“Alison. Get excited. This is tremendous! Just give yourself a minute to be happy, okay? I’m going to get you everything you deserve. And then some. Now, go kiss your boyfriend, he’s going to make you a movie star.”
Boyfriend? She had spent the weekend having sex with the guy, and now he was her boyfriend? The radical disconnect between Lars and Kyle—with whom she had spent so many years, not having sex—was not lost on her. After that ridiculous dinner party where she and Kyle had accused each other yet again of so many mysterious failures, Alison had just decided to get back on the track of her own life. Calling Lars up and apologizing to him was simple good manners. Wearing a black slip dress with no underwear to a dinner date was something else entirely, but Lars was sexy, she was lonely, and she was mad at herself for even talking to Kyle in the grocery store, much less going to a stupid dinner party at his house. Having a hot date with a movie director seemed like a reasonable idea, in the wake of that nonsense.
This new development—he wanted to offer her a part in his movie?—was the last thing she had looked for. She had spent half the day wallowing in a walk-of-shame insecurity; having wild sex with a big Hollywood director for two solid days had truly made her feel like a slut, the fact that she had enjoyed every second of it notwithstanding. There was no question of love involved; obviously they did not love each other. What is this then, a business arrangement? Her brain was having its way with her; she wanted to tell it to shut up. In any event, when Lars’s assistant called at six to find out if she could meet him for a late dinner at ten, she agreed immediately. She didn’t hesitate when he let her know that Lars would love it if she could meet him at his apartment.
She also didn’t think twice about wearing the maroon silk Prada mini dress which showed up at her door minutes later. Lars’s eye was, not surprisingly, impeccable; the dress fit beautifully and the color was both slutty and glorious in its classic grace. Alison looked like a whore and a goddess. It was the first breath of an inkling as to what Lars was going to try to do.
eighteen
AGAINST ALL ODDS, the script was good. Having expected it to be total junk, Alison was caught off guard. The dialogue was sharp; the jokes were funny. The hero was world weary but determined—because of his tragic past he had lost all hope, but a shred of the hope for hope remained. The action sequences were terrific and on the whole the script was surprisingly careful not to kill extra people. Those who lost their lives in the black-op showdown with the local drug dealers were mourned. There was no meaningless carnage.
And her character—well, it wasn’t her character yet, but the one they were considering her for—was fantastic. Laila was a hippie waitress who had split the States three years ago, following a boyfriend to the middle of Mexico. He subsequently disappeared, carelessly informing her he was going to Belize for a weekend from which he would never return. The girl stayed on and became a local legend. She ran the only decent restaurant within a sixty-mile radius of Salusito, the mountain village in which she found herself. Her cook, Diego, was fiercely loyal and protective of her. She fronted for some of the local kids when they tried to play rock and roll in her cantina on Friday nights. The whole town adored her. What a part, Alison knew. Her Midwestern practicality informed her quite firmly that the chances of her actually getting it were slim to none.
And of course the offer didn’t come, did it? After being told that it was on its way, both by Ryan and by Lars, it simply didn’t show up.
“How many times do I have to tell you, these things are complicated,” Ryan reassured her on one of their daily phone calls.
“Oh, Ryan, please stop. You know I love you. I think you’re a great agent, this isn’t about you.”
“I know it’s not about me, who said it was about me?”
On days like this she really wished she wasn’t dealing with such an agent. The layers of show business bullshit were like some sort of very strange, sticky cocoon. “I’m just saying it’s been a long time since you told me this offer was coming through, and it was a long shot to begin with. I’m not stupid.” She suddenly felt overwhelmed that she even had to mention that. No matter how cataclysmically she had been misunderstood by every single member of her giant family, no one had ever underestimated her intelligence. And now here she was, being conned by idiots who expected her to care about a shell game. Where is it where is it? Where’s the ball? A reasonably smart canine would have picked up on this useless bullshit years ago and refused to play.
“It’s okay,” she said, suddenly humiliated by her own stupidity. “If I’m not getting an offer, it was a long shot.”
“I thought things were going well for you and Lars.”
“Lars and I are fine, that’s not—look. You know that’s not why he offered it to me. He’s not offering me the part just because he’s screwing me. Oh, God. I can’t believe I just said that. Particularly because as far as I can tell he’s not offering me the part at all.”