Drop It

“Drop it.” She said. “Can we just drop it? I’m not taking it. I am so tired of this conversation.” As if to demonstrate how tired, she dropped lifelessly into the plush cushions of the oversized chair and sighed dramatically for effect. Closing her eyes, she shut out the stunning panoramic view of the city below the sixtieth floor penthouse windows.
“Easier said than done, sweetheart.” Naked, he walked unabashed to the wet bar for a refill. On the way, he scooped up the empty crystal glass dangling from her perfectly manicured fingers. “We need the money. There. I said it. You need this job.”
She sat up, stomping both her slippered feet to the floor in a puff. “You get a job. How about that? You make us some money.”
“Again, with the easier said…” Even in the shadowy room at dusk, the long tracks lining both his once muscular arms stood out. Similar lines could be seen behind his knees. Lines forever marking him an addict. No one cared if he was clean again or not. He was uninsurable. In this business, a heroin habit could be worked around but not without insurance.
“I won’t do it. I won’t work with that pig. And I sure as hell won’t do sex.” Sweeping the floor with her silk robe, she took the full glass onto the balcony scowling like the words left a nasty taste in her mouth. Sauntering his famous walk, he followed. “I said drop it already.”
His sandy eyebrows lifted and dropped with his shoulders. “Don’t do it then.” He lit a cigarette and leaned over his elbows blowing smoke down at the street so far below. He added casually, “There’s already Oscar buzz.”
She couldn’t help it. Her eyes sought out the glass case at the other side of the room. Side by side, two golden statuettes stood gleaming. Best Actor. He’d won twice—once before rehab and once after as if it was nothing.
“I said no.” She stuck out her lower lip, crossed her arms over her glorious cleavage and shook her head. No. She’d made millions with that icy bitch stare. He made his millions with a smile that could melt the tundra. He turned it on her now and tugged at the robe tie.
Days passed with no mention of movie casting. The respite was too brief for Natalie Wells, second highest earning actress three years running. Soon, the director called to reassure her that her ex-husband would behave himself, “promise” if she would only consider reading. The producers sent a luncheon invitation and Knicks’ tickets. The popular older actress who desperately wanted to play her parole officer, (if she would only say yes!) sent a spa package unavailable to the public.
Didn’t any of them realize the roll called for her character to be imprisoned by her arrogant, overacting ex-husband? She would have to spend months with the man who emotionally abused her for years. Who made her so insecure she’d actually cheated and been caught with Tristan Hemsley, narcissist, sex and heroin addict. Her publicist and agent coerced into marrying Tris to save her career but not her sanity. No way that could happen when for months on end drug paraphernalia became casual, mingling with used condoms. He made no effort to hide it. Oddly, she understood his pressure. But now, the money thing. Where could all that money have gone? Their accountant called too. Take the roll. You need this job.
“Please, Saul. Don’t make me do it.” Saul would understand. Her agent from the start, he knew what working with that control freak would do to her.
“Nat, darling. It is the roll of a lifetime. I talked to the director—we can work around cutting your hair.”
“My God! I am not cutting my hair.”
“No, no, dear. No cutting hair. Promise. And. The producers offered back end royalties too.”
“I like that. My movies never die.”
“And, your trailer will be on a different lot. Way way way away.”
“Way away? You promise?”
“I promise. Oscar baby.”
“I don’t think I can do this Saul.”
Together, Saul and Tristan rode with her to the set for the start of filming. She’d avoided her ex until walking up the steps to her trailer, located directly next to his bigger trailer. He plastered a fake smile over his raised middle finger. A week later, he asked that Tristan refrain from breaking his concentration by always being on the set. In true Tristan like tantrum style, he left the country.
They clipped her nails and scuffed her pedicure. Let her brows grow uncontrolled. Enhanced the circles under her eyes and smudged her porcelain skin with dirt daily. They filmed at night and she couldn’t sleep with the valley sun shining into the empty rented cottage. Saul’s wife whisked him to Barcelona to convalesce after having his second heart attack in as many years. Finally, they cut her hair.
“God, can’t believe. Let you them cut your hair.” Tristan was stoned out of his mind. Filming ended a month ago. She was exhausted, crying for what felt like days on end. He was laying on the tiled edge of the pool when she woke and stumbled out into the evening. She sat next to him, traced the fresh lines between his toes. He slumping up to sitting. “We’ll go to make room for your Oshcar.” She stared at his chapped lips. She knew where those lips had been.
From his pocket he produced a small packet of white powder and a tin box. He took his time cooking it up, ironically meticulous. “Some?”
Defeated, she laid out her arm.
The stars were out in full regalia as always for the Academy Awards. Saul Motts took the stage attempting to convey grave dignity. “I accept this award on behalf of my dear friend Natalie Wells. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”


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