Dazzled (2 page)

Miles

Poor Clare. She spent the next two hours trying to nag me into a more positive frame of mind. So far, it wasn’t working. The five pints of beer I sank might have had something to do with it, and I could feel myself sliding into a pathetic pit of despair. In the end, she manhandled me out of the King’s Head and force-fed me kebab with curried sauce until I sobered up enough to stumble home. Having Clare around was a bit like having a second mum: a shorter, fiercer mum with a hair-trigger temper. If she was a dog, she’d be a Jack Russell terrier. One of the short legged ones.

She wasn’t like most women, thank God. She said what she thought with very little editing. I always knew exactly what she was thinking, and because we had the same sense of humor, I only had to look at her for us both to start sniggering. That had got us into a lot of trouble over the years. She was my best friend.

There was only one subject that we disagreed on: Clare didn’t really get the whole acting thing. She put up with it in a way that was kind of patronizing, but she didn’t take it seriously. So it was hard to explain to her ho
w I felt when I was fired from
Brief Memories
. Even though the thought of walking out onto a stage reduced me to a shivering wreck, it was something I needed to do. It wasn’t about being in the spotlight – pretending to be someone else was the only time I felt like me. I knew Clare thought that because some women were attracted to me that I could breeze through life; she didn’t get that it was just skin-deep, and inside I was just as messed up as the next guy. Probably more so. Clare was always confident and clever, always herself – I’d have felt like a moron if I tried to explain it to her. But then again, she was 100% loyal and always on my side, so perhaps I didn’t need to.

The next morning I was halfway to Melody’s office before I realized I should have tried to tidy myself up a bit. It was too late now. I felt even more self-conscious than usual when I noticed that my jeans weren’t the cleanest they’d ever been, and that my Nikes looked like I’d stolen them from some less fortunate homeless person. On the other hand, she might give me the sympathy vote. And I
was
fucking pathetic.

Melody’s agency was in a modern, steel and glass building, sandwiched between a Regency townhouse and a Victorian shop front near central
London. I pushed through the old-fashioned, revolving wooden door, and the receptionist stared at me. Damn, I knew I looked scruffy and I could feel myself reddening under her gaze, and wishing I’d worn a clean shirt at least.

After a short phone call where she didn’t take her eyes off me, probably in case I stole something or carved my name into the desk, she turned and gave me a chilly, professional smile.

“Mr. Stephens, Ms Rimes will see you now. Fourth floor.”

I stammered my thanks and shuffled off to the lift, feeling her piercing gaze on my back. It was unnerving. I was glad that the mirrored interior of the lift was dark but then realized I still looked like shit. I closed my eyes until the doors reopened four floors up.

Melody’s assistant Daniela was waiting. Luckily, she was smiling at me – she’d always been friendly.

“Hi Miles! How are you?”

“Hey, Dan. Well, okay, I guess. How are you?”

“Just peachy!”

Peachy?
Only an American could get away with saying they were ‘peachy’. Clare would have laughed. I found myself grinning inanely at Daniela, who tossed her hair over her shoulder and winked.

“Melody’s ready for you,” she said, bringing me back to earth. “Can I offer you a coffee?”

“Oh, sure, thanks, Dan.”

“Black, one sugar. Right?”

I was impressed.

“How do you remember stuff like that?”

I thought she was about to answer when we heard Melody’s testicle-tightening voice from the inner realms.

“Good morning, Miles. I’ll have tea, thank you, Daniela.”

Daniela scuttled off and I peered around the door.

“Uh, hi, Melody.”

“Sit,” she ordered, waving me to a chair while she scanned a file on her desk. I didn’t know if she was waiting for the drinks to arrive or if she was trying to freak me out. Honestly, I was so wound up, she didn’t need to prolong the agony just to make a point. Daniela delivered the coffee in silence, throwing me a sympathetic glance.
Uh oh.
Finally Melody glared at me over the top of her glasses. “So, Bill Howden fired you.”

“Er, well, yeah.”
Shit. This was it.

“Hmm.”

Melody should have been an actor – there was a world of meaning in that ‘hmm’. I tried to analyze how she did it. It was the look, definitely: steely but thoughtful. I’d have to practice that one. Crap! I realized I was staring at her. Unemployable and acting like a weirdo – could the day get any worse?

“I
might
have something else for you,” she said.

What? That was a surprise. I blinked, my eyes coming into focus as I met her gaze for the first time. She smiled.

“Yes, I thought that might get your attention.”
She was laughing at me
. “Do you remember the audition tape you did a couple of months ago?”

I frowned, trying to remember. “Oh, yeah? The American thing?”

“Indeed!”

She raised her eyebrows. Somehow I’d committed a major sin – it must be one of omission because I had no idea what I’d done wrong this time. That was nothing new.

“Yes,
the
American thing
is the film script for the bestselling book
Dazzled
: top of the New York Times bestseller list for 31 weeks; translated into 23 languages – yes, that would be
the
American thing.
”

She paused for emphasis. She really didn’t need to. I got the point: I was a moron with the brain capacity of a flea.

“Well, the director of
the American thing
has seen your tape and she’s interested. She wants to meet you.”

What?
My brain had just gone into freefall.

Melody leaned back in her chair.

“It would mean traveling out to LA and it would have to be on your own buck because nothing’s guaranteed. But it would be good for you: get your face out there a bit, meet some people. My colleague, Rhonda Weitz from our Los Angeles office, is willing to schedule some meetings – and she’ll put you up at her place for a few nights. I pulled some strings.”

Half a beat. I was sitting there with my mouth hanging open. I must have looked like such an idiot.

“I thought you were going to fire me!” I managed to croak at her.

Okay, so I had more in common with Clare than I thought – I didn’t edit much either, although in my case it was less about being candid and more about a brain to mouth malfunction. It’s the kind of thing that happens to a guy when he’s thinking with his dick, but I
swear
that was not the case with Melody. I mean hell, any guy who got a boner within ten feet of her was risking permanent disfigurement. My dick hid behind my testicles when I was in Melody’s office – and then my testicles shriveled to the size of acorns.

Melody smiled again, or maybe she was just baring her teeth.

“No, Miles. If you’d read the contract you signed, you’d realize that
I
work for
you
.”

She was definitely laughing at me.

“So, can you get yourself over to LA for Thursday?”

“Yeah! Even if I have to swim.”

She snorted loudly and I couldn’t help flinching. “Good. Then I’ll make the arrangements. Daniela will email the details to you.”

She waved a hand, dismissing me, already onto the next job. I stood up, feeling stunned and spaced out – but in a good way – and walked around the desk to kiss her cheek. She looked surprised.

“Thanks, Melody. I mean it. Really. Wow! Thanks.”

She smiled thinly. I thought I’d overstepped the mark, but I really did mean it. I was so fucking grateful I could have kissed the ground at her feet.

“Make me proud, Miles.”

I was halfway to the lift when she called after me.

“Oh, and Miles, buy a new shirt… you look like shit.”

Clare

Miles was a bag of nerves, that much was obvious. He fidgeted, tugging at his t-shirt, scratching his cheek, running his hands through his too-dark auburn hair. It was hard to say how I felt: excited, pleased, worried and, truthfully, sorry for myself.

When Miles had told me the news, that he was flying out to LA, like a real actor, I felt as if I’d been cut in half. The better half of me was as happy as he was, reveling in the amazing news; the other half was already in mourning, the thought of being without him for three long weeks almost unbearable. But this was his big chance – I couldn’t let him see that I was half-hearted about it, even as half my heart shriveled unhappily.

“Have you got your passport?” I asked for the fourth or fifth time. I knew I was annoying him, I just couldn’t help myself.

“Ye-es!” he rolled his eyes.

“And you’ll text me when you get there?”

“If my phone works. Or I’ll email you. Do you think my phone will work? Oh God, Clare, what if I make a complete arse of myself?”

His irritation was suddenly replaced with anxiety. I wanted to hug him, to soothe him. Instead I shoved my hands in my pockets, to stop them reaching out for him.

“You’ll be fine,” I intoned automatically, while wondering if he really would be okay. He was prone to arseish behavior when he got nervous. Nerves made me mute; they had the opposite effect on Miles. He hated uncomfortable silences, always trying to find something funny to say to fill the gap – sometimes hideously inappropriate things that he later regretted.

His flight was called and it was time for him to go. For a brief moment his eyes were wild with uncertainty, then he blinked and I could see that he was giving himself a mental shake. Finally, now he was going, I allowed myself to reach up and give him a hug.

“Look after yourself,” I said into his neck, feeling his warm skin on my cheek. “Text me when you get there.” I couldn’t help repeating myself.

He nodded wordlessly and hugged me tight enough to crack a rib. I didn’t care. Then he slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder and strode away. He was halfway across the concourse when he turned and yelled, “Love you, Clare!”

People turned to stare; several laughed.

I watched until he was out of sight. It felt like the sun had just gone down – my own personal sun.

“Love you, too, Miles,” I whispered.

Babe in Toyland

Miles

It was nine hours into the 11 hour flight and I could feel my legs cramping up. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering how irritated the woman next to me would be if I asked her to move again, so I could get past her and stretch my legs in the aisle.

“These seats aren’t really made for tall people, are they?” she said, sympathetically glancing in my direction. Her voice was low and she had a soft American accent. She must have been nearly forty but she was dead sexy. My dick definitely noticed. Lovely: cramp
and
a hard-on. Her clothes were really cool and trendy, unlike me, and she was totally at ease in her own body. Plus – that voice!

“I think these seats are made for midgets with a bad attitude,” I agreed.

She frowned.

“There’s no need to be offensive about our vertically challenged friends,” she intoned, with an expression that could have frozen oxygen.

I felt my face get hot. Shit! I’d offended her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean… it was just a joke… I…”

She ignored my half-arsed apology with a sniff and went back to reading
Vogue
. I sank lower in my seat – she definitely wasn’t going to move for me now. Crap.

I stared out of the window, trying to take my mind off my tortured muscles. I couldn’t quite believe I was on my way to
Hollywood. It felt unreal and I was even more wired than usual – it was a bit like having one of those anxiety dreams where you don’t know the answers to a sudden test, or your molars turn to chalk and fall out. Tentatively, I checked my teeth with my tongue. Nope, they were still there. I glanced at the woman in the next seat and caught her staring at me. She looked really pissed off as she turned away. Great.

A long couple of hours later, the plane started its descent. The sun was pouring through my window, and I was looking out onto an ocean of concrete with flotillas of aircraft from all around the world. LAX was beyond vast.

I was feeling a bit spaced out. I never could sleep on planes, so I’d spent most of the night listening to Miles Davis ‘Kind of Blue’ and some other tracks from the Warner years. My iPod was nearly out of juice and I couldn’t remember if I’d packed my charger. I didn’t even know if I’d be able to use it out here. Did I need an adaptor? I hated being without my music. The thought was depressing.

First I had to get through Security.

“Passport.”

I handed over my scruffy, dog-eared passport. It wasn’t my fault it looked like I’d been using it to dig the garden. Nazzer and Paul had dropped it in the Regent’s Canal, and it was just luck that a guy had been fishing nearby. I dried it on a radiator and it had gone a bit wrinkly.

The security officer was massive and scary-looking. You know, the kind who probably played American football a couple of decades ago. I didn’t want to mess with him – I just had to remember to keep my mouth shut.
No stupid jokes. No stupid jokes. No stupid jokes.
He ran his eyes over me in a way that made me feel like a Colombian drug smuggler. I prayed he wasn’t going to get out the rubber gloves. Just the way he was eyeing me made me feel guilty of something.

“Reason for visit.”

“Uh, well, I might be here for a job, maybe.”

“Occupation, sir?”

Sir!
“Er, I’m… an actor.”

I felt like such a fraud saying that, and from the look on his face he could see right through me to the pathetic loser that I was. But finally, after another long gaze, he let me past. Thank God.

At the exit, I followed the instructions Clare had printed out for me (of course she’d printed them out – she treated me like a child sometimes), and I caught the shuttle bus to downtown LA. It felt so surreal buying a ticket for Hollywood. I couldn’t get my head around it. Ninety minutes later the bus driver was yelling that this was my stop. Maybe he was yelling because I’d fallen asleep. Crap, I hoped I hadn’t been drooling. I wiped my mouth discreetly and hauled my case down onto the pavement.

The bus dropped me off outside the El Rey Theater and I knew I was slapbang in the middle of the Miracle Mile, what the locals called this most exclusive – and expensive – part of
Los Angeles. Yeah, I stood out, and not in a good way.

It was everything I’d imagined and more. Skyscrapers were fringed by palm trees, and four lanes of traffic swirled past in a blur of noise and fumes. And the people! It was like
London on helium, but with more sunshine: chaotic, alive, frenetic, fucking terrifying.

Bloody hell. I was really here.

And everyone was staring. Talk about conspicuous: I was dragging a wheeled suitcase down Wilshire Boulevard. I may as well have had a screaming neon sign over my head:
Just off the bus! Mug me!
Fuck. I’d have been less conspicuous doing a clog dance.

By the time I’d walked half a mile in the scorching sun, the sweat was running off me and I was pretty certain I must smell like a goat. I’d been wearing the same clothes for 24 hours even before my recent hike. My armpits were wet, my back was soaked and even my crotch was damp – for the wrong reason. Oh joy.

The receptionist at Weitz’s office seemed to agree. I could swear her finger twitched toward the security buzzer – before I managed to stammer out Rhonda Weitz’s name.

She left me squirming with embarrassment and preparing for humiliation. I didn’t know if I was supposed to sit, stand, or wait by the lifts. Inspiration hit.

“Uh, could you tell me where the bathroom is, please?” I choked out.

She frowned, but without speaking pointed down the corridor with a long, creepy, manicured nail. I slunk off, feeling like a criminal. From the look she threw me, she thought I would be shooting up any moment.

Luckily the men’s room was empty, so I stripped off my goat-smelling shirt and rinsed my face and armpits in the tiny sink. I rummaged through my case and found a fresh shirt, although it was kind of wrinkled. At least I didn’t look so seedy. It was amazing how much more confident I felt once I was less sweaty.

When I got back to the front desk, the receptionist had been joined by a well dressed
Latina woman who was clearly irked to be kept waiting. Christ. Were there any women I wasn’t going to irritate today? Smart money said no.

“Mr. Stephens?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Follow me, please. Ms Weitz’s office is this way.”

We took the lift – sorry – we rode the elevator in stony silence. I hated uncomfortable silences and that one definitely qualified, but I knew that if I spoke first I’d start babbling. Clare said I had a chronic case of verbal diarrhea when I was nervous. And I sure as hell was nervous going into that meeting.

Rhonda Weitz was short and round with a brisk, no-nonsense attitude. She reminded me of my old high school principal. I liked her on sight and felt some of the tension leak away. But not all.

“Hey, Miles, good to meet you.”

She held out a meaty paw and inadvertently crushed my knuckles as we shook hands.

“How was the flight? Hell, right?”

“I’ve had more fun sticking lit matches under my fingernails in a Swedish massage parlor.”

She fixed me with a stern look.

“Er, well, not really. That was, er, a joke.”

“I’m thinking you should talk less,” she snapped.

Shit.
“I know. I get told that a lot. Sorry.”

She smiled, briefly.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s what I like about you Brits – you can’t sell the bullshit. So, to business. You’re meeting Jo-Anne Moody, the director, at five…”

“Today?”

She pierced me with her gaze, and I swallowed nervously.

“Problem?”

“No, I just…er… no, no problem.”

“Well, Jo-Anne, she just wants you to read through a few scenes with Lilia, film a couple of tests with the two of you… I’ll be straight with you, Miles: this is a long shot. The studio wants a name to play alongside Lilia. But Jo-Anne is pushing for an unknown. If she likes you, and if she can persuade the studio… maybe. But if not, I’ll set you up with some other meetings. Melody Rimes has great things to say about you.”

That made me smile: normally Melody just told me I looked like shit.

“Yeah? She told me to buy a new shirt.”

“Shoulda listened to her,” said Rhonda.

Clare

I sat in my room chewing a nail. I was supposed to be reading Bacon’s ‘New Atlantis’ but my mind was 6,000 miles away. I was anxious that Miles hadn’t texted or emailed. Surely he should have arrived by now?
Don’t be so bloody pathetic
, I told myself fiercely.
You’re not joined at the hip – go out and have a life – at least pretend that you’ve got one. That’s what Miles is doing
.

Now I was irritated with myself, too. I threw down my book, stuffed my wallet in my pocket and headed out.

Miles

“Here y’are, man.”

The taxi driver had pulled up at the gate of a stunning beach house half hidden by palm trees, with a hot Mercedes Coupé sitting in the drive.

“Er, are you sure?”

I eyed the mansion doubtfully. The audition was
here
?

“Sure, buddy. Thirty-seven ninety-three, like you said.”

I pulled out my wallet and handed over four, crisp ten dollar bills. I was still unfamiliar with the all green currency. As I stumbled out of the cab, I could feel the heat from the road radiating upwards through the soles of my shoes. At least I’d been able to leave my suitcase at Rhonda’s office.

I was feeling wired and sleep deprived at the same time – and, if I was honest, the three vodkas with Red Bull that I’d drunk on the plane hadn’t helped. Even so, I felt the familiar nervous tensing of muscles that always accompanied me to auditions. I’d flown all this way – probably for nothing – but suddenly I really cared that this went well. I couldn’t face the thought of slinking home with my tail between my legs.

Okay. I could do this.

I took a couple of deep breaths, pushed my way through the unlocked gate and crunched up the gravel drive. I was about to knock on the door when it swung open, leaving me standing stupidly with one hand in the air.

A tanned, athletic woman of about 50 smiled at me.

“Well, hey, you must be Miles. Come on in. I’m Jo-Anne Moody, the director. Lilia is just taking a break. She’ll be along in a minute.”