The Actor and the Housewife (25 page)

You have to act now. Right now, Becky.

Felix brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth. He looked at her, into her eyes, his gaze so delicious, his whole being exuding a palpable love.

Man, he was good at this.

Suddenly she wasn’t Becky with her best friend. She was the fantasy version of herself, magically transported into a romantic moment, the kind that would make her sigh on the edge of her movie theater seat. She was with a drool-able gorgeous man who was looking at her as if she was the most beautiful being in the world. As if he wanted her.

He moved in closer. Slowly. Her breath trembled, her leg bones considered liquefying. She closed her eyes. A wave of panic washed over her, and she scrambled for something safe to grab, anything to survive the moment—she imagined she was with Mike. It was Mike’s hand on her face, on her waist. It was Mike who pulled her closer, whose lips touched hers. And she kissed Mike, the man who stole her heart at age twenty-one. The man who raised four children with her, who cleaned up her morning-sickness mess off the bathroom floor, who washed her car after rainstorms, who knew her every look, who loved her so powerfully he never had to say it and yet he did anyway, every day, in a dozen different ways.

These lips on hers didn’t feel like Mike’s—they were unfamiliar, slower, soft in a different way.

We’re playacting, Becky thought. We’re in our bedroom, trying a new way of kissing.

She could do that. She kissed him back.

It was so easy to kiss Mike and mean it. She was in love with Mike. She loved his touch and smell and mind and laugh. Eyes closed, she put her hands on Mike’s face and let the kiss become more passionate, telling him with her affection how much she loved him, how much she wanted to be with him forever. The kiss was as rich as a black-and-white movie, but she ached for more. Her hand went into his hair, his hands were on her back, pulling her in closer.

“Now pull back,” Wally whispered, “and look at each other.”

Becky opened her eyes and saw Felix before her. He was smiling, his eyes a little wet. Her own felt the same, and when she blinked, a tear dropped to her cheek. She took a breath. She felt shaky.

He’s Lionel, remember? You’re Hattie. Be Hattie now.

She smiled, then laughed with joy, sure at last that this man, Lionel, though impossible, was truly hers.

“And . . . cut!”

Felix and Becky both exhaled relief at the same time, right into each other’s faces, then turned away to cough at the stench. The crew laughed.

“Did we get it, Wally?” Felix asked.

Wally wanted them to do it two more times, making it a little more hesitant at first, stopping to look at each other, then falling in deep. She wasn’t able to spark a tear as she had the first time, but the kissing wasn’t as hard as she feared. Becky found the fl ow: eyes closed pretending it was Mike, eyes opened remembering to be Hattie. Felix was professional, respectful, guiding her through it, never taunting or teasing. Even so, her stomach wrenched as if she’d been on a roller coaster for an hour, forever climbing impossibly high slopes, then falling so fast her breath was torn out of her. She sighed with relief when Wally called for a break while he reviewed the tape.

Felix put his arm around Becky’s shoulders and led her to her chair. One of the production assistants was standing within earshot. Felix glared at him until he scooted away.

Felix leaned in close to speak. “You all right?”

She shrugged. “I’m not used to kissing anyone but Mike.”

“I know. I was worried for you, but you did great. Really great.”

“Thanks, you’re sweet.” She knocked him gently with her shoulder. “I’ll admit, I was scared.”

“No more pretending you’re not a real actress, I’m afraid, because you were acting up a storm just now.”

“No, I just tricked myself. When I closed my eyes, I pretended that you were Mike, and I was okay.”

“Yeah. It seemed the easiest way to get through it. That’s probably cheating. I should’ve been channeling the Hattie character the whole time, not pretending I was Becky with Mike. Or maybe that’s a trick you real actors know. Do you always pretend you’re with Celeste?”

Cynthia came to touch up Becky’s lipstick and Felix didn’t respond.

“Looked great, guys,” Wally said, squatting before them. “That’s going to be a gorgeous closing for the movie. We’re lighting the bathroom now for the toothbrushing scene and then we’ll wrap you two for the night.”

“Wow, an early night! What a treat.” Becky closed her eyes as Cynthia brushed on eye shadow. “You want to come over for dinner, Felix? Fiona is taking a turn cooking tonight. Should be adventurous. She’s so—”

“Um . . .” Cynthia said. “Becky? Felix isn’t here anymore.”

Becky opened her eyes. No sign of the man. “The trickster. I owe him one for that.”

“I know a guy who could rent you a llama,” Cynthia said.

When Becky met Felix in the bathroom for the toothbrushing take, he wasn’t in a teasing mood, and she ended up not asking him to dinner after all. For the best. Fiona had experimented: avocado lasagna and spaghetti squash salad. She called it “California cuisine.” Hyrum called it “inedible.” Becky couldn’t scold him—he’d aptly applied a four-point vocabulary word. Becky and Mike praised Fiona, then after the kids had gone to bed, sneaked bowls of cold cereal and ate it in the bedroom with the lights out.

“I was thinking about you a lot today,” Becky said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm hm.”

“Does that mean I’m going to get lucky two days in a row?”

“Just let me finish my Raisin Bran.”

In which Becky gets fancy and Felix is an alien lawman

There was cheering. Felix hugged Becky, which was nice because he’d been acting a little distant. Wally hadn’t called her on set as screenwriter as much lately. She’d only had a couple more scenes with Felix, and he hadn’t spent any time at the Jack House o’ Fun. Despite the tiny nag of worry, Becky had been glad. She’d had a chance to dive back into family, roll around in the hot joy of summer and freedom.

Mike decided to attend the wrap party at Wally’s house, and he and Becky found a way to waltz or two-step or fox-trot to any music the DJ could play. After a while Mike went off with Wally to check out his in-house movie theater, and she and Felix danced. No waltz this time, but an incredibly silly cha-cha that kept Becky laughing through the entire song. If Becky were the type to gloat about her own good fortune, she would have looked around the room and counted all the women of the crew and cast (and a couple of the men) who stared at her with Felix, exuding palpable envy. As it was, she just barely glanced—and she certainly didn’t count.

“I missed you,” she said.

Felix folded her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I have been a wanker lately, haven’t I?”

“I wouldn’t go that far—I have a feeling that’s a dirty word. But I worried you were avoiding me because you were humiliated by my acting.”

“No! I’m so proud I’m puff ed up and crowing. I was just knackered, the end of shoot and all. Now you’ve seen me at my worst.”

“Hardly. Your worst is the way you eat breakfast. Any time sausage is involved, your table manners are appalling.”

“Can I be blamed? That mix of meat and spice is an intoxicating concoction, but banger skin is not to be borne. Surgery must be performed.”

“Hello, Mr. Callahan. Hello, Ms. Jack,” said Scott/Buddy the busboy, pleasant but eager to pass out of their line of sight.

Felix twirled her around, out and back in, and then dipped her to the rhythm of “Mony Mony.” When he pulled her back up, she couldn’t hide her watery eyes.

“Hold on,” he said, tipping her chin up. “What’s all this about?”

“This song always gets to me. It’s just so beautiful.”

He stared. She poked him in the ribs.

“It’s ‘Mony Mony’ not
The Messiah
.”

“I never know with you.”

“I’m just sentimental. It’s been bordering on spectacular to be with you so much, and now—”

“Don’t sign my death certificate yet. We’ll have a break, and then there’s bound to be some reshooting and looping before the parade of publicity begins.”

She’d forgotten about that. But Karen the producer hadn’t. She was obvious in the crowd, wearing a black pant suit, her pale skin and strawberry blonde hair practically glowing in contrast. As soon as Becky waved to her, Karen pulled her aside.

“Becky, I don’t want this to be awkward,” she said, thereby making it nothing but awkward, “but some of the others are worried about you . . . well, about your wardrobe. You should, you might want to . . . why don’t you go shopping and get yourself a dress for the premiere? And a wardrobe for press junkets and talk shows? It’s looking like there will be a couple of talk shows, and it’d be nice if—”

“If I didn’t look like a lower-middle-class mother of four?”

Karen smiled sweetly. “Go to Rodeo Drive before you head back to Utah. Splurge. Have a heyday. You’ve earned it.”

“Sure thing,” Becky said oh-so-casually.

Then when she and Mike were ensconced in the car, she gripped his arm. “Shopping for a ‘wardrobe’ terrifies me more than the first day of shooting. More than labor.”

Mike nodded and offered the best advice he could. “I think you should call Celeste.”

“Oooo,” Celeste squealed, “this is divine. Rebecca, you were right to phone me. This is my world, and you’re going to flower in my world.”

“Yeah, I’m a bit uncomfortable. I don’t want to be dishonest about who I am. I don’t belong here; I know I don’t. And dressing up like the natives feels—”

“Come on, Mom, you should totally get something fancy,” Fiona said. She’d aged five years over the past three months, leaving the teenage whine behind in Utah and suddenly becoming a woman. She even looked taller, and older, with her brown hair up in a pretty ponytail. “What’re you gonna wear to your movie premiere—your church dress? And while we’re at it, we should get me something too.”

“Listen to your daughter,” Celeste said.

“It feels so vain. I can’t help but think, every penny I spend on clothes takes away from my kids’ college funds.”

“Don’t think of this as a frivolity. For you now, a fine wardrobe is a necessity. Besides, you are with an expert,
ma puce
. For the premiere dress, at the very least, I will get a designer to lend something gorgeous to the star of the new Felix Callahan movie.”

“You can do that?”

Celeste made a beautiful pouting gesture. “This city bends to my will.”

“I believe it,” Becky said.

“Me too.” Fiona was staring at Celeste as if at Aphrodite riding an oyster shell.

And there she goes, Becky thought. She felt a twinge of regret that she was not her little girl’s idol. Of course, she hadn’t been Fiona’s epitome of fashion since Fiona had learned to dress herself. Still, it was a loss, and Becky the Mother felt each one as they came, keeping them close like charms on a bracelet.

But after about five minutes with Celeste, Becky couldn’t blame Fiona in the least. The woman was magnificent.

It was all very
Pretty Woman
as they entered boutiques, Celeste attracting the sales attendants like wasps to raw meat.

“We have precisely five hundred dollars to spend in your store,” Celeste said, running her hand over a turquoise blouse. “Please help this woman look as fabulous as she deserves. If you manage to dress her brilliantly from blouse to toes and still have money left over to buy something for my darling Fiona, I’ll send you an autographed glossy to hang on your wall. You understand?”

And so it went all afternoon. One thousand four hundred and fifty dollars later, Becky stepped into a cab with her bagged wardrobe: a sweater, slacks, two blouses, two skirts, a dress, a pair of black boots, and a pair of heeled sandals. Becky nearly administered CPR on herself at the sum, but she also realized the price would have been much higher if she’d been shopping without the goddess of fashion. And Fiona made off with a couple of shirts and a scarf, which she promised faithfully to share with Polly. She was clutching her bag with white-knuckled hands, her gaze far off , as if imagining how her life would magically change from mundane to majestic whenever she donned her new attire.

No premiere dress was found, but Celeste pooh-poohed any worries. She would get a designer to provide one on loan. “It will be good publicity for the designer, as you will be photographed at the premiere.”

“The dress can’t have cleavage or a low back,” Becky said. “No sleeveless or spaghetti straps, no see-through spots, and the skirt will need to be at least as low as my knees.”

Celeste looked as if she would protest, then changed her mind. “Fine. It will be a delightful challenge to find the right dress for you, and all the more rewarding when I see you dressed perfectly.”

“Thanks. Thank you so much. I’d be—well, you can imagine what I’d look like without you.” She tugged on her nice T-shirt, which seemed thin and drab. “Hey, do you know if anything is going on with Felix and his mother?”

Celeste shook her head, but her eyes were hopeful. “He doesn’t talk, and I don’t ask. But I think there was a phone call. There is very, very good work there, Rebecca. Very, very good. We will see someday.”

The Jacks returned home in time for the kids to start school. Becky had loads of laundry, a house to put in order, dance lessons and Little League practices, church responsibilities, and a scrapbook to update. Life was busy but blessedly normal, and the California summer shifted in her head to a dreamlike memory. She was so accosted by daily living that she rarely phoned Felix or thought about him at all. The pining had just started to pinch when the time arrived to meet again.

“Sometimes I forget how much I miss you until I see you,” Becky said, hugging him at the LAX baggage claim.

“I never forget,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “Not for a second.”

“How come you’re so sweet?”

“Because you are.”

She poked him in the stomach. “What’s going on? Are you up to something?”

He shrugged and wouldn’t answer as he shouldered her bag.

First they had to shoot a couple of pickup scenes, replacing ones that hadn’t gone over well with test audiences. There was some looping, recording audio over lost lines or scenes with sound problems. Celeste was in town, so Becky stayed at the Callahan-Bodine home in Beverly Hills.

“Ten thousand square feet? Do you really need ten thousand square feet? You both take up about ten square feet with your arms outstretched, spinning in circles.”

Felix said, “The west wing is for Celeste’s wardrobe.”

Celeste said, “And the east wing is for Felix’s ego.”

Back home again, the Jack household seemed much louder than Becky had remembered, and she noted for the first time that they had somehow neglected white carpet and stainless steel furniture in their home decor. She only had time to clean and kiss and noodle and love and bake and sleep, and then it was on the road for publicity.

First Becky met Felix in Chicago to appear on
Oprah
. (
Oprah
!) Most of Becky’s friends and family thought it was pretty cool, if strange, that she was in a movie. But the fact that she would be on
Oprah
—that’s what catapulted her to superstar in their minds.

Becky wore a sage green silk blouse with black slacks and black boots and the pearl earrings Mike had given her last Christmas. Thank-fully, she didn’t have to do her own hair and makeup. She walked onto the set feeling prettier than she’d ever felt. It didn’t hurt to have Felix holding her arm. The sleepless night she’d spent racking her brain for clever things to say quickly proved unnecessary. She was just with Felix. They were just chatting.

“Doesn’t she look great?” Felix said to Oprah. “Usually she wears some ridiculous T-shirt with her children’s faces ironed on.”

“Yes, but should children be decoration? I ask you.”

“Never was there a straighter man more concerned with wardrobe.” Becky leaned closer to Oprah. “And he gets manicures. Seriously. I’ve never had a manicure in my life.”

“If only she would. Backstage, Becky chipped a nail and you know what she did? Filed it down against a brick in the wall. I would not lie to you, Oprah.”

“No, that’s true.” Becky held up the nail. “Bricks don’t do a fine job, but it smoothed the nail down enough so it wouldn’t snag my blouse. That would’ve been a tragedy. This blouse cost more than my car.”

“I should clarify,” Felix said, “that explains more about her car than the blouse.”

“Just because I’m not Mr. Fancy with his . . . weird, I don’t know what kind of car you have.”

“I have never driven a car in my life.”

“Seriously? You never have? Ever? Well, I’m speechless.”

“And yet you cover up the infirmity admirably.”

“Thank you, Felix. You see, Oprah, he really is a nice boy when he gives it a shot.”

“Now you’ve got to give us the dish,” Oprah said. “Are you two really best friends or is it a publicity stunt?”

Becky and Felix looked each other over.

“Yeah . . . he’s okay,” she said.

“I’m growing on her.”

“Like a mold.”

“All right, all right, you want the truth? As painful as it may be? I adore this woman.”

“Six years now. It was best-friendship at first sight. And nothing more, mind you. I had to kiss him in the movie, and I won’t be repeating that experience, thank you very much.”

The audience made sounds of doubt and sorrow. She’d had the chance to smooch Felix Callahan and hadn’t enjoyed it? Say it isn’t so!

“Easy now,” Becky said. “Imagine it this way—it doesn’t feel like kissing Calvin the sexy pet shop owner as much as, say, your older brother.”

Oprah made some suggestive comments, wondering if there was more going on than they admitted. It was a setup question, allowing Becky to bring out her prearranged props.

“This here is me.” She held up a blown-up photograph of herself in a swimming suit, taken at a neighborhood pool a year before the movie shoot. It was a grandma suit with the little ruffle around the hips, in a shade of pink that made her skin look extremely white—not Nicole Kid-man peachy-white but old woman bluish-white. “And this,” she brought out a photo of Celeste in a red bikini from a magazine, “this is Felix’s wife, Celeste Bodine. If there’s any doubt which of us is Felix’s best friend and which is his wife, just shut your eyes and visualize these images.”

Felix grabbed her photo for closer examination. “Truly, that is a horrible picture of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a swimming costume. Did you alter it somehow to make yourself look worse?”

“Nope, I’m just that pasty and soft. Mother of four, baby. That’s what a real body looks like.”

“Come here,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to kiss her cheek. “Show all the unflattering photos you like, you can’t fool me. You are stunning.”

Oprah gushed. The audience applauded.

Becky said under her breath, “You’re such a ham.”

“I mean it,” he said. And she believed him now. She wondered how he conceived of her, what genus he fi led her under. Perhaps she was gorgeous to him the way a crocodile was gorgeous to Steve Irwin.

The next day they were off to New York for the
Today
show then back to Los Angeles for
The To night Show
. The latter one made Becky’s heart pound so hard she was afraid it would rip her new sweater. Backstage was tense, with dozens of crew members and assistants with headphones scurrying around as if preparing to protect the queen ant from hostile intruders. But when Becky walked out into the bright lights and ocean of applause, Felix was beside her again. And sitting beside him anywhere felt so normal, so comfortable, that she forgot to be nervous.