Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  There were some things she would have preferred to have done herself – such as her make-up. She had only ever been made up professionally once, and the woman had made her look like a clown. But this was the stylist (with a long, impressive CV of famous women she had styled, all so beautiful they didn’t need make-up). But she didn’t do eyebrows – please! Like asking the electrician if he could fix the toilet! For that, there was an – no, the – Eyebrow Lady, who had asked, in hushed tones, ‘Do you even pluck?’ The hair stylist (who, Claudia noticed, drove a Bentley) had shaken his bald head, lifted a lock of her hair and let it drop. ‘Who did this to you?’ he’d breathed, as if it were a war crime. The rest of the time they were deferential, but their horror that a person in her situation would ‘abuse herself’ was obviously too great to hide. There was a beautician, who had ripped just about every hair out of her body – nasal, knuckle, toe; there was a deep-tissue masseuse; an acupuncturist; a beauty therapist (the diamond-particle facial, the all-over body scrub); a tan guy; a manicurist (‘Am I dreaming or do you bite?’); a pedicurist (who had been visibly shocked on first sight of the flaking skin on her heels and had been forced to take a long sip of Fiji water to regain composure). They were supposed to have made her feel beautiful, but by the time they’d all finished with her, she felt like the ugliest girl alive.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Claudia again. ‘I hardly have to do anything myself. But tonight, the night before my wedding, a very exciting day, I’d like some quiet time – to read, and be by myself. Do you understand that, George?’

  The little boy looked at her. ‘I think so. Is it because once you get married to Ethan he’s not going to leave you alone?’

  ‘Ha!’ said Claudia. Oh, funny. Except – and she didn’t quite know why – not that funny.

  MARINA DEL REY, LOS ANGELES, LATE AFTERNOON THE FOLLOWING DAY

  Ethan

  Ethan stood in the Rose Garden of the Ritz-Carlton before three hundred major Hollywood stars – and God – and kissed the bride. He particularly liked that Claudia was a nobody.

  You had to be a fool to marry a supermodel. If you were that desperate you could hire one.

  And only the insane would marry an actress. He truly could not think of a worse torture. You would have to employ a second husband who could pick up your slack. One man alone couldn’t possibly cope with the necessary barrage of reassurances and compliments that would be demanded from dawn till dusk then all through the night on performance – scene by scene, moment by moment, line by line, word by word; on face – exquisite, camera totally besotted, young like a teenager, skin is the secret; on body – lithe, toned, perfect Pilates shape, but genes, can’t compete with what’s God-given; on interpretation – genius; on scene-stealing – poor creature didn’t have a hope next to you, like holding a candle to the sun; on coping with inferior talent of co-star – you were kind to her. Dismissal of fears – fat? What! Where? No, not a wrinkle, no, not a wobble; affirmation of talent – utterly convincing, breathtaking, Oscar-worthy; denigration of competition – ageing so badly, shoddy work, original nose better, no waist to speak of, cellulite plain as day, devoid of charisma, zero chemistry; slagging off of rival series – second rate, embarrassing, network on verge of dropping it … Ethan always thought of that Arquette guy and laughed his head off.

  Claudia didn’t frighten the fans. She was pretty, not beautiful; she wasn’t a threat. They couldn’t imagine that she was a great fuck.

  As it happened, she wasn’t bad. She liked it, but she hated herself for liking it, which made for a great screw.

  He couldn’t wait for the wedding night. She was in for a treat.

  She’d pissed him off, actually. She hadn’t quit about the children. Literally, hadn’t shut up, and he had realized that she wouldn’t stop whining until they were out of care. It was a real bummer.

  He’d wanted that pair of brats to rot in the system. He wanted them to suffer. It was poetry, how the mere thought of their unhappiness had a destructive effect on the entire family. They’d changed.

  But he was cool. He was flexible. You had to adjust. People were so annoying and selfish and stupid, they didn’t consider that someone else might want a different outcome. But no matter! It had all worked out brilliantly. His work securing their release had helped persuade Claudia that she was in love with him. That had been slightly harder than anticipated – picky cow.

  He had been the hero. It always amazed people when reality imitated art. The world was so simple, it adored symmetry. He had made sure that he’d led the legal campaign that brought George and Molly home to Auntie.

  There was always another way.

  In the last three months he had been like a father to the brats. It was perfect. When a stupid bitch like Claudia made things difficult, you simply had to think out of the box. And then he had realized that she had offered him a priceless opportunity. It was one thing, to have agony inflicted by a stranger. But in a way, later, as an adult, you could rationalize that: it wasn’t personal, it wasn’t to do with any flaw of yours, this could have happened to anyone.

  Now, thanks to Claudia’s pig-headed stubbornness and the fact that she hadn’t shut up about it for one goddamn ear-melting minute, the kids were hers – and because he was seducing Claudia, they had spent time with him, they’d bonded. They loved him. And, as he knew so well, it was far, far more powerful, the wound was so much deeper, if you were hurt by someone you loved.

  ‘We’re married, Ethan!’ she giggled in his ear. ‘We’re married!’

  She was so full of love – love for Emily, love for the kids, love for him. It annoyed the crap out of him. Funny, because it had annoyed him that this family had no respect for love. As the great Nicolas Cage had decreed in some rag (Mark read everything), ‘Don’t look down on love.’

  Ah well! Claudia just couldn’t win!

  Gravely, he bent and kissed her hand. If he had to kiss her on the lips even one more time he would shoot himself in the head. She reminded him of his mother. Not a great quality in a wife.

  Then he smiled, and their audience stood, cheered, clapped, showered them with rose petals. Little Molly clung to his trousers, alarmed by the noise, and he wanted to shake her off, boot her into space. Her thumb glistened with drool and her nose was running. Jesus, these kids, it was thirty degrees! There was always some leak from some fucking orifice.

  He breathed deeply and calmed his nerves by focusing on the glorious surroundings. The palm trees tall and solemn against the deep blue sky; the Grecian-style pagoda; the pink rose petals strewn at their feet, the hotel – a quiet poke in the eye for Jack. But this wasn’t a fucking PR stunt, the father of the bride could damn well shell out for a nice do at a proper hotel, not his crappy Past Times themed guesthouse.

  He felt uncomfortable about making eye contact with Jack. The moment that Jack realized who Ethan was – the most satisfying moment of Ethan’s life, that orgasmic, pinnacle of a moment – would be when Ethan declared his true identity, as he stabbed Jack in the heart with the wedding knife that had cut the cake. Cute, but not too cute – Ethan did not wish to go down in the history books as mawkish.

  But there was no denying he was getting sentimental. He’d picked that date for the wedding. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t a machine. He had feelings. He’d wanted to test Jack. Just to see if there was a spark of memory, if this was a date of any significance. It was pathetic really. Like an unloved housewife, not reminding her husband of their anniversary, then presenting him with a lavish gift: slyly trying to force the guilty man to acknowledge his love crime.

  But there had been nothing. Not a glimmer. Claudia had informed her father of the date on a video conference call from Ethan’s media room. Ethan had watched eagerly for his reaction. He’d waited for the eyes to flicker up to the left, a recollection, a memory. Zilch.

  Ethan had wanted to raise the stakes. It was simply no fun baiting an impassive victim, you wanted your prey to struggle and fight. There was no
fun in torturing someone who was brain dead. Since he’d taunted Jack, in the bathroom at Emily’s funeral, it had heightened the tension.

  Jack was suspicious, jumpy, but he wasn’t sorry. He had gone to the police; he’d heightened his security; he had spoken to the media. Time had run a story on it, detailing the curious catalogue of disasters that had befallen the Kent family, under the headline ‘Hunted or Cursed?’

  There was no way that Jack suspected him. This was good, but also infuriating. Ethan wanted contrition. He wanted remorse. But Jack was acting as though Jack was the victim!

  It killed Ethan that Jack was so untroubled by his crime that he’d forgotten it. He was so oblivious that it hadn’t occurred to him to look back into his past, his private past, and confront his old sins.

  The breathtaking truth: he didn’t think he’d committed any!

  He had no idea that Ethan was anything other than a regular guy. And yet, still, he wasn’t friendly. In fact, the last thing he’d said to Ethan before the wedding was, ‘You change voice a lot.’

  Fuck off! Ethan was an expat; he was the finest actor of his generation; he was the River Phoenix who lived. It was his prerogative to borrow, like a magpie, bits and snippets of language that appealed to him, from here, or there. He had no ancestors, no family, no identity, he was no one. The soul of him was patched together from imitating other people.

  He liked that he could talk and no one could place him.

  But maybe Jack was simply exhibiting the distrust that a father shows to any young man who is fucking his daughter and who is bold enough to force him to celebrate the outrage. Ethan couldn’t stand it. The crazy thing was, having waited over twenty-eight years, his patience had run out, less than a day before the deadline. So he’d said something. It wasn’t much. After the ceremony, Jack had wandered over with that sharp-nosed PA of his, and gruffly congratulated him. ‘Lovely weather for your special day,’ he’d said. Duh.

  Ethan had retorted, without too much venom, ‘Today has always been my special day, but it’s your special day too, Jack, remember?’

  Jack had replied, ‘Of course, a daughter’s wedding day is always special for a father.’

  He was just too obtuse to get it, and Ethan should stop knocking his head against a wall. He was the unloved housewife, pointlessly douching, wearing lace knickers on her fat arse, pinching the flab on her waist and kidding herself that she wasn’t repulsive. Ethan felt his face burn with humiliation. ‘Hey, guess what, punk,’ he wanted to spit. ’Twenty-eight years ago this day you quit on me as a father, slammed the door in my little angel face and sent me to hell. Well, now I’m back and you’re my father again. Hello, Dad. And this time, I am going to send you to hell!’

  Ethan turned away and focused his energy on schmoozing up to Innocence. He needed to be soothed. She was blinded by vanity, the fuss, the status, the outlandish attention that the world gave to a pair of adults signing a contract to love each other, and the great thrill of her family marrying into fame.

  It was disgusting, the way people worshipped celebrity. Half of the stars he knew were total losers. Clooney. God, he loathed Clooney. Clooney, and his fucking perfect career, his perfect choices, his still adoring ex-waitresses, his dazzling personality, his integrity, his palazzo on fucking Lake Como, the way he filled out a suit, his quick wit, his ‘old-star quality’ – yeah, old being the operative word – his universal popularity. Hate.

  ‘Claudia, you look stunning. Mazel tov. Though you threw yourself away on this Summers guy!’

  ‘Thank you, George! It was so sweet of you to make it. I’m so sorry about the motorbike accident. How’s your shoulder? ’

  ‘It’s a scratch. You worry about yourself, young lady.’

  Yeah, well. Clooney had never spoken a truer word. Twat.

  Ethan accepted a goblet of champagne and allowed himself to be swarmed over by well-wishers. These people: they’d step over him in the street if they only knew. These people, with their compassion for the poor, the unprivileged, the misunderstood: all that he had been and all that he was, they despised, and they didn’t even know it. They were afraid of what he was, inside – and that hurt. Even as he suffered their hot kisses, their clammy hugs, their bacteria-ridden fingers to stroke his face and their white-smiling mouths to shout joy in his ear, he felt rejected and loathed. He looked around for his Mark, the only person in the world with real empathy. Mark understood him. Mark had been delightfully corruptible. Ethan was the love of Mark’s life and Mark would do anything, forgive anything.

  He’d miss Mark.

  He needed to go inside. The whirring of the paparazzi helicopters overhead was getting right inside his skull, making his ears itch. To make the day easy on himself, he was simply playing a part in a romcom. He loved romcoms – not to act in, but to watch. Even so, it was hard going. He wanted night to fall.

  He posed for pictures. They had agreed to release one shot to the media in return for privacy. Of course (he glanced skyward), they’d broken their half of the deal and it was lucky for their editors that Ethan was a focused professional. Claudia – she did insist on keeping that ridiculous box of a condo on Woodrow Wilson – had been surprised by a pap that very morning as she collected the paper at the bottom of her drive. ‘Why are you running?’ he’d taunted as she’d scurried back up to the house. ‘Are you scared?’

  Ethan didn’t care that they were disrespectful of her, but he cared that they were disrespectful of his property. A lesser man would have been hiring hitmen to pick them off at the intersection. Ethan didn’t work like that. He was like a sportsman. Nothing could distract him from his goal.

  He slung an arm round Jack, just to see how it felt. It took all his willpower to keep his hand on the man’s back. His instinct was to rip it away, screaming, as if he’d touched the surface of the sun. Jack had stiffened and Ethan realized that seeking physical contact had been a mistake. Humans were animals, although base, stupid, inferior, and they retained a tiny residue of instinct that alerted them to danger. Would Jack recognize this?

  Happily, Molly distracted him. There were a lot of distractions at weddings. His speech would smooth his way until tonight. Also, he had gifts for the family. Mark had sourced an 18-carat white-gold bracelet with 1,604 diamonds from H. Stern in New York, over half a million bucks of wedding present for Ethan’s dear wife. She would, he thought fondly, wear it to her grave. For his mother-in-law, Mark had ordered a silver metal open-backed dress from Versace. It was brash, short, quite revolting – she’d love it. Also, Jack would be needled as there was something not quite kosher about this present – men never stopped being possessive about women they’d slept with and this was a few steps away from presenting the mother of the bride with a vibrator.

  Innocence was looking hot.

  Mark had a fashion radar. He’d just look a person up and down, and a laser print of who they were wearing and how much would whirr out his ass. Her shades were identified as Mask, $1,000, by Oliver Goldsmith Couture, available by special order at City of Angels. The only trouble with stealing style tips from acquaintances was that afterwards you couldn’t allow them to live long. Ethan would not wear an identical item to another person, it screwed with his sense of self. No one appreciated that sense of self was an issue for adopted people.

  His speech was a masterpiece.

  ‘I’ve always known what is important: love, and family. Some people believe that good parenting is essential for a person to be a good husband. I disagree. As you may know, for the first twelve years of my life, I was raised by my grandmother’ – Mark had conceived of this fairy tale; it was genius as there was no one alive to corroborate it and, try as they might before the lawsuits were slapped down, those grubbing hacks just couldn’t disprove any of it – ‘as my own mother, who was young when she had me, couldn’t cope. For a few precious years, I enjoyed a loving relationship with my mother before, God rest her soul, she passed away. But I will always regret what I missed – and what she m
issed – and I think that when you miss something, you cherish it more. No one values love and family more than I, and I intend to love and cherish Claudia for the rest of her life.’

  Claudia smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back, then glanced at his watch. That meant a full eight hours of love and cherishing – or longer. Up to her really. He got wolf whistles and a standing ovation.

  The one advantage to being the groom was that the adoration reached fever pitch. Though all these people were right there staring at him – it reminded him of that stint on Broadway. He wasn’t wild about theatre. Fuck the craft. He preferred remote worship, for his face to be on a screen, adored by millions, while he was elsewhere, alone, unobserved.

  But there were worse things. And his honeyed words had pacified Jack. He’d pursed his lips, nodded, lit a cigar. Vile.

  The bride also received a lot of attention, but it was inevitable in that snowstorm-in-hell of a dress. Innocence was also resplendent in white, which struck him as inappropriate. She really was one selfish bitch. Hadn’t it occurred to her that this was Claudia’s day to shine? That said, Claudia had lowered the tone by inviting a bunch of her no-mark friends from Britain.