Ellie pushed back her frizzy auburn hair. Her pale skin was dotted with freckles and beads of sweat from the California heat. Stretching out her arms like a singer in agony, she smiled a crooked smile at her reflection and her green eyes glinted. "So I'm a character actor, what can I say?" She knew that she would always play the best friend. Thirty-four years old and slightly overweight, she also knew that if she could only land that one great comedic role, her life would change. She didn't have to play opposite a gorgeous leading man, but a leading man in her life wouldn't be so bad. It was just so hard to find Mr. Right. She couldn't even scrape up a Mr. Right Now.
She walked into the hallway, which was the size of a telephone booth, and glanced at her answering machine on the shelf. If there were messages, there would have been an audible beep. But now the red light was blinking too quickly and ERR, meaning screw-up, was flashing on its tiny screen.
"For Pete's sake," she muttered. "I was afraid this thing that ties me to the outside world was on its last legs. My lifeline is dead." She sighed. Everything has to come through this machine, she thought. Vital information about auditions, jobs, the occasional date, or news about how easy it was to switch long distance companies was all filtered through this most wondrous, at times most provoking, electronic device.
Tomorrow morning I'm going to have to go buy a new one, she thought. With my weary charge card. At least it'll be Saturday and I won't miss any calls from my agent when I'm out. With a sigh, Ellie headed into the bathroom to the turn-of-the-century tub, turned on the faucets full force, and prepared to take a much-needed cool soak.
Ellie spent a blessedly restful night. The usual sounds of car alarms going off, booming stereos from passing hot rods, and deranged recyclers passing outside her bedroom window with their squeaky shopping carts full of rattling bottles and cans did not awaken her. Not even the usual sounds of her lead-footed neighbor upstairs, Toni-Anne Loskow, coming in from her late-night job as a phone psychic, disturbed Ellie's slumber. Her baby greens were slammed shut. It was nearly 9:00 A.M. when she heard the sound of Frances's voice haggling with someone over the price of a set of old pots and pans. Frances was the building manager, who lived next door to Ellie and had a fondness for garage sales.
As Ellie struggled into consciousness, she sat up and peered past the flimsy shade she had bought at a hardware-store closeout and surveyed the situation. Sure enough, Frances had covered the lawn with everything from old appliances to sleeveless blouses with darts in the bust that Frances had probably worn as an extra in a film shot in the sixties. Like everyone else in the building, Frances was a card-carrying member of the Screen Actors Guild. And, also like everyone else in the building, Frances had gotten her share of little parts over the years but was still waiting for the big break that would free her from her years of scrimping to get by. In her late fifties, Frances had done some stand-up comedy. Recently someone had asked her if she didn't wish she'd moved home to Oregon a long time ago and settled into a "normal" life. "What-and give up show biz?" Frances had answered. "No way, José."
Ellie climbed out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. Quickly she put on a pot of coffee and then dressed in a pair of sweats. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, grabbed a mug of coffee, and walked outside onto the lawn where the early birds were picking through the loot. Not only did Frances sell her own possessions but she also sold anything her friends wanted to get rid of. For a slight fee, of course.
"Morning, Ellie," Frances called from her lawn chair perched in the shade of the one big tree. She had her coffee mug in hand as well. It depicted Snoopy in a gleeful pose. Frances 's dark curly hair was pulled back with a headband and her reed-thin body was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
"Morning." Ellie sat down on the ground next to Frances 's chair. Her eyes landed on an answering machine complete with a telephone that was resting on a towel nearby.
Ellie put down her cup on the scruffy lawn and reached out for it. "Where did you get this? It still looks pretty good."
"Toni-Anne gave it to me to sell yesterday. She was the eighty-seventh customer at the bank and since they opened in 1987 and it was their anniversary they decided to give away a few prizes. The teller handed her a brand-new answering machine, so she decided to get rid of her old one." Frances sighed. "To think I was going to stop at the bank yesterday…"
Ellie smiled as she looked over the machine. "Maybe she had a premonition something was going to happen to her. She predicted the bank would be a good place to go yesterday."
Frances waved a hand at her. "She doesn't believe in that psychic stuff. She said she makes it up as she goes along."
Ellie frowned. "She's been doing it for over forty years, hasn't she?"
"In one form or another. She started at a carnival in her hometown at the Jersey shore when she was about twenty. She couldn't believe the money she could make telling people what they wanted to hear. When she came out here to act, she kept it up, which led to the psychic hot line."
"Well, maybe her machine will bring some sort of psychic good vibes to me. Mine gave up the ghost yesterday. How much is it?"
"Thirty dollars."
Ellie, ever the bargainer-which made her quite a match for Frances -held it up and smirked. "Is that the best you can do?"
Frances laughed. She gave her voice a gravelly edge and said, "With that you even get a fresh pack of tapes she just bought recently. They don't fit her new machine. And you get the owner's manual too."
"Such a deal. I'll take it." Ellie looked around and whispered, "Where is our favorite neighbor, anyway? I never heard old lead-foot come in last night. Maybe she wasn't wearing those green combat boots of hers."
Draining the remains of her Snoopy cup, Frances shrugged. "I haven't seen her this morning. Maybe she's still sleeping."
Across town, Harold Pinsworth, a forty-four-year-old accountant, woke up in a cold sweat. He had had wild dreams in the little time he managed to get some sleep. He looked over at his twenty-five-year-old sleeping wife, the beautiful Corinne, who was as far away on the mattress as she could possibly get without falling off.
She'd fallen out of love and he was doing anything and everything he could to get her back. When they met through the personal ads, he had believed that true recognition of his worth would soon be realized at the investment firm where he had been employed for twenty-two uneventful years. Corinne had just come to Hollywood from smalltown U.S.A. because she liked to get tan. Answering the ad written by the sophisticated forty-three-year-old bachelor who yearned to meet a young, attractive woman with sound family values, Corrine had been impressed on their first date. Twelve other women had refused to answer his calls after the first meeting. But Corinne had welcomed the second and the third. When she looked at him adoringly with those big brown eyes, he knew that no promise was too big to make.
But now, eleven months into the marriage, Corinne's patience was growing thin. She'd begun to realize that the plans he'd shown her for the house he would build her as a wedding present were just that. Plans. "Where's the land for this house?" she kept asking. "Where's the new car? The designer clothes you promised me? I don't mean to be greedy but…"
Harold had gotten desperate. He couldn't lose her. So his love for his gorgeous young wife had clouded his judgment and he became tempted to "borrow" some money from his firm. He had known so many who had used in-house money to make a killing and then had put it back. He had regretted he had never done it. But this time, this week, he knew he had to try. He'd always been chicken before, thinking supposed he lost it. There'd be no place to run or hide. He'd be sent to prison, disgraced.
But now Corinne had married him, looking for love and security. For four months they had been blissfully happy. But then she started getting restless.