Not Without You (32 page)

I kept thinking of the
Confidential
byline:
Tells the facts and names the names!

I didn’t know why they were going after him, why he was the fall guy, where Jerry had gone, what had happened. But I knew he’d do anything to help a friend. And he owed Jerry, he felt he owed him everything. Oh, Don. Suddenly, I remembered what he’d said up in Big Sur and it terrified me.

‘I’ve told him I owe him a favour … No matter how big or small. He brought me back to you, didn’t he?’

I began to understand. And I was helpless. I only knew I had to keep letting him know I loved him, I was looking for him, and I always would.

Then it was time. They came down the steps like a swarm – reporters, photographers, cops, campaigners with placards screaming at the cops, who pushed them out of the way.

‘You goddamn filthy faggot! I hope you burn in hell!’ a man waving a placard screamed at the group descending the steps, his face a dreadful rictus of hate. I saw a flash of a dark grey suit, the glint of sunlight bouncing off a car window as a door was slammed and he was driven away, to jail. I watched him go, and then I sat in my car for a long time, not knowing what to do, where to go, how to get anywhere. I could feel my brain unravelling, the thoughts in my head whirring round like a spinning top. I looked in the rear-view mirror, trying to tell myself to calm down.

My eyes danced in front of me, my face rippled, my hair seemed to be on fire. Voices clashed – me, Don, Rose, Gilbert, Moss – voices telling me what to do … ‘Stand here, Eve.’ ‘Turn this way.’ ‘Tilt your chin.’ I was alone, in my madness, but I knew there were two people inside my head, so I wasn’t really alone, was I? ‘It’s just you, now,’ I said, to my reflection. ‘You and me. Come on, we’ll go home.’

I didn’t know what else to do.

‘WELL, LIKE I say, your father’s not here, as per, I’m afraid. Yes, he’s off in Swindon, seeing some dealers. Stayed there last night and I don’t know when he’ll be back. He never tells
me
anything.’ Mum pushes a teapot towards me. ‘Have another cup of tea. Or maybe water? I always keep Perrier these days. I don’t trust the local tap water.’

‘Tap’s fine, honest, Mum. Thanks. It’s my fault – it’s such short notice. I’ve got another week or so here. I’ll come back and see him.’

I’ve been at the house for one hour and twenty-five minutes, hoping Dad will walk through the door, but no sign. He always was the Invisible Man.

‘Well, I wondered when you’d call, because like I say, I knew you were here. And it’s funny because, well, we’ve fallen out now, but Dawn from next door said she’d been at lunch at the Oak for her dad’s eightieth and they had the cast and crew from some film staying there, quite a to-do, she said. Well, I know you’ve got some security thingy so of course I didn’t mention you. Don’t worry, I haven’t said a word to anyone.’ She mimes buttoning her lip. ‘Funny if she’d seen you, though I suppose you wouldn’t remember
her
.’

‘I remember Dawn.’ I’m lying. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s not so good. Mark isn’t very well, and the kids – well, I don’t usually like to interfere,
love thy neighbour
as they say, but that little girl is so fat. I had to say something. She’s just like a barrel. I only mentioned it to Dawn and she flew off the handle at me. Went completely berserk. I said, “Dawn, I’m just trying to be honest with you.”’ Mum runs a complacent hand across the immaculate kitchen surfaces. ‘Because that’s what it says you should do, in my confrontations chapter. “It’s for your own good, you have to understand. I’m telling you, Shannon is OBESE.”’

She shouts violently in the direction of the kitchen window and I turn, almost expecting to watch these last three words float outside and into the garden next door. Then she stands up, smoothes down her trousers, fluffs out her hair. The same set of gestures, always the same. I watch her curiously.

‘What you staring at?’ she says.

‘Nothing, it’s just nice to see you,’ I tell her.

‘Right.’ I don’t think she believes me. ‘Anyway, so much to catch up on! Still! How’s the film going? Are you happy? Are they treating you well?’ She screws up her face. ‘I must say, it’s very strange you don’t have a trailer or anything like that.’

‘It’s not that kind of film.’

‘Well, but Sophie, I was always fond of the phrase,
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it
.’ Mum gives me a tight smile. ‘You’re doing so well. We’re all so proud of you. Do you know, last week I had lunch with Julie, you know, my old friend from drama college. She and Deena and I lived together in – oh, right grotty little flat it was, in Hither Green. How times change! We laugh about it, I can tell you. She’s done all right for herself, few parts here and there, she was in
The Bill
, you know, the usual. Nothing like Deena’s success, of course. Well, obviously she wanted to hear all about you and I told her everything. She said you’d done very well. Very well indeed. Yes, she’s an interesting woman … Julie.’ Mum fluffs her hair again, then moves the cups onto the draining board and wipes the table down, a grim expression on her face. ‘She was always a bit funny with me, you know, after I got the part in
No Sex Please, We’re British
and she didn’t, but I suppose she had the career after and I didn’t – I gave it up for you. Poor Julie, she never got married and I think it’s been a real sadness to her. No kids.’

The phone rings.

‘Oh, Deborah! Hello! Listen, Deborah, can’t chat. Sophie’s here. Yes, Sophie! Yes, I know! Oh, I know. You saw it? My word! I haven’t seen an actual copy yet! I hate that photo of me! No! It’s dreadful … Oh.’ She turns to me and then back to the phone, speaking quickly. ‘Listen, we’re just having a cuppa, catching up, girls’ chat, so I mustn’t be long. Yes. Yes, of course I will. Yes. Bye, Deborah! Bye!’

Mum’s eyes are sparkling as she puts the phone down. ‘That’s taught her to call at teatime. Hah! Who she thinks she is I have no idea. She knew you were back, I’m sure. Must have seen the car outside.’

‘I shouldn’t keep Jimmy,’ I say. I look at my watch: it’s only five. I thought it was later. Jimmy has gone to the Hand and Racquet while Mum and I have tea. He’ll read the paper and find someone to have a chat with – Jimmy knows everyone round here.

‘Your driver? Gosh, you are funny, love. He’s a driver – he can wait, can’t he? Sophie, you’re too much of a pushover.’

‘I’m not really. Like I say, it’s not that kind of film.’

She looks at me blankly, and I match her gaze for a second, both of us completely still in the immaculate kitchen. She had it done up last year in best chintzy style; it was my birthday present to her, though they rarely take money off me. I wish they would, but I don’t know why. Makes me feel less guilty about never coming home, I suppose.

I break the gaze first and look around me. The kitchen looks exactly the same after the makeover as it did ten, twenty years ago. I stare at the Portmeirion china lined up on the dresser, the boxed sets of
Poldark,
Dallas
and
Laurel Canyon
on the windowsill.
The Microwave Hostess Cookbook
, my mum’s cookery bible, is stashed neatly in the cubbyhole next to the microwave. The apron featuring a Roman statue’s naked body hangs off the pine hooks, and there’s even the same magnets on the fridge: I close my eyes – three Forever Friends bears, one holding a shopping list pad, one saying ‘
A bear is a friend for life
’ and one wearing a T-shirt that says ‘
Hug Me
’. I used to think they were the cutest things ever.

This is the house I grew up in. This is where I’m from. But I feel absolutely nothing, and a kind of cold panic grips me. I don’t belong here.

‘So, I’ll have to be the one to mention it first, I suppose.’ Mum rubs her hands together. I look at her, worried.

She can’t know about the stalker and the attack on the house. I haven’t told her, Deena doesn’t know. I explained the bodyguards away as ‘extra security insurance’ and she bought it, of course. I say cautiously, ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, come on, Sophie. Like we wouldn’t talk about it! Everyone’s asking me!’

‘Asking you what?’

‘You are coy. But I can tell, even by looking at you, that you’re in love. You just look different. Oh, it’s exciting. I think he’s
gorgeous
!’ Her voice rises.

‘Mum, what are you talking about?’

My mother’s eyes sparkle as she pushes the plate of French fancies towards me. ‘Oh, come on, dear! Patrick? Your new boyfriend?
Closer
said you were going to marry him. Is that true? Of course you’d tell me, I just – is it?’

‘Patrick?’ My mind is blank. Then I say, ‘Patrick
Drew
?’

‘I know who he is, silly! I saw those photos of you two.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m not going out with him.’

‘You’re blushing!’ She points at me, delighted. ‘You can tell me, come on.’

I put my hand up to my cheek; it’s burning red. I say, annoyed, ‘It’s hot in here. I’m not going out with him, Mum, I promise you.’

‘It’s in all the magazines, Sophie.’

‘Oh, well, that must mean it’s true.’

‘They’re saying you’re serious. Now I didn’t want to ask you till I saw you. I’m very happy for you, love, he’s absolutely gorgeous!’

‘That’s … rubbish,’ I say, wishing my face wasn’t so hot. ‘Mum, I’ve met him two, three times in my whole life.’

‘But they had those photos of you two, kissing, touching each other …’

I frown, then remember. ‘Oh, good grief. No! That was a coffee we had for the film I was going to do, the one that got cancelled. I was showing him something and the photographers got me.’

She smiles, disbelieving. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Really, Mum,’ I say. I don’t know why I’m so annoyed. The more cartoonish photos from that coffee were everywhere immediately afterwards: Patrick losing it with the photographers outside, me clutching my breasts. They never got round to using the ones of us simply talking, looking intimate, till now presumably, when they need to give the story some more oxygen. I’d forgotten the photographers were there most of the time. I was enjoying myself. I wonder how he is, where he is. ‘We met to talk about the film, that’s it, I promise. He’s lovely.’ I bite my lip. ‘But there’s nothing going on.’

‘Silly girl! What you talking about!’ Mum refuses to give up on it. She slaps my wrist playfully. ‘I know you, you can’t hide it from your mother! It looks like he’s halfway to proposing to you! Think of it, oh, my goodness, what a beautiful wedding. And the coverage! You’d be in
Hello!
for absolute certain.’

‘It’s rubbish, honestly. Promise.’ I don’t think Mum has spoken all day, other than to herself. I take a last sip of water from the glass and stand up. ‘Mum, I’m sorry it’s so short, but I do have to get back. I promised the producer and Alec I’d have a meeting with them tonight about the schedule—’

Mum frowns. ‘You’re off already?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘I thought you’d want to give Donna a call, see if she’s around for a cuppa.’

‘Oh.’ I shrug. ‘I’d love to have seen her … I just can’t, sorry.’

‘You sure you don’t want to pop in and see Mrs Bates, stretch your legs? All that sitting around in a car can’t be good for you.’

She doesn’t care about Donna; she wants to walk down the high street with me, I know it. I don’t think Angie would have much to say about that. ‘I can’t, Mum, I’m sorry.’ I sound like a stuck record.

Her pearly-pink lipsticked mouth is turned downwards, a comical moue of spoilt disappointment. ‘I wish you could stay longer. You’ve been here hardly any time.’

Nearly two hours, Mum, and you’ve mainly talked about yourself, Patrick Drew, and how big my trailer should be,
I want to say, but I don’t. I pick up my bag. ‘Come to the set. I’ll get Sara to call you and fix up a good time. You’d like to meet Alec, wouldn’t you?’

My mother almost bridles. ‘Oh, wouldn’t I? Go on then. Maybe, maybe you should suggest me for the part of Anne Hathaway, the older version!’ She touches me lightly on the arm with one almond-shaped coral nail, and gives a little laugh. ‘Be a bit of a story, your mum doing the part! Might steal the show from you!’ I look into her eyes and realise a part of her is deadly, 100 per cent serious, and I don’t know what to say.

‘I’d never do that to you, you’re my mother,’ I say, and I give her a kiss. ‘Thank you for having me. It’s lovely to be back.’ I look round the kitchen one last time.

The back door opens suddenly with a loud pop and I jump. Mum stares at me. ‘Afternoon, Marilyn,’ says a middle-aged man. ‘Early copy of the paper for you, thought I’d drop it round before it goes out tomorrow.’

‘Oh, thank you, Steve! How kind!’ My mother scurries over to the door and practically snatches it out of his hand. ‘Bye then, see you soon.’

Steve turns to acknowledge me. ‘Bye then,’ he says, then he recognises me, stops and stares. ‘So she’s here right now! Well, I never. This is … blow me down.’ He wipes his hand on his trousers, then holds it out. ‘Didn’t realise it. I’m Steve Jobs.’

‘Steve Jobs?’

‘Yes, Steve Jobs,’ Mum says. ‘Thanks, Steve.’

‘Your name is Steve Jobs?’ I ask him.

He looks pleased. ‘Name ring a bell? I’m on the Jubilee committee as well as editor of the local paper, and we do cover all the villages over towards Stroud. But not Stroud itself, obviously. It has its own paper.’ He rubs his shining pate. ‘I can’t believe I’m in the kitchen with Sophie Leigh! Can’t believe it. Big fan of yours, Soph. Big fan. So pleased! Well, so here it is!’

He opens the paper with a crackling flourish. Mum is strangely quiet as I read over her shoulder.