had put the idea into my head. Not that I needed shoes any more than those gals needed to have a gawk at the movie- star mansions. Does the audience know an actor gets to keep all those Prada shoes and Armani suits? Yup, thousands of dollars' worth of cell phones and wines and clothing, lists of product- placement goodies. If a star pulls out a Black Berry in public, who benefits? Not you, dear audience, springing ten or twelve for a movie seat. Nope. Just another perk in the lives of those needing it least. Joe pointed that out to me, and he was right. I cut down Orange and swung a right onto Sunset.
It was hours before I made it back to the rooms, dispirited, fed up and hungry. There was a fresh bouquet of lilies on the side table where I usually dropped my keys. My sleeve brushed a stamen, leaving an orange streak on the verdigris sweater. I swore instead of appreciating Andre's gesture and the heady scent of lilies filling the room. I was furious at myself for wasting hours at the discount store. I don't know why I was so cranky. What difference did it make if I demolished time in a shoe store or popping bonbons on the hotel couch?
I can easily afford full price, but everybody loves a bargain, I kept telling myself as minutes in the store melted into hours. I'd searched and searched for something between sexy and smart. A minor breakdown held me, going over and over the same rows long after I knew there was nothing there for me. I blame Alesso Lorenzo, Andre's set designer; spry Alesso who notices a woman's shoes first, before breasts or eyes. Before "hello," he'll say, "What shoe do you wear today?" He's from a fishing village in Italy, near Brindisi, toward the heel of the boot; what does he know of shoes? "I am Italian!" he protested before I raised my leg to display an expensively sneakered foot. "Ah, this is the first time with those," he said. He hated the burgundy leather running shoes. One afternoon I returned to the hotel to find Andre and Alesso in the walk- in closet, all the shoes I'd brought with me from New York spread out on the floor, Alesso evaluating each pair. They were supposed to be having a budget meeting.
I'd worn suede ballet flats the evening we were introduced. That was two days after I arrived in L.A., at a party given by the producer, out near Venice Beach. It was too cold with the sea breezes, but I'd stood out on the deck as long as I could, the wind off the Pacific blowing through my hair, shaking out the plane ride and any remnants of New York. Alesso admired my shoes to Andre, whispering that my small feet were tesoro, a treasure. My feet are small for my height, something my father was weirdly proud of. "He would like to put them in his mouth," Andre suggested in the car on the way back to the hotel. "The foot or the shoe?" I asked. Andre shrugged: Maybe Alesso had a shoe fetish, but he was good at what he did; his habits were only an amusement. "Good thing he's not into panties," I observed.
What do I care for Alesso's ecstasies? Shoes don't mean that much to me— they could, yes, I see that they could. I prefer hats. Hats are good street costume, a way to hide in plain sight. And scarves, bits of fabric tossed gamely around the neck. What sort of female am I, though, walking out of a shoe store empty- handed? And that poor, bulked- up sales guy. He tailed me no matter how politely I tried to shake him. It wasn't even that kind of store; you're lucky to find a clerk to pay, never mind one to find you a size. I was considering two pairs and caved, asking the clerk which shoe looked better, guessing he'd go for the sluttier heels. He did. The undercurrent of sexuality in a shoe (ask Alesso): By soliciting his opinion I had opened the door. Well, there were only foot mirrors, and too few of those; I needed a second opinion. I turned my ankle this way and that, argued for the Joan and David backless pointed loafer with a senseless silver buckle that I knew Andre would insist I return as too American bourgeois. The clerk tried to backtrack. He let me know I have fantastic legs, "but, I mean, if the need is for a more formal shoe . . ." No, I told him, I would not take either pair after all.
He followed me to the exit, saying he recognized me but couldn't think from which movie. So that was why he'd been so attentive. Out of the corner of my eye I saw what seemed like the store manager look over at us from behind the checkout counter. I tucked my head into my neck; the clerk must be confusing me with someone else. " Would I be shopping here if I was in the movies?" (Well, yes, if I was washed up; a girl still needs something on her feet.) He was an actor, he said. Of course he was. I stuck the card he handed me, listing his measurements among other vitals, into my pocket. Maybe I could help him, you never know. Wasn't I married to a director? Andre, I knew, would throw the card into the trash. Find something better than shoes, I wanted to say to the clerk; it's gonna be a long life. He said he was from Cincinnati, Ohio.
I threw the lily- stained sweater on the couch and looked into the fridge. Nothing of the nearly nothing in there interested me, so I wandered foodless into the bedroom to lie down, to ready myself for another hotel evening alone. My eyes were shut and I was drifting off on the novel I was reading when the house phone rang— the hot phone, I call it, which hardly ever rang and seemed to portend trouble when it did.
"Hello?" A mechanized voice told me to wait one moment, please, and then I heard Harry Machin's unmistakable voice on the other end. "Harry!"
He'd had some sort of massive coronary event a year ago. I'd heard he'd lost seventy pounds. He still owned the agency but for now personally handled only a couple of clients, working mainly out of his house. The famous lone wolf Harry Machin had taken a partner into his once solitary lair. That must have hurt.
"You've been in town how long, I don't hear from you?"
"I'm not sure I'm actually here myself, Harry,"
He let out a breath and said I should come to lunch. "Come tomorrow. I'm betting you're not busy. The cook will prepare us flavorless poached fish with stunningly bland rice. I'll have a nice pinot to go with it, though."
Harry lived way the hell up in Beverly Hills. You had to get there and then climb the winding, narrow roads full of houses in varying levels of overdone, squeezed onto lots meant to feel like estates. He was literally on the top, the last house on a street you needed a GPS and luck to find. But he was right; I wasn't busy. My rented car was just sitting outside unused and running up a bill. I might as well say yes. "Good," Harry said. "You remember the address?"
It was sudden, but I had no excuse, not even a plausible white lie handy. Harry'd been there for me, and I hadn't even sent him a get- well card when he was convalescing. The thing about abandoning a former life is everything goes with it, every shred of evidence, the symbols and trappings, the friends. That was what made my being here with Andre the one wound left to close. Now I'd be seeing Harry, another wound opening up.
My cell phone rang as soon as I hung up the house phone. The night was turning busy. I stood up to close the curtains as I talked.
It was one of the PAs. He was on his way— Andre's orders— to pick me up for dinner on the set. "Can you put him on the phone?" I asked.
"Can't do, I'm on the stairs to your room now. I'm sorry, Ms. Thrush; Mr. Lucerne said not to call any sooner than that." And, true to his threat, he knocked on my door.
I was talking to him on my phone as I answered the door, in jeans, t- shirt, bare feet, with the magenta scarf still around my neck. He was a cute kid. They all are. Skinny and self- possessed and full of some secret certain purpose that most likely doesn't really exist or will not be fulfilled in an increasingly blurry future. He looked straight into my eyes, unnerving me for a second, but he was so clearly just an open face that I looked back and smiled. "Wow, you really are beautiful," he said. "I mean, wow, I shouldn't have said that."
"Especially since it isn't so."
"No, it is, but not like obvious, not like, you know, magazines. I don't know, just awesome." His jeans hung perilously low over a pair of narrow hips.
I shook my head, pulled the door open and indicated for him to come in. "There's beer in the fridge," I said as I speed- dialed Andre's cell. He didn't pick up, and I canceled the call. "Are they shooting right now— sorry, what's your name?"
