Amy Sohn - The Actress

She had married someone with two selves. And like a political wife, she had looked the other way. When the gay men whispered at parties. When he went on the boat, on the trips with Terry, and alone. That time after the Husbandry reviews, he had asked her to come, and she had been berating herself for years for saying no, but he’d known she was working. Maybe he’d known she would decline, and had only asked so as to mislead her into trusting him.

She got off the freeway at Mulholland and headed west toward the Santa Monica Mountains. A little past Laurel Canyon, she passed an overlook. She parked the car and got out, staring down at the San Fernando Valley and the trees. She remembered the flash of the cameras in her eyes that night in Berlin, the beautiful blinding light that left spots. The feeling of being on the arm of Steven Weller . . . It wasn’t undignified. It was thrilling. As he had risen, she had risen, too. She had seen her marriage transactionally, whether or not she had known it. When Steven took her hand on that press line, she told herself it was an act of generosity, and to some extent it was. But he had been claiming her, announcing that they were together, before she got a chance to decide. And she had let him. She had wanted to be claimed.

She remembered glancing at Bridget and seeing the look she’d shared with Steven. It was some kind of signal. The ever so slight nod of approval. Maddy had read it as a nod about her career, her future stardom. But perhaps it had been something else.

Bridget had managed the marriage. She had been with the two of them all along, she had been at the first party at Mile’s End. She’d seen the movie and made sure Steven did.

Every major actress in Hollywood has read for her, but none was right. As though major actresses, far more accomplished and with better résumés, had been unsuitable for Ellie. Or maybe they were right for Ellie but not for Steven. Lael had said she had flown all the way to London and never read her scenes.

They were casting for something more than a movie. The marriage was a script. A script that Walter, Bridget, and Steven had written together. They delivered it flawlessly, they were all off-book.

When Walter had told her she was cast during the dinner at Locanda Cipriani, he’d said it as though it were a foregone conclusion. Bridget and Steven had chosen her for a far more important role than she had thought. Her marriage had been made. Everyone had known it but the bride.

When Steven finally came in after three days and three nights, tan, his hair a tousled mess, Maddy was on the living room couch, her knees folded beneath her. Jake was upstairs napping. Lucia was out running errands.

Steven looked like he had been running a marathon. He sat in the armchair across from her, an Ed Ruscha behind his head. An eerie grid of L.A. lights. It had been in the study in the mansion, and now it was in their living room.

“I talked to Ryan,” she said, “and I know.” He said nothing, merely staring sadly ahead. “You were making love with him when I was having Jake, and you turned the radio off so you could. I needed you, and you sailed away.”

“I was afraid of the future.”

“You’re a phony. You always loved men. You cast me. You and Bridget. You never loved me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Are you just going to keep lying and lying? There’s no point anymore.”

“I did love you. At first . . . at the beginning, it was Bridget’s idea. She was worried about those rumors. Felt I needed to do something. She thought marriage would be a good idea, to the right woman. And then when I got to know you, I believed we could— You were so beautiful and smart. I saw you as an equal. You were my partner. In life and art. I watched you work and I—learned things. You made me a better actor. I fell in love with you after we married. That was the great surprise.”

She stared at the grid on the Ruscha. Did he have these pieces because he liked them or because they were the kind of pieces he thought he should have? Did he know what he liked or like what he thought he should? Did he have Ruscha so he could pronounce “Ruscha”?

Steven Weller was interesting, not interested.

Everything in this house was a sham. He was like those faux marbre columns she had hated so much in the mansion. He was a gay boy from Kenosha who had transformed himself into Hollywood’s sexiest leading man, from Steven Woyceck to Steven Weller. She didn’t know Steven Woyceck. Maybe Ryan did.

Maybe Steven Woyceck didn’t care for Henry James and pretended to only because Alex had. Alex Pattison had seemed comfortable with himself; whatever taste he had was his own. Maybe Steven Woyceck didn’t even like to read. Maybe he had faked his interest in art and literature all his life to make himself seem smarter and more cultured than he was.

“Don’t say you loved me,” she said. “If you did, you wouldn’t have betrayed me.”

“But I do love you. I wanted it to be enough. I kept thinking, hoping, that I had changed. It happens. For thirty years you think one thing about yourself, and then you meet someone and you become someone else. But no matter how much I loved you, there was this longing for something different. So I tried to be two people at once. I had my . . . other world, and I had you. I told myself that with men, it was transactional. Physical. Scratching an itch. Sometimes I could believe it. But it became harder. To keep lying and lying. Each time I took out Jo, I would say it was the last time, but it never was. You don’t know what it’s like to have to hide all the time.”

“You ruined my life. At our wedding, you vowed you would be true to me and loyal.”

“I kept thinking I could get control over it. When I met Ryan, it was confusing. It was different from the other times.”

“Ryan said you told him sex with me disgusts you.”

“I never said that. I never spoke that way about you, Maddy!”

She didn’t know what to believe. She trusted Steven even less than she trusted Ryan Costello. “What about Terry? Was he your lover, too?”

“Never.”

“You were with him on that trip to Cabo after your bad reviews.”

He shook his head. “That was someone else.”

“Who? Actually, don’t tell me. What if I had called Terry or Ananda to check on you?”

“They always had instructions.”

“So they know.”

“They love me. And they understand that this part of me doesn’t have to do with what I feel for you.”

“They were at our wedding. They were in on this, and she pretended she was so happy for me.”

“I told them it’s an addiction. It is an addiction. I keep trying to fix it, but—”

“That guy, Christian Bernard from the old yacht club. You did have an affair with him, and you did coke and poppers and all the stuff the story said you did. Even though you say you hate drugs.” His shoulders slumped. “I did those appearances to defend you, and it was true all along. I asked you to tell me the truth, and you looked right into my eyes and lied to me.”

He said nothing. She remembered the blue dress she had worn to Harry, the roaring elation of the crowd when she’d said he was the best lover she’d had. She had been an actress for her husband, and she had been good at it. Bridget had plucked her for that very reason. “You made a fool of me!”

“I didn’t want any of it to be true. No one knows, Maddy. You did such a good job. You changed the tide.” He sat next to her on the couch and put his arm around her, but she shrugged it off.

“Who are you?” she said. “Do you know?”

“Sometimes I think I do.”

“Do you even like Biedermeier? Did you ever read Nelson Algren, or do you just quote him?”

“Of course I’ve read Algren.”

“Why do you keep a photo of Alex in a box in your drawer?”

He looked as though he was about to protest, to attack her for snooping, but he must have seen something in her face. He couldn’t manipulate her anymore. And then he seemed to give up. “I have my things. I had a life before you.”

“You think that if you keep a part of yourself in a box, then it’s not really who you are, but that’s not true. Who took the picture of you on that boat?”

“Bridget. We were all on it together.”

“So she knew.”

“She thought Alex and I were friends.”

“It’s not possible. She must have seen the way you . . . She knew. It’s why she wanted you to have a wife. So she went and found a director she could manipulate. She knew Walter needed her, wanted his work to reach a larger audience. You used me. You had me sign the postnup because you knew one day you would be done with me, and you wanted to protect your money. I had an expiration date from the very beginning.”

“Maddy,” Steven said. “When I married you, I wanted it to be forever. It was Bridget who suggested the postnup. I didn’t care about the money. I was prepared to give you whatever you wanted if it didn’t work out, because I wanted it to work out. I love you. And I love Jake. The sex with you . . . It wasn’t fake. We could have more children. We can make this work.”

“You’re just saying that because Ryan broke up with you. You’re crawling back to me, but only because he’s through with you. If he wanted to keep it going, it would go on and on like this. You would play with Jake in the house, be the all-star father, and then go to the guesthouse at night to be with Ryan. Where am I in that picture? Am I just Jake’s mother? Where were you the last couple of days?”