My Deja Vu Lover Read Online Free Page B
Author: Phoebe Matthews
he had a better explanation.
I said, “It makes a difference to me. If I knew for positive the crash I saw was something in a former life, over, done in a past life, couldn’t still be waiting to happen, I could forget it.”
Macbeth narrowed his eyes, ran his hand over his hair, glared at me, then tried to smile. “Okay, whatever you saw, it’s over. Probably a scene from a movie you’ve forgotten.”
“That won’t do. Let’s say I don’t believe in reincarnation and the past. That means the crash scene is a premonition. Something still going to happen.”
“No. April. Do you want to believe in reincarnation? Go ahead, because it puts your nightmare in the past.” Poor Macbeth. I was forcing him to argue against his own logic. “One thing I am sure of. No one can see the future.”
Okay, he was right, I decided. Forget the whole thing, credit it to a dizzy spell. Lay the blame on skipping breakfast.
That’s what I decided.
And then I ceased being me.
***
I was a girl standing on a concrete sidewalk in front of a stucco bungalow on a street of stucco bungalows, low one-story houses that would have been called summer cottages back home in Minnesota but here, in California, people lived in them year round. Painted in pastel shades, most of them beige or pink, the low bungalows had multi-paned windows below faded awnings. Red-tile trim edged the flat roofs. The front gardens were patches of brown grass with strips of foundation plantings, spiky oleander bushes behind sprawling geraniums, both with flowers in harsh shades of pink. The sky was so bright it made my eyes ache.
At least thirty people from the moving picture company milled about in the street, trying to look busy while they waited.
Near me a cameraman rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. He stood behind his large camera with its tripod of wooden legs that raised it to his eye level. He reached out to rest one hand on the crank and his lips moved as he counted to himself, preparing to start his steady rhythm of two turns per second.
On his far side, a boy held a black umbrella at an angle that shaded the camera lens and the man behind it.
Beneath another umbrella the director sat in an oak rocking chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees, a long cigar clenched in his fingers. He was a heavy man with graying hair slicked back from his forehead and a narrow, combed mustache, and he wore light slacks, a short-sleeved shirt, and a watch with a wide gold band.
An actor stood less than ten feet from the camera, costumed in an army uniform, clutching a fiber suitcase with metal edges and corners, and practiced a dismayed expression, his facial muscles taut. The glaring sun cast dark shadows.
The director shouted, “Push his hat back. I can’t see his eyes.”
An assistant shouted, “Wardrobe, fix the hat!”
Wardrobe said, in a tone of apology, “That’s the way the army wears them, sir.”
The director waved his cigar at the actor. “Turn a little to the left, Will. Tilt your chin up.”
The acting coach stepped into the scene, put his hand on the actor’s chin, then turned his face until the shadow no longer obscured his eyes.
The cameraman bent toward the director to whisper. The director nodded and said, “Six inches to the left. There. Good.”
I stood on the walk with three other actresses, waiting. If they didn’t use us soon, my chances would be ruined. I would look so terrible in the pictures that, even if they didn’t cut my scene, no one would notice me and rush to offer me a contract. My make-up itched on my hot skin. I could feel the tips of my hair, where my bob was combed forward across my cheeks, sticking to my rouge. Much longer in the sun and the Delica liquid color on my eyelashes would start to run in black rivers down the sides of my powdered nose.
My new rayon step-ins and my silk stockings
I said, “It makes a difference to me. If I knew for positive the crash I saw was something in a former life, over, done in a past life, couldn’t still be waiting to happen, I could forget it.”
Macbeth narrowed his eyes, ran his hand over his hair, glared at me, then tried to smile. “Okay, whatever you saw, it’s over. Probably a scene from a movie you’ve forgotten.”
“That won’t do. Let’s say I don’t believe in reincarnation and the past. That means the crash scene is a premonition. Something still going to happen.”
“No. April. Do you want to believe in reincarnation? Go ahead, because it puts your nightmare in the past.” Poor Macbeth. I was forcing him to argue against his own logic. “One thing I am sure of. No one can see the future.”
Okay, he was right, I decided. Forget the whole thing, credit it to a dizzy spell. Lay the blame on skipping breakfast.
That’s what I decided.
And then I ceased being me.
***
I was a girl standing on a concrete sidewalk in front of a stucco bungalow on a street of stucco bungalows, low one-story houses that would have been called summer cottages back home in Minnesota but here, in California, people lived in them year round. Painted in pastel shades, most of them beige or pink, the low bungalows had multi-paned windows below faded awnings. Red-tile trim edged the flat roofs. The front gardens were patches of brown grass with strips of foundation plantings, spiky oleander bushes behind sprawling geraniums, both with flowers in harsh shades of pink. The sky was so bright it made my eyes ache.
At least thirty people from the moving picture company milled about in the street, trying to look busy while they waited.
Near me a cameraman rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. He stood behind his large camera with its tripod of wooden legs that raised it to his eye level. He reached out to rest one hand on the crank and his lips moved as he counted to himself, preparing to start his steady rhythm of two turns per second.
On his far side, a boy held a black umbrella at an angle that shaded the camera lens and the man behind it.
Beneath another umbrella the director sat in an oak rocking chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees, a long cigar clenched in his fingers. He was a heavy man with graying hair slicked back from his forehead and a narrow, combed mustache, and he wore light slacks, a short-sleeved shirt, and a watch with a wide gold band.
An actor stood less than ten feet from the camera, costumed in an army uniform, clutching a fiber suitcase with metal edges and corners, and practiced a dismayed expression, his facial muscles taut. The glaring sun cast dark shadows.
The director shouted, “Push his hat back. I can’t see his eyes.”
An assistant shouted, “Wardrobe, fix the hat!”
Wardrobe said, in a tone of apology, “That’s the way the army wears them, sir.”
The director waved his cigar at the actor. “Turn a little to the left, Will. Tilt your chin up.”
The acting coach stepped into the scene, put his hand on the actor’s chin, then turned his face until the shadow no longer obscured his eyes.
The cameraman bent toward the director to whisper. The director nodded and said, “Six inches to the left. There. Good.”
I stood on the walk with three other actresses, waiting. If they didn’t use us soon, my chances would be ruined. I would look so terrible in the pictures that, even if they didn’t cut my scene, no one would notice me and rush to offer me a contract. My make-up itched on my hot skin. I could feel the tips of my hair, where my bob was combed forward across my cheeks, sticking to my rouge. Much longer in the sun and the Delica liquid color on my eyelashes would start to run in black rivers down the sides of my powdered nose.
My new rayon step-ins and my silk stockings