Authors: Harriet Evans
‘What the hell does
that
mean?’ I say. ‘Have you been – do you know about the roses?’
She stares at me, blankly. ‘What roses?’
‘Someone’s been leaving roses in the house.’ I sound nuts, I can hear it in my voice.
And Princess Di and Jesus are sending me secret messages through my washing machine.
I backtrack. ‘Don’t worry. It’s nothing. Nothing.’
‘Kiddo, it’s not about roses, OK? That’s what I’m saying. It happens slowly. Real slowly. You’re on top of the world and then you wake up one day and it’s another beautiful blue day and – you’re over. You’ve spent your life making trash, and trash don’t hang around – it gets buried in the ground. For every Julia Roberts there’s a hundred girls who used to open the biggest pictures, star opposite Tom Cruise, and then they disappear, because they turn thirty and that’s it, then they’re forty and they might as well be dead. You don’t see them any more. Unless they marry some young guy and start getting really good work done, or they go totally nuts or totally upmarket. Those are your options.’ I’m gaping at her. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she says, smiling grimly. ‘A lot.’
‘That’s rubbish, look at …’ I rack my brains. ‘Look at Kathleen Turner. OK. Meryl Streep.’
‘Meryl Streep’s Meryl Streep. That doesn’t count and you know it. Kathleen Turner? Come on, she’s exactly what I’m talking about. Used to be the hottest actress in town, and the last thing I remember her in was Chandler’s fucking
dad
in
Friends
.’
‘She’s got other things to do—’
Deena’s voice is sharp. ‘I’m not having some long conversation about the highlights of Kathleen Turner’s career, OK, Sophie? Give me a film. What’s your favourite film?’
‘
A Girl Named Rose
.’
She shrugs, stamps her foot a little. ‘Something more recent. Not Eve Noel for once. Give me a film you love that’s not got Eve bloody Noel in it.’
‘I don’t know …
Four Weddings and a Funeral
. I used to watch it every week on video when it first came out.’
‘Fine, so that’s what I’m talking about. Andie MacDowell, what the hell are you doing now? Advertising make-up with enough airbrushing to make a fucking plane fly, dude!’ She cackles and then starts coughing. ‘Where’s Hugh Grant? I hate the guy, but he’s still getting ten mil a movie. Hey? So listen to me.’ Deena takes out a stick of gum, pops it in her mouth, chews it for a second. I stare at her, wondering if she’s drunk, and she smiles at me. ‘You think I’m a crazy lady.’
‘No, but I just think you’re exaggerating,’ I say. ‘I know it didn’t work out for you, but things are different now. I’m in control, I’ve got plans for the future—’ My own voice sounds weak as I say this. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me. And – don’t go, Deena. Stay here.’
‘I can’t, OK?’ She hoists the bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m not crazy. I’m just not twenty-five any more, and you won’t believe me but I was just like you once.’ Her voice is thick, and I look at her. Is she crying? Deena doesn’t cry. She pushes her sunglasses up the slim bridge of her nose. ‘So now I’m leaving because I have to go have sex with some guy in a crappy motel out in Long Beach who wants me to wear my
Laurel Canyon
costumes and let him whip me, but he’ll pay me a thousand dollars if I let him film us doing the do and that’ll pay the rent and get me some food for a couple weeks.’
I move towards her but she starts backing away. She’s grinning.
‘I’m fine. I just want you to think about what I’m telling you. ’Cause you see, that’s what it comes down to in the end – you’re getting fucked by someone, doesn’t matter whether they’re actually giving it to you or not, it’s all the same thing.’ She wags her finger at me. ‘Get a plan, kiddo, that’s all I’m telling you. Get a plan.’
Then she turns and walks towards the pickup truck. The naked mannequin legs are still lying in the back, and as she thunders down the drive through the open gate I see them, rolling from side to side as she disappears down the hill.
I WISH I could just bail out of this party, which will be full of industry people and gossip, and stay home, but for the first time I can remember I want to get away from the house. I call Deena several times, but she doesn’t pick up. Then I waste time deciding what to wear and it occurs to me as I’m pulling my dress on that I’ve regressed – I’m once again the twelve-year-old who used to wait for Mum to come in and flick her be-ringed fingers through my wardrobe, pulling out her choice and flinging it on the bed. ‘That one, dear. With the blue shoes.’ In the end I settle on a bright green-turquoise Diane von Furstenberg dress, with gold sandals, a little bronzer and some shimmer around my eyes, carefully low-key. You don’t overdress in California. Your clothes have to be expensive, but you don’t go all out in a taffeta dress unless it’s the Oscars. It’s not cool. It shows you don’t get it, you don’t belong. You have to look relaxed, like you don’t care.
I’m just heading out of the door when Tina appears from the shadows, like she’s been waiting for me to appear.
‘Sophie—’
I clutch my hand to my chest. ‘Tina, you scared me. I thought you’d gone home.’
‘I was finishing up some stuff here.’ She hugs the iPad, knitting her fingers together. ‘And you were talking to Deena – I didn’t want to interrupt. So – uh, I don’t know where to start. OK. Kerry called me today.’
‘Right.’ I can feel the heat on my skin, and I don’t want my make-up to start melting, or God forbid to have a repeat of Armpitgate. I shift my weight from one leg to the other. ‘What’s up?’
Tina’s eyes are huge. ‘She said you hired that girl Sara? That she was coming here next week? She wants to start as soon as possible?’
‘OK, so that’s fine, you can go a bit earlier,’ I say. I vaguely remember Sara asking if this was OK at the interview. ‘What’s the problem?’
Tina takes a deep breath. ‘OK, Sophie. I wish that you had told me yourself, that’s all. Because Sara just called me and was totally out of line and asked me all these questions about you, and – I didn’t know what to say.’ She slowly twirls a piece of hair around her finger.
‘Oh, Tina, I should have told you, I’m sorry.’
‘She was kinda off with me,’ Tina says. ‘Because I wouldn’t tell her anything at first so …’ Her voice rises. ‘She said she had to know all this stuff, like your passport details and … and what tea you liked, because she had to get the job right and I was trying to obstruct her and why was I being so rude. She said she was gonna call you because you were old friends.’
T.J. appears with the jeep and gets out. I call out my thanks to him, trying to buy some time. Sara isn’t like Tina; she doesn’t have her undead beauty-queen vibe. She’s just a bright, slightly intense gal who wants to get everything right.
‘I don’t know where she got my number from, or anything, and I … I wish you’d let me know you’d found someone so … so I could have been more prepared.’ Tina rubs the side of each eye with one finger. ‘Oh, Sophie. I’m sorry. I’m being a total basket case. It’s only that I don’t think she’s a good fit for you and I do wish that you had worked with me on this one. I have to say this from the bottom of my heart.’
I can’t stand girls getting emotional about girl-behaviour, and I shift my weight from one foot to another, trying not to feel annoyed – with myself, with Sara, or especially with Tina, because I thought this last month or so we were getting past the weird reserve we’ve always had with each other. My knowing a bit more about her has made her open up. I teased her last week that she had a cabinet of beauty-queen trophies and she laughed in a weird embarrassed way, but later that night she texted me a picture of them. A whole cabinet, five or six trophies and medals and those sashes you get to wear, with her name picked out in gold: Tina Kesheshian. She’s almost a Kardashian. I wonder what it must be like for Tina, a trophyful of proof of your beauty, when every day the mirror is a reproach to that.
It feels like we’re back to square one. Trying to keep my voice even, I face away from the car. ‘Look, Tina, I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m happy for you you’re taking some time off and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’d found someone. Sara is an old friend of mine, yeah.’ That’s stretching the truth a bit. ‘I bumped into her a couple of times recently and we got talking. I hope it’ll work out, because I need someone as good as possible while you’re away. And I really apologise if I’ve upset you.’
Tina’s brown eyes flash a little. ‘Yes,’ she says uncertainly. ‘OK, I’m sorry, Sophie, I just felt like – well, it was just she rang me and she was
totally
in my face and all. I mean, she was kind of strange, wanting to know all that stuff when—’ She stops, and then laughs. ‘Listen to me. I sound totally nuts. What’s wrong with me.’
Who knows?
I want to say. But instead I say, ‘Oh, Tina, nothing’s wrong with you. You’ll have a great – er, trip and I’ll have a great summer with Sara and it’ll all be … great,’ I say. ‘Are we cool?’
‘Sure.’ She smiles again. ‘I’m so sorry. Call me when you get back tonight. In case you need anything,’ she says quickly. ‘I’ll be at home.’
I nod and slam on my sunglasses, closing the jeep door so her face is peering in at me. Sheesh. I turn on the radio, remembering Deena’s mannequins rolling in the back of her truck as I head out onto the road.
I’m late and irritated by the time I leave, so that I remember only when I’m driving that maybe I shouldn’t be doing this alone. I’m supposed to be being accompanied by a phalanx of thickset men in black suits with radio mikes, but I want to talk to Denis in the morning about what’s happening and how he’ll be taking on some lighter duties, so they arrive tomorrow. Suddenly, though, I don’t care. Maybe Artie was right, it’s all in my mind. He’s right about a lot of stuff, it’s true.
I’m in my huge white Cherokee Jeep driving along Mulholland, looping up and around till we’re up in the highest section of the Santa Monica Mountains, where the air is even cooler. The party is at a producer’s house in Bel Air. I worked with Steve Levine on
A Cake-Shaped Mistake
. He’s OK, and his wife Suzy is lovely. He has some experience, unlike a lot of producers who don’t know what the hell they’re doing and are only there because they’re banging someone. The house has a winding driveway festooned with bougainvilleas and jasmine, and stone balustrades covered in lichen. There are steps down from the stone house to a pool beside which is this amazing ancient Greek statue Steve bought Suzy for their wedding anniversary. It’s a woman in a draped dress with no arms. All this – Bel Air, the lichen, the ancient classical statue – is supposed to say one thing: we’re the real deal. We’re old-school.
This is the ideal place to exercise damage control: parties like this one are where the elite of Hollywood does business. All the rest of it is immaterial compared to this exclusive world, the world even Tommy Wiley doesn’t get an invitation to. I get out and tug my dress down, but just a little, so the bright green-blue is snug against my taut breasts, lightly bronzed by the sun, and I hand the car keys to a waiting attendant.
The evening is golden, soft shimmering light covering the hills. I stand and take in the scene for a moment; the shallow steps up to the beautiful house are thronged with people, and someone nearby is singing jazz standards. I recognise most of the faces here. All A-list. I hesitate, suddenly unsure: I don’t want to join them. I could still get into the car and drive up the hill back home, curl up under a blanket and watch an Eve Noel film again. Then I think of an evening by myself trying not to go online and see what people are saying about me, what the latest bad-news story is, and I stiffen my resolve.
Come on. It’s just a party.
I hear footsteps behind me but I ignore them, hoping that I too will be ignored. But then a low, soft voice says, ‘Hey. Sophie.’
I turn around. ‘Patrick. Hi.’ He is a friendly face; I realise now how pleased I am to see him. He looks almost smart, his scruffy hair is neat and he’s shaved. I want to touch his smooth, still-dark jaw. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’
He takes my fingers, half handshake, half awkward. I look at him and smile.
‘Well, I was hoping you’d be here, Sophie.’ He clears his throat. ‘You look beautiful.’
My heart is thumping, which is crazy. But like I say, that’s not an original point of view. Not liking nuclear war, thinking kittens are cute, having a crush on Patrick Drew: all part of being human.
I cross my arms, then uncross them, then pull on my fringe. ‘Well … I’m glad you’re here too.’ It’s true. He always feels very safe, for all that he’s one of the most famous men on the planet.
Patrick rubs his face like he’s embarrassed. He has a little scar by his eye, a small white crescent like the moon. I wonder how he got it. I feel as though I know him so well it’s strange to realise that really, I hardly know him at all. ‘I wanted to talk to you about coffee the other week. I should have realised it was a set-up. I think Artie told me. I’m not good at listening sometimes. I get lost thinking about other stuff, you know?’ He shakes his head. ‘No, you don’t know. Anyway, I wanted to apologise. And—’
‘I do know,’ I interrupt him and then shiver, I can’t help it.
He looks at me. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Just had a long day. My own fault.’
The burr from the party below us sounds like a wasps’ nest. ‘What’s happened?’
I laugh, shrug my shoulders. ‘Don’t know. Everything’s a bit crazy at the moment. Do you ever have days with this job where … you don’t know who you are any more?’
He frowns. ‘Yeah. Kind of. Sophie, are you OK?’
‘Not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t be here,’ I say. ‘Patrick – do you want to—’
I look down at the crowd just at that moment, and I freeze. George is right in the centre, sucking on a cigar. As if he knows I’m watching him, he breaks off from his conversation, and turns to stare at me and Patrick. He makes an old-fashioned filming gesture, turning the reel with his hand. It seems so innocent. But I know what he means.
‘Come say hi!’ he calls.
Then I know this was a mistake. I’m not good at these parties at the best of times, but I usually get through them by acting cute and laughing a lot and there’s always someone who wants to talk to you if you’re famous. Suddenly they all seem like sharks, big black hulks swimming around me, waiting to take a bite. I can’t do it any more. I can’t go down those steps and laugh and pretend I don’t care that someone’s out to get me, maybe wants to hurt me. Or that every celebrity website today has Dave’s kiss-and-tell about how I’m a bitch, even in some cases how I like it doggy-style, or that people will be watching my armpits for signs of sweat, or that George has probably told someone about the tapes he has of me, or that no one here is actually my friend, someone I like and can trust, except the man standing right in front of me, and he’s one of the biggest stars on the planet, and therefore not someone to rely on.