Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Read online

  “I knew you’d be this way.”

  “I’m just not his biggest fan, Daph. Sorry.” I spread my hands. “I wish I could be more supportive. I’m just tired.”

  “He stopped seeing Heather, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “We had a few drinks after work the other night and it was like we’d been together forever. It was so great. I can really talk to him.”

  I wanted to say, “He’s an actor!” but I bit my lip. Hard. She knew the score. If she wanted to live in a world of unreality, who was I to be the voice of sanity? Relenting, I said, “Let’s walk down to the Love Shack, and I’ll buy you an amethyst. One amethyst. Then I’m in bed.”

  Daphne was thrilled. She hugged me and babbled on about Leo as we headed the few blocks toward Wilshire and then a few blocks west to the Love Shack, a little bar whose name implied it was a lot more fun than it really was. But it was nearby, and their amethyst martinis, so named for a touch of black-currant liqueur which turned it a faint lavender shade, were rather fine. The last thing I wanted before a shoot date was a drink of any kind, so I settled for club soda while Daphne sipped her drink and raved about Leo.

  It was nice to see her so deliriously starry-eyed, I decided a bit enviously. None of us had been in a long time. Even Kristl didn’t appear as happy with Brandon as Daphne currently was with surfer-dude Leo.

  “So, what happened?” I asked. “Why did he suddenly decide that you were the one?”

  “I don’t know. I kind of ignored him for a while. I was really just trying not to let it all get to me, y’know? The way he was with Heather? I felt like an idiot for sleeping with him. I know lots of people are doing that ‘fuck buddy’ thing, but I just can’t. What’s the point? I want something more, something to build on.”

  I thought of Sean, felt a twinge of uncomfortableness, nodded. I knew exactly what she meant. What I didn’t add was that I didn’t believe she’d found it with Leo. He wasn’t the “build a future with” kind of guy.

  “I know you don’t like him,” she said. “Maybe when you get to know him ... ?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. I just don’t like what’s happened so far, that’s all. It doesn’t bode well.”

  “Lots of guys make mistakes.”

  “Yeah. You just have to decide how many is too many. When the mistake list starts outweighing the ‘things done right’ list, it’s a problem.”

  Daphne quickly rose to Leo’s defense. “That’s not the case here.”

  “No. Okay. Fine.” I was not in the mood for a debate. “It’s too early to tell.”

  “You’re being really negative,” she complained.

  “You’re right. I am. I’m sorry. To be honest, my mind’s on work. I’m really glad you’ve gotten what you want, Daphne. Seriously. And I want it to work out,” I said, putting everything I had into it, meaning it. I really did want Daphne to be happy.

  “But ... ?” She crossed her arms.

  “No buts. No qualifications. None.” I tapped the rim of my glass against hers. “I hope Leo brings you happiness.”

  She smiled, and I silently vowed to keep further comments about Leo trapped firmly inside my head.

  Wind proved a total problem on the job. Shooting stalled, started up again, stalled. The beach tossed up sand in front of the camera lenses and into everyone’s eyes. I was in the production trailer and relatively sand-free, but the delays only meant I would be putting in longer and longer hours along with everyone else.

  Sean came in and stood behind my right shoulder. I was on the phone and he was distracting me, which pissed me off. To counteract his effect, I gave him a job. “Go pick up the talent at LAX.”

  “They’re not coming in for another two hours,” he said.

  “We all need coffees here. Run to Starbucks, okay? And ask Tom and Joe what they want. Oh, and get Holly a Tazo-chai latte. Do you still have enough petty cash?”

  “Got it,” Sean said with a nod and left. Momentarily I felt like an ogre, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  Some of the talent arrived in their own cars and one of our cube truck drivers swiped the side of one of the actor’s cars. It left a minuscule scratch, but the guy was incensed. We offered to settle right then, but he wanted to go to the insurance company which meant more paperwork. What started out as an accident became an all-consuming fiasco for me, and I was so annoyed at the guy I called up Joe, the video guy, and asked how big the actor’s part was and if he could be scratched.

  Joe hooks up video equipment to the film cameras while the commercial is being filmed. We can then watch what’s being shot through the camera on televisions. It’s easy to get a feel for the whole thing this way. He assured me that he would talk to the film editors and direction and make sure said actor would hit the cutting room floor.

  I know it sounds like I hate actors. I don’t hate them. They’re attractive and charismatic, and hate is way too strong a word and implies a depth of feeling I’m not sure I possess. I do think they’re all a pain in the ass, however. They’re just not good for my health.

  I think it’s past time I explained about Mr. Famous Actor.

  I met him at a commercial shoot when I was still a production assistant. As the lowest minions on set, the PAs were warned to stay far, far away from the talent and the director. And don’t wear anything to draw attention: too much perfume, makeup, distracting Britney Spears-like outfits. Directors hate to be distracted. This all worked for me because basically I’m a blue jeans and overshirt type. If the weather’s too hot, I’ll switch to a basic black T-shirt, baggy capris and flip-flops. There is absolutely nothing sexy about my wardrobe.

  Which is why it was so funny when Lang did the classic double take on me. I can’t say I wasn’t flattered. Who wouldn’t be? He was famous enough to have people on the street recognize him even if they didn’t know his name. He’d been on a television show that ran four years, then had segued to commercials and even small parts in feature films. Since my time with Lang, he’d actually become more famous. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this as it was weird to see some fantastically huge poster or magazine cover of his face. I wondered how Cris Judd felt while J.Lo was living large on Ben Affleck’s arm. Bennifer had been everywhere and he’d been the one left in the lurch. During that time I felt such a kinship toward him it made me forget we didn’t know each other. For instance, once I actually saw Cris at a trendy Hollywood bar, and it was all I could do not to run over, clap him on the back, shake my head in commiseration and say, “I feel your pain.” (I suspect this is just the kind of thing celebrities get from stalkers; it’s just as well I curbed my impulse.)

  But then, I’d never married Lang so maybe I didn’t really know what Cris felt about being dumped or about having been Mr. Jennifer Lopez. And when I look back on my affair with Lang I still didn’t know how I felt about that glimpse into the surreal world of Hollywood stardom.

  What I do know is that John Langdon took a hard look at me and smiled, so I smiled back, kind of thrilled. I wanted to glance around and see who’d noticed. I wanted to shout, “Hey, everybody! Somebody famous noticed me!” as if this would somehow validate my existence on the planet. (My shallowness shocks me sometimes.)

  After the smile, Lang strode over to me on his next break and started up a conversation. I was still working, however, and didn’t have a lot of time to do anything. Also, my producer at the time was such a ravenous bitch that I really had to mind my p’s and q’s. Hence, I scarcely glanced up when Lang started in.

  “You’re all in black,” he observed, “and it’s eighty-five degrees.”

  We were on location near Joshua Tree, east of LA. I was baking and so was everyone else. Shading my eyes against a very hot late-August sun, I said, “This is standard-issue production assistant attire. Besides, sweating is good for you. Exudes the poisons.”

  His brows lifted. “You’re into that stuff? Mud baths and hot steam? Pulling out the poisons?”

  “Not rea
lly,” I admitted. “I just kind of like the word ‘exude.’ Ecks—oooood.”

  He smiled lazily, then repeated, “Exudes the poisons.”

  I nodded.

  Okay, it wasn’t exactly poetry, but it served the purpose in catching Lang’s attention. He seemed to think I’d said something really, really smart, which should have clued me in right there that he wasn’t exactly brain-surgeon material and maybe ought to be left well enough alone.

  My producer snapped at me then and I hurried to do her bidding. But Lang’s appreciation of my designed insouciance left me with a good feeling all day.

  Late that night, I was one of the last people working. A PA’s job is never done. Dog-tired, I climbed in my car for the hour’s drive back to our rented rooms. The production staff’s rooms were not located at the same place as the talent; we were motel, they were spa/resort. After I’d changed and showered I found I had a second wind. There was this little excitement buzzing beneath my skin. I drove back to the spa/resort and caught up with some of the above-liners. They invited me into the resort bar and I sat down just as Lang walked in.

  I’d taken the time to wash and dry my hair and change into a clean set of clothes. Unfortunately, I’d brought nothing outstanding to wear, so I was relegated to another pair of jeans and a slightly wrinkled white shirt. I’d pulled my hair into a ponytail, worked studiously on my makeup for a good three minutes, then sworn at my vanity and headed out.

  When Lang strolled into the room, all heads turned. He said something to the man he was with—the spot’s director—then beelined toward my table. I decided to make a pre-emptive strike, so I stood up at that very moment and turned toward the bar. “Would you like something?” I asked.

  I’d definitely caught his attention. “What are you having?”

  I wasn’t a master of the drink list at that time. I glanced toward the bar and my eye fell on the Ketel One bottle. “A Ketel One vodka martini,” I said, as if I drank them all the time. In actuality, it was my first. Impressed, he asked for the same.

  And then ... one thing led to another and Lang and I ended up back at my not-so-high-grade motel room. I tried not to be mortified at the scattered clothes I’d strewn around the room in my frenzy to get ready. Lang didn’t care. He flopped down on my bed fully clothed, still wearing a pair of worn westernish boots that he proudly told me he’d possessed for a good ten years. I lay down gingerly beside him, my head swimming a bit from my three martinis. Lang had managed about five. I’d lost count. He kissed me once, hard, on the lips. I remember thinking my lips felt numb, but I suspect that was more from the effects of the vodka than the pressure of his lips.

  The next thing I knew my phone was shrilling in my ear. Fumbling in the dark, I snatched up the receiver, “Hullo?”

  “Goddamnit, Ginny! Where the fuck are you?”

  My eyes flew open. It was the production manager. “What time is it?” I croaked.

  “Eight o’clock! You were supposed to be on set at seven-thirty.”

  “I’m on my way,” I mumbled, leaping off the bed and switching on the light. It was then I realized I was still dressed from the night before, even to my shoes. Lang, too. He was lying on his back, snoring, still wearing his boots.

  I hesitated, torn, wondering if I should wake him up, too.

  “John,” I whispered. “John? What time do you have to be on set?”

  He opened one eye. “Today? Shit. I don’t know. Noon, maybe.”

  “You’re in my room. I just—thought you should know.”

  “Oh ... yeah ... hmmm ...” He turned over onto his shoulder.

  “And I’m taking the car, so ... how will you get back?”

  “Eh,” he muttered dismissively.

  I had no choice. I had to leave. I scrambled around and ran for the door, driving like a maniac to the set where my duties included standing at one side of the shoot and making sure no extraneous outsiders got past me and stumbled into the shot. This included the costumer’s dog, who somehow had escaped earlier and frolicked amongst the equipment, much to the roaring fury of the director. While I worked I ignored the worried comments the crew made about the missing John Langdon, then I ignored John when he sauntered in, looking rather refreshed, as he’d slept till late afternoon.

  My producer came over to me, eyeing me suspiciously. She mentioned that Lang had arrived by taxi and someone had thought they’d seen me leave with him. I answered that we were all at the bar and that’s all I knew about it.

  I survived the rest of that shoot by becoming a blank slate. Vapid vacantness was my salvation. After a while, everyone believed I knew nothing. A noteworthy acting job on my part; actually better than anything Lang was offering up for the commercial.

  I was worked way too hard by my suspicious producer for anything further to develop on the job site, and though Lang had my cell phone number, I didn’t expect to hear from him. Therefore, I was shocked and thrilled when he called. I was living in West Hollywood at the time, in a true dive, sharing with a gay couple who somehow managed to make the bedroom they shared liveable and inviting while mine was pretty much unopened boxes, a twin bed, and a beat-up dresser I’d inherited from the person who’d lived in the room before me.

  When Lang called I instantly said I would meet him somewhere. I didn’t want to have to make any explanations. We met at a small Thai restaurant where no one noticed him. He was a vegetarian, I soon learned, and though he encouraged me to order whatever I wanted, I went for the tofu. I’m glad the Thai can make it edible because it’s terrible stuff, in my opinion. White, spongy, tasteless. Forget the bean curd; give me the whole bean.

  Anyway, my relationship with Lang developed from there. We stayed at his place—a condo in West LA—ate our meals in bed, watched TV. Somehow, because I didn’t have sex with Lang that first night it made me special to him. At least that’s how I explain his fascination with me. It lasted a whole four months, which believe me, was a tour of duty that left me wishing for reassignment with anyone else. At that point I think I might have even been willing to switch genders. Lesbianism never looked so good.

  Why was it so exhausting? Because after a brief wooing period, and some fair-to-middling sex, I learned that my function was to make John Langdon feel good about John Langdon. This included constant reassurance. Let me say that again: constant reassurance. And sick puppy that I am, I was right there, cheerleading away, telling him how great he was, how misunderstood he was, if he didn’t get the part he was after, how fantastic-looking he was, how amusing, intelligent, all-around terrific he was, how he was the best lover I’d ever had, bar none. If I’d had pompons and a bright cheerleading outfit, I couldn’t have been more the part. Again, better acting than anything Lang was putting out at the time.

  And still ... we would go someplace and he would be recognized. A gaggle of girls would interrupt our meal, drinks, whatever. He would pretend that the attention bothered him but he ate it up. He insisted that he only had eyes for me, that he didn’t find them attractive, though I never acted as if I believed he did. His hollow excuses, however, convinced me that he was lying. He could lie with a smile, kiss me, and still be looking, winking, at someone else.

  I began to feel anxious. Suddenly it seemed superimpera-tive that I break up with him before he had the chance to do the deed himself. (This is a flaw of mine, as you can probably tell, since I tend to feel this way about every impending breakup though it can’t possibly matter in the grand scheme of things.)

  But ... he beat me to the punch anyway. Like Nate. Things had slowed down between us. Lang was doing a series of guest spots on one of the most inane sitcoms on the air, and he just couldn’t be reached anymore. Finally, I got all huffy and hostile and demanded a Saturday lunch out of him. We went back to the original Thai place and he yawned and yawned. He’d hung out with a couple of the actors from the show the night before. They’d hit some Hollywood hot spots. These “actors” happened to be a pair of voluptuous babes who played total bimbo
s on the show. Lang assured me they were both really, really smart.

  My answer to this was, “They’d have to be smart to be able to play so dumb.”

  He gave me a sharp look, trying to see if I was kidding or not. He couldn’t. He said, “What’s the matter with you? You look like shit.”

  Stunned by this unexpected attack, I said, “Sorry. Guess I forgot my false eyelashes and haute couture.”

  “You’ve just been bitching me out.”

  This was so blatantly untrue that I stared. “I don’t think so.”

  He glanced away from me, jaw set, glowering at the reader board of today’s specials. “I think this is it, Ginny.”

  I sat there numbly. Later, I read in the tabloids that he and one of the really, really smart bimbos were shacking up. It hurt like hell.

  He called me once, about a year later, just to check in. We talked for a while, but I’d definitely learned my lesson and when he suggested we go back to “our spot,” the Thai place, I made up some excuse even though I truly, truly wanted to see him again.

  I told all this to Dr. Dick, who listened patiently and said I’d made the intelligent, adult choice. This was when he’d made that comment about me being so frightfully well adjusted. I don’t know why I’ve resented it so much, but I have.

  As time’s marched on, I’ve been gladder and gladder that my time with Lang was so limited. I’ve watched actors on set, talked and flirted with them, even met one or two for a drink here and there. The ones I’ve met are all the same; I’m not kidding. Peel back a layer and there’s nothing underneath. This isn’t to say I don’t like them, I do. But they’re bad for me. Like refined sugar. Empty calories that taste so good, but at the end of the day, you would have been better off with the—tofu.

  Anyway, by the time we were wrapping it up for today’s Waterstone shoot, I was feeling less hostile toward the actor whose car had been accidentally sideswiped. It wasn’t his fault, specifically, that I distrusted actors. I told Joe the video guy to leave the actor in, but Joe said it was too late. He’d already talked to the film editors and the guy was going to be on the cutting room floor, period. Joe didn’t like him, either.