The Actor and the Housewife

  • A Room with a View, when Julian Sands rushes upon Helena Bonham Carter in the meadow, seizes her, and kisses her without a word. Loosen my corset so I can breathe.

  • It’s a Wonderful Life, while they’re trying to converse with that other guy on the phone, all the while staring at each other, touching, trying to ignore the heat building up between them. Talk about a smoking hot first kiss!

  • Rattled Cages, of course. Let that umbrella fall away—a kiss so tender, so passionate, they didn’t even feel the rain.

  Becky watched those kissing scenes again and again, studied the techniques, analyzed what changed them from nasty germ-fest into weak-knees splendor.

  She kept notes:

  • No tongue.

  • No lip sucking.

  • Mouths shouldn’t be open wide unless it’s a hugely dramatic, desperate kiss.

  • Hands are very important. Too much touching can take focus away from the kiss itself. Around waist and back is good, or on neck and face. For hesitant kisses, hands on chest, as if half pushing away, or held up and not touching the other person at all.

  • Hungry kisses are yummy.

  • Sweet, slow kisses are a relief to watch.

  • To be powerful, a kiss should make a journey, be its own story—begin with hesitation, move to realization, then melt into bliss.

  The night before D-day, Becky put Uncle Ryan in charge, pulled Mike behind a locked bedroom door, and showed him her collection of quintessential kisses. Then she practiced on him.

  It was an odd exercise. She and Mike had kissed so many times over so many years, they’d fallen into a pattern that felt absolute. So instead of approaching each other with noses to the right, they tilted heads the other way. They tried the old fashioned movie kisses, long moments of lips stuck together with no movement. They pretended it was their first kiss, hearts jackhammering, unsure where to put their hands. They mimicked a sudden rush of passion to see what that does to lips, then followed with a kiss that was a kind of dance, one person leading, the other following, lips moving together. Mike started laughing, the laughter made him seem all the more toothsome, and they got sidetracked into some marital good times. So when Becky reported on set the next day, she was feeling a little tired.

  Still, she looked pretty good, maybe her best yet. In this scene more than any other, wardrobe wanted her stunning. She wore an amber silk turtleneck, the color bringing out the more interesting tones in her eyes (and under that . . . ah, the wonders of the right bra!). Her skirt was long and flowy, somehow managing to look casual but in reality a dry-clean-only number. And she wore knee-high brown boots, the heels giving her a lift so Felix wouldn’t have to bend down in the kiss. Her hair was flipped out and sassy, and her makeup superheavy and yet natural. Feeling nice helped calm her squeamish middle, and she’d almost convinced herself she was fine—until she started to mess up her lines.

  “You do look a little dreary,” Becky/Hattie said.

  The script girl called out the correction, “You do look a little dreamy.”

  “Dreamy? Who wrote these lines?”

  There was some polite laughter from the crew, and Felix said, “That’ll make it on the DVD extras.”

  She smiled at him and realized with an achy jolt that fear of messing up the kiss wasn’t the only problem. Could she admit it? She tried to recognize the problem slightly, just squint at it, not look at it straight-on. (The other issue was Felix. She was kissing Felix. Her best friend.) The ice pixies in her belly began to perform a full-blown Capades.

  She wished Mike were there; his grounding presence would make everything seem okay. But he’d had a conference call he couldn’t miss.

  Diana was wrong. Becky knew she was in no danger of unlocking some buried desire for Felix. And ever since Mike had said, “I’m having a hard time,” she’d tried to take such care, check in with herself, maintain a balance. She hadn’t kissed anyone else since falling for Mike eighteen years ago. Could she even do it?

  After they filmed the dialogue leading to the kiss, Wally called a break to reset the cameras. Becky caught her face reflected in a window and scowled.

  This won’t do at all, she told herself. I look way too cute to waste this moment on fretting. I need a plan of action.

  Felix was standing still while Livie, his makeup artist, touched up his eyes. He winked at Becky and asked, “You ready to snog?”

  “You For that alone, she would make him pay.

  “Lorraine,” she said, hustling over to her craft services friend. Becky had often thought, let others kiss up to the director or the producers—I say, get a friend in craft services and you’re a made woman.

  “Lorraine, what do you have on hand that’s terrifically stinky? In the next scene I’m supposed to kiss Felix.”

  Lorraine bounced with joy as she rummaged through her fridge. “Ah-ha! Minced garlic.”

  “You’re a genius. Smear some of that on a cracker, will you? A lot of it. On second thought, just give me a spoon.”

  Becky fed herself a couple of teaspoons of minced garlic and bit off the bulb of a green onion for good measure. It made her eyes water and her saliva glands protest, but it would do the trick.

  Creepy Barb was waiting on set while the electricians adjusted the lights. She looked at Becky with her active eye while her lazy eye slid away. Becky shivered.

  At last Becky and Felix stepped up to rehearse the blocking for that scene while someone marked the floor with tape. They didn’t rehearse the kiss, just stood close and faked it, smooching the air dramatically. Becky made sure not to breathe on Felix.

  “Okay, let’s do it for real,” Wally said.

  “Quiet on set!” the assistant director shouted.

  The bell rang, then everything hushed. Becky’s stomach performed a 360-degree flip.

  She’d heard the crew give those same wind-up phrases dozens of times that summer, but there was something frightening about them now, a doomsday countdown to the point of no return.

  “Roll it.”

  “Rolling.”

  “Speed.”

  “Forty-one, take one.”

  “Action.”

  Felix put his hands on her shoulders. She tipped her face up to his. She ignored her nervous belly, thoughts of George Clooney and Michelle Pfeiffer, and worries of slobbery messy kisses. She pretended not to know that when you write a romantic movie that culminates in a kiss, it must be a good one, had better sum up the entire story, wrap it with a bow and sell it to the audience as a thing of beauty. She disregarded memories of Calvin the sexy pet shop owner kissing wild child Katie in the rain. All she thought was garlic, garlic, garlic.

  His lips touched hers. He winced and pulled back, making a gagging noise.

  “Whoops, I may have had a little garlic for lunch.”

  The sound mixer called for a check, pausing to adjust levels.

  “Two can play this game. Wally, give me a click?” Felix jogged over to craft services. Becky heard Lorraine laugh.

  They set up the scene again. The anticipation was incredible, props people clutching their props, grips gripping things. Becky gave her lead-in line, Felix responded. Then he put his hand on the back of her head and slowly leaned in for a kiss.

  She tried to kiss him. She felt bad for the crew waiting while they fooled around. If only she hadn’t breathed in through her nose.

  “It’s like . . .” She coughed. “It’s like kissing a herring. A . . . pickled herring, was it?”

  “I did have some for lunch.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And when you imagined kissing me, there was no herring flavor about?”

  She considered. “I guess I thought it’d be more like bass or cod.”

  “One of your larger sea fish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wonder what’s worse, kissing a fish or an Italian buff et.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Lunch was pretty garlic-intensive. Was it a mood killer, do you think?” br />
  “Just a tad.”

  “Hm.”

  “Yes.”

  The crew was snickering. The director yelled, “Cut.”

  “This is good, surprisingly,” Wally said. “We just might keep this.”

  Felix blinked. “Really?”

  “Yeah . . . What if right here we cut to you two in the bathroom, both brushing your teeth and your tongues? Then you’ll come back to the balcony again. And take it from there, as if you’ve both just freshened up and are ready to try the kiss for real.”

  “So, Wally, we don’t actually get to freshen up before the next take?”

  “We’re rolling, Felix.”

  “Right. We just won’t breathe in through our noses.”

  Felix took Becky’s hands. He smiled at her, that warm smile that made her feel snug at home. “Shall we try this again?”

  She nodded. Her heart was drumming so loudly she wondered why the sound guy didn’t ask for a break to readjust the microphone levels. She was going to have to kiss Felix. For real. Could she do this? Really do this? The cameras and all these people watching, waiting, the money and time and equipment, and Felix himself. He was a professional. He could do this. But could she?

  You have to act now. Right now, Becky.

  Felix brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth. He looked at her, into her eyes, his gaze so delicious, his whole being exuding a palpable love.

  Man, he was good at this.

  Suddenly she wasn’t Becky with her best friend. She was the fantasy version of herself, magically transported into a romantic moment, the kind that would make her sigh on the edge of her movie theater seat. She was with a drool-able gorgeous man who was looking at her as if she was the most beautiful being in the world. As if he wanted her.

  He moved in closer. Slowly. Her breath trembled, her leg bones considered liquefying. She closed her eyes. A wave of panic washed over her, and she scrambled for something safe to grab, anything to survive the moment—she imagined she was with Mike. It was Mike’s hand on her face, on her waist. It was Mike who pulled her closer, whose lips touched hers. And she kissed Mike, the man who stole her heart at age twenty-one. The man who raised four children with her, who cleaned up her morning-sickness mess off the bathroom floor, who washed her car after rainstorms, who knew her every look, who loved her so powerfully he never had to say it and yet he did anyway, every day, in a dozen different ways.

  These lips on hers didn’t feel like Mike’s—they were unfamiliar, slower, soft in a different way.

  We’re playacting, Becky thought. We’re in our bedroom, trying a new way of kissing.

  She could do that. She kissed him back.

  It was so easy to kiss Mike and mean it. She was in love with Mike. She loved his touch and smell and mind and laugh. Eyes closed, she put her hands on Mike’s face and let the kiss become more passionate, telling him with her affection how much she loved him, how much she wanted to be with him forever. The kiss was as rich as a black-and-white movie, but she ached for more. Her hand went into his hair, his hands were on her back, pulling her in closer.

  “Now pull back,” Wally whispered, “and look at each other.”

  Becky opened her eyes and saw Felix before her. He was smiling, his eyes a little wet. Her own felt the same, and when she blinked, a tear dropped to her cheek. She took a breath. She felt shaky.

  He’s Lionel, remember? You’re Hattie. Be Hattie now.

  She smiled, then laughed with joy, sure at last that this man, Lionel, though impossible, was truly hers.

  “And . . . cut!”

  Felix and Becky both exhaled relief at the same time, right into each other’s faces, then turned away to cough at the stench. The crew laughed.

  “Did we get it, Wally?” Felix asked.

  Wally wanted them to do it two more times, making it a little more hesitant at first, stopping to look at each other, then falling in deep. She wasn’t able to spark a tear as she had the first time, but the kissing wasn’t as hard as she feared. Becky found the fl ow: eyes closed pretending it was Mike, eyes opened remembering to be Hattie. Felix was professional, respectful, guiding her through it, never taunting or teasing. Even so, her stomach wrenched as if she’d been on a roller coaster for an hour, forever climbing impossibly high slopes, then falling so fast her breath was torn out of her. She sighed with relief when Wally called for a break while he reviewed the tape.

  Felix put his arm around Becky’s shoulders and led her to her chair. One of the production assistants was standing within earshot. Felix glared at him until he scooted away.

  Felix leaned in close to speak. “You all right?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not used to kissing anyone but Mike.”

  “I know. I was worried for you, but you did great. Really great.”

  “Thanks, you’re sweet.” She knocked him gently with her shoulder. “I’ll admit, I was scared.”

  “No more pretending you’re not a real actress, I’m afraid, because you were acting up a storm just now.”

  “No, I just tricked myself. When I closed my eyes, I pretended that you were Mike, and I was okay.”

  “You pretended I was Mike?”

  “Yeah. It seemed the easiest way to get through it. That’s probably cheating. I should’ve been channeling the Hattie character the whole time, not pretending I was Becky with Mike. Or maybe that’s a trick you real actors know. Do you always pretend you’re with Celeste?”

  Cynthia came to touch up Becky’s lipstick and Felix didn’t respond.

  “Looked great, guys,” Wally said, squatting before them. “That’s going to be a gorgeous closing for the movie. We’re lighting the bathroom now for the toothbrushing scene and then we’ll wrap you two for the night.”

  “Wow, an early night! What a treat.” Becky closed her eyes as Cynthia brushed on eye shadow. “You want to come over for dinner, Felix? Fiona is taking a turn cooking tonight. Should be adventurous. She’s so—”

  “Um . . .” Cynthia said. “Becky? Felix isn’t here anymore.”

  Becky opened her eyes. No sign of the man. “The trickster. I owe him one for that.”

  “I know a guy who could rent you a llama,” Cynthia said.

  When Becky met Felix in the bathroom for the toothbrushing take, he wasn’t in a teasing mood, and she ended up not asking him to dinner after all. For the best. Fiona had experimented: avocado lasagna and spaghetti squash salad. She called it “California cuisine.” Hyrum called it “inedible.” Becky couldn’t scold him—he’d aptly applied a four-point vocabulary word. Becky and Mike praised Fiona, then after the kids had gone to bed, sneaked bowls of cold cereal and ate it in the bedroom with the lights out.

  “I was thinking about you a lot today,” Becky said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mm hm.”

  “Does that mean I’m going to get lucky two days in a row?”

  “Just let me finish my Raisin Bran.”

  In which Becky gets fancy and Felix is an alien lawman

  After a couple more weeks of filming, Wally announced, “That’s a wrap, people!”

  There was cheering. Felix hugged Becky, which was nice because he’d been acting a little distant. Wally hadn’t called her on set as screenwriter as much lately. She’d only had a couple more scenes with Felix, and he hadn’t spent any time at the Jack House o’ Fun. Despite the tiny nag of worry, Becky had been glad. She’d had a chance to dive back into family, roll around in the hot joy of summer and freedom.

  Mike decided to attend the wrap party at Wally’s house, and he and Becky found a way to waltz or two-step or fox-trot to any music the DJ could play. After a while Mike went off with Wally to check out his in-house movie theater, and she and Felix danced. No waltz this time, but an incredibly silly cha-cha that kept Becky laughing through the entire song. If Becky were the type to gloat about her own good fortune, she would have looked around the room and counted all the women of the crew and cast (and a couple of the men) w
ho stared at her with Felix, exuding palpable envy. As it was, she just barely glanced—and she certainly didn’t count.

  “I missed you,” she said.

  Felix folded her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I have been a wanker lately, haven’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far—I have a feeling that’s a dirty word. But I worried you were avoiding me because you were humiliated by my acting.”

  “No! I’m so proud I’m puff ed up and crowing. I was just knackered, the end of shoot and all. Now you’ve seen me at my worst.”

  “Hardly. Your worst is the way you eat breakfast. Any time sausage is involved, your table manners are appalling.”

  “Can I be blamed? That mix of meat and spice is an intoxicating concoction, but banger skin is not to be borne. Surgery must be performed.”

  “Hello, Mr. Callahan. Hello, Ms. Jack,” said Scott/Buddy the busboy, pleasant but eager to pass out of their line of sight.

  Felix twirled her around, out and back in, and then dipped her to the rhythm of “Mony Mony.” When he pulled her back up, she couldn’t hide her watery eyes.

  “Hold on,” he said, tipping her chin up. “What’s all this about?”

  “This song always gets to me. It’s just so beautiful.”

  He stared. She poked him in the ribs.

  “It’s ‘Mony Mony’ not The Messiah.”

  “I never know with you.”

  “I’m just sentimental. It’s been bordering on spectacular to be with you so much, and now—”

  “Don’t sign my death certificate yet. We’ll have a break, and then there’s bound to be some reshooting and looping before the parade of publicity begins.”

  She’d forgotten about that. But Karen the producer hadn’t. She was obvious in the crowd, wearing a black pant suit, her pale skin and strawberry blonde hair practically glowing in contrast. As soon as Becky waved to her, Karen pulled her aside.

  “Becky, I don’t want this to be awkward,” she said, thereby making it nothing but awkward, “but some of the others are worried about you . . . well, about your wardrobe. You should, you might want to . . . why don’t you go shopping and get yourself a dress for the premiere? And a wardrobe for press junkets and talk shows? It’s looking like there will be a couple of talk shows, and it’d be nice if—”