Her American Classic (Part 2)

by G J Morgan

  “I don’t think I’ve decided yet what to do. This is a unique situation. You do what you need to do, and so will I. That’s all I can say right now. But don’t worry, I won’t ring the police, I haven’t the energy for an interrogation this morning.”

  Tom smiled, thanked me again as he walked out of my garden and up the hill, towards a car I couldn’t see.

  7

  I felt better for a sleep, my body appreciated the mattress after a night upright on a couch. I didn’t even get undressed, threw my bags down, threw myself on the bed, second time I’d fallen asleep in my clothes, but I was past caring. Woke up a few hours later to a knock at the door, Dot with a pot of tea and a handful of questions on last night’s whereabouts. I lied of course, told her I’d stayed at a friend’s, so technically there was some truth in it, she seemed satisfied with my explanation. She was more preoccupied with the mess of her sheets and the state of my clothes.

  “Where does your friend live? In a bog?” she said complaining at the mud and grass, stripping the bed and then stripping me down to my T-shirt and pants, demanded I showered, said I smelt like a pond, before heading out the door with tuts and huffs.

  Vince rang just after, too, full of questions, though he was harder to satisfy, but I lied the best I could, blamed the storm. A part of me wanted to tell him, I just wanted to tell someone, but I was right to keep it quiet. The worst person to tell would’ve been Vince, he would have turned it nasty, swung it to his advantage, I’d become an inside man, an agent. It was better he didn’t know, I’d ring Mum instead, if I had to tell someone I’d rather it be someone who would be excitable for the right reasons and not for greed and wealth. Anyway, Vince asked to see whatever I had, said he’d be the judge on how good or bad the quality. I’d have to be diplomatic on what I’d send, think cleverly about what I’d give him, give him only enough so his sulk would last twenty-four hours.

  God knows what I’d do next. My cover was blown. One thing was for sure it couldn’t go back to what it was before, how could it? Me with my binoculars, Lilly waving back, she was right, I might as well knock on the door from now on. Still didn’t solve how Vince would make his money, eventually I would have to walk away, tell the truth or lie, either way my camera days were over.

  But still, I would go back to Lilly, that was my plan. Why, I didn’t know – in case Max came back? In case the paps turned up? I just didn’t think she should be on her own, wasn’t in the right emotional state to be left in a big old house in the middle of nowhere, just because she was smiling and looked fine, didn’t mean she was.

  Even if I didn’t have the balls to knock on her door, better I was there behind a bush or tree, just in case she tried something silly again. I wondered when Frank or Sally were back, maybe Vince knew, if he didn’t I was sure he could find out, till then I wouldn’t leave or quit till they were, till she had someone there to look after her, to take over, make sure she was OK. After that I would go, tell Vince I was done and go back home for good.

  In the meantime, she shouldn’t be alone for too long. I ran a shower, in and out, put my clothes on just as quick, grabbed my car keys. Without my camera, I already felt a million times lighter.

  8

  I was sure Tom would come, I’d expected his arrival I just didn’t know whether he would be behind a bush or on my doorstep. One thing was for sure, I didn’t want to be indoors, despite my attempt at cleaning the house, it still smelt of failed barbecue and I didn’t fancy staring at that stream any longer, puts you in a bad mood looking at the place you nearly topped yourself, staring at my noose only made me feel worse.

  So, when I heard that knock on the door, let him in, us both standing there not quite sure how to deal with the situation, Tom standing there looking all awkward, like he’d run over my cat, the first thing I did was throw him a handful of towels, ordered him to take me to wherever he hides his Jeep.

  “Sugarland Express, Original Family Band, Wildcats. Anything with Goldie Hawn in it. You?”

  “Shawshank, Rushmore, Pulp Fiction, Blue Velvet.”

  “I met Tarantino once. Toronto Film Festival.”

  Tom looked impressed. “No way. What was he like?”

  “Talks really fast. He is pretty cool though. What can you say? He’s Tarantino, he wouldn’t be anything else.”

  “What did you talk about? Movies?”

  “No, we talked about lunch boxes, actually.”

  “Please tell me you asked to be in his next movie.”

  “Hell, yes. Pretty much offered him a blow job in return.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No, but I pretty much got on my knees and begged him. Disgraceful behaviour, really.”

  “Did he agree? To the movie, not the blow job?”

  “Said he’d got some projects on the go. But as you may have noticed, I’ve not been in one of his movies yet, so I’m not holding my breath.”

  “That’s pretty cool you met him though. Must be weird meeting your idols. Can’t work out if that’s a good or a bad thing.”

  “Mostly good. I’ve met a few arseholes, but most famous people are arseholes.”

  “Ever been star-struck?”

  “All the time. Bumped into a Spice Girl at a basketball game, nearly wet myself. Met Melissa Joan Hart once, I think I actually did wet myself that time.”

  “I’ll pretend I know who that is.”

  “Don’t you have cable in England?”

  “Cable? I came from a house with four channels.”

  “Well, anyway, I completely freaked out, made her sign my T-shirt, I told her I loved her. It was pretty awful to watch, I think she was pretty freaked out, I may have grabbed her arm.”

  “Have you met Goldie Hawn yet?”

  “No. One day I will, though probably best I don’t, I might do something regretful. What about you? Who would you like to meet?”

  “Alive or dead?”

  “Alive.”

  “That’s hard.”

  “Dead then.”

  “Let me think.” Tom pondered the sky. “Cash, Richey Edwards, Pollock. Milius. David Attenborough. Wait I don’t think he’s dead.”

  “No women? Interesting.”

  “Women are pretty dull.”

  “Not all of us.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve always liked the crazy ones.”

  “They do make better dinner table companions. Is that your angle? The crazy one?”

  “Not intentionally. My agent wishes I was crazier, he’s already planning my autobiography. Says I need more peaks and troughs.”

  “You’ve done a pretty good job so far.”

  “I blame Hollywood. Always feels like someone else is winning. Better roles, more money, more billboards. Makes you do things out of character.”

  “Unless it is your character. Perhaps it just inflates it.”

  “You think I’m crazy, and Hollywood makes me crazier?”

  “If it makes you feel any better. It made me crazy too.”

  “Perhaps I should see life somewhere a little less explosive. You know what it’s like. You lived there, Tom. You’ve seen what it does to people.”

  “I loved Hollywood, actually. Hollywood treated me OK.”

  “Far from home, though. Don’t you miss your family?”

  Tom didn’t answer, he looked busy with his eyes out front.

  “What about you? You missing home? Missing your parents?”

  “They’re not those sorts of parents. My dad’s always working, Mom too. We’re close, but not too close.”

  “My Mum’s not well actually, seeing lots of doctors and specialists. I’m hoping to go back soon, try to convince her to take it more seriously, get her some decent care. We fell out, she doesn’t agree with my new profession.”

  “Not many do.”
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  “Doesn’t want to gain from any profit from it. Even if it means dying in an understaffed hospital to prove her point.”

  “I like your mom. She sounds ballsy.”

  “I still want to apologize, Lilly.”

  “What for, invasion of privacy? Trespassing? I could go on.”

  “Yes, those too. I wanna apologize for causing all this.”

  “All what? You didn’t cause this circus, Tom, that wheel has been turning way before you showed up.”

  “But I still want to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For London.”

  “That was you, was it? Peeking behind bushes in the middle of the night?”

  “Sorry.”

  “How much did you make from it? Enough to help your mom?”

  “If she lets me, that is.”

  “Then it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  “I want you to get mad.”

  “The only person I get mad with is myself. I was the one to blame. I shouldn’t have gone to see Max. I shouldn’t have let him walk me home. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I’m accountable, not you. It’s all fucked up. I’m fucked up.”

  “Everyone is fucked up a little, just yours is documented.”

  “And that’s what your role is in all this, is it, Tom? To document fuck-ups. My fuck-ups to be precise.”

  “Not just fuck-ups. Paparazzi document good things, too.”

  “Do they?”

  “I admit it is very rare.”

  “Success doesn’t sell newspapers. I wish it did.”

  “Well, I’m sorry either way. Fuck-up or success, I have no right to document either.”

  “Let’s just agree that neither me nor you have to apologize for anything either of us has done before. Only what we do from now on. Does that sound fair?”

  “Sounds fair to me.”

  “Hey, I recognize where we are now,” I said, pointing to an ocean full of waves, begging to be surfed.

  * * *

  “And you 100% wanna do this?”

  “Hell, yes. 100%.”

  “Feels risky,” Tom said, his eyes looking at every angle, checking for colleagues. “We’re definitely doing this?”

  “Looks that way. Any sign of your guy?”

  “Not yet,” I said checking the rear view.

  “You stay in the Jeep, I’ll do a quick sweep to make sure we don’t have any unexpected guests or followers. Try to look natural.”

  “OK, Spielberg.”

  Tom closed the door, as I buried myself in the hood of my jumper. I admit this had been a rash decision, like a lot I’d made lately. From garden, to Jeep, to beach without much thought process. I knew this was reckless, or it should have at least felt reckless, but it didn’t feel that way, it just felt better than being sad.

  I was thirsty. I searched for water, no luck, I checked the glovebox: a diary, a torch, a few photos, no water. I looked briefly at the photo, a woman and a little girl, his wife maybe, his daughter, his niece. I felt bad for snooping, closed the glovebox, returned to looking out of the window. Then there was a tap on the roof. It was Dave, all smiles and warmth. I wound down the window.

  “You better be amped, miss, we got great wind. You picked a good day.”

  “Looks beautiful.”

  “No Dick Dale today. Where’s big man?”

  “Who, Frank? He’s back in LA.”

  “Shame, would’ve liked to see him surf. No matter. Just you today then? I thought you said two over the phone.”

  “Two, yes. My friend is just walking back. He’ll be here in any minute.”

  “Do you wanna come and we’ll pick you out a suit? You shouldn’t need gloves and boots today seeing as the sun has shown up.”

  “Do you mind if I wait till my friend comes back first?”

  “Sure. I’ll be over by the van sorting my shit out.”

  “Is it just us out there today?”

  “Got a group of eight coming in a couple of hours. Few more may turn up on the off chance. Just you two so far, though. You sure you don’t want a lesson or do you two feel OK out there on your own?”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Looks like your friend is back,” he said, pointing, as we both looked over at Tom trekking back down the dunes, big smile on his face, two huge thumbs up.

  Five minutes later I was topless in a van, the smell of dog and damp wetsuits.

  * * *

  To his credit, Tom could surf, I was better of course, but not by much, we had enough skills to not embarrass one another. We’d surfed for a good while, till our arms hurt, pretty decent waves too, hardly riding giants, but enough to get the heart racing, but it didn’t last long. After a succession of decent waves, the current shifted, like it had turned over in bed. Suddenly what a moment before was break after break, was now perfect calm, the ocean still, no more white fizz and froth. Gave me and Tom a chance to catch our breath again, sit on our surfboards, take it all in.

  “I still can’t believe I’m surfing with Lilly Goodridge. I keep having moments when I’m all right with it, then I start to freak out.”

  “Please no freaking out. Don’t become one of those people that weird out on me.”

  “I’ll try not to. It is hard though. You are pretty famous, you know. This shit doesn’t happen every day.”

  “If you’d met me two years ago I’d just be plain old Lilly.”

  “You don’t like being famous, do you?”

  “And what is that based on? Our twelve-hour relationship?”

  “Remember, I have read a lot about you. You’re my specialist subject.”

  “I’m OK with fame. I know my place. They’ll get bored of me soon, probably already have. How many photos have you taken of me. Just you alone? I bet you’ve taken hundreds. And then multiply that by all the other paparazzi. Even I’m bored of me.”

  “Two.”

  “Two what?”

  “I’ve taken two photos of you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I’ve taken hundreds. I’ve only had two photos go to print though.”

  “You serious?”

  “Serious.”

  “You must be the worse paparazzi of all time.”

  “Completely agree.”

  I wiped my mouth with my arm, tried to get rid of the taste of salt. “You must’ve taken more surely?”

  “I have taken hundreds, yes, but nothing of any value, nothing TMZ would find interesting. Most of the time I don’t even bring my camera with me.”

  “You’re definitely the worse paparazzi of all time.”

  “I’m not paparazzi.”

  “You are the anomaly, aren’t you? What are you then? A stalker?”

  “Not intentionally but yes, stalker seems about right.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve had stalkers before. Just promise not to fondle me in my sleep. Well if you do, at least do it quick.”

  “I promise not to fondle you asleep or otherwise.”

  “Joking aside. I don’t really understand your purpose now, Tom. You are hardly setting the world on fire in this career of yours.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “What everyone wants. Money.”

  “And what would you do with this money?”

  “Start a new life.”

  “And how much would you need to do that? Ballpark figure?”

  “I don’t know. How do you put a figure on that?”

  “Easy.”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Well surely you agree your stalking days are over. I know where you hide out. I know who you are.”

  “My paparazzi career does seem to have become a little complicated.”
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br />   “I could pay you off.”

  “Pay off what?”

  “Give you enough money to leave me alone.”

  “I wouldn’t accept.”

  “It would suit both parties.”

  “Not both.”

  “You sound like your mom now.”

  “I suppose everyone has a point they don’t cross.”

  “I haven’t found mine yet.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Lilly.”

  “Good, means you get to keep me company a little longer.”

  “Spy to pet in one fell swoop.”

  “Shall we head back in? My eyes sting and if I don’t take the surfboard back over those dunes now I never will.”

  * * *

  “That’s an unusual tattoo,” I said, talking to his back as we carried our boards back to land. “I haven’t seen anything like that before.”

  “Chang Mai. Done with bamboo.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “It wasn’t actually. Carrying these boards is worse. You OK? Do want to stop again?”

  “I’m OK. Ask me again in a couple of minutes,” I said, out of breath. “Any other body art?”

  “The one on my chest I got in LA. I’ve got one on my foot, a tribal thing. I don’t like it to be honest.”

  “Where did you get it done?”

  “Auckland.”

  “Bamboo too?”

  “Chisel and mallet actually,” sensing the deliberate sarcasm

  “What’s the one on the arm? What does it say? I can’t see from here.”

  “Useless generation.”

  “Sounds very anarchic, Tom.”

  “I was sixteen in Skegness. I was rebelling.”

  “And what were you rebelling against?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to wear eye liner mostly.”

  “Didn’t realize you were so international.”

  “That’s me. Thailand to Skegness. Global jet-setter.”

  “Mine are far less exotic. Heart on the top of my leg, my friend did it. He was into body modification. It was a mistake to let him do it, but I was fifteen and impressionable. That’s pretty much it. Unless you count all the piercings in my ears.”