Under the Influence Read Online Free PDF Page B

classroom, that I spent my summers at her house in Switzerland, and that as a child I had traveled with her to Africa, on one of her UNICEF trips. (A trick I learned early about lying well: You fill your story in with as many details as you can that will ring true with your listener. People might not know whether or not Audrey Hepburn had a granddaughter, but if they knew she worked for UNICEF, it wasn’t such a big leap to the made-up part.)
    Given how much time I spent with my made-up grandmother Audrey, it was not surprising that I spoke with an accent somewhat reminiscent of hers in Sabrina (part French, part British) and wore only ballet flats. One time I ran into a classmate and her mother at the communitypool. (I reflected, as always, what it might feel like to have the kind of mother who accompanied you to the pool, and rubbed suntan lotion on your back, and brought snacks.)
    She had expressed surprise that I wasn’t in Switzerland. “I fly out next week,” I told her. Then I stayed away from the pool.
    Years later, when I was at college (I’d gotten a full scholarship) and word hit the news that Audrey Hepburn had died of cancer, that same woman sent me a note expressing her condolences. I wrote back to thank her, and to tell her my grandmother had left me a string of pearls, which I described as having been given to Audrey by one of the many men who’d adored her, Gregory Peck. I would treasure them forever, I said.
    It would have been more difficult to maintain the illusion that my stories were true if I’d had good friends, but I didn’t—and maybe it was the need to preserve my secrets that accounted for this. People on campus were cordial enough, but I didn’t get close to anyone—and how could I? I was working very hard to maintain my grade-point average, which was important if I wanted to hold on to my scholarship. I was majoring in art, with a focus on photography, but I had signed up for a workshop in screenwriting. All my life I’d made up stories, so this made sense.
    The workshop was taught by a writer-director who’d gotten one movie made, back in the seventies, and now ran screenwriting seminars at hotel conference centers. After it was over, he’d invited me for coffee—impressed with my knowledge of film history, he said. Coffee turned into dinner, which turned into a long drive to the ocean, on which he told me that he was fed up with the movie studios and the way they trashed his work, and all the shallow people an artist had to pander to if he wanted to get his movies made. His last project was shit, he told me. His marriage was shit. Hollywood was shit. It was so refreshing, meeting a girl like me, who still possessed the passion he’d once had about films. I still called them movies.
    Jake started calling me up from Los Angeles, writing me letters. I never even asked myself if I liked this man; I was just so amazed that he’d taken an interest in me. Amazed and flattered, of course. One day he said, “Meet me in Palm Springs,” and when he sent me the plane ticket, I went. It had not occurred to me that I might make my own choices in life. I was waiting to see what the people around me wanted to do, and when someone offered a suggestion, I took it.
    He said he was leaving his wife. Had left. Said we could make films together; he’d be my mentor. Said he’d drive north to my college campus to pick me up. He could attach a roof rack to his car—all I’d need to transport my belongings, I had so few. He’d be there by tomorrow morning. “I’m your family now,” he said. “The only family you’ll ever need.”
    A week later I had given up my full scholarship and moved out of my dorm room to go live with him. Six months after that, Jake was back with his wife. That was it for college. As a person who’d made up plenty of stories, you might have thought I’d recognize the signs