A Quiet Second Chance

Chapter 1

It was the end of summer in Tokyo, which meant the kind of humidity that you could slice with a knife.

In the early morning hours before she was expected on set, Taylor Charron stepped out of her hotel and into the darkness, stretching her arms over her head and dropping into a squat to stretch her legs.

She liked to briskly walk around the gardens surrounding the old imperial palace to get her heart rate up.

The few people she passed in the park at that time of day hardly looked at her.

Maybe this was their sense of Japanese propriety.

But she also guessed it was because—miraculously, so far from home—they had no idea who she was.

She liked this sense of normalcy before everyone stared at her all day long, either through the camera lens or as they whisked from one end of the set to the other.

Not that she didn’t sometimes like getting recognized at home. When she looked good. When she’d done her hair. When she was ready to be seen by a world that was often so cruel.

Taylor got to set at seven that morning. She was in her makeup chair, trying to relax her straining jaw, watching as people in the mirror prepared for the day ahead. She could see everything—the frantic eyes of the sound guys and the laughing banter between the people at the breakfast table.

At age forty-four, this was not Taylor’s first rodeo in the film world.

She knew the ins and outs of all film sets.

She knew who was important at what time.

She could sense the change in tide when people got power over one another.

As the lead actress of this film, she knew she was the heartbeat of the story.

She knew, too, that because she was forty-four, there was far more to do to her face than there’d been a few years ago.

Makeup lay heavily on her cheeks and forehead.

She couldn’t wait till later tonight, when she could take it all off and put on a face mask and lie in her anonymous hotel bed.

The makeup and hair artists were all Japanese and between the ages of twenty-five and fifty, although it was sometimes hard to gauge who was older and who was younger because Japanese people seemed never to age.

This felt like a magic trick only they understood.

Taylor had been through the gamut of skincare operations, especially Asian ones, but her Caucasian skin had suffered too much sun damage when she’d been a teenager, those long-lost days back in Los Angeles when she’d had all the money in the world and had thought she would stay young and beautiful forever. There was a lot she couldn’t undo.

The makeup artists muttered to one another, as though they were speaking about this very sun damage. As though they knew the horrors she’d done to herself.

Taylor’s costar Chase approached a few minutes later. He was blond and tall and in his late thirties. In the film, Chase played her younger brother, a messed-up guy with a drug addiction and a bad habit of dating the wrong women, whom her character comes to Tokyo to “save from himself.”

“How’s it going?” Chase asked her, sliding into the chair beside her. “Got a big scene today.”

Taylor fixed her face into a smile. “You ready?”

“About as ready as I’ll ever be. It’s a clunker, isn’t it?” Chase let out a big, broad laugh that made Taylor shudder.

“I don’t know,” Taylor said, her eyes flashing over to the other end of the set, where the scriptwriter and the director were discussing something. “Maybe it isn’t so bad?”

“You kidding? I worked on soap operas with better writing than that,” Chase said. “But come on. It’s a paycheck, right? And at my age, I can’t afford to complain.”

The conversation lodged behind Taylor’s heart, making it difficult to breathe.

The makeup artist told her to raise her chin and close her eyes, and she did, feeling the wand against her cheeks and eyelids.

As she worked on Taylor’s face, Taylor thought about the pages she’d memorized for today’s scene.

She remembered that her first thought had been, Oh, this is bad.

This is really bad. But she’d reminded herself that this film was meant to be her comeback.

In this film, she was the star of the show, America’s favorite household name.

Taylor Charron. It was up to her and this film to rise and bring sense back to her life.

When her makeup and hair were finished, it was time to wait while set workers finished their preparations.

Taylor checked the clock and saw it was 8:15.

She did a quick calculation and realized it was only 1:15 in the morning in Paris, where her husband, Jason, was working on a film.

She remembered that Jason had worked late last night, filming an action scene that he’d said via text message had “nearly destroyed him,” and she knew that he’d probably sleep late today to make up for it.

Her heart ached with love for him—and something else, something needy.

She and Jason hadn’t seen one another in more than two months, which was longer than they’d ever gone.

She reminded herself not to show him how needy she felt.

It was never attractive, no matter how long you’d been together.

When Chase and Taylor stood on their marks and rehearsed their lines, Taylor’s tongue was sour with the scriptwriter’s words.

She had the sense that everyone on set was laughing at them.

She imagined them heading back to their girlfriends, boyfriends, and partners later tonight and telling them over dinner how bad the film was.

She imagined them saying, “Taylor Charron is washed-up, and she doesn’t even know it yet.

There’s a rude awakening waiting for her. ”

Embarrassment made Taylor’s neck burn.

Right before the director Stanley called “action,” Taylor raised a shaking hand and said, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Stanley, who was a mid-tier director who’d done a moderate-sized action film as well as a string of indie films that people more or less respected, looked miffed. “Oh, um. What’s up, Taylor?”

Taylor’s heart began to pound. “I want to talk about my lines.”

Stanley glanced at the scriptwriter, who crossed and uncrossed his arms.

“What’s up?” Stanley asked.

“I mean, not just my lines. I want to talk about Chase’s lines, too,” she said, offering a smile to Chase.

Chase refused to look at her. He shifted his weight.

“What do you mean?” Stanley demanded.

“Could we…” Taylor gestured toward a dark corner, hoping to talk to him about it away from the prying eyes of the scriptwriter. She didn’t want to embarrass him.

Taylor turned and led the director to that corner.

When she turned, she looked into his dark and confused eyes.

She remembered the first meeting they’d had about the film, during which the director had told her point-blank that this would be her ticket to the next phase of her career.

“We’ll both get into Tokyo and do what we do best,” he’d said.

“We’ll make a film. We’ll cash a check. We’ll move on with our careers. We’ve earned this.”

But now, Taylor wasn’t so sure. She felt she had to do something. She cleared her throat.

“What’s going on?” Stanley demanded. Taylor knew she was wasting his time and everyone else’s. If she was going to do something, she had to do it now.

“It’s the script. It’s my lines. I don’t think she’d say it that way. I don’t think anyone would say it that way,” Taylor said, stuttering slightly. She felt foolish.

Stanley coughed. “Okay? Do you have an idea?” He let the silence hang before he asked, “You think you could write it better?”

“Of course not,” Taylor said, although she was pretty sure she could have. Not that she’d had any writing training, but come on. This was flaccid. This was pathetic.

Stanley turned and beckoned the scriptwriter over. Taylor thought she might melt with embarrassment on the spot. She told herself to remain strong. She was Taylor Charron. She had more money than any of these people—and more power, too. Surely.

“What’s up?” the scriptwriter, whose name was David, asked.

“Taylor thinks there’s something up with her lines,” Stanley said.

David’s eyes flickered. “Didn’t you read the script before this morning?” His question was, Why is this happening now, rather than weeks or months ago? Which was a valid question.

“I did, but…” Taylor looked over at Chase, who avoided her eye contact again. If Chase hadn’t said anything about the script, would she have taken issue with it? Would she have made this big of a show?

“I really think we can do better. Maybe we should scrap today and take it back to the drawing board?”

“I don’t think that’s up to you,” David said, coughing with disbelief.

“This is my movie,” Taylor said, raising her chin.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” David shot back.

Stanley scraped his fingers through his hair. He was sweating. When Taylor glanced around, she saw that almost everyone else was glistening with sweat, as well. Not only was she making everyone nervous but she was taking up time. She was making everyone wait in this awful heat.

But she reasoned now, as her thoughts raced—nobody else’s career rode as heavily on this film.

Her name was the name on the marquee. Her name was the name associated with it.

If this film flopped, then her career would continue to flop—maybe forever.

Maybe this would be the last time she was ever on a film set!

She imagined months from now, when Jason’s film came out alongside hers.

There would be articles comparing their careers.

There would be interviews with her, asking how she felt about Jason’s career.

And she’d have to lie and say, “We support each other in everything. I love his work, and he loves mine.” And all the while, she and Jason would know in their heart of hearts that he’d made a brilliant film, and she’d made a stinker.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d use that as a reason to leave her.

No, she thought. Jason wouldn’t leave her. He couldn’t. They’d been through too much. They were really and truly in love, linked forevermore. Jason didn’t care if her movie tanked. But she cared. And wasn’t that enough?

“I really don’t feel comfortable reading the lines as they are,” Taylor said now, flaring her nostrils.

At this, David threw his copy of the script on the ground. “They said you were difficult, but this is something else,” he said.

One of the assistant directors bustled up, asking, “What seems to be the problem?” She was eager to fix this. She was eager to make this work, whatever it was. They’d flown everyone over to Tokyo. They’d come this far.

But Taylor was shivery with rage. She needed to make them all understand.

“We wouldn’t be here without me,” she said.

“We all would be here,” David said, moving his finger in a dramatic circle.

“But in the place of you would be some other washed-up actress. Maybe Margorie Malallen or Rhonda Sikes or Paula Bern. It would be some other previously beloved television actress who couldn’t make it in the big leagues.

We’re riding the coattails of nostalgia, baby.

Don’t pretend you’re not along for that very same ride. ”

Taylor gaped at him, aghast. The assistant director looked like she might faint.

Finally, Taylor looked at the assistant director and said, “I think he should be asked to leave set?”

Taylor could feel all pairs of eyes on her, watching her spiral.

She knew she needed to pull it together.

She knew she needed to go to her private room, take a bath, and call Jason.

She imagined what Jason would say: Honey, these people can’t understand what you’ve been through.

Honey, they’re just ants on our journey.

She tried to smile about that, but it felt false.

And Jason’s voice felt at a great distance, even in her imagination.

And then, David the scriptwriter exploded with rage.

“They said you were difficult to work with. They said you were delusional,” he said.

“But I can’t sit by and watch you waste our time.

Is this script the next Godfather? Is it Dog Day Afternoon?

Absolutely not. Is it going to help me feed my children back in Los Angeles?

Yes. That’s all that matters to me. Now, I know you don’t have a lot to care about.

I know you never had children, and I know you had a messed-up career and childhood.

I know your husband cheats on you and cheats on you and cheats on you, and I know you refuse to acknowledge it. ”

At this, Taylor’s jaw went slack. David continued his barrage, but Taylor could no longer hear him.

Your husband cheats on you and cheats on you.

What did he mean? Jason had never cheated on her.

Taylor and Jason were one of Hollywood’s most beloved couples.

He wouldn’t do that to her, not after everything she’d been through, not after everything they’d been through together. He wouldn’t embarrass her like that.

Stanley looked stricken, his face gray. The assistant director couldn’t look at her any longer, and many on-set people were muttering to one another. Taylor knew she had to stand up for herself.

“I don’t know why you’d disrespect me like that,” Taylor said to David.

“About what? About your career? About your talent?” David looked haughty. “Oh, don’t tell me it’s about Jason? Come on. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Taylor filled her lungs. “I’m going to leave the set now. Let me know when your scriptwriter gets a grip,” she said, turning on her heel and marching past the camera.

Taylor continued, her chin held high, past the hair and makeup artists who’d worked on her all morning, past the interns who’d fetched coffee and tried to make things comfortable, past the assistant directors and the caterers, all the way to the door.

Once she got outside, she filled her lungs with the most humid air imaginable, air that was difficult to breathe, and told herself not to burst into tears.

“We’ll fix this,” she said to herself, feeling half insane. She fished her phone from her pocket, ready to dial her agent or her manager or whoever was still awake back in Los Angeles. Somebody, somewhere had to make all this go away. This couldn’t be the end of all things.