Lost in Carmel Read online

  All this, while dancing around the perimeter of those days leading up to the breakdown. Sometimes she could peek into the abyss, but Anne never allowed her to venture too close to the edge, as if it was cordoned off with a velvet rope and she wasn't allowed inside. Yet.

  Now she was being asked to pick at the scab. And there would be blood.

  “Do I want to talk about it? Not really.”

  Silence stretched out between them until Natalie finally turned away from the window, leaving Sister Elisabetta to her flowers and weeds and crossed the room. The wall of books beckoned like a picket fence to a child with a stick in his hand. She was Tom Sawyer stalling for time as her fingers trailed over the spines of long forgotten tomes, in languages she didn't recognize.

  “Okay.” Natalie sighed, sinking down on the couch. “Let's talk about it.”

  Anne smiled. “You start.”

  8 Make-Believe

  “We’d been waiting around for hours.” Natalie shook her head at Anne. “Typical of movie sets. Hurry up and wait has always been the motto.”

  Natalie closed her eyes as she stepped into the memory.

  “Five minutes, Miss Hampton.” The words accompanied a knock on her trailer door.

  “I swear to God those words will be engraved on my tombstone,” Natalie said as she gave her make-up one last check in the dressing table mirror, sighing over the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that were harder and harder to ignore. “Make a note of that will you, Chloe? I want 'Five Minutes, Miss Hampton' in bold type across the front of my headstone.”

  “Got it.” Chloe laughed as she scribbled in an imaginary journal.

  “You can do this,” Natalie spoke to her reflection as she drew herself up straight, but she could feel the ominous shaking in her chest that had been following her around for days. Ignoring it never did any good.

  “One last scene and done.” Swiveling on her vanity stool she turned to face Chloe. “What time is Tess's recital tonight?”

  “Seven.”

  “Perfect.” Natalie was standing now, pages of dialogue in her hands. “I've missed so much lately. I'm a terrible mother.”

  “You're no such thing.” Chloe would hear none of it. “Tess adores you.”

  “She doesn't know any better. But the truth is, she's busy growing up while I'm somewhere on a backlot playing make-believe. I told Stan I needed a break. Instead, I got sucked into this black hole of a movie.”

  “I know. Don't let him talk you out of your vacation this time.”

  “Right. I'd like a vacation from Stan while I'm at it.” The last part was mumbled under her breath, as she stepped out the door, but Chloe heard enough to laugh.

  Stan was Stanley Graber. Not Mr. Hampton. Stan liked to make a joke of the awkward situation when it arose, saying, “I don't care what they call me if they spell my name correctly on the check.”

  From the time she turned twenty-one, magazines documented Natalie's every move on the party circuit. Flashbulbs popping as she dashed into The Troubadour on Santa Monica Boulevard on the arm of Hollywood's latest catch. From there it was a quick trip down the block to Dan Tana's for steaks and martinis at one A.M.

  After years of running in high heels, chasing the fast crowd, she was tired. When her mother, Nora, insisted the party-girl images being splashed across the pages were wearing thin, Natalie had to agree. At twenty-nine it was time she settled down. When she looked around, it was Stan who was waiting in the wings.

  In a town full of tinsel, he was average looking, and his unimaginative dates didn't exactly sweep her off feet. But he was solid. Older. Wiser. A dependable broker who'd been steering her investments for the past year. And he made her laugh. More importantly, he wasn't an actor. She didn't want Superman she wanted Clark Kent.

  It was the one time when she and Monty were at loggerheads. Monty didn’t like Stan. Stan didn’t like Monty.

  “Give me something concrete, Monty,” Natalie pleaded. “I need more than just, ‘I don’t like him.’”

  “I’ll give you concrete,” Monty said. “I’ve got a pit in my stomach the size of a concrete block when I think about you marrying him.”

  “It’s probably just the tacos you had for lunch.”

  “No, kiddo. I always trust my gut. You always use to trust my gut, too.”

  “Well this time, I’m going with my gut. And my gut says to marry Stan.”

  Monty had stood there, hands on her shoulders, eyes locked onto hers, burrowing deep beneath the veneer for a full minute before he blinked and turned away.

  “If you’re determined, then of course I’ll stand behind you.”

  “No. I don’t want you standing behind me.” She reached out for Monty’s arm. “I want you beside me.”

  “Are you asking me to be your maid of honor.”

  “Dear God, that would be almost worth it to watch the fallout.”

  They erupted in laughter as the tension fled the room. She couldn’t imagine Monty not sharing in this moment.

  “Monty, I’d love it if you walked me down the aisle.”

  “In high heels?”

  “Monty.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help myself. In all seriousness, what about your dad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather —”

  “Nope. I want you.”

  “Then you’ve got me.” Monty pulled her into a bear hug. His hand cradling the back of her head.

  It was Stan’s self-assurance that won her over, and she could only hope that in the end Monty would see what she saw.

  She was America's sweetheart, which was simply a nicer way of saying she belonged to the public and the people could be ruthless in their claim. What Natalie had thought was self-confidence turned out to be nothing more than a smokescreen for a festering inferiority and when Hollywood whispered in his ear like a lover, he abandoned his career in investments almost overnight to become a producer. Leaving Natalie to wonder what else she didn’t know about the man she married.

  One thing Natalie did know was the years of photographers shouting on the red carpet, “Mr. Hampton, could you move out of the way, please,” had taken their toll on her husband. The relentless drip could chisel away at any man's ego. She watched from behind exploding flashbulbs as Clark Kent faded into the distance.

  It wasn't long before Stan started asserting himself in everyday aspects of Natalie's life, as if grabbing more authority would shed him of his bland image. Becoming increasingly jealous of Natalie and Monty's relationship, he found fault where none existed. Frowning over their easy banter. Second-guessing Monty's every move concerning her career. Leaving Natalie to walk the tightrope between the two men in her life. Whenever Natalie sided with Monty, she could be sure there would be a row with Stan later that night.

  After months of testing her loyalty, he finally demanded her ultimate allegiance. Monty had to go.

  “I can be your manager. Why should we pay him good money, when I can do the job just as well?” Stanley challenged.

  “It's not about the money. Monty is like family.”

  “Well, you fired your mother as your manager when you hired Monty, and I'm pretty sure she's family.”

  There was a coldness to Stan's words that Natalie hadn't felt before. Her instincts reared up, but she ignored them along with the shiver down her spine.

  The argument lasted into the wee hours of the morning before Natalie caved, running her hands over her protruding belly, determined to protect the child within from the mounting chaos outside her womb.

  The next day it wasn't only morning sickness that had Natalie nauseous. She choked on the words Stan compelled her to deliver, reciting them without meaning like a hostage forced to read her captor's statement to the press. But they hit their intended target and when Monty's lip quivered, so did her heart.

  “I'm so sorry, Monty.” She reached out to touch his arm. “I love you. You know I do. I'm up against a wall, here.”

  �
��I understand, kiddo,” Monty said as he brushed his lips on the top of her head. “Gotta keep the husband happy.”

  Only he didn't understand at all. How could he, when Natalie couldn't make sense of it herself?

  One moment. One decision changed everything. She felt it as soon as the words left her mouth and then as her dear friend walked out the trailer door, sunlight on his copper hair, Natalie had a mad desire to chase after him and tell him everything. Tell him she didn't mean any of it. Beg him to undo her crazy mistake. That's what Monty did. He always fixed everything.

  But not this time.

  The current of Natalie's new life pulled her downstream, further and further away from Monty and the life she knew. On the rare occasions when they'd find themselves at the same industry event, you could find the two of them huddled together in a corner, laughing like a couple of kids who just skipped school. Natalie often wondered if she was the only one who could hear the hollowness ringing out behind the laughter in their feeble attempt to hold onto something that was already gone.

  Her focus necessarily narrowed to raising her daughter and keeping the peace with Stan. Natalie sat in the passenger seat, with Tess in the back, and a marriage found its own rhythm. Bumps in the road were few, but Natalie swore she could feel the tires being pulled into the deep ruts on the side. Then, two years ago, she felt the ground shift beneath her feet, not enough seismic movement to register on the Richter scale, but a subtle change.

  Tied together for over a decade, in work and play, reviews for the last two movies threatened to sink them both. Fights interrupted the silent stretch of highway between them, as financial threats loomed over the horizon. They were living on the San Andreas fault and Natalie was keenly aware of the rumbling beneath her feet.

  Now, mired in their third disastrous movie in a row, the battles were increasing in both number and intensity. Like labor pains pushing them toward an outcome from which they could no longer hide.

  She was still simmering over last night's episode.

  “Calm down, Natalie.” Stan had tried to stem the tide of words hurled his way as Natalie stormed up to him after watching the dailies.

  Confronting one's image on screen was always an exercise in humility. Every imperfection, real or imagined, exaggerated in twenty-five-foot-tall detail. But yesterday's screening left her stunned.

  “You know what I hate? Someone telling me to calm down when my career is being flushed down the toilet.”

  “I know you have problems with Ken, but he’s the director.”

  “A director with no direction is an oxymoron. Every day on set it's a new day. No vision. No clue. And it's my name that's going to be ruined. I'm hanging on by a thread in this town as it is, Stanley. I can't afford another flop.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Stan’s fingers dug into the flesh of Natalie’s arm as he steered her toward the office set up for the producers when they visited the set. Once inside, he dropped his grip and walked behind the desk.

  “Sit down, Natalie. You're causing a lot of problems on this set and you know damn well it's being broadcast all over town. If you're worried about ruining your name, start there.” He was a school principal delivering his icy verdict to a recalcitrant student.

  Natalie sat back, his frosty tone stinging her cheeks. “You know you're not just the executive producer on this movie. You're supposed to be my manager. Who's looking out for me?”

  “I'm always looking out for you.” His answer was professional with no hint that their relationship was anything special. The glaring omission settled between them, demanding to be addressed.

  “Are you?”

  Couldn't he hear the plea in her voice? The old lover begging to be seen. To be heard.

  Natalie remembered a time when he wanted to hear anything she had to say. A time when he valued her opinion. Now, though he looked directly at her, his gaze was empty.

  Over the years, the late-night laughter had morphed into talks about contracts and negotiations. Until one day when they weren't looking, the marriage became a business arrangement. Sleeping in separate bedrooms, using the feeble excuse that she was just too tired or needed to sit up and run her lines when she went to bed. With the simple nod of their heads, agreeing to so much more. Was it already too late?

  “Have you seen any of the dailies?” she asked, deciding to turn the conversation back to business.

  “Of course.”

  “And...”

  Stan blew out a long breath as he ran his hand over the back of his head. “I don't know what you want from me. I've seen the dailies. I understand some of your concerns. But everything's going to be fine.”

  “Said the crew to the passengers on the Titanic.”

  “As usual, you're being melodramatic.”

  She hated being dismissed like a child as Stan shuffled papers on his desk. There was always something more pressing to steal his attention. Some small detail that needed immediate consideration while she waited for him to rejoin the conversation.

  “Stan,” Natalie softened her tone. “Look at me.”

  Stan rested his elbows on the desk and looked at his wife of eleven years while Natalie searched his face, looking for something familiar. A life raft with room for two. She was floating out to sea while Stan stood on the shore, hands at his side. The span of the desk between them was an ocean.

  “I've taken everything that's been thrown at me on this movie. From a twenty-five-year old, who can't act, being signed to play my daughter—”

  “Don't start in on Monica again.” Stan held up his palm, refusing to re-litigate the issue of Natalie's co-star. “We've had this conversation. It's over and done. Besides, I've said it before, she looks a lot younger than that.”

  “Does she?”

  Silence filled the stand-off as two gunslingers stood with their hands on the trigger. Natalie could feel the itch in her trigger finger, but instead eased her hands into her lap.

  “I came here to talk about the footage I just saw.”

  Stan's raised eyebrows were his only response.

  “It's worse than I thought. It's amateur hour, the story's all over the place. And another thing— it's bad enough to be forty in this town, but the real sin is only if you look like it. Ken's got me looking like I'm sixty. He's killing me.”

  “I'm sure that's not true,” Stan mumbled. “You're your own worst critic. Look, he's the director. I have to trust his vision.”

  “What vision? It's a nightmare.”

  Stan’s sigh was tired. “Look, we're almost done here, in another week or two you'll be finished.”

  Stan's attempt to smooth over the situation fell flat. Natalie could see the words fall from his lips like edited dialogue falling on the cutting room floor. There was no use trying to continue the conversation, he'd shut her down. Shut her out. As he had done so many times lately.

  “You're right. I'll be finished.” She rose and walked out of the room, the quiet click of the door, her final word. He wouldn't come after her. She was in this alone and her bones ached from the weight of it.

  Now, here they were, new day, same old story. Ken Otto was storming around the set like a toy soldier, barking at his troops, while Natalie sat in her chair off set, a slow burn building as the minute hand continued to sweep across the clock.

  “Get another sandbag on that redhead,” the gaffer yelled directions as lights were being set up for her scene.

  “What in the hell is that Lilliputian doing?” Natalie's eyes were following the movements of the diminutive director, as he growled orders to his A.D. The poor assistant director was nodding so hard he looked like a bobble-head doll. “He's set and re-set this scene seven times already. What time is it, anyway?”

  Chloe looked at her watch. “Six o'clock.”

  “I'm never going to make it,” Natalie groaned. “I told him this morning, I had to be out of here by six, sharp. I swear he's doing this deliberately.”

  She wanted to bolt from her chair and
run to the waiting sedan, telling her driver to speed out of the studio gates and never look back, but millions of dollars hung on her decision. She looked around at the dozens of crew people who rigged the lights and sound, who built the sets and knew their weekly paycheck was dependent upon her doing the right thing. So she swallowed her desire to flee but it left a sick feeling in her gut.

  “Quiet on set.” A voice boomed as people cleared the area. Ken Otto waved Natalie over through the maze of cables and she took her mark, prepared to run the scene one more time. And another time after that.

  “Natalie, what in God's name are you doing?” Ken bolted from his chair and slithered up beside Natalie on the third take. “Tears! You're supposed to be in tears.”

  Natalie clenched her hands at her side. “I don't know what my motivation is for this scene, Ken. It makes no sense—”

  “Don't worry about what your goddamned motivation is for walking across the room,” the little dictator yelled. “Just walk across the fucking room!”

  Shaking with anger, Natalie stared into the red face of her tormentor. For a moment, she was outside herself, standing in an auditorium across town. Backstage, a ten-year old in pink tights and fairy wings was peeking out from behind the heavy curtains, looking for a mother who couldn't be found. Again.

  It was her daughter's tears that ran down Natalie's cheeks. But it was Natalie's clear voice that rang out. “You, sir, are an asshole.”

  “Oh, of course. Now she cries. I hope to God we're still rolling tape on this shit.” He threw his copy of the script at her feet and stormed off the set, while cast and crew slid their glances from the scene, like embarrassed witnesses to a pile-up on the 101, afraid they might be called to testify later.

  Natalie, still shaking, walked back toward Chloe, wiping the tears with an angry swipe of her hand, straightening her back against her audience who though uncomfortable in the moment, would soon be spreading this news all over the Hollywood hills.