My Life in Black and White (4 page)

I
t was November and the temperature in Los Angeles skipped around like schoolgirls playing double-dutch. I grabbed a navy cardigan in case I needed it. The drive from Santa Monica, where I lived, to Hollywood, where I was meeting Kiki, was thirty to forty minutes if traffic wasn’t bad. Traffic was always bad.

Dean disliked Hollywood. I loved it. All he saw was a city with grimy streets and storefronts where the scruffy hipster residents mixed it up with tourists, lower-income families and the homeless. I saw the neighbourhood I grew up in, which had all those things he hated but more; it had a hint of magic. Hipsters were artists waiting for a break. The lower-income families had kids I went to school with and hung out with at the mall or at their houses. The homeless weren’t to be ignored or pitied; my mother still volunteered at the food bank, as I once did.

When I graduated from USC, I rented an apartment on North Sycamore Drive, just east of La Brea, south of Fountain. It was a dive. But Dean moved me to Santa Monica on the west side as soon as we were married. The west side was more spacious, the roads wider, the streets cleaner, even the air was fresher. For a guy from Michigan who was accustomed to lakes and forests, it was more palatable. I went along. I always did.

So it was a comfort to me to be back in my old stomping grounds. I was meeting Kiki at the Formosa Café, a ten-minute drive from Hollywood Boulevard. It was a major hangout back when movie stars wore fedoras and even the starlets chain-smoked. I liked the shumai dumplings and half-price cocktails during happy hour, but mostly I liked the old-school Hollywood atmosphere and its walls hung with photos of real stars.

Kiki was there when I arrived. I slid into the red vinyl booth beside her. Her reality television looks were in stark contrast to the dimly lit room. It was like she glowed, all bright hair and teeth, her body was spray tanned and glossy with oil and cinched into a deep purple T-shirt dress. There I was in my faded blue jeans and navy sweater and bright red Converse high-tops. I was still amazed she wanted to write. Maybe if I looked like her Dean would have stayed.

“Thanks soooo much for meeting me and soooo soon,” she cooed.

“You want to know everything I know about being a journalist,” I said, not wanting to waste time. “I want to know everything you know about Amber Ward.”

Despite the spray tan her face went white, turning her complexion a soft shade of beige.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t let the cat out of the bag, at least not entirely. Dean confessed as much this morning when he walked out on me.”

“Oh my God. I’m soooo sorry,” she said and looked visibly shaken. “I didn’t think that would happen.”

I snorted a little. “What did you think would happen?”

“I’d seen them around set. I knew they flirted, and people talked.”

“Set? Why was she on set?” I asked.

“She was a craft service girl on the show. Worked for the catering company.”

“That explains why she was at the party,” I said. Craft service is
a department on a production usually staffed with pretty girls who serve food to the cast and crew. It was one of the lowliest positions on a film set, but at the same time a beacon for the tired and hungry crew. A good craft service girl was part mother hen, part psychologist and part vixen. I had my doubts that Dean’s attraction to Amber was her culinary skills.

“Did they seem like they were in love?” I asked tentatively.

“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to Amber much. She wasn’t very nice to us. Claims she’s a serious actress and takes classes and all that.”

That did it for me. My mother was going to have a field day with this one. “Fancies herself a starlet, does she?”

“Well, I don’t think she’s ever had a role in anything.”

“Except husband thief,” I said tartly.

“Like I told you, none of us knew he was married. Maybe she didn’t either? But she really worked on Dean. Treated him like he was Steven Spielberg. She brought him an audition script and he helped her with it. But I don’t think she got the part because she was still doing craft service.”

Dean would have loved that. Being admired and feted by a pretty young thing who thought he was the next Scorsese. I was just the wife who picked up his socks. My compliments were routine.

“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” The waiter stood smiling at us like we were two friends out for a night of fun.

“A sidecar, please.”

“Ooooh, what’s that?” Kiki shrieked with joy like a kid discovering a new type of candy.

“Our family cocktail. Brandy, Cointreau and lemon juice with a sugar rim,” I explained. According to Marjorie, her father, my grandfather, Lyle, had sampled one at the Playboy Club in Chicago in the 1950s and had brought the recipe home. Frank Sinatra had been a fan. Sidecars weren’t easy to get, but the Formosa made a decent one.

“Make that two,” Kiki said and batted her lashes at the unsuspecting waiter. She could turn it on like a switch.

“You do that well. That flirting thing,” I said admiringly. “Never been much good at that.”

Kiki tore at a napkin with her red lacquered nails for a bit, and when she spoke she cast her eyes down. “You have to be in this business.”

Our sidecars came in a hurry. “You’re on that show,” the waiter gushed at Kiki. “I thought I recognized you.”

Kiki blushed on cue. “I am. Did you like it?”

“I watched every episode and you were my favourite,” he squealed. “Your drink is on me.”

My eyes widened. Kiki flashed her eyes at me and the waiter gulped as if realizing for the first time that I was sitting there.

I decided to give the Kiki move a try and batted my lashes at him as I tilted my head and pointed my chin to the floor.

“Did you lose a contact lens?” the waiter asked and dove down on all fours.

“Oh dear! I did that once!” Kiki said as she too hit the rug. “Careful you don’t crush it!”

Not daring to admit that I didn’t wear contact lenses, I faked finding it myself.

“Got it!” I called out and the two of them popped back up.

“Where is it?” Kiki asked.

“I already put it back in. I’m quick. All good now. Let’s have that drink!”

The waiter and Kiki exchanged looks before he dashed off.

After the third sidecar, two of which I paid for, I had told Kiki more than she ever wanted to know about Dean Lapointe and Clara Bishop. I told more than I heard, and felt my mood shift down a few notches at the thought of going home alone.

“I can’t sleep without him,” I said.

Kiki rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a prescription bottle. She unscrewed the cap and took out a few tiny oblong white pills and placed them in my hand.

“Take one of these tonight. It will help you sleep, calm your nerves,” she said.

“What are they?”

“Lorazepam.”

Half of LA took lorazepam. I’d always avoided drugs. Hated being out of control. Alcohol had always been enough feel-good buzz for me. But tonight I wanted to obliterate every ounce of heartbreak.

“Can I take all of them?”

“No!” she shrieked in mock concern. “Just one. They’ve gotten me through tons of messes.”

Part of me wanted to know what sort of messes a girl like Kiki got into. But not a large enough part to ask, and after paying the bill I went home to the big empty marital bed, took two of the tiny white pills and passed out.

Sergeant Hooper was sipping tea. He had taken one bathroom break since I began telling him the whole truth. I imagined he was bored by now, but he didn’t show it
.

“So you corrupt youths in your spare time? That is, when you’re not taking prescription drugs?”

“You make me sound depraved,” I said gravely. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

Hooper shifted in his chair and smiled at me reassuringly. “To be honest, from what you’ve told me, I think you would make a very good mother at that.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Too many parents are overprotective. Kids like to be imaginative. They like to be scared. I watched all those movies too when I was a little boy. Worse, my brother and I were into slasher films.”

My eyes widened in mock horror. “No!” I cringed. “I can’t watch those.”

He laughed. “Maybe that’s why I ended up a policeman. Wanted to capture all the maniacs with chainsaws and daggers.”

“You get a lot of that in this part of England?” I asked
.

He laughed again. “Sadly, it’s mostly break-ins and car theft. Miss Bishop, without a doubt, you are the most exciting thing to walk through this station since I’ve been here.”

I smiled and batted my lashes a few times for effect. Apparently some of my newly discovered techniques were here to stay
.

“So I take it you want to hear more?” I asked softly. He nodded
.

I
didn’t understand what the woman was saying. Something about a car and junk. A junk car? A junkie’s car? But she wouldn’t stop talking to me. I tried to tell her to shut up but it was no use.

“Clara!” the woman shouted angrily. How did she know my name? Finally, she stopped talking. Then came a loud bang from somewhere. Normally I’d be frightened by a sudden sound like that, but instead I got mad. Especially when it kept going. Louder and louder, harder and harder, until the woman’s voice was back, only she sounded different. Closer.

“Clara! What the fuck did you take?”

Hands grabbed my shoulder and shook me. Now I was really mad. “Leave me alone,” I barked. “Who are you?”

“It’s Sylvia! For Christ’s sake, what is wrong with you? Open your eyes!”

I struggled to do as I was told and a small slit opened; it was enough to know that the woman’s voice did in fact belong to Sylvia. I groaned.

“I’ve been calling you for the last twenty minutes. I’ve been downstairs waiting for you in my car,” she said. “You answered the phone but spoke gibberish. Good thing I know where you hide that spare key.”

“What do you want?”

“That’s a fine thing to say,” she said. “We have a press junket
in fifteen minutes that we’re going to be late for. You’re not even dressed!”

Oh shit. Oh crap. I struggled to sit up. “The one with You-Know-Who in it!”

“Yup. And you know how much You-Know-Who loves you.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my eyes. The movie star in question was a gorgeous blonde actress who did not love me. I had been one of the journalists who had broken the story about her split from her even more famous movie star husband and his equally famous dark-haired movie star lover before it was public knowledge. I guess I reminded her of that bad point in her life because our interviews have been terse ever since. So terse I’d taken to calling her “You-Know-Who” because, like Lord Voldemort, I dare not speak her name. Being late wasn’t going to win points, or worse, I’d lose the interview.

“What are these?” Sylvia held the remaining lorazepam pills in her palm. “Who gave you these?”

“Kiki,” I said glumly. “Didn’t think it would knock me out.”

“Did you drink?”

“Just three sidecars.”

She whistled. “Not smart. Go on, get into the shower and fast.”

We drove to the Four Seasons Hotel on Doheny in record time. Fortunately, Sylvia had a way with PR flacks and had moved our interview slot back by an hour, so when we arrived we were still technically on time. Sylvia was going to shoot You-Know-Who before our interview in case my questions irritated the star, and an irritated star never made a good portrait. At least that was how it was supposed to go.

“Clara first, photo after,” the PR woman said firmly.

“But I’d like to …” Sylvia began, but the woman shut her down with a wave of her hand.

“She has requested interviews first. Pictures second. Come now.”

I left Sylvia fuming and followed the woman down a long hallway. I began to feel sick. Really sick. I asked for water.

“I’ll get you a bottle after your interview,” she said snarkily.

I was led into a hotel room with a door to an adjoining suite and told to sit down. I sat all right. But I wasn’t alone. There was another journalist waiting his turn as well. He was a stern-looking fellow, not much older than me, with short-cropped blond hair. He had wide-set blue eyes, and if I wasn’t trying so hard to remain upright, I’d have had more time to think of how handsome he was.

“You feeling all right?” he asked me with a clipped English accent. “Your face is a rather grim shade of green.”

“I’m fine.” I gulped. Normally I enjoyed speaking with Englishmen; I loved the accent, but not today.

“Are you quite sure?” he persisted.

I nodded. He smiled at me then, and stood up to shake my hand. “I’m Niall Adamson from the UK. I’m covering the film premiere for the
Daily Buzz.”

I could barely manage to lift my hand. I knew it was sweaty, like the rest of me. I told him my name. He sat down again but he obviously wanted to kill time by chatting. He waved the press kit with a large colour photo of You-Know-Who on it.

“I’ve never met her before, have you?”

I nodded. “You-Know-Who’s friendly to the right reporter.”

He looked at me sideways. “You-Know-Who?”

I grimaced and pointed to the photo. “We call her that here in LA. It’s an in-joke.” It was a white lie but I wasn’t about to tell him the details of my not-so-friendly relationship with her. “I take it you don’t live here?”

He shook his head. “London. The studio flew a few of us over.”

I really was feeling worse by the minute, but hoped the small talk
would distract me, so I kept chatting. “A friend of mine lives in north London. Near Tufnell Park.”

Her name was Trinity Mayberry. She was an actress I met during a semester she spent at USC. She was one of my closest friends and once stayed with me for two months during pilot season, but unfortunately she never landed a role. I had yet to visit her and I was going to surprise her when I flew over to see Dean. But that was a plan two days too old.

“That’s an odd coincidence because I live in the same neighbourhood. What street?”

I didn’t want to give out my friend’s address, so I told him I couldn’t remember.

“Wonder if she’s near The White Stallion. It’s the local pub. What does she do?”

“She’s an actress. Mostly stage. Trinity Mayberry.”

A flood of recognition came across his face. “I know her. Not personally mind, but I have seen her. Does television too. Character actress.”

Trinity would agree with that depiction of her career.

The PR woman came in and escorted this Niall fellow into the inner sanctum of stardom.

It was a relief to stop talking; if only the room would stop moving. The swaying began to increase. All those doctors and rehab folks were onto something with their persistent claims that alcohol and drugs don’t mix.

Then, shockingly, the door to the adjoining room opened and You-Know-Who glided in like a golden panther. The PR woman and Niall must have left through the next suite. Clearly his interview was over in a flash. Probably said the wrong thing.

You-Know-Who sat down where Niall had been and fixed her feline eyes on me and forced a smile. She was always one of the polite
ones. If she only knew how much we had in common now. But I was a professional and knew I had to ask about her latest romantic comedy even if the advance reviews said it stank. Only I didn’t get a chance to start asking because she fired her own question at me first.

“So Dean left you for an actress, huh?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, shocked. “How did you know?”

“You think tabloid reporters are the only ones with sources? So how does it feel? Being left for another woman?”

I swallowed. “It’s hell,” I admitted.

“I know. And what’s worse than being left for another woman?”

“What?” I was afraid of the answer.

“Being left for another woman in front of the whole world. But that’s what you do, don’t you? Expose people’s private lives.”

“You’re famous. Your privacy is never really private,” I answered, but it was no use.

“Let me introduce you to some people,” she said and walked to the door. “They want to talk to you.”

A slew of reporters scurried in, and I was suddenly surrounded by microphones and cameras all pointing at me. A flurry of voices began shouting.

“When did you first suspect your husband was cheating?”

“He says he’s in love. How does that make you feel?”

“What do you think of Amber Ward’s Oscar nomination?”

“What are your diet secrets?”

“Clara?”

“Clara?”

I opened my eyes but everyone had gone. I was lying on the bathroom floor in the hotel room, my arms curled around the toilet, with no idea how I’d gotten there. I looked up to see the concerned faces of the PR flack and Niall staring down at me. It was painfully obvious that I had passed out and dreamt the whole You-Know-Who scene. Blech.

“What’s wrong with her?” the PR flack asked.

“Perhaps it was food poisoning,” Niall offered as a polite explanation. I nodded weakly. There was apparently no end to humiliating incidents this week. Being discovered passed out in the washroom in the presence of a dashing Englishman was beyond embarrassing. Another screwball moment for Clara Bishop. At least I hadn’t thrown up.

“Well, she can’t do the interview like that,” the PR girl stated obviously.

“Really? You-Know-Who can’t sit on the tub for a few minutes?” Niall asked sarcastically.

The PR girl glared at him.

I kept staring at the toilet bowl but could feel Niall’s eyes on me.

“I’ll cancel it,” PR girl said.

“Give me your notebook and digital recorder and I’ll interview her for you,” Niall offered.

I was taken aback by such kindness but was also immensely grateful. I handed him my list of questions and iPhone. “I record on this,” I muttered. Sylvia was somewhere in another part of the hotel set up for the photo, which she wouldn’t get if I didn’t get the interview. Then neither of us would get paid and we’d risk pissing off an editor, which meant less work.

Niall took the notebook and nodded firmly.

“He just spoke with her,” the PR girl argued.

“That was for the
Daily Buzz
. This is for”—Niall looked to me. I tried to speak clearly when I said
“Hollywood Hush.”

“
Hollywood Hush
,” he repeated.

“Fine, Clara,” the PR girl said, annoyed.

By the time Niall was done his second brush with fame, I had managed to toss some cold water on my face and redo my ponytail. The only parts I couldn’t clean up in time were my pride and my ability to make a good first impression.

“Here’s your mobile. I recorded the whole thing,” he said. “You look brighter. Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said and took my cell phone and notebook from him. With a slightly clearer head I saw how good-looking he was, albeit dressed a tad on the scruffy side. Typical entertainment journalist. “I appreciate it. She doesn’t much like me so it was probably good that I got sick when I did. Probably a sinus infection.”

He grinned a lopsided grin that gave him a mischievous look, almost boyish. “I recognize a hangover when I bloody well see one,” he said, teasing. I felt my face flush. “But not to worry,
You-Know-Who
was charming. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I’m sorry. I was joking. I didn’t think you’d repeat it.”

“Don’t worry. I’m always willing and able to help a damsel in distress.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “I’m feeling like one today.”

“I see you’re married,” he said and pointed to my left hand. I stared at the wedding band but said nothing. “If I’d seen that earlier, I wouldn’t have put my contact info in your mobile.”

My eyes widened. A handsome Englishman who saw me passed out from a hangover found me attractive enough to give me his number? Why did I get all the freaks?

“Wasn’t trying to be bold,” he said urgently, as though not wanting me to get the wrong idea. “I thought if
Hollywood Hush
or anyone here ever needed a UK freelance reporter you could give them my name.” Cleary he wasn’t hitting on me, and he wanted to be sure I knew it.

“Don’t worry about it. I assure you, my husband won’t mind.” I started to leave the hotel room to find Sylvia. “Thank you again.”

“Try a shot of vodka,” he called out to me. “Always works for me. Hair of the dog and all that rot.”

“‘Rot’ is the right word.” I smiled weakly.

I found Sylvia and explained what happened. We drove to my place
listening to Niall’s interview. Apparently You-Know-Who was in a fabulous mood and gave him loads of juicy quotes.

“Looks like the best interviews are the ones where I don’t show up. Even my job is abandoning me.”

“Stop it,” Sylvia said. “Not even You-Know-Who is immune to an English accent, and you said he was good-looking, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then she liked talking to him.”

“It’s weird he was hitting me up for work,” I said. “There are tons of papers and tabloids in the UK.”

“Maybe he wants to branch out, break into America,” Sylvia said.

I leaned against the car window. “I don’t want to go home to that apartment.”

“Where do you want to go?”

I knew the chances were good that I wouldn’t feel any better or hurt any less, but when a woman is left by her husband there is one place she inevitably ends up: back home with her mother.