I could tell he fascinated her, the way he seemed touched with magic dust.

BY GARRET DWYER JOYCE

IMAGE BY MEAHA CAUDLE-CHOI

A tight-lipped security guard blocks my progress up the driveway. I must be giving off some kind of vibe, because he looks like he’s about to pat me down. That won’t impress the other guests gathering behind me, so I flash my best I’m-just-a-regular-guy smile, the one that earns me just enough to pay the rent. The guard’s stone face relaxes into a smile of his own. 

He’s right, though. I am nervous. Rosedale isn’t my scene. Super-sized piles of brick and concrete, clipped hedges and cascades of flowers in enormous terracotta planters. Another world from my dingy one-bedroom in Toronto’s east end. But there’s a deeper layer to my anxiety. It’s been weeks since I saw Sarah. Why didn’t she reply to my emails and texts? No way I’d dare to call.

My new friend examines my invitation, consults a list on his clipboard and hands it back. I read it again and laugh. Typical. Who else but Mike Bellamy would emboss Annual Schmooze and Booze on a hand-pressed Florentine card? 

Another security guard points to a gate at the side of the house. Mike is waving, beckoning me over. I square my shoulders, tell myself I’m the best actor in the world, and stride towards him.

He’s dressed in Hawaiian shorts, sandals and a yellow t-shirt with Mickey Mouse emblazoned on the front. Okay Mike, I get it. Keep it low-key.

Informal or not, no outfit will ever improve his looks — the spikey black hair like a brush with missing bristles, the round-shouldered slouch, the mournful beaver features. But when he smiles, he becomes the proverbial eager creature you can’t help but like.

“Hey, old buddy,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “My lifesaver! Did I ever tell you? This business can turn you into an uncaring asshole, but you keep me grounded.”

“Glad to be of service,” I say. These days, I fall on any scrap of praise.  

I’m far too low on the Toronto showbiz ladder to be part of Mike’s world of Emmy Award-winning series and A-list stars, but he always invites me to this garden party on the first day of summer. Over a decade, Schmooze and Booze has become more extravagant; from beer and burgers to Mark McEwan’s mini lamb chops and brie crostini, sommelier-chosen wines and a platoon of security guards. I appreciate his generosity, but — my God — I try not to be jealous. Success for Mike seems so effortless. In a Darwinian business of hustlers and titanic egos, a combination of charm and competence made him one of Canada’s youngest multi-millionaires.

“Just gets better, doesn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, I know. Crazy. I just signed a deal for a thirteen-part series set in Afghanistan. More getting into people’s heads than action, but plenty of flash and bang too.  I’m moving into streaming TV. Quality stuff. No crap. That’s where the money’s going.” He looks at me more closely. “How about you?”

“I got a call-back for Cardinal. Two-bit hoodlum on the run. Fingers crossed.”

He nods and gives me a sympathetic look.  “I like the outfit,” he says, taking in my white linen pants, sky-blue cotton shirt with long sleeves, rolled to just below the elbow, and brown slip-on Oxfords.

“Yeah, all gussied up for an afternoon of croquet and cucumber sandwiches.”

“I’ve got to hand it you, James. You never give up.”

I once hoped to make a career out of playing those boyish English types who bumble through a plot and attract women like locusts to a cornfield. Floppy hair, blue eyes and a cricket player’s physique, but I can never get the accent right.

My lot in life is TV commercials.  I’ve become That Guy — the face you recognize but can’t quite place.  I’m the smiling attendant at the service station (one line, “Have a nice day.”), the sad sack who loses his date to the guy drinking the cool brand of beer (picks up bottle, looks at label, no dialogue), the guy at the bank who makes getting a loan look so easy (offers client a pen, one line, “Welcome to your future.”)

But there’s one part of my life where Mike and I compete as equals. Maybe not quite equal, but almost.

“What about Sarah? How’s she doing?”

His eyes take on a dreamy look.  “She’s fine, James, just fine. Go find her. There’s someone we want you to meet.”

He’s so sincere in his efforts to help I find it hard to look him in the eye. Is the smartest guy in the room that naïve? Does the fact Sarah and I were together before they were married not give him pause for thought?

As students, they were known as Beauty and The Beast. Our friends used to laugh at the way he would hang around, hoping she’d toss a smile in his direction.

“It’s so unfair,” Sarah said in the cafeteria one day after he stuttered a greeting to her in the lineup for coffee. “In that stupid fairy tale, the Beast keeps Beauty locked up. Can you imagine Mike doing something like that?”

“People love to be cruel,” I said. “Makes them feel superior.”

It was easy for me to shrug him off. I was the one she wanted, the one she got, and I wanted her. Wanted doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings. Loving her was a giddy ride beyond my control, but one I took willingly. I was the Prince. Mike could only dream. How could he compete with the current of desire that ran between us, the jolt when my skin touched hers?

The only problem — and it was huge for two people who hoped to see their names splashed on billboards — was that those sparks sputtered and died every time we appeared together on stage.

It came to a head on a gloomy, end-of-the-world February afternoon. We were auditioning for the leads in Romeo and Juliet, that year’s graduation class production. The director was Martin Butler, a rising star from the Stratford Festival. He sat on a straight-backed wooden chair in the middle of the rehearsal room, tapping his clipboard with a pen.

We had chosen the pivotal scene from Act Three when the lovers are about to be parted. We’d been rehearsing for weeks, and thought we had it nailed.

“Night’s candles are burnt out,” I began and felt my throat constrict. I saw Butler frown but kept going. “And jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die.”

“Yon light is not daylight, I know it,” responded Sarah, sounding like she was reciting a shopping list. “It is some meteor that the sun exhales…”

“Okay, thank you,” said Butler.

“But we haven’t finished,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I have to move on.”

Sarah grabbed my arm. “Leave it, James.” She steered me towards the door.

The gaggle of hopefuls waiting outside exchanged glances as we stumbled into the corridor. Some snickers, but no sympathy.

“Oh my God,” said Sarah when we got of earshot. “That was so humiliating. Did you see the way he looked at us? Like, are you two for real?”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said, staring at the snowflakes beginning to fall outside the window.

“Maybe we need to stop trying to sell ourselves as a package.”

“But we are a package.”

“For every single thing we do?” She gave me a skeptical look. “We need a new plan. I’ll talk to Mike. He’ll have some ideas.”

“Of course he will.”

I could tell he fascinated her, the way he seemed touched with magic dust. Even in those days, his student productions drew attention. He’d been marked as someone to watch.

She never told me what advice he gave her, but it didn’t make any difference. How do you fix a basic lack of talent?

After graduation, Sarah and I grubbed about on the edge of the Toronto theatre scene.  Five years spent waiting tables and waiting for call backs that never came. Meanwhile, Mike zoomed forward, moving from theatre to take advantage of the boom in Hollywood North; churning out crime series and rom coms for the American and Canadian markets.

Finally, I got the break I thought would change my life. I won some money in Lotto 6/49, enough to pay for a trip to England and a three-month course at The London Drama School.  I worked on my English accents, mastering Cockney and other regional dialects, but the confident, superior sounding diction of the upper classes eluded me.  And there were plenty of floppy-haired local actors who just had to open their mouths to ace an audition. An ersatz copy from Ontario didn’t cut it.

I kept in touch with Sarah, but sensed she was going to use those few months as a way to break up and I was right. When I called to say I was coming home, she told me she was engaged to Mike.

“Wow, you didn’t waste any time. Get me out of the country, then write me out of the script.”

“I should have told you before, but I didn’t have the courage. I need somebody to push me through life. He’s the one who can do it.”

“So, Beauty beds down with The Beast?”

The phone connection bounced clear from a satellite orbiting the earth. I could hear her breathing. “Please, stop calling him that.”

“Okay, Mike’s a good guy. But that’s no reason to marry him.”          

“Can’t you see it from my point of view?” she said, her voice beginning to break. “I need stability.”

Oh yeah, I knew all about that. She’d told me many times before, but that didn’t stop her from telling me again.

“My bed-hopping mother. Asshole father who took off to Madrid and never came back. If there’d been a prize for the foster home shuffle I’d have won every time.”  

“I can give you stability, Sarah. Marry me and I’ll prove it.”

She released her breath in a long, sad sigh.  “Oh, James, my love. It’s not you. It’s me. I can’t face working in restaurants anymore, smiling at people who look at me as if I’m nothing, dreaming about that big part that never comes. It’s time to face facts. I’m just a pretty face. All I have to do with Mike is ride along.”

But those vows she took at City Hall couldn’t switch off what crackled between us. A few weeks later, she was back in my bed.  One advantage for an unemployed actor is sex when other people are working.

“I’m thinking of going off the pill,” Sarah said as we lay on my futon. When was that? Must have been early April. A surprise heatwave had turned the air stagnant and sticky. A streetcar rumbled by on Queen Street, sending vibrations through the floor.

“I thought you never wanted kids.” I sat up abruptly, looking for clues. She wore no makeup and her face glistened with sweat.

“I’m not so sure anymore,” she said, turning away. “I don’t want to be one of those frantic women running back and forth to the fertility clinic when I’m forty.”

“And who will be the father of Beauty’s baby?”

I had a vision of a little girl in a simple cotton dress — a perfect amalgam of Sarah and myself — running barefoot towards me across a field of wildflowers. My chest tightened.

“What will you say to Mike if this child has the face of an angel instead of a rodent? That’s a twist missing from the fairy tale.”

“Don’t be nasty, James.  It doesn’t suit you.”

I wonder about this as I search for Sarah in the packed garden. Am I the only nasty one?

All the top Canadians and a sprinkling of American stars are here – Colm Feore, Sandra Oh, Ryan Reynolds. Is that Denzel Washington? A few guests glance in my direction, then slide by. That Guy.

I scan back and forth until I spot Sarah weaving her way towards me. My heart leaps. White shorts and a pale green blouse, her curves toned from daily workouts, a glowing tan. Shafts of evening sunlight break through the tall maples shading the garden, catching her chestnut hair and turning it to a halo of copper.

“James, James,” she calls. “Over here.”

I want to feel those silky lips against mine, but make do with a fraternal peck on her cheek. She takes my arm and positions me in front of a tall, restless man in a grey silk suit and open-necked white shirt. He looks like he’d be happier making a deal for the next blockbuster than making small talk.

“This is Victor,” she says, the words tumbling out, knowing she only has a few moments to make her pitch. “He’s the American co-producer for Quagmire, the Afghan war series.” Victor stops fidgeting with his iPhone and gives us a tight smile. “He’s famous for always finding the perfect actor for each part.” She gives him an eager look. “What do you think, Victor?”

He gives me a brief appraising look. “Very nice,” he says and hands me a business card.  “Give the office a call and we’ll set something up.”

Sarah jumps and claps her hands together, but I can see I’m not what he wants. The card is just a way to sweeten Mike’s wife.

Victor moves away, his attention caught by the arrival of Hugh Jackman.  I grip Sarah’s arm. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

She stiffens, glances around. “Mike and I were so busy in LA.” She gives me an apologetic smile.

A quick brush of her lips on my cheek and she’s gone. I watch her heading for Mike, the determination in her step. It’s as if all the other guests have suddenly vanished and I’m the only one left standing on the immaculate lawn.

She leads him away from the gate, up some steps to the stone patio overlooking the garden. They turn to face their guests. He says something to her, and she strokes his arm. An innocent gesture, but it cuts my heart. 

Mike claps his hands and raises them for silence.

“Okay, everyone, listen up.” He puts his arm around Sarah’s shoulder.  “We have some wonderful news we’d like to share with you.” A pause. I have to hand it to him. Always the man who knows how to put on a show. “Sarah and I are about to become parents.”

Sarah pats her stomach and smiles. “A February child to drive away the chill of winter.”

Applause rises. Guests surge around them, kissing, hugging and shaking hands. I feel as if all the air has been sucked out of my body. A February child?  Here we are at the end of June and she’s been away for weeks. Enough time to conceive and keep me out of the equation. Could she not have told me, given me some kind of warning?

I need a drink. One of the servers at the bar sees me eyeing the bottles of wine, each in its own bucket of crushed ice.  I point to a bottle of rosé from Provence and he hands me a glass.

“I’m going to need more than that,” I say and take the bottle.

“Your choice, my friend,” he says and laughs. I recognize him as an actor who appeared with me in a Lexus commercial.  “Looks like you’re doing okay these days. Drinking wine instead of serving it.”

“I guess.”

I leave the crowd to look for somewhere quiet. I find a Muskoka chair at the back of the garden and sink into the comfort of its slatted wood, my heart still pounding. I pour a glass of wine, shut my eyes, sip and let the cold, stony-tasting liquid trickle down my throat. Behind closed lids, the world is smaller and calmer. The sounds of early night become clearer – the murmur of conversation, an occasional laugh, a vague buzzing of insects and, behind it all, the steady, throbbing pulse of the city.

I feel a mosquito land on my exposed wrist. An itch as it probes. I could ruin its day with a slap of my hand, but I stay still, open my eyes and watch it feed on my blood.

Garret Dwyer Joyce is based in Toronto. Raised in Ireland, he is a graduate of Carleton University and Trinity College Dublin. He has worked as a television producer and writer for several decades. He is now completing the Graduate Certificate Program in Creative Writing at Humber.

Image: Meaha Caudle-Choi, Moon Queen, india ink on bristol paper (2019).

Edited for publication by Sean Grounds, as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.

The HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Applied Research & Innovation.