Amy Sohn - The Actress

It was too much for her that it was over, and she cried and was embarrassed by this, and he took her nipple in his mouth and she had to have him and they were turned this way and that. This was something she had never liked, she found it confusing, too much at once to be wanted and wanter, receiver and giver, but this seemed natural and soon he was very hard. This time his orgasm in her mouth brought on hers, his taste in her so thrilling and illicit that it set off an eruption. She stroked it and it shrank. He moved so his face was near hers, and this time she didn’t cry, because he would be in her again many other days and nights. There was no need to rush.

And when he said, “Be with me,” she knew he wasn’t asking her to make love again. He was asking her to be his, and there was no question in her mind that she would.

She was with him now, and she would be with him, here in Venice or Los Angeles, wherever he wanted, he could take her anywhere and she would go, because the sex was the punctuation for the feelings she’d had since he first looked at her from across the room at the festival. She was his.

In the morning, when a text came from Dan, three words, “How was it?,” she did not hesitate before using her thumbs to type out three of her own: “I’m leaving you.”

Maddy and Steven stayed in Venice another week, making love, eating in his bedroom, and occasionally seeing the town. Dan called her several times a day to beg her to change her mind. They had brief, tortured conversations in which he alternated between screaming and crying. He said Steven was using her because he was gay, that he didn’t love her and never would. Steven told her not to answer the calls, but she couldn’t just turn her back on the man she had been with for three years, a man she still loved, even if she could no longer envision a life with anyone but Steven. She told Dan that Steven wasn’t gay, but she knew it would hurt him too much to learn how she knew it: Steven made love to her in a way no man ever had.

Soon Dan changed tactics, sending long emails about her opportunism and duplicity. He called her “a shallow whore.” He said all she had ever cared about was fame. She wanted to scream back that no one who cared about fame would pursue theater, but he wasn’t being rational; there was no point. The emails grew so abusive that she had to block him, email and phone, which made her feel worse.

When Steven had to return to L.A. to shoot a film, they first flew to New York and checked in to the Lowell so she could have a day to gather her things. When Steven came to the apartment on South Portland with her, a few guys on a stoop recognized him and made him pose for pictures. As professional packers separated her things from Dan’s and boxed them up, she took her last glimpse at the posters of Dan’s student films and her Samuel French plays, their stained Mr. Coffee, the IKEA spice rack, wondering if she would ever see them again.

She was reminded of those fevered weeks when Dan wrote I Used to Know Her and she had felt proud. Even after they’d gotten into Mile’s End, he hadn’t been that person. Brooding, selfish, and phony—and then he had gone off to do The Valentine. Maybe someday he would remember who he was.

Before she took off on Steven’s plane, she went with Irina to an Indian place in the East Village that they used to frequent. Irina sat with an expression of disbelief mixed with dubiousness as Maddy spilled every detail, from the slow attraction to the audition and the first night together at the palazzo.

“I know I sound like the dumbest girl in the universe,” Maddy said, looking down at her food, “because he’s famous and old and he’s dated a lot. But I don’t care. I want to be with him no matter what.”

“I thought you liked ’em poor and skinny.”

“So did I.”

“Are you guys going to have a live-in maid?”

Maddy laughed and shook her head. “He has housekeepers but no live-ins. Except the cook.” He had told her he employed a private half-German chef named Annette Kohl, who had gone to Le Cordon Bleu.

“I knew it! I bet you’ll eat sashimi for breakfast. I read that Steven Spielberg does. You know you’re really rich when you eat savory in the mornings.” Maddy giggled but felt an undercurrent of hostility from her friend.

As they wolfed saag paneer and drank bad red wine, Irina told Maddy about some recent auditions and a grant she’d gotten to develop an experimental dance-theater piece on Cape Cod. Maddy told her about the Husbandry script, and Irina seemed supportive, though she said Juhasz’s work objectified women.

After the dishes had been taken away and they were lingering over wine, Maddy mentioned the strange homemade wine she’d had in Steven’s Venetian kitchen. “So that’s what you really want?” Irina asked. “Italian wine, and your own palazzo, and a mansion in L.A.?”

“It’s not about any of that,” Maddy answered. “It’s about Steven.”

“You don’t have any regrets? After all those years with Dan, you just wash your hands?”

“You know, I think I was in denial. He was so loving after my father died that I convinced myself it wasn’t already over.” As she said it, she started to believe it. “He wasn’t as into sex as I was. And he was in a bad mood all the time. Steven’s nothing like that. I’ve never met anyone who enjoys life the way he does. Food and drink and art. He has this incredible collection. Ed Ruscha.”

Irina narrowed her eyes, a look Maddy remembered her giving right before she gave a scathing critique of a classmate’s work in Blood Wedding. “What?” Maddy asked.

“Nothing.”

“Just say it.”

“It’s—I always thought creative respect was the most important thing to you. In your relationships.”

“It is!”

“But how can you respect Steven Weller?”

“I do respect him. You’re the one who doesn’t.”

“Is it possible you’re in such a sex haze that you’re deluding yourself into thinking you like his acting?”

Maddy tensed up. “No. It’s not just about sex. He cares what I think about his work. Like, he wants my feedback. I want to sleep next to him every night and wake up looking at him.”

Irina gave her another long, level gaze. Maddy knew she would feel the same way if the roles were reversed, and yet she wished Irina could be the slightest bit happy for her. Steven Weller wanted her.

But Irina saw the world in terms of hacks versus artists, and to her, Steven would always be a hack. “You promise to come visit,” Irina asked, “even after you’re making a million dollars a movie and you have a stylist, a hairdresser, and a personal publicist?”

“I don’t know about all that stuff,” Maddy said, “but of course I’ll visit. I’ll be back and forth all the time.” From Irina’s look, Maddy could tell her friend thought she’d never see her again.

Bridget and Steven were in the backseat of Steven’s Highlander, where they conducted most of their business. Steven had a vintage Arcadian-blue Mustang for pleasure, but his everyday car was the Highlander. Usually, Bridget would join him on his way somewhere, and during the hour they spent in traffic, they would get more business accomplished than they did at her office.

It was a sweltering late-April Thursday, and Steven’s driver, Alan, was taking them to the set of Jen, a network comedy about a single girl living with her brother. Maddy had booked a guest spot, and Steven had taken the afternoon off from his own film, Declarations (about an unhinged underwriter), so he could watch her on set.

Bridget had been surprised when Steven told her he wanted to watch Maddy; usually, his shoots overtook every aspect of his life, including romantic. But she was pleased to see him taking such interest. It was a good sign for Husbandry that he was engaged by her process.

When Bridget left them alone in Venice, she had wondered when it would happen, but she had not been sure. One morning in Bulgaria, after Steven had phoned Bridget to update her, Dan arrived on set in a rage. “You did this! You drove them together!” the boy screamed in front of the Valentine crew, who were readying a complicated crane shot. Bridget whisked him away, explaining to him that she had done nothing of the sort. People loved whom they loved. “Try to see your work as an escape,” she had counseled him. “It’s a gift to have this job to keep you busy.”

The next few days, he had been distracted at work, but he soon regained his focus, though he was visibly colder to Bridget, which she didn’t mind. She preferred him blaming her to blaming Maddy. She was used to taking the fall for clients; it was part of being a manager. Rachel Huber spent a lot of time talking to him, which Bridget felt was kind of her, looking out for him in a time of need.

In the Highlander, Steven and Bridget had been discussing the upcoming DVD commentary for The Widower, and he was glowering. It had gotten its theatrical release a few weeks before, and it wasn’t performing. She had been convinced it was one of Steven’s best performances, but reviewers had called him “stiff” and “miscast as a loser.” She had reassured him that it took time to reinvent oneself as an actor, to make risky choices. He had to keep being brave; they were reshaping an almost fifteen-year-old image.

She was confident that Husbandry would establish him, once and for all, as an actor and not just a star. Juhasz and Weller were a collaboration for the ages, old Hollywood and new. Whenever Walter made a film, critics rewatched and remembered all the great movies he had made in the 1970s. Louis was a braver role than the lead in The Widower. A husband with rage and erectile issues. Anger and ED were practically guaranteed Oscar bait.