Reading over my shoulder, Kathryn sighs. ‘Norman said they would ask intrusive questions, but gracious …’
The topic of the current enquiry is my sexual history – first time, how many partners since, type of sex, frequency, protection, birth control, sexually transmitted diseases … and everything I feel, think or believe about any of those things.
‘How many partners? Are they serious? Do I make an educated guess? Round up? Round down?’
‘Brooke,’ Kathryn begins, ‘you don’t have to do –’
‘I’m doing it.’ Head in my hands, I want to scream. Or break down and cry. Every self-destructive decision I’ve ever made – and plenty that only look bad because I’m female – rears up and hisses in my ear that I’m going to look as unfit as that meth-addled idiot who had the chance to be his mother and blew it. That no sane person would ever give me a child to raise, even if he is mine.
‘I’m doing it,’ I repeat less abrasively.
Squeezing my shoulder, Kathryn moves away from the kitchen table and leaves me to it, offering to make a fresh pot of coffee. I nod, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes so tightly that no light sneaks in.
This house has been a refuge for me for so long. Half an hour west of Austin, it’s surrounded by acres of scrubby hill-country; the homes here are large, set a distance apart from each other and constructed from native stone and wood. They don’t tower above the native landscape so much as merge perfectly with it, as though they simply grew here along with the sage and desert willow.
Even with my eyes shut, I envision Kathryn’s familiar movements from the sounds she makes: scooping coffee from the copper-lidded canister, filling the reservoir, pushing the start button. She pulls mugs from one of the glass-door cabinets and sets them on the artsy concrete countertop decorated with inset bits of china and bottle glass. Along with the coffee, she’ll bring me a home-made oatmeal or macadamia nut cookie, which I’ll work off with a walk to the thin creek that serves as a winding border on one side of their property.
Kathryn and Glenn have agreed to let me claim their house as a secondary residence, so part of the home study will be conducted here. That means they’ll have to submit to the same sort of scrutiny I’m undergoing: drug testing, criminal background checks, character references. Their home will be inspected top to bottom for safety concerns. Their pet immunizations and behavioural histories will be checked. And possibly their sex lives, allergies and what type of toilet paper they prefer will be investigated.
My agent calls when I’m taking the cookie-blasting stroll to the creek, and I almost hit ignore. I’m so not ready to talk to her about what I’m doing, but I suppose that isn’t the only thing I’ll have to do this week that I might not be ready to do.
‘Brooke! Are you sitting? I hope you’re sitting but not driving. You aren’t driving, are you? Be honest.’
Ever since one of her clients wrecked his Jeep – breaking a kneecap and busting his forehead wide open – when she called to tell him about a big audition, she’s been reluctant to pass on any news to a client who’s behind the wheel.
‘Not driving, Janelle. What’s up?’
‘Okay, cool. First, I got a call from Stan this morning.’
Stan is the executive producer of Life’s a Beach. He’s been perfectly professional in public, but he was less than enthused when I left the show to pursue a film career, and he seemed to take it personally – something he hadn’t done when my co-star Xavier quit for the same purpose.
Unlike my film School Pride, Xavier’s first film – a drama of all things – flopped like a trout in the final stages of death. My ex co-star is pretty and beefy – with absolutely zilch going on upstairs. Perfect to star as a guy who runs a beachfront bar … not so perfect to portray a character who has thoughts. Rumour has it he’s begging for a chance to get his old role back.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘This is totally hush-hush, of course,’ she adds and I mmph in agreement. ‘He broached the unsurprising notion of bringing you back for the season finale. I gave him a half-hearted response because hello – my girl’s got one successful film out and another one releasing next month, right? So then he said – again, totally hush-hush-off-the-record-don’t-spread-it – that they’re planning to bring Xavier back to the show in the same episode, and the angle would be something to do with the two of you in a way that wasn’t kosher before now.’
She’s referring to the fact that when I left the show, my character was underage, and Xavier’s character owned a bar. Every scene we filmed together sizzled with sexual chemistry, but they couldn’t expand on it for fear of losing their family-friendly endorsements. Now, my character would be eighteen – legally able to bang the twenty-something stud.
Tastefully, of course.
‘But I’m so not done! Are you sitting?’
‘Uh, no.’ I whack long strands of dry grass out of my way with the stick I picked up a few dozen feet back, which makes me think of River, digging in the dirt in that photo. ‘But I’m good. Please, go on.’ The creek gurgles just ahead, where the edge of the property slopes. If it were summer, I’d be kicking my flip-flops off. Instead, I’m hunching into my hooded sweater.
‘So then I got a call from Hillary.’ Hillary was Janelle’s college roommate, and is now a PA for some studio exec – and Janelle’s number one source of studio gossip. ‘We’re going to get a call in the next day or so. You’re back up for the role of Monica.’