California Summer Page 2

  “Don’t!” Rosie yelled. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt like she was swimming underwater and someone had removed her snorkel.

  “We’ve grown apart,” Ben said slowly. “I feel like I’m not running fast enough because I’m waiting for you to catch up. You don’t want a mega successful movie; you don’t want a Beverly Hills estate. You cringed when I wanted to check out Maseratis.”

  “You lied to me, and when you got caught you said it didn’t mean anything.” She turned on him. “Now you think we’re growing apart. Which is it?” she demanded. “Because I want the truth.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” Ben said lamely. “You’re always the one who figures out what we want, but that doesn’t seem to be working anymore.”

  “I want us,” Rosie whispered. She was going to throw up or pass out: crumple into a heap on the sheets.

  “I’ll tell you what I do know.” Ben was like a windup toy that suddenly sprang to life. “I want this movie to be the biggest thing since Mission: Impossible. I want to make a sequel every year and have houses in the Hamptons and Hawaii. You might see that as selling out but I see it as seizing an opportunity.”

  “I’m not against those things.” Rosie’s words came out between sobs. “We always said we’d be the next Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson. We’d show Hollywood we were made of Teflon.”

  “I think we should take a break.” He looked at Rosie.

  “We work together every day,” Rosie replied frantically. She was like a woman in a magic show, sliced down the middle. Half of her felt physically sick; she never wanted Ben to touch her again. The other half saw Ben walk out the door; watched his wide smile and his hazel eyes and his freckles disappear, and thought her heart was breaking.

  “The studio would buy out your contract,” Ben said slowly, as if he was figuring it out while he talked. “Maybe you could do theater. You’ve always loved Ibsen and Pinter.”

  “You’re planning my life for me! I’m associate producer,” Rosie sputtered.

  “They gave you that title because they wanted me.” Ben shrugged. “We were a package deal. I’ll move out. You can take your time figuring out what you want to do.”

  “You sound like you’re reading a script,” Rosie yelled, pounding her fists on the bed. “Did Mary Beth Chase hire a writer for you? Are you going to use this for the big breakup scene in the movie?”

  “Rosie, let’s not make it worse. We both need time to cool off. I’ll go spend the night at the studio.”

  “You mean you’ll drive to Mary Beth’s bungalow!” Rosie was like a rocket breaking apart. She grabbed her overnight bag and pulled open her chest of drawers. She jammed in underwear, bras, t-shirts, shorts, socks, and leotards. She went to the closet and yanked out a bunch of cotton dresses. She gathered her makeup bag, the paperback books on her bedside table, and the slippers she kept under the bed.

  “Where are you going?” Ben followed her through the hall into the kitchen.

  “I’ll post it on my Facebook status.” Rosie dragged the bag down the stairs and flung it into the hatchback. She saw Ben in the rearview mirror. He was standing at the door in his boxers. She slowed down, thinking he’d run after her. He’d pound on the window and beg her forgiveness. He got caught up in the craziness; he’d do anything to win her back. Rosie idled the car at the red light and watched Ben pick up the newspaper from the porch and walk inside.

  It was one block to the beach and she parked near the sand. The last surfers straggled in from the waves and a boy threw a tennis ball to his dog. She saw a young couple strolling hand in hand and all she wanted was to be walking along the shore with Ben and talking about their day.

  The couple wore matching UCSB sweatshirts and denim cutoffs. He had an earring in one ear and she had a tattoo on her ankle. Their faces were so close together they walked like a monster in a fairy tale: two heads bobbing on top of one body. Rosie remembered when she and Ben used to bump into things; they were so deep in conversation they didn’t notice where they were going.

  * * *

  They met on the lawn outside the dining hall. It was early fall; only the second week of classes, and the air was humid and thundery. Rosie lay under a tree, eating a peach and reading Mary McCarthy’s The Group. She was feeling lost back on campus. Her best friend had transferred to Oberlin and her sophomore boyfriend hooked up with his high school sweetheart.

  “Let me guess, you’re enrolled in one of those lit classes where you’ve never heard of the authors and the books are so boring you can’t stay awake.” Ben sat on the lawn next to her. He looked vaguely familiar, as if she’d seen him at the back of a lecture hall. He had wavy brown hair and carried a backpack crammed with notebooks.

  “Mary McCarthy is one of the best writers of the twentieth century.” Rosie looked up. “Unless you’re intimidated by female intelligence.”

  “I wouldn’t have lasted two years at Kenyon if I was intimidated by intelligent women.” Ben grinned.

  Rosie liked his smile; it made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

  “They grow like weeds around here. I’m Ben Ford, we were in a film seminar last semester.”

  “Rosie Keller.” Rosie shook his hand formally.

  “Are you a film major too?”

  “Theater,” Rosie replied.

  “You should switch,” Ben said decisively. “Do you want to influence three hundred people in one badly heated space with terrible coffee and overpriced sweets, or millions of viewers all over the world?”

  “Last movie I saw, the popcorn cost six dollars and the coffee tasted like turpentine.”

  “Movies transport you to another place. You can be in Egypt, on a canal in Venice, at the Great Wall of China, just by watching the screen.”

  “I’ve read Chekhov, Ibsen, Pinter.” Rosie ticked the names off on her fingers. “I’ve never read a great screenwriter.”

  “But have you seen The Godfather, Apocalypse Now, Midnight Rider, The Sting?” Ben leaned close. He smelled of sweat and ink.

  “I am a Hitchcock fan,” Rosie conceded.

  “He’s my idol.” Ben’s eyes sparkled. Rosie thought they resembled a kaleidoscope. “Which one is your favorite?”

  “I’m half in love with Cary Grant,” Rosie replied, folding the page of her book and placing it in her lap.

  “Come with me.” Ben grabbed her hand and pulled her up. He ran across the lawn, his backpack bouncing against his shoulder.

  “Theater is two-dimensional,” he continued as if they were paused in the middle of a discussion. “You’re always wondering when the house lights are going to come on or whether it’s still raining outside. Movies are like a magic carpet. The big screen takes you wherever you want to go.”

  They stopped outside a small building with no windows. Ben extracted a set of keys from his pocket and opened the door.

  “Wait here,” he instructed.

  Rosie watched storm clouds gather in the distance. There was a faint rumbling of thunder. She wondered how she had never been to this corner of campus, and how she had not noticed this boy who was all frenetic energy and flashing hazel eyes.

  Ben opened the door and drew her inside. They were in a small dark room with a screen on one wall. Rosie smelled garlic and butter, and there was a brown Indian blanket spread on the floor.

  “Your magic carpet.” Ben invited her to sit down. “Your gourmet snacks.” He pointed to the bowl of freshly popped popcorn.

  The screen went black and flickered onto the opening credits of To Catch a Thief. Rosie saw Cary Grant flirt with Grace Kelly. She watched them zip up the hills of Monte Carlo in a tiny yellow car. She felt the glittering Mediterranean as if she was bobbing in a motorboat.

  Rosie ate a handful of popcorn, feeling Ben’s shoulder rub against hers. She could see the outline of his knees, his hands with long smooth fingers.

  After To Catch a Thief, Ben put on North by Northwest and An Affair to Remember. Rosie forgot that it was dinnertime in the dini
ng hall. She didn’t hear the heavy raindrops falling outside. Ben took her hand and placed it in his lap.

  “I see your point.” Rosie grinned when the credits rolled and Ben flicked on the lights. He moved closer so their knees were touching.

  “When I get out of here I’m going to drive straight to Los Angeles. I’m going to pound on Steven Spielberg’s door and beg to sweep the cutting room floor.”

  “I don’t think they have cutting rooms anymore.”

  “I’m not going to let anything distract me. I’d rather eat SPAM for a year than do anything other than make a movie.”

  “I don’t think anyone eats SPAM either. Maybe canned tuna, or tofu and sprouts.”

  “I’m going to make the best damn film since Titanic, and it’s going to play in every movie theater in America.”

  “I’ll go see it.” Rosie nodded, feeling his hand pressing hers.

  Ben stopped. He looked at Rosie closely. He pushed his hair behind his ears and kissed her slowly on the mouth. He pulled back, studying her eyes, her nose, and her cheekbones. He leaned forward and kissed her again, putting his arms around her and scooping her up as if she were a doll.

  “There’s one thing movies can’t make you forget,” he said, tracing her lips with his thumb. “That you’re sitting next to the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  * * *

  The last ten years had passed so quickly, Rosie thought as she watched a familiar tall blond figure walk towards her on the sand. She wore a pantsuit with padded shoulders and a man’s button-down shirt. Her hair was cut bluntly at her shoulders and her mouth was smeared with bright red lipstick.

  “I’ve been combing the beach from Santa Monica to Venice.” The woman sat down on the sand. “I was about to give up and grab a burger.”

  “How did you find me?” Rosie squinted through the tears. She sat hunched over, hugging her knees while her best friend rubbed her back fondly.

  “I tried to call you but you’ve been out of range for two days. Then Ben called and told me you disappeared. I figured I better play lifeguard and rescue you.”

  “Ben called you,” Rosie repeated, trying to stop shaking.

  “He sounded worried about you, something to do with sheets and dirty laundry. He wasn’t making sense.”

  “He made perfect sense when he told me we’ve grown apart and he was leaving. I beat him to it,” Rosie sobbed.

  “Neither of you is making sense and I’m starving. Let’s go to World Foods and stuff our faces with tofu burgers. I never feel guilty there, even when I order fries.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Rosie shook her head. She felt like her body was rooted in the sand.

  “Then you can watch me eat, and you can tell me what’s going on with Hollywood’s most adorable couple,” Angelica said and walked towards the parking lot.

  * * *

  “Ben slept with Mary Beth Chase, in our bed, while I was scouting locations.” Rosie sat opposite Angelica in a booth at World Foods. Angelica was almost half a foot taller than Rosie. She had naturally blond hair that she sometimes dyed red or even black. Angelica was a chameleon. Even her eyes, a watery pale blue, seemed to change color depending on what she was wearing.

  They met on the set of Ben’s indie film. Ben was looking for a girl to play the role of a sophisticated young socialite. “Picture her as a modern Cornelia Guest,” he explained to Rosie. “I want to cast somebody authentic. I’m sick of these actresses with hair the color of mayonnaise and breasts made of plastic. I want a real socialite: I want her to roll her r’s and walk like she’s balancing a dictionary on her head.”

  Ben and Rosie started hanging out at gallery openings in West LA. They lounged poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel and snuck into the Polo Lounge. Ben spotted Angelica in a booth at Spago’s. She was sipping champagne and rolling spaghetti into a ball on her spoon.

  “That’s the girl!” he said excitedly. “Look how she holds her fork.”

  “Her hair looks like she stuck it in a microwave.” Rosie frowned. “I thought you wanted a sleek blonde with an elegant chignon.”

  Ben introduced himself as the producer of the film that would launch her career. Over German chocolate cake and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, they learned that Angelica came from a wealthy Santa Barbara family. Her hair was actually straight and blond. Angelica believed in method acting and was auditioning for the movie version of Hair. “I want to show the director a white girl can groove,” Angelica explained, licking chocolate from her fork.

  Ben convinced her to take the role in his film instead, and Angelica and Rosie became fast friends. They both had schoolgirl crushes on Zac Efron and Leonardo DiCaprio. They both loved Mexican food; they both knew the lines of every song by Beyoncé.

  * * *

  “That doesn’t sound like Ben.” Angelica ate a handful of fries. “He’s the last honest man in LA.”

  “He said I’m holding him back, that I don’t want the big successful movie career.” Rosie sniffled, stabbing a green salad. “I do want it. I love taking the bus tour of Beverly Hills. I adore beautiful rooms and green lawns and blue swimming pools. I saw Remains of the Day three times.”

  “I’m not buying his excuse.” Angelica shook her blunt pageboy. “He saw a piece of flesh on his couch and he had to have her. Men see themselves in terms of the size of their penises. The more successful they become, the bigger they think their penises are. It’s like looking in a fun-house mirror. When they think their dicks are enormous they have to use them.”

  Rosie shuddered, picturing Ben undressing another woman. “Why the shoulder pads? I didn’t know they were shooting a movie version of Dynasty.”

  “I’m channeling Katharine Hepburn!” Angelica exclaimed. “I got the role of Tracy Lord in the remake of The Philadelphia Story.”

  “Wow!” Rosie gulped her glass of water. “You’re going to be fantastic. It’ll be the movie of the year.”

  “They cast Dirk Graham in Cary Grant’s role. Can you imagine me working with Dirk Graham? I wonder if he really went to Cambridge or if he practiced that accent with his acting coach. I could run my hands through his hair all day.”

  “You better not tell Matthew.” Rosie frowned.

  “Only on the set, when the director calls action.” Angelica piled her burger with spinach and bean sprouts. “But a girl can dream. Matthew has been working seven days a week. I’m living with a ghost.”

  “He started a new job.” Rosie pushed her plate away. “At least your boyfriend isn’t replacing you with his boss.”

  “That’s because Matthew’s boss is a two-hundred-pound Lebanese who eats falafel at his desk. Matthew comes home smelling of cumin.”

  Rosie recoiled. She had seen pictures of Mary Beth Chase in Variety and W. She was six feet of curves and hair extensions. Her cheekbones were finely chiseled, and her lips were the color of cherries.

  “We need to talk about you.” Angelica dabbed soy sauce on her burger. “What do you want to do?”

  “I know what I don’t want.” Rosie was having trouble swallowing. “I don’t want to find a new job, I don’t want to move, and I don’t want Ben to have screwed another woman.”

  “I’m a lifesaver not a genie.” Angelica squeezed Rosie’s hand. “I can’t make Ben’s penis disappear.”

  “Maybe the studio doesn’t want me,” Rosie choked, the tears starting again. “Ben’s the brilliant director, I’m just someone who can organize people.”

  “I wish you could stay with us, but we couldn’t fit an extra plant into our place,” Angelica said. “My mother keeps sending me checks but I keep sending them back.”

  “Half the actors in town get money from their parents.” Rosie shrugged.

  “If I accept their money, I’ll get lazy.” Angelica shook her head. “I won’t get any roles, and I’ll be living in my parents’ guest cottage. My mother is smart as a fox.”

  “Your mother is wonderful.” Rosie remembered driving with Ben to their estate i
n Montecito last Thanksgiving. Angelica’s father was a famous record producer so Rosie had expected a mansion with miles of marble and glass. She pictured a movie theater with padded walls, a black granite kitchen, and rock stars wandering around in tight leather pants.

  They drove up a long gravel drive and entered through wrought iron gates. The house was made of stone and covered in ivy. It had elegant bay windows, a peaked roof, and lawns that rolled down to a private lake.

  Ben had whistled as he pulled up to the stone entry. He leaned close and whispered to Rosie, “This would be a great place to film a remake of Rebecca.”

  Rosie recalled the front hallway with its dark wood floors covered with oriental rugs. The walls were painted ivory and hung with framed photographs of Angelica and her brother, Sam. The living room looked like it belonged in an English hunting lodge. A stone fireplace took up one wall. Sofas were covered in floral chintz and brown velvet. Two Irish setters lay by the fireplace, lifting their heads when Rosie entered the room.

  “Your house is beautiful,” Rosie said to Angelica’s mother, a statuesque woman with Angelica’s Roman nose and white-blond hair.

  “I expect it could use updating.” Estelle shrugged. “It’s been in the family for years. I’m afraid if I renovate, I’ll dislodge the ghost of my grandfather. I’m positive he lives in the library; I hear him opening the brandy at night.”

  “I’ve never been in a house with ghosts.” Rosie patted the Irish setter.

  “Every house has a story.” Estelle smiled. “But you can’t learn all its secrets on the first visit. You’ll have to come back.”

  * * *

  “My mother is special,” Angelica agreed. “But since I’m her only child in the same time zone, she calls me every day. I have an idea!” She gripped Rosie’s hand tightly. “You can live in her guest cottage for the summer.”

  “In Montecito?” Rosie wiped her eyes. “I can’t just run away.”