Love on the Sound Read online

  She never thanked him for the flowers.

  The grief sliced into her, and she bent double, her breath tearing out of her in sobs so violent that she felt like retching. Her knees gave out, and she lay on the cold bathroom tile, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around herself and cried, until her face burned and her throat was scraped raw, her stomach heaving. She lay there, her head pillowed on her arm, tears leaking out of her eyes and wished the world would stop, right now, right here, and that she could just fall off the edge, into nothingness. When the first edges of dawn crept in through the cracks in the sunny yellow bathroom window curtains, she was still lying there, wishing with all her heart that another day wasn’t beginning.

  Chapter 2

  Normally, Ben Morrison would have bitched and moaned at the 5:30 a.m. interview his publicist had secured for him on the early morning network show, seeing as how it meant he had to be at the studio at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. for hair and makeup. But, today, he’d eagerly waited for the sun to come up. He sat poised and prepared, making small talk with the host as the crew bustled around them, putting the finishing touches on the lighting, making minute adjustments to their clothes. The host, her hair artfully styled and sprayed to the point that Ben believed nothing short of a tornado could disturb it, was rumored to be a real bitch off camera in contrast to her on-air perky, former high school cheerleader persona, but he worked his charm on her, making sure to flash his lopsided dimpled grin often. Women loved dimples. Sure enough, she had stopped looking through her notes and laughed at his jokes.

  “And we’re on in five…four…three….” The harried assistant director clutched her clipboard in one hand and held up the other two fingers, then one. The red lights of the cameras blinked on.

  “We’re back, and my guest this morning is one of the actors to watch in Hollywood these days, Ben Morrison, whose latest film, New Americans, premieres today. Rumor is that a certain gentleman by the name of Oscar may pay Ben a visit for his powerful role as turn of the century immigrant Sam O’Donnell struggling to make a life in America. Let’s take a sneak peek.”

  Even though he’d seen the clip countless times on the other promos that he’d done, Ben still felt his pulse kick from a shot of adrenaline. There he was on the monitor, sharing screen time with the legendary Clint Eastwood playing his father and Brad Pitt as his brother, in an intense family argument. And, just off camera, director Martin Scorsese sat in the director’s chair. Scorsese, for Christ’s sake!

  Ben smiled when the clip came to an end, and the studio audience applauded enthusiastically.

  “A very powerful performance,” enthused the host, beaming her million dollar smile. “Tell me, what was it like to go from playing a golf caddy on the Farrelly brother’s Nine Iron…a bit, shall we say, lighter fare…to working with Martin Scorsese?”

  “Of course, it’s every actor’s dream to work with Scorsese.” Ben leaned back in his seat and rested his ankle on his knee. “He challenges you, brings out the best in the actors he works with. And working with Brad Pitt and Kate Winslet…well, they’re just learning the ropes of this whole acting thing, you know, so I was happy to show them a thing or two,” he deadpanned, pausing to let the audience and his host chuckle. “No, really, obviously, I learned a huge amount from working with them as well. Not that I didn’t enjoy working on Nine Iron. Comedy is actually very difficult, and the Farrellys are genius at timing. But, this role stretched me in a new direction.”

  “It’s coming up on Oscar season, and there’s no doubt the film will be a shoo in for Best Picture,” the host noted. “But, I hear talk that you may garner a Best Supporting Actor nomination as well.”

  Ben shook his head and tried to look rueful, even though what he really wanted to do was jump up and down with glee. “I’ll believe it when I hear it announced,” he said. “I do hope that the film gets nominated for Best Picture. It’s an amazing movie, and the fact that it’s based on the true story of the O’Donnell family makes it even more moving.”

  “So, Ben, what’s next for you?”

  “I’ll be heading off to South America in a few weeks to begin filming the sequel to Hidden Enemies,” he announced, referring to the blockbuster movie that catapulted him, and his CIA-agent character, North Laue, to overnight fame. Of course, he’d been around Hollywood for seven years before that, but the media liked to refer to his success as instant.

  Just when he was starting to sweat a bit under his shirt from the hot glare of the studio lights, the interview came to a close. Ben said his goodbyes, made sure to shake the hands of the crew members that had miked him and thanked the hair and makeup artists. Hollywood was a small town, and the crew and makeup people were the first to notice if you were an asshole. He’d toiled too long as a bit player not to notice all the work they did behind the scenes and always made sure to let them know it.

  Outside, it was a bright and sunny fall day in L.A., with a nice breeze to dissipate the smog. He jumped into his sporty red Porsche, which was a recent impulse purchase he’d made while spending a day hanging with a few new friends he’d met at a party. He normally wasn’t huge into the big, obvious status symbols, but what the hell. They’d talked him into it and he could afford it now, couldn’t he? Plus, it was wickedly fun to drive.

  Several bystanders pointed and waved as he idled at a stoplight on his way to his agent’s office. Ben flashed them a grin and waved back. He’d gotten recognized off and on for years, ever since he got his first break at age 24, playing a supporting role on a hugely popular forensic crime drama on network television. His role had expanded during the three years he’d been on the show, and he’d also haunted the writer’s room, where he learned the craft of timing, pacing and snappy dialogue. Soon, like so many others in Hollywood, he was working on a script of his own. He partnered with one of the show’s writers who helped him fine tune the story and timing. During the show’s hiatus, the two of them shopped the script around town. The writer was respected, with lots of connections, and Ben had the charm and energy to spare. An independent studio funded the project, with Ben in the starring role. It was just a little art house flick, but it soon developed a cult following.

  A few more indie films later, he auditioned for the role of North Laue. The director hadn’t wanted a big name, someone who audiences were used to seeing. And, he wanted the hero to have an edge, traveling a very fine line between lawful and out of control. Ben had the look of a movie star—broad shouldered frame, short, dark blonde hair and deep blue eyes, but his nose was slightly crooked. He usually went without shaving and a small, jagged scar sliced through his cheekbone. Reporters compared him to a rougher, less polished Brad Pitt. Which, Ben thought, had undoubtedly been a big factor in landing the role in New Americans as Brad’s brother.

  At the time he’d filmed Hidden Enemies, he knew the movie would be good. The plot was strong, the characters well written, and it was entertaining. He just had no idea how audiences would eat it up. The director had pulled him aside one day close to the end of filming and told him to brace himself, because he was about to become an international star. Ben had laughed it off, only to realize a few months later when the movie premiered, that holy shit, he was right.

  He’d filmed his next two movies on location with hardly any break between, so he hadn’t really had a chance to enjoy his newfound fame until now, when he had four months until he headed off to South America. The recognition he’d gotten in the past was nothing compared to now. Before, he’d get recognized once, maybe twice a week. Now, it was every day…and everywhere he went. Driving down the street, dining at a restaurant, shopping at the grocery store—fans constantly sought his autograph and wanted to take a picture with him. Not bad for a poor kid from Long Island.

  It was great, Ben thought as he pulled into a spot in front of Artie’s building. Surreal, but really, truly, insanely great.

  Artie Arnett had been his agent since he first came out to California seven years ago. Formerly an ag
ent with Creative Artists Agency, he’d branched out with his own firm, which he’d expanded to include 11 other agents. The office took up the third floor in a modest five-story building and was just like any other generic office, with cubicles, a conference room, and one office that belonged to Artie. It was a far cry from a lot of other agents’ offices, where the décor leaned towards slick and splashy, usually lots of sleek hardwoods, recessed lighting, fountains and vibrant colors. Lately, it had uneasily occurred to Ben that he was Artie’s biggest client.

  “Hey, hon, how’s things?” Melinda, the sixty-something receptionist, who was fond of dying her steel gray hair a shade of vibrant blonde unknown to nature, waved her hand, long, fake nails painted an eye-popping magenta, towards the back of the office. “He’s here; go on back.”

  Ben thanked her and wove his way through the cubicle maze to Artie’s office. As usual, the door was open, and Artie was booming into the phone, his legs propped up on one of the stack of papers that covered his entire scarred wooden desk. He waved Ben in, and Ben took his usual seat in the visitor’s chair.

  “Look, Cherisse, you know I’m not going to shovel you a bunch of shit, okay? The part is a Southern belle, a delicate flower, and you’re a native New Jersey tough girl. Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, acting, I’ve heard of it.” Artie rolled his expressive brown eyes at Ben.

  Edging up into his fifties, Artie’s brown hair was thinning on top and what was left was rapidly going gray. He’d developed a bit of a belly, and he’d never been what you’d call a sharp dresser, mostly tending towards plain khaki pants and solid, long sleeve shirts that might contain remnants from his lunch. However deceiving his appearance, the man had a good eye for scripts, and he’d fight for his clients—after raking them through the coals first. He specialized in brutal honesty, which, Ben thought wryly, was steaming full speed ahead at the moment.

  “The truth is, you’re just not right for the part. I can get you an audition, but you won’t get the part, and then I’ll have recommended someone who clearly wasn’t right for the part, and I lose respect from the casting director. Now, the part of Marlene—did you read that one? Well, read it again, and don’t call me back until you do. Okay? Go finish being mad at me, and we’ll talk later.”

  Artie set down the phone and sighed. “I swear, they get younger and stupider every year.”

  “Did you say that about me when I started out?” Ben wanted to know.

  “You’re still stupid, just not as young anymore.” Artie swung his feet off the desk and rested his hands on his belly.

  “Ouch. That hurt.”

  “I hope so. Let me elaborate.” He sat up and scooted his chair in, placing his hands in front of him. “I heard about you visiting with Carson. That’s why you’re stupid. The young part, I can’t help you with.”

  Shit. Ben shifted in his seat. “Look, Artie, he kept calling me and asking me to have lunch. I finally gave in. No harm, right?”

  His agent regarded him with clear brown eyes that didn’t miss a thing. “There’d be no harm, except that you already have representation. With me. Or, have you forgotten?”

  “Of course not. I just…wanted to explore my options, that’s all. Everything’s changed so much. I just…” Ben trailed off and fidgeted, wondering if he could possibly feel any more awkward.

  “You were wondering if old Artie could handle it. Now that you’re hearing the siren call of Oscar. Now that you’re a big superstar. You’re driving a fancy Porsche, and you want a fancy new agent to go with it, is that it? Mike, he’s a slick one, I’ll give him that. You want style, he’s got it in spades. You want substance, you’ll stick with me. Who’s the one that got you the role of North Laue in the first place?”

  “I think I had something to do with it,” Ben retorted, irritated and embarrassed that he could be read so clearly.

  Artie snorted. “Yeah, your name just magically appeared in the director’s head, even though he’d never heard of you before, because he doesn’t fucking watch TV. It was whispered in the wind; it came to him in a dream. Who do you think called him seven times a day telling him that he just had to see this kid, Ben Morrison?”

  Ben sighed. “You did. Look, Artie, I’ll always owe you for all you’ve done for me—”

  “No,” Artie cut him off with a vigorous shake of his head. “You don’t owe me for doing my damn job and doing it well.” He leaned forward again, and his expression softened. “Listen, it’s practically a rite of passage for actors—they hit it big, and boom, time for a new agent. I know that. You know that. I like you, Ben. I really do. I’m not just saying that to be polite.”

  “Hold the phone. You can be polite? I would like to see that. I might even pay money.”

  “Smart ass.” Artie grinned. “Here’s the deal. I care about you, Ben. I care about your career. Guys like Mike, they’ve got dozens of other clients. You become a brand, a commodity, and unless you’re very smart and very sure of yourself, you get pushed through their machine until you’re no different from any other pretty boy actor out there.”

  “So first I’m stupid—which you’ve pointed out twice—and now I also don’t know what I want? That’s bullshit.”

  “No, it’s not. You think you know what you want—fame, the big movies, all of that. But you’re in a tricky area right now. Everyone is watching you to see where you’ll go next. Are you going to become one of those dime a dozen young actors who’ll star in a few more big movies and then fade away? Or, are you going to build an interesting, challenging career by making some risky choices?”

  Ben pushed a hand through his hair and got up to pace across the small office. “This is about Days of Consequence, isn’t it? Artie, that just isn’t right for me. The character’s too hard, too unlikable. And, the script is all over the place. Not to mention, the director’s an egomaniac.”

  “Kid, this is one of your flaws. You look at the script with the eyes of a writer—and yeah, you’re right. The script is shit. But, it can be fixed. You know that. Maybe, it can even be fixed by you. Ever thought of that?” Artie aimed a look at him. “It’s not often I have clients like you, who are talented not only in front of the camera but off. You can handle the director. And, I’m telling you, you want an Oscar—you have it with this character. I haven’t felt this good about a character in years.”

  “They didn’t even offer me a million,” Ben pointed out. “Even at that, it wouldn’t be close to what I’m making.”

  “I can get them to a million,” Artie promised. “But that’s as far as I’ll be able to push them.” He arched a bushy brow at Ben. “I remember when a million was nothing but a pipe dream for you. It’s still nothing to sneeze at. And, have you forgotten, the more you get paid, the more I get paid? You think I would recommend a pay cut for myself if I didn’t think it was worthwhile?”

  “But, if I take the lower offer, word spreads. Then-”

  “Then everyone knows you’ll work for less, and you won’t get the big bucks?” Artie finished. “Isn’t that right? That’s what you heard from Mikey boy. It’s an art house film. You’ll be billed as taking a cut in pay as a sacrifice to your art because you aren’t just another pretty boy action star.”

  God, it was irritating how well Artie read him. And, the hell of it was, he might be right. Or, maybe he just couldn’t get the big offers because he wasn’t a big enough player, as Mike Carson had insinuated. He felt like a shitbag even thinking that about Artie when the guy had seen him through from the beginning, but as Carson had pointed out, business was business. The adrenaline rush he’d felt earlier during his interview had curdled into a ball of tension, right in the middle of his stomach.

  Artie glanced at his watch. “Look, you’ve got an interview with Entertainment Weekly in an hour, and then you’ll want to get ready for the big premiere. I’ll see you there. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

  Some of the tension dissipated. It was a temporary reprieve, Ben knew. He had a decision to make, and he had
to make it soon. He resisted the urge to ask Artie if he was mad—barely. He had to remain in charge, in control. It’s not like it was personal. Still, as he walked out of the tiny office, he couldn’t help but look back. Artie was tilted back in his chair, drumming his thick fingers on the desk, looking out the window, face unreadable.

  Ben squared his shoulders and kept walking.

  ***

  The late afternoon L.A. sun beat down on the limo as it crept down the street to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Crowds of people lined the sidewalks behind wooden barriers, waving and craning their necks as the procession of limos inched up to the red carpet. Ben was two limos back from the front of the line, and he peered out from behind the tinted glass of his window. He could just barely make out the diminutive figure of Martin Scorsese as he got out of the limo and started making his way down the red carpet, flashbulbs popping. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, he knew, were probably in the next limo.

  Ben had his pick of willing and able dates who would have come with him tonight, but he wanted to savor the moment on his own. Later, at one of the parties, maybe he’d find some curvy blonde to help him celebrate. With a grin, he pulled out his phone and sent a text to his two childhood buddies. “In limo watching Scorsese. Am now too cool to be your friend.”

  He missed Lucas and Steve, although that was all he missed about his dismal childhood growing up in New York. Lucas, the tallest of the three at 6’5”, lean, with dark hair already liberally sprinkled with gray, had stayed in New York, and become a CPA. His clients loved his acidic humor and tendency towards somewhat painful honesty. He was, Ben realized, a bit like Artie in the honesty department. Steve was a laid back professor of English at Boston University, whose love of practical jokes was constantly inflicted upon his students. After a few minutes of his limo continuing to inch forward, Ben’s phone beeped. “Fuck,” was all Lucas’ message said. Seconds later, his phone beeped again. “You,” read Steve’s text. Ben laughed.