Her American Classic (Part 2)

by G J Morgan

  Typically, despite wearing lingerie, it was still complicated to dress me, layers after layers, the sheer effort it must’ve taken to get a girl naked back in those days, finally getting his wicked way with her would’ve been a fair reward. Good luck to Rogan when they yelled “Action” and he had to work out how to get me out of the thing.

  I looked over, Rogan had his arm around Jon, whatever they were talking about looked fucking hilarious. Rogan had that way about him, making everyone laugh, life just one big joke, probably why I could never take him seriously. I was sure every teenager on the planet would be jealous of me right now, abut to manhandled by such a specimen, but honestly the thought of him kissing me and touching me made me want to barf.

  I would’ve preferred a larger crowd, too, the more people the less it insinuated something sexual was occurring. Jon disagreed of course, felt an intimate scene required an intimate audience. No girls too, just me and four men, though I didn’t think the lack of females was preplanned, just an unfortunate coincidence. This was in fact my second love scene in my short career, my first feature Max had me half naked, doing all manner of filthy positions and making all sorts of grunts and wails. In the final cut it looked pretty harmless, a clever edit meant all the world saw was a few shadows and a glimpse of a nipple. But live, it was pretty intense, take after take, Max never said so but I think he liked watching it, and liked even more being able to live out the twisted fantasies in his twisted little head. I should have never got with that man.

  My cell buzzed. It was Tom, telling me he missed me which was cute but completely unnecessary seeing we’d only left each other the night before, made me laugh though. Last night I was sharing a bed with Tom and now I was about to share one with Mr Chris Rogan. From one love scene to another, hey, always the hussy.

  “When you flying home, Goodridge?” Rogan took a seat next to me.

  “Soon. I think this weekend.”

  “Me too.” He took a huge bite out of his apple. “Probably be on the same plane. I wanted a private jet but what can you do? Gotta fly coach instead which sucks dick.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine in first class.”

  “Fuck first class. I should have my own plane. Air Force One, baby, all the way.”

  I bit my tongue, changed the subject. “You nervous about our scene coming up?”

  He grinned. “Do I look nervous?”

  “No not at all,” I replied, wondering why I asked such a stupid question in the first place.

  “Jon just gave me the rundown on how he wants me to have my wicked way with you.”

  “And what did he say? Just so I can brace myself.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry.” He took another bite of apple. “You just lie there and enjoy the ride.”

  “How’s life as a superhero, Rogan? Must be hard to keep so grounded. How do you do it?” He could sense my sarcasm, he was dim, but not that dim.

  “Hey, man. If you’re happy doing shitty little movies like this for the rest of your life you go right ahead. I know where I’m going, sweetheart. Fucking global man. I’m gonna be on T-shirts, toy stores, lunch boxes. Live fast or last baby.”

  “Till another six-pack comes along.”

  “Can I give you some advice, Goodridge?”

  “No.”

  “You need to drop the Winona Ryder act. Nobody likes a girl that doesn’t smile.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You’re not even that hot any more, you’re not that young and you’re not that talented. The only things you’re good for is fucking around or fucking up. If I was you I’d get the money anyway you can, darling, cos your movie career is on the way down, man, like straight to DVD.”

  “Fuck off, astro boy.”

  “What about Playboy? Whilst your tits are still facing upward. Some reality series like Survivor or Dancing with the Stars?”

  “You’re an arsehole.”

  “When I put on the costume, my cape, every girl in Hollywood is gonna wanna a taste of me. You included.”

  “Not me.”

  “I like a challenge.”

  “I suppose walking and talking at the same time must be quite a challenge for someone like you.”

  “See you in ten, Goodridge. Pucker up,” he said, licking his lips suggestively, smiling; despite his perfect teeth he always had an ugly smile. He disappeared into a crowd of suits, a scoundrel amongst gentlemen, as I tried to work out how the hell I’d be able to get through the next few pages of script without ripping his dick off mid-scene.

  Rogan later apologized actually, which I totally wasn’t expecting, said he was having a bad morning, that he was an arsehole. I agreed, accepted his apology, asked him if he meant any of it, he said only some, with his smile and dimples, he had a face easy to forgive and guaranteed I wasn’t the first girl to soften on his command. Weirdly, spending the rest of the day on set was actually quite enjoyable and him putting his hands through my hair and kissing my neck was something I wouldn’t mind doing again. Still didn’t mean I particularly liked the guy, but girls are girls and being given attention by someone as handsome as him, it was hard not to go all dumb and ditzy, not that I’d tell Rogan, or Tom for that matter, it would inflate one ego and deflate the other.

  * * *

  I’d got back off set about an hour ago, I already felt shattered, pretending to have sex was even more hard work than having sex. Wasn’t even like I could rest, I still had to make the farmhouse look presentable, get rid of anything that resembled a fun time. Finished, I was now in the games room, jumper pulled over my knees, mug of fennel tea, looking out over the driveway for a certain car to park in front. Waiting like it would make it sooner, though sooner implied I was excited. I may have been, but I was other things too, mostly I was fucking terrified.

  I’d never really used the games room in the way it was intended, always found it cold and bare. It wasn’t a room with me in mind, a foosball table and a few battered board games were wasted on a girl with weak wrists and an empty brain. I liked the armchair I was sat on though, its leather cracked and soft through age rather than design, it was easy to sink into.

  I’d never noticed the pictures before, I stood up and walked over to each wall. Whoever owns or owned the house looked like they’d had a great life here. In fact, not just here, everywhere, they’d done so much, seen the wonders of the world. Smiles on boats, smiles in vineyards, deserts, smiles on temples. And it was a recent happiness, the photos were black and white, but it didn’t look nostalgic, like they could have been here last year or last week. I would like to meet this family, they looked fun, looked like they had stories. Sometimes I wondered where they were now, whether they were down the road or on some other continent, sipping drinks I’d never tasted and food I’d never dare try. I should get out and about more, get out of my comfort zone, get out of chic hotels and off sun loungers, start exploring more than cocktail menus. Places I would never have dreamed of going, places a little more dangerous. Africa, Japan, South America, places where Tom and I could disappear, where even paparazzi wouldn’t dare follow. I was jealous of the family on the wall, jealous of what they owned. This house wasn’t mine, sometimes I had to tell myself that, my bed, my Aga, my garden, they weren’t mine at all. It was all borrowed, as was the little idealistic life I’d made for myself here, it would all have to be given back. In a week I’d migrate back West, back to an empty condo and a life too busy to really enjoy.

  My cell buzzed. Tom, asking me again if I was sure I didn’t want him there for moral support, to which I replied I didn’t. Another message, telling me my hair looked nice, I told him that he should go. Another message, telling me to keep clear of the window, telling me he’d do one more sweep of the house before the heavens opened. “Be safe,” I told him, and I meant it.

  I kept forgetting there was more than one out there, that I was being watched by more tha
n just Tom. Despite my advice, Tom was still adamant to locate his rival and hell-bent on catching them in the act. I was past caring, whoever it was lurking around in bushes wasn’t causing harm, whatever secrets they had, they were keeping them close to their chest, whatever they were up to, they were doing it quietly with no impact on me or my career, at least not yet, ‘yet’ being the word that worried Tom the most. He’s been on the phone to Vince a lot, so he told me, trying to get to the bottom of any scandal that might be coming my way, but according to Tom there has been little or no coverage of me at all across the pond. The world has finally lost interest, at least for the time being, even Vince, who apparently was 100% not coming to check up on us after all. I’d never met the man but the fact he’d found something more money-making than me was a huge relief to both me and Tom, meant we could breathe easy till I finally had to fly home. I should count myself lucky, my time in England could have been a lot worse, the threat of paparazzi was worse than the reality, maybe I’d overestimated them, thought them finding my farmhouse was a sure thing, though a lot can happen in a week.

  I wished we were back at yesterday morning though, mine and Tom’s little white island, down the steps to our little mermaid cove where we had our breakfast. Afterwards we walked to the top of the cliff, the roofless ruins of a chapel, a hundred seabirds, a thousand miles high. It was the perfect place to tell each other how we truly felt, but I didn’t and neither did he. Mostly we just talked about what happens next, with neither knowing really how to answer.

  One thing for sure, if I was going back to LA then things would have to change. My time with Tom had made me realize how much of my talent I was wasting and taking for granted. I knew I was fucking up, I wasn’t making movies I was proud of, I needed to change that, make more of a stand. Needed to stop talking about quitting and start taking control of my shit. When I got home, things were going to be very different, a shift in focus, projects for me not anyone else, credible films made by credible people, ones that got people talking, ones that slow-burned before they set fire, movies people either loved or hated, movies that bombed or triumphed and did both spectacularly without apology or explanation.

  Most probably it would ruffle a few feathers back home but Tom had that effect on me, made me feel determined and certain of myself, made me grounded. Whether everyone would agree with the new radical version of myself, I didn’t know, but people would have to get on board, top to bottom, publicists, agents, those closest to me, Sally and Frank included. Sally being the one I was most reluctant to tell.

  Tom said a strange thing yesterday as we drove back from Burgh Island, we were talking about Frank, how I met him, what he was like, talked about Sally and out of the blue he asked me if I trusted her. I said yes of course, and he changed the subject, but I could tell there was a reason why he asked. And even though he didn’t say it, I guessed by the sheer fact he asked, he wasn’t sure if he trusted her himself.

  I thought I heard a car, got out of the seat to see if it was them. It wasn’t, I sank back into my chair, tried to maintain my resolve whilst I still had it built up in my system, hoping it wouldn’t wear off by the time they arrived.

  * * *

  “Come here, girl.” Frank grabbed me, lifted me up off my feet. “Let me take a look at you.” He checked me up and down. “Not a scratch or nick. Just as I left you.”

  “You been working out, Frank?” I said, feeling his arm. “You look like a grenade.”

  “No, just lugging Sally’s luggage around. Let’s just say we were way over weight allocation. Cost us a small fortune.” He stood back again. “I’ve missed you. Can we just forget everything that happened before? Fresh slate. When you’re my age it doesn’t serve you too well to hold a grudge.”

  “Sounds good to me. I was an idiot. It all got blown out of proportion.”

  “Can’t we do all the peacemaking inside where it’s less monsoon?” Sally appeared from around the back of the car. Shades and her cell phone, her heels dashing across gravel with her handbag over her head.

  I followed her back to the doorway, as Frank quickly sorted out the suitcases.

  “You looked tanned, Miss Sally.”

  “Don’t know how, I’ve been stuck in an office for the last two weeks. I’ve got a fat chance of getting tanned here, have I? Never feels right stepping off a plane to grey skies. Especially when I’ve just left blue ones behind. Hardly a welcome home, is it?”

  “Sorry no banners. I’ll look after you, don’t worry,” giving her a big hug. “Take it easy tonight, get you both over your jet lag. Run you a nice bath. Turn that frown upside down.”

  “Better be a hot bath. This is no sort of temperature,” she said, disappearing down towards the kitchen.

  “Mad dogs and Englishmen, hey?” Frank ran inside, shaking the wet from his head and luggage, as I closed the door behind them. Thinking about one Englishmen in particular mad enough to still be out there in the rain and cold. Wondering how it was so easy for me and Frank to slip back into familiar comfort, whilst it always felt like me and Sally had fallen out or were about to. Like I always needed to brace myself for defence or attack.

  21

  Last night was fucked up. I’m not quite sure where to start. Still trying to make sense of it, how so much could change in twenty-four hours, how two islands could turn me into such opposite extremes. To think just the night before me and Lilly were sat dining by candle light, the sound of double bass. Though barely a mile off shore the distance between ocean and land was enough to make us feel untouchable. We were both fools for thinking once back on the mainland that anything would’ve changed. It all started on the drive home, once Frank and Sally had finally arrived, looked like they weren’t going anywhere for quite a while, so I decided to call it a day, hit the road. When about halfway home out of the corner of my eye I noticed something familiar on the other side of the road. I had to do a double take when I first saw the licence plate, pulled the car over quickly, checked the scribbled note in my jacket pocket. I quickly found a decent spot to park, somewhere I could sit and watch, close enough to not be noticed, near enough to chase. Then it was just a case of waiting.

  It was already late, which didn’t help. I’d just been sat outside Lilly’s house for the last few hours watching nothing move, the last thing I wanted was watching something else that didn’t move. But that was what I did, sat and stared at a parked car, the sun going down behind it, the clock above my steering wheel going from seven to nine, hours longer than they should have been and the longer the time dragged, the darker the night, the more I wanted to catch the guy red-handed. Staying alert felt hard work, this wasn’t like the movies, coffee and doughnuts, someone to talk to as you staked out, talk football, talk about our wives, our sex lives. Surveillance when done alone required patience, when I had none, concentrating with heavy eyes, the fact I hadn’t eaten since lunch. I could feel my fists clench, I could smell blood, I could already imagine the reward of finding him, Lilly’s face when I told her, the hero I’d become.

  What happened next was embarrassing, launched myself across the street, pinned the guy up against his bonnet, screamed in his face, swore and spat, demanded answers. The guy looked pretty shaken up, I didn’t notice his wife and kids behind him, they looked pretty scared too, made his two little girls cry, they couldn’t have been much older than Molly.

  Turned out the car was a rental, he’d only picked up the keys the day before, only just arrived in Devon on the train, showed me railcards and paperwork to prove both. I apologized of course, over and over, to him and his family, gave him my phone number, told him to bill me for his cracked glasses, wished them a nice holiday, drove home and drank a couple of bottles of beer, lay in bed trying to work out what had just happened, what it all meant.

  Next morning, bright and early, I was the only person stood outside the car rental shop, the manager looking quite surprised as he opened the gate and
switched off the alarm, made a joke about first customers getting a free machine coffee. Of course, he told me nothing, asked him questions that I knew he would not be at liberty to answer, watched as his face changed from smiles to stern once he realized I wasn’t interested in his fleet of cars on the forecourt. Whoever the car’s previous driver, the store manager wasn’t going to tell me, he was pretty damn clear on that as he ordered me out of his office.

  I told nothing of this to Lilly, as far as she was concerned there was nothing to worry about, so I shouldn’t worry either; after all, what had any of this proved? In fact it may have just proved that whoever used to be here, wasn’t anymore. Or it just proved that whoever was here was still here, the only difference was, they knew I was looking for them.

  22

  The next morning Frank had resumed his familiar position back at the stove, eggs in a skillet pan, coffee in a cafetière, just like he’d never left. It was a morning that felt too early for all of us. Last night was fun, more fun than I’d expected, started off calm, they both had long baths, ate the pie I’d cooked them, talked about our times away from each other. Frank by his own account had done very little, which I could tell by his face was his idea of pure bliss. Sally was all work talk, she filled us all in on my career, where it was going, the direction it was heading. I agreed, any bold plans I’d dreamt up before their arrival had been replaced with nods and smiles. I didn’t have the energy for a battle, not on their first night back. I was happy just to accept whatever direction I was being pointed in, as along there would be no raised voices, better I chose my moment wisely, once things were settled. We ended up getting through quite a few bottles, jet lag meant Frank and Sally were far from tired, I had to excuse myself around midnight, left them with the last of the Merlot and the number of a taxi firm. I think they left around one.

  “When are we gonna talk about the sports car sitting in the driveway? The one under the sheet.” Frank chewed his toast.