The Movie (33 page)

pampered, unreasonable and spiteful. Was she jealous ofloxana Felix? Absolutely.

Megan grabbed her favourite white cotton Gap shirt from her closet. A classic white shirt was the best choice for shopping - a plain background you couldn’t go wrong with. She would be able to try out hundreds of different looks with this shirt. And a good white shirt, teamed with a pair of designer jeans and calf-length cowboy boots, could walk unembarrassed into the most exclusive store on Melrose or lodeo Drive. And that was where she was headed.

Megan knew she’d never forget the image ofloxana, silken hair’flowing round her tanned shoulders, gold lam mini-dress clinging to her curveless, ultra-slim frame, leaning towards her in that viewing booth and cooing that she and Zach had discussed dedicating that song to Megan, that they felt they’d been a little hard on her…

lage and disappointment had hit her with the force of a fist in the stomach. She had been so sure that Zach was finally talking to her, looking at her, communicating with her. He’d let her criticize him, he’d been kind and gracious and he’d got up on that stage and sung like God, and when he looked at her and smiled, Megan had felt, for just a few precious seconds, that Zach was everything she had always admired and that - God, how ridiculous - he was interested in her. Even though she wasr’t a model, or a star,

or a rich Beverly Hills babe like Jordan Goldman. Another dumb illusion.

Well, P,.oxana had put paid to that. And it wasn’t merely the fact that Zach was with R.oxana that infuriated Megan. The fact was that every single guy backstage had been mesmerized by her, paying homage as though the bitch

265

was the Queen of Sheba. Induding her David. And if that was to be expected, Megan also recalled that the other women - the blonde bimbos, the groomed, polished trophy wives, the sexy female reporters in their elegant little Chanel numbers - had got their fair share of attention too, while she, the earnest, idealistic X-er in her T-shirt and jeans, with her loose brown hair and no make-up, had been completely ignored.

Zach had snubbed her. David hadn’t even seen she was there, not at first. And none of the other guys in the place had so much as glanced in her direction.

David had paid her a compliment, true, but then David was her agent, as well as her friend. And he was obviously just being kind, because when he’d got her into his

‘

Lamborghini on her own, he hadn’t so much as tried to kiss her-just dropped her offat the apartment with his usual pleasant goodnight peck.

Goddamnit! Megan thought, getting angry. I want more than that!

She knew what she was about to do was selling out. She kiaew this was the kind of status-seeking bullshit that she had despised in San Francisco… but that was too bad.

Megan Silver was just sick and tired of being invisible.

Jordan Cabot Goldman stepped carefully out of her limousine, trying not to scuff her Versace mauve silk pumps on the New York sidewalk. She shivered. God, she hated Manhattan. It was so bitterly cold in autumn, so unbearably hot in summer, and crammed full of people who seemed obsessed with work.

‘May I carry your bags for you, madam?’ a Victrix porter enquired, rushing forward from the lobby to assist her.

Jordan shook her head, girlish blonde hair flying about in the early-morning breeze. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. Tm not staying. I’ve come tO collect my husband.’ She smiled brilliantly. ‘It’s a surprise.’

266

Megan hit the town with a vengeance. She had a gold American Express card, a BMW with an empty trunk, and a ferocious hunger.

She was fed up with waiting for David to notice her. She’d lost weight, toned her muscles and learned to survive as a Hollywood screenwriter, but she still couldn’t get him to do anything more than flirt with her. That, Megan told herself, was going to change. Today.

The first stop on her list was Fred Hayman. Then Frederick’s of Hollywood, where she bought the most outrageous teddy in crimson lace, cut high on the thigh and plunging at the neck, a sexy, sinful scrap of scarlet nothingness that made her gasp when she saw it in the mirror. Then she headed to Melrose and the boutiques, and shopped steadily for four hours, refusing to look at the price of anything, just picking up the receipts to check later, ater it was too late to back out. She got aprtd-porter Chanel suit in bold purple wool, with satin pumps to match; a minute Azzedine Alaia clinging dress in black stretch Lycra; a vermilion satin-knit skirt and flowing tunic top by Richard Tyler; an Anne Klein pantsuit in the softest butterscotch cashmere; ten different lalph Lauren shirts; a halter-necked, bias-cut gown in bronze satin by Isaac Mizrahi, and suits in pink, dark green and turquoise wool by Dior, Saint-Laurent and Anna Sui. ‘Oh, ma’am, you look divine!’ one of the salesgirls squealed when she emerged from the changing alcove in the turquoise Anna Sui. ‘That cut is So you. But wouldn’t you rather try it in the red? Turquoise isn’t the best colour for a brunette.’

Megan shook her head, a little grandly. ‘Turquoise will be fine,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the girl agreed, flustered, not wanting to upset a customer with so many glossy carrier bags.

After all, Megaa added silendy, I’m not going to be a. brunette for long.

267

Once all her major outfits had been carefully packed away in the back of her car, Megan spent her lunch hour shopping for accessories. Court shoes from Kurt Geiger, two pairs of Manolo Blahnik heels, and trendy stacked sandals by Patrick Cox. A scarf from Hermes. A Gucci belt. A signature purse in cream silk from Chanel with matching kid gloves. And a bottle of Joy perfume to complete it all.

Megan tipped the girl who carried her new bags to the car twenty bucks and didn’t thank her. If Beverly Hills bitch was what she had to be, Beverly Hills bitch it was. Rich, ostentatious, and don’t talk to the help.

She had used David’s name to get herself squeezed in at the Ivy for lunch. It was another glorious, sunny Los

,

Angeles day. Megan admired the way the light sparkled on her water glass, and tried to calm her growling stomach

with honeydew melon and a Caesar salad. For a second she longed wistfully for the char-grilled burgers she and Dec used to barbecue out in their yard on Haight, in the summer, when they had the guys round and everyone vcould drink cheap beer, and they’d put on a Green tkiver CD and talk about God and sex and death and whatever else, or watch Married, With Children reruns. But she shoved that thought to one side. In San Francisco, she had been nothing. In Los Angeles, she was going to be a someone, and surely no self-respecting woman out here pen’nitted so much as an ounce of spare fat on her cellulite free thighs. Burgers and beer were out; salads and mineral water were in.

Megan made it to Le Printemps at two p.m. exactly. It had taken her a week to get an appointment with Jacques loissy, the chief stylist, but she was certain it would be worth the wait: Le Printemps was the most exclusive, newest beauty parlour in the city, boasting a range of anti age preparations and UV filter products that had older women panting, and a team of hairdressers, overpaid refugees from Vidal Sassoon and John Frieda in London,

268

Jacques loissy had already acquired his own cult, with all the worshippers drawn from the richest, most privileged echelons of West Coast females.

Megan knew she didn’t need the anti-wrinkle creams right now, but her hair could sure do with an overhaul, and she knew she had come to the right place. Face it - anything this expensive had to be good.

Le Printemps was tucked away on La Brea, behind discreet wrought-iron gates. Megan was greeted by a white-coated receptionist and her credit-card details taken while her car was driven away to be valet-15arked. Moments later, when she had only just sat down with the latest Paris Vogue and a fat-free cappuccino, a short, plump man with slicked-back red hair and a huge diamond pinky ring burst’into the lobby and swooped down on her, kissing noisily at the air on either side of her cheeks.

‘Mademoiselle Silver, n’est-ce pas? Mais qu’elle est belle! Comment fava?’ he trilled.

‘Gave trs bien, merci,’ stammered Megan, hoping she wasn’t going to have to rely on her eighth-grade French for the entire afternoon. ‘Et vous?’

‘Mon Dieu! Une franfaise!’ the apparition squealed, delighted. ‘Mais il faut parler anglais, ici, non? We are enchanted to see you ‘ere,. mademoiselle. Already you are very pretty, yes? But not chic. We make you trs chic. You will not recognize yourself.’ He paused to draw breath, and Megan stood up, wondering exactly what she’.d let herself in for. A second white-robed flunkey appeared with a blue cotton gown, and Megan tied it round herself as Jacques opened the door to the Printemps inner sanctum. She had a glimpse ofa minimalist fantasy palace, the beauty parlour decked out in Japanese prints, chrome and dark wood. Expensive-smelling fragrances drifted towards her: jas-. mine, sandalwood, mimosa, attar-of-roses.

269

‘Ma chrie,’ Jacques enthused, linking his plump ann through her slender one, ‘we are about to make you into a new woman.’

Megan thought about Roxana Felix, sashaying into the backstage hospitality area with her shimmering dress, her glossy raven hair and her million-dollar smile, and David and Zach just melting at her feet.

Firmly, she quashed her misgivings. ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she said.

Eleanor checked herself out in the bathroom mirror again and tried not to worry. Maybe Tom was still asleep. Or maybe he was ordering breakfast for the two of them, something romantic, like strawberries and croissants and

‘ champagne. Just because he hadn’t rung through to her room yet, hadn’t knocked on her door, didn’t mean anything was wrong.

Her reflection stared back at her, immaculate and charming in a new suit, a smart navy Jill Sander with a white trim around the collar and cu. She had packed [;lack Stephane Kelian heels to go with it, and her makeup was a fresh mixture of apricot eyes and rose lips and cheeks. Earlier, when she was feeling lighthearted, almost dizzy with happiness, Eleanor had actually put on somejewellery - two discreet sapphire drop earrings, which now sparkled attractively under her neatly brushed hair. Her small Gucci overnight case was packed and ready to go.

She had been ready to go for twenty minutes.

Tom couldn’t be regretting it, could he? Eleanor wondered, the thought clenching a fight fist of panic round her heart. He’d been so tender, so passionate… everything about last night had felt right, .proper, good. She had loved Tom distantly for so long, fantasized hopelessly about him for so many years, and last night had been all she had dreamed of and more. He had taken her to a place She didn’t know existed, he had changed her life

270

forever, Eleanor knew that now. She felt more of a female, more of a woman, than she had ever done before. And she would never see the sexual act the same way again - as a mildly pleasant activity for women, something the entire world overrated in one big conspiracy, pretending it was the best thing since sliced bread, when most girls she knew would prefer a good back-rob, if they were honest. Last night with Tom had cured her of that idea for good. Eleanor could feel the echoes of that white-hot release inside her still, suddenly realized what the sexologists meant when they said that a woman reaches her sexual peak in her late thirties and early forties.

Maybe that was the difference between having sex and making love.

Last night was the first time that she had ever truly made love.

Tom mast have felt it too, he must have done. It was too intense to miss. Surely there was no way he wouldn’t have been touched by what had happened between them, by what he had caused to happen between them…

Eleanor wondered what would happen now. She had tried to put off this question, but she couldn’t hide it forever. Would Tom get a divorce? He must, surely, love her.., didn’t last night prove that? And as for herself, she had been trembling on the brink of commitment to Paul, trying to talk herself into conceiving a child by Paul, but that was over now. She had to be with Tom. She couldn’t settle, not any more.

The phone by her bedside pured.

Joyfially Eleanor spun away from the mirror and sprinted into the bedroom, scolding herself-this was no way for a thirty-eight-year-old woman tO behave - and dived on the receiver.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Eleanor?’

It was Tom. Her heart flipped over in her chest.

27I

‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause.

‘If you’re ready, why don’t you meet me in the lobby?’ Goldman said stiffly. ‘I have a car waiting to take us to the airport.’

The air seemed to freeze around her. Time pooled and stopped, and a terrible, clammy fear gripped her throat.

She knew Tom Goldman backwards, knew his every subde nuance of tone and gesture and expression. And this was Tom at his most businesslike, his most impersonal.

He thought last night was a mistake. He wanted her to pretend it never happened.

Tears of shock and disbelief prickled in Eleanor Marshall’s eyes.

‘Eleanor, are you there?’ Goldman asked.

She took a deep breath, composing herself, and then replied. ‘Yes, Tom, of course. I’ll be right down. If we’re lucky, maybe we can catch the eight-thirty flight - that

would give me a couple of extra hours with Megan Silver.’ ‘OK,’ Tom said, and hung up.

Eleanor grabbed her case and her room key and walked straight out to the elevators, moving as fast as she could, trying not to give herself time to think. That was a luxury she could not afford. That would be fatal.

In the elevator car she counted each floor as it hissed smoothly downwards, recited couplets from Shakespeare, anything to stop herself from thinking about Tom and what he’d done yesterday. She realized with a sick crunch of despair that she was never going to get in an elevator again without imagining Tom, and yesterday, and last night.