Not Without You (15 page)

You probably know who I am. Hi!

Wow, I sound like a tool. I bite my finger.

I wanted to write to you because I am a person who is interested in Eve Noel and I have studied her career for a long time and would like her contact details.

I press delete. Why can’t I write a simple bloody email? What kind of idiot have I turned into? I want to yell for Tina to come sort it out, but it’s 7.30 in the morning and she’s not here yet, plus George is still sleeping down the hall, and I don’t want to wake him. I sigh, and look up at Bette Davis, and then at the photo of Eve Noel in
The Boy Next Door
that’s on the wall by the window. This used to be her dressing room. I stare at her. She’s smiling just slightly, her back straight, her dark hair swept back from her face in a low bun and as ever that smile in her eyes.

Where are you, Eve?

Dear Melanie,

My assistant emailed you last month without much success, but I thought I might try you myself to see if you can be persuaded to reply. I know this is a long shot, but I’m making a picture in the UK about Shakespeare’s wife. We’re looking for an actress for the part of the older Anne Hathaway and would love to talk to Miss Noel. Can you let me know if she ever considers parts any more, and if not, whether there is any opportunity of talking to her and discussing this film with her? I am a huge, HUGE fan of her work and would love the opportunity to work with her in whatever way she finds easiest. Please contact my agent Artie Morgan at WAM Associates or my manager Tommy Wiley at Focus Entertainment if you would like any of this verified.

Yours,

Sophie Leigh

There’s about fifteen too many ‘opportunities’ and ‘works’ and I’m sure it could be a better piece of writing, but I don’t know how else to put it. It’s also a lie as I’m not actually ‘making a picture in the UK about Shakespeare’s wife’. Tommy and Artie are still clearly hoping it’ll go away,
Bachelorette
starts shooting in about ten days’ time, and I know from my almost daily emails with Tammy that Cara Hamilton is attached to play the older Anne. But she’s a bitch. I met her once when I was auditioning for a bonnet film and she was playing Jane Austen’s mother, or something, and she was kind of awful, looked down her nose at me and said loudly, ‘You need to learn to speak more clearly, dear,’ as though I was an untrained amateur with a pushy mum who got lucky. I mean, she’s right, but it was bloody rude. So I wouldn’t feel bad about replacing HER, that’s for sure. I pull at my fringe and press send, and as the computer burps to let me know the message has gone I smile. I’m not sure why I’m doing this any more. It’s like an idle video game, playing in this alternate universe where I’m a producer who gets things done, hustles scriptwriters, negotiates with agents, casts films.

‘Hey, kiddo,’ says a husky voice as I emerge into the bright morning light on the terrace. ‘Look who the fuck I bumped into.’ It’s Deena, standing by the breakfast table, eyeing up the platter of food. I glare at her and see George, next to her; he’s smiling politely but I know he’s not happy. This sleepover is not going well.

‘Oh,’ I say apologetically, going over to him. ‘I thought you were still asleep—’

‘I woke up,’ he smiles, scratching his chest. He’s showered and shaved, and he looks ten years younger than he is in his jeans and black shirt, but still there’s always that untouchable aura of power that shimmers around him like heat rising from a fire. He leans forward and jabs a thumb at Deena. ‘I haven’t seen this gal since … wow, how long’s it been?’ He grins mechanically. ‘A long time.’ She grins too. ‘Wow. Deena Grayson. How do you know this little thing here?’

Deena throws her leather jacket onto a dining chair. ‘I’ve known Sophie since she was a baby. She had this scabby rash over her head and she used to puke all the time.’ She slides her fingers slowly through her hair and catches her bottom lip in her teeth. ‘Her mother and I are old, old friends. Bit like you and me, George.’

‘You know it,’ George says, with his hearty laugh.

I watch them with amazement, and slight disgust.
She’s my godmother, George
. But of course George would know Deena. They’re around the same age; in her day she was pretty hot. Add to that the natural air of feline sexuality that hangs about her like flies around Pig Pen from
Peanuts
and it’s a dead cert they’d have banged at some drug-fuelled seventies Margot Kidder–Robert Evans house party. What’s interesting is that he remembers her name. I’m sometimes not sure he knows mine.

Deena sits down, with a hacking smoker’s cough. George is watching her. I touch his arm and point towards the breakfast table, laid with croissants, fruit and a pot of coffee and fresh orange juice. ‘Help yourself,’ I tell him.

He flashes me that smile again. ‘Honey, that’d be great, but I have to go. Last night was fun.’ He grabs his keys from the table. ‘They brought the car up already. So yeah, I’ll see you soon, OK?’

‘Sure. Cool.’ I follow him through the French doors. I promised myself I’d never ask him for anything, or whine to keep him here. Indeed, part of me is glad he’s going … but not like this. We’ve been sleeping together for four months, and he’s still a total stranger.

I keep my voice steady. ‘So – how do you know Deena?’

We’re in the hall, and George starts patting his flak jacket, checking his bags. He produces some Chapstick and applies it liberally to his lips. I watch him, in distaste, as he says, ‘Oh, you know. She was hot for a while. God, it was years ago. She’s old now.’ He screws up his face. ‘Wonder how tight it is down there still. That was her thing, you know? Famous for it. All the guys wanted to try her – she had the tightest—’ He stops, realising where he is, and chuckles. ‘Man. Deena Grayson. That is – ugh. Crazy.’ His voice is reproachful, as if it’s disgusting that he, George, had to talk to a woman over the age of thirty-five.

I can sense this is a test, and I’m not going to fail. ‘Well, it was good to see you.’ I examine my nails casually. ‘Have a great day!’

‘Thanks.’ He picks up his holdall, then turns to me. ‘When’s your coffee with Patrick?’

‘Later this morning.’

He nods. ‘Patrick’s a good guy. I want you two to get along. So have a great time.’

‘Yeah. So – see you around,’ I say, as cool as I can, because I know, somehow, this is the last time we’re going to hook up like this. Something’s changed and it’s not going back to the way it was. We stare at each other for a second and I realise I hate the expression in his cold eyes. And then he picks up the other bag on the floor.

Slowly, slowly he pats the video camera, snug in its case. ‘It’s a shame we didn’t get any of our own little project filmed last night,’ he says.

‘Right.’ I smile politely.

‘I’m telling you, it’s hot stuff. I wish more people could see it. Right?’ He mimics me.

‘It’s not going to happen,’ I say.

‘It might do if I uploaded it, though, mightn’t it?’

I flinch as though he’s hit me. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t. That’s so tacky. I do have friends who’d love it, though … some industry guys I know who’d wanna see how good you are, how hot you are … how much you want it … Prim cute Sophie Leigh, being fucked every which way and begging for more. Ha.’

He kind of shrugs.

The door is open and the morning sun is hurting my eyes but I don’t move. I am trapped. I can see him now, in his library with his producer, financier, agent friends, smoking fat cigars and drinking expensive whisky, playing God and watching the prizes of their culling, like hunters. I’ve heard this goes on. I’ve been so, so stupid.

I grit my teeth. ‘I hope you don’t do that,’ is all I say.

‘Maybe I’ll call you,’ George says, and then he pats the video camera, snug inside its bag with its secrets. His voice is totally calm. Like he’s sure I’ll be waiting for his call, because I have to, because he’s got me where he wants me. He opens the car door.

‘Whatever,’ I say, trying not to show how I really feel. A crazy hot rage is surging through me. Like I want to smash the camera into tiny pieces, throw rocks at his dickish Lamborghini as it passes through the gates, send him spinning off the road down into a canyon so he can’t pull anything like this any more.

It’s already baking hot. I stand in the doorway, aimlessly looking at the empty driveway.

DEENA WAVES A banana at me as I return to the terrace. ‘Hey. Sit down, kiddo.’

‘OK.’ I realise I’m shaking. I stare at her, wondering why she’s here, my rage at and fear of George blocking out everything else.

‘So listen—’ she says, taking another croissant and tearing it in half. She shoves one wedge into her mouth, as though she’s afraid it’ll be snatched away. ‘Can we have that talk now? I wanted to ask you—’

‘Hey, Sophie.’ Carmen returns, bearing more coffee. She drops something onto the table. ‘Is a package. It just arrived.’

‘Who’s it from?’ I ask.

‘Well, I don’t know!’ Carmen says in surprise. ‘I’m not on the gate, I’m not watching the road. I’m in the kitchen, making your food. OK? It was on the table, in the hall. That’s all I know.’

‘I brought that up,’ Deena says suddenly. ‘Someone at the gate asked me to give it to you when I came back from … this morning.’ She cackles, then coughs.

I don’t want to know where she’s been. I glance down at the label on the package.
Private and confidential
in a scrawling hand, underlined several times.

‘Did you see who it was?’ There’s an edge to my voice.

‘Some messenger guy.’ She sighs. ‘I don’t know, OK? They were ringing the bell. It wasn’t a nutter carrying a knife, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I call Denis,’ Carmen says.

‘Denis saw the whole thing. It’s fine.’

Three roses have somehow arrived and the other guards haven’t seen anything.
I know he’s too old. I know I should have done something about it. I stare at the package again; the handwriting is familiar. ‘I’m just going to read this. Excuse me, won’t you?’

I rip open the cardboard package, hands still shaking. But it’s just a letter.

Dear Sophie,

How are you? I think I can guess. I know you’re beautiful as ever, from the posters I see of you all round town. I know too that you’re flourishing, getting the adulation you deserve, and I hope you revel in it. That gruesome bedsit of yours in Shepherd’s Bush must seem a long way away now. It does to me, though I remember that summer extremely fondly.

Forgive this handwritten, slightly eccentric missive. I wanted to contact you myself. I know you’ve read the second draft of
My Second-Best Bed
and you’ve met with Tammy. I am passionate about this film and about playing Shakespeare. T.T. Tohens is now attached, do you know him? He’s a crazy guy but an amazing director. He is as keen as I am to make sure it’s not too parochial and twee, and to focus on the love story between Shakespeare and Anne. We need two incredible actresses to play Anne. We have Cara Hamilton almost confirmed as the older Anne. But we’ve been searching for bloody ages for the right younger Anne/Annie and she’s never quite materialised.

I really want that person to be you, Sophie. You are such a talented actress, I don’t think you realise it. You’re scratching the surface in terms of what you can achieve. I’m convinced this script is the one to break you through. I think this is your moment.

So I’m writing to urge you to consider meeting with me, T.T. and Canyon Pictures. We have tried going via Artie and he is not particularly welcoming, hence this approach. I’ll be honest: the funding is extremely dicey. I am waiving my fee for a profits deal and there’s a marvellous head of production for Canyon Pictures in the UK, Tony Lees-Miller. You’d love him. He actually knows how to make a good movie, unlike a lot of people in this business. We were due to start shooting in early July, just in time for the English summer. You and I know that means continuous rain for two months, but I haven’t told our US colleagues that … (And you know what? Lately, I have been longing for the soft rain of an English summer, and the heavy green of the trees, the smell of mown grass and rooms musty with heat, instead of sunshine and air con all day, every day.)

But it all depends on funding. You could help secure that last vital piece and make this film happen. We are flexible on timings. Please, will you think about having a meeting?

I think of you often and with such affection.

Alec Mitford x

Like a heroine in a period drama, I’m ashamed to say that after I finish reading I press the letter to my chest. Alec … Oh, Alec, you gorgeous, charming, funny, mysterious man. How does he know that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking? How does he know that’s what I miss most about home too, the velvety fall of rain on thick green country lanes?

‘What are you smiling about?’ Deena says. ‘Love letter?’

‘No. Business.’ I stuff the letter in my back pocket, trying not to smile. I know what it is with Alec: he’s a total flirt. I may be as big a star as him, bigger, in fact, but I’m no different to all the other girls, mothers, grandmothers, who love him for the twinkle in his dark blue eyes, his chiselled jawline with the beautiful plump lips, his firm, light voice.

I think back to that time in London. He had a flat in Notting Hill, on Westbourne Grove, near a rock star and the Paul Smith shop. It suited him perfectly; I’ve never really seen him as someone who’ll stay in LA for ever. He should be outside a white stucco house somewhere, or standing in a field wearing jodhpurs. I only ever let him come to the Shepherd’s Bush grot-hole I was living in once, when we were very drunk, and I can’t believe he remembers it. He left for LA and his first US film while we were still having our summer fling, and I was kind of devastated, when I think about it, but then I met that scuzzball Dave and that was that. I haven’t seen him for a long while now, but there’s something about Alec, some mystery about him that makes him especially attractive – it’s always there.

I stick my lower lip out and blow upwards, fanning my fringe. ‘Penny for them,’ Deena says.