Unscripted (29 page)

“Say that again and you’ll get a fist in your face.”

“Yes’m.”

“Anyway,” I went on, relaxing into the sofa cushions again, “you were hardly the only person she intimidated. Word is she even scared the bejebus out of De Niro.”

“Did she scare you?”

“I didn’t really have a lot of one-on-one time with her, to tell you the truth. I had staff. Nannies. And not the waifish young Swedish chicks these kids have nowadays. I had fat old broads with mustaches, who still believed children should go outside in the snow in their bloomers, for their ‘constitution.’”

“Wait . . . you got pushed out in the snow—in your ‘bloomers’—in California?”

“Tch. Silly. Not California. On our ski trips to Biarritz, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.”

“Now, let’s rewind a minute. I want to hear about you meeting my mother. Where did you meet her? How old were you?”

“I was twelve.”

“And how did it happen?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh yes, it does. Mona isn’t the kind of woman you just walk up to on the street and say howdy to.”

“Well, if you must know, I met her on the set. This one, in fact,” he added, pointing the remote at the TV.

I leaned toward him, even more curious. “And what were you doing on Mona’s set?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter. My point is—”

“No, no. Context does indeed matter, as you very well know, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell. So let’s have it. I’m picking up a little discomfort here—something you don’t want to tell me?”

He sighed, dragged his fingers through his mane, then rubbed his cheek. Mumble.

“Run that by me again?”

“I
said
. . . I had a part in the movie.”

“Oh
really!
”

“It was nothing. My scene’s not even in the final cut,” he added hastily, as I made a grab for the remote. He figured out in a flash that I would have fast-forwarded to the boarding school scenes, looking for a young Mason. Of course I would have.

“Did you do this often, this child acting thing?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How many movies were you in?”

“I’m not answering these questions.”

“Don’t make me IMDb you, mister.”

“Oh no, not the all-seeing power of the Internet—anything but that!”

“Speak, then.”

He sighed, relenting. “I was in a few things. Nothing successful. You won’t find them on Netflix or anything. In fact, Mona’s film was probably the biggest one I was in. Or, as it turned out,
not
in, in the end.”

“I’m seeing you in a whole new light, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell.”

“Yeah, well, it was a whole different lifetime, if you know what I mean.”

“But you’ve had a soft spot for Hollywood ever since?”

“In a manner of speaking, I guess, yeah.”

“So why have you been applying for writing jobs instead of auditioning for parts?”

“Somewhere along the line I realized that I’m a better writer than actor. I’m fine with that—I really enjoy writing. And every once in a while, I try to, you know,
be
a writer. Not that I don’t love my job here. It’s just . . .” He trailed off, and although I waited for him to finish the thought, he stayed silent.

So I decided this was the perfect time to hit him with, “If that’s the case, why did you turn down the job on
Modern Women?
”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “You heard, huh? It, uh, lost its appeal.”

“Why?”

No answer.

“Mason. Why?”

“Watch the movie.”

“I’ve seen the movie.”

“I mean with the commentary. I think you’ll like this bit here—especially in light of our conversation about your mom, last night.”

And he turned the volume up again, in time for me to hear Mona say, “Oh, little Haley. There really was no question about casting her in the lead role. She was a natural. I just loved her—she reminded me of my own daughter in so many ways—the same spirit, the same fire. In fact, that was the main reason I chose her.”

That brought me up short. I’d never heard Mona say that before. I glanced over, saw Mason watching me. Whatever had just started to open up in my chest slammed closed again. It wasn’t going to be that easy. “And that’s supposed to make up for my entire childhood, is it?”

“You’re one tough nut—and I do mean that in the psycho way, Faith Sinclair.”

“Right you are. And that’s Faith Freakin’ Sinclair to you.”

“But I’ve got your number. I’ve seen your human side. I’ve held your hair back while you hurled.”

“You’re going to guilt me with that for eternity, aren’t you?”

“I will definitely try to, yes. And while we’re on the subject . . .”

“Oh God, what?”

“When you were asleep last night—”

“When you were watching me sleep, creeper—”

“When I was watching you sleep to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit—”

“Why is it always about the vomit?”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you about. You kept saying, ‘Why is it always about the vomit?’ and something like—and I could be totally wrong here, but this is what it sounded like—‘No vomiting strippers.’ At one point you even said, ‘I’ve got your puke right here, boys.’ What in the world
was
all that?”

Oh lordy, I was talking to Evan and Sean in my sleep? I shook my head. “Trust me, you do
not
want to know.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

I stared at the smile playing around his lips, and I realized dimly that I was finding them quite interesting. Delectable, if I had to choose a sensual word for them. I wanted to reach out and run a finger over them, see if they were as soft as they looked. I wanted to—

“Faith?”

I blinked. “Yeah.”

“What’s with the vomit talk?”

Okay, that was a mood killer. I paused, gathering my thoughts, then launched into the unfortunate tale of Faith Freakin’ Sinclair’s Adventure at Random Shit Productions. To my great relief, Mason roared with laughter, quite frequently. Yeah, it was pretty ridiculous.

“So let me get this straight,” he chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You actually tried to work with a couple of hipsters—”

“To help them become the next big thing. Yeah.”

“And they fired you.”

“For being too old.”

“Jesus.”

“See how my life has been lately?”

“You’ve had a rough few months, I’ll give you that.”

At the moment, however, after unloading all of this on somebody else, somebody as understanding and—dared I say it?—as trustworthy as Mason, my load was feeling pretty light for the first time in ages.

“Jamie got along with them better than I did; I should have sent him there with my ideas, and it would have worked out better . . .” I froze. “Oh God, Jamie.”

“Sorry?”

I rubbed my eyes. “My stepbrother.”

“I remember.”

I got the feeling that Mason would remember everything I told him. He was that kind of a guy. “I was going to go back to L.A. this weekend to try to hunt him down, find out what he did with my money.”

“Wait—the credit card problems?
He
did that?”

I nodded. “I made the deadly mistake of telling him to, um, how did I put it? ‘Take whatever he wanted.’ Of course I didn’t mean for him to clean me out, but—”

“Faith, that’s a crime. It doesn’t matter if he’s your stepbrother. You need to call the police.”

“That’s what Jaya said. But . . . I can’t. You don’t get it—”

“I get that someone you trust just took all your money and disappeared.”

“Jamie’s a flake, but he’s not malicious. I’m more worried about him than angry. I can get more money freed up; I can’t get another stepbrother.”

“Well, technically—”

I laughed ruefully. “You’ve got a point. Mona could indeed dump Dominic and find Husband Number Five, complete with kids. She’s still young. Ish.”

“Look, I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but you need to—”

“He could be in trouble. I’ve got to find him.”

“You still need to recuperate. But I could go to L.A. tomorrow for you.”

I gaped. “What? No! That’s . . . above and beyond the call. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I would, though.”

Nearly speechless, I could only fight out in an awed whisper, “I believe you.”

Mason was staring at me, and the urge to throw myself at him returned with a vengeance. He couldn’t be real, could he? An apparently straight, possibly single, good-looking, intelligent, funny, caring, compassionate guy? They didn’t really make those in real life, did they? They only existed in fiction—and I should know, as I’d filled my character roster with more than a few of them in my day.

My breath shallow, I inched toward him. Just a bit. Did he come closer to me too? Oh God, I was hoping he did, and that it wasn’t my imagination.

But . . .

Two people on a sofa, in soft lighting, with an awkward pause . . . it immediately put me in mind of the last time I was in this situation. With Alex. And how badly that ended.

I couldn’t risk this. I didn’t dare attempt the same thing, only to end up rejected by Mason as soundly as I had been rejected by Alex. My ego couldn’t take it, for one thing, but more important, I realized my heart would break if Mason did it—far worse than with Alex. Wasn’t that an interesting development.

So instead, I resettled myself on the couch, crossing my arms in front of my chest, worrying that my braless boobs were giving away my true intention.

Mason’s eyes flicked downward to my breasts—the exact opposite of what I had intended—but he only reached over to an easy chair, grabbed a fleece blanket, and arranged it over my lap and my bare feet. “Better?”

Was there such a thing as being too chivalrous? I sighed. “Play the movie, Professor.”

* * *

We watched the rest of the film, mostly in silence. Once in a while Mason would point out a part that he particularly liked, and on occasion I was able to add even more insight than my mom’s commentary, like some odd thing from a particular day that affected what happened on camera. I may have been young at the time, but I was already paying attention to everything Mona did, learning how to put stories to celluloid.

By the time we got to the last act, I was feeling far more comfortable beside Mason again. I slid down and rested my head on the back of the couch.

He glanced over. “Tired? Want me to save the rest of this for later?”

I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

When the movie ended, Mason turned to me as the credits rolled. “Thanks for watching with me.”

“Happy to.” And I meant it. For the first time, watching one of my mom’s movies wasn’t painful or boring or irritating; I saw the whole thing through Mason’s eyes, and the experience was completely different. Plus I found myself able to recall that time of my life with less bitterness than usual. And that was progress, right there.

As if he could read my mind, Mason asked, “Still hate your mom?”

“I told you, I don’t hate her—”

“Still resent her, then?”

“Not for what happened in the past, no. The present, well, that’s another story, isn’t it?”

“She’s still sticking in your craw?”

I laughed at his archaic expression. “Far less than she used to. But she still manages it on a fairly regular basis.”

“Come on, when was the last time your mother drove you crazy?”

“Um, two days ago?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” And I told him about Mona’s plans to make me her errand girl while she recovered from her plastic surgery. Even though it occurred to me that she’d kill me if I told anyone she was having “work” done.

I expected him to moan and groan along with me, but instead he was quiet, reflecting on what I’d just said. Then, “Do you really think she did that just to boss you around?”

“She’s a bit of a control freak, you know,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

“I remember. But I mean, in this instance, do you really think she wanted you there just to annoy you?”

“Absolutely.”