The Truth about My Success (14 page)

She orders what Leone orders.

She waits for Jack to pick up a knife to butter his bread before she picks up hers.

She waits for Leone to pick up her soup spoon before she picks up hers.

Oona’s never had cold soup before. It’s all she can do not to spit it out.

Her main course has eyes.

There appears to be grass in her salad, as well as something that looks a lot like the poo of very small rabbits.

Leone kicks her again when she starts to eat the garnish on her plate, and she knocks over her water.

All of which turns out to be for the best, because these small disasters distract her so much that when the friends and acquaintances of Jack and Leone slither up to their table as they pass, Oona is already so traumatized that she nods and smiles with a preoccupation that seems like calm.

Jack and Leone are pleased. Leone sits in the front going home, and they spend the entire drive congratulating themselves on what a good job they’ve done. What a clever idea Jack had. What a good teacher Leone is. How hard she worked. How much time she’s given.

But when they get back to Paradise Lodge the talk turns to how there’s still plenty of room for improvement in Oona.

“She ate like she never used a knife and fork before,” says Leone as they all collapse in the living room like soldiers after a hair-raising mission.

“I think she may have smiled too much,” says Jack. “I’m not saying it didn’t get a good response, but if they think about it they’ll realize it’s a little unusual.”

“The smiling’s OK,” says Leone. “They’ll think she’s on meds or has a good shrink. But she has to talk more. She was very quiet. I’m sure Ethelda Sansom was giving her funny looks.”

“Ethelda gives everybody funny looks,” says Jack. “I was a little more concerned that Barnstle wanted to know if she’d lost weight.”

“Her napkin kept falling off her lap,” says Leone.

“She was a little too polite,” says Jack.

“She didn’t tip the attendant in the ladies’ room,” says Leone.

“I think you’re right about the talking,” says Jack. “I’m a little worried about what happens when she goes into a real combat situation.”

“I’ll take her shopping at Paloma’s usual stores tomorrow and to Enzo’s for a proper cut,” says Leone. “See if anybody notices the difference.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Jack. “Maybe you could stop by the office after that. See if Bryan or Lillith notice anything.”

Oona has been listening to this exchange, delivered as if she isn’t in the room, in silence, her head switching back and forth between Jack and Leone as if they’re playing ping-pong and not having a conversation.

But it’s been a long and stressful afternoon. Not only was Oona rigid with nerves and effort through the entire meal, she had to listen to the two of them blather on about people and things she doesn’t know and doesn’t care about until she thought the tedium would kill her if the food didn’t. Now she’s tired and she’s hungry. She’s hardly had any time to miss her father since she’s been here, but she suddenly misses him now. She wants to lean her head against him and feel his arms around her. She wants to hear him call her Pumpkin the way he did when she was little.
Don’t worry, Pumpkin
, he used to say,
everything’ll be OK
. Only it wasn’t, of course. Nothing was OK. And it’s definitely not OK now.

Loneliness tears fill Oona’s eyes.

Neither Leone nor Jack Silk notice that Oona’s crying until she starts shouting.

“Excuse me!” she yells. “But I am here you know. And I do speak English. I understand what you’re saying!”

They turn to look at her in some surprise.

“And for your information,” screams Oona, “I worked hard, too. You two didn’t do this all by yourselves! All you do is criticize me. I smile too much. I walk too fast. I hold my fork all wrong. What about all the things I did right? What about that?”

Oona is still shouting and crying when Arthur Minnick comes through the front door. Normally, Arthur Minnick is either not home, drunk, doing something important on his laptop, or any combination of the three. But now he is home, apparently sober, and his computer hangs over his shoulder in its case.

“You back already, Paloma?” Arthur says to Oona. “I thought you were going away for a few months.”

Jack smiles.

It’s a wrap.

Though, of course, this is only scene one.

Scene two is the day that filming for the new series begins. Both Leone and Oona are dreading it, which means they finally have something in common. Appearing on set is a much bigger test than using the right knife to butter a roll. If Oona blows it, they will both be humiliated in the most public way possible – especially Leone. Oona will have put herself through this ordeal for nothing, but at least she can go back to her life; Leone will never eat lunch in LA again.

“Open your mouth as little as possible,” Leone advises as they drive to the studio. “These people are not Paloma’s buddies, they’re just her co-workers. You don’t fraternize. All you have to do is nod and maybe smile, and then go straight to your trailer. No one’s expecting you to give an oral report on what you did on your summer vacation. The only time you have to talk is when you’re on camera.” She takes her eyes off the road for a second. “You think you can do that?”

Oona, whose stomach feels as if it’s been packed in ice but whose palms are sweating, says, “Yes.”

“Good,” says Leone. “Then we shouldn’t have any problems.”

As they enter the studio the director calls out, “My god, did I miss a flock of flying pigs this morning? Look who’s here! Our leading lady and she’s actually on time!”

Cast and crew all clap. This is the first time it’s ever occurred to Oona that applause can be sarcastic.

Leone did say that she can smile. Oona smiles.

“How was your hiatus?” asks the director. “All ready to get back to work?”

Leone did say that she can nod. Oona nods.

“We’ll go straight to make-up,” says Leone, and propels her forward.

Even if Oona weren’t so terrified of doing something wrong that she’s almost afraid to breathe, not fraternizing is far from a challenge. No one comes near her. When they’re not wanted or there’s a break, the others hang out in clusters, shmoozing and laughing, but no one shmoozes or laughs with Paloma. The most she gets is a small and wary smile. The few people who do speak to her – make-up, wardrobe, the woman checking the sound – need only answers of one or two words, and one or two words are all they get, usually from Leone.

Oona isn’t needed on set until the afternoon, which means that she has little to do all morning except worry and wait. She watches the shoot for a while, just to get a feel for how it works and who everybody is, but Leone eventually drags her away. Paloma doesn’t stand around watching; Paloma stands apart. Which leaves Oona fidgeting in her trailer, Leone on guard by the door, her phone on her lap instead of a gun. What if she forgets her lines? What if she simply freezes in front of the camera? What if she forgets to speak like Paloma and speaks like herself? What if someone does ask her something that requires an answer of several words, what then? By lunchtime Oona’s so nervous she can’t eat.

“You have to try to relax a little,” says Leone. “If you were made of glass you’d’ve shattered by now.”

“It might help if you didn’t follow me around like we’re chained together.”

Leone sighs. “I wish I felt I could leave you alone for an hour. Brother, I could really use a drink.”

At last Paloma is called on set. The set is of a large, corporate office – the office of an executive. There’s an over-sized desk in front of a bank of windows with a view of a crowd of skyscrapers. There is a leather office chair behind the desk and several less comfortable-looking chairs in front of it. To one side is a sofa and coffee table; to the other a low bookcase and cabinet. Stiff as starch, Oona walks across the patch of carpet.

“No, not there,” says the director. “Stand closer to the desk. You’re looking for something in that pile of books and papers.”

Oona stands closer to the desk.

“What about her phone,” asks the director’s assistant. “She has to look as if she’s talking on the phone if someone comes in.” Faith, of course, is actually talking to God, who doesn’t use electronic gadgets.

Oona takes Faith’s phone from her pocket and holds it to her ear.

“Perfect,” says the director. “OK, can you make the lighting a little more celestial? That’s it! Paloma, take it from ‘What does it look like?’”

There is a period of two, maybe three seconds, after the cameras start to roll in which Oona just stands there, holding the phone and looking at the desk. And then she says, “What does it look like?” And smiles the Faith Cross smile that could convince a man on the gallows that everything’s going to be all right.

She does the scene without a stumble or a mistake, playing Faith so effortlessly that even the rest of the cast almost forget that she’s acting.

At the end of the first take the director says, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I believe that’s a wrap.”

Leone only just manages not to clap.

You
wouldn’t think that Dr Ethan Lovejoy – psychologist, rancher and homespun philosopher – and Paloma Rose – TV star, prima donna and rebellious teenager – have anything in common besides the bizarre fact that both of them are in the same place at the same time, but there is one thing. Dr Lovejoy has his own way of doing things, and so does Paloma Rose. Unfortunately, since these ways of doing things are the exact opposite of one another, this is not what you might call a happy coincidence.

Most people act out of guilt or fear; or from a sense of duty or love; or from rage. Dr Ethan Lovejoy doesn’t act out of any of those things. Which means that, unlike your average person, he doesn’t cajole or bargain, threaten or negotiate. Nor does he give in. He disengages; he walks away. Just as he walked away and left Paloma ranting in his office.

Paloma Rose, on the other side of this particular stage, acts largely out of fury born of frustration. By the time she was one year old she had established a pattern for getting attention, if not what she wanted, and that hasn’t changed in the last sixteen years. She screams, she cries, she slams doors and throws things. This has always worked for her – at least enough to get her to shut up.

But it doesn’t work with Dr Ethan Lovejoy. If Susie Minnick wants to shriek hysterically and kick the furniture, that’s her business – Ethan Lovejoy has more important things to do than watch her or beg her to stop.

And so does everyone else at Old Ways, it turns out.

After she recovers from the surprise of doing a major dramatic scene with no audience, Paloma stomps out of the office, slamming the door so hard that several people in the building think there’s been an earth tremor. She continues to stomp down the hall, slams the outside door even harder than the one on the office, and marches across the dirt yard, her jaw set like the prow of a battleship, her eyes shining with tears. Most of the other residents are still out having one of the Old Ways wildly good times described by Ethan Lovejoy – clawing their way up rock faces with hundred-pound packs on their backs and being attacked by wild dogs, something like that – but there are still a few people around. She sees them out of the corner of her eye; hears footsteps and doors opening and closing and what she takes to be the jingling of spurs (but is actually the art teacher hanging up a wind chime made of old spoons, knives and forks).

Assuming that these people must be watching her, Paloma stops suddenly to lean against what she takes to be a broken fence (but is actually a hitching post), bury her face in her hands and sob like a girl in a disaster movie. Normally, such a display of heartbreak and suffering would attract at least one solicitous soul if not several. Paloma stands there for several minutes, her body heaving while the sun tries to bore through it, waiting for a hand to gently touch her shoulder or a kind voice to ask if she’s all right. But the only touch is the tail of a passing dog slapping against her leg and the only voices belong to chickens and cows. When she can’t tell the tears from the sweat any more she peeks through her fingers to see if there’s anyone worrying towards her. There isn’t. Not even the dog is in the yard any more, and there isn’t a face at a single window. Paloma stops crying. She wipes the tears and the sweat on the sleeve of her shirt and starts walking again. After the screaming and crying and slamming and throwing, Paloma always locks herself in her room.

There’s a problem with this part of Paloma’s pattern, as well. Two problems, to be exact.

The first is that she can’t find her room. She wasn’t really paying attention when she dumped her bags and followed Ethan Lovejoy’s truck as it wound its way through poultry, cats, dogs and a rather ill-tempered looking goat to the main buildings where his office is, but now she wishes that she had. The bunkhouses all look alike: dull brown wood, two dull brown wooden doors, two windows with green-and-brown checked curtains, a narrow, bare, roofed porch. She walks back and forth between four of them for a few minutes, trying to recognize something, and finally convinces herself that the building on the right, with the broken step, looks familiar. She tries the door and it opens. For at least half a nanosecond Paloma thinks this must be good news – it isn’t locked so it must be her room – but she’s wrong. The shabby stuffed rabbit on one of the beds and the absence of her luggage make that clear. She tries the next door and finds that unlocked, too. Indeed, by the time she does find her room – her suitcases are right where she left them, on the tiny porch – she knows that the second problem with locking herself in is that none of the doors have locks.

As well as being the same on the outside, all the rooms are the same on the inside as well: two single beds with a small table between them, two small desks, two chairs, one dresser, one closet, an overhead light with a fan attached to it. No one would ever confuse it with the Desert Hilton. Paloma drags her bags inside, slams the door (making the walls shake), and throws herself onto the bed that doesn’t have a nightshirt decorated with cats neatly folded at its foot.