Not Without You (17 page)

‘You’re a close family, aren’t you.’

Patrick rolls my cup around the tiny metal table. ‘Sure. My dad was sick last year but he’s better. But it’s cool – I can drive or fly up to see them all the time. My sister lives in San Francisco, so I can see her too. And we all go back to the inn, for holidays. Serve up a few breakfasts. Go swimming. Hiking. Sitting round the fire, waiting for the storm to pass.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s corny, isn’t it, but if I had to give it all up tomorrow and go back there, that’d be totally OK.’

‘I love the idea of you bringing out French toast to some tourists,’ I say. ‘Don’t they go mad and lose it?’

‘Not really. I mean, they’re having a good time anyway. They haven’t come to see a movie star. They’ve come to relax.’

I rub my arms. ‘I can’t believe your grandpa saw Eve Noel making
A Girl Named Rose
.’

‘No, I love that you’ve heard of it. Most people my age have no idea.’

I shrug. ‘I like old movies.’

‘You know
Rebecca
was shot up in Big Sur? The stuff by the sea.’

‘No way,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know that. I love that film.’

‘Well, it’s a beautiful place – you really have to come up there some time. I’ll take you.’

He stares intently at me for a moment and I meet his gaze. I can feel my cheeks flushing. This is so strange. But I remember to hold myself in check. Sure, he seems nice. But this is Patrick Drew, who is basically notorious for his bar-crawling, bed-hopping, car-crashing bad-boy behaviour. He’s charming me, I realise it now.

I clear my throat and check my BlackBerry. Tina has been calling me and she’s sent me a text.

Phone Artie when you get this.

Patrick looks at his watch, then at my coffee cup. ‘Do you want another coffee? Are we done, do you think?’

I realise I’ve forgotten all about the photographer over the last few minutes. I look down and there’s three of them now, one taking pictures, the other two smoking and chatting behind him, waiting for us to touch each other or even better, kiss.

‘Do you have some place you need to be?’ I say.

‘No,’ he says. ‘This is fun.’

‘I’ll get myself a mug, if that’s OK. You want anything?’

‘Uh … I’ll take a drip coffee.’

A drip coffee. I have no idea what that is. I was just getting into flat whites, and now there’s something else I have to be into? Is it wrong that I still want to order an iced latte? I know the answer.

Patrick looks round for a waiter but I stand up. ‘No, it’s fine. I have to make a phone call.’

He’s better than expected. He’s … nice. I didn’t ever consider he’d be
nice
. Like I’d feel as though we’d known each other for a while. As though … Oh, good grief, I tell myself, going carefully down the stairs. He’s trying to charm you, Sophie, come on.

But I’m still thinking about him when I join the queue. First rule of celebrity in public: act like the most humble person in the world, much more so than you would if you were a normal person. Queue like your life depends on it, never ask for special favours. I can hear the shutters clicking outside and I stand up straight and try to look unconcerned, my default face. I call Artie, wanting to iron out this nudity thing, but I realise it’s not a good idea to have a conversation about it in a crowded coffeeshop and I’m relieved when it goes to voicemail.

‘Hey,’ says a voice behind me, a girl’s. I ignore them and keep my position. It’s either a pap trying to get my attention or girls who are just being bitchy, who want you to sign something and then call you a bitch if you won’t.

But this girl taps me on the shoulder. ‘Hey – hi.’ She steps to the side, out of line so she’s facing me. I stiffen instinctively and glance at her with a small smile. Who is this psycho?

Then I recognise her, with a wash of relief. ‘Sara!’ I say. ‘Hey, great to see you.’

‘I was going to hit you in the boob so you’d remember me,’ she says, laughing. ‘What a crazy coincidence, seeing you here. It’s been like five six years then what, twice in a month?’

Her ponytail is as perky as ever. She’s wearing no make-up, and she looks great. I remember suddenly what she said back in the lobby at WAM, about her last audition and how they told her she was an uglier Sophie Leigh, and feel a prickle of shame.

‘Thanks for your card, by the way,’ I say. I lean in, so I can’t be overheard by the fat guy in sweats behind us breathing heavily and the shark in the black suit ahead of us who’s counting out the change for his iced coffee in cents on the counter. ‘After the armpit thing. It was really sweet of you.’

‘It’s no big deal. It must have been tough. I just wanted to reach out to you and say I was thinking of you. I won’t interrupt your coffee – I saw who you’re with.’

I smile. ‘It’s just a photo-op thing. He’s actually a pretty nice guy. Do you wanna come by and say hello?’

She gives a tight smile. ‘It’s OK, thanks.’ I wonder if I sounded patronising.

‘I just meant—’

‘No, I have to go. It was great to run into you again, Sophie.’

‘Sure,’ I say. I don’t want to sound desperate. ‘Well – maybe I’ll see you at WAM some time when I’m in the office.’

‘If I’m still there. That’d be great.’

‘Who’s next, please?’ the barista asks impatiently, as the suit departs with his coffee. She’s the other extreme from our waiter: she wants to let you know she’s recognised you and she’s not impressed. She’s wearing a badge:
Hi, I’m Maiko, and I want to make you your perfect coffee beverage. Just tell me how!

Sara nudges me. ‘You’re up next. See you soon.’

‘What do you mean, if you’re still there?’ I ask her.

‘Oh, I think I’m gonna have to leave pretty soon,’ Sara says. ‘But – hey—’

‘What can I get you!’ Maiko says, more loudly.

‘Well, two drip coffees, one with milk,’ I say. ‘Sara, you want anything?’

‘Oh, wow. Thank you. Just an iced latte, please. Thank you!’

I give a small laugh, then turn back to Maiko, flashing her my biggest megawatt star smile. ‘Thank you so much!’ She gives me a death stare and turns to the huge espresso machine behind her.

I turn back to Sara. ‘Sorry about that. You’re leaving WAM?’

She rubs her nose. ‘Oh, my gosh, I don’t mean anything by it. Just that I’ve been with Lynn for a while now, and it might be time for a change. She’s so successful, you know, but she has another assistant already and I’m only ever going to be the second person there.’ She raises her finger. ‘Might take another job for the summer, then find something else to do, retrain, you know? I should have told you. Do you remember Eric, from Jimmy Samba’s?’

I rack my brains.

‘Oh. I think I—’ I begin and then stop, feeling uncomfortable. I remember Bryan. He was her boyfriend and I slept with him … But do I remember Eric? ‘Wow, it’s strange because I’ve been thinking about it all a lot, lately. That summer, how much fun we all had, just hanging out.’

‘That’s crazy, so have I,’ Sara says, opening her eyes. ‘Great minds think alike. Eric – yeah, you must remember him. Tall, red-headed kid, kind of arrogant?’

‘Oh yeah.’ I remember him – hm, in fact I think I made out with him.

‘The night you got the part in
The Bride and Groom
and we all went out and did shots,’ she says. I stare at her.

‘Your memory is amazing,’ I say. ‘I’d totally forgotten that.’ She blushes.

‘I know. It’s kind of freaky. It means I’m a good assistant. But it comes off a little intense, and I don’t mean it to. Anyway, he’s financing a start-up, and he wants me to come work for him, answer phones and fetch coffee.’ She raises her eyebrows and smiles, as Maiko slides the coffees across the counter. ‘It’s a site where actors can upload their audition videos. I think it’s a great idea. So I’ll probably do that.’ She smiles her perky smile.

‘Thank you!’ I tell Maiko, like she’s just rescued me from a burning building. I look down at the drip coffees. They’re just normal coffees. Right then.

Sara takes her latte with one hand, then says, ‘Anyway! Thanks so much for this, Sophie. Have a good afternoon, and—’

‘Hey,’ I say impulsively. ‘This might be a bit weird. My assistant’s going on leave for a couple of months and I need a cover. If you’re looking for a summer job …’ I screw up my face –
is
this a bit weird? Sara is pulling her backpack on and I can’t see her expression. ‘Look, maybe I shouldn’t have asked you – think about it,’ I say.
For Christ’s sake, she doesn’t have to take it
. ‘But it could be fun.’

Sara looks down, then up at me, biting her lip. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘That could be … a lot of fun.’

‘It’s just for the summer. You can work out what you want to do after that, give yourself some breathing space … you know. It’s kind of interesting, there’s travel, we’d hang out …’ I say. ‘Hot guys, all that. Hey, maybe we could even get you to meet some people. You should act again.’

‘Really?’ She stares at me, her blue eyes sceptical.

‘Well, I definitely think so,’ I say. ‘Anyway, just consider it.’

‘Sure, I will. And thanks, Sophie. Should I talk to Kerry?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’d be great! Good to see you.’

‘Great to see you, Sophie,’ she says. ‘I’m so glad I ran into you again.’ I nod, pleased. ‘I’ll call Kerry this afternoon.’ And with a wave she turns to go, striding out of the shop, small and neat and indistinguishable from all those other thousands, millions of beautifully turned-out, perfectly manicured, polite American girls you don’t get in England.

‘Who was that?’ Patrick says as I sit back down with our coffees and look outside again. Sara walks fast, head down, watching her feet on the sidewalk. I can’t see her car.

‘She works at WAM,’ I say. ‘She bashed into my boob in the lobby a couple of weeks ago. We used to hang out when I lived in Venice Beach. She’s cute.’

He looks up, like a reflex, I’m sure it is, on the word ‘boob’. ‘She did what?’

‘Like barged into me, out of nowhere. It was crazy. It hurt.’ I grab my left breast, in memory, and then I hear the shutters go again, and flush with shame. Patrick glances down.

‘Jesus!’ he says, standing up. ‘There are photographers outside! Christ, how did they know? How – what the fuck? No way, man. No way.’

He bashes his hand on the table, eyes burning, a red spot on each cheek, and strides downstairs. I stare after him, realising that once again the studio – or is it our agents, or our managers? – has played us off each other well. The photos they’ll use are of us touching hands, then Patrick standing up and striding angrily downstairs, and it’ll be yet another ‘Patrick Drew is a Wild and Crazy Guy’ story, which is actually great for his brand, you see: it means people think he’s real, not manufactured. It’s such bullshit.

In fact that afternoon on its website
In Touch
goes with
PATRICK AND CAFFEINE – NOT A GOOD COMBINATION
and E! news has me clutching my boob and us smiling at each other. I look about forty-five and puffy, but at least they don’t mention the armpit, which is a start. Perhaps things are getting back to normal. I need to start working again, keep my head down and concentrate on
The Bachelorette Party
. Patrick’s a good guy. It might even be … OK to work with him. In fact, it might be more than OK. After that, the future’s mine. I can do the Shakespeare film, or do my best to persuade them. And then I’m going to make the Eve Noel thing happen. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever done.

a brown paper parcel tied up in grey ribbon

THE FIRST TIME I met him, I didn’t see Don Matthews again for almost two years. After our second meeting, I found myself wondering if it’d be as long again. I hoped not. In fact, it was three weeks later that he showed up on set, just as he’d promised.

The studio lot was in Burbank, the other side of the hills from the city. I liked the drive there in the early morning, before most people were awake, the cool fragrance of jasmine and fresh dew hanging in the air before the California sun rose too high. My call was for 6.30 a.m. which meant getting up around 4.30. But I was lucky this time – for
Helen of Troy
they’d had me in at 5 a.m. every day for the whole shoot, messing around with wigs and blue eyeshadow, my scalp red-raw from burns with curling irons for months afterwards.

It was always quiet first thing in the morning with the executives and producers absent and I liked it. I could sip on coffee in my tiny bungalow, just me and Dilly, my dresser, and Steve, the make-up artist. Later, the costume designer and on-set publicist would arrive, and then there was Moss Fisher, Monumental’s head of publicity, whom I’d first met that awful evening in Beverly Hills, so long ago now. He was always turning up, no matter how far away in the vast studio lot you went, hovering around in the background with his sly, sidelong glances while all the time people dressed me in different clothes or cut my fringe, as the director and the director of photography came by, and they’d all stand back and stare at me as though I was a horse ready for market, or a painting on show. Moss often whispered something, or disappeared to make a telephone call, and the word always came back and was acted upon: ‘Moss wants less cleavage.’ ‘Moss doesn’t like the salmon colour.’ ‘Moss doesn’t think the line will play well in the mid-West. Lose it.’

We were shooting on Stage 11, which was supposed to be lucky: it’s where
Casablanca, Mildred Pierce
and
Now, Voyager
were filmed. I loved all of that, just as I loved to get Gilbert to tell me about the old days, before the war came, the studio heads, the parties, the old stars. So many of them were gone now, the women out to pasture once they turned thirty, the system itself crumbling because suddenly teenagers were everywhere, doing their own thing, listening to records at home, watching films about bobbysoxers, or sitting in front of the dreaded television. The solution, the studios had decided, was lavish. Go bigger than ever, give them 3-D, give them musicals, biblical epics, give them everything TV can’t.

Lanterns Over Mandalay
had none of that. It was merely a terrific premise and a good script and … two stars the public allegedly couldn’t get enough of: me and the delicious, funny, handsome Conrad Joyce.
Helen of Troy
had been the highest-grossing picture of 1957. My next film,
The Boy Next Door
, was a smash, too. I was getting used to producers rubbing their hands at the sight of me, then touching my shoulder, as if I were a good-luck talisman. I was more and more nervous. I told myself Conrad Joyce was the real star, he was the one the public all wanted to see. But I knew the reality was different. I couldn’t deny it. And I didn’t like it. It felt as though too much was riding on me, and I wasn’t sure I was up to it. What did I really know about the motion-picture industry, after all? This was my third film, and I wasn’t even twenty-two. Louis Featherstone was still my agent but, increasingly daunted by the big guys around me from the studio, he was a silent, unhappy figure, his cowlick unkempt, his bossying, thuggish wife a diminished force. He’d never really been on my side, only his own, so I didn’t particularly miss his counsel. But there was no one else, and I didn’t know what I was doing when I wasn’t acting.