Part 1 – The set-up
"What happens now?"
"I kiss him."
"Where?"
"On the lips."
"No. I mean where does this ... this thing ... take place?"
"In the bedroom."
"You mean ..." I motioned with my head, "... in there?"
"Yes."
"But you don't even know the guy!"
"It's acting, Uncle Merv."
"Acting?"
"Yes," she said, and started to take off her dress.
We were in the bathroom, the two of us, Odette and I. The bedroom was next door. It had a circular bed. A huge one. The carpet was cream, the drapes coral. The framed prints on the walls were pen and ink studies of couples in positions of ... let's say, affection. There was a mirror on the ceiling over the bed that was as big as the bed itself. Around the room were lights, on stands, three movie cameras, on tripods, two fluffy microphones, on rods, and a tall gaunt guy, called Lens. Lens, last time I looked, was flitting busily from one piece of equipment to another like a moth around a yard lamp: adjusting this, fiddling with that, moving the next thing.
"Why must the room have a bed?" I asked, as Odette unselfconsciously ran the zipper of her bright yellow dress to her waist then carelessly let gravity take it the rest of the way to the bathroom's marble floor. I'd seen her undressed a thousand times, usually in a bikini, most times round our pool, so should have been used to how good she looked. But I wasn't. Beneath the dress she wore a white half bra and matching thong. Standard practice: I closed my mouth.
I turned away.
"The room has a bed because the story requires it," she said, as I sensed she was reaching behind her to unhook her bra.
I opened the door, and got the hell out of the bathroom.
It had all started off, mid-afternoon, with a telephone call.
"It's Odette," said Liz, my secretary, passing me the phone. "She says it's a matter of life or death."
I am a partner in an accountancy firm. I was in a meeting with clients.
"Hi Odette," I said to the phone. "I'm in a meeting. Can I call you back?"
"Mom's being unreasonable. She'll ruin my life. You have to help me." The words came tumbling from the phone. "There's a casting agency. A good one. In town. They want to see me. It's my big chance, Uncle Merv. Maybe the only one I'll ever get. In my whole life! And Mom wants to stop me." Her voice climbed an octave, "Can you believe that?" Dropped back. "I've interviewed. Now they want to see me. Tonight. But she won't ..."
"Sweetie ..." I tried to interrupt.
"... let me go," she drove right through my attempted interruption. "They want me to audition. Take a screen test. Maybe a demo reel. It's my big chance Uncle Merv. They leave tomorrow. Miss this and my life will be nothing."
I sign-languaged clients that this could take a moment, and that they might like some coffee, and that Liz, who was standing at my elbow, would happily arrange it.
"Can you believe that?" the phone demanded.
Again.
As Liz headed out to get coffee.
Odette's mother wouldn't let her go unless she went too.
And that was so NOT going to happen!
What about Dad? came next.
No Way!
Okay, so ... Uncle Merv?
Meaning me.
The 'Uncle' part was on account of my being a neighbour, and having a swimming pool in our yard that Odette had used since she was ten. (They'd just moved in, our house had a pool, theirs didn't; we didn't have children of our own, still don't, and Laura my wife doesn't swim; besides, she seemed a nice kid.)
Odette said she could live with me as her chaperone, so would I?
Please?
To satisfy Mom.
Please?
"Okay," I said, then extricated myself, with difficulty, from an extravagant stream of lavish, and very Odettish, gratitude – just as coffee arrived.
I put the phone down.
I had, after all, nothing planned for the evening. My wife, Laura, was overseas. (She is a buyer for a clothing chain, away a lot. The importance of careers, hers in particular, is what guided our decision not to have children.) Besides, I rationalised, it would be a harmless diversion. We got on pretty well, Odette and I, and always had.
I closed the bathroom door behind me.
I nodded at Lens, who was still doing his impersonation of a moth – around spotlights, flood lights, microphones, and cameras. I was still watching him when Odette came out the bathroom. She had changed into a brief shirt dress she'd been given for the part.
So who was I looking at?
Odette first turned up at our pool, long legged and coltish, with a towel tossed casually over her shoulder and a careful smile on a pretty freckled face. She was accepting the invitation, given the previous week-end at a get-to-know-the-neighbours barbecue, that she should use our pool whenever she wished. That first day she was wearing a yellow bikini with 'sweetie' written in large pink letters across her butt. She'd filled out since then. Now she was approaching twenty, tanned and toned and healthy – and shapely as all heck! – from the thousands of hours she had spent in our pool.
GW entered the bedroom from the other door.
Odette looked at him, awaiting instructions.
Lens and I looked too. And yes, I confess, I was nervous.
I was nervous ... because as we drove over Odette had explained, with the hem of her dress so high on her legs I was having difficulty focussing on driving, that the casting agency were auditioning for a part in a series of erotic classics. (This had not been mentioned on the phone.) After dropping this particular bomb-shell, she had gone on to suggest, "You could drop me off, pick me up later, Mom would never know."
"You know I can't do that," I said.
"It's an adult part. Could be raunchy." She stuck a playful elbow in my ribs. "You might be shocked."
"I won't be shocked," I said.
What would I have to be shocked about?
"Besides," I went on, "your Mom made me promise I'd be there throughout."
That was true, she had.
