Page 27 of Out of the Gold

Mark taps his glass. “Well, have you seen the Manchesters around lately? They’re the epitome of love and marriage.” He traces a design on the tablecloth. “I’d like a slice of that for myself.”

My hand lands on my forehead. I’ve seen the rock star Cole and his wife Rose out and about, and they dote on each other. “Exception, not rule. I bet you want the white picket fence, too?”

“Now don’t go all pussy on me. I was only saying I’d like to have someone who cares about me.”

Would I like that? Nah. I’ve been pampered enough by the various women in my life, even though I’m not the profligate womanizer tabloids like to portray. I refer to myself as a serial casual monogamist. “I wish you well.”

“You know, I invited Sophia to join us in Positano tomorrow.”

Can’t he let her go? “I hope she comes, for your sake.”

“Me too. During filming, I wanted to ask you if your dresser could put in a good word, but we kept getting sidetracked with shooting.”

“Damn work,” I quip.

“Ain’t that the truth. So what’s the scoop on her?”

My eyebrows come together. “Her who?”

“Melody Hunte, of course.”

There she is again. No matter how hard I try to push her away, she keeps popping back into my consciousness. I shrug. “She sews me into the damn costume.” I take a sip of my wine. “Really talented at it, though. She created the stitch herself.”

His glass arrests on its way to his mouth. “I would’ve thought Judith made all decisions regarding the design.”

“Yeah, so did I. But she told me the design team didn’t think it would be either noticeable or worth the time and effort. She took it upon herself to create the stitch.”

“Impressive.”

I lean back in the booth, needing to bury this topic. “At least there haven’t been any more malfunctions since my glove got caught in that kid’s hair.”

“Yeah. That was something. But the design team got it fixed pretty damn quick.”

“True.” With the benefit of time, my rage over the delay in filming doesn’t return. I’ve developed an appreciation of how fast Melody was able to whip up a new pair of gloves from scratch. My mind returns to a subject that’s glommed onto me lately.

Giving Mark an assessing glance, I clear my throat. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” His index finger circles the rim of his glass.

“Your life before you becametheMark Ivan?”

“Deep, man.” He knocks back the remainder of his scotch. “To answer your question, not really. I grew up in Russia, which my parents fled when I was twelve. We came to the United States with little more than the clothes on our backs. I learned English by watching cartoons, and later sitcoms. I was fat and acne-prone and since I didn’t speak the language, I was bullied in school.”

“Sorry, Mark. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay. I don’t hide my past, but I don’t broadcast it either, you know. Plus, everything changed when Mom gave me a bottle of ProActiv for Christmas when I was fourteen. My face cleared up, and then I took an interest in how I looked. I joined a gym and dropped the weight. That helped.”

“That’s quite the story. Was that when you got into acting?”

He nods. “I fell into it, actually. My high school was putting on a play requiring a Soviet character. Since I was one of the few kids in school from Moscow, they approached me. I took the role.”

“So your background informed your first role.”

He chuckles. “You could say that. Of course, it was the villain of the play. Guess it did sort of set me up for my career.”

“Pretty cool. And look at you now. You’re killing it as Mr. A—he’s more evil than Lex Luthor, but the way you portrayed him at the beginning showed a real empathy.”

“Thanks. I always try to inject some humanity into the bad guys. Makes it seem much more real. No one is all good or all bad.”

“Truth.” I finish my pinot noir. I want to drink another glass, but I’m keenly aware of the requirements for my body on the set. Instead, I ask, “Do you keep the boy you were alive in your dealings today?”

“Who are you, Dr. Phil?”

I wave my hand. No need to go any deeper. He wouldn’t be interested in hearing my sorry tale of woe. I’m not like him—I didn’t suffer like he did growing up. So what if the kid I was has been lost? He was stupid, anyway. Into classical music and psychology and bees, for God’s sake. The man I am today is much more interesting, playing amazing characters in the movies. With sexy actresses dripping off my arm.

So what if I miss the excitement of performing live on stage?

My thoughts stray toHamlet 2.0. Shaking my head, I punch Mark in the shoulder. Fuck my diet. “Let’s get another round.”

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