Not Without You (16 page)

‘Nothing.’ I look at my phone. ‘I need to get ready.’

‘Right.’ She chews on another pastry. ‘So, you’re fucking George, right?’

I stare at her, not knowing how to answer this.

‘Give you a piece of advice?’ Her hazel eyes lock with mine. We stare at each other for a moment. I scan her thin, tanned face, trying to read her expression. It takes me a moment to realise it is fear. I’ve never seen Deena look afraid.

‘Go on then,’ I say.

‘He’s trouble, that guy. He probably told you he knew me way back when. All I’m saying is watch out what you do for him.’ Then she gives a short laugh and her face changes. She tears off another piece of croissant, flakes going everywhere. ‘Why am I saying this to you? You know how to take care of yourself, don’t you, kiddo.’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Remember that drink we had when you first came to town?’ Deena grins up at me and I see the gap in her front teeth. Her hair falls in front of her face. ‘You met that guy, in the bar? And you just went home with him?’ She nods, like we’re old friends. ‘I knew you’d be OK.’

‘I was a different person then,’ I say. I sound so uptight, and then I relent. It was, actually, a fun night, the two of us at the bar, her telling me old stories about her time in Hollywood, me still slightly in awe because even though I had my own movie opening and things were looking good, Deena Grayson was still such a legend to me, Mum’s best friend, my godmother who made it big. We got hammered, and I went back to the Venice Beach apartment with some waiter. It’s the only time in my life I have ever gone home with a total stranger. I felt crappy the next day, really embarrassed too, and it kind of ended that period of being pretty slutty in my life, but Deena always loves to bring it up, like it levels us again.

‘I can’t be like that any more.’

‘Sure,’ she says, grinning again, her eyes rolling. ‘Yeah, of course. You’re a reformed character. No more naughty behaviour, eh?’

The thought that I’ve basically been whoring myself out to George these last few months, but that it seems OK because it’s more discreet, is laughable now, I realise. There was something totally honest about my time in Venice Beach, sleeping with different guys and picking up that waiter – Bernardo! That was his name. We were all basically kind to each other. We were responsible about our irresponsibility, if that makes sense.

‘I think it’s a bit sad to still be doing that after a while.’ I’m a hypocrite. ‘Anyway, I can’t. It’s different now.’

She’s quiet for a moment, then she flicks her hazel-green eyes up at me and says, ‘It’s not so different. We’re not so different, you know, Sophie. I’m just saying. Be careful.’

I’ll take lectures from a lot of people but not from her. The two of us? Similar? I rub my eyes, not knowing what to say, but thankfully my phone rings and it’s Daniel my lawyer wanting to talk about some point concerning
The Bachelorette Party
. I raise one finger in apology to Deena and turn away, hoping she doesn’t see my expression.

I HATE PAP shots, especially after Armpitgate. I apply one last slick of lipgloss, jam my sunglasses firmly on and get out of the SUV. As some lone guy appears in the parking lot, appropriately from behind a dumpster, I smile brightly. He starts snapping.

‘Hey, Sophie, lift up your arm!’

I go into robot mode. You have to totally ignore them and keep reminding yourself that the readers of the magazines can’t hear what the paps say to you and they’ll say anything, anything at all, to get you to react.

‘
Us
magazine has a poll asking if you’re past it and eighty per cent of people said yes – how does that make you feel?’

I turn and smile. ‘Great!’ I say. ‘Thanks, guys!’ Two girls – they look like office workers – stand behind him, whispering to each other. I include them in my beam. ‘Hi!’ I say breezily.

The too-cool-for-school barista ignores me so studiously when I walk in that I know she’s recognised me. Patrick Drew’s already waiting up on the mezzanine level of the cafe, which is all exposed oak beams and untreated brown MDF, with today’s coffees written in chalk on a board behind us, laminated menus in coffee shops today being rarer than a female romantic lead over the age of forty.

He’s scribbling intently in a lined exercise book. I shake my head, gearing myself up for this stupid scenario I’ve signed on for, and go upstairs to meet him.

‘Hey,’ I say, touching him lightly on the arm. Patrick looks up and smiles and I can hear the shutter on the camera lens outside clicking as he stands up and hugs me.

‘Hey,’ he replies. ‘It’s great to see you. This is a cool place. I’ve never been here before.’

‘Me neither.’ Ashley picked it out for us.

Patrick sits down, then leaps up again, almost like he’s nervous. ‘Man, I’m sorry, Sophie, do you want a coffee?’

‘That’d be great,’ I say. ‘I’ll just get a double espresso, thanks.’

I say this nonchalantly.
Yeah, I don’t order iced coffee, I’m actually a serious person?
He gives a kind of grin and nods, then stands up to go downstairs, but a waiter appears. ‘Guys, what can I get you?’ he says perkily, then does the triple: looks up and recognises us, does a massive double-take, then tries to style it out. ‘Yeah, we got some great coffees today, there’s a fantastic …’

He’s so clearly an out-of-work actor, the old cliché. He starts on a list of about fifteen different types, blends and beans: ‘OK guys, our dark roast is really exciting today. I can’t wait to tell you about it – it’s …’

I stare at Patrick Drew, glad the waiter is blocking the view of the photographer outside on the ground. I’m used to beautiful people, but he is extraordinarily good-looking, there’s no doubt about it, the kind of pretty the camera loves and I almost feel sorry for the waiter, standing next to him. Patrick looks like a Renaissance prince in a miniseries. He could be James Bond, if he wasn’t dressed like a beach bum and didn’t always sound like he’s in the stage right before deep sleep.

Order placed, the waiter retreats, throwing us a cheesy smile. ‘That’s great, guys! Coming right up, thank you!’

We’re alone on the mezzanine, and there’s an awkward silence after he’s gone. The chatter of West Hollywood hipsters with their MacBooks and Brooklyn accents is a reproachful burr below us. I clear my throat.

‘No entourage here today?’ I say. Patrick looks blank.

‘Oh, the guys at the Up! awards thing, you mean? No, my cousin and his buddies were in town. We were surfing all day, I didn’t even have a chance to get changed!’ I smile, remembering my annoyance at his T-shirt and jeans. ‘It was a good day. Sorry you didn’t have a better time. Artie told me what happened to you with the photos and shit. That sucks.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You didn’t see them?’

‘No. I didn’t even notice it happening, dude! I’m sorry, I shoulda pulled your arm down, maybe.’ I shrug, ‘I don’t read papers or watch TV. Used to, but it messed with my mind too much. You know?’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, disbelieving. There are many stars who claim not to read reviews or Google themselves, and they’re the craziest ones of all, because they’re doing it all the time in secret. ‘I’d like to say I don’t, but I do. It’s too hard not to.’

‘Just do something else!’ he says. ‘Go for a walk, or get on your bike, or … you know. Something.’

I try not to roll my eyes.
Yep, sure. I’ll just hop on that bicycle I keep in the garage and pedal up the coast, shall I?
‘Right.’

There’s another silence. I sense he’s wondering how long before he can go. This is a farce. I hope the photographer isn’t snapping this, then I realise of course he’s not, it’s too boring. Thankfully, the coffees arrive. Patrick Drew smiles awkwardly, and clinks his mug against my tiny cup like we’re drinking tankards of German ale.

‘So, I wanted to talk to you about the movie,’ he says. ‘You know we never really discussed it properly. I mentioned I had a few extra ideas.’

‘I’ve talked to George,’ I say. ‘I’m not showing my tits. End of.’ At that exact moment some guy in a suit walks past, obviously listening in.

Patrick Drew raises his eyebrows just a fraction as the guy backs away, looking amazed. ‘OK …’ he says. ‘Uh – I just meant, my idea about changing the location of the road trip they take, from Vegas.’ He takes a gulp of his coffee. I do the same.

‘Oh. I didn’t hear about that.’ I look down at my now-empty thimble-sized cup. ‘I thought you meant … well, nudity.’ I sound like a nun.

‘Of course you’re not doing nudity, why would you?’ He pours some of his coffee into my cup. ‘Just think it’d be good to take it out of the usual road-trip clichés, you know. I’m bored of the whole let’s-party-in-Vegas thing, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, very,’ I say. ‘I hate Vegas.’

Patrick leans forward. ‘Me too. I took my cousin there last year and he was so into it, but it was way too hot and full of crazy people and it sucked! Plus, I really wanted to see Celine Dion? But she was out of town. I was totally bummed.’

I can’t help it; I start laughing. ‘Celine Dion? No way, Patrick.’

He laughs too. ‘Come on, Sophie, it’s Vegas, baby! You gotta see something totally camp. She’s leaving soon, and she’s got a voice on her, that girl. Those pipes … Phew.’

I nod, trying to agree, smiling. ‘Sure. If you say so.’

He’s nodding too, smiling at me. ‘Trust me.’

I tell Patrick about my last trip to Vegas, when I took Dave the ex. We were on the rocks and I was trying to keep him sweet really, as he’d mentioned a couple of times that some of the papers had offered him money for photos of me. We had the biggest suite at Caesar’s Palace and I gave him $5,000 worth of chips so he could go gambling while I got an early night. He never came back, and when I turned on the TV next morning there he was all over E! with a stripper. That’s how I found out. I suppose it was a good thing, really, because we broke up. I still don’t know how he got out of Vegas. He never carried cash on him, because I paid for everything.

Patrick winces, pushing his dark messy hair out of his face. ‘So that’s why I read the magazines and look at the Internet,’ I say after a pause. ‘I try not to, but sometimes I can’t help it. I’m always afraid I’m missing something.’

‘It’s tough,’ he says. ‘That sucks, that he was threatening to release photos of you. It’s hard for women.’

My eyes flick up to his, suspiciously, but his expression is only of concern. I take a sip of the tiny coffee cup. ‘Well, yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s completely true. Finding a guy is hard. Who do you trust and all of that. That’s why I’m single most of the time.’

I have no idea why I’ve said this and all of a sudden I feel embarrassed.

‘Hey, girls are just as bad,’ he says, and two lines appear between his perfect eyebrows. ‘You never know if they’re after you for your money or your fame.’

I can’t help laughing. ‘Well, duh
.
I think you have to assume they’re after both.’

He nods, but a flush of red grows on his cheeks. ‘Of course. I’m pretty stupid.’

I gaze into his beautiful brown eyes, feeling like I’ve stamped on a puppy. ‘No, you’re not,’ I say. ‘I think I’m the stupid one.’

‘You’re not stupid.’ Patrick drains his coffee. ‘You’re too smart to be standing in front of a camera saying stuff you don’t care about for the next however many years. ‘Cause I’ve been wondering about all of that, lately. Is this what you want to do, the rest of your life?’

The question floors me for a moment.

‘I love films, so yes. I don’t want to be on the stage or anything.’

‘Do you love it? I don’t know if I do.’

‘Yes, I do. I love being someone else. And I love the idea you’re making something … good.’ I trail off. ‘Something people will watch in thirty years’ time.’

But that’s not what I do any more. And I don’t believe in myself any more.

Patrick is watching me, and I take a deep breath. ‘In fact – I’ve never said this to anyone before—’

‘Shoot,’ he says. ‘I have a terrible memory. I’ll forget it tomorrow.’

I laugh. ‘I’d like to make films, too. Produce them. Maybe direct too, one day. Find projects, put them together.’

‘You should do it,’ he says. ‘That’d be so cool. No one else is going to do it for you.’

‘Have you heard of Eve Noel?’ I ask.

‘Course,’ he says. ‘
Lanterns Over Mandalay
was just on, a couple weeks ago. Awesome film.’

My hand shoots out across the table and I touch his knuckles. ‘Really?’ I pull my fingers back into a fist, embarrassed at myself. But he doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Sure. And I love
A Girl Named Rose
. It’s my mom’s favourite film. You know something? They shot a whole big section of it where I grew up.’

‘Really? Where are you from?’

He smiles proudly. ‘Along the coast. Big Sur. You know it?’

I smile. ‘No, I’ve never been. I keep meaning to, it sounds so beautiful—’

He looks horrified. ‘You’ve lived here how long?’

‘Seven years.’

‘And you’ve never been up to Big Sur? Wow, that’s crazy. I miss it every moment I’m gone. At night, you can see more stars than anywhere else in the country, you know that? There’s nothing else there, but sea and hills and sky. My mom and dad, they run a tiny inn up there, right on the edge of the forest. Been in the family for three generations.’ He looks at his watch. ‘If we leave now and drive non-stop, we’ll be there for sunset. The wild flowers are out everywhere now, it’s not really summer up there.’

I laugh. ‘Let’s go, then.’

‘We should.’

We stare at each other for a moment. I look into his face. Why does he look familiar? Why do I feel I know him so well already?

He looks pleased. ‘Seriously, you should come up for Thanksgiving. If you love Eve Noel. She stayed just along from my folks while they were making the movie. My grandpa remembers it. He used to go up and watch them filming. He said he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. She was so happy, he said, she used to sing all day.’

My throat is dry. ‘Really? Was her husband there?’

Patrick shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. I could ask my mom. She was born and raised there, like me. It’s in her soul. She misses it when she goes away, says she feels like she’s lost a limb if she can’t hear the sea crashing against the rocks. I tell you, there’s nothing like it. I miss them down here, sometimes.’ He looks around the cafe. ‘All seems … kinda stupid.’