This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the real person, Russell Crowe.  No insult or injury is intended, this story is for entertainment purposes only.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language.

The Things I Didn't Do

©2006 by: Riley

His back ached but he leaned down once again, checking the absolute perfect camera angle, stepped back and squinted. “We’re losin’ light, mates. S’go! Take nine, fucking roll!”

Eyeing the actress carefully, he watched and felt; something he always did, feel. She was off kilter today and he wondered why, letting her continue even though she was so far off the mark she had no fucking clue how bad she was. Like an athlete who’d lost her timing, the poor girl was struggling. He settled into his chair, rubbed his lower back with a grimace, then finally called a close to the day’s shooting.

Pamela Duvalle turned, tears glowing in her eyes. Russ crooked his finger, calling her to him as the staff moved away, probably fearing the worse. That rattled his already frayed nerves. Jesus fucking Christ, he hadn’t lost it once yet. Week eight on location and he hadn’t even raised his fucking voice. Considering his current state of mind, he felt pretty proud about that. But there was nothing more frustrating than having people tip toe around him, thinking that any moment something was going to fly out of his hand at them. Mother fucking phone. Nearly twenty years later and it was still haunting him.

He looked up at the girl, scratched the gray bristles at his neck then stood. Tugging another folding chair close, he bowed with a grin. “Sit.”

She shook her hair, brilliant golden waves floating on the early evening breeze, took a deep sigh and turned a composed expression at her director. Waited.

Russ sat again, groaned again and shifted to cross his legs, relieving some of the pain in his body. Cleared his throat. “Honey. Baby. Sweetheart.  What’s goin’ on? Something on your mind?”

She grinned at his teasing tone. “Sorry, Mr. Crowe. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I had it yesterday. I had it perfectly!”

He nodded. Yeah, she did have it yesterday. But he didn’t have the weather or the light. She prattled on and on. Americans. They all did that. Had to just let them go on their bloody rants, blaming everyone and everything on earth before they could get down to focusing on what they needed to do to fix it. Hell. It wasn’t just Americans. He had to admit, most actors did the same thing. Maybe at some point he had too, not that he’d ever admit to it. After all, there are shitty things that happen that do affect one’s performance.

Things like demanding directors who can’t seem to juggle a perfectly lighted natural sunset around the timing for a perfect delivery from a primo budding actress. He nodded, then finally raised a hand. “Enough, love. Let’s get down to the dirt here. Is there something bothering you? Are you having a bad day? Or do ya just hate my guts?”

She gasped. “No, no and absolutely not! I swear I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

His head shook. “Rain’s in the forecast tomorrow evening, we’re working something else and you’re takin’ the day to relax. Fuck, we’re in Costa Rica, love. Take in some sun and sea. Watch the sunburn, though. And do it before the storms set in. You’ll get the schedule updates tonight.” And he stood, thinking he’d sufficiently ended the conversation and dismissed Miss Duvalle.

“Mr. Crowe?”

Damn. “Yeah?” He turned, tried not to scowl.

“Am I going to be okay? I mean, am I failing you?” Tears glittered in those remarkable violet eyes.

Fuck, he hated that. He sighed and waited for the rest. She was quiet for a moment, but he knew there was more. He blinked. The girl was fragile. It was her first major film. She was scared and strangely intimidated by him. Was that his fault?

“Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

She didn’t move. “I am failing.” It was a whisper that ripped at his heart.

Fuck. If he ever thought he’d forget his humble, insecure beginnings, directing had proven a sure reminder. Six films and every one of them had him facing some frightened young actor, man or woman; sure they were failing themselves, the film and him. Him? What the fuck? Didn’t they realize that he was the least important part of their career?

“Pammy,” he said softly. “You are not failing. It takes a whole team to fail a film. And failure starts at the top, love. If you fail, I fail. If I fail, I’m fucked.” He leaned close to her ear. “And I will not fucking fail. Now, let’s get some dinner. I think I may have a few suggestions for you.”

~*~

Pam’s blue mood lightened and she felt a thrill. Would he take her to a restaurant? Sit alone with her far from everyone else to give her his always coveted advice? Would it end in his bed? She almost choked with that thought. Russell Crowe never did that. He never cheated on his wife. Ever. It was well known. But they were separated. So . . .  maybe.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as they walked. So handsome, even more than he’d been in his prime. What was he now? Sixty- two? He didn’t look it, except when he did too much like he had the night before, crawling with a heavy camera to assist in getting the best possible secondary shots for a rescue scene near the cliff. She marveled at how he moved, the efficiency of his body, but she also knew he’d be paying for it today. Christ, the last thing she wanted to do was upset or disappoint him. She couldn’t have picked a worse day to be off her game.

Pamela wondered about him and about herself. Her career seemed to be moving drastically fast. She could hardly believe she was an actress, much less working on the caliber of projects she was. Acting had only really begun for her three years earlier on a bet. She’d done a few commercials when she first moved to L.A. After all, the cost of living was so ridiculously high there, she’d found it nearly impossible to meet her rent and utilities every month. Commercial work came easily to her, all she needed to do was walk in, smile, read a few lines and voila! Rent money.

Being in movies was never her goal, she liked being an accountant. Numbers suited her. But when she got the payroll position at Paramount Pictures and started working on the historic lot, she was suddenly smack in the middle of the Hollywood star galaxy. Someone noticed her. Then someone else. Then an important someone with real clout tossed out a challenge. She bit, never thinking she’d get the small part in that little independent film. Life just took off from there.

Now every time she saw her name in print, it was connected with words like ‘brilliant’, ‘remarkable’ and ‘shockingly astute’. It all baffled Pam and made her shudder. What must it have been like for someone who struggled to reach that goal? Someone like her current, famous director?

But as she progressed, moving from the bit part she auditioned for on a dare, the parts became more and more challenging and the people she met, more and more shallow. Until she accepted the lead role in the film Latin Poetry to be directed by her all time idol, the amazing Russell Crowe.

She suspected aloof arrogance; she expected a brutal experience. But soon discovered why there was absolutely no one in all of Hollywood who’d refuse an opportunity to work with the Academy Award winning actor-turned-director . . . even though they still called him the man they loved to hate. And what a winner! Already twice as many Oscars for his directing than he’d received all those years performing in front of the camera. Pamela Duvalle knew she was blessed. But she was doubly blessed that evening. Not only would she spend some time gazing at the handsome, rugged face she’d dreamed about since girlhood, but she’d be gaining wisdom from the best!

It was a small place that seated only thirty, but Russ’ favorite restaurant. He’d been photographed dining there several times during his search for locations and the filming so far. The last time just three weeks earlier with his wife just before . . .

Pamela didn’t look at the menu and neither did he. The waiter caught his eye, nodded and brought two of whatever he’d often ordered. He was silent until nearly finished with his meal. She looked up, shamefully watching him, the way his long, thick graying hair moved in the breeze coming through the open panels of the restaurant. How his strong jaw slid beneath tanned flesh and salt and pepper beard. The shape of his lips. What a beautiful man, she marveled. More than twice her age but he took her breath away. And more remarkable than his face was the sharp brilliance of his mind.

No one would touch Latin Poetry. No director, no producer, no actor wanted to deal with the filming difficulties of it, even though the book had been on the New York Times Best Sellers’ List for nearly four years. No one until Crowe took a gander. Then it was suddenly hot property. So hot, he aggressively took on the producer’s responsibility and bought the film rights right out from under his old friend Ron Howard’s nose. The Variety headline read: “You snooze, you lose to the Gladiator.” Crowe personally worked on developing the script with the original author, he devised a plan of action for film implementation and began his search for the lead; a special actress to play a troubled young woman of extraordinary beauty struggling with sudden, inexplicable deafness.

“You know, Pammy,” he’d said over the phone to her. “Had you in mind for this part from the moment I read the book.” And that was six months after he’d seen her in her first bit part on HBO while sitting in a St. Louis hotel room recovering from the flu. She’d spent the past two years hoping and praying he wouldn’t change his mind. He hadn’t. But that evening, recalling all her repeated performance blunders out on that cliff, she began to wonder why.

“What’re ya thinking, love?” He shook her from her reverie, fork suspended near her mouth for moments.

She lowered the fork to her plate. “Why me, Mr. Crowe? Why did you think I could do this?”

~*~

He groaned, shifted in his chair and rubbed his aching eyes. “Do ya need a laundry list?”

Thankfully, that got him a bit of a grin. What he needed to do was get her to realize that everyone has an off day. Christ, young Pamela Duvall was so fucking new at it all; she had no clue of the tolerance level for talent like hers. Now, where to start, without blowing her head into an ego coma? He cleared his throat, watched her eyes and blinked. Jesus, she was one fucking beautiful girl. Why not start there, be honest with her?

“Well, love. First off, it was your look. It’s what I wanted. When I saw you in Blunders, I knew I had the face. Sorry Pammy, but that’s where it starts, ya know.”

She nodded humbly.

Russ began to wonder if he could even find her ego. Fuck, she needed one to get anywhere in this business, but at that point he didn’t feel like dealing with it. She was far too easy to work with to create a fucking monster. Let the next bloke do that.

“Then it was somethin’ I saw in that performance. Something powerful. I won’t use all those bloody buzz words; you know what I’m talking about. But even with all that natural talent and ability, it takes some honing to get it right every day, every take. And even the best can’t always do it.

“Look, this character you’re portraying is vulnerable, she’s sorely weakened and literally thrown into a reality she never imagined. She’s in the dead center of personal crisis and political turmoil. You can do this part. Otherwise I wouldn’t be taking the chance on you.” He sipped beer, shifted again in the chair wishing he could finish the fucking lesson of the day and get to a masseuse, maybe take a few pannies. He continued, “You have what it takes. You are not failing, love. You’re just learning, that’s all. Acting is -- ”

“Too easy,” she said softly, eyes lowered.

“Is it?” He leaned back, watched her face carefully, looking for a hidden monster seeking some perverse confirmation about her abilities. Bloody hell, it wasn’t there. He was a fucking good judge of character and even though he really didn’t know her, he knew he was looking at some freak of nature. She was damn innocent. This young lady was genuine. “Tell me about that, the too easy part.”

She wriggled in the chair like a worried little girl about to explain herself. “Well, you must know. Acting, it’s just pretend. I can pretend. I’ve had to most of my life. Pretend my parents liked me, pretend I was popular. Pretend I was pretty.”

“Hold on. Now you’re fucking lyin’ to me. You know you’re beautiful, Pamela.” He growled and waved for another round.

“Oh yes, Mr. Crowe. I am now. But I was such a gangly, ugly kid. It wasn’t till I turned eighteen that I started to turn heads, and even then I didn’t believe it. But I just kept on pretending. And when I pretend, it feels real. Isn’t that what acting is about?”

“No.” He slid a beer toward her fingers and she sipped. “Well, it never was for me. For me it was a job. Gainful employment. Satisfying. A place to put my mind and body and soul to work. It’s a skill that requires constant vigilance. An opportunity to grow creatively, personally, financially and emotionally. Don’t you feel that too?”

Her head shook thoughtfully. “Can you tell me what I was doing wrong today? I mean, not even one scene felt on the money. What am I doing wrong?” She sipped beer to hide her obvious discomfort and he smiled.

“Maybe nothin’. Maybe it’s me. But you’ve been a little off for a few days; you’ve just hit the wall, love. It happens. It’s like a lucky streak that runs it course.”

“Oh God!”

He shook his palm. “No, no. Nothin’ to worry about. Sweetheart, what you’ve got is natural. Something’s got you spooked. We just need to figure out what, but trust me, on your worse day, you’re better than most I’ve worked with. Let’s explore this a tic, all right?”

“Okay.”

“Lookin’ at the dailies, I noticed you start slipping Wednesday.”

She nodded. “Yes, yes. The party scene.”

“Exactly. Subtle, like you lost your concentration there for a split second. It was still very well done and I’m satisfied. But it has been getting worse and we need to discover how to sidetrack this thing. Think hard, Pammy. Did something happen Wednesday? Maybe Tuesday?”

Her pretty head shook and she tossed back her luxurious hair.

“Someone say or do something to ya? Did you change your routine?”

“No.”

He sat back and watched her intensely, his second sense kicking in. She wasn’t being honest with him. “Are ya sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive.”

This was his fault, pure and simple. She wasn’t trusting him and in her situation, a new baby amidst seasoned professionals, it was his job to make her comfortable. Whatever she was hiding would come to light, but he needed to make a little more effort to gain her confidence. Not an easy mission considering the current state of his personal affairs. But this film was all he had at the moment, he was determined to do it well, put everything he had into it, and that meant focusing on an all new job; mentoring the new kid on the block. He had no choice; she would make or break the film. There was no doubt about that.

With a long sigh he rolled his aching shoulders. “Well, love. You got all day tomorrow to think about that. Whatever it is, personal, emotional or physical you need to target it and we need to discuss it. Hear me?” He’d just dispensed a directive he’d given to his own kids so many times over the years he couldn’t even count them. It had worked with them; hopefully it would work with his budding starlet. “Now, let’s get ya to your hotel so I can get home and rest my old fuckin’ bones.”

~*~

Before he called for a massage, before he looked for aspirin, Russ did what he always did, even after the altercation with Dani a few weeks ago. He called home. They talked briefly, nothing rough or desperate. Fuck, he was getting too old for that kinda shit anyway. Nothing had changed. She was still filing for divorce and he was still baffled.

As the masseuse worked on the enflamed muscles in his back, he tried not to cry from the pain in his heart. Fuck, he’d been doing it every night since she left him and Costa Rica, but never once in front of another person. His mind rumbled and slammed against everything he was facing. Yes it had been a good run, yes it had been wonderful to parent his children with her and yes, oh fucking yes, he still loved her as much as he did the day he met her.

There was no argument. No angry listing of his flaws. Just that finality in her voice. She was done with him. It was over. But why? He had his suspicions. She’d always suspected him of having an affair with Tara, his long-time assistant. The woman was irreplaceable, so valuable he’d have never gotten his arse off the ground as a director without her. She was brilliant and lovely and among the most professional women he’d ever known . . . and he had never touched her, never even considered it. Over their twelve years as employee and employer, they had forged a great friendship, but never a romance. At first he thought Dani was joking and he teased her in return; kidding that he could always replace his wife with Tara, but never Tara with his wife. Bad joke, terrible move, but he didn’t realize that for years.

Russ had done some shit in his life, been a complete jackass at times, made the wrong moves, the wrong decisions, but never once in twenty-three years of marriage had he cheated. He believed in vows, took them into his heart and was galvanized by the power of them. Oh fuck yeah, he’d thought about it. More often than he liked to admit. After all, he’s human. But touch? Never. Not even once.

And it wasn’t that hard to keep his hands to himself. He genuinely and completely loved Dani. Always had and always would. He’d made sure his marriage and family were the central focus of his crazy life. The balance. He kept them close when he traveled. Curtailed his busy schedule when his family needed him settled and at home. And he loved the whole fucking thing. The being centered. It was heaven, perfect in its insane imperfection. And she seemed happy with that. When had it all dissolved?

The words ‘empty nest’ rolled in his brain. The kids were gone -- university, marriage. Hell he’d be a grandfather in four short months. Why couldn’t he have that joy beside the grandmother? Sixty-fucking-two. A lifetime of setting it all up for just these wonderful, rewarding experiences. Fuck, what would dad have to say about this?

His mind traveled to his parents and their marriage. Flawed, yes. Difficult, always. Loving and perfect to the very end. That was all he had ever wanted, all he asked for. The aching in his heart intensified. This was too hard.

He waved the masseuse away and headed for bed. Sleep was his only reprieve from the anguish in his soul. Sleep and another full day of shooting.

There was a logic to giving Pamela Duvalle the day off. He was beginning to shuffle schedules. Yeah, he needed work, constant relentless work to hold his head together, but that didn’t require working his staff to death. He had meticulously devised a restructure of everyone’s time and energy to keep himself going twenty-four/seven, but give them the illusion of less work. It was genius. It could even see them finishing ahead of schedule.

That was if he could get his troubled young star back on her game.

~*~

“Pammy, love.”

Pamela was dreaming. It started with the sound of his voice, calling her from a pleasant soft dream filled with floating images of joy and contentment. The resonance vibrated through her flesh, into her bones and trembled her heart. Her dream eyes opened to the vision of Russell, his hand reaching to her, that remarkable smile crinkling the corners of his sea foam green eyes. She leapt into his arms and snuggled her face into his neck; inhaled the animal scent of him. The embrace was all encompassing and Pamela wondered whose heart was beating inside her chest? Hers or his? Or had they become one?

They walked along the beach until they reached an odd grassy knoll overlooking her home town near Denver. Everything glowed and glistened as though it was winter down there but she was warm and safe in his arms. Suddenly she was naked. She shuddered with insecurity. Would he like what he saw? Was she perfect enough for him?

Then her dream altered, shook into a memory of the nude love scene she’d performed before him with her co-star early in the filming schedule. But things were different. The co-star was directing and she was making love to her idol. Running her small hands over his strong chest sprinkled with sparse gray hair. She ran her fingers lower and lower then closed her eyes as she had during the filming, taking his hardened cock into her mouth and groaning with delight.

Her fingers played and her tongue toyed, her ears sharply attuned to the sighs and hiss of his pleasure, and she wished for him to bury his huge hands in her hair, press himself deeper, but he did not.

“What kind of a dream is this?” She looked up into his smile.

They rolled and tumbled, slid over each other and crushed each other, weight pressing weight and that burden was far more than physical. The sensations were overwhelming and Pamela feared she’d shake herself awake.

“What kind of a dream is this?” She begged and the sadness in his eyes silenced her. He took full control, moving over her with force and purpose, his eyes focused deep in hers and his body was everything she could imagine. The sensation of his powerful cock pressing her beyond her limits for pleasure dropped her into the depths of acceptance. It was a dream, and it was a dream she would allow. Pamela willingly received the growing tingle within, the spark that fired her into breathlessness, the shuddering of her stiffening limbs. All she hoped was for the opportunity to thank her dream lover, but it was not to be so.

She woke covered with sweat. Reaching down between her legs she felt the wetness, shivered with the aftermath of her dream-induced climax and listened to her heart thud.

“Oh Jesus, I am in so much trouble!”

~*~

The storm clouds arrived long before predicted the next day, putting a kibosh on her fun in the sun. Pamela roamed aimlessly, an unread book in her hand, ducking raindrops between sprints from coffee shop to coffee chop. Costa Rica. So beautiful even on rainy days, but she wasn’t seeing it. Her mind was focused on Russell’s instructions. He’d want a report from her tomorrow. What on earth was she going to tell him?

“Oh, hey Rusty. Turns out I’m falling in love with you.”

“Mr. Crowe. I think it’s only lust, but it’s making me fucking nuts.”

“Sir, I’m a bad girl and I want you so bad I can taste it.”

Obviously none of that was going to work. He saw her as a child; a valuable film asset who could easily become a financial liability. She needed to get a grip on this thing before she really did fail him. There were several more stable actors he could have given the part to and even this deep into production, she suspected that a better professional could replace her with little more than a ripple in the schedule or budget.

No, she had to come up with something else, something simpler that he could help her conquer. After all, her problem could really just be a matter of timing. Like a pro baseball slugger in a slump. She needed to go back to the basics. Back to pretending. When had that all changed for her? When did she start thinking instead of feeling her way around a movie set? And what was she thinking?

If she was thinking, it should be about how her character feels. What she sees. What she needs. She needed to think herself into Melinda’s turmoil. But that thinking thing was way too hard. If she could get back to pretending . . .

Pretending. That’s what she needed to do. Pretend Russell Crowe was not the raging infatuation he had somehow become for her ever since the day he rang her up on the phone to propose the part. She needed to pretend his wife hadn’t left him. Pretend that he was still that obsessively happily married man he had been  . . . all her life.

Another perplexing thought bombarded her sparking brain. What was this all about? Russell was so much older than her. The year she was born, he’d starred in Cinderella Man. What did this older, albeit extraordinarily beautiful man really mean to her? Did it have anything to do with never being able to please her dad? Ew. Had she become one of those pitiful young women looking for a father figure? Ew, ew, ew. That most certainly wasn’t it.

She’d followed his career since she could remember watching movies. Her mother had every one of his films and she would watch them over and over with her, telling Pamela about his crazy young days, the outrageous things he’d done and the astounding, wonderful marriage he seemed to have.

Seemed. Obviously everything isn’t like the tabloids report. Good or bad. But why did his blissful marriage crumble while she was working with him? Was that an omen? Was she meant to be there for him to see and fall in love with? To save his heart from the misery he was unsuccessfully hiding?

Her thoughts locked on the word ‘misery’. Good God, what kind of woman was she? He was hurting and the overemotional little girl she was, had designs on his soul!

“Shit,” she mumbled into her tenth cup of coffee that day.

~*~

Russ’ day rolled smoothly. There were several scenes requiring rain and he took full advantage. It was easy to work around Pamela one day, but she was required the next so he made a decision. He jotted a note and had it sent to her hotel.

They met for drinks after he had his dinner alone. She strolled into the bar looking delicious but troubled, her lovely brow curled even though she was smiling.

“How did the filming go today, Mr. Crowe?”

“Good, good. How about your day, Pammy?”

She ordered a cocktail then pushed her hair carelessly behind her ears. “Well, I thought all day.”

“Now, that’ll give you a bloody headache,” he teased.

“It did. But I think maybe you’re right about some things. Especially about acting. I mean, I still think my best approach is to pretend, after all it’s how I got this far, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, I was trying to figure out what I’ve been doing differently and I may have hit on it. See, somewhere along the line, I started to question myself, like maybe I should be working harder. Like I don’t deserve all this sudden success and any minute now, someone’s going to figure out that I have no clue what I’m doing and take it all away.”

“Yeah?” He turned on his barstool to face her.

“I sort of feel a little . . . well guilty. Does that make any sense?”

He laughed a hearty chuckle that made her smile, smoothing the knots from her worried brow. “Sweetheart, you just verbalized what every natural actor from Richard Harris to Grace Kelly has said. It’s normal. We actors are a severely insecure lot. But insecurity can’t knock you off your game. You got a job to do. So how are you gonna solve this?” He wanted to hear her work ethic, her commitment. He knew the answer, but wanted to hear that she did too.

“Well, first of all, focus. I can’t let even that second of doubt get into my performance.”

“And?” He tipped his beer bottle, eyes intense on hers.

“And . . . I need to get back to basics. My basics. I mean, I trust everything you tell me but I have to find a way to acclimate that into my own style of interpretation. I need to get back to pretending myself into the part.”

“How are ya gonna do that?”

Her grin was delightful. “I’m doing it right now.”

“Are ya now? How so?”

Her eyes twinkled and the grin bloomed into a radiant smile. “That’s a secret.” She sipped, her gorgeous violet eyes exploring his over the glass rim. “Trust me, Mr. Crowe. I’m going to be fine from now on.”

At that moment, a handsome young Latino walked up, glanced at Russ, dismissed him as unimportant and took Pamela’s small hand in his. He led her to the dance floor with a twirl and her laughter floated toward Russ.

He sat back, ran a hand through his hair and huffed. There was a time no bloke would ever just walk up and take a woman from his table. Things had changed, big time. He watched Pamela smile and sway, swing and flow in the young man’s arms. Yeah, she was a natural. A real actor with a powerful personal technique. One she was using that very moment, but he wasn’t fooled. Whatever was bothering Pamela Duvalle was still there, just beneath the surface. She’d just found a way around it. Bravo, Pammy. That’ll work for a while, but trust me love. It’ll come back and bite ya in the arse someday.

Russell caught her attention, pointed to himself then the door and she nodded with a farewell wave. He dropped cash on the table and left.

Walking back to his place, Russell wondered how many times he’d done what Pamela was doing. Hidden it. Buried it. Ate it whole, hoping to never see it again. Fuck, he chuckled as he entered the gated courtyard of the house he was renting. There was a time his skin was so fucking thick, he was sure no one would ever reach him again.

But reach him she did. Dani. Fucking Christ. She reached him because he’d put his armor on over her, holding her tight to his heart . . . keeping her safe and his  . . . in his imagination he constantly visualized her into reality . . . manifested her to be his, forever. When he was at his best as a man, and at his worst, she was always there, deep in his heart, warming him with that tiny spark of hope. No one knew the amazement he had experienced waking beside her day after day. No one understood how astounded he was that she said yes, gave him children and grew old with him.

And the devastation he felt now that she’d walked away forever.

He stood still as stone, looking up at the stars struggling their way through the thinning clouds. This, he couldn’t fight. Russ had no more strength to imagine, to pretend, as was Pamela’s power. This he couldn’t handle. And this was going to be one fucking long night. He walked inside and checked the refrigerator. More than enough beer to get through. Maybe he could manage to pass out in a drunken stupor.

He slammed the door closed. Or perhaps he’d just try those sleeping pills the doc gave him. Hung-over was no way to direct. Not this fucking film. He stripped, climbed into bed, propped his glasses on his nose and cracked opened a book, then checked the clock. It was too early to call home.

Tossing the glasses on the bed table, he dialed the phone. If he wasn’t getting any fucking sleep, neither was she. He needed to hear her voice.  Even if she was going to go off on him.

“Dani? Hey.”

~*~

Pamela danced with Sergio; she laughed and drank with Sergio. She even took him to her hotel and played long and hearty with Sergio. Then she simply asked him to go. She was finished with him; as nice as it all was, he simply was not serving his purpose. She realized after their second full fuck that Sergio was not going to get Russell out of her head and most definitely, with his youthful, childish play, he could not purge a real man from her heart. With careful, kind Spanglish, Pam dressed the boy, led him to the door and said her goodbyes.

A hot bath was the only thing that would help her. She sank into the steamy bubbles and proceeded to sob. What the hell was she going to do? Too much Tequila. Too much Sergio. Too much everything pretend and unreal to be rational, but there were a few logical thoughts still floating in her pickled, freshly fucked brain.

First off, Russell Crowe was obviously not interested in her. That alone should douse her fire, but it hadn’t. Second. It was a job. Just a job. And a temporary one at that. All she needed to do was do the work well. Within six weeks she would be walking away from him and heading for her next project, her next director and her next opportunity to pretend.

Would she be able to pretend that she wasn’t so deeply in love with him, her hair was curling? Yes, she could. It was time to listen to the great Mr. Crowe’s advice. She had extraordinary natural talent and it was better than most. She vowed to use it. To pretend he was just an older man, a mentor and her director, nothing more. She needed to believe she was that good an actor. He told her she was. Little did he know he would be the impetus for the best fucking performance of her entire life.

~*~

Every time he called home, even before this fucking problem, was hard. If he was calling home, he was alone on the road. But never had he felt so alone. So completely alone. Russell tugged on a robe and walked out into the courtyard. The flannel robe was from the farm, old and frayed and fluttering open as he dropped onto the lounge chair near the sprinkling fountain. His boxers were also pretty fucking worn out and he wondered if he’d become one of those old men. The kind who refuses to give up any tiny shred of comfort. Old robe, old fucking skivvies, and a marriage as old as the robe. A marriage that had been as comfortable.

Tears wet his face. There wasn’t a part of his body or soul that didn’t hurt, ache for Dani. At least that night they didn’t talk about that old fucking pre-nup or the separation of property they never dreamed they’d have back then. They talked about the past. The good things, the memories that were tormenting his heart, making it thump and scream in agony. They talked and they didn’t talk, listening to the silence of each other. The depth of everything was in those quiet moments. There was no need or point in filling those special moments with words. No amount of begging or expressions of loss and fear was going to change things. Because . . . .  in Dani’s mind it seemed there was simply no reason for the marriage to go on.

The train had come to a stop and one of the passengers had chosen to get off. It was that simple. Staying on this journey together was a choice. Bigger than the choice to say ‘I do’. At this stage in the game, it looked like she wasn’t willing to say, ‘I’ll finish this ride with you, even though all the original reasons for it are gone’.

Empty nest syndrome. Big time. Russ shifted in the chair, watched the fountain and rubbed his aching temples. Empty nest. Dani had offered it as an explanation that very evening. But putting a name on it didn’t make it hurt less. If their nest was empty with the kids gone, what kinda nest would he have without Dani? What reasons?

He had no doubts about it. Had this been his choice, he’d be riding the train with her till they reached the fucking pearly gates.

~*~

Back on the cliff, Pamela was kicking arse, she was intense and clear, so on-the-mark it was astounding even to the cameraman who turned raised eyebrows to Russell who just grinned. Fuck if the little girl didn’t find her way. All his egotistical ideas of mentoring the blossoming talent flew right out the window. She was, in point of fact, exactly what Variety was calling her; remarkably astute.

Hell, every time an idea came to him to improve something she was doing, she bopped up behind him or around a corner and suggested it herself. And suddenly he felt a little left behind. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had enjoyed the brief times they’d spent together. Perhaps he should continue it? Maybe there was something young Pamela Duvalle could teach him?

Over the next few weeks, the filming moved smooth as silk. He spent at least one evening a week chatting with her at his favorite restaurant or at the catered tables with the rest of the crew. His heartsickness plagued him and it seemed that he was the only part of Latin Poetry that wasn’t in sync.

Night after night, he talked with Dani. They’d gotten past some of the hurt, but it was still very obvious he could not go home to her and she’d not be coming to join him. Occasionally a flash of comfort would glow, they might laugh, discuss one of the kids, talk about something happy from the past but never once could he bring himself to discuss the tedious hard road ahead; the divorce. It was a word he could hardly permit into his consciousness.

He was watching a few rushes from the day before when Pamela plopped into the chair beside him. Gratefully, she’d become more comfortable around him but he still sensed her holding back, hiding. She was silent, watching a particular take with him again and again.

“Don’t fuckin’ like the angle,” he mumbled.

“Why?”

He pointed. “See that . . . that whatever the fuck it is in the background?”

She nodded.

“Don’t have a fucking clue why I wanted it there. And now, I fuckin’ hate it.”

“Um,” she leaned closer to his ear. “I like it.”

He turned a glare.

“It provides the perfect distraction for the viewer. It’s not overwhelming, but it gets them off guard for what’s to come. This is right before the shooting, right?’

A baffled nod. Talk about concentration! Pamela had just impressed the hell out of him. Most actors watching dailies were so caught up in their own performance, they had no fucking clue what came next.

She continued. “Well, if the audience is inside of Melinda’s inability to hear, that tiny visual distraction emphasizes that she could have never expected the gunshot, right?”

Damn. She was dead right. “Good girl. It stays.”

“Oh goody, maybe someday I’ll be a director too.”

He watched the simple joy in her eyes. No ridiculous pride. None of the attitude he would have expected from a less honest actor. And no criticism of his performance either.

“Drink time, Pammy?”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Crowe. I have a date.”

He tried to smile, realizing that the young Latin lover was replacing him, taking away his pleasant distractions with her. “Of course. This is a good thing, sweetheart. I’ve got some work to do anyway.” He stood and left her there in the dark room.

~*~

Dammit! It was getting way too hard. She didn’t want to stop spending time alone with him but it was her plan and she was sticking to it. She could no longer handle the erotic dreams and fantasies she’d been having. Of course, she had no fucking date. Hell, she had no friends except for her troubled director.

And troubled he was. Even though the press was frantically trying to find it and couldn’t see it, she could. Pamela could actually feel it. His pain moved like waves through the air and invaded her energy, making her ache for him. It was agonizing to know he was so vulnerable. And even though he’d said he was no expert at pretending, he was doing it and she knew it.  

He pretended to be all right about his wife not being there with him. He pretended that the world didn’t see the powerful implication of Dani suddenly leaving Costa Rica. He pretended that he didn’t need anyone. He pretended that he was together and comfortable, but Lord knows he wasn’t. Granted, he had developed a directorial reputation of being a loner on the set, not unapproachable but one of those deep thinkers you simply didn’t want to interrupt. Off the set, he was always off with his family unless they were joining in for cast festivities. The press was wild for information. Another reason for the budding new starlet to leave the poor man alone. The last thing he needed was an unfounded scandal.

So, Pamela followed her plan.

~*~

The last weeks on location were intense, grueling. And for Pamela, extremely unhappy, but no one, not even her director was aware of it. She was suffering without his smile, the grin and entertaining expressions he used to offer while discussing her work. All those special times were completely eliminated from her days. She would smile a ‘good morning’ and wave a sweet ‘good evening’ and nothing more. It was her plan and she was sticking to it.

And with a thrill of success, she believed her infatuation was slowly evolving, becoming easier to control. As filming in Costa Rica was coming to a close, she had once again avoided a chance to be alone with him, walking away and thinking she’d made it safely. Feeling empty, she stopped and looked into a shop window display, then suddenly felt a prickle on the back of her neck. Turned. It seemed they had been alone together, he walking down one side of the street, she on the other. She finally stopped and smiled at him. As if he knew, he glanced her way. Like a happy puppy, Russ trotted across, avoiding moving vehicles and nodded to a small tiki bar.

“So,” he said, tossing the colorful umbrella from his drink into an ash tray. “Glad I finally caught a minute with you. Wanted to discuss some of the L.A. scheduling. Looks like we leave next Tuesday and start on the lot that Friday.”

“Oh,” Pamela was speechless. The closeness of him, that easy mannerism, the deep resonant voice. She had almost forgotten the effect it had on her. “Uh, sure.”

He leaned far back and eyed her suspiciously. “That’s it, Pammy. Enough of this fucking shit. Talk.”

Her mind screamed, back up and punt! “Talk? About what?” She gazed her perfect on-camera gaze.

“Enough!” His hand gripped her wrist and he gently tugged her to a quiet table. “I’ve seen enough. Pamela, sweetheart, you are heading down a very dangerous road. This has got to stop. I can see through this fucking crap. Time for the truth.”

She blinked back a tear, swallowed back words she could never tell him.

“Little girl, you are already in too deep with something so destructive you can’t even begin to understand . . . ” He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. “Listen. Take a good hard look at me. I’m fucking broken, I’m empty and I’m hurting but who the fuck would know?”

“I do.”

“Yes,” it was a soft hiss. “Yeah, you do, and that’s how I know you’re hurting too. Let me give you a very important piece of advice. Do not go numb, Pammy. Christ, don’t start so early. You’ve got a long fucking career ahead of you and if you never let someone under your skin, you will be dead long before you actually die.”

“And what about you?” She gasped at her own abrasive delivery. Did she mean to sound that harsh? It didn’t matter, she had opened the flood gates and nothing was going to stop what she had to say.

His eyes left hers, stared across the room as she spoke. His jaw was clenched, he was holding his breath and his temper but she simply didn’t care.

“Look at you!” She spoke in strong whispers that held more impact than a shout. “You are already dead and you have no fucking clue how many people truly care for you! No idea what some of us would do to ease your pain! You have hidden inside yourself, inside your perfect marriage, and managed to buffer everything that might hurt you. Now it has mortally wounded you” She gasped back a sob. “It is destroying you! Don’t you realize how important you are to so many people? To me?”

He turned, his lips tight. “This isn’t any of your fucking business, little girl.”

“And neither are my secrets, Mr. Crowe. Neither are my secrets.” She stood and looked down at him, loving him all the more for the revelation of his weaknesses, the chance to confirm her strengths.

His hand rose, his knuckles slightly grazing hers. His eyes asking her not to leave. “And what are your secrets, Pamela?”

Slowly she leaned down and placed a tender kiss on his cheek. A child’s kiss, the kiss of a friend or a baby sister. “I’m sorry, but you honestly don’t need to know.” The agony in his eyes made her breathless, rippled his suffering along hers and dropped her to her chair. “Oh God Russ, what can I do for you?”

His hand tightened on hers and his eyes glowed with moisture. With a tug of her hand she leaned, her ear was near his mouth. “Come to the house, Pam. Please come to the house tonight.”

She straightened. Nodded and left the bar.

~*~

Just what the fuck did he think he wanted? What was he expecting of Pamela? Of himself? It wasn’t that he really wanted to fuck her, but he needed to be touched so badly he thought he’d lose his mind. And she had already touched him deeply with her astute observations, her ability to read his hidden misery. But why couldn’t he read hers? Granted his own instincts were a bit off, his mind preoccupied with his latest heartbreak.

His latest heartbreak? Hell, his latest in an ever growing list of heartbreaks. For the past four days, he could not reach Dani. There was no answer at home, no answer on her cell, and no way he’d lower himself to hire a private investigator to locate her. Wherever she was, she didn’t want him to contact her . . . and that was almost the very bottom of his anguish.

All those evenings, when they had chatted pleasantly on the phone, were the only thing holding him together. The fact that she had shut him from her life was now complete. His hands shook as he checked his mail that morning, sure he’d find the divorce filings among the letters from friends and business associates, but it did not arrive.

Russ dropped into the chair near the fountain, unable to push himself through the courtyard and into the house. He was only sixty-two but his soul felt a hundred and two, his body even older. Leaning back, his eyes drifted closed. Was he ready for a new lover? A new life? No. Did he want to start all over again? No. With a younger woman who would want a family? Who deserved a family of her own? No. And was Pamela Duvalle that woman for him? No. He groaned and wondered if he should call and cancel, convince her he’d changed his mind. Jesus, what the fuck was wrong with him? What had compelled him to proposition that girl?

Now that answer was easy. First of all, she was strikingly beautiful. Second, Pamela was so very much like Dani when he’d first met her. Pamela was special because of her state of grace. Just like Dani. Just like his wife. He did proposition Pamela, but he had no intention of making love to her. He had the delusion that he could simply hold her, look into those deep, violet eyes and talk to her; hear his own voice finally speak the words. Hear those words confirm that his marriage was over. That he would soon be divorced. He wanted to use Pamela as his sounding board and accept the loving support she was offering him, even if that did mean sex and all the physical releases it afforded. His heart throbbed.

Hell yes, he wanted sex, but he wanted it with . . .

He jumped, reached for his ringing cell phone deep in his pocket, squeezed his eyes closed and prayed it was Dani. It was not.

“Yeah, Pammy. Changed your mind?” Did he sound nonchalant enough?

“About a few things, yes.” Her sweet voice drifted into his ear. He had no comment, just watched the fountain and listened.

“Russ, I can’t come over there because . . . because . . . well, I really want to help you through this tough time, but I just don’t think this is the way.”

“I understand, sweetheart. Should’ve never suggested such a thing. Can we forget it?”

“No, no we can’t. I can’t. Jesus, do you have any idea how much I want you? Fuck, Russ,” she sobbed quietly. “I am so much in love with you my guts hurt. But this isn’t what you need and it certainly isn’t going to help me get over you, now is it?

“That’s my secret, by the way.” A sniffle. “That I’m in love with you, but you already know that, I guess. God, how many young actresses have fallen in love with you? How many co-stars.? How many fans? I’m just another in a long list, I’m sure. And I know you never saw me that way.”

Russell blinked, feeling nothing. “Sorry, love.”

“Yeah, I know. Tell me what I can do to help you. Because coming to your body is not the answer and we both know it.”

Russell released a loud groan to cover the growing sob in his chest. He sat up, leaned his elbows on knees. Running a hand down his beard, collecting tears along the way, he finally sighed. “Pamela. Sweetheart. Teach me how to pretend.”

“No, Mr. Crowe. You already know how to pretend. But maybe I can remind you about something else.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“I’d like to remind you how to believe. How to believe something so much that you can believe it into existence. Because Russ,” she sniffled again, “I think that is the one thing you and I really do have in common.”

“Believe? And what shall I believe?”

“Believe she loves you. And if you believe enough, who knows.”

“And what do you believe, Pammy?”

She was silent. He could almost hear the perfect, pretend answer being formed in her pretty head. Russell did not expect what he heard.

“I believe . . . I believe that I have been blessed to know you, lucky to love you and Russ, I believe she does love you. But it’s what you believe that matters. That’s the only way it works. Gotta play by the rules.” She was obviously crying and it wrenched his heart.

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Click.

~*~

He hung up the phone, immediately dialed his wife’s cell and spoke to the voice mail.

“Dani. Just lettin’ ya know we leave Costa Rica in six days. I love you. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

And thus began his monumental campaign of belief. He called again the next morning, chatting on the recording about the weather and the cat that gave birth to five kittens near the courtyard fountain.

At lunchtime, he left her a message about what he ate.

After dinner he told her the sunset, blow by blow, cloud by cloud, color by color, recited like the lyrics of a love song.

Before he fell asleep, he whispered to the voicemail how he’d have loved her if she was there.

Day after day, four or five times a day, Russell spoke lovingly to his wife’s voicemail. And each time he closed with, “I love you, maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

He told himself she loved him. He envisioned walking into their house and into her arms. He saw them admiring the coming grandchild together. He believed. And believed fully.

As he packed for the States, everything done in that tropical paradise location, he once again dialed.

“Dani, flight is in one hour. I’ll call again from sunny California . . . fuck . . . I miss ya so much. I love you . . . Dani . . . please talk to me.” He closed the phone and rubbed his eyes. It was no time to start giving up. The mail still had not delivered a divorce decree. Everyday that it didn’t come was a day for hope. Another day to believe. To believe that his wife did love him as much as he loved her.

But it had been over a week. Where was she? He’d tried the kids. No one was giving him any answers. Was she really finished with him? And was it time for him to be finished with her? He set down the suitcase and bent to pick up one of the stray tiny kittens, placing it with the others at mama cat’s teat.

“What do ya think? Is it time for me to give up on my wife? God, I don’t want to. But with good advice from a mum, I may be able to move on.”

“Well, I certainly would have given up on her long ago.” A voice came from behind and his eyes immediately clouded with moisture. He knew the voice, the energy, the scent floating to him, the sensation of completion. He blinked, composed his thoughts.

“S’at her?” He asked the mother cat without turning. He felt her hands on his shoulders, then her arm reached over him to pet the cat. She hugged him tightly from behind and he stood, turning her into his embrace, sighing and shaking.

“Dani,” he whispered into her hair. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I’m so sorry. I have no idea how I thought I wanted to live without you. I am so glad you called everyday. So glad you didn’t take my confusion for the truth. So glad you believed in us.”

~*~

The first time Pamela actually had the opportunity to speak with Russell’s wife was at the wrap party in L.A. She responded to Mr. Crowe’s patented crooked beckoning finger and joined them in the corner of the room.

As he introduced her with the pride of a dad, she was at the peak of her perfect pretend performance, chatting pleasantly with the woman who held his heart and always would. Dani was beautiful and elegant; she was sweet, even kind, but obviously had a healthy dose of protective pretence going for herself as well.

Pamela left the party soon after, having no further reason for celebration. It was, after all, just a job. A temporary job at that. And it was over. She always felt it was silly and self indulgent to grasp at straws and hold onto something when it was over. That’s what always happened at wrap parties. She didn’t care to watch the cast and crew get drunker and voice emotions they should have dealt with months ago.

And what emotions had she to voice? Love? Loss? Her deep pleasure at Russell’s happiness? It was all true and unbearably painful.

She went to her small, dark and empty apartment; the one where she used to struggle to pay the rent. The one she hadn’t seen or spent more than a night or two in for over a year. Inside, she walked in the darkness, remembering the smell and flow and sensations of the place. Wondering if she ever wanted to feel the way she had when she lived there full time, tapping numbers on a calculator till dawn and thinking that all the world held for her was on the bottom line.

Sadness slammed into her like a fast moving car and she leaned against the wall, slid to the floor and cried out. What had she really learned? So much. So very much.

But most of all, she learned that Pamela Duvalle was in fact an actor . . . and she was a strong woman who could survive anything. She would not bury the love she felt deep under her thickening skin, she would celebrate it, permit it to hone and polish her.

After all, that’s what Russell Crowe would have directed her to do.

THE END

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