Going Home

by Danielle Steel

  “Gill, come here a minute,” Joe called out to me with a wave and I wandered toward them wondering which of the crew this boy was. He looked younger than the others and seemed to have less to do. “Gillian Forrester, Chris Matthews. He runs this madhouse.”

  “Hi.” The smile widened and I saw that he had beautiful teeth. His eyes were of a soft green color. He didn’t hold out a hand to shake, or seem particularly interested in who I was. He just stood there, nodded at me, seemed to keep an eye on his troops, and went on talking to Joe. It made me feel a little out of place.

  “Hey . . . where you going?” Chris asked. I had decided to go back and check up on my models.

  “I thought you two were busy. I’ll be back.”

  “Wait a sec, I’ll come with you. I want to see what I’m shooting.” He left Joe and strode along the hillside with me, kicking through the weeds in his boots and looking up at the sky. He had all the mannerisms of a young boy.

  The models introduced themselves and I was pleased to see them looking about right. They were pros and it was nice not to have to start from scratch with them. I had been on a shooting the week before with a bunch of kids who hardly knew how to comb their hair.

  Chris stood aside from the group after a moment and then shook his head. “Joe!” His shout rang down the hill and caught Joe’s attention instantly. The kid had a hell of a voice. He beckoned to Joe and I could see there was a problem but I didn’t want to intrude. It was obviously between him and Joe.

  “Okay. What’s up?” The little Italian huffed and puffed as he got there and he didn’t look happy. He sensed that there was trouble and that was all he needed, with the account boys sitting on his neck.

  “We’ve got a problem. And it’s going to throw the budget out of shape. You’ve got five models. We only needed four.” Chris looked unhappy about the excess and Joe looked baffled.

  “We do?” He cast a glance into the truck and shook his head. “No, we don’t, you jerk. What’sa matter? You can’t count? One, two, three, four.” He pointed to them one by one, and he was right. Four.

  “Five.” Chris shook his head and pointed again. And Joe and I both burst into laughter as he did. He was pointing at me.

  “Four. Relax. I’m the stylist. I thought you knew.” Joe gave him a friendly shove. Chris burst into a laugh himself and the dimples came to life. Then he shook his head.

  “Christ, you should’ve told me. What the hell do I know? All I do is take pretty pictures. I wouldn’t mind taking some of you sometime either.” He faced me with a long appraising look.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Matthews.”

  “No. But it’ll get me a friendly stylist. Get your ass in gear, lady. I start shooting in five minutes. And if your models aren’t ready, you know what happens?” He was looking at me in a fierce, unfriendly way, and I suddenly decided that I wasn’t so far from New York after all. They’re all the same. I shook my head in answer to his question and waited for him to threaten to fire me. “If they’re not ready, it’s simple. We all quit and get stoned. You think I want to bust my ass working all day? No way.” He shook his head and threw up his hands with a gentle look as Joe and I started to laugh again, and then Joe tried to put on a serious face. He could see that the men in the jeep were watching us.

  “Listen, you lazy bastard. Stop threatening my fancy stylist. And get off your ass. Move it out.” He gave a military sounding yell, and Chris ran back down the hill. We were finally about to start.

  The horses were led toward us, the models were in full uniform, and the camera equipment was all set. Some of Chris’s men lit a blazing campfire and I went to check out the food to make sure it looked right for the “picnic” we were shooting. The food was all cemented into place and heavily lacquered so as to look right, and it seemed fine to me. I spread it on the ground, loosened a scarf around the neck of one of the boys, calmed down the female models’ hair, put a little more rouge on the second man, and moved back. I’d be busier later in the shooting when things started to look rumpled.

  I watched Chris with amusement as we got under way. He joked with everyone, shot from a variety of strange positions, and heckled the models. He had everyone in hysterics at the end of half an hour and the account men looked alternately thunderous and panic-stricken. At one point he disappeared down the side of the cliff, and with a clutch of fear in the pit of my stomach I assumed we had lost our photographer. Joe and I raced to the edge to see what had happened, fear in our eyes. As we leaned over, Joe bellowed Chris’s name toward the water, but there was no answer and there was nothing to see. He had vanished. . . . Oh my God. . . .

  “Chris . . .” Joe tried again, and the echoes seemed endless, but then I saw him.

  “Shhhh . . . what’d you want to do? Scare the shit out of me? I’m having a smoke. Come on down.” He was sitting on an indented and well hidden ledge, not six feet down from the top, straddling a sturdy looking bush and smoking a joint.

  “You crazy sonofabitch, what the hell . . .” Joe was incensed, but visibly relieved. And I burst into nervous laughter. The guy was obviously nuts but he was so natural about everything he did that he was easily forgiven the outrages he perpetrated on the world.

  “Is this our break?” I tried to seem as though I were not impressed, but I was. For a moment, I had been so sure that he was gone.

  “Yeah. Sure. You smoke?” I nodded and then shook my head.

  “Yes. But not on a job.”

  “And neither should you, you crazy bastard. Get the hell up here and come back to work. What am I going to tell the account guys?” Joe looked genuinely nervous.

  “You really want to know what to tell them?” Chris looked pleased at the idea. “Tell them that they can . . .” Joe cut him off and looked apologetically at me.

  “Come on, Chris . . . please . . .” By then I was in stitches again. The whole scene was so absurd. Joe and I were leaning down talking to an invisible bush off the side of a cliff, and our chief film genius for the day was enjoying a leisurely smoke of dope. We had already waved to the rest of the crew to let them know that everything was okay, but it must have looked ridiculous anyway.

  “Okay, little Joe. I’m a-comin’. Up, up, and away.” And with that, the long, lean, muscular body of Christopher Matthews sailed past us and landed back on the plateau. He took something out of his pocket and the next thing I knew there was a shrill whistling sound in the air. He had blown a little toy whistle and pulled a water pistol out of his pocket. “Come on, you guys, let’s get this show on the road.” He then proceeded to squirt everyone within range, including the account men from Carson, and he looked immensely pleased with himself. He was having a good time. “Places . . . action. . . A pair of sunglasses emerged from another pocket and he was busily playing director when I went back to set up the picnic again. One of the horses had walked across the set. It took me ten minutes to get everything back in place, and after that I sat back on the running board of Chris’s truck to watch them shoot, feeling useless, but amused. It was the best shooting I’d been to in years.

  “What do you think, Gill?” Joe collapsed next to me and lit a cigar.

  “It’s hard to tell. Either he’s brilliant or he’s a disaster. I’ll reserve judgment till I see the film. He’s nice to work with anyway. How old is he?” I figured he was about twenty-two and maybe fresh out of some new-wave film school.

  “I’m not sure. Somewhere in his thirties, but nobody’s told him yet. He acts like he’s twelve. And man, I hope he does some good stuff for me today, or else I can forget my job, starting now.” We both glanced over toward his colleagues and Joe shook his head. He was right, with the show Chris was putting on his work was going to have to be fantastic to justify the fooling around.

  I watched in mild amazement as everyone went through their paces though, and there didn’t seem to be any problems. His men did precisely what he wanted, the models were marvelously loose and unselfconscious, and things were moving
along. It was hard to tell exactly where things were at, but it looked as though the shooting was almost over. And then suddenly I knew that, whether or not the work was done, it was. Chris stopped dead for a brief moment, looked around blindly at the crew, and then began to reel to one side, clutching his heart. This time I was sure he wasn’t faking, he was sick. I wondered briefly if it were an overdose of something as he slid to the ground and lay there unconscious.

  Joe and I arrived at his side within the same instant and Joe gently turned him over. He had been lying face down on the ground. And as we rolled him onto his back and I reached for his pulse, his face broke into a vast, boyish grin, and he giggled.

  “Fooled ya, huh?” He was delighted. But not for long. Joe pinned him to the ground and pointed toward something behind him while looking straight at me. And I knew what he meant. The water bucket for the horses. I ran to get it, emptied it a bit so I could carry it, and rushed back to dump it on Chris. All of it. But he only laughed harder, and then I was pinned to the ground and he was pulling my hair, which had come undone.

  With that, the agency men ran up to see what was going on and Chris’s men and the models joined in the fray. It was a free-for-all. I heard Joe shout over the din that we were all through shooting so not to worry, and I went right on wrestling with Chris Matthews until I felt Chris put something strange and pointed between my ribs. I tried to see what it was.

  “Don’t move, Forrestal. Just get up and start walking.” His face and dialogue were straight out of a grade B Western.

  “In the first place, the name’s Forrester, and in the second place, just what exactly do you think you’re doing?” I tried to sound unruffled and at the same time awesome, but didn’t succeed.

  “We’re gonna ride, little lady. Just step lively . . . nice ’n easy. . . .” I knew the guy was nuts as I suddenly realized that he had a gun in my ribs. What the hell had Joe gotten me into for a hundred and twenty bucks? I wasn’t working for him to get shot in the back for chrissake . . . what about Samantha? “Keep moving . . . that’s it. . . .” He was walking gingerly at my side, and my eyes searched wildly for Joe in the tangle of arms and legs and water on the ground. They were still going at it. I saw that Chris was walking me toward the horses, and watched him deftly untie one from the back of their trailer with one hand while still keeping the gun on me, which I couldn’t see.

  “Come on, damn you. Cut it out. The fun’s over.” At least it was for me.

  “Nope. It’s just beginning.” He spotted a megaphone lying near the trailer, dragged it closer with his foot, and then kicked it into the air so he could catch it, never loosening his hold on either the horse’s reins or the gun. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing and punctuated most of his actions with his dazzling smile. To hell with his smile. I had had enough. “Bruno!” The sound of his voice boomed through the megaphone. “Pick me up at the Watson in Bolinas at eight.” I saw an arm wave in the crowd and then felt the gun push harder into my flesh. What was the Watson? And why eight? It was only a little after one, and what the hell was he going to do to me? “Get up. You do know how to ride, don’t you?” A momentary worried look crossed his face, like a little boy who’s been given a cap gun with no caps in it.

  “Yes, I can ride. But I don’t think this is funny at all. I have a little girl and if you shoot me you’re going to wreck a whole lot of lives.” It was a dumb melodramatic thing to say, but it was all I could think of under the circumstances.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked singularly unmoved by my speech and I swung into the saddle, glad I’d worn my boots, and wondering what was next. He hopped up behind me, I felt the gun still in the same place, and burst into a fresh wave of worry as he nudged the horse into a fast trot and then a slow gallop. What if the gun went off by mistake? What would happen then? The mountains were rough terrain to ride over and the horse might stumble, and then . . .

  In less than a minute, we were out of sight of the plateau where we’d been shooting and we were faced with the splendid range I’d admired on the drive over. But it was a whole other thing to ride over the mountains and I didn’t give a damn if they were beautiful, I’d had it. Suddenly a wave of fury swept over me at this insane boy-man who was playing with my life. He was a snotty, pompous, careless, stupid hippie who thought he could do anything he damn well pleased, from getting stoned on a job, to pretending he had died or fainted, to shooting me. . . . Well, he was wrong. He couldn’t shoot me at least. My body had tensed into a steel beam and I swung around with every intention of knocking him off the horse. But when I turned around my attack was temporarily delayed by a squirt of cold water in my face. The water pistol . . . that’s what he had been holding in my back all along.

  “You lousy, rotten . . . ,” I spluttered within two inches of his face, trying to wipe the water out of my eyes, and wanting to kill him. “You big shit . . . you . . . I thought . . .

  “Shut up.” He squirted the pistol in my mouth this time, and I choked on a burst of laughter. Christopher Matthews was something else.

  The horse had come to a stop at some point during Chris’s watery attack on me, but I didn’t notice until I had wiped the water from my eyes and saw that we were standing near another cliff again, with the Pacific stretching as far as we could see.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” His face was peaceful and he looked like a cowboy in repose. The mischievous child was momentarily gone. I nodded and looked out to sea, again with that immense feeling of having found my way to where I had been meant to be all my life. The hysterical feeling of riding over the mountains at gunpoint was gone, and I was watching a bird swoop slowly down toward the water and wondering what it would feel like to do that when Chris slowly turned my face toward his and kissed me. It was a long, tender, gentle kiss. Not the kiss of a lunatic juvenile. The kiss of a man.

  When we pulled away from each other and I opened my eyes, I saw him smiling at me and looked pleased. “I like you, lady. What did you say your name was?”

  “Oh, go to hell.” I pulled the reins from his hands, exhorted him to hang on, and I took over the horse. That was one thing I could do well. I had been riding since I was five and it was a marvelous, heady feeling to be pounding over the mountains, not a house or a human being in sight, just a lovely, leggy horse under us and a beautiful man in the saddle behind me, however crazy he was.

  “Okay, smartass. So you can ride. But do you know where you’re going?” I had to giggle to myself as I realized that I didn’t, and I shook my head in the wind, my hair whipping his face, but I didn’t think he’d mind. His hair was almost as long as mine anyway.

  “Where do you want to go?” As if I’d know how to get there. We were in his world and I was just a tourist. But a happy one.

  “Bolinas. Head back toward that road down there, take the first right, without falling into the water, please. I can’t swim.”

  “Bullshit.” But I followed his instructions, walking the horse down the mountainside and then cantering along near the road in silence until I saw another road off to the right.

  “That’s it.” He kicked the horse for me and I tried to slap him playfully but the water pistol was suddenly aimed at my ear again.

  “You know what you are, Mr. Matthews?” I shouted into the wind. “You’re a pain in the ass. And a bully.”

  “So I’ve been told. Hey, take this next right too, and then a left.” There were only one or two cars on the road, and I moved the horse onto it and took the appropriate turns. It was fun riding again, and I was beginning to like the nut with the shaggy hair and the water pistol. He had a nice grip on my waist and I could feel his thighs pressed into mine.

  “Is this it?” We were in a nondescript-looking place, down on shore level, but there was nothing much to see but trees.

  “Ride through those trees over there . . . you’ll see.” And I did. A long sandy strip of beach, the sea, and an inlet. And on the other side a still more beautiful beach which stretched for
a couple of miles and then was stopped by the mountains again, dropping down to meet the sea. It was a splendid sight.

  “Wow!”

  “This is Bolinas and that’s Stinson Beach. Can you swim?” He looked pleased at the expression on my face and he dismounted and held out his hands to catch me. I realized again how tall he was as I slipped to the ground next to him. I’m 5’7” and he must have been at least 6’3”.

  “Sure I can swim, but you can’t. Remember?”

  “Well, I’ll learn.” I watched what he was doing with sudden surprise and wondered just what he had in mind. He had pulled off his jacket and boots and was proceeding to remove his T-shirt. What next? His jeans? I wasn’t quite sure what this was all about. “Whatcha looking at?”

  “Let me ask first. What are you doing?” He stopped and looked at me for a long moment.

  “I thought we’d swim the horse from here to the end of the land spit over there—it’s an easy distance—and then we can ride on the beach. And swim, and stuff. Take off your clothes, I’ll tie them to the saddle.” Yeah . . . sure . . . and swim and stuff. Stuff, huh? . . . Oh well.

  I tied up my hair again and then pulled off my own jacket and boots . . . and then my T-shirt, my jeans, and my pants. There was no one else on the beach. It was warm that April, yet on that side of the bay and on that Tuesday afternoon there was no one on the Bolinas Beach but us. Christopher Matthews and I stood facing each other beneath the mountains, stark naked and smiling peacefully, while the horse seemed to wonder what was next. And so did I. I wondered if Chris were going to leap at me and rape me, or squirt me with the water pistol again, or what. He was hard to predict. But he seemed matter-of-fact as he strapped my clothes to the saddle and led the horse toward the water. The three of us walked in, Chris showing nothing of the shock of the cold water, only slowly leading the horse into it and checking back over his shoulder to make sure I was okay. I was, but I was freezing my ass off and hated to show it. I dove under the water to see if that would feel better, and swam past him towards the opposite shore. It felt fabulous, and I smiled to myself as I surfaced and looked over my shoulder at Chris. Here I was in California, swimming from one beach to another with a horse and a crazy young filmmaker. Not bad, Mrs. Forrester, not bad at all.