“Oh no, I remember,” she says. “Five years ago, your very first day on the set of Breezeo. Only time I saw you genuinely smile was the first time you put on the suit.”
I stare at her blankly. “Jesus, what did you do, write it on your calendar like an annual holiday?”
“Johnny Cunning isn’t always a dick day. We used to celebrate it with a bottle of hard liquor but now we just sleep all day and avoid being around assholes.”
“Sounds nice.”
She smiles. “So what’s got you grinning at six o’clock in the morning?”
I hold the notebook up. “Somebody wrote me a story.”
“Somebody, eh?” She shoos me away from the trailer steps so she can go inside, motioning for me to join her. “And who would that somebody be?”
“My daughter.”
“Your daughter,” she repeats, not sounding surprised. She pats a chair in front of her big mirror, wordlessly telling me to sit down. Hair, first, so Jazz leans against a vanity to watch as one of the hairstylists gets to work. “So it’s true? What Hollywood Chronicles said?”
“Doubtful,” I tell her. “Most of what they print is bullshit.”
They get to work, because well, they've got their work cut out for them this morning. I need a haircut as well as a shave, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg of how I’ve let myself go since the accident.
Haven’t been to a single acting class. Certainly haven’t gone on any auditions.
Can’t remember the last time I saw the inside of a gym, and I damn sure haven’t been sticking to the diet. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to my therapist.
“They said you met a girl at some prep school you went to,” Jazz says. “The two of you ran away together, and you were some sneaky little criminal until Mr. Caldwell discovered you.”
My brow furrows. “It said I was a criminal?”
“Well, in other words.” She laughs. “Said you were stealing to survive, which is unbelievable, since your family is loaded. But it said you got your big break and the girl, she got pregnant, but she resented your fame and left you without telling you about the baby, so you’re just now learning about your daughter.”
There’s so much wrong with what she just said that I’m not sure where to begin. My mind keeps going to the stealing—which, ironically, is the true part. But few people know that. I kept that secret tightly guarded out of fear that it proved I was the failure my father said I’d be. So who the fuck told them?
Jazz doesn’t wait for an explanation. I never give her one. So she looks damn surprised when I say, “I knew about my daughter.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And she didn’t resent the fame—she resented what fame turned me into.”
She stares at me. “So, wait, you knew you had a daughter?”
“Yes.”
“The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve been a father?”
“Yes.”
WHACK.
I flinch when she picks up a hairbrush and smacks me with it. “Jesus, Jazz, what the fuck?”
“Why in the hell were you wasting your life away with all those sleazes when you had a family you could’ve been with?”
I just blink at her.
I have no good answer.
“Unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. “So, what’s your daughter like?”
“She’s smart. Creative. Funny. Beautiful. She’s a lot like her mother, actually.”
“Her mother, huh?” Jazz grins. “Hate to break it to you, but it sounds like you might be smitten.”
“No might about it,” I say. “I love her.”
Jazz gasps. WHACK. She smacks me again. “Shut your mouth!”
I don’t have a chance to respond before someone clears their throat, stepping into the trailer. I glance over, seeing Cliff. Jazz is suddenly on high alert, completely professional.
“Johnny,” Cliff says. “I’m glad to see you. You weren’t at the hotel this morning for pick up.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get to set early.”
“That’s good,” he says, an edge to his voice that tells me he doesn’t think it’s good at all. Any break in habit is concerning. “Just tell me next time.”
He lurks, lingering, taking a seat to do some work on his Blackberry, so Jazz doesn’t bring anything up again, everyone just doing their jobs.
“Well, would you look at that,” Jazz says after half an hour. “You look like Johnny Cunning again.”
I stare at my reflection.
“Wasn’t sure it would ever happen,” Cliff says. “He was becoming unrecognizable.”
People come in and out of the trailer, greeting me and welcoming me back, being overly friendly. I don’t mind it. It’s kind of nice, being back at it, especially once I put on the suit. The material feels tighter than usual, and wardrobe works hard to get it to look how it should. I stand there, surrounded by mirrors, and smile.
“Boy, if you keep making that face, it’s liable to get stuck,” Jazz says, spinning around in an office chair as she watches.
“Don’t you have work to do?” I ask her. “Someone else to be fixing up?”
“Nope, just you, superstar.”
At eight-thirty, I’m called to set. We’re filming inside today, so I don’t have to worry about the gathering crowd. Excitement stirs inside of me. I feel hopeful. On top of my fucking game. I’m ready to take on the world and conquer it… until the camera starts rolling.
It moves in a blur. We have a lot to cover. Jumping from scene to scene, from moment to moment, trying to get my head right and channel the emotions. I’m out of sorts, out of breath, completely exhausted by the time we wrap for the day.
“Get to the gym tonight,” Cliff says, walking beside me on the way back to wardrobe to take the suit off. “Build up that stamina, or you’re going to have the longest month of your life. It’s not going to get any easier.”
“I know,” I mutter, heading into the trailer.
It takes another hour before I’m back in my clothes, ready to leave, but I can’t because the director is requesting a meeting and a producer wants a quick word and my script needs altered after my schedule gets updated. The excitement is wearing off as the pressure mounts. I grab a muffin from the caterer before he can pack up, and endure a few dirty looks because I’m supposed to stay in tip-top shape and that doesn’t leave room for shit like carbs.
Cliff, meanwhile, is talking to PR, and I want to have a word with them myself, but they leave before I can.
“You ever tell anyone how you discovered me?” I ask Cliff when we head for the car. “You ever talk about it?”
“No,” he says. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it just came up.”
“What’s this about?” he asks.
“Chronicles mentioned something about me being a thief.”
He sighs loudly. “How many times do I have to tell you not to read that? You shouldn’t even be looking at it. Stop worrying about them.”
“I’m not worried,” I say. “I just found it strange they knew.”
“This industry springs more leaks than the Titanic. People like to talk. That’s why I push for the confidentiality agreements—so we can control the narrative as much as possible.”
“But not many people knew what I did back then,” I say. “Me. You. My therapist.”
“Your girlfriend,” he says, not even looking up from his Blackberry.
“I never told her.”