A Girl Called Summer

by Lucy Lord

  He felt nothing but contempt towards the lowlifes who treated her so ungallantly – and how many more of them would surface after this, eager to make a quick buck from her humiliation? His heart constricted at the thought. Now, it appeared, in addition to the aggravating mixture of lust, anger, frustration and protectiveness that he felt towards this near stranger, he had to add another emotion: compassion.

  Yet again, he had to force her out of his mind, and instead tried to focus on Ibiza, where he was currently flying, and his potential new eco retreat on the north-west coast. It would be great to see Bella and Andy again, too, and to meet their little girl, whom Poppy had described to him as ‘just the most deliciously cute bundle of adorableness you could possibly imagine’.

  Bella had invited him to dinner at their new home in a couple of days’ time, and he was thoroughly looking forward to it. He’d been working away from home for so long that a little bit of domestic bliss, however vicarious, was exactly what he needed.

  *

  Glass of red wine in hand, Bella walked out through the French windows and joined Andy and Daisy at the table he’d carried out from under the bougainvillea-covered balcony, so that they could eat under the stars. Dusk was slowly falling, the candles Andy had lit flickering gently in the fading light.

  ‘Everything under control?’ He smiled, looking up from his crossword.

  ‘Yup, for the moment at least.’ Bella smiled back, sitting down next to him. The steaks were marinating in red wine, garlic, rosemary and thyme, the potatoes wrapped in foil, ready for the oven, the big mixed salad prepared and waiting to be dressed. It wasn’t exactly fancy fare, but she knew that Lars, who was very much a red meat sort of guy, would love it.

  ‘Oh, I hope they like each other,’ she suddenly blurted out, unable to contain her excitement. Things already seemed to be looking up a tiny bit for Summer: that very morning, a couple of Britta’s yoga veterans had asked kindly after her – in marked contrast to the snotty attitude they’d previously displayed. It seemed that Jorge’s TV appearance was starting to do the trick, but Bella was doing her best not to talk to Andy about it, determined to keep the uneasy truce they’d formed.

  ‘You and your mad matchmaking.’ Andy gave her knee an affectionate pat. ‘They might hate each other on sight.’

  Bella laughed. ‘How could anyone possibly hate Summer on sight?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Summa!’ piped up Daisy from her high chair, her little face lighting up.

  ‘Yes, darling, Summer’s on her way,’ said Bella. ‘And my old friend Lars – that’s why we’re letting you stay up past your bedtime. I’m hoping they’re going to be very good friends. Wouldn’t that be nice, my angel?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daisy agreed solemnly.

  ‘See?’ Bella looked over at Andy, who laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘Do you really think Summer’s going to be interested in other men so soon after . . .?’

  ‘Not immediately, no. But you know, baby steps . . . They’ll become good friends first, and then – well, friendship is one of the best foundations for romance,’ said Bella with optimistic conviction. ‘I mean – look at us!’

  ‘Look at us indeed,’ smiled Andy. ‘Glad you’ve got it all worked out. Well, let’s hope you’re right – it would be great to see her happy again.’

  ‘Oooh, wouldn’t you just know it,’ said Bella triumphantly. ‘She’s looking happier already!’

  Andy followed her gaze to the bottom of the garden, where Summer and Lars were walking through the gates, chatting and smiling, apparently entirely at ease in one another’s company. They looked, somehow, right together, both exactly the same shade of Scandi-blonde, Summer’s height making Lars’s six foot seven seem less outlandish.

  ‘Well well well,’ said Andy. ‘You may be right after all.’

  *

  ‘So what do you think of Lars?’ asked Bella casually, as she reduced the strained marinade and whisked in some butter to make a simple sauce for the thick griddled steaks, which were now resting, perfectly rare, on the side.

  ‘Oh, he’s great,’ Summer smiled. ‘What a nice guy. And how funny that we’re probably distantly related.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Bella, not wanting particularly to dwell on this new development. It had transpired over drinks by the pool that Lars and Summer both had relatives in the same small fishing village on the east coast of Sweden. ‘And he really is such a nice guy!’

  ‘Sure,’ said Summer distractedly as she worked alongside her. ‘How’s this?’ she added, offering Bella a teaspoon to taste the vinaigrette she’d been whisking up.

  ‘Divine,’ said Bella, drinking the whole spoonful. ‘Sorry, I’m disgusting, but your culinary magic never ceases to amaze me. Anyway, back to Lars . . .’

  ‘Bella . . .’ Summer gave her a look. ‘You’re not trying to set me up with him, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, lovey, I just thought that you two would like each other – you know, as friends.’

  ‘We do. What’s not to like about Lars?’

  ‘Exactly. And what’s not to like about you?’

  Summer laughed. ‘Your transparency is cute, but it’s not going to work. I can’t think about another man when I’m still so stupidly hung up on that handsome movie-star bastard.’

  Almost to her surprise, it seemed, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Oh, Summer, sorry sorry sorry,’ said Bella, giving her a hug. ‘But don’t – I don’t know – dismiss him out of hand?’

  ‘No dismissing out of hand going on here,’ said Summer, holding up both her hands, then wiping away a stray tear. ‘Right, shall we get this food on the table?’

  *

  Inevitably, the conversation turned to Jorge’s TV appearance.

  ‘He’s been a useless shit for a lot of his life, but he’s helped me now.’ Summer took a huge gulp of her red wine, more drunk than was usually her wont.

  ‘How?’ asked Lars, who was also quite drunk on Andy and Bella’s hospitality and free-flowing wine. The cicadas chirruped more loudly, seeming to change key as one; the air smelled of mountain herbs.

  ‘Surely it’s obvious?’ said Bella. ‘If Jack and Tamara had an open relationship – as I know they didn’t, before you say anything, Andy, but she said they did – then Summer’s not the EVIL VIXEN that the stupid-cunt tabloids have made out.’

  ‘Lovely turn of phrase, darling,’ said Andy. ‘And I’m glad that things are getting better for you, Summer. But, I don’t know, it’s all so sordid. I’ve never liked the man – I’d say that “useless shit” is a perfectly apt description.’

  ‘Actually, I take it back,’ said Summer, feeling guilty. She had been genuinely touched by Jorge’s phone call from the Green Room. ‘I guess that was the wine talking! No, I think he just lost his way a bit over the years – it was sweet of him to help me the way he did.’

  ‘Selling your story is not gentlemanly behaviour,’ said Lars.

  ‘He didn’t sell it!’ Summer and Bella said simultaneously. There was a pause during which the cicadas changed key again.

  ‘But . . . you know . . . I can’t help feeling a little sorry for Tamara now,’ added Summer.

  ‘Seriously? The bitch who’s made your life hell?’ asked Bella.

  ‘Hey, I screwed her fiancé. I made my life hell. I’ve probably made her life hell.’ Summer finished the dregs of her wine and poured more into her glass. ‘And I know what it’s like to read shit about yourself in the Press, to know that people are talking about you, laughing about you . . .’

  She looked so bleak that Bella leaned across the table to squeeze her hand.

  ‘She didn’t do herself any favours, appearing on all those talk shows,’ Bella pointed out. ‘In a way, you almost have to admire her chutzpah. I’m guessing that Jorge wasn’t the only one.’

  Lars, who knew that Jorge wasn’t the only one, said nothing.

  ‘She must have been shit-scared that something
like this would come out,’ Bella continued.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s why I’m starting to feel sorry for her,’ said Summer.

  ‘What a sweet girl you are,’ smiled Andy.

  ‘Almost too sweet for your own good!’ Bella, who was as drunk as the rest of them, poured herself some more red wine. ‘Isn’t she, Lars? Isn’t Summer just sweetness personified?’

  ‘Bella . . .’ said Summer.

  ‘You really are incredibly unsubtle, darling,’ laughed Andy.

  ‘Yes, I think Summer is very sweet,’ said Lars.

  ‘And incredibly beautiful?’ Bella persisted.

  ‘Bella, stop it!’ Summer protested.

  ‘And incredibly beautiful, yes,’ Lars concurred, smiling at her. He said something in Swedish and they both started to giggle.

  ‘What?’ asked Bella. ‘What’s so bloody funny?’

  Summer responded to Lars in Swedish, then added, ‘Oh, Bella, Bella, I’m sorry, this is rude of us, but . . .’

  ‘. . . we both understand that you would like us to be together, and we both appreciate it,’ smiled Lars.

  ‘But it’s not going to happen,’ added Summer. ‘I like Lars very much indeed.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Lars. ‘But I’m afraid there is no chemistry whatsoever. You only have to take a look at us! If anything, Summer is like the sister I never had.’

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ said Bella, and they all burst out laughing.

  Chapter 22

  ‘Listen, Lily, life ain’t fair. Nothing is fair.’ It wasn’t difficult for Tamara to start crying, sobbing her heart out as she handed the little girl over to the sour-faced magistrate. ‘The sooner you learn that, the better.’

  Lily just wailed even louder, clinging to her like a limpet. Man, this child actress was good. And Tamara knew a thing or two about child actresses.

  ‘Now you gotta be strong.’ Briefly Tamara wrapped her arms tightly around the sobbing little body, planting a big kiss on top of her grubby little head. ‘It won’t be for ever, I promise you.’ She pulled away and looked Lily straight in the eye. ‘You hear that darlin? I promise ya. I’ll be back for you, and before you know it we’ll be one big happy family again.’

  And she turned abruptly on her heel as if she couldn’t bear to prolong the moment.

  ‘CUT!’ shouted Miles.

  Tamara carried on walking in the direction of her trailer, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Miles hurried after her.

  ‘That was fantastic, Tamara. My heart was breaking.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around to face him. ‘You OK, hon?’ His kind hazel eyes searched her tear-stained face.

  ‘Sure.’ Tamara forced a bright smile. ‘I’m fine. Just the pathos of the scene got to me, I guess.’

  ‘Hey. Let’s take this to your trailer.’ Miles turned to the rest of the crew and shouted, ‘Break for fifteen minutes, guys!’

  They were in the second week of shooting Dust Bowl, on location in Texas’s panhandle. An incredibly realistic set of poverty-stricken shanties had been built on miles of scrubby wasteland; the cast was word-perfect, all the crew assembled. And then the shit had hit the fan.

  Jorge’s interview on Spanish TV had turned him into an overnight celebrity, his dark good looks and innate charm proving surprisingly telegenic. The gullible public loved the fact that he hadn’t accepted any money for telling his story, that he ‘hated injustice’ and ‘only wanted to set the record straight’. He was also being papped a lot with the stunning TV presenter, Paloma, who had interviewed him. Reporters had been clamouring for Summer’s side of the story, too, but to give her her due, she had kept fully schtum, only ever managing a tight-lipped ‘No Comment’ to the hordes of paparazzi who had started to hound her anew.

  Jack’s fortunes seemed to be on the rise, the studios now falling over themselves to get him on board, his ’Nam project fully back on track. God, the movie industry was a fickle, shallow, horrible business.

  As for Tamara, she had become an international laughing stock. If only she hadn’t milked the Jack and Summer situation quite so relentlessly, she might have gotten off more lightly. Instead she was the butt of every joke, material for every second-rate comedian who thought they could impersonate her ‘wronged little girl’ act, segueing at the last moment into raving nympho. It was hideous.

  And once Jorge had spoken out, others had started to crawl out of the woodwork. First up was the Eurotrash stud she’d screwed in the toilets in St Tropez, next the student jock from Coachella. She wouldn’t be surprised if Ben bloody Jones decided to tell his ‘Tamara’s a slut’ story. Of course her fucking bloodsucking parents had jumped on the bandwagon, giving interview after interview about how her sex addiction was clearly linked to all her other addictions. There had even been speculation that she’d been screwing Filthy Meadows, for fuck’s sake, with so-called ‘journalists’ poring obsessively over footage of him serenading her with ‘Sexy Green-Eyed Woman’.

  The only good thing in her life at the moment was Miles Dawson, her director, who had stayed staunchly loyal from the minute the story first broke, saying that her personal life had nothing to do with him, or the movie. He had banned all newspapers from the set, which was as closely guarded as Fort Knox, so the constantly prowling paparazzi couldn’t get so much as a long-lens shot of any of the cast. But still Tamara could hear the other cast members sniggering behind her back. It was all she could do to get out of bed every morning, let alone give the performance of a lifetime.

  Safely inside Tamara’s trailer, Miles sat down on the edge of her flimsy camp-bed and said, seriously, ‘You know, this trial-by-media thing sucks, majorly, but you mustn’t let it get to you. They’ll find somebody else to write about before long, and as soon as this movie comes out, everything’ll be forgiven and forgotten. Just you wait and see.’

  ‘Thanks, Miles.’ Tamara took a tissue out of the box on her makeshift dressing table and blew her nose. ‘That’s sweet of you. But I brought it on myself. I tried to use the media to my advantage – I can hardly complain when the tables are turned.’

  ‘You’re being very strong, and I’m proud of you.’ Miles was far too professional to admit it, let alone act on it, but he’d developed a major crush on Tamara in the last couple of weeks. Oh, he knew her reputation all right, but with him she’d never been anything but sweet, hard-working and eager to please. Her longing to be taken seriously as an actress was incredibly endearing, as far as he was concerned. And even dressed in rags, with no discernible make-up and dirt smeared all over her face, she was still immensely, staggeringly beautiful.

  ‘You gotta ride this out, hon. Dust Bowl is gonna be the making of you.’ He planted a chaste kiss on the top of her head and made to leave the trailer. ‘Back in five? Just to give you time to get yourself together?’

  ‘Thanks, Miles.’ Tamara smiled gratefully at him again. ‘What would I do without you?’

  Once he’d gone, she checked her appearance in the mirror, wiped away the smudges under her eyes and fiddled with her hair a bit. Then she pulled the bottle of vodka out from where she’d hidden it under the camp-bed and took a hearty swig. She needed Dutch courage to get through the rest of the scene.

  *

  ‘I never thought I’d say this – Dad,’ Tamara spat at her co-star, the famously hell-raising ex-Shakespearean actor Peter O’Flanagan. ‘But I am ashamed to be your daughter.’

  Peter grabbed her by her narrow wrists.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me that way! I won’t have it! D’ya hear me? I won’t have it!’

  ‘I don’t see how you consider yourself in a position to tell me what to do,’ Tamara said quietly, extricating herself from his grasp. ‘Just look at you.’

  Peter looked down, but not before catching a glimpse of his dishevelled form reflected in the camera’s lens; the bare feet, the skinny shoulders, the makings of a beer gut pushing its way through the string vest. Yeah, he’d been method acting, but he was sick of playing su
ch a fucking loser. He was a vain peacock of a man in real life – all cravats and well-rehearsed one-liners. And Tamara, despite the grubby garb, still looked good enough to eat (or, more accurately, to fuck). With a roar of anger that was almost real, he pulled back his arm to hit her. Instead of the planned near-miss, he whacked her squarely on the shoulder.

  ‘CUT!’ shouted Miles.

  ‘Fuck you, Peter. That hurt,’ said Tamara crossly, rubbing the bruise that was already starting to form.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ Peter smirked. ‘We all have to suffer some war wounds in the name of our craft.’

  ‘Don’t be a dick, Peter,’ said Miles sharply.

  ‘Well, sorreee for trying to get a bit of authenticity on set,’ huffed Peter.

  ‘It’s possible to make the rushes look authentic, without them actually being authentic. We are in the business of make-believe, smoke and mirrors. Nobody needs to be hurt, do they? You’re actors, goddammit, not soldiers! Can we take it from the top again, this time acting pain, rather than inflicting it?’

  Miles winked at Tamara and she gave him a grateful smile.

  *

  Tamara was lying on her camp-bed, staring at the ceiling of her trailer. It was funny – she didn’t mind the lack of luxury one tiny bit. In fact, she was almost getting off on it, as she took another swig from the vodka bottle and slid her hand between her legs. Hmmm. She looked around for something else with which to arouse herself. Oh yeah – that ylang-ylang massage oil would do nicely. She poured some into the palm of her hand, and started to rub both hands over her breasts, down to her waist, then lower. Shutting her eyes, she tried to imagine that it was somebody else doing this to her, somebody with large, capable, masculine hands.

  She was starting to get into it when there was a rap on her trailer door. Assuming it was Miles (well, who else would want a chat in the middle of the night?), she hastily replaced the lids on the bottles of both vodka and oil, shoved them out of sight under the bed, wrapped herself in her favourite emerald-green silk robe and opened the door.