In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson (6 page)

“Mr.
Bobby, Mr. Carley is on the phone?”

Was that a question?
Bobby rubbed his throbbing head and tried to clear the fuzz. He had stubbornly stayed away from the medicine cabinet, determined not to give in to the Tylenol, but, oh, his head did hurt. Maybe Tillie was right; he should have gone to her house. At least aggravated directors couldn’t get a hold of him there. It had been over a week since his mother left, and although she seemed to be having a “whale of a time” as she had put it herself, Bobby was still upset with her.

“I’ll take it.
” Bobby reached for the phone and Rosa hurried out of the room. She had met Neil once before. Bobby had invited him and Patrick over for coffee to talk about Devil Take You and Rosa hadn’t liked him one bit, mainly because he had told Rosa—
to her face!
—that the coffee tasted old. Bobby hadn’t even defended Rosa. At the time he had badly wanted the role and was sucking up to Neil.

“Neil!” Bo
bby called gaily into the phone piece. “What can I do you for?” He cringed at his own use of words. He really would have to start acting his age one of these days. No wonder Neil wanted a more mature actor.

“I won’t beat about the bush, Bobby
—” Beat about the bush? That was an oldie. Bobby didn’t feel so bad anymore.

“I’m listening.”

“No, Bobby, you are interrupting.”

Silence.

“Bobby?”

“Neil?”

“I’m having a dinner party tonight. It’s sort of a publicity thing, so please show up with a nice date, and try to look your best.”

Bobby seriously contemplated telling Neil
Carley to take his publicity dinner party and stuff it up his tight ass, but of course he did not. Instead, he clutched the phone and headed to his medicine cabinet where a brand new unopened bottle of Tylenol awaited him.

“Sure thing, Neil, what time?”

“Seven P.M. sharp. My house.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows. He’d never been to Neil’s house. This should be interesting
, but who to take? He wished he could just take Patrick, or one of his bro-friends; getting a girl was so much more complicated.

“Bobby?” S
igh.

“Yep?”

“Yep?”

“Yep?”

“For Christ sakes! Bobby, is it so hard to say “yes”? It’s the same amount of letters, after all.”

Bobby wasn
’t quite sure how to answer that one. Neil didn’t have any place teaching him how to speak English; but Neil was huge, and you never insult your director. If he had to be humble in his life, it was to people like Neil—or at least until he became so big he could actually give Neil some speech lessons of his own. Beat about the bush! And what about his manhood? Didn’t that deserve preserving? How much of being humble could his dignity take?
One more day
, Bobby, thought.
One more day wouldn’t kill his manhood.
“You’re right, Neil. Sorry, man. I’ll see you at seven.”

The
conversation ended just like that. Not even a “see you later”, or a simple “goodbye”. Just silence.

Bobby popped two tablets and went in search of his little black book. Twenty minutes later he had a date with Ester. She wasn’t the
most beautiful girl he knew, but she was comfortable with a crowd and she was dying to spend a second of her life with Neil. When Bobby asked her, she practically dropped her phone.

Bobby
smiled at his good choice. Ester was mature at thirty-something-ish. Her ambition would keep her well behaved. Bobby wouldn’t have to worry about his date getting plastered somewhere, or that she’d leave with someone else, or that she’d start dancing a jig on the bar top. Ester was safe.

The tablet
s kicked in and Bobby lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and tried to think of Susan. It had been over a week and he was seriously worried. If he was to get her off the island, he wanted to do it now; before all the interviews, before his European tour, and before the next movie. Patrick had already dropped off a new script at his house. The title was a working one, Money Run, and from the first two pages Bobby could see it was another suspense action movie. He sighed. His heart wasn’t in it. Another movie so soon was, in his opinion, too soon.

He squeezed his eyes
shut, ignoring the threat of wrinkles, and willed Susan to dream of him. What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she thinking of him? If he were a girl, he’d be thinking of him.

“Can
I take your jacket?” a long legged, teeth-whitened, spray tanned woman of undeterminable age directed her question at Bobby.

He didn’t really want to give up his jacket. It was his
black leather one with the rips. He had almost obeyed Neil’s request to look his best, which of course meant dress up, which of course meant the navy blue Armani suit he kept for just such occasions, but he’d chosen his sexy devil look at the last minute.

To be
sexy devil, all he required were his blue Levis, his white V-neck cotton Armani T-shirt, and his black leather ripped jacket. His jacket didn’t even have a brand name―it was that cool. He’d bought it at a flea market, having spotted its potential from the other side of the street. His jacket had started more conversation pieces than any navy blue Armani suit ever could. Also, he didn’t want to give up his jacket because he wanted a place to put his hands in case he ran out options for them later.

“Thank you,” Ester
graciously handed over her silk Gucci black sparkling blazer without hesitation, revealing a plunging cream neckline attached to smart slick cream pants.

Bobby thought a dress would have been more appro
priate for the job hunting his date intended to do that night, but he wasn’t about to tell her. No wonder her career hadn’t shot off. She took herself far too seriously.

“I’m good, thanks,” Bobby dug his hands deep into his pockets
to demonstrate, and turned his attention to the dining room where a large gathering seemed to occupy all the available space. He cleared his throat and led Ester towards to the sparkling crowd.

He hadn’t taken two steps before
a passing waiter offered him a Martini Bianco with two slabs of lemon. Bobby accepted it gratefully and took a long sip, enjoying its sweet flavor as he played the room with his eyes.

He raised
his eyebrows to a vaguely familiar woman; winked and smiled to a man he was sure he should know the name of but didn’t; raised his glass to the producer of Devil Take You, Mark Eklaman; and sent another wink to Amanda, the wife of the interviewer for Yes magazine.

H
e’d been to a few of Amanda’s parties, and in return his interviews had always gone well. Tonight she was ravishing in a clinging white cocktail dress that swept the floor and ran a slit so high up the side, Bobby was sure she couldn’t possibly be wearing any underwear. She was forty-eight, or so rumors had it, but she didn’t look a day older than desirable. Even his thoughts were cliché, Bobby realized with a jolt.

“She’s a looker,” E
ster whispered in his ear.

Bo
bby was glad she was there. Maybe he would tell her about wearing a dress instead of pants after all. “She’s someone you want to keep as a friend,” Bobby whispered back.

“A
good
friend?” Ester busied her eyebrows up and down. Bobby didn’t like the insinuation. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her about her dress.

“
Not a
good
friend, no. Excuse me a second, Ester, I have to say hello to Jason.”

E
ster sulked as Bobby moved away. She watched the back of his head distance itself from her, and she thought that perhaps she should stop trying to figure Bobby out and help herself to another free drink.

Jason was a good person to use
as an emergency exit because he was always open to company and easy to like. He was one of the cameramen, and Neil always treated cameramen with respect, inviting them to fancy parties whenever possible. Jason’s specialty was close-ups, but unfortunately that didn’t give much of an opener for small talk.

“Hey Jason, what’s up?”

“Bobby! Good to see you, man. How’s the rest time going?”

“Good. Nice work by the way.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they cut too much. I got you good in that last scene.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“So…
Anything happening now? …Any movies you’ve been called for?”

“Some. But I want to do do
cumentaries now. This guy I know is going to Australia, and he’s, like, going to do insects. I think I’m in for that.”

“Sure, plenty of close-ups.”

“Right!”

“
Ookay, I’m going to get a refill.”

“Hey, me too.”

Bobby did not want to go to the bar with Jason. What, were they bromancing now?
Think!
“Um, you go ahead. I’m going to ask Ester what she wants.”

Thankfully, Jason had the goo
d sense not to mention that Ester’s drink was full.

Bobby
sauntered purposefully back to his date.

“So, was it interesting?”

“Hmm?”

“Your chat?”

“With Jason? Yeah, he’s a really good guy. I hear he’s going to do this documentary in Australia.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, about insects.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Maybe they need a commentary or a narrator or someone like that. You should check it out.”

Ester
cocked her head dangerously, “A documentary?”

“
Hmm…”

“Like a person who stands in the bush and says, “Look at this incredibly interesting deadly and strangely disgusting insect that lays little maggot babies into the heads of equally disgustingly strange insects?””

“Well,
I guess so. Yeah! Hey! You would be great at that!” Bobby didn’t mean to sounds so juvenile, but Ester’s maturity was having an odd effect on him.

“Bobby, look. Thanks for inviting me to this party, but seriously, can’t you just get me a good role already? You could! I know you could
—” She wanted to finish it with
if you wanted to
, but she had too much pride for that.

“Hey, Neil is over there.
” Bobby indicated Neil’s direction with a jerk of his head. “Go talk to him.”

“Introduce me,” E
ster said through clenched teeth.

“I would, but he hates me.”

“That makes two of us.” Ester marched off in Neil’s direction.

Bobby watched as
she tried to grab Neil’s attention. Her smartest move would be to indulge Neil in all of Bobby’s worst traits, and that seemed to be exactly what she was doing now. In fact, they were both laughing in his direction, or better said, chuckling. Chuckling about him, for sure.

“You look thirsty.”

Bobby turned towards the voice close to his left ear and discovered a beautiful and unfamiliar face. He looked at his full glass. “You bet I am. What are you offering?”

“Anything you want, sweetie
.”

Bright
lights following a late night are never a good combination.

“
Rosa!

Silence.

“Rosa!”

Bobby
cautiously opened his eyes to check that he was in fact in his own bed. Thank goodness. He had somehow made it home, but what about the girl? He was sure there had been one, but which one? All his late nights since arriving in California seemed to merge in his mind. They were all shades of blonde, brunette, red head, black hair…wait, who had black hair? Ah, yes, Arlene, straight down the back with the butterfly clip. But that was before Lola. And what about last night? What was her name, Orlanda? Olanda? Orleanda? No, that was a flower. Odette? Well, O-something, anyway, and blonde. Yes, it was coming back to him now. They had gone to her place, a cute studio with floral shawls on the windows. After some intimacy, which strangely felt anything but intimate, he left with the excuse of an early morning shoot, failing to mention that he didn’t have a movie to make at the moment because she probably knew that already.

Thank
fully the O girl was safely back at her place and not hiding in his bathroom brushing her teeth or borrowing his favorite T-shirt.

“
R.O.S.A.!” he felt desperate now. What, did she expect, for him to cure himself of his own hangover? Oh boy, she did. This was finally payback for Neil’s coffee comment.

Bobby crawled
—nay, hobbled! out of bed and headed to the bathroom. There he met a surprising site: hair disheveled and eyes slightly puffy, he did not look at all bad. He studied his refection carefully. “Bobby, you just get better and better.” How could Rosa refuse a man like this his breakfast? Bobby remembered that he had given her the morning off. For some strange reason he had thought he’d be waking up elsewhere today. He hadn’t even trusted himself to be come home. Go figure, he thought, and inspected his skin for blemishes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“Bobby.” Sigh. “I
s it me?”

“Susan
?”

“It is
me!”

“No, Susan, sorry.
” They were back in the godforsaken forest of coconut trees and he’d done zero research on how to build a frigging shelter.

Frantically, he looked a
bout him, trying to pick up some sort of inspiration. Susan looked at him pitifully. Her T-shirt said Wednesday again. Yes, today was Wednesday. The party at Neil’s house had been the night before. In actual fact, he was presently lying on his bathroom floor, probably concussed or bleeding to death. It was, in a way, a relief to have things in perspective. Bobby started to feel some sense of control. Think. Think.

“
Susan?”

“Yes
?”

“Today is Wednesday, isn’t it?”

Of course it is. It’s the day they bring the music. Can’t you hear it?”

Bobby stood perfectly still and listened. He heard it. Mozart. “Why?” he asked,
curious but afraid to upset her at the same time.

“Beats me. I wish they’d play some Paul Simon, but it’s always Mozart or Beethoven on Wednesdays.”

“Why Wednesdays?” Bobby asked, searching Susan’s face for a slight clue to her sanity, his sanity, anything.

“Because Sheila comes on Wednesda
ys and she plays this music.” Susan shrugged and stooped to pick something up off the ground.

Bobby saw that it was a stick. She handed it to him.
“So?” Pause. “Are you going to help me?”

Why wa
s it always coming down to this? A few weeks ago it had been nothing but sexy shorts and pebbles on a beach, and now it was all complicated, both here
and
in real life. No, real life was always complicated, or at least it had been for the past few years; Susan had been the calm in-between. He thought he’d sought her out as a way of regaining his sanity, which was actually just more proof that he was losing it. But now that had all changed. Susan was becoming complicated. He’d been warned that all women possessed this quality, however, he hadn’t expected it from an imaginary girl.

“I
—I,” Bobby stuttered, and thought he’d better come clean. “I don’t know how to build a shelter.” His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I mean, not a real one anyway. Maybe I can build a sunshade, or a sort of palm clubhouse I suppose, but not a real shelter. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Su
san stood frozen with her mouth open, and Bobby felt as if he’d just blown the most important interview of his life.

“You can’t build a shelter?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Can’t?”

“No.”

“B—
ut what about that movie you did a few years back? You were with that character, what’s his name, and you built this amazing house in the jungle.”

Bobby trie
d to stop himself from laughing—this was not an aha sort of moment. He hadn’t taken Susan for naïve.

“Su
san,” he spoke clearly and slowly. “That was a movie, and the shelter was made by the local village men for the movie. The producer paid them to do it.”

Susan
blinked her eyes a few times and burst out laughing. Poor Bobby could only gape. “I know that!” she said, still laughing at him. “Of course it’s a movie! But for heaven’s sake, Bobby, didn’t you
see
them do it? Weren’t you there?”

Bobby shook his head, “They had it built before I arrived.”

“But they filmed you putting it together.”

“
I suppose they had a few shots of me lifting and tying branches together, but that was done mostly in a green room. If you watch the movie again you’ll see how it all came together.”

“Oh.
” Susan looked disappointed and her shoulders slumped.

“Where are you
from?” Bobby asked, changing the subject. He hoped she would answer before getting upset and cause him to wake up.

“I’m from New York
City. Never left.”

“Really?” Bobby frown
ed. He thought they were “here”, wherever “here” was.

“I guess.
” Susan shrugged.

Bobby felt his head throbbing
. He had hit the hard bathroom floor. He put his hand up to where he felt the most pain and touched sticky blood with his fingertips. This daydreaming of his was turning into a dangerous pastime.