“Aren’t you supposed to drink Coronita straight out of the bottle, Dad?” I teased Alastair as he poured himself a glass of Mexican beer. Alastair had picked me up at The Carlyle on Monday evening so I could stay at his apartment while Mom had her little 24-hour tryst with Trent Foster in Los Angeles. We were having dinner at the coolest Mexican restaurant in Manhattan. Los Mariscos, situated in the Chelsea Market. It was a warm summer night so we chose to sit outside in one of the stalls overlooking West 15th Street. Alice was snoozing in her kennel at the foot of our table.

“Just eat your fish tacos and drink your Mexican Coke. I don’t critique your eating style, do I?” Alastair smiled.

Dad offered to take me to school on Tuesday morning when my film class at Columbia University starts. But I told him that Anders Lyle had given me comprehensive instructions on what subway to take to get from Alastair’s West Village apartment to Columbia’s Morningside Heights campus.

“You’ve been in New York less than a week and you’ve already acquired a boyfriend?” he teased in retaliation.

“He’s just a friend from Mirage Canyon back home. He was two years ahead of me. And he’s going into his sophomore year at Columbia. It’s a weird coincidence that he’s taking the same film class this summer.”

“Do you like him?” Alastair asked, his grin partially obscured by the beer glass.

“Well…” I swallowed the bit of taco I had been chewing. “I guess so. He’s always been really nice to me.”

“Does he know?”

“Of course, Dad! We went to school together!”

“And it doesn’t matter to him?”

“Should it? I mean, we’re friends. Not Romeo and Juliet…”

“I just don’t want to see you to get hurt, Cherry. You’re still so young and—”

“I’m not going to lose all sense like Mom whenever she gets mixed up with some dude. You know, she’s taking an early morning flight to LAX tomorrow. Mom! Lulu Brooks, the woman who never gets up before noon! So she can spend a delirious 24 hours with Trent Foster, a boy less than half her age!” I sliced off another piece of a taco angrily.

“Eating tacos with a knife and fork is akin to doing the same with a slice of pizza,” observed Alastair.

“I have a very small mouth,” I replied defensively. “And the most bizarre thing is that she’ll be staying overnight at Trent’s parents house. Annie Flaherty is also staying there! Trent’s got a veritable seraglio in his mother’s house in Pacific Palisades!”

“Look, don’t concern yourself with your mother’s love life. Next year, at this time, you’ll be going off to college. She’ll be an empty-nester. Alone in the wilds of Calabasas.” He laughed into his beer.

“Dad, she’s not looking for companionship in her old age. She’s hot to trot. Especially with some prime beef like Trent Foster.”

“Your mother can handle herself, Cherry. Even an operator like Trent can’t make a dent in her emotional armor. Take it from me. I know whereof I speak.”

“We’ll see. No offense, but I think I know her even better than you do. After all, she gave birth to me.”

“Thank god you’re nothing like her, Cherry.”

“Well, I do have one thing in common with her.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re both women.”

Anders was smiling as I approached the massive ironwork gates of the Broadway entrance to the Columbia University campus. I had just emerged from the subway station beneath the corner of West 116th Street at precisely 10:45 AM, early for the start of class at 11. I waved to him though I was barely 30 feet from him. Feeling self-conscious, I immediately put my hand down by my side and just returned Anders’ smile.

“Morning, sunshine,” Anders greeted. “Ready for class?”

“Hi, Anders. I’ve got my tablet in my backpack and my fingers are itching to start typing notes.”

“Do you have any plans for after class?”

“Like lunch plans? No, I was just going to go back to my stepdad’s place and play with my dog. Make myself a sandwich. Listen to some jazz albums. My stepdad wants to improve my musical taste.”

We started to walk into the campus. Anders pointed to the building where our class would be held. Since we were so early, we fell into a leisurely pace. It was a nice sunny day and, being summer recess, not a lot of students were milling about.

“I was thinking, if you’d want to, we could get a couple of slices at V&T’s on Amsterdam. And then I could show you the apartment I’m sharing. It’s only a few blocks up on Broadway. Okay?” I could tell from the quaver in his voice, he was a little nervous about asking me. Almost like asking me for a date. Imagine. Me. A date.

“Sure, I’d like that. But I can’t stay too long. I have to let Alice out of her crate.”

A tall, fit man in his early forties, with close-cropped red hair and a stubble beard, dressed in a polo shirt and dark blue trousers, stood before us in the classroom. He nodded at us. There were 18 students in the room. It appeared I was one of the few high school students in the group.

“Good morning everyone. My name is Tony Webster and I’m your instructor for Filmmaking 101. I hope everyone here is in the right place. I had some students last semester who thought I was teaching a class in auto repair. Maybe it’s a statement about my fashion sense—”

General laughter filled the room.

“Oh, I see you all have the same opinion. Well, I could say my wife picks out all my clothes but that wouldn’t be true. Actually, my daughter does. She’s twelve. Yuck it up, people. These are my best dad jokes.

No, but, really, to be serious for a moment, I’d like to welcome you all to Filmmaking 101. I hope to introduce you to the fundamentals of the cinematic craft. I say craft because the art part is your individual and unique contribution to the enterprise. I can’t give you Scorsese’s or Chris Nolan’s genius but I can impart to you the tools and methods to make competent, perhaps even compelling visual media. After these 16 classes in 8 weeks’ time, my hope is that you’ll have taken your first steps to a career in cinema as rewarding and satisfying as I’ve enjoyed.

A little of my own background. I’m a graduate of USC Film School. Worked as a cinematographer for almost two decades. I’ve received three Oscar nominations, including for my first major film, ‘Thick As Thieves,’ back in 2001. I’m sure most of you weren’t even born when that was released. You might have seen it on Netflix. It starred David Wetherell, George Clooney, Alain Delon, and Lulu Brooks—”

I heard myself gasp. Fortunately, no one noticed. But I wasn’t sure if Mr. Webster was looking in my direction when he said my mother’s name. Anders, who was sitting next to me, turned his eyes toward me but didn’t say anything under his breath.

“…never won but what is it they say? Winning isn’t everything? Well, I’ve still got my acceptance speech on a slip of paper in my wallet. The one I never got to deliver. Don’t believe anyone when they tell you it’s an honor just to be nominated. Several people got nominated for ‘Thick As Thieves’ and the only one of us who won was Lulu Brooks. Well-deserved I must say but let’s just say, the afterparty wasn’t all that stimulating.

Enough self-pity. The goal of the course is to make a really good short film by the end of these 8 weeks. By short film I mean anything from, using the standards of the Academy, five to twenty minutes. You will be using the digital cameras, lighting and audio equipment we issue you as well as the use of our editing facilities. I will show you how to operate all the equipment. You will be responsible for the creative input. You can make a documentary or fiction film. I leave it up to you. In our next class on Thursday, I will assign each of you to a three-person team, since there’s, I believe, 18 students here. You can divvy up your duties anyway you wish among yourselves. If there are people you want to team up with, just inform me before class begins on Thursday. So, let me call the roll…”

As Anders and I were about to leave the room at the end of our two-hour class, Mr. Webster called out to me.

“Ms. Brooks? May I speak to you for a moment?”

“I’ll wait in the hall for you, Cherry.” Anders walked through the doorway and into the hall.

“Yes, Mr. Webster?”

“I noticed you sort of flinched when I mentioned Lulu Brooks. Are you related to her?”

“Yes, I’m her daughter.”

“I was a little thrown by your surname being Brooks. I know she was married to Alastair Knowles—”

“Alastair is my stepfather. My mother chose not to acknowledge my biological father by giving me his name. I suppose that makes me a bastard. Excuse my French.”

“Nonsense. You’re no such thing. We can’t judge a person’s worth by their parentage. But I am a bit puzzled. I had always been led to believe that Lulu had a second son, not a daughter. I guess I was misled. You know, I haven’t seen nor spoken to your mother in seventeen years. Since the Oscars in 2001. She was very pregnant then…with you. She attended the ceremonies with your grandmother. Everyone was trying to guess who the father was—”

“I’m still trying to guess,” I admitted.

“She never told you? Well, your mother always did everything her own, sometimes unusual way. Your mother and I dated at one time…”

“Is that what you wanted to ask me, Mr. Webster? My friend Anders is waiting for me…”

“I’m sorry to keep you. But…I’d like to continue our conversation. I’d love to catch up on what your mother’s doing these days and, of course, what made you want to take this course in filmmaking. Can I interest you in having lunch with me? If you don’t have any plans…”

“Only if Anders can come with me,” I insisted.

“Of course. After you.” He let me precede him out the door, where Anders was waiting, a puzzled look on his face.

“Anders, Mr. Webster has invited us to lunch.”

“I’m sure you’ll endorse my choice of venue. They have the best pizza in the neighborhood if not the borough of Manhattan.”

“V&T’s?” Anders guessed. “That’s funny. Cherry and I were planning to have lunch there ourselves.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was this a date? Am I stepping on toes here?” Mr. Webster seemed genuinely concerned.

“No, Mr. Webster, we’re not dating or anything,” I quickly interjected. “Anders and I went to the same high school back in California. We had no idea we’d be taking the same summer course.”

“I kind of thought it was sort of a date…” Anders muttered.

I blushed and turned my head away so that Mr. Webster wouldn’t see.

Predictably, on the day before the 4th of July, the lunch crowd at V&T was sparse. Mr. Webster, Anders and I sat at one of the three tables that were occupied as we dug into the large Margherita pizza we had ordered.

“I was just 25, 3 years out of film school, on my first big movie as head cinematographer. And it was being filmed in Europe! The cast was unbelievable. Wetherell, Clooney, Delon and, of course, your mother. On top of that it was the last film ever directed by the master, Sir Bennett.”

“Tell me, Mr. Webster—”

“Tony. We’re outside of the classroom. Call me Tony. And I’ll call you Cherry. Okay?”

“Tell me, Tony, is it true that my mother and David had an affair during the shoot?”

“It was, unfortunately, pretty much public knowledge, even while we were completing the principal photography. There was a week when Sir Bennett had to go back to Paris to explain some of the production cost overages to studio execs. That’s when David and your mother..umm…took a holiday in the South of France. The European press had pictures of them plastered all over the tabloids. And then when they had that huge fight in the London Hilton…”

“Should I be hearing this, Cherry?” asked Anders, attempting to observe my privacy.

I took Anders’ hand and sat him back down in his seat. “We’re friends. Please stay. Please.”

Anders nodded. I continued my examination of the witness.

“But then, after the incident in London, they broke off contact entirely. Didn’t they even try to patch things up?”

“I think that’s where David’s wife at the time comes in. She ‘forgave’ him his trespasses and decided against suing for divorce. I think David as well was chastened by the negative reaction from fans and the press about his philandering ways. He decided to be on his best behavior. I guess your mother, for her part, also decided to drop the whole matter, thinking the relationship was hopeless. Maybe she actually thought David would come crawling back to her?”

“When did you start dating her then,” I asked, puzzled by where Tony fit into this jigsaw of events.

“I guess I should confess that I fell head over heels in love with your mother during the filming of the movie. She never gave me a thought. And why would she? I was this young kid, wet behind the ears, hopelessly starstruck by this beautiful movie star. And the irony of it all was she was equally starstruck by David Wetherell, who never looked a gift horse in the mouth…sorry, that was an unfortunate choice of words.”

I waved my hand as if to say it was no biggie. He continued.

“Anyway, that summer after the film was completed, I bumped into your mother at a number of Hollywood parties. She wasn’t doing that well, trying to get over the episode with Wetherell. I heard she’d been drinking heavily, even making some embarrassing scenes at a couple of dinner parties given by some important people in the industry. I don’t know why but I felt I could help her so I got in touch with her toward the end of August 2000. Through her agent or manager. I forget.”

“And you started dating? Just like that?”

“Well, I knew from sources that she had optioned a property for a movie about Amelia Earhart. Something about how she might have ditched the plane on a deserted island a hundred miles short of her intended destination, Howland Island. She wanted to write the screenplay and convince a studio to let her direct it as well as star in it. I volunteered to storyboard it for her, in return for having first dibs on being the cinematographer on it if it ever got greenlit. She was in bad shape and the premiere of ‘Thick As Thieves’ was just a month away. I got her off the booze and, well, one thing led to another…we helped each other. That’s the way I see it. Was there something wrong with that?”

“I’d say you took advantage of someone in a very vulnerable emotional moment in her life,” Anders declared.

Ignoring Anders’ comment, I tried to get to the core of the issue, as far as I was concerned. “Were you dating my mother in September of that year, after the premieres of the movie?”

“She lost interest in the Earhart project and, I guess, me shortly before Halloween. All of a sudden, she seemed consumed by other things. Not even acting jobs. I called her often but she ended up just not answering my calls after a while.”

“Did she start over with David?”

“Oh no, that was over. Absolutely finished. His wife sued for divorce. This time she followed through with it. But he’d already moved on. He was involved with that actress who was on the new hit show on the BBC. Petunia or Petula something.”

“And you haven’t seen or spoken to Mom since 2001?”

“No. I hate to admit this but I never really got over your mother. I’m married now and have a 12-year-old daughter. She’s got red hair and freckles just like you. Oh, look at the time! I’ve got to drive my daughter to her piano lessons. Sorry, I’ve got to go.” He put two twenties on the table. “That ought to cover it plus the tip. I’ll see you Thursday. Listen, Cherry, next time you talk to your mother…maybe…I don’t know. Do you think she’d be interested in having dinner…no…never mind. See you both Thursday.” He walked quickly out of the restaurant.

“Red hair. Freckles. Piano lessons,” I enumerated under my breath.

“You play piano too, right?” Anders took the check and Tony’s $40 up to the cashier.

I decided to go home instead of visiting Anders’ humble abode in a Columbia-owned building on West 122nd Street and Broadway. Anders had exaggerated when he claimed he lived in Harlem. It was technically still in Morningside Heights.

As I strolled through Central Park with Alice, my mind was filled with all the possibilities my conversation with Tony Webster had conjured. At the time I was putatively conceived, sometime during September 2000, my mother was certainly having relations with Tony. But, with the premieres taking place that same month, it is very possible my mother experienced a return of the repressed with David Wetherell. Both of them are gingers as well. In fact, Tony has a daughter with red hair and freckles who plays piano, just like me.

What do I do now? How do I find out for sure who my biological father really is? Mom won’t tell me, for whatever reason I can’t even guess. Is she ashamed for me or of me? Or neither?

I was still pondering the enigma at midnight, peering out into the night through Alastair’s apartment windows. Alastair had already gone to bed and reminded me that we’d be heading up to Connecticut to grand-mère’s house for her annual 4th of July barbecue. As if I would forget! I love grand-mère and grand-père. And I love French barbecue. Merguez (Lamb sausages) and brochettes (vegetables/ meat on skewers) served with salads and rice. Delicious! Or as grand-père says, “Tres bon!”

My phone emitted an alert tone as I received a text message. It was from Mom. It must be after 9PM in Los Angeles. Right in the middle of Trent’s concert at The Hollywood Bowl. It was just a couple of sentences about how exciting the concert was and how she missed me being there with her. Yeah, right. There was a link. I clicked on it.

As Mom had described it, Trent and Annie were being very professional. Although the looks they exchanged while singing were probably the same kind of looks she and David Wetherell exchanged during the filming of “Thick As Thieves” several months before I was conceived.

---

The morning of the 4th of July, I was sitting shotgun in Alastair’s Prius as we started our trek to grand-mère’s house in Westport, Connecticut. The short one and a half-hour ride entailed going across town from Alastair’s West Village apartment to the East Side of Manhattan where we would join the traffic on the FDR Drive. Unexpectedly, Alastair turned left on East 64th Street.

“Why are we turning back into the city?”

“See that townhouse over on the left? That’s Martin Scorsese’s townhouse. I think Bill Murray has a place around here too.”

“So?”

He parked the Prius in front of a building and, seconds afterwards, a tall, blonde woman who looked to be a young 50 stepped out of the entrance, waving to us.

“Who is that, Dad?”

“That’s my good friend, Joanne Prentiss. Your grand-mère always invites her to her 4th of July barbecue. You’ll like her a lot. The two of you have many things in common.”

Now what could I possibly have in common with a 50-year-old woman I’ve never met?