The Actor's Guide To Adultery Read online

  Outside, the drab, sterile hallway was even more depressing than the room where the parole board was conducting their hearing. It was empty except for a two-man cleaning crew mopping the floor a few feet away from me. I pressed the talk button and took a deep breath.

  “Laurette?”

  “Hi, doll face. Where the hell have you been? Haven’t you gotten any of my e-mails?”

  “I haven’t been online today. I’m in Vacaville.”

  “Where in God’s name is that?”

  “Up north. Between Sacramento and San Francisco. I drove up for my stalker’s parole hearing.”

  “I really need to get you a job. You do the strangest things to keep busy.”

  “They want to release him, and I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Do you know how many actors would kill to have a stalker? You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”

  Laurette was always thinking of my career.

  “Listen, I have to get back inside. They’re going to make a decision soon,” I said. “But I didn’t want to miss your call.”

  “Good. Because I have exciting news.”

  This was it. After years of struggling to shed the baggage that came with being a former child star, I was about to land my first significant series role as an adult. I had worked so hard for this moment. I sat down on a hard wooden bench to savor the news.

  “I’m getting married,” Laurette said.

  That didn’t sound like, “The network picked up your pilot.”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I’m getting married. Can you believe it? After a lifetime of horrible dates and misfired relationships, I’ve finally found him. The one. Just when I came to accept the fact that he’d never show up, he’s here.”

  “What about the pilot?”

  “Oh, God, that loser? He hasn’t called in months. Last I heard he quit Delta after his divorce was final and moved back to Atlanta. Truth be told, he had this mole on his back I just couldn’t get past.”

  “Not the airline pilot. The network pilot.”

  “What network pilot?”

  “My network pilot. On NBC. The one I’ve been waiting weeks to hear about. Did it get picked up?”

  There was nothing but dead air. I figured the news wasn’t good.

  “Oh, honey . . .” Laurette said, her voice filled with a motherly, comforting tone usually reserved for occasions like telling a kid his pet hamster died. “It’s not going to happen. They passed on it.”

  Now I felt just like that kid with the dead hamster.

  “Why? You said all the suits loved it.”

  “They did. And then they tested it. I think it set a new record for low audience scores. Didn’t I call you? That was something like, four days ago.”

  “No, you didn’t call me.”

  “Oh, I guess I’ve been so caught up in this new romance, I forgot. So, back to me. Isn’t this wild? I’m finally going to walk down the aisle!”

  This was a double blow. First, my best friend neglected to break potentially devastating news to me as early as possible, so I could grieve properly and move on to my next career disappointment. Second, this same best friend, who always insisted on relating every last detail of her life, was getting hitched to a man I had never even heard about.

  “Who is this guy? And why haven’t I met him?”

  “We just met two weeks ago.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but felt there was no way she would not detect a hint of judgment in anything I said.

  “I know it’s fast,” she said, reading my mind. “But it was one of those moments when you just know. We ran into each other at a screening at the TV Academy. It was some CBS Sunday night movie based on a true story about a little girl in Tennessee who was trapped in a mineshaft for eight days. The movie was crap. The kid they got sucked. But he played one of the firefighters, and believe it or not, he was quite good. He’s very talented. His name is Juan Carlos Barranco.”

  Juan Carlos Barranco. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  Laurette had discovered a propensity for Spanish men on our nine-day trip to the coast of Spain last summer. But an actor? I love actors. I’m one myself. But I know that most of them are one big red flag for inevitable emotional distress.

  “So he’s an actor, huh?” I said, hoping she’d pick up the obvious concern in my voice.

  “Yes,” she said, choosing to ignore it. “They had a reception after the screening, and we both went for the last finger sandwich. It was chicken salad. Not bad actually.”

  Laurette and I also both have to fill in complete food descriptions during any story we tell the other.

  “Anyway, he graciously let me have the sandwich,” she said. “And I told him how impressed I was with his performance, and then we wound up back at my place. And he’s been there ever since.”

  “He’s living with you?”

  “Don’t tell my mother, but yes. That’s why we’re getting married right away. I don’t want to compromise my Catholic upbringing.”

  “Sweetheart, you compromised your Catholic upbringing in 1986 on our road trip to Fort Lauderdale when—”

  “Don’t say it. Just tell me how happy you are for me!”

  I sighed. There was no way to slow Laurette down once she made a decision. She was a freight train and you just had to go along for the ride and hope you didn’t derail from the high speed.

  “I’m really happy for you,” I said.

  “Now get your ass back down to LA so we can start making plans.”

  “I want to meet this guy, and make sure he’s good enough for you.”

  “Wait until you see him! He’s gorgeous! And so sweet. He brought home takeout from Red Lobster because he knows how much I love their garlic cheese rolls. He hid the ring in one of my popcorn shrimp! I almost choked to death.”

  Laurette was laughing at the memory. I was still hung up on the fact she was planning to marry an actor. If I could just get her to talk to my boyfriend Charlie, he’d certainly tell her to run screaming for the hills, having lived with me for three years.

  I was momentarily distracted when the door to the parole hearing opened and the three members of the board filed out into the hallway. They were followed by the two prison guards, who escorted Wendell Butterworth down the hall toward the processing room.

  “Laurette, I have to go,” I said. “Something’s happening.”

  “All right, but call me when you get home. I want you and Charlie to be the first ones to meet my new husband. Can you believe I just said that? Husband!”

  “I’ll call you from the car.”

  I hung up the phone and approached the curly-haired cutie from the parole board.

  “Excuse me, are we taking a short break?” I said.

  The handsome doctor turned and flashed me his winning smile. “No. We’re finished.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “We unanimously voted to grant Mr. Butterworth his parole.”

  I felt as if someone had just slammed me in the gut with a fist. I staggered back, not sure at first if I heard him right.

  “You’re letting him out?”

  Eavesdropping, the gray-haired lady stepped up behind me and sniffed, “We asked if anyone else had anything to add, but you were out here on the phone.” With a satisfied smile, she marched off toward the exit.

  My head was spinning. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I might pass out. That’s when the curly-haired doctor put a comforting hand on my arm. I thought he might offer some encouraging words, maybe a little advice on what steps I should take to protect myself now that Wendell Butterworth was free to start following me around again.

  “I was wondering,” he said. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  Chapter 2

  After extricating myself from the curly-haired doctor’s advances, I didn’t stick around to witness Wendell Butterworth’s official release after two decades of imprisonment. My
stomach was churning enough as it was. Laurette’s bombshell had shaken me up pretty good, and I had to race back to LA to judge this new fiancé for myself.

  I called Charlie from the car when I was still a good four hours away from home. I knew he was working on a gang-related assault case on a homeless man and wouldn’t be in his office so I left a message on his voice mail.

  “Hi, it’s me. You’re not going to believe this one. They’re releasing Wendell Butterworth so you better check the alarm system at home. Oh, and by the way, we’re hosting a dinner party tonight

  . . . for Laurette and the actor she’s going to marry. Yes, you heard me right. I said ‘marry’ and ‘actor’ in the same sentence.”

  When I had left LA the day before to drive up to Vacaville for the parole hearing, Charlie told me he was looking forward to the two of us ordering Indian food and watching a DVD, just the two of us, upon my return. I had a habit of disrupting his plans so I had to tread delicately.

  “I know you were looking forward to coconut chicken curry and Reese Witherspoon tonight, but we don’t know anything about this guy. Who he is. Where he comes from. Zilch. So I think it’s best we put that off and have them over to the house. I knew you’d agree with me.”

  I hung up quickly, knowing perfectly well his reaction when he heard the message. But Charlie loved Laurette almost as much as I did, and I knew he, too, would want the scoop on this rather sudden shocking turn of events, even at the expense of his favorite Friday night ritual.

  The next order of business on the drive home was calling every actor I knew to see if any of them had ever heard of Juan Carlos Barranco. The first six fellow thespians couldn’t even manage to repeat back the name, let alone reel off a list of credits or a bio. But I struck pay dirt with Annabelle Lipton, a former scene partner from my Master Acting Class a few years back with the late Tony Randall of TV’s Odd Couple. Annabelle and I had teamed up for a scene from Clifford Odets’s Golden Boy that had left Mr. Randall in tears. I recently caught Annabelle in a feminine hygiene ad on Lifetime, so it was good to know the class had paid off for her in some way.

  “Juan Carlos Barranco? I dated him for a while about seven months ago,” Annabelle said. I could almost hear the bile rising in her throat. I hadn’t seen her in over two years, but from what I remembered, she was adorably cute with a pixie cut and huge hazel eyes.

  “When did you two break up?” I said.

  “We never officially did. He stayed over one night because my place was close to an early-morning audition. He kissed me good-bye and said he’d be back in an hour. I never saw him again.”

  Some people are reluctant to talk about painful moments from their past. Luckily actors can go on for hours, all day even, as long as the topic is related to them. And Annabelle, being a consummate actress, had plenty to say. “We met at the Viper Room. He asked me to dance, bought me a few drinks, just showered me with attention. It was right about the time I had received a small inheritance from my great aunt who had died back in Grand Rapids. Got about fifteen grand. He was working as a massage therapist at the time. That was his side business when he wasn’t working as an actor. Right about the time we finished blowing my aunt’s money together was when he disappeared. Interesting timing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Could be a coincidence,” I said, not believing a word I was saying. Neither was Annabelle.

  “Yeah, right. Then I started getting all these calls from his massage clients trying to find him. It seems he offered a package of ten massages for the price of five. Pretty good deal, right? Well, after everybody paid him in advance, he took off. When people called up to schedule an appointment, they found out his cell phone was no longer in service. And the only other contact number he gave out was mine.”

  “Sounds like a charming guy.”

  “You have no idea, Jarrod.”

  True, Annabelle had a flair for the dramatic. She once stubbed her toe on her bathroom door jam and tooled around in an electric wheelchair for two weeks. But I believed every word she was telling me about Laurette’s new love.

  “Next thing I know,” she said, “I see him on 90210 kissing Tori Spelling.”

  Of course! That was how I knew him. He played a really hot Rugby player on Beverly Hills 90210 during its last season (I was and still am an unapologetic fan). I knew a couple of actors on that show, who confirmed rumors that he had slept with the very much married executive producer in order to get the part. He must have been good. He was signed up for a six-episode story arc.

  “So why are you asking me about Juan Carlos?” Annabelle said.

  “He’s about to marry a friend of mine.”

  Dead silence. For a minute I thought the cell phone had cut out. But then Annabelle spoke in a grave, measured tone. “Tell her to get out while she still can.”

  I roared up Beachwood Drive, heading straight for the world-famous Hollywood sign and the English Tudor home I shared with my boyfriend, Charlie, and our loyal Pekinese, Snickers. Charlie and I both would have preferred a bigger dog, maybe a shepherd or even a Lab (a pet that wouldn’t scream gay), but when Charlie was called to the scene of a murder-suicide involving an elderly couple driven to despair by their useless HMO, he found their cute little dog sniffing around the bodies of his former owners, confused and whining, and just a few minutes away from a one-way trip to the Humane Society. Charlie just couldn’t do it. He brought her home, we fed her some left over chicken tikka (yes, it was Indian food/DVD night), and she went to sleep at the foot of our bed. She’s been a fixture there ever since.

  I whipped up the windy roads of the canyon, turning the last corner to see Charlie’s new Volvo parked outside the house. Right behind it was Laurette’s gas-guzzling Ford SUV. I knew when I hit that unexpected traffic just north of the city, I would be cutting it close. I hit the garage door opener, and pulled my Beamer inside. As I jumped out, I could hear the excited jangling of Snickers’s tags behind the door leading to the kitchen. I took a deep breath, and marched inside to meet the already infamous Juan Carlos Barranco.

  Charlie was at the stove stirring a pot full of mashed potatoes and boiling water for corn on the cob. I knew instantly that the steaks were probably already on the grill outside in the backyard. Laurette sat at the kitchen table, which resembled a fifties diner booth (a by-product of my gay kitsch gene), downing what I presumed from the half-empty bottle was her third glass of wine. Charlie didn’t drink.

  There was no sign of Juan Carlos.

  As Snickers ran in circles to celebrate my arrival, Laurette jumped up and grabbed me in a big welcoming hug. “We thought you’d never get here.”

  I muffled a reply into her ample bosom, as the bright colors from her stylish print top blinded me.

  Charlie turned around and gave me a wink. “Hi, babe.” He looked as sexy as always in an open-collar J.Crew shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. Even after mucking up his Friday night plans and making him prepare a whole dinner for four because I was late, he still looked genuinely happy to see me. God, how did I get so lucky?

  “So, where is he?” I said.

  “He had an audition for some low-budget horror thing in Silver Lake. He’ll be here soon,” Laurette said confidently, obviously unaware of his history of never returning from acting auditions.

  Charlie turned back to the stove and started scooping the freshly whipped potatoes into empty skins that he had lined up on a cooking sheet. I saddled up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “Twice-baked potatoes,” I said. “My favorite.”

  “Got filet mignon, corn on the cob, tossed salad, and rolls. Am I forgetting anything?”

  Laurette piped up. “Juan Carlos is bringing dessert. He said it would be a surprise. Something sweet and Spanish, I’m assuming. Like him.”

  I turned and smiled at Charlie. “Looks like you took care of everything. I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do, and I intend to collect . . . later.” Another wink.

  As Charlie s
lipped the cooking sheet in the oven, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down with Laurette at the kitchen table.

  “So . . . an actor?” I said.

  Laurette laughed. “I know, I know. Trouble with a capital T. But Juan Carlos is different from any man I’ve ever dated.”

  “Or married, I hope.” I added. Five years ago Laurette had married an aspiring director who was trying to mount an independent production about a family horse-breeding business set in Lexington, Kentucky. Once Laurette had secured financing through her ample contacts, and he went off to shoot his epic, the whole thing fell apart. The marriage, not the film. The film went on to win an audience award at Sundance and a successful art house career for its director. The marriage was dissolved after Laurette’s husband impregnated an extra on the set who was fresh out of high school.

  “Yes. Joel was a prick. He used me. My therapist says I have to stop picking men who need me professionally so I feel I have a value in the relationship. That’s why Juan Carlos is perfect for me. He doesn’t need me.”

  “Um, Laurette, honey, I don’t mean to be a wet blanket or anything, but Juan Carlos is an actor and you’re a talent agent. A talent agent who knows a lot of studio executives and TV producers.”

  “Yes, but Juan Carlos is doing just fine without me. He hasn’t asked me to do him one favor. Not one. Joel and I were on our second date when he handed me his script and asked if I could get it to Jennifer Love Hewitt.”

  It was just about dark outside. The flashing beam of a car’s headlights passed by slowly out front, signaling the arrival of the man in question. He turned around in the driveway and parked behind Laurette’s SUV. Snickers’s ears perked up and she scurried to the door, barking all the way. As I followed Snickers, I glanced out the window and noted that Juan Carlos drove a Lexus convertible. Very nice for someone whose last film role was “Firefighter #3” in a CBS TV movie. I opened the door, and put on the warmest, most welcoming smile I could muster. Juan Carlos wasn’t the only actor in Laurette’s life.