bay. You’d have fun.”

“Fun.” I stare out at the mainland shore in the distance. “I’m not sure if having fun is in any of my contracts. I’ll have to read the fine print.”

“Let me get this straight,” Joel teases. “I’m offering you a night out with all this,” he waves his hand from his chin downward. “And guaranteeing you not one, but two bodyguards, in addition to my expertise in a very specific martial art. And you are declining?”

“Martial arts? Which martial art do you know?”

“I’m a master at Ah Ah Chi Yu.”

“What is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

“If someone gets too close to you, I sneeze like an elephant breathing in a vat of baby powder. They won’t know what hit ’em. Ah ah chee-ew! ”

I laugh at the dorky joke and Joel smiles. He’s extremely pleased with himself.

His face grows serious. “Give it some thought, Layna. You could use a day out with the little people. It’s not healthy for a woman your age to live like Rapunzel in her tower.”

“I have people in my life.”

“I’m sure you do. But you haven’t lived until you’ve danced the Cupid Shuffle on a crowded dance floor with this guy. Some men have moves like Jagger. I’ve got moves like Psy.”

“The guy who made up Gangnam Style?”

“That’s the one.”

I chuckle. “This I have to see.”

“Then come out. I’m just asking as a friend. You know that. You’re so far above my pay grade and we don’t have that kind of chemistry. Sorry for you, but it’s true. Besides, I have my eye on someone, as you know. She’s not a rich starlet who keeps herself locked in a tower, but hey, sometimes a guy’s gotta settle for second best.”

He smiles that playful, carefree smile of his. It’s like medicine. Being on the water, having him treat me like I’m just another person, it’s always so good for me. What awaits me on the other side of this boat ride, well, that’s another story.

“How’s that going?” I ask, hoping to drag my thoughts back to something more light than picking my next script.

“With the woman of my dreams?”

“Yes. Any progress there?”

“If I could introduce her to my influential friend, maybe she’d see what a catch I am—by association. But, alas, I signed an NDA so I can’t even mention that I know you, let alone the fact that you pine for me so deeply it wounds you.”

“Yeah. That is a bummer. You’ll just have to rely on your good looks and charm to win her heart.”

“Well, then I guess it’s hopeless before it’s begun.” He winks again.

Joel knows he’s good looking and charming. I hope this woman figures it out. Joel feels like the brother I never had. The ease between us is unexpected—and necessary. I guess I could have a water-taxi pilot who was stoic and responsible—someone who was more like a human vault. I’m glad I have Joel instead.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you.” He looks over at me. “I’m going to Wisconsin for a family wedding all of next week. I won’t be here to drive you. But your girl, Brigitte, has things in hand. She asked me if I know anyone I’d trust with my life who also can captain a boat. Turns out, I do. So I’m going to approach my buddy and he’ll sub for you while I’m gone.”

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“With my life. He’s a bit quirky at times. Smartest guy I know. And kind. He’d do anything for anyone. Keeps to himself mostly, but not in a weird way.” He pauses. “Like some people we know.” His smile is big and teasing.

“I don’t keep to myself in a weird way.”

“Who says I was talking about you? But now that you mention it …” He laughs.

We chat the rest of the one hour boat ride, and far too soon, we’re pulling up alongside the dock in Ventura.

Ken, one of the bodyguards who works for our family, is standing outside the metal gate, waiting for me. He’s the embodiment of the ex-military man he is: built like a tank, rigid, unyielding. I wouldn’t mess with him, though, I do. He’s an easy target for teasing. But I’m on his good side, if you want to call it a good side. I’ve never seen Ken smile in all the years I’ve known him. Not even a twitch indicating he’s suppressing a grin. It’s a secret life’s mission of mine to get Ken to break down and actually smile.

Before I walk down the dock to where Ken is waiting for me, I catch Joel’s eyes. “I actually know that dance.”

“That dance?”

“The Cupid Shuffle.”

“See?” He smiles at me. “Destiny.”

I spontaneously start humming the tune and Joel starts singing the down-down background line and then he’s rapping, “The Cupid. The shuffle,” over and over to a beat we’re both hearing even though there’s nothing but the sounds of shorebirds and boats in the water around us. I start doing the moves on the dock and Joel mimics them inside his boat exaggerating and adding ridiculous swagger. I turn when we say “walk it …” and Ken comes into view. His face is set in the typical unreadable expression of what I affectionately call resting bodyguard face . He raises one eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest.

Joel and I both stop dancing and singing. The power Ken wields with the small patch of hair over one eye. It’s remarkable.

“I think your babysitter is getting restless,” Joel beams at me like the Clyde to my Bonnie. “Better go ask him to join us at Club Descanso before he makes other plans that won’t be half as fun.”

My tone drops to something more serious. “I can’t, Joel. You know that.”

“I know no such thing. You’re Layna Freaking Vargas. Or whomever we both know you really are. You can do what you want. Call the shots, Miss Hollywood. Have some fun outside that secret lair of yours.”

He’s joking, but there’s a seriousness to the way he holds my eyes with his stare. He’s challenging me. And we all know how much I love a challenge.

“We’ll see,” I say, before I grab my duffle from his outstretched hand and turn to walk down the dock toward Ken.

I slip into the back seat of the black Town Car and Ken takes shotgun once my door is shut. Our driver, Miguel, greets me and takes off for the offices in Studio City. The drive to LA goes quickly, but once we’re within the city limits, traffic slows to a crawl. Our windows are tinted, so I roll up the divider and change into my dress and heels while we’re moving slower than a sleep-deprived snail.

Miguel parks in front of the nondescript office building and Ken exits the car, holding my door for me. In my opinion, I could slip through LA far more stealthily without Ken, the tank, by my side. Ken draws attention. He’s massive and magnetic, like a boulder of lodestone. People turn and look at the two of us, but no one stops, snaps a photo or rushes us. Celebrities are a dime a dozen in this part of LA. We’re close enough to the studios to be a common sight.

Once we’re inside, Ken remains in the hallway while I enter the room where the creative team fills a table much like any other board room. Casting calls happen on studio lots, in trailers, in offices like this one, and even at directors’ houses sometimes. There can be couches and charcuterie boards, which no one will touch, or we can be seated around tables. General auditions are more like cattle calls than casting calls, but there are tiers to this process. Thankfully, I am well beyond the point of nervously huddling along hallway walls reciting lines next to other anxious wannabes.

An advanced, offer-only meeting like this one only happens for those of us who have made a name for ourselves. The director hand-picks his A-listers and gives them first dibs. The producer has a type in mind. An actor or actress is invited if they fit the type. Sometimes a script is even crafted around a lead. The creative team gets lucky if that actor or actress accepts the role by the end. If not, the search is on for the closest approximation.

My seat at the table is empty. I settle into it wordlessly and glance around at the faces of the men and women present. Some I know. A few are new to me. A young woman places a glass of ice water in front of me. I thank her. She blushes and scurries toward the back wall.

At my level in the industry, I’m not here to audition, per se. If anything, this meeting is a type of informal screening for both parties. I’ll listen to their vision for the film and the role they want me to fill, making sure we’re on the same page creatively. They won't make a formal offer until after this meeting has occurred. On their end, this meeting is more of a formality. They want me. Mother has made that clear. After all, my father’s company—our family’s company—is producing the film. But, thankfully, they didn’t pick me solely based on nepotism. I have to carry my weight. And I always do. My name and reputation along with my skills make me a sought-after commodity. I’m aware of how many people long to be in my shoes every time I walk into one of these curated, invite-only audition sessions. Still, privilege often comes with some steep price tags.

“Welcome, everyone,” Stan, the casting director, calls out once we’re all seated.

We go around and make introductions. People smile at one another politely, or not.

“We’re here to discuss Only the Remnant with Alana, specifically we’re talking about the role of Ember, the lead female. Alana, I take it you’ve read the script.”

“I have.” I smile at Stan.

“You’ll be among the small population of humans who survived the decimation of Earth. The role would require you to hone your martial arts skills and sword handling.” Stan pauses and looks down at his iPad. “You know Taekwondo and Kendo?”

“Yes. Black belt in each. And I’ve studied Capoeira as well, but I only have an azul marinho belt.”

Stan looks confused, so I clarify. “I have the mid-level belt—in a Brazilian martial art combining a variety of movements for both show and actual fighting. Depending on what you’re going for, the dance element of that discipline works well on film.”

Conversation after this minor clarification flows as if I’m not there. People talk about me, and occasionally I’m addressed. Stan’s seen my work. But he wants me to read with the actor who’s already locked in by contract to play the male lead part of Jericho. About a half an hour before we adjourn, Benson Stiles shows up. We’ve never officially worked together, but we’re familiar enough with one another’s bodies of work.

“Alana Graves. What an honor.” He takes my hand and grasps it firmly while shaking it gently.

“Same here, Benson. Congratulations on the SAG award. That’s one I’d place in the center of my mantle. Oscar could sit next to him.”

Benson laughs a full laugh. “Well, the awards from our peers do mean more, that’s true. And thank you.”

We get down to business. Benson and I feel one another out as we read our respective lines. He’s good. A natural with training and experience, obviously. And our professional chemistry works. I’d cast us. But I’m secretly pining away for another role right now. And that’s the trouble. As much as this film might be a big blockbuster and could even result in an actual coveted golden statue on my shelf, I want something else even more.

I’m privately considering a script for She’s Impossible , a film based on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew . It’s not as prosaic as the typecast nanny role I already turned down last week. It’s a good middle ground. I’m not sure I want to perpetuate my notoriety as an action-adventure star.

The meeting wraps up with everyone saying things like, “We’ll be in touch,” and “Let us know what you think,” and “I’ll be calling Mitchell this week.”

On the car ride home, I purposely talk Ken’s ear off. He sits quietly staring out the front window.

“Meryl Streep morphed into multiple roles. She was fluid and able to do whatever a director set in front of her. No one typecast Meryl Streep. You know who she is. Right, Tank?”

I call Ken by the nickname Tank when I want to get under his skin. I’m the equivalent of a little sister poking at her older brother. I think he secretly loves it.

Tank’s silence fills the car like a resounding boom.

“I know. I know. You’re right, Tank. Meryl’s roles were nearly always dramatic. Good point.”

He doesn’t budge. I know he’s still alive. His chest rises and falls, but otherwise, he’s a statue.

I catch Tank’s glance in the rear view mirror. Stoic. Unflinching. Neither upset, nor amused.

“Okay. What about Julia Roberts and Scarlett Johansson? You know them, don’t ya, Tank? Those women. Iconic actresses. I bet you watched Black Widow more than once.” I study his face. He stares at me. “You’ve got a crush on her, don’t you? Oh yes, you do. You actually have the lines memorized from every movie she’s been in. Tank. You and Scarlett. Who knew?”

Nothing. He’s good. And it just makes me want to poke the bear all the more.

Miguel laughs, though. His eyes crinkle up around the edges.

“Miguel, you like Scarlett?”

“Who doesn’t like Scarlett? She’s the queen—funny, beautiful, and she could kick your … Yeah. I like her. But she’s married, no?”

“Tank here likes her too,” I say. “And yes. She’s married. Sorry, Tank. I’m a dream crusher, I know.”

I wink at him when he barely glances at me in the rearview mirror. He knows I’m playing around. I know he knows even if he doesn’t show an iota of emotion.

Miguel laughs, looks over at Tank and stops laughing immediately.

“Don’t let him intimidate you, Miguel. He’s a big teddy bear. Besides, we're all on the same team. You have nothing to worry about.”

Miguel gives me a small nod in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t laugh again.

“All I’m saying is, these women have managed to straddle multiple genres. And let’s not forget Sandra Bullock! She primarily does humorous roles, yes. But she also took on mysteries, thrillers, romance, and she excels in dramas. Why can’t I have a career like that?”

“You can, Miss. You can,” Miguel says enthusiastically.

Tank says nothing.