Hollywood Boulevard
limo doors opened. An old Kinks song came to me— the name wouldn't— I used to sing it at parties. This was after Fits, some other, forgettable guy on my arm. I was working again, staying busy and dumb and distracted. I'd devel oped a post- Joe ironic tongue, as if I were channeling him to make up for what I'd become. I took most of the parts Harry sent my way, auditioned, returned calls; wore my hair long and done up by the right salon, fitted dresses when I had to, slouchy on my own, though, the real me sometimes having trouble making it out of the house, in horror of being seen.
    Â Â Â Â I drew the line at nudity. I was probably too skinny anyhow. Harry feigned horror: Nudity is not what Ardennes Thrush is about. Wasn't he kind not to say no director had asked? My sexiness, about which I was confident even back then, was not of the silver- screen style. Dumb, extravagantly good- looking guys don't usually daydream my type. I'm a touch independent, a shade intimidating. Producers tend to be fairly predictable guys that way. Not that I'm offering excuses. Hepburn, for example, was about as sexy as a perfect piece of furniture. If you want sexuality that looks you in the eye, I'm your girl. That's what I think they meant by striking.
    Â Â Â Â I had an on- set conversation once with one of those knockout boys, an obviously handsome, not- my- type lead who'd send some women into spasms merely walking into a room. The film was a quirky whodunit. The actress opposite Knockout was having trouble lying flat on an expensive carpet, in a swoon— or maybe she'd been hit over the head, I forget. Fifteen minutes were called. Knockout and I sat down to wait. We'd be on camera once the starlet got it right. I was playing a tough lawyer sucked into my client's (Knockout's) involvement with a murder. Of course he and his love- girl turn out to be innocent while I provide the juicier dark content. The director was having a tête- à- tête with his crew, and Knockout turned to me, out of the blue blue of his eyes, and said, "Can't she even play dead? I mean, those lips could stop a train. . . ." He shrugged.
    Â Â Â Â I nodded without cozying. Well, Einstein, she was hired for those lips; the acting's up to us. He surprised me by continuing, "You get a chick like that home and there's nothing there. I've seen it enough times. Knock, knock: a hollow door."
    Â Â Â Â I turned to look into the face of this unexpected wisdom. He smiled. "I bet that's not true of you." Was he hitting on me or offering a consolation prize to the supporting role? (At the time I was involved with a musician, if "involved" is the right term.) The first AD called places: take in three minutes. Makeup came over and did touch- ups on us. A costumer adjusted my skirt, hair did a quick check, and we were ready to go.
    Â Â Â Â QUIET ON THE SET . . . CA MERAS ROLLING . . . AND . . . ACTION:
    Â Â Â Â Knockout and I push in the partially open apartment door. We see his girlfriend lying on the Persian rug. Knockout's character (Eric) rushes in, kneels: "Katie!"
    Â Â Â Â My character (Laura) sits on a white- upholstered armchair, crossing her legs: "This doesn't look too promising."
    Â Â Â Â Eric: "Laura! Get help!"
    Â Â Â Â Laura takes a lace handkerchief out of her purse, reaches for the phone, picks up the receiver, using the hanky. To Eric: "I'd be careful of fingerprints."
    Â Â Â Â Katie opens her eyes, blinks: "Eric?"
    Â Â Â Â Laura replaces the receiver: "Cancel the cavalry?"
    Â Â Â Â CUT!
    Â Â Â Â I've done love scenes. Close- ups can be as awkward as dying with your underpants down, pulling off a conventional movie love scene. Stay in character, I'd repeat to myself like a mantra, stay in character. The actors stepped up to the plate, kissed and held me like they meant it, breath cool mint vapors, hand grasping a breast, my full mouth bruised. Go for

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