He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner!

by Kirsty Greenwood

  As always, I have weird dreams the whole night through. In so many of these recurring dreams, I am on a big stage, dressed in something glittery and bursting with the power that comes from having command of a whole room of strangers. I used to love that feeling; seeing the happiness that would come over people’s faces when I sang phrases that they connected to, when I reached notes that seemed like they ought to be impossible to reach. In the dream, after I’ve finished singing, things always move into a dark, cool afterparty, full of memories of what it was like to have friends to hang out with, people who I could talk to without melting into a puddle of bashfulness and introversion. And then, with no warning, everyone at the dream party just starts to cry, like properly full-on sobbing. I ask them what’s wrong, but nobody will tell me. It’s super unnerving. I always, always wake up feeling relieved that I’m not in a room full of crying people after all, but also sad and puzzled that I’m no longer able to access the feeling of joy and power I used to get from performing my songs for an audience.

  This morning, I awaken from one of these dreams completely soaked in sweat and with a mouth drier than sand-topped crackers. Why is it so hot? I blearily open my eyes. God, it’s mega bright too. What happened to my blackout curtains that I spent two whole days’ wages on?

  Oh.

  I am not at home.

  I am in Los Angeles.

  America.

  My belly kerplunks with nerves. Today I have to make a masterplan on how to track down Gary Montgomery. Gary Montgomery the movie star with a girlfriend who is hotter and more accomplished than me in every conceivable way.

  I push away the voice in my head that asks me what the fuck I think I am playing at and try to keep focused on Imogene telling me that I was full of shit and that my weird instinct about Gary is nothing more than an excuse to be alone forever. Which it is absolutely, definitely, categorically not. Nope. She asked me to prove it and I will.

  ‘I am not full of shit!’ I mumble to myself, blindly feeling about the bedside table for my glasses before remembering that they’re still in my washbag on the other side of the space. I grab my phone and hold it right up to my face: 10.20 a.m. Kennedy said everyone left the house before nine, so I am here alone, which is good considering Kennedy’s warning about her surly brother.

  I sit up in the bed, blow the air out through my cheeks and furiously fan myself with my hands, because this room is super warm in spite of the air-con box currently whirring on the wall. I look down at my body and realise that I must have chucked off my pyjamas at some point in the night because I’m now wearing nothing but a pair of bed knickers, which are, for the uninitiated, knickers so big and raggedy and overwashed that they are only good for when you’re in bed alone (which, for me, is always) or are enduring a particularly heavy flow.

  With a small roll and stretch of my stiff shoulders, I cross the room and grab my glasses out of my washbag, sliding them on to my face. Aha, lovely vision restored. I spin around back towards the bed, only to realise that, in my jet-lagged state last night, I completely forgot to close the blinds. To my absolute surprise and horror, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that I so admired last night open onto a view of magnificent sandy white beach filled with people, many of whom are definitely staring at me as I stand there, gawping, mouth open, boobs akimbo. A beautiful and glowing Swedish-looking couple are pointing at me through the window, their two glowing identikit teenage children are holding up phones to capture this less than stellar moment.

  I frantically place my hands across my bosom, which is a futile gesture because I am a size 36 DD and it would take many more hands to give me even a centimetre of privacy. I grab my pyjama top off the floor and pull it over my head, face flaming with embarrassment.

  ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ I shout to the Swedish-looking family, who are now waving at me and beckoning at me to join them out on the beach. What the hell? The mum is pointing at my knickers and pulling a sad face.

  ‘They are bed knickers!’ I explain through the glass. ‘They are not for public consumption!’ And then I ask myself why I am even trying to explain myself to these perv strangers through a window. ‘Go away!’ I say, gathering up my courage to raise my voice. ‘This is a private abode. I clearly did not know that the window overlooked a bloody public beach. Shoo now!’

  With a flaming face, I speedily roll down the blinds. I can see the shadows of the Swedish family still out there, unmoving. That is the creepiest bunch of blondes I’ve ever seen in my life and that’s coming from someone who has watched every season of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

  I shudder and head through to the kitchen to find coffee, marvelling again at how gorgeous and perfectly considered this place is. As I open the door to the kitchen, Winklepuff immediately dives out and climbs onto my leg once more.

  ‘Ham!’ I say sharply, which works immediately, the dog plopping off my leg and sitting obediently before me, his tongue slightly poking out.

  I open the fridge to see if there is, on the slimmest possible likelihood, actually any ham. But, of course, there isn’t. I find a Tupperware box full of tofu and pull out a cubed piece, waving it at Winklepuff hopefully. I swear he curls his top lift in disgust.

  ‘I hear you,’ I say, taking a sniff and wrinkling my own nose. ‘If you remain chilled, we’ll go out later and find you some of the good stuff. There must be a deli nearby.’

  Winklepuff’s ears flicker upwards at the word ‘deli’, which again is very odd. Then he scratches at the door to the little yard at the back of the house. I let him out and see if there’s anything available for breakfast. I search the fridge, rummaging through more tofu, some weird dried mushrooms and a gigantic bottle of something called Kombucha. Hmmm. I’ll just grab something later on when I walk Winklepuff. I feel pretty sick with nerves anyway.

  I eventually manage to find some coffee at the back of a cupboard filled with every herby, fruity or superfood tea that has ever been invented. Then I grab my notebook out of my room/bed area and sit down at the reclaimed wooden kitchen table. Time to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.

  I write Nora Loves Gary at the top of the page with a heart instead of the ‘o’ in the word ‘loves’. And then I scrawl a million hearts around the edges of the page. I never doodled hearts in school because I never really had big crushes on guys, seeing as I empirically knew that none of them were my soulmate, and the one time I did get a crush he ended up going out with Imogene anyway.

  I underline Nora Loves Gary three times. Then I think hard. And then I think some more. First things first, I have to actually meet him. If my instincts are right and he is my soulmate, then surely he will have the same reaction to me as I had to him?

  I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror resting on the wall opposite. My face is pillow-crumpled and red, my pyjama top a little tight on these unwieldy boobs, my bed knickers are, well, bed knickers. Hmmm. Maybe he won’t have quite the same reaction.

  Opening my phone, I pull up Tori Gould’s latest Instagram post. It’s a picture of her on a beach doing a perfect yoga handstand in a bikini, every last bit of her exactly the way it ought to be. I feel a mixture of envy and guilt at the fact that I’m basically creeping on an innocent woman’s boyfriend. I emphatically don’t believe in going after men who are already involved. But… what if Tori is missing out on finding her true soulmate because she’s wasting time with mine? If I think about it like that, then maybe I’m actually doing Tori a favour. Right? And, like I said, if he isn’t responsive to me then I will respect that and go back home and, ugh, go on a date with Roger Pepper like I promised Imogene I would.

  Okay. The first step is to find out what his schedule is. And who else would know that but his manager?

  I open up Google and search for Gary Montgomery’s manager’s contact address. It’s a management company based in West Hollywood and has a public telephone number. Simple!

  I press the number and clear my throat. I’m going to tell Gar
y Montgomery’s manager that I am an old friend of his and that I’m looking to get back in touch.

  The phone rings twice before it’s picked up by a youngish, bored-sounding guy.

  ‘H-hello,’ I say brightly, gathering up all of my courage and trying very hard not to stutter and mumble. ‘M-may I speak to Aileen Gould, please?’

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘Nora Tucker.’

  ‘One moment please.’

  Yes! Wow. They’re putting me right through. I must actually hold some natural gravitas in my tone. This is going to be easier than I thought.

  I hear a few clicks and then a scratchy but purposeful voice.

  ‘Aileen here, how can I help you?’

  ‘Oh h-hi!’ I say cheerily. ‘I’m looking to get in touch with Gary Montgomery. I’m an old college friend and I was just wondering if—’

  ‘Let me guess. You were just wondering if I could tell you his schedule? His phone number? His address so you can turn up at his home unannounced to surprise him?’

  ‘Um, well, yes! Thank you. That would be amazing. Thank you so much, Ms Gould.’

  I hear a muffling over the phone as Aileen hisses to someone else, ‘It’s another fucking creepy girl trying to get to Gary. Can you please do a better job of screening, Andre? Christ!’

  ‘I’m not some creepy girl!’ I gasp with unjustifiable indignation. ‘I am Gary’s old college friend!’

  ‘Oh, are you really? So what college was that then?’

  ‘The University of Texas at Austin,’ I say, thankful for my extensive googling of Gary.

  ‘What year?’

  ‘The 2011 graduating class,’ I respond confidently. I remember seeing that Gary had always been in plays in college. ‘I was actually in his drama group,’ I add. ‘Although, of course, I saw him around campus when he wasn’t in his classes studying for a m-major in English Literature.’

  ‘Oh!’ Aileen says, her tone of voice changing. ‘You clearly do know him. Sorry for being suspicious. Since Justice of The Peace was released we’ve had a lot of calls from people pretending to know Gary. Were you in Romeo and Juliet with him? I would have liked to have seen that. I imagine he made a wonderful Romeo.’

  ‘Yes! He was an amazing Romeo. Perfect!’

  ‘Ah, well that’s very interesting of you to say because Gary Montgomery was never in Romeo and Juliet. He was in Macbeth. If you try to get in touch again, I will call the police.’

  The call is ended from the other side. I stare at the phone screen, my mouth open in shock.

  The police? My god, that woman was so aggressive. I can’t help but feel pleased that Gary is clearly being protected, but still… Argh! Frustrating to the max.

  I let the phone drop onto my lap and sigh.

  Thinking that this might be tricky was a massive understatement.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nora

  I eventually get dressed, only to discover that the clothes I hastily packed from my summer holiday a few years ago no longer fit.

  At all.

  I mean, I knew I had gained a little extra chunk on my trunk, but not enough to be bursting out of these threads as much as this. Maaaan. I always buy clothes that are too big for me, I like being comfortable and hidden. But all those cheese toasties must have had an expanding effect. I don’t mind being fatter, I think the softness suits me, but it’s not like I have enough money to get new, roomier stuff and I can hardly ask Imogene for more cash when she’s already given me so much.

  I stand in front of the full-length bathroom mirror examining the fourth item I’ve tried on – a French-style blue striped summer dress with buttons all the way down the front. They’re so tightly buttoned around the boobs that they’ve flattened and pushed up my breasts so much that my cleavage is almost touching my chin. I look like a provincial buxom wench. And this dress is not even the tightest of the clothes I’ve brought. The two pairs of shorts are just shy of full cameltoe, my swimming costume can now only be worn with an extreme wax job and the previously baggy vests roll up to expose my pale belly more than is necessarily decent.

  Replacing my glasses with contact lenses, I peek out of the bathroom window to catch a view of the gorgeous expanse of beach outside. I take in the people swimming and running and hanging out in such a carefree way. They’re all showing plenty of skin, in tiny dresses and butt-flossing bikinis. It seems no one has baggy clothes here. These clothes will be fine. They’re not perfect, but it’s not that anyone will really notice me anyway. My invisibility superpower will be in even greater effect in a place surrounded by such glamorous, beautiful people.

  Once I’ve brushed my hair and pulled it into two plaits at the sides of my head, I feed Winklepuff his plant-based, gluten-free kibble and make myself another cup of tea. All the while, I think hard about what my next move should be. I just need to get details of Gary’s location. I could creep on Tori’s Instagram and zoom in on the backgrounds of her pictures and try to figure out where she is. Then I could race there and hope she turns up again and then leads me towards Gary Montgomery.

  That’s a stupid idea.

  And then, like it is sent via Cupid himself, a really brilliant idea just darts into my head. All I need to do is phone Aileen Gould again. But this time, instead of pretending to be an old college friend, I need to pretend to be someone actually in the movie industry. Someone who is interested in Gary for a part. A big-budget part that any manager worth their salt would hate for him to miss out on.

  Hmmm. I’ll definitely have to do an American accent so I sound authentic. I practise in front of Winklepuff. ‘How you doin’? Get me a burger! He’s such a jock, right? Greg. Creg. You wanna piece of me? Like, totally, as if.’

  Winklepuff blinks at me and curls his lip slightly, which I take as a positive sign considering that most of the morning so far he’s been trying to a) mount my leg again and b) destroy my favourite comfy flip-flops.

  I take a deep breath and practise a few more American words and phrases. ‘Let’s go to the drive-in moooovie. Tomayto. Tomaaaaaaaayto. Why doncha take a look in the miiiirrrror. Mirrrrrrrorrr. Okay, I think I’m ready.’

  I pick up my phone and head out onto the porch, settling myself down onto the wooden bench, Winklepuff following me and perching at my feet, anticipating the ham I keep promising him. I dial the number once more. As it’s ringing, I mentally push myself into the body of someone much more aggressive and successful. Someone who doesn’t mumble and stutter. I close my eyes and channel Imogene, along with a touch of Gordon Ramsey if he was American.

  ‘Hello, Gould Management, how may I assist you today?’

  ‘Get me Aileen Gould, right a-fuckin-way,’ I spit out in my best, confident, get-shit-done, Hollywood player American accent.

  ‘Excuse me?’ comes the guy’s voice.

  ‘Aileen Gould?’ I try. ‘Listen up, why doncha?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Okaaaay. Who, may I ask, is speaking?

  Shit. I can’t give my real name again. Then, because I’ve been reading the new book and it’s the only option that pops into my head, I give the name of the author of the Harcourt Royals books instead of my own. ‘CJ West,’ I blurt. ‘My name is CJ West, okay?’

  Argh. What if this guy has heard of Harcourt Royals? No, no. It’s a very niche book. The chances of him having heard of it are very slim.

  ‘One moment.’

  A five-second silence.

  And then, ‘Aileen Gould speaking.’

  Yes!

  ‘How you doin’?’ I say, as if I don’t give a single shit how she is. ‘My name is CJ West and I’m interested in Gary Montgomery for a real big project.’

  ‘You and everyone else in Hollywood,’ Aileen snipes.

  God, this woman is mean. I need to impress her.

  ‘Yeah, I’m the assistant to Martin Scorsese,’ is what pops out. Shit. He’s the first director I could think of. Scorsese’s a pretty big play, but it’s too late to backtrack, so I march on. ‘Um�
�� yeah. He has asked me to personally reach out and organise a meeting so that ol’ Marty may discuss this p-project.’

  Aileen is quiet for a moment and then she sighs. ‘I know it’s you again.’

  ‘What? Who am I? I am Marty Scorsese’s assistant.’

  ‘Your American accent is terrible.’

  ‘What are you talkin’ abooout? As if! Forget about it!’ I am sinking. I am sinking so fast.

  ‘What’s your real name?’ Aileen says. ‘Andre didn’t write it down and I’d prefer to have it for the police, WHEN I CALL THEM ABOUT YOU.’

  ‘I’m CJ West!’ I say in panic. ‘I gotta big-budget movie to shoot! Hey!’

  The phone clanks down on the other end and I groan with frustration.

  ‘What am I going to do now?’ I ask Winklepuff sadly. ‘I thought my American accent was great. Indistinguishable!’

  ‘I guess it was, for a 1940’s New York gangster,’ comes a deep, bored-sounding voice from the front doorway.

  I look behind me to see a stocky man leaning against the door frame. His blonde hair is messy, his face is kind of drawn and his eyes are bloodshot. He’s watching me in a mixture of badly concealed amusement and aversion. This must be Brandon. He looks as grumpy as Kennedy implied he would.

  ‘I’m Brandon,’ he confirms. ‘I came in through the side door and heard you out here. What the hell was that crazy phone call about?’

  Oh god.

  ‘You… um, y-you heard the whole thing?’

  ‘Oh, I heard every word,’ he says, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips.

  Shit.

  Brandon strides over towards me and sits on the other end of the bench, his thick thighs taking up so much of the room that I have to scooch further down.

  I cough. ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I say in my most normal, not a psychopath voice. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you. Kennedy said you w-wouldn’t finish work until late.’