I was gushing now, like a groupie. And I was determined to keep holding his attention. He looked back to the group he’d been with. Odetta Olson—brown hair tied in an elaborate bun, arms no doubt chiseled by hours of weight lifting—was holding court in a shimmery turquoise dress. I should really go over and thank her again for this most incredible role. The last time I’d seen her, on set, was almost a year ago.
But Marshall focused on me again. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
“Lou Ocean Utley,” I said, then immediately wanted to slap my face with a hard pack of ice for mentioning my middle name again, as if I was being interrogated by passport control at the airport.
Though, of course, that wasn’t the name I would give at passport control. That would be Ophelia Louise Utley. Growing up, I loved to play around with different stage names, filling pages and pages of my cute notebooks with them. By age fourteen, I’d settled on Lou, L.O.U. It would be a cool interview tidbit, when that time came. Because the time would come when the world would want to know every last detail about me. That was a fact.
Marshall motioned to the space around us. “Well, this is another winner. From the moment I started working on this movie, I knew it would be special. It took hard work, but now we have our masterpiece.”
I couldn’t contain my joy at hearing this. “You saw the movie?”
“We held early screenings.” Noticing the look on my face, he added, “For a select few.”
“Right,” I said with a giggle.
Like the heavy cloak of FOMO hadn’t already descended on me. I straightened up, turned slightly to my left, showing him my better angle, and resisted the urge to flick my hair back.
“Everyone involved issotalented. I’m really happy I get to be a part of this,” I said.
“So I’ll see you at the premiere tomorrow?” Marshall said.
“Obviously.”
I wasdyingto ask what he thought of my performance, but even a few champagnes in, that felt a little desperate. I’d been in period clothing and makeup, fifties-style, with platinum blond hair. It made sense that he didn’t recognize me.
A server carrying a tray of mini tuna tartare cups waltzed by. Marshall accepted one and ate it in one bite. I finished my drink and placed it too hard on the food tray, not realizing it didn’t belong there. The server almost lost his balance and grunted as he went on his way.
I was already embarrassing myself. And then I went right ahead and made it ten times worse.
“I’m an ignorant housewife,” I blurted out. I was referring to my character in the movie, hoping to jog his memory. “I’m on antidepressants, but they’re not working.”
“Oh.” Marshall delicately wiped the corners of his mouth.
“My husband doesn’t see how beautiful I am.”
His smile disappeared. “Hmm…”
This was not going how I’d hoped. Sometimes I wished I had a screenwriter next to me at all times, someone good with words to feed me the right line at the right time. And then I realized I had the next best thing.
“I always knew you were an idiot! I wish I’d never even laid eyes on you.”
I’d rehearsed these lines many times, wagging a finger in front of my mirror. They came back to me so naturally. People started to glance our way, a sign that they recognized my work in the film. I had to go on.
“Excuse me?” Marshall said.
“Don’t you act all innocent! I know where you were. I knoweverything!”
“I don’t know what you think—”
The producer looked panicked. How perfect! He was reacting like my movie husband. It wasn’t the exact line, but close enough.
I perked up. With more eyes on me, I stepped it up on the body language, chest forward, arms wide. I inadvertently hit a lady who was scooting past, but I couldn’t worry about her.
“You werenevergood enough for me! My mother warned me about you.”
My voice projected well; I should talk to Liza about doing Broadway.
Marshall’s face reddened. He scanned the crowd, swallowing hard. I was going to remark on what a good actor he was, but I was distracted by some commotion behind him. Two men in black suits and earpieces approached.
