Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz.
Wait. Something is wrong. This isn’t a bumble bee. It’s a damn fly. In my bedroom. I swat at it, but only hit my ear.
Ouch.
Damn, it was only a dream. Such a beautiful dream. I sigh. I fumble for the remote control on my nightstand, and open the blinds. The sun seeps in from the cloudless sky. Another spotless, warm and sunny day in L.A.
Blah.
It’s not like I always hated L.A. After all, I spent most of my childhood here. But when I started to see more of the world, I realized what an empty, boring, soulless shithole this place is.
Which is why I moved to New York as soon as I I earned my first paycheck from a movie.
Yet I’m still here. Staying in this rented bungalow in Bel Air, with rented furniture, where nothing belongs to me but my clothes.
It was a practical decision to get this place. I have 3 movies lined up, all filming at studio lots around town. Of course I could have stayed with my mother. But the combination of her self-pity and 3 teenage half-brothers and -sisters is too much.
I’m doomed, perpetually stuck in this city. Making movies for the rest of my life, and hating L.A. a little more each day.
I toss and turn for another 15 minutes, but it’s futile. I’m awake.
Deal with it, Daisy
I crawl out of bed and carry my behind into the bathroom. I throw off the large t-shirt I use as a nightgown, and stare at myself in the mirror.
And you’re supposed to be a sex symbol? Nr. 8 on the Hot 100 list? Laughable
My legs are a little too short, my feet too big, and I could use a few extra pounds. Ok, I have a sweet ass and firm tits. Not too big, but enough to give a man more than a handful. Not that any man has used them for a while.
I know what my biggest asset is though. It’s my face. Those way-to-big powder blue eyes, with yellow sprinkles. Nobody sees the yellow, but I do. And my mouth, perfectly proportioned, with lips made for sin. I know what effect my face has on men, I see it far too often. It’s like they’re falling in love with a little puppy.
So cuuute.
It’s actually annoying. Just get over it, boys.
I stare some more at the mirror. Who is this woman? I wish she would talk to me. I shudder a bit and then hop under the shower. The hot water soothes my body, but my mind is still racing.
This damn movie. If I had known what I got myself into, would I do it again? I’ve asked myself this question a hundred times, but I’m still not sure what the answer is. Back when I read the “A Touch of Blue”, I knew I had to have this role. I had devoured the book in a day, no, I had inhaled it. It was such a hot and powerful love story.
Not that I could truly relate to much of it. I don’t believe in love at first sight, an everlasting bond that only gets stronger with time. I’d like to, but I don’t.
There were also a lot of kinky sex scenes in the book, some of them way beyond my comfort zone. But hey, if being naked and simulating sex in front of a camera was the price for this role, I was willing to pay it. I don’t have much shame, so how difficult could it be, right?
The casting process garnered tons of publicity, with a lot of famous names being tossed around. Every hot actress in my age group was linked to the project, but most of it was talent agencies and PR people jockeying for position. My agent assured me that only two actresses were considered for the role and actually auditioned. To this day I don’t know who the other woman was. Her people certainly did a better job protecting secrets than mine, because my name was in the papers pretty early, and it would have been humiliating had I not been chosen.
But I landed the part and was over the moon. At first. Filming was difficult. The director hadn’t much to offer, she just couldn’t relate to the script. Or me. The male lead, Adam Maxwell, a hunky Australian action star, was sweet and a pleasure to work with, but he’s ten years older and mature beyond his age, with a wife and three kids. You try to act hot and dirty with a man you would actually like to have as your own father.
Still, we did the best we could and I thought we nailed most of the sex scenes. But most of it was wasted by bad editing and concerns over the movie rating.
If I had wondered before how it would feel to film sex scenes, now I knew.
One word: Excruciating.
I spent days, no, weeks on this damned dungeon set, either totally naked or tied up like an expensive present. Between takes I was only covered by a blanket or a bathrobe, with dozens of people wandering around.
Ok. I have a second word: Bizarre
If I had the choice, I would never do a sex scene again. But I know that’s a pipe dream.
Reluctantly, I switch off the shower and towel myself off. My stomach has been in knots for weeks, and right now I’m acutely aware of it. I’ve always had a healthy appetite, but lately I can’t tolerate much food. I walk into the kitchen, open the fridge and pull out milk for my muesli. I also take some fruits from the counter and prepare water in the kettle for my tea. That will have to do until the evening.
While chewing on my muesli, my mind wanders. The movie did well at the box office, but it truly took off on DVD and pay-per-view, as expected. The studio was happy, making a healthy profit. While it was trashed by the critics, it still did wonders for my career. I got a lot more scripts sent my way, with larger and edgier parts to play. I was able to secure four movie deals, and their schedules aligned perfectly.
And then the shit hit the fan.
The studio exercised the option on the second book and set a date for the sequel. That cost me another role due to scheduling conflicts.
Because thanks to the shitty contract I signed, I’m bound to this franchise forever. For as many books the author might write. Don’t get me wrong, I still love the character, but the idea to play this part into my thirties isn’t exactly awe inspiring. Frankly, I hope the second book is the last she’ll write. I’m not even convinced she liked that one too much, because she declined to write the screenplay herself.
The studio insisted on a hot new screen writer for the script, and three months later, we had it in hands. When I first read it, I thought I had suffered a stroke. I’d never seen such uninspired, badly written, lewd, speculative shit. I threw a fit, knowing that the producers and my co-star were behind me. In true Hollywood fashion, the studio didn’t really care about the quality, and they were certainly none-too-pleased with me. So now, I’m known as “difficult”. Like I give a hoot.
The fallout was considerable. The studio reneged on the domestic distribution deal and killed the financing. As a consequence, the producers had no choice but to stop the project and lay off cast and crew. At least until we had a better script. Now, six months and three screenwriters later, we still don’t have one. In his despair, Jake Kaprelian, the head of Universal Pictures, reached out to one of the biggest names in screenwriting. The guy hasn’t written a Hollywood movie in ten years, but the stuff he’s done for TV in the last two decades is legendary. I like his movie scripts even better, especially his romantic comedies from the ‘90s.
In my mind, there was no way he would agree to join the project, but Jake thought otherwise. And he was right. So this afternoon, I’m going to have my first meeting with the legendary Chris Delaney. It’s supposed to be a casual exchange of ideas. Well, I have ideas, alright.
Why would he bother with this mess? Maybe Jake has some dirt on the guy. I wonder what it is. The idea makes me queasy, and I head back to my bedroom to dress.
Mr. Delaney will need to come up with a script in 8 weeks. I doubt that is possible. But this is our last chance. We have a slot of 4 months starting in February, when all the cast and lead crew are available. After that, everybody is off to other projects, and our movie is dead. I push the thought away quickly, but I suspect this uncertainty is the main reason for the knot in my stomach lately
Selecting a navy-blue wrap dress for my meetings this morning, I rummage through the drawers for fitting underwear. First I’ll see my accountant, then have lunch with my agent. I’m not looking forward to either.
When I’m finished, I check myself in the mirror. I look nice. That’s all. Some people call me a fashion icon, but I don’t get why. I just see the all-too-familiar dork with a pretty face, who has stared back at me all my life. Struggling to find a place in life, and not belonging anywhere or to anyone.
When I return home four hours later I’m exhausted and have a massive headache.
After suffering through an hour-long traffic jam I’d met my accountant in his Westwood office. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was bleeding cash at an alarming rate, with no paycheck in the last 6 months, while having to pay for two residences and my rather expensive lifestyle.
Well, no shit, Mister.
How I’m supposed to earn money when I’m contractually obliged to be on standby for a movie that doesn’t seem to get off the ground?
Afterwards, at the Ivy restaurant, I told my agent to get some endorsement deals for me, maybe with a haute couture line or an accessories company. He wanted me to meet the producers of a Marvel comics spinoff instead, but what is the point, really. I have movie commitments for the next 18 months, and after that I will be desperate for a break. And I will certainly not replace one of my pet projects with a soulless summer blockbuster, where they’d probably paint me green and my only interaction would be with a giant blue screen.
No thanks.
So I blew my agent off, and now he’s pissed at me. He’ll have to join the line, as I seem to piss off everybody lately, including my mother, my now ex-boyfriend, the studio, and the producers of all my upcoming movies.
Laying down on my bed and covering my eyes with my arm, I try desperately to stave off my headache, at least until I’ve met Chis Delaney. Once I’m done with him, I’ll just return home and soak in the Jacuzzi for the rest of the evening. Might as well. My social life resembles that of a Galapagos tortoise lately.
I must have dozed off, because when I jolt up again, it is already way past 3pm. Shit. I wanted to look sophisticated for my meeting, but now I’ll only have time to grab my favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I check my face in the bathroom mirror and perform some last-minute repairs. This will have to do. I sigh, grab my keys and head out.
Thankfully, the drive from Laurel Canyon through Coldwater Canyon road to the Beverly Hills hotel takes less than 30 minutes, and I arrive in plenty of time. I ask for Mr. Delaney’s room number at reception, and then head onto the massive hotel grounds in search of his bungalow.
This place is a fucking maze. I take a wrong turn at least twice, and I’m pretty sure that I have rounded this particular block of buildings only 10 minutes ago. The headache is getting worse by the minute.
Suddenly I see his bungalow number right in front of me. 2976. Taking a deep breath I approach the door, but I don’t see any bell, so I just knock, rather timidly.
A tall, good looking man, probably in his mid-thirties, opens the door and smiles at me.
Shit, wrong room number.
That can’t be him. From his bio, Chris Delaney must be around 50. I muster the guy some more. He’s got a nice tan, very short hair to counter a slightly receding hairline and warm, hazel eyes. From what I can see, his slender body is well-toned, but not overly muscular. I never got this fascination with six-packs and wrestler arms. Those guys don’t work out for health reasons, it’s just for vanity.
I glance up to his eyes again. Very nice eyes. A strange, low sound escapes my throat.
Get it together. He must think you’re a lunatic, staring at him the whole time.
“Umm, I suppose you’re not Mr. Delaney, right?”
“I am, actually. Miss Price, pleased to meet you”
Oh…
the impossible woman 