Alix Ohlin - Inside

Anne studied her as she flaked salmon into a bowl of salad. Feeling a swell of warmth, she put her arms around Diane and rested her head on her shoulder. They were around the same height, the same weight. The comfort of a double. “He’s a freak,” she said. “He didn’t even want to have sex. Just to grope and look.”

Diane laughed, gently disengaged herself, and carried the salad to the table. “You sound offended.”

“It was a power play. It wasn’t about getting laid. It was about making me feel like shit.”

“Well, obviously.”

“You think I should be grateful for the opportunity.”

“I think, let’s hope it works.”

While eating, they talked about the screenplay Diane was writing, a black comedy about a woman manipulator, an All About Eve for the present day.

“Totally unsellable,” Diane said. “The market doesn’t like black comedies, and it doesn’t like vehicles for women, but what the hell? Now’s the time to take a chance.”

Anne half listened to this jumble of wishes, paying more attention to Diane’s body as it rustled and slid across from her. That night, lying in bed with their legs tangled together, she repeated the words let’s hope to herself. She had a loose, sweet feeling in her body, the sense of a future she might be able to hold on to, and of the risks associated with that future — of landing a job or not, of being with Diane in this strange constellation of sex and friendship without knowing exactly what it meant. It was the feeling of knowing nothing this good could last, of getting away with it for now, for as long as she possibly could. Let’s hope .

A week later, she got a phone call from Adam.

“It’s Mr. Feeler-Upper,” he said cheerfully. “I want you for my pilot. You’re the sexy one. You’ll show some skin, but not too much. It’s a family show.”

Anne rubbed her forehead. Some part of her that distantly remembered her theatrical career was giving her a headache.

Adam was still talking, giving her instructions on where to go and when. “This is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to you,” he said, “so get ready.” Then he hung up.

When she turned around, Diane had her arms outstretched. “I knew it,” she said, her eyes warm and bright. “This is it. The big time.”

Anne accepted the hug, but the big time puzzled her. Did Diane really talk like this? Did she actually believe it? She felt the first separation yawn between them, like a candle snuffing itself out. But then Diane kissed her neck, and she lit up again.

One thing you had to give the television people: they knew what they were doing in the looks department. Techniques and materials had been refined. They were working at the cutting edge. They did her hair, her clothes, her makeup, her skin tone, and she looked like a different person, unrecognizable to herself, a transformation that brought her nothing but pleasure. She looked beautiful, if more generic; she could’ve been any one of the millions of shiny-haired L.A. girls.

Firmly, dictatorially, Adam took over her life, telling her what to wear both on the set and off it, cultivating her soon-to-be celebrity life. “Holistic oversight,” he called it, and made appointments with a dentist, a dermatologist, a nutritionist.

“You’re welcome,” he said, though she hadn’t thanked him. “I’m all about details.”

Once filming started, Diane sometimes came to the set to watch. The first scenes were shot at night, on bone-dry streets that had been hosed down to look like the rain-slickened avenues of New York. She had always loved rehearsals, going over the same lines again and again, each time locating some new modulation or nuance; she and the other actors would argue over blocking and interpretation, over the meaning of a line, or even a word, for hours. But the repetitions of television were entirely different. The mechanics were so elaborate that no one paid any attention to what she said or how she said it; it was all about the camera tracking and how she looked in front of a tree or a stop sign. Over and over she walked out of a building, stood in the street, and looked confused. One, two, three steps, look confused. This went on for five hours, then a break.

Her character was a college student whose father was killed by some evil spies in a case of mistaken identity, so she became a spy herself in order to track them down. In the meantime, as a cover, she worked as a photographer, a job that enabled her to travel to exotic locations and walk around with a camera around her neck, its straps framing her breasts, staring poutily into the distance. Each episode was supposed to focus on a different “photo assignment,” which usually involved her flirting with a man who either turned out to be no good or, if he was good, died.

Now that he’d cast her, Adam took no more interest in her body. Neither did the director, a happily married father of three who often played with his kids during breaks. The only ones who did pay attention to her body were the professionals who tended to it, the hair and makeup people, who were all women and gay men. It felt safe but sexless. Anne had always needed chemistry — the glint in the other person’s eye, the tactical, pheromonal equation — but now her only partner was the camera, and she felt like she was floating in space, unwanted and untethered. She heard herself delivering lines with a cardboard flatness that, coming from another actor’s mouth, she would have cringed at. But nobody noticed, or else they simply didn’t care.

The hours were irregular and insane. Sometimes she was out all night and other times she needed to be on set at five in the morning. She had to work out enough to keep her stomach flat but not so much that her breasts got smaller. Some days she barely saw Diane, or else she was at home all afternoon lounging on the couch, doing her nails, while Diane, annoyed, tried to work on her script. When Anne tried to get back on her good side — sex being her strategy — Diane would push her away and sigh, saying, “It’s not always about that, Annie. I need you to support me on this.”

“Support you how?”

“Read the draft. Tell me what you think.”

“But I don’t know anything about character arcs and whatever,” Anne said. “I’m just a puppet.” She mimed as if her arms were held up by invisible strings. “I’m a marionette.”

“You just think it’s too much work,” Diane said.

Anne started to protest, but they both knew it was true. “I’m not much of a reader,” she said.

“It’s a script . You’re an actor. Come on.”

So Anne read it, and it was terrible. Diane, so sophisticated and well educated, turned out to be a clumsy, fumbling, primitive writer. Without a doubt, producing was exactly the right job for her, not writing. Her script was corny, the dialogue boring, and the characters unsympathetic, with nothing redeemable or exciting about them. It had all the flaws of a commercial movie and none of its virtues.

Of course, Diane walked into the room right as Anne turned the final page. Sidling up to the fridge, not making eye contact as she poured herself some iced jasmine tea, she was so transparent, so endearing.

Without thinking, Anne said, “I love you.”

Diane came over, set her glass down, and put her arms around Anne. “But not the script.”

“God, no.”

Diane snorted. “I can’t believe you won’t even pretend to like it.”

Anne was surprised. How could she? Didn’t somebody this smart know when a script was bad? She felt wetness on her shoulder, and realized Diane was crying. “Do you like it?”

“That’s not the point,” Diane said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of Anne’s T-shirt. “The point is, if you love me, you should support me.”