Chapter 5
5
T he following Saturday, Grant pulled up to the address Sadie had given Ronny and put his baby blue Ford Mustang GT convertible into park. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, actually going to spend an afternoon with Sadie Heppner. All week, his stomach tightened whenever his phone dinged. Was it Ronny informing him the fake dates were off? He’d spent hours torturing himself over why Sadie disliked him so much and hours more thinking of ways to ask her about it without making the situation worse.
Part of his plan was to collect her at her door. It was gentlemanly thing to do. Plus, seeing where she lived might give him a better sense of who she was now. To his dismay, she appeared at the railing of the patio walkway connecting the units of her apartment building, waved perfunctorily, and started down the stairs toward him, a hop in her step.
Her lemon yellow, sleeveless crop top and matching, high-waisted shorts were straight out of a vintage movie star pin-up poster, but also way more casual than the dark grey slacks and white button-down he’d selected. Ronny hadn’t given him any information about where they were going on the first date, but since she’d asked to be picked up at noon, he had assumed she had a decent restaurant in mind, maybe followed by a museum or a play. He’d even brought a tie and sport coat, just in case. Given her informal look, they would remain in the trunk.
He was rounding the front bumper to open the car door for her when she snuck past at a near run and let herself in, leaving him standing on the sidewalk like an idiot. Any faint hopes that she might be friendlier to him now that they would be spending time alone together evaporated. If he wanted Sadie Heppner to like him, he had his work cut out for him.
Challenge accepted .
“Let’s go,” he heard her say from under a wide, white and tan straw hat that still barely contained her glistening curls. She wore matching espadrille sandals and carried a woven straw shoulder bag.
“Aren’t you speedy?” he quipped as he walked back around, slid into the driver’s seat, and swiveled to face her. He’d only had this car for a month, and it had never looked so good as now, with Sadie Heppner sitting in it. Her yellow outfit and tan legs gleamed like Easter morning against the cream seats and sky-blue dashboard. His mouth went dry again. “You look like walking sunshine.”
She answered without so much as glancing at him. “Thank you. The forecast is for the upper eighties and, considering where we’re going, I wanted to stay cool.”
“Stay cool? Where are we going?”
“The Indian Festival at the LA Hindu Temple. I hope you like spicy food.” She finally glanced at him when she said this last part, but the smile on her lips did not reach all the way to her eyes.
Growing up in Ohio with parents whose concept of cooking amounted to opening a box or can, his idea of international food didn’t stretch far beyond spaghetti. In particular, he did not like spicy food—unless salt was considered a spice. Sadie must have forgotten this from their college days, but if Sadie liked spicy international food, he would learn to like it. “Sounds great! What’s the address?”
He typed it into his phone’s mapping program and found they’d be there in thirty minutes—the perfect amount of time to begin re-acquainting themselves before they’d have to start performing for Ronny’s photographers.
“Do you hear much from your old roommates?” he asked.
“We chat,” she said.
“Trish was always so funny.”
“Mmm.”
The mapping program spoke up, telling him to take the next exit. As he merged into the outside lane, he searched for a topic other than her old friends. Oddly, their lives didn’t appear to interest her. Sadie had been the glue of that girl group. Was there a falling out?
“How do you like living in that apartment complex? I think it’s got some Hollywood history, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But…your neighbors are nice?”
“Sure.”
“How are your sisters doing? You have sisters, right?”
“I don’t want to talk about my family.”
Grant gave his neck a twist until it made a quiet cracking sound. He hardly needed to worry about highs in the eighties if she continued to be this icy. Time to go for the final topic, the one thing all actors are desperate to talk about. “So, how’s the acting been going? Had much success with auditions?”
A sulky silence settled into the seat wells of the open top car until, finally, she spoke. “I’ve been working the deli at StarMont this whole time.” To keep her hat from flying away, she gripped it on her lap. He noticed her fingers tighten on the brim. “Just trying to get my big break—or even a small one.”
“Nothing so far?”
“No. Some people get their careers handed to them, while others struggle no matter how hard they work and how talented they are.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” he said. “Do you know how I ended up at StarMont?”
“I don't personally follow your career, no,” she said, in a tone like poison-laced lemonade.
“I was an extra in an action movie, but only because I happened to be in the right bank at the right time. The location where they’d originally planned to film had just been robbed for real. The police had cordoned it off, so they’d gone to a nearby branch.”
“Lots of people in LA end up as extras by accident.”
“Yes, but I mentioned I’d done some acting, and when they needed someone to say a few lines, they had me do a quick audition. Then, during editing, they came back and asked if I could film a few more lines and be in a later scene too that they re-filmed—a scene with Mark Briddle himself. It amounted to enough of a role that StarMont sent me a contract and gave me small parts in two more films.”
“What role are you playing with Julia?”
Grant caught the question’s double meaning, but didn’t take the bait. “Well, that’s the most amazing thing of all. I met Julia through Mark, and suddenly StarMont wanted me for the leading man in her next rom com. Ronny told my agent she’d insisted on a fresh face.”
“Right. Your face got you the job.”
“I mean…I suppose. Or maybe I fit the role somehow? Surf Summer is a period piece set in the sixties. You know, surfboards, bikinis, and…”
“Convertibles like this one.”
He gave the steering wheel a nervous pat. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Or maybe it was all your surfing experience from growing up in, where was it?”
“Ohio.”
“Right. Hanging ten in the corn fields?”
Grant felt like a chicken pecking for nonexistent crumbs. Not only did she still dislike him, but she was sour grapes about his big break. He understood the frustration. What aspiring actor didn't feel that way at least a little at seeing others making it in the industry while they waited tables? But most would at least pretend to be happy about another’s success, if only for the connections it could bring. Not Sadie. The fact that he could help her career didn't make a whit of difference. And maybe she was right. She was getting her break by going out on a few fake dates with him. Besides, Hollywood was a fickle creature. The lucky stars that brought him to StarMont could just as easily realign in a sinister way, dashing his hopes and prospects.
He decided to try one last time with something that might pique her interest. “But, hey, in a few weeks, Ronny is hosting a beach-themed press launch party for Surf Summer at his house in the Hollywood Hills. The place is straight up mid-century modern, all curves and glass and a giant pool, and I hear he throws the best parties. I’ll make sure you get an invite.”
Several beats of charged silence followed, before she finally said, “That won’t be necessary.”
The car’s mapping program announced they were nearing the festival.
“Do we need to let Ronny know where we are?” Grant asked.
“I let him know this morning. There should be plenty of photographers.”
“Oh, okay. And I guess we need to act like we’re a couple, right? Seems like we should discuss that, maybe set some ground rules?”
“When the cameras are on, which they will be the minute we arrive, we are acting, Grant. Hand holding, hugging, even pecks on the cheek are all okay with me. No groping or deep kisses. How about you?”
Grant needed a moment to adjust to the nonchalant way she’d rattled off those rules. The mere thought of hugging her, let alone pecking her on the cheek, made his head swim. But he didn’t want her to know that. “Yes. Yes, that’s fine by me too. We’re acting.”
A man waved them into the lot by the temple and they parked. Ornate carvings of people, animals, fruit, and flowers adorned the temple’s roof and doors like weighty lace. Heavily carved spires sat atop the structure, turning it into a multi-tiered limestone wedding cake. But Sadie didn’t walk toward the temple itself. In a grassy area to the right, several large white tents gleamed under the sun.
Fast-paced Indian music floated past Grant’s ears, and a myriad of unrecognizable smells reached his nostrils. But the colors grabbed his attention most. Saris in every brilliant shade filled his vision, some gossamer and flowing, others crisscrossed and filigreed with so much gold embroidery and beading Grant wondered how the women could move under the weight of their finery. Flowers added to the kaleidoscope, many strung into eye-popping garlands draped over statues and doorways.
As he mentally adjusted to the overload of it all, a sensation far more meaningful stole his attention. The exotic sights, sounds, and smells relegated themselves to a murmur as Sadie reached out and took his hand. Despite the warmth of the day, her fingers rested coolly in his, so soft and delicate they felt like the finest porcelain. She had not been kidding about acting the part of boyfriend and girlfriend the moment they arrived. As sullen and distant as she had been in the car, she became animated and clingy, pointing at the tents and giving him the most heart-melting smiles as she tugged him forward.
“Granteeeeeee,” she cooed as she spun to face him, her smile as sincere as if they’d been dating for months. It took all his emotional willpower to remind himself that everything she was doing–everything she would do that afternoon—was fake. She had no feelings for him. She was doing a job, trying to get her Hollywood break. “I’m going to go find the ladies’ room. Can you go get us some food? You know I love the murgh makhani and the palak paneer, and I wouldn't mind being surprised with a few gulab jamun. But maybe you want some vindaloo or malai kofta? And remember…extra spicy!”
An expression of panic at the string of completely unfamiliar and, to him, indecipherable names of dishes must have crossed his face, but Sadie simply squeezed his hand before melting into the rainbow-colored crowd.
He stood there a moment, feeling her absence, feeling the lack of her hand in his, until the click of a camera from somewhere to his left jolted him back. She’d sent him on a mission, a food mission. He had no idea how long Sadie would be gone, but it wouldn’t do for her to show up and find him empty-handed. Following his nose, he soon found the food tent, where lines of people waited to be served. He located the table with the shortest line and made it to the front in a few minutes.
A man and woman in neat white aprons were using restaurant-sized ladles to dish up curries and rice onto Styrofoam plates and bowls. Now, what was it she’d asked him to get for her? Unrelated syllables dribbled from his mouth. “Uh…murg plaknini? Gugudaloo?” The man and woman looked at him blankly before breaking into giggles. To his horror, everyone within earshot broke out in whispered Hindi. Soon, the crowd around him chuckled too.
The warm day, the unfamiliar sights and sounds, the memory of Sadie’s hand in his, the steam rising from the forty or so warming pans under the semi-enclosed tent—and now shame at his utter ignorance—were all conspiring to thoroughly overheat and overwhelm him. Sweat broke out across his back, and there’d be stains in the pits of his nice dress shirt before the day ended. Where were a burger and fries when you needed them?
And where had Sadie gone? Either the line for the bathrooms rivaled the food lines, or she was stalling on purpose. How could he win her over if she wouldn’t talk to him and took every opportunity to avoid him?
He eyed the other food tables, wondering whether he should cut his losses here and try a different spot, but then the man behind the table smiled warmly. Looking around, Grant realized the people weren’t laughing out of meanness, but sympathy. The man reached over and touched his hand lightly. “What do you like to eat? Chicken? Potatoes?”
“I like them both. Is there chicken?”
“We have this,” he said, lifting a lid to reveal a golden, oily gravy with chunks of chicken floating in it.
“Yes, that looks great,” he said eagerly. Hopefully, it would make Sadie happy. A man walked by with what appeared to be a steaming roll of wallpaper on his plate. “What was that?” he asked, eyes wide.
“That’s a dosa, a South Indian specialty. They’re making them just outside the tent right now, and they’re delicious. Go get one of those first, then come back and your butter chicken will be all dished up and waiting for you.”
“Butter chicken,” he repeated to himself as he nodded his thanks and stepped out of line. Those were words he could remember.
In the grass outside the tent, half a dozen people sat on low stools, cooking over gas flame camping stoves. He watched as a gray-haired woman near him dipped a ladle into a gigantic bowl of bubbly white batter and poured the scoop onto a large, circular, flat griddle. Using the back of the ladle, she spread the batter so thin it filled the pan’s base entirely. When the edges had cooked to an enticing brown, she added a dollop of filling, rolled the whole thing up into an enormous tube, tipped it onto a plate, and handed it to a surprised Grant.
The crisp, savory, sourdough-tasting crepe was the perfect combination of crunch-chew. A filling of soft potatoes and fresh green peas reminded him of the comfort foods of home. In short, he never needed another burger and fries for as long as he lived. He couldn’t wait to share this discovery with Sadie, but where was she ?