Hollywood Ending (17 page)

TWENTY-THREE

We drove down Sunset to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, a low-key hangout for actors and bloggers, with a fireplace outside that was always filled with cigarette butts. Jake ordered a long black for him and a large mocha frappuccino with whipped cream and a chocolate brownie for me. As we sat by the fire in the dark I dipped the brownie in the whipped cream and licked it.

‘Slow down,' he said. ‘I don't know the Heimlich manoeuvre, and I've had enough excitement for one day, thank you.'

His phone started to ring. He looked at the screen, then pressed the divert button.

‘Girlfriend?' I asked, surprised to find my stomach had dipped a little.

‘Just some crazy chick. She's an actress who thinks that by banging the screenwriter she's gonna get a part in the movie. Boy, does she have it ass backwards.'

‘How long have you been together?'

He leant forward and ran a finger through the cream in my frappuccino, put it in his mouth and sucked. ‘She's not my girlfriend,' he said, his finger still in his mouth. ‘I don't have time for a girlfriend. I'm too busy—I've got my career, my crazy neighbour to take care of, his crazy goth girlfriend.'

‘I'm not a goth, and I believe it was me who defused the situation today, so I don't need taking care of either.'

Jake wiped his finger on his jeans which had fashionable holes in all the right places. ‘Here, give me your hand.' He sprang around the table and took my fingers in his. ‘You feel this?'

I felt the colour rising in my cheeks and swivelled in my seat to see if anyone was watching. Jake's hands felt warm and soft, as if he'd never done a hard day's work in his life. My heart quickened.

‘This,' Jake said, delicately running his fingers along the back of my hand, ‘is more warmth than I ever experienced with that girl who was on the phone, and we dated for six months.'

I snatched my hand back, embarrassed.

‘Hey, slow down. You take things too seriously. Chill out. These are the best years of your life.'

‘So everyone keeps saying.'

‘What are you going to do when you leave school?'

I shrugged. ‘Don't know. Maybe work in a bookshop.'

‘What do your parents want you to do?'

‘My parents died.'

‘Oh that's right,' he said. ‘Car accident.'

‘How did you know that?' I hadn't told him. It wasn't information I gave out often.

‘You told me,' he said, not missing a beat. ‘When we had coffee in Beverly Hills.'

‘I don't think I did.'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe I guessed. It figures, really.'

‘What does?'

‘Hmm? Oh, just the fact that so many people die in car crashes. Do you ever think about the fact that we're all driving around in really big chunks of metal at ridiculous speeds? I'm surprised we don't crash into each other more.'

‘I agree. I'm never going to get my licence, but then I might have to move to a city with better public transport, like San Francisco.'

‘Is it because of the car accident? Just because your parents crashed doesn't mean you will. Anyway, is that why you're into all this death stuff? Because your parents died?'

‘No,' I said, rolling my eyes. ‘Why is everyone an armchair psychologist?'

‘But it's pretty obvious, don't you think? Normal girls your age aren't into the types of thing you are.'

‘Normal girls? That's right, normal girls are into bulimia and getting date-raped. That's much healthier.'

‘It's just a strange hobby. Most people spend their lives avoiding the topic of death. It's not something most people like to be reminded about.'

‘Believe it or not, it's actually kind of fun. It used to be anyway.'

‘Used to be?' He paused. ‘Something wrong?'

‘Sorry, I'm just worried about a friend.'

‘What's the problem?'

‘I don't know exactly. He just seems…off. Like he's not there anymore. Hank thinks he's sick.'

‘Like a virus?'

I shook my head. ‘I don't think that's what he meant.'

We finished our drinks in silence and watched the cars driving down Sunset. At the other tables writers with open laptops chatted about screenplays and meetings and I was once again struck by how insignificant Los Angeles could make you feel if you didn't work in the movies. It was us-and-them. If you didn't work in the film industry you were invisible. Unless you became a serial killer, then everyone suddenly sat up and took notice.

‘There are a lot of people like me,' I said. ‘There's a whole community of us. We're all interested in it for different reasons I guess. I suppose I want to look darkness in the eye and not be afraid. I want to feel the resonance of history and all the bad things people have done and try to understand why. I want to stand inside the Colosseum, feel the vibrations of so much death and despair. I want to walk the corridors of Columbine High. I want to touch the walls of Auschwitz.'

‘Really?'

‘Weird, huh?'

‘A little. Have you ever thought about how many layers of skin and blood are on those walls? When people take those tours of the death camps, do they think about the fact they're standing on mountains of skin cells and DNA?'

‘That's gross. You‘re the one who needs help, not me.'

‘Sorry. I guess I have a habit of coming at things from a different angle. You know, attention to detail. Do you think disinfectant can remove traces of skin cells?'

‘Perhaps. You'd think there'd be some kind of residue left that it would pick up on.' I liked detail too.

‘Maybe prisoners were forced to clean the areas where their cellmates had been killed. Like when they made them dig their own graves, and when the hole was dug they'd shoot them, and the body would fall straight in. Maybe I'll ask Hank.'

‘What do you mean, ask Hank?'

‘Hank was in a concentration camp. He didn't tell you?'

A piece of brownie caught in my throat. ‘No,' I said, coughing. ‘He didn't tell me. He told you?'

‘No, but it's obvious isn't it? I mean the mark on his arm, the fact that he's European. It all adds up doesn't it? I figured that's why he's been going crazy lately, some kind of “post traumatic” thing.'

I put the brownie down. We'd talked about Hank's time in Norway during the war, so why would he leave something like that out? It wasn't like it was something to be ashamed of, or to hide from people. Hank was a survivor—why didn't he want to share that with me?

We were quiet for a moment. Jake chewed on the edge of his paper coffee cup, bit off a piece and spat it back into his hand.

‘So have you asked him about it?' I said.

‘About what?'

‘Being in a concentration camp.'

‘Not really. I just sort of figured it out, joined the dots. I guess if he hasn't talked to you about it, he doesn't want to talk to anyone. Can you blame him?'

‘I guess not,' I said, but I felt hurt. I thought Hank and I knew each other well enough that he would tell me something like that.

‘So are you going to ask him about it?' Jake said.

‘I don't know. Maybe.'

‘Listen,' Jake said, changing the subject. ‘I was thinking of taking a day off tomorrow, and if I don't plan to do something I'll just end up back at Starbucks working on my screenplay.'

‘You write at Starbucks? That's a bit of a cliché isn't it?'

‘It's the only social interaction I get nowadays, apart from meetings with the suits at the studio that I'd rather avoid. I sometimes work from home but I like the buzz of the coffee shop, the idea that we're all in there hammering away at our own little stories. It's a cool energy. Mind you, there's a hell of a bitch fight for the power sockets.'

I thought for a moment. ‘How do you feel about taking a ride into the dark side of Los Angeles?'

Jake smirked. ‘Murder sites?'

‘Who knows? Maybe you'll find some great idea for a screenplay.'

He screwed up his empty coffee cup and threw it on the fire, where it melted in on itself and burst into flames.

‘When you put it that way,' he said, and smiled like a movie star. ‘I'll do anything for a good story.'

‘Cool. Well, I guess I better be getting back.'

‘Me too.'

We stood. Jake threw his backpack over his shoulder and something came tumbling out, hitting the ground with a crack. He bent down to pick it up but I beat him to it.

‘What's this?' I asked, examining it, knowing very well what it was.

‘That? Just a tape recorder,' he said, snatching it out of my hand.

‘What's it for?'

‘Oh, for when I get ideas and I've left my notepad at home.'

‘You ever recorded anyone on that secretly?'

Jake gave me a serious look. ‘I've been recording this entire conversation.'

‘You have not.'

He broke into a broad smile. ‘Of course I haven't. That would be a gross invasion of privacy.'

‘Well don't let Hank see you with that. He's so paranoid about everything he'll get the wrong idea.'

‘No kidding,' Jake said, and stuffed the recorder back into his bag.

TWENTY-FOUR

The next day Jake arrived at my house in his rusty convertible. He opened the passenger door: the seat was covered in papers, candy bar wrappers and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I stood and waited.

‘Oh shit, sorry.' He stepped forward and threw everything onto the backseat.

‘What is all that stuff?' I asked.

‘What do you think it is? It's my work.'

‘Shouldn't you be more careful with it? One gust of wind will send all those papers flying out the window.'

‘Like in the movie
Wonder Boys
? That would be hilarious.'

We drove down Ventura Boulevard, past restaurants, trendy boutiques and gas stations. Jake lit a Marlboro Light, let his hand hang out the window as he blew smoke outside. He was wearing brown cords and a T-shirt that said ‘Betty Ford Clinic'. He looked effortlessly cool with his black curls blowing against his forehead and his cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth like James Dean.

I glanced down at my black cords and grey T-shirt and hoped that my look came off as effortlessly as his did. Some people were able to wear plain clothes and make them look ridiculously fashionable: James Dean did it with a tight white T-shirt, Marlon Brando with denim jeans. But everything I put on felt too well thought out; the T-shirt wasn't creased enough, and my sneakers were hardly soiled. I figured the key to the look was not to care, but the problem was I did. I found myself caring too much what Jake thought of me. And Jake, tapping his fingers on the dashboard to Guns N' Roses' ‘Welcome to the Jungle', looked like he didn't care at all.

We turned right on Beverly Glen and headed up over the Hollywood Hills, crossed Mulholland Drive and made our descent into the wilderness of the canyons. Any anxiety I had been feeling slowly started to drift away. The canyons had this effect on me: the thin, snaking roads lined with eucalyptus trees, the rustic charm of the gingerbread houses. It was amazing that such a rural area existed barely five minutes from the bustle of the nightclubs and restaurants on Sunset Boulevard. It was an oasis in the city, a wilderness where people could disappear into the scrub, a place where you could hide from the world. I loved the little cottages that dotted the hills; they had so much more character than the gaudy mansions of Beverly Hills. If I could live anywhere in the world it would be here, snug in the comfort of the canyons, surrounded by its secrets.

‘So, do you like school?' Jake asked, flicking ash out the window that immediately blew back on him.

‘Do I like school?'

‘Yeah,' he said, taking his hands off the steering wheel and driving with his knees as he brushed himself off. ‘School's cool, right?'

‘Yes, Jake. It's, like, totally awesome.'

‘No need to be sarcastic.'

‘Did you like school?'

‘Hell, I loved school!'

‘Shut up.'

‘Really. My parents were fucked-up hippies who didn't believe in the “state” and “institutions”. I went to this special school in Malibu where you could do whatever you wanted. If you wanted to finger-paint all day, you could do that. If you wanted to eat glue, you could do that too. I did nothing but woodwork for the first eight years of school. I made some beautiful bird houses.'

‘Bird houses?'

‘It's true. I couldn't read or write until I was fifteen.'

‘And now you're a screenwriter? How does that work?'

‘Hilda, have you been to the movies lately? You don't have to be a great writer to make a career out of it. Anyway, it's not about how well you can write; it's all about
story
. I'm a born storyteller. Let me give you an example. Here's a story for you. A young girl is driving through the Hollywood Hills with a guy she barely knows, looking at murder sites. The canyons conceal things, make it real easy to pick someone off, you know? He murders her, throws her body into the brush where it's picked apart by coyotes. Then she becomes a ghost and haunts the canyons like the dead celebrities whose houses she came to explore. See how I did that? See how I did the irony thing at the end?'

‘The girl would've kicked him in the nuts before he had a chance to do anything.'

He broke into a smile. ‘I'm just kidding, Hilda,' he said, touching my shoulder lightly. ‘Had you going there, didn't I? Still, that movie would kick ass.'

He took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked the butt out the window, straight into a thick hedge where I half expected it to go up in flames.

‘Left here,' I said, jumping up and pointing. ‘That's it.'

We almost missed the turn-off, a narrow laneway called Easton Drive that we could barely fit the convertible through, the sides scraping against overhanging pine and oak tree branches. We passed cottages with wooden porches, and small front gardens filled with firewood and swing sets. The front doors were wide open, and inside people talked and laughed in doorways. I could smell homemade cooking like stews and freshly-made bread, hearty foods full of starch and calories. One home even had a fire going, smoke rising from the chimney. The gardeners and maintenance workers paid us no attention. This was not a road you drove on unless you lived there, and the men in sun hats holding shears and pitchforks went about their business, arms deep in muck, pulling weeds out by the roots.