Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper (8 page)

“Your private door has a chintzy lock, I want you to know,” I said, poking him in the ribs.

Rob chuckled. “You’re hard to impress.”

The cone of silence around the Studio was so powerful that I guess I really did expect the halls to be lined with robed Illuminati, carrying candles and wax-sealed documents containing the secrets to world domination. Instead, the halls were bathed in sunlight, as it turned out that the massive building surrounded a bright, grassy courtyard filled with café tables and babbling fountains. There were people having tea alone with a newspaper or in small groups. Watching these people, chatting and laughing and wiping their chins with napkins, I couldn’t help but be surprised at how . . . normal it all seemed. It reminded me of those photo spreads in magazines showing celebrities doing “normal” things: One Cell practitioners are just like us! They read the sports section! They have sneezing fits! They spill water on their bagels! I’d pictured a lot of things going on behind those walls. This was never part of my image.

Rob led me to his parlor and office. (Another operational base. Just what he needed. Malibu, Brentwood, Aspen, and New York weren’t enough. Because sometimes a man’s in Beverly Hills. . . .) A one-way window looked straight across Wilshire Boulevard to the ACE offices. Down the block was Rodeo Drive, the high end of the high end. “Drop in for some guided meditation, then pick up some baubles at Walford Diamond,” I joked with Rob. (It was a joke, but Rob definitely did just that on more than one occasion. Not complaining.)

The walls of his One Cell office were hung with photos of himself: Rob standing with groups of robed practitioners; Rob meeting the Dalai Lama; Rob accepting an award from a tall, auburn-haired woman I would later find out was Teddy Dillon, the cofounder of the Studio. Next to Rob
I recognized Geoff, and on his other side an attractive brunette. At first I didn’t get it. What kind of movement was this, giving a celebrity a vanity office suite and handing out trophies?

I sat down on the couch and beckoned to Rob. He joined me.

“Thank you for finally bringing me here,” I said.

“Thank you for wanting to come.”

I leaned in to kiss him, and he kissed me back but he kept it chaste, turning away abruptly.

“Sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, “but this really isn’t the place.”

I felt horrible, like I’d been trying to corrupt him. In a way I was trying to prove to myself that his love (and lust) for me was stronger than his commitment to any organization. Come to think of it, that is kind of corrupt. I apologized and then said, “Rain check?” and I got the familiar smile that told me he was mine enough.

Rob led me back out to the courtyard. On the way he showed me a simple meeting room that reminded me of the chapel in our church back home. A group of burlap-robed people sat quietly, eyes closed, while a tape played a woman’s soothing voice. I caught a bit of it: “The choices you make determine your fate. One step at a time, you lead yourself forward . . .” It seemed harmlessly yogic. There were offices, a few lounges, and other empty rooms surrounding the courtyard. The “weirdest” thing was that some of the rooms had floors covered with sand. Rob explained that part of the Practice was to meditate while standing on sand or earth as a way of grounding one’s energy. Also, almost everyone seemed to be wearing the same kind of necklace that Rob never took off, a simple string with a few beads. That was all! This was the “crazy cult world” that was so impenetrable and mysterious. There were no mystical totems and idols. No spiral-eyed, chanting actors. No initiation rites. No magnets. No levitating. It was situated on a multimillion-dollar property in the heart of Beverly Hills, but otherwise the place was unexceptional. It looked like
a run-of-the-mill community center where senior citizens might learn Spanish and AA meetings happened every Wednesday night in a room with folding chairs and a limited supply of doughnuts. Where was the big mystery? Why was everyone so worked up about One Cell? Headlines would be made if only the press could see how mundane it all was.

I did, however, see a change in the way Rob carried himself here. He was in less of a rush, walking more slowly, stopping to talk to people along the way. He knew everyone’s name and asked them personal questions, like whether a sick dog had improved and how someone’s audition had gone. He seemed very relaxed, and as we made our tour I started to see why. At events he had to be on—acting the part of Rob Mars. And at home he seemed to relish the quiet. It was only on the rare occasions when we had a dinner with friends and family that I’d seen him let down his guard like this. He wasn’t gossip fodder here; just, it seemed, a respected community member. I could certainly see why that appealed to him.

I had never been a joiner. My family belonged to a country club, and we went to church on Christmas and Easter, if we weren’t on a holiday trip, but I had never stumbled on a particular community whose philosophy or beliefs inspired me. The closest I’d had to that was being on location for
American Dream
, with a cast and crew that became like a family, but since I was at least ten years younger than most of the other regular cast members, it wasn’t exactly a community of peers.

Rob, in the little he’d told me, had said that the basis of the Studio was intense internal work that taught you a new way to be in the world. Rob was famous for having walked on coals to prepare for the role of Jesus in
The Son
. (Yes, for the record he absolutely knows that Jesus walked on water. It was an exercise in commitment, not miracles.) But what I admired most about him was more subtle. It was his total outlook—the steady confidence, his acting, the complete embodiment that made
him a convincing (albeit controversial) Jesus—all this he credited to the Studio. What they called the One Cell Whole Body Principles.

So now I was trying to see how exactly all that righteous self-knowledge went down in this expensive but rather generic piece of Beverly Hills real estate. I wanted to understand One Cell. I had to, if I was going to stay serious with Rob. It was a still mysterious part of my boyfriend’s life.

But it didn’t turn out to be Rob who really brought me to the Studio. It was Meg.

When we walked out into the courtyard, we ran into Geoff, and a woman Rob introduced as his friend Meg. I recognized her as the attractive brunette from the picture in Rob’s office. Meg was about my age, tall and slender, her hair even longer and darker than mine. With big, natural waves. It was like my hair after two hours’ prep for an award show. If the Whole Body Principles could give me hair like that without professional help, then I was all in. Except hers had a purple streak down the side. Not exactly what I’d expected from a meditation devotee. She had pale, smooth skin and a dimpled smile that revealed small white teeth.

“Hey, welcome,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve known Meg a long time,” Rob said. “You guys are going to like each other.”

“Cool,” I said. But I felt suddenly shy, like I was meeting Rob’s family all over again. The four of us—me and Rob, Meg and Geoff—sat down to coffee. When the four of us were at the table together, my age difference with Rob stood out. Like we were two young women sitting there with our fathers.

When Geoff and Rob started talking, Meg ignored them and turned to me. “So, what do you think?” She gestured to the buildings
surrounding the courtyard. “It can’t possibly live up to the hype.” Her smile was warm and slightly mischievous.

“Depends,” I said. “Do I have to chant before I drink this latte?”

She shrugged. “Only if you seek eternal enlightenment. Whatever.” We both laughed, and I immediately saw that we would get along. Also, although I wouldn’t have been able to articulate it at the time, I was eager for a friend who understood my boyfriend’s world. Meg could be my translator.

After we all had coffee, Geoff and Rob disappeared to attend to the vague and seemingly never-ending Studio business, and Meg and I got refills.

“How long have you been part of the Practice?” I asked Meg. It was weirdly easier to ask Meg than it was to talk to Rob about the Studio.

“Oh gosh, since I was a kid,” Meg said. She explained that when she was eleven, her parents had moved to Fernhills in Northern California to practice with Teddy and Luther, and that she’d grown up in the small community in that town, where nearly everyone practiced at the Studio.

“I feel lucky,” she said. “Growing up at Fernhills, there were no mean girls in my class—I mean, there were only four other kids my age! I never hated my mother as a teenager. I never drank or did drugs. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but for the most part it was like being part of a huge family, where everyone was a trusted friend.”

That was what I’d seen in Rob. The comfort. The
trust.
“Were you allowed to hang out with people outside the Studio?”

“Sure,” Meg said. “But it didn’t happen a lot. We had our own school at Fernhills. Then, for part of high school, I worked in an ice-cream parlor. I made norm friends—that’s what we called people outside the Studio—but I saw how different I was from other people my age.”

“What made you different?” She seemed pretty “norm” to me.

“American kids learn to pass tests and please adults. They perform
like circus animals and are rewarded with degrees and jobs, but they never reflect. They have no balance. And eventually they get depressed, divorced, and have midlife crises. They have no idea who they are. Before I came to the Studio, I hated school. But in our one-room schoolhouse, I was encouraged to think about my place in the world. Who was I? What did I want to achieve? What motivated me? What obstacles did I face and where did they originate? How could I bring my dreams to fruition?”

I could see the appeal. Rob had no interest in the mundane. Even when he relaxed with the paper, he read world news only, no fluff. He constantly sought to better himself and others.

“It’s almost a hippie philosophy,” Meg said, “but without the drugs. Or alcohol. Or free love.”

“No beer?” I asked.

Meg laughed. “People get hung up on those details, but that isn’t the real point. The kids at the norm high school in our town drove around all weekend looking for unlit corners where they could get wasted and forget who they were. I felt sorry for them. I don’t want to sound snobby, but I guess I still do. Living by the Whole Body Principles is incredibly joyful. You learn to have perspective on yourself—your emotions, needs, desires—once you see these from a distance, you can think so much more clearly. Teenagers are supposed to be angsty and petulant, but I spent my adolescence feeling centered, calm, and confident. It was awesome.” When Meg spoke, she didn’t seem at all like a brainwashed zombie. She was a straight shooter—she’d grown up in this unusual world, but she had perspective on it and how she fit into mainstream society.

We’d finished our refills, and now a waiter brought us ice water. Meg jumped up and gave him a hello kiss.

“Hey, Warren.”

“Hey, Meg. Where’s Rob?”

“This is Elizabeth,” she said. “She’s Rob’s girlfriend.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. “Welcome.”

He walked away. “You kissed the waiter,” I said.

“I totally kissed the waiter,” she said. “I’ve only known him since I was five.” She took a rubber band from around her wrist and swept her dark hair up into a high ponytail. “See? That’s why people think we’re freaks.” She laughed. Her eyes were bright blue and crinkled sweetly when she laughed.

I had started playing Lucy on
American Dream
when I was seventeen. From the moment the pilot aired, I’d been famous. After that, my friends fell into two camps: those from before—the high school buddies who had “known me when.” And those from after—the friends I’d made in my adult life. My old friends were trustworthy, but I didn’t have much in common with them anymore—even Aurora treated me like an exotic pet. And as for my new friends, well, actors were great fun at a dinner party, but you couldn’t text them without it showing up on Twitter. So, yeah, as a whole my friendships were a sad state of affairs. But here was a bright, lively woman who had a completely different life, brand-new ideas, and inside knowledge of my boyfriend’s world. I was captivated.

Meg stirred her ice water with a straw. “What about that boyfriend of yours? Hasn’t Rob told you anything about the Studio?”

“No,” I admitted. “It’s weird . . .”

“He’s probably just trying not to scare you away,” Meg said reassuringly. “He knows I’m a blabbermouth. This whole conversation? All part of Rob Mars’s master plan.” She swirled her arms in the air like a sorcerer stirring a potion.

“Okay, well, in that case will you tell me how exactly it all works? What
is
the Practice?”

“It’s pretty simple, actually. Here’s an example. You go to your doctor for a regular checkup, feeling perfectly fine, and she tells you she hears something wrong with your heartbeat. You have a bunch of tests, wear a
heart monitor, run on a treadmill with wires attached to your chest, and finally they tell you it’s an arrhythmia and you can control it with medication, but you don’t have to. So all that worry and testing, and turns out you’re fine. But they can fix you anyway. This kind of thing happens all the time: in medicine, in schools, in the offices of plastic surgeons. As soon as we look for problems, we find them.