Chapter 9 #3
“That’s right.” She inclined her head toward the bus shelter. “Where are you headed? If it’s on my way, I’d be happy to take
you.”
“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly impose.”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition. With you along, I can use the diamond lanes and get home faster.” When his brow furrowed slightly,
she added. “Carpool lanes. High-occupancy-vehicle lanes. They’re marked with a diamond.”
“Really. I hadn’t noticed.” He closed his book and straightened. “Too busy admiring the scenery, I suppose.”
She glanced up and down the street, all asphalt, adobe, red tile or shaker roofs, and plastic signage, and fixed him with
a skeptical look. “This is hardly one of California’s most scenic regions.”
“Not to one such as yourself, perhaps, accustomed as you surely are to palm trees and sunny skies.”
She took another look around, smelled flowers over the car exhaust, glimpsed snow on the Santa Monica peaks in the distance,
and decided he made a fair point. “Where are you headed?” she asked again.
His apartment—a rather grim place suitable as a temporary residence only, he told her—turned out to be not far out of her
way, so she led him back to her car, quickly grabbing her tote and tossing it into the back seat before he climbed in. They
set out for Beverly Hills, but before they reached the 405, they both admitted that they were famished. Julia offered to take
him out to dinner at an iconic restaurant on the beach that no overseas visitor seeking a quintessential Southern California
experience should miss. When he accepted, she continued on to the PCH instead of turning north.
By the time the hostess was seating them at a table on the long, narrow deck at Moonshadows, they were friends; over drinks and starters, they became confidantes.
Julia learned that Nigel had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations in British television and film and on the stage, but, craving new artistic experiences, he had made the jump to Hollywood.
His agent had soon found him a modest part in a casino heist picture that had shot on location in Las Vegas, quickly followed by a drama about a corrupt narcotics cop filmed in Los Angeles, but then he had hit a dry spell.
He had contemplated returning to Britain when his agent had put him up for the part in A Patchwork Life.
“I couldn’t bear to leave America without doing a single Western,” he remarked, sipping his white wine. “This might be my
last chance.”
She felt a brief pang of disappointment when he explained that he had a longtime partner, Alistair, a gorgeous, brilliant,
brooding brunet with doctorates in archaeology and art history. Alistair had encouraged Nigel to audition for Patchwork, but left unspoken were misgivings about how long this new role might prolong their separation.
“He would never say so, but I think he’d be relieved if I didn’t get the part but returned home instead,” Nigel said ruefully
as the server set their entrées before them.
“At least you have someone at home who misses you,” Julia said. “I haven’t known that feeling since my husband died.”
“I’m so sorry.” Nigel’s brow furrowed in concern, and his eyes were kind. “How long has it been?”
“Sometimes it feels like yesterday,” she admitted.
She told him how she and Charles had met when she had been cast as the voice-over narrator for one of his documentaries, how they had fallen in love over a shared passion for film and art, and how she had lost him suddenly to a heart attack after nearly twenty-nine years of marriage.
Her work had sustained her through the aftermath of his death, but it could carry her only so far.
Longing to replace what she had lost, she had married again.
“Twice remarried, and twice divorced,” said Julia, with a self-deprecating frown.
“Impetuous and foolish decisions I deeply regret, although at the time, both times, I thought I was in love. But I’m older and wiser now. Never again.”
“Never?” Nigel echoed, eyebrows rising. “Are you so certain?”
“I have my work and my friends. I’m content. Someone truly extraordinary would have to come along for me to risk my heart
again.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy.” Nigel raised his glass. “To rewarding work, excellent friends, and a heart open to possibilities.”
She hesitated a moment before she lifted her glass and clinked it against his.
Later, when she dropped him off at his apartment, she called to him through the open window, “When you get the role, Alistair
should join you here in LA. We have excellent museums and universities. I’m sure he’ll have his choice of opportunities.”
“I’ll tell him you said so,” Nigel replied, raising a hand in parting.
On Monday morning, Julia met Ellen and Mitchell at the studio to decide whom to cast as Ben Atherton. Julia and Ellen wanted
Nigel, but while Mitchell conceded that Nigel was very good, he wouldn’t concur, and he wouldn’t explain why.
“Should we review the videos again?” Julia asked, barely keeping her exasperation in check after fifteen minutes of Mitchell’s
dithering. “Let’s run their clips back to back, Nigel Crawford and your favorite. You can even pick two favorites. I won’t
complain.”
“Not possible,” said Mitchell. “The actor I want to cast didn’t audition. He doesn’t need to. Stars of his caliber never do.”
“Really?” Ellen threw Julia a dubious look. “Who did you have in mind?”
“And would a star of such high caliber condescend to join our cast?” asked Julia testily.
“I happen to know that he would. His agent reached out to me.”
“Whose agent?” asked Ellen warily. “Who are we talking about?”
“Wait for it.” Mitchell held up his hands as if framing a shot. “Rick Rowan!”
“What?” Julia exclaimed.
“No. Absolutely not.” Ellen shook her head emphatically. “Not if he were the last actor on earth.”
“What’s the problem?” Mitchell asked, bewildered. “Rick Rowan is a bona fide movie star. Desert Vengeance is coming out in May. His popularity will be on the rise just as our season two is premiering.”
Julia looked to Ellen and saw her own alarm and disgust reflected in her friend’s expression. “Do you know nothing at all
about the failed movie adaptation of A Patchwork Life?” Julia asked, turning back to Mitchell. “Does Prairie Vengeance ring a bell?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It was an absolute nightmare,” Ellen said flatly. “Rowan was cast as Augustus Henderson. Test screening audiences loathed
the movie so much that it went straight to video. And you want to cast him in our series?”
“Well . . .” Mitchell shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. “Every star has a bomb on his résumé, and Rowan is a star. Maybe
appearing in Patchwork will give him a redemption arc. That could be good publicity.”
“I won’t work with him.” Ellen crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “We should each get one unassailable veto, and
this would be mine.”
“What do you have against Nigel Crawford?” Julia asked Mitchell. “And don’t give me that ‘too British’ garbage. He speaks
better American than Rick Rowan.”
“I just don’t find Crawford believable in the role, all right?” said Mitchell, raising his voice. “I mean, come on, he’s a
fag.”
Julia gaped at him. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Ellen fixed him with a level stare. “That word is a slur, Mitchell. Don’t use it again.”
He threw his hands in the air. “Fine. Whatever. He’s a ‘homosexual.’ The point is, Ben Atherton is supposed to be a tough cattle rancher and Sadie’s love interest. How can a homosexual pull that off? Would you really want to kiss him, Julia? I mean, seriously?”
“You do realize that it’s acting, right?” Julia retorted. “Whoever we cast doesn’t actually have to be in love with me. I don’t have to be in love with him.
But to your point, of course I wouldn’t object to kissing him if that’s what Ellen writes.”
“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation,” said Ellen. “It’s the twenty-first century, Mitchell. You need to get
over yourself.”
He heaved a sigh. “Okay. Fine. We won’t hire Rick Rowan if you can’t stand him. We’ll find a Rick Rowan type. Sure, Crawford had the best audition and he could probably pull off the role, but I don’t want to cast a homosexual.”
Julia shook her head, incredulous. “That is truly repugnant, Mitchell.”
“It’s also illegal,” said Ellen. “We both heard you say, clearly and unequivocally, that you intend to discriminate against
him because of his sexual orientation. That’s against the law in California, in case you didn’t get the memo.”
Mitchell rolled his eyes. “How stupid do you think I am? I’m not going to tell him that’s why.”
“I can’t even—” Ellen clasped a hand to her forehead. “I don’t even know what to say. I have no words.”
“There’s no need to explain why you’re not casting Nigel Crawford in this role,” Julia said, fixing Mitchell with a steely
gaze. “Because you are going to cast him. If you don’t, I’ll file a complaint with human resources.”
“You wouldn’t dare. My father-in-law is a vice president with the studio.”
“Father-in-law,” Julia exclaimed, slapping her palms on the table. “So that’s it. I thought it was an uncle who got you this job.”
“Your guess was closer than mine,” Ellen said. “I figured it was a college roommate’s dad. So who won the pool?”
“Edna from wardrobe, I think.”
Mitchell looked from Julia to Ellen and back. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Julia waved it off. “Call Nigel Crawford’s agent and tell him he has the part, or I go to HR and you’ll probably lose this
excellent job which you worked so hard to earn and at which you so excel.”
Mitchell reddened and fumed, but after a long moment of opening and closing his mouth as if he had much to say but had forgotten
how to say it, he pushed back his chair and stormed from the room. The next day, an email went out from the studio that Nigel