Page 3 of A Spy is Born
“I think you’ve got a lot of potential. And I know you’ve been training hard.”
Seven days a week with my trainer and still managed to screw up. Ugh.
“I have, but I can train harder,” I say, determined to get this right.
His eyes dip down to my body for a moment. “You look great. But we need you to have…” His eyes make it back up to mine. “More control.”
“I know.” I nod. “I’ll work on it. I swear. I'm so sorry.”
His hand lands on my thigh. “I’m sure you will.” He gives my leg a squeeze before standing. “Back on in ten,” he says as he opens the door. “Oh.” Jack turns back to me, his hand on the knob, the door half open. “Come by for dinner tonight. My place in the hills. We can go over all this. I want to make sure you’re having a good experience.”
“Okay,” I say, my instincts sounding an internal alarm.That’s a bad idea.He smiles and, after one more up-and-down glance at my body, heads out the door.
Mary comes in, grinning. “He invited you to his house,” she says. “That’s great. Means he’s taking an interest in your career.”
“Is that what it means?” I ask, placing Archie back in his box. He turns in a circle before nuzzling in among the shredded newspaper.
“Of course. Now come on. You’re needed back on set.”
I pick myself up and glance in the mirrored wall before stepping out of the trailer. Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile.I can handle whatever comes my way.
The steps upto Jack Axelrod’s house are white marble. The whole thing is classic, fashionable, 1920s Hollywood glamour. Lights twinkle in the gardens surrounding the mansion. The brick driveway behind me doesn’t have one weed creeping through the crevices.
I grew up with a dirt driveway.
Taking a deep breath, I continue up the fabulous steps. This is the stuff old Hollywood dreams are made of…everything I want. Everything I came to this city to get. Determined to make it all work and make this dinner a success, I knock on the imposing wooden doors, releasing a long, slow breath.
The sun is setting, bright orange and glimmering in the smog over the ocean. The sky is that dark, luscious blue of almost night. A few of the brightest stars twinkle overhead.
Are they smiling down at me?
The door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and a woman wearing a pale blue maid’s uniform—including the crisp white apron—stands before me. Gray curls frame her smiling face. She nods to me, as if I’m important.
I'm the daughter of a welder and a laundress.She doesn't care.Nothing matters here except what you make of yourself.
This isn't Kansas, Toto.
I heft the bag Archie is sleeping in and smile. “Hi, I’m Angela,” I say.
“Of course, we’ve been expecting you.” She steps aside to usher me in. “Please come in. Mr. Axelrod is on the back patio."
To describe the entrance hall as anything but grand would be madness. The ceiling soars above me, arching into a domed skylight—like that ancient church in Rome. Not that I've been there in person, but I've seen it in books.
I smile at my uniformed greeter and follow her, my ridiculously high heels clicking on the tile floor as we move past a staircase that winds up the wall to the second floor.Grand.The brass railing sparkles, and thick carpeting in the same blue as the sky runs down the steps. Photographic stills from black and white films line the walls.
We pass under an archway into a huge sitting room with multiple couches and chairs…lots of places for people to sit. My feet stop as my eyes catch the gold statues on the mantel.Oscar.Oh, sweet Oscar.
The housekeeper, whose name I don't know because I'm too nervous to ask, stops with me. She waits patiently. This can’t be the first time she's stood next to some starstruck newbie. Does she know how dry my throat is? Does she know how much I want one of those? There are four of them.Four!
Best Director awards over a three-decade career, and the man still hasit. I take a stuttering breath, pulling my guts back into myself from where they've spilled all over the fancy carpet.It looks so soft!
I glance over at my guide. "They're beautiful," I say. What a load of crap. They are powerful. They areeverything.
She nods. "Yes."
She must clean them. Gets to touch them. I wonder if he'd let me if I asked. A giggle bubbles up in my chest, and I repress it.Asking to touch a man's Oscar.What would my grandmother say?Slut, whore, filthy woman.The anger and hate in the old woman's voice seems to grab me around the middle in a vice that squeezes all those guts I just stuffed back into myself, threatening to spill them out again.
I swallow. "What's your name?” I ask as the woman starts to walk again. I follow, my legs leaden but loosening with each step as I get further away from those statues. It's as if they have some kind of aura around them—some kind of witchcraft spun into the gold.
