Chapter 3
Pat
The day after my disastrous audition, I did an inventory of my life — I was sitting on the porch by my tiny little chalet in Laurel Canyon, looking out over it. The view was stunning, especially now, when bathed in the golden light of sunset.
Laurel Canyon is also known as Hippie Canyon due to the number of hippies and famous musicians that have lived here over the years. No shortage of film professionals, but the canyon got its name in the 60s when artists like Jim Morrison, Frank Zappa and Carole King used to hang out here. Till this day, the canyon store at the bottom of the hills is where the community gathers in the morning for their dose of caffeine and gossip. And if you see the store, you will get the hippie vibe — it’s painted in the best flower power style possible, as is the restaurant in the basement, aptly named Pace (peace in Italian). The food inside is more gourmet (and pricey) than you might first expect.
Today the sunset had the telltale yellow of winter and the air was heavily scented with burning fires. I took a deep breath. It was soon time to go inside and light my own fireplace — a little cast iron wood burner with a modern design. As I sipped my hot cider, I pulled the blanket closer around me.
I was preparing for a class that was due the following day with one of my students. While I didn’t want toonlyteach, it was a brilliant income source. Thankfully the rumor I, “the woman who had coached so and so to fame,” was in town spread like wildfire due to one very happy and influential mother.
The downside? As I was doing a take on my life I realized I had, in a little over one month, only landed one role in a student film. I had one whole line in that film. It was being shot next week.
I sighed. Getting a showreel together was harder than I had first thought. Even working for free was not getting me far. I had some promising auditions lined up for the coming week though — a lead in an independent feature (that was at least paid, albeit badly!) and a smaller, but good, part in a student film.
I needed to nail one of those roles if I was to have a hope in hell of landing a major part in the next five months. I was praying that my connections with casting directors for kids would help set me up with casting directors for adults, but first I needed a showreel and a good one at that.
The hot cider I was sipping was divine — I’d picked it up in a cute new little café down on Sunset. Cute hangouts (save from actual houses and the Canyon Store) in these parts was fairly unusual. Places like Skybar, a fame-ridden Equinox gym, the famous Chateau Marmont (where cameras aren’t allowed due to the clientele) lined Sunset Boulevard, which was the street just below the Hollywood Hills that led up to the canyon.
As I inhaled the scent of cinnamon and apple, I couldn’t help but smile. Sure, I only had one role so far, but I was happy here. This chalet was tiny, but how I felt when walking through the door was so different from how I’d felt in mine and Bill’s country mansion. I felt at home here. Like I belonged in these hills filled with creative energy and quirky, kooky little (and big) places. But I would have to work on roles and making new friends… So far, the lady in the café (aptly named Raspberry Café for its red interiors) was the only one I considered a friend — she was coming over for dinner in the next few days. She was my age, and her spirit was as nurturing as her cakes — sweet and indulgent, but in a healthy way.
As the sun started disappearing altogether, I rose. It was time to go inside and light the fire.
As I came up to the fireplace, however, I realized I’d forgotten to restock firewood. Damn! I’d have to go out again, or my planned evening of sipping mulled wine in front of the fireplace while reading a novel, or binging on Netflix, would go down the drain.
Quickly I put on my coat and got into my new, high heeled boots — a woman my age needed something to make her feel sexy! My boots were that something. Walking into auditions they made me feel like a boss, even though I was well aware the casting director was the real boss.
As I got into my red little Beetle, I rubbed my hands — the air was getting seriously cold. I turned on the engine and the heat, then drove down the winding roads towards the canyon store. It took me a full three minutes to get there and not much longer to buy the wood. Back in my car, I drove up Laurel Canyon Boulevard, but as I was about to turn into my road up the hills I suddenly changed my mind — I felt like taking a drive.
In my twenties, I used to love driving in L.A. No, not on the manic freeways that could drive anyone to insanity, but along the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) and Mulholland Drive. Mulholland at night was something to behold — in places you could look out over the whole city below. The winding road had always made me happy. And now that I was back, why not take a ride? I knew the full moon was supposed to come out tonight, so there’d probably be plenty of people hanging out to watch it rise over the city.
It didn’t take me long to get up to Mulholland and start the winding drive. Putting my feet on the gas, I once again felt the delirious sense of freedom I used to have in my youth. Soon I also came upon one of my favorite old lookouts and decided to pull over…only I left it a little too late to make that decision and drove straight up to one of the cars there. And with right up, I mean right up — my little Beetle touched the bumper of the other car. “Bump” would be the wrong word; it barely touched the bumper, but had I scratched it? Given the car was a flashy new Porsche, the owner might be a flashy ass. Unfortunately, the two sometimes went together…
I quickly reversed, drove up next to the Porsche, parked properly and jumped out of the car, ready to defend myself. The last thing I needed was an expensive bill and an angry person to destroy my night!
As I got out, the Porsche driver also got out, one eyebrow raised as he inspected my Beetle and the stressed expression that was painted across my face. His look conveyed a certain amount of amusement, mingled with slight irritation, as if to say “of course the hippie in the Beetle would drive into a Porsche.” But as he took me in, his other eyebrow joined his first — rising high up his forehead.
“Pat?!”
I did a double take. There was something familiar about that man and he knew my name…
“Jeff! Oh, my god!”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d just bumped (quite literally) into Jeff Douglas. Stuntman, when I knew him. Hot, when I knew him. Broke, when I knew him. But unlike me, he’d ridden the waves in Hollywood like a pro and now he was a multi-millionaire, if not billionaire… Reading Variety was a habit I’d kept up, so I’d also kept track of his career as it expanded and he became “someone” in Hollywood.
Jeff gave me one of his big smiles — the one that used to disarm every angry chick in Hollywood and lead to at least three of them going home with him. I guess that hadn’t changed, because while his hair had streaks of grey in the jet black, he still looked as fit and as hot as ever. I remembered him as a guy who was always wearing jeans, but the blue tailor-made suit hugged his muscles and brought out the blue in his eyes perfectly.
I swallowed. I hadn’t met a man this attractive since… I couldn’t remember. I’d been in a sixteen-year marriage.
“It’s been a while, Patricia. But I see you’re still driving the same car. And your hair is as fiery red as ever! How’s Bill? Where do you guys live? Why are you back in L.A.? Was that a few questions too many? Come, give me a hug.”
I laughed and walked into his arms of steel for one of his notorious bear hugs. The guy exuded warmth and masculinity, all dosed with a scent that I was sure cost at least two hundred dollars a bottle. It was divine.
“It’s nice to see you, Jeff,” I said as we finally untangled ourselves. “You up here to catch the moon?”
“Yeah, I was just about to climb the fence.” Jeff grinned at me, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“Me, too. Been a while since I last did it.”
