The Truth about Ruby Valentine

by Alison Bond

  She thought of all the friends back home whose weddings she’d scorned and wondered briefly if all brides felt this way – secure, radiant and above all loved. She had surmised that probably they did and belated good wishes went out from her heart to theirs. Maybe it was easy to be content. All you had to do was take up every offer even if it wasn’t your first choice.

  When they flew home first-class, she realized her life was being upgraded, not just her seat. Within a few hours of arriving back in LA she’d left her little apartment and moved straight into Andrew’s formidable pile in the hills.

  There were photographers at the airport and they had followed her around all day long. ‘Ignore them,’ Andrew said. ‘One smile, hello, that’s it. If you indulge them they’ll get too close.’

  So she’d smiled once, and then pulled on a pair of dark glasses and tried to pretend that the photographers weren’t there. It was hard. At first their presence felt like validation of her rising star. She imagined the pictures of the happy couple making it all the way to Rome. After a few hours the novelty wore off and eventually she found the photographers irritating.

  The newly-weds stayed in for a cosy dinner that first night, ignoring the raft of invitations that were awaiting them from people curious to meet the woman who had persuaded Andrew to remarry so quickly. When they met her they understood. She was sophisticated enough for any room, but simple enough to please. The public warmed instantly to the beautiful new face. For three weeks the press trailed her through a social whirl of dinner dates and dancing, meeting everyone that was already in her new husband’s life. For three weeks Andrew Steele’s bride was a source of fascination.

  Then a Beatle arrived in town with his new American wife and Ruby found herself forgotten.

  Dante was never too far from Ruby’s mind but in those early days it was good fun being married to Andrew. They shared a beautiful house with all the trimmings one might expect: a swimming pool, a tennis court, a live-in staff of three. Ruby threw herself into her new position with zeal, casting out all her old clothes and spending long afternoons on Rodeo Drive shopping to replace them. She was Hollywood royalty now, invited to every event in town, and should dress the part. Out went the Biba mini-skirts and dark kohl eyes; in came Pucci, diamonds and false eyelashes.

  By the time she caught up with Max, Ruby had formed an extremely high opinion of herself. She had never been particularly modest but Max could see her confidence was riding sky-high. High enough to be offputting.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, and kissed both her cheeks.

  ‘Isn’t it fabulous? I knew you’d be pleased.’

  Max wasn’t pleased exactly. Apprehensive would be a better word. ‘Do you love him?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m crazy about him.’

  It wasn’t the same thing as love but Max let it slide. He was convinced that Ruby hadn’t thought this through.

  ‘You’ve labelled yourself, you know that?’

  ‘I don’t like labels,’ Ruby said automatically, and then regretted it because she knew that wasn’t her voice, it was Dante’s. If a label came with a house in the hills and the promise of a glittering career then she’d display it proudly. She didn’t see that there was any problem with that. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re Mrs Andrew Steele now.’

  ‘I know, and everyone’s talking about me. Isn’t it fabulous?’

  ‘No, they’re not. They’re talking about Andrew, you’re the new addition.’

  ‘Who cares? I’m in all the photographs.’

  ‘But not the headlines. I have to tell you, Ruby, if you thought this was going to lead to a whole lot of offers for you then you’re wrong. We had a plan. I wish you’d asked me before being so impulsive.’

  ‘Asked you what? For your blessing?’ She bristled. She had hoped that one of the benefits of being a married woman was that she would no longer be treated like a little girl. ‘I don’t have to ask your permission.’

  ‘No, but you could have asked my advice. Date him, sure, why not? But why did you have to get married?’

  ‘Because he asked me. He’s a huge star, Max. I thought you’d be pleased. Don’t you want me to be famous?’

  Max could sense her increasing irritation. He pulled back. ‘Listen, you’re happy, I’m happy. Let’s open some champagne.’

  ‘Do you think I should change my name?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. Privately he didn’t think the marriage would last, but that’s not the sort of thing you say to your client.

  Much to her annoyance, as the months went by Ruby began to see what Max was getting at. She was auditioning for plenty of parts but nothing was happening for her. She was Mrs Andrew Steele and so people were nice to her, nicer than they had ever been before, but she sensed that they were indulging the wife of a movie star rather than auditioning a serious contender. They respected her position but not her talent.

  Andrew was locked away editing Viva Romance, arriving home late at the end of long days, and Ruby filled her time with shopping and snacking, learning lines for parts she wouldn’t get and trying to stay awake until her new husband came home. She got into the habit of having a cocktail by the pool at six, and then brought it forward to five, alleging a better quality of light. By the time Andrew pulled into the driveway she was usually a bit unsteady on her feet and needed a pill to sharpen up for a few hours.

  Andrew promised her that when the film was finally finished to his satisfaction they would go away for a proper honeymoon. He would leave her notes around the house saying things like ‘Jamaica?’ and would whisper in her ear as they fell asleep of the fantastic journeys they would take together. For months she waited.

  Until one day Ruby woke up to find that she had become the quiet little housewife she had never wanted to be.

  Ruby’s husband did not notice her growing unhappiness. As far as Andrew was concerned he had married the prettiest girl in town before she was spoilt by the town itself. She was young enough and new enough not to have picked up any of her own habits and so should be amenable to all of his. Andrew was old school. Husbands and wives led one life – his. He didn’t stop to analyse why his first wife had left him and realize that women these days needed more than his own servile mother did. Oblivious, he continued to think that Ruby had done well for herself and was content. She was Mrs Andrew Steele; of course she was happy.

  Ruby called Max in for crisis talks. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s interested in me.’

  ‘Interested? Sure they are. But wanting to give you a decent part? Not so much. There is one bit of good news.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The studio want to pencil you and Andrew in for another comedy. Next spring sometime.’

  ‘Not until then?’

  ‘Hey, you’re lucky. Nobody’s seen Viva Romance yet but this proves they must be confident.’

  ‘In Andrew,’ she said. ‘Not in me.’

  ‘Keep busy,’ he said. ‘Are you still going to class?’

  ‘Acting class? Well, no, I’m not. I mean, I’ve been in a movie and everything, on television. That class is for amateurs.’

  ‘No,’ said Max. ‘It’s for actors. You think you’re finished learning? We’re never finished, Ruby. We’re always a work in progress.’

  ‘Until we die.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you think I made a mistake?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as you love him, then no.’

  She hesitated a fraction too long. ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then you probably shouldn’t have married him.’

  She tried to build a life for herself. Private acting classes twice a week, an afternoon in the beauty parlour, the occasional lunch with the wife of a friend of Andrew’s, or with Max. She couldn’t think of where to start looking for her own friends.

  ‘Shall we have a party?’ she asked Andrew one night.

  ‘Great idea. Too busy right now, obviously, but when the
film’s finished, sure, why not?’

  Ruby remembered all those parties in London that started out of nothing. Nobody had to check their diaries and book a caterer weeks in advance, they’d just end up at someone’s house and stay all night, sometimes all weekend. It had been so easy to make friends. Was it the same back there now as it had been then? She thought of Dante Valentine every day without fail. She would give anything for one night where she might feel the kind of happiness she had felt back then.

  Andrew started to irritate her. She went from wishing they could spend more time together to being glad when she didn’t have to see him at all. Now he’d directed a big budget picture he was anxious for more. He became a sycophantic embarrassment on the rare occasions they were out with studio big shots. He started choosing her outfits for her on nights like these, sending an assistant out to shop for cocktail dresses, each one lower cut than the one before. He was happy.

  Then the studio executives saw a rough cut of Viva Romance and his mood took a downward turn.

  Andrew had done his best, it wasn’t a mess as such, but it was tired. So the guy got his girl at the end – who cares? There were more important things going on in the world and this shiny, happy playground of beautiful people didn’t have any relevance.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to be relevant,’ Andrew protested. ‘I was trying to entertain. Jeez, can’t a guy just be funny any more?’

  But you were never funny.

  Marrying Andrew on the beach at sunset had felt like a fairytale, and the perfect way to prove that she was over Dante. Back home the fairytale ended.

  The more she got to know him, the more Ruby grew to realize that Andrew was a man motivated by greed. He had to have the biggest house, the fastest car and, she finally understood, the prettiest wife. It was sometimes flattering to think that he had picked her out for this role. She tried to be a good wife. But she was lonelier than ever.

  Some time into their marriage she began to think that maybe if they started afresh, in a new house, she would be happier. If she could have a hand in shaping their life together instead of slotting painlessly into his, she would feel more fulfilled. Already her irritation was developing into resentment but she didn’t want to leave Andrew, not yet. Their marriage hadn’t lasted long enough to mean anything – either in the eyes of the law or in Hollywood – and she would be left without alimony and out of work, divorced from one of the most powerful men in town, nothing more than a footnote in Andrew Steele’s biography.

  She wanted more than that. She wanted to be happy. He was a good-looking, very wealthy man. How hard could it be?

  Andrew liked the idea of a new house. Something bigger and better, moving on, moving up. He should have thought of it himself but he’d been so busy. Ruby was such a useful asset.

  As soon as she saw it Ruby knew there was something special about the pink house on the beach. To begin with it was just a page from a real-estate agent, a flat picture of an unadorned house, but Ruby felt something in her heart give way and tasted salty air, heard the lullaby of crashing waves, and saw herself living there, being happy.

  It was early morning and they were drinking coffee in bed, served on a silver tray.

  ‘What about this one?’ she said.

  Andrew glanced over her shoulder. ‘Three bedrooms? Are you kidding?’

  ‘There’s only two of us,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Ruby, it’s practically in Ventura,’ he said. ‘Don’t be stupid. Why the hell are you looking through all of these houses yourself? You can just tell someone what you want and they’ll find it for you. Then you won’t waste your time going in the wrong direction.’ He reached over and took the page from her hand. ‘Ventura. Honey, what were you thinking? There isn’t a pool even!’

  So Andrew might have thought it odd then that Ruby made an appointment to view the house the following day.

  She didn’t tell him. She knew that she was being foolish. Andrew would never agree to live there and so she was wasting everyone’s time, but she had to see it. She had all this time on her hands every day and she felt that for once she could do something she really wanted to do. She would take a secret excursion to satisfy her curiosity. Go and visit the most darling house she’d ever seen. Perhaps it wouldn’t live up to her fantasy and that would help to dispel the daydreams she had about waking up every morning and stepping straight on to the sand. Andrew’s house was beautiful but it was hollow and unloved. She knew that even if she lived there for fifty years she would never feel at home. But this place, she was half in love with it already.

  It wasn’t that far out of town. Andrew had exaggerated as usual. In less than an hour they were in the right neighbourhood, with pretty avenues and clapboard houses, tatty at the edges but real, some with children playing on the front lawn, some with empty porches where the only movement was the lazy sway of a swing in the breeze. Wild bougainvillea roamed around fences with impunity and tiny finches scrapped over unseen treasure. Ruby clutched a map in her right hand and tried to quell sudden butterflies. It was just a house, why was she nervous? As they neared the location she caught sight of the ocean through a gap in the houses and asked the driver to pull over. ‘I’ll walk from here,’ she said.

  She went down to the beach and started to walk west. She wanted her first glimpse to be the same as the photograph she had seen. The heels of her shoes slipped into the sand and she pulled them off, continuing to walk barefoot.

  She followed the slight curve of the beach until she saw the boxy two-storey house, perched on a tuft of dunes, the terracotta walls blazing a lusty pink in the sun.

  I want it.

  She knew that Andrew would think she had lost her mind. What use was a beach house that they would never spend any time in? But if he tried to stop her then Ruby would buy it with her own money – she had enough for a down-payment. He wouldn’t have to be involved. If only they’d never been married. If they’d never been married then she could live here all alone with her thoughts.

  It had been a mistake to marry him. She thought it would be beneficial to her career, she thought it would be fun. It was neither.

  What was it about this place? It was as if it was summoning her. She was pulled to it like the tides are pulled by the moon.

  She was getting closer now and she could see the rough-hewn steps leading up to the terrace, she could appreciate the way the afternoon sun warmed the terracotta tones there. The glass doors of the house were open, allowing a tantalizing peek inside. Her eyes went up towards the big picture window on the second floor: that would be her room, and the tiny space with the skylight in the roof an office.

  A movement dragged her eye back to the terrace. A figure stepped out, a man. She put her hand up to shield her eyes, like a sailor, trying to see.

  A few more steps and she was close enough to make out a curl of cigarette smoke from his right hand. He had his broad back to her and was sharply silhouetted against the sun.

  In the far recesses of her mind she knew who it was. Her steps quickened, like her heartbeat.

  Then he turned. And even though a part of her had known, it was still a shock to see him, like seawater on hot bare toes. Dante. She must be dreaming.

  Dante saw her and their eyes locked. In a moment she was close enough to speak but she didn’t want to. If this was an apparition then she didn’t want it to dissolve.

  She took the stone steps slowly, one at a time, until she was only a few feet away from him. She could hear her own blood pounding through her veins, so loud that surely he could hear it too.

  He threw his cigarette down to the floor and ground it with his heel, never taking his eyes away from hers. ‘Now I know,’ he said.

  ‘Now you know what?’

  ‘Now I know why this house called me here.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  She wanted to throw herself at him and kiss him wildly. For months she had dreamt of the day when she would see him again. He hadn’t changed, the features of h
is face were still those that she had traced with a fingertip while he slept, his arms were still the ones that had held her close in dark corners, and the smile that now curled across his lips was still the smile that made her weak. Had he come for her at last? She had to stay strong.

  What are you doing here?’ she said.

  ‘Same thing as you, I suppose. Househunting.’

  ‘Here? In LA?’

  ‘It’s hardly LA.’

  ‘Near enough,’ she said. ‘You sound like my husband.’

  She searched his face for some trace of reaction. We’re both married now, how does that make you feel? Does it make you feel sad, like I do? But his expression stayed the same, the lazy smile never faltering.

  ‘I hear you made a little movie,’ he said. ‘Is it any good?’

  She shrugged and wondered how he managed to make a big budget studio picture, starring one of the world’s leading actors, sound like a thirty-second commercial. ‘Better than the cheap skin-flick you made without my consent.’

  ‘That cheap skin-flick got you noticed,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should be thanking me.’

  He was right. And she hated that he was right. He held her gaze with a self-satisfied smile. He was confident that she could not challenge him or prove him wrong.

  He could whistle for his thank-you, she was a different woman now. In London she’d been a child. ‘You haven’t changed,’ she said.

  ‘Does that mean you’re still in love with me?’

  It took all her self-control to maintain the cool, composed image she was trying to project. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I’m married.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘How is Ella?’

  Dante glowered. ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘Dante, believe it or not, I do not choose to spend my time hunting down gossip about you. I don’t care.’ Heard what? What? What is it? Tell me?

  ‘She’s gone back to England, moved in with her mother. We’re getting a divorce.’