by Victoria Fox
Tess sat and refilled her glass. She tried not to look at Vittorio.
‘So,’ said Natalie, breaking the spell. ‘I think I’m going to just love it here.’
Tess didn’t know a great deal about relationships, but she did know that a honeymoon wasn’t the best time to decide she might have married the wrong person.
Nevertheless, she persevered, masked her reservations, and threw herself into the new movie she was shooting in Canada. The role had a Best Actress award written all over it. Steven had contacts on the board and Tess had already organised a dinner party to accommodate them. She didn’t care if it was shameless. While she relished the buzz acting gave her, the camaraderie onset, and the sneak peeks at the dailies, it wasn’t enough. She had to keep reaching, achieving, striving for more.
Steven, meanwhile, having renewed contact with Vittorio Da Strovisi, vanished to Italy for a month. Tess banished the blue-eyed businessman from her mind, attributing her infatuation to concerns over her husband; both would pass.
Three months later, she cancelled a spontaneous getaway to Mia’s new pad in Vienna due to the onset of a cold, but forgot to notify her husband. This was nothing new—for weeks they had passed like ships in the night, catching up in rushed phone calls or one-line messages (even a phase of one-picture messages, as Steven took to posting snaps of his dick with variations on the caption We miss you)—and Tess figured that since he was abroad again and the Santa Barbara house was empty, she would take herself there for the weekend; see if the ocean air might do her good.
On arriving at the estate, her first thought was that their security had been compromised, because the code pad had been reset and the door was unlocked. Tess advanced, her heart pounding. In the gloom of the hall, she slipped off her shoes and reached to take a vase from the cabinet. She prowled to the bottom of the stairs.
Oh no.
She could hear it now. A struggle. A skirmish. A man’s muffled groans, a thump, and a cry of, ‘Oh, God!’ that was categorically her husband’s.
Terror gripped her. Do something. Call 911.
But her phone was out of signal and the landline was in the dining room; by the time she reached it, it would be too late. In a flash she bounded up the stairs, two at a time, ready to strike—to kill if she had to. The air thickened, the hallway carpet turned to gloop, as shapes bloated and morphed in the pitch.
Tess slammed the door open and held the vase aloft.
For a moment she stood, numb, frozen, the scene in front of her pulsing with horrific clarity. ‘Steven …?’ The name flopped out of her. She thought she must be wrong—that thing couldn’t possibly be her husband, the illustrious Hollywood producer, the successful jock with his fleet of cars and cabinet of awards and press queueing round the block to catch a spritz of his stardom … But she wasn’t wrong.
It was here. It was happening.
This.
Steven was sprawled on the floor, mid-crawl, a pacifier rammed in his mouth and a diaper tied round his ass. Framing his face was a Little Miss Muffet bonnet.
His mouth opened in surprise and the dummy fell out and rolled under the bed.
‘Tess—’ he croaked.
Tess took in his hairy chest and the silver pins holding up his nappy. She blinked. There were ten women in the room, easily ten, all huge-breasted and lolling against the furnishings, apparently unfazed by the interruption.
Only then did she register the other man-babies. One was a senator being read a story. Another was a hard-man actor being cradled and cuddling a bear in a bow tie. Another was their lawyer, who was getting his bottom spanked. Another was model Billy Carver, who had recently divorced his wife and was now donning a baby-blue onesie with a bunny on the front and finding solace in the nipples of a hooker.
‘What the fuck?’ It could have been her that said it; it could have been someone else. Somehow, Tess kept standing. Her knees turned to jelly.
‘Shit!’ the senator shouted, rolling away from his night-time treat like a … well, like a giant baby. ‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’
Steven clambered to his feet. He looked so funny in the diaper that she cried a short, hysterical laugh. Ripping off his bonnet, he held his arms out.
‘No,’ Tess said, backing away. ‘No fucking way.’
‘It isn’t what it looks like,’ Steven blabbed. ‘It’s my club. Just a club—a few of us, it’s harmless, Tess, please.’ She caught sight of an array of toys on the bed, tubes of lubricant … ‘I—I have urges,’ pleaded Steven. ‘I was going to tell you. Men like us need outlets. It’s safe, I swear, we’re not hurting anyone.’
‘Stay the fuck away from me.’
‘I love you. These girls are just—they don’t mean anything.’ The big-breasted women were packing up their equipment and scooping wads of cash from the carpet; Billy Carver lay discarded in his pull-ups. ‘If I could do this with you, I would,’ he said. ‘I’d do anything to. This is my ultimate, Tess. My fantasy. Maybe, we could—’
‘Stay back, Steven.’ She still held the vase. ‘Stay the hell back.’
‘Darling, you’re my world. This is for kicks, never doubt my devotion—’ He reached for her, and missed the point. ‘You give me everything I need!’
‘Except a high chair and some rusks?’ she spat.
‘Tess, I can explain—’
‘I’ve heard enough.’ Like a cloud bursting to rainfall, her anger swelled then dissipated and all it left behind was sadness, cold and absolute. She ran.
He begged her not to go to the press. These men had wives and families and she would be destroying innocent lives. Horrified, Tess realised she was trapped. She tried to talk to Simone but couldn’t—the humiliation was too great.
‘Is everything all right?’ Maximilian asked, concerned. ‘You seem distracted.’
‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘That husband of yours is keeping you up at night?’ Her agent smiled.
She nodded. ‘Can’t deny it.’
Divorce was her only exit—but that door slammed, too. Going against Steven for a settlement was insanity. He and his lawyer were in cahoots; members of the same twisted society, they would stop at nothing. Her career would be in tatters. Everything she was working for: exploded. What then? What did she have then?
‘You should never have walked in that day,’ cried Steven.
‘If you hadn’t, you’d never have known. We could have carried on as normal.’
‘You’ll never be normal.’
Steven accepted the estrangement. He tried to wheedle back into Tess’s affections but quickly realised it was futile. They took to sleeping separately—Tess couldn’t bear the thought of being close to him, let alone having sex with him. She remembered their lovemaking with dismay—Steven’s fascination with her breasts, how he wanted her to talk dirty, to tell him off and call him her naughty baby.
Behind closed doors, they became foreigners. In public, they maintained the lie, gracing the red carpet when required, holding hands and kissing: Hollywood’s happiest couple. Tess’s disgust and anger grew into throttling, poison ivy.
She did what she had vowed never to do. She took after her mama and she took to the bottle. Vodka, gin, tequila, anything she could get her hands on. Washed them down with Valium and Xanax and weed and a rattling pharmacy of prescription drugs. Anything to blot out the pain … She could no longer function sober.
All men let you down, no matter how much you think you can trust them.
‘Tess, talk to me,’ Maximilian urged. ‘I’m worried about you.’
In the end, he contacted Simone, who got straight on a plane and arrived at the mansion to knock her into shape. ‘Look at the state of you!’ Simone blustered through the house. ‘When was the last time you got your hair done? Have you put on weight?’
‘Go home,’ said Tess. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, you don’t seem fine to me, young lady.’ Simone pulled the blinds, surveyed the state of the room, then sat down opposite T
ess, taking her hands.
‘Darling,’ she said gently. ‘Is there something you want to talk to me about?’
‘Like what?’
Simone cleared her throat. ‘I don’t know—work, friends, your marriage …?’
‘My marriage is wonderful, thank you.’
‘Because if there’s anything wrong … you know, with Steven … or with anything else, you know you can talk to me. I’m always here for you.’
Tess tore her hands away. She recalled Simone’s warning at the White Candle premiere. Did she know? It was a heinous concept. Shameful. She ran from it.
‘Just because your marriage is a fuck-up doesn’t mean mine has to be, too.’
Simone sat back. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Newsflash, Simone,’ Tess blurted, drunk. ‘In case you didn’t realise, I know full well you’re fucking Lysander. Admit it: you and Brian are dead in the water. Unlike you, I married someone who satisfies me sufficiently that I don’t have to jump into bed with a member of my family the first chance I get. So you can keep your marital advice, thank you very much. I don’t want to end up like you, shivering in a cold marriage bed then screwing my stepson in my spare time.’
Simone slapped her. It sobered Tess up a little; she even quite enjoyed it.
‘Don’t you ever say that again! You haven’t a clue what you’re talking about!’
‘Neither do you. You don’t care about me,’ Tess rampaged. ‘All you care about is your little project failing. I was always a project, wasn’t I?’
‘You’re my daughter!’
‘Bullshit. I’ve never been your daughter. Never.’
‘I love you.’
‘No one’s ever loved me. You’re no different.’
Unable to contain herself, Simone fled back to London the same day, commanding Maximilian to ‘Sort her out—or else. And do it fast.’
But nothing could sort Tess out. She didn’t want to be sorted. All she wanted was to lock the doors and turn the lights out and never be seen again.
The following week, Alex Dalton arrived in LA. Tess ignored his string of messages. The thought of his knowing her faults and secrets and what an unmitigated mess she was, was too much to bear. It would be like the danse d’éntrée all over again. She couldn’t admit her shambolic life or her catastrophe of a marriage, proving everything he had thrown at her at the wedding, a conversation she still hadn’t forgiven him for.
But in the end, fate conspired to bring them together. Maximilian had invited her to meet him at the Beverly Mounts Spa, and, as soon as she arrived, she knew it was an intervention. He interrogated her for an hour—What was wrong? Was she unhappy? Did she need therapy? Should she take a break?—then ordered her to commit to a recuperative programme. Finally, she was able to leave—where, in the foyer, she ran straight into Alex. She hadn’t the energy to think up a get-out.
‘Visiting your girlfriend?’ she spat, knowing it was an absurd thing to bring up and hating herself for it. His latest flame was a cover girl whose favoured haunt was the Mounts. For all Alex bitched about her life, look at his, chasing one belle after another and never getting serious about any of them. Alex ignored it.
‘Can we get a drink?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t got time.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘That sounds important.’
She wanted to smack the concern off his stupid handsome face. Knew that every time she opened her mouth it only added to his picture of the night they’d met. Here she was again, veering out of control—the real her, no doubt.
Was that what he’d meant at the wedding? It’s like you’ve forgotten the person you are. This new version was just a pathetic excuse at papering over the cracks.
‘Are you OK?’ Alex asked. ‘You look tired.’
‘Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel good,’ Tess muttered, but she let herself be steered towards a table. She was tired. Tired and defeated.
‘It’s just you look bad.’
‘Again, thanks.’
Alex got up, then came round the table and hugged her. His body was warm and solid, the gesture unexpected, and for a moment there was something so achingly sheltered and familiar about being in his arms that she wanted to cry. Why didn’t he yell at her? Why didn’t he walk out? Why didn’t he decide she wasn’t beautiful, after all—that the soul he saw inside was ugly and ruined—and never bother again?
‘How’s Steven?’ Alex asked, sitting down.
‘Fine,’ she answered stiffly.
‘Out of town again?’
Tess’s head snapped up. ‘What business is it of yours?’
‘What business is it of yours if I’m here to see my girlfriend?’
‘None. I don’t care. Are you?’
‘No.’
She ordered a drink. ‘Triple. On the rocks.’
‘Thirsty?’
‘You got a problem with that?’
Alex held his hands up. ‘None at all.’
Her hair was a nest. She went to tie it up, remembered it was Alex, and didn’t.
‘How was your honeymoon?’ he asked. ‘It must have been weird going back.’
‘Not really.’
‘Did you see the farm …?’ He searched her expression.
‘No,’ she said. The drinks came and Tess swallowed hers.
‘You didn’t see it at all?’
She lost her patience. ‘Why don’t you go down if you care about it so much?’
‘I’m only asking.’
‘Well, don’t.’ She motioned for the check.
‘Give me a break, OK?’ said Alex. ‘I’m being nice here. What’s your problem with me? Every time I speak to you it’s as if you can’t wait to leave.’
Tess grabbed her bag. ‘I’m sure you’ve got people to see.’
‘I’d rather be here.’
‘Come on, isn’t she upstairs right now, gasping for a fuck?’ Tess regretted it as soon as she said it; she didn’t know where the words had come from.
Alex looked sad. ‘Talk to me, Pirate.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘You’ve always got something to say.’
‘Yeah, that was the problem.’
‘I hope you don’t regret telling me. If that’s the reason …’
‘Why should I? I don’t care what you know.’
‘It takes a lot to open up. I don’t do it. You’re a braver person than me.’
‘What would you have to open up about? Aren’t you perfect? Haven’t you got it all? Go on—surprise me, Alex, tell me something I don’t know.’
‘I could tell you a lot of things.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘I don’t need to. Not yet.’
She pushed her chair back. He reached across and put a hand over hers.
‘Don’t go,’ he said.
‘I have to.’ She lied. ‘Steven’s waiting for me.’
‘Is he looking after you? Is he making you happy?’
‘Of course he is,’ she said. ‘He’s my husband. Isn’t that what marriage is about? I guess you wouldn’t know: you’ve never done it.’
Alex looked at her. ‘No, I haven’t. I guess all the good ones are taken.’
Tess stood. ‘This has been fun,’ she said, knowing she was being a complete bitch but unable to stop, as if she had flicked self-destruct and had to keep going until there was nothing left. ‘We should do it again.’ Alex went to stop her but she escaped his grasp, heels spiking the floor as she made for the door.
Outside, the street tipped and swayed. She realised she wanted him to follow her, to call out her name … and then what? He felt sorry for her—that was all. She was trapped in a nightmare that had once been a dream, imprisoned, frightened, and alone.
Hauling open the door to her Jeep, she cried for her twin. She slammed the wheel, imagining it was her sister, hitting her and smacking her just as Calida had done on the night t
hey’d fought; the last time she had seen her.
You died thinking I hated you. I told you I hated you.
Tess swerved out of the parking lot and careened into her lane. At the lights she skipped a red and navigated a blare of car horns and squealing tyres, though she was too out of it to know if the smell of burned rubber was her own burst wheel or another’s. She gripped the steering wheel one second then let it spin loose the next.
She didn’t know or care where she was headed—the mansion was unbearable but there was nowhere else. Simone despised her. She’d neglected Mia.
It would be better off if she didn’t exist. What was life worth now?
Lights, other cars, hurtled towards her and rashly she ducked between them, gears grinding, the Jeep plunging onto the sidewalk. A police siren started up and that was when she saw it: the grey lamppost dashing towards her, a final full stop if only she had the courage to meet it.
She met it.
There was light and then there was dark, and not a thing in between.
31
Calida was surprised to find Lucy up so early, especially on a Saturday. Her friend was in her dressing gown, sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes glued to the TV.
‘Have you seen this?’ she asked, not turning round.
Calida was about to ask what, but then she didn’t need to. One look at the BREAKING NEWS footage told her everything. A scarlet banner ran across the foot of the screen, each word peeling out fresh horror. Hollywood icon Tess Geddes in high-speed crash … Tess Geddes fighting for life … Recovery needs miracle, say doctors …
She dropped her cup of coffee.
‘Shit, are you OK?’ Lucy jumped up. ‘Are you burned?’
‘No, I—I’m fine.’
‘Here, sit down. You look awful—do you have a fever?’
Calida couldn’t speak. Her lips opened but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. TV crews piled up outside a hospital. Headshots of her twin, old coverage of her gracing the red carpet, pictures of her wedding to Steven Krakowski, adorned the report. Anxious journalists spouted into mics, pressing their earpieces for updates.
‘Calida …?’
‘I think I’m going to faint.’