Ava Comes Home (2 page)

Out of the corner of her eye she saw her neighbour, a studio producer, out for an early morning walk with his dog Muffin. She waved at them.

“Any news?” he shouted at her.

“No.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Muffin and I voted for you.” “You're both very sweet. And just for that I'll…”

The phone rang.

“Oh my god, the phone!” She tripped over a large planter in her haste to get back inside and nearly fell headlong over the threshold. By the time she scrambled upright, the phone had rung three times. She made a dive for it, landing on the bed.

“Yes, hello?!”

It was her agent, Trent Osgood. “You did it, babe! It's official. Ava Harris is nominated for Best Supporting Actress at this year's Academy Awards!”

Ava's mouth dropped open.

“Are you there?”

She nodded.

“Ava?”

“Sorry, yes I'm here,” she whispered.

“This is it, Ava. Your life is about to become a whirlwind of promotions, television interviews, and photo sessions, not to mention having to decide who to wear on the red carpet! I was thinking Olivier…”

Trent continued to talk a mile a minute and Ava tried to comment a couple of times, but it was no use, so after a while she tuned him out, content to stare at the ceiling and let it sink in. She eventually realized the strange noise coming from the phone was Trent whistling into it, trying to get her attention.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

“Ava, this goddamn habit of zoning out drives me up the wall. It's imperative that you cooperate with me. For the next month we are on a runaway publicity train. You have no idea what you're in for. I need you to be prepared.”

She sighed. “Can you give me five minutes to enjoy this before I hop on?”

“Fine, all right. I'll call you in a couple of hours. I have some people to track down anyway.”

“You're calling people at six in the morning?”

“Do you honestly think anyone who's anyone in Hollywood is still asleep? Which reminds me, I better put in a call to Variety. I want your photo front and centre in that magazine. I should also give the major studios a call and see if we can't book you on the talk show circuit.”

He hung up without so much as a goodbye.

She looked around her beautifully decorated bedroom, everything in shades of white, off-white, and cream. Only the month before, Fashion Out Front Magazine did a spread featuring her beach house entitled, “Fit for a Hollywood Princess.”

And her bedroom was perfect. It was just too bad there was no one in it to share her good news.

The phone rang, which made her jump. She picked it up. “Hello?” It was Lola. “Have you heard anything? I've been up all night. You'd think they'd put us out of our misery by announcing the blasted nominees at a half-decent hour, or why not in the evening? Then everyone could get drunk and go to bed. Now don't be upset if they didn't call. You have a long career ahead of you. This is only the beginning.”

“Nah, I think I'll pack it in. If they don't recognize talent when they see it, that's their tough luck. I'm bored with all this nonsense.”

There was silence for a good five seconds on the other end of the phone. “You know, the scary part is that I think you're serious. You say it often enough to really mean it.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, I'm not aware of it. Now I wish you'd pipe down and help me decide something. Should I wear Olivier or Lee Kim?”

Lola screamed, nearly blowing out Ava's eardrum.

Once the morning news shows broadcast the Oscar picks, the phone never stopped ringing. Her favourite people in the world besides Lola were the next to call. Maurice, her hair and makeup man, a genius in both departments, and Harold, her stylist. They were a couple who insisted on talking over each other every time they phoned. Ava was used to the rapid repartee. It always made her smile.

“Honey child,” Maurice burbled, “With Harold at the helm, the Best Dressed list will have your name at the very top or my name isn't Morris Ginsberg.”

“Your name is Morris?” Ava laughed.

“Not anymore.”

“Harold, Lola thinks I should wear Lee Kim but Trent thinks Olivier. What do you think?”

“You're going to take fashion advice from a spiky-haired wing nut and a guy who wears blue socks with a brown suit?” Harold ended on a high note.

“Maybe.”

“Kill me now!”

“Oh, do hush, sweetheart,” Maurice soothed. “She's joking.”

“It's not funny.”

“Sorry,” Ava laughed. “Do you still love me?”

“Endlessly,” Harold declared.

“There's only one fly in the ointment,” Maurice said.

“What's that?” Ava asked.

“It's just your luck that Scott was nominated for Best Supporting Actor this year as well. Talk about ruining a great evening.”

“I'm not going to let the likes of him spoil my night.”

“That's our girl,” Harold cried.

Ava walked around the house that morning, the phone to her ear as she poured a glass of orange juice and scooped spoonfuls of plain fat-free yogurt out of a container and into a small bowl. The minute someone hung up, someone else called. At first it was exciting but after a couple of hours of it, she had a sore ear and a stiff neck.

She let the answering machine take the rest of the calls so she had some peace. She decided to shower. When she emerged from the bathroom, forty messages awaited. Did she know that many people? She played the messages back as she towel-dried her beautifully highlighted blonde hair.

She remembered as a young girl watching the Academy Awards with her sisters, but she was always sent to bed before the Best Actress or Best Actor was announced. Her mother insisted it was too late for her to stay up.

It still rankled that she was never allowed this one treat.

The phone rang yet again and she looked at the number display. It was long distance, area code 902. Her family. With her heart beating a little faster, Ava hesitated before picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Is it true?!” her sister Rose shouted in her ear. “Best Supporting Actress?”

“It's true,” Ava smiled. “Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can believe it! I went to see that movie seven times and cried my eyes out every time, and so did everyone else in the theatre.”

“Thanks, Rose…”

“Everyone here is so excited. The phone hasn't stopped ringing!”

“That's nice. Listen, while I have you on the phone, how's Ma? She never calls me.”

“You know she hates the phone. God knows why. Anyway, the sad truth is she's getting older, as are the rest of us. I find her slowing down lately, but I guess that's to be expected. Is there any chance you can come home soon for a visit?”

That question. Always that question.

“Rose, I can't come home right now…”

“You've been saying that for years. Ma misses you. We all do.”

“Don't. Please don't. The next four weeks will be nuts. My life is scheduled every hour on the hour. ”

“You're a big movie star. Are you telling me that you can't take one or two days off to come and visit?”

“That's what I'm telling you, so please drop it.”

“All right, all right, I'm sorry. Look, we just wanted you to know we're proud of you.”

“I know that.”

“Everyone sends their love.”

“I was going to call you.”

Rose ignored her. “So who are you going to take on the red carpet? Someone famous?”

“I'm not sure.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“I have no idea, Rose. I just found out a couple of hours ago.”

“Okay, okay, I better go. This is costing me. Love you.”

“And you. Tell everyone I love them too. And tell Ma…” Ava couldn't continue.

“I will. Take care, baby sister.”

Ava put down the receiver and sat on her bed staring at nothing. She didn't answer the phone after that and when it continued to ring, she reached over and pulled the cord right out of the wall. Then she crawled under the duvet and hid from the world for the rest of the morning.

Traffic was a nightmare.

“Why are we driving around in this tin can?” Ava's publicist Camilla Dove griped. Camilla always griped, which was a rather odd habit for a Hollywood publicist to have. But Ava liked her because she looked like the Sunday school teacher she had growing up in Cape Breton. Not that Camilla wore floral ankle-length dresses that tied at the back or hoot-owl glasses. Still, Camilla was the spitting image of Hughena MacIntyre and that always cheered Ava enormously.

“At least you're in the front seat,” Lola moaned from the back, her knees up around her chin. “What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment?”

They were stopped at a red light on San Vicente Boulevard in West Hollywood. Even with her sunglasses and ball cap on, the teenage boys in the next car recognized Ava. She ignored their increasingly ardent facial gestures by turning to her passengers. “Stop belly-aching, the both of you. I'm being environmentally friendly. Did you know that this hybrid Citroen C2 Hatchback has a 1.4 stop and start sensodrive?”

Camilla rifled through her appointment book. “Speak English.”

“I'm doing my bit to save the planet, but I still wish I could ride a bike.”

Camilla looked at her in horror. “And have the damn paparazzi sell Gossip News a picture of your butt hanging off the seat? I think not.”

“Gee, thanks. Is my bottom that large?”

“I keep telling you,” Camilla sighed. “Wizard computer geeks can make your bum look as big as a house if they want to. You can avoid all that by not giving them the opportunity to see you in a compromising position.”

Lola snorted. “I thought that was reserved for late-night trysts in a hot tub with the pool boy.” She looked out the window. “Or maybe one of those idiot guys in the car beside us.”

“These days eating an ice cream cone in public is forbidden tutti frutti,” Camilla said.

“Good one,” Lola laughed.

“Look what those miserable photo hogs did to Julia Edwards,” Camilla continued.

“She beat them at their own game, didn't she?” Lola reminded her. “She's lost weight and looks fantastic. But then I always thought she looked fantastic, weight or no weight.”

The light changed and Ava crept forward. Luckily the car full of obnoxious boys was in the turning lane. As it disappeared from sight, she leaned over the steering wheel. “Speaking of food, I'm starving. Isn't The Lounge around here somewhere?”

“You're a genius. It's on Melrose,” Lola said. “Just a few blocks away.”

Camilla threw up her hands. “How am I supposed to work under these conditions? I could be riding in a limo with a television, a laptop, and a fax machine, but instead I'm being held hostage in a bird cage with a hungry client and a no-good hungry assistant. Have you two any idea what walking the red carpet means? Today alone, I've set up appointments with two stylists, not to mention a scheduled pit stop at Giorgio Armani. Harold's meeting us there. Then we head to Harry Winston's.”

“How can I pick out jewelry if I don't know what I'm wearing?” Ava spotted a parking space and quickly pulled over, maneuvering the small lime-green car between a Hummer and a Cadillac Escalade. She jumped out of the vehicle and held the seat back for Lola, who had a difficult time unfolding her long legs. Ava grabbed her arm and helped heave her out. Camilla had no choice but to bring up the rear.

“I suppose I can schmooze while we're here,” Camilla muttered.

Ava turned around and looked at her. “Schmooze away, but don't you dare bring anyone over to the table.”

Camilla feigned horror. “Now would I do that on your personal time?”

“Yes.”

“If you happen to run into George Clooney send him our way pronto,” Lola laughed. “I don't care what Ava says.”

The Lounge was definitely the place to be for lunch, with its sleek, expensive décor and serious waiters who moved effortlessly around tables filled with Hollywood movie moguls, artistic types, and young socialites. Most were there to be seen; they spent their time looking over at other tables, gossiping about who was with whom. But it was also a perfect venue for business negotiations among studio executives and a great spot to run into the ordinarily inaccessible.

Ava soon realized coming to the restaurant was a bad idea. All she wanted was a salmon sandwich. By the looks of it, it would take her ten minutes to get to the nearest unoccupied table. Several hands went up to greet her and diners whispered to each other as she walked by. A fat guy with a goatee stood and shook her hand. “Congratulations, Miss Harris.”

“Thank you,” she murmured and kept going.

Lola whispered behind her, “Who's that?”

“Someone who didn't give me the time of day two weeks ago,” Ava said over her shoulder.

Camilla whispered too. “Oh my god, why didn't you stop? I'm pretty sure that was Gavin Peters. He's very influential…”

“He's two-faced,” Ava insisted.

Camilla rolled her eyes. “You're in Hollywood. Being two-faced is how one survives.”

With the help of the maitre d', they made it to a far table in the corner. Ava sat with her back to the crowd—a necessary tactic she used on occasion. Some days it worked, but today wasn't one of them. A man approached with two giggling teenagers on his heels.

“May I have your autograph, Miss Harris? My daughters are your biggest fans.”

“Certainly. And your names?”

“Heather,” said Heather.

“Bonnie,” said Bonnie.

She took the proffered napkin and scribbled, “To Heather and Bonnie, All the best, Ava Harris.” The girls examined the napkin closely. She thought that was the end of it, but no such luck. He wanted pictures, so she turned around and pretended to smile into his cell phone while his daughters squealed on either side of her. “We love you Miss Harris. We never miss your movies.”