Shot Through the Heart

by Matt Cain

  She tried to snap out of it by reminding herself of how lucky she was. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d been stuck with her mom in a tiny apartment in Cleveland struggling to make ends meet and dreaming about one day leading the privileged life of a movie star. But it was no use; however strong those memories were, they couldn’t stop her from feeling overcome by a devastating feeling of loneliness.

  And yeah, she didn’t want to turn into one of those needy, desperate characters she played on screen. But as she stood staring into her empty house, all she could think was that there was a big, gaping emptiness in her life too. And however brave a front she put on for the world, she knew that only love could fill it. The problem was, she was beginning to lose hope that she’d ever find it.

  She sank to the floor and buried her head in her hands. Within seconds she could feel the tears trickling down her face.

  Outside she could just about make out the sound of the last pap’s motorbike as it revved its engine and sped away into the night.

  2

  The following morning Leo woke up feeling terrible about his split from Eden. It wasn’t that he regretted it or was worried that he’d made a mistake but that didn’t stop him from feeling sad that someone he’d once been so fond of would no longer be part of his life. He couldn’t help remembering that she hadn’t always been a monster; and that at one point he’d even thought he might fall in love with her.

  He’d decided to take a day off work and was trying to take his mind off things by strolling along Ocean Front Walk, the famous pedestrian promenade that was at the heart of Venice Beach. On his left was the beach itself, bordered by palm trees and tourists lounging on benches licking ice creams. Between them were dotted every variety of tarot readers, buskers, caricaturists, human statues and street masseurs. On the other side of the walkway were blocks of brightly coloured buildings facing the sea, many of them with elaborate murals painted along their fronts. Spilling out of the buildings were cafés with outdoor seating, noisy tattoo parlours and shops selling souvenirs, sun hats, knock-off sunglasses and all manner of ethnic and tie-dyed tat.

  Padding along just ahead of Leo was his pet dog Watford, an affectionate, permanently dribbling British bulldog named after his owner’s hometown. Watford not only reminded Leo of home but also of how far he’d come from the drab reality of life in the English suburbs. It all seemed a million miles away from Venice Beach.

  Watford pulled him forwards past the famous Muscle Beach outdoor gym towards a group of shirtless acrobats performing energetic routines for amazed tourists. A little further on was a fully costumed and made-up clown twisting balloons into animal shapes for groups of delighted children. And sauntering up and down the walkway was a man dressed as Spiderman, who didn’t seem to be performing to anyone at all but was just soaking up the atmosphere.

  Once again Leo’s thoughts drifted to Eden. Although she lived in the Los Feliz neighbourhood just north of downtown LA, she’d always loved it here in Venice. Leo wondered how she was feeling this morning. At one point he’d thought about watching her appearance on The Wendy Williams Show. But then he’d thought it would be better to clear his head and decided to come out for a walk instead.

  Whizzing past Leo one after the other were cyclists, runners, skateboarders and rollerbladers, as well as shell-suited seniors on their way to tai chi club on the beach. As he pressed on he passed through wave after wave of different music – from the bongo- and banjo-playing buskers to the summery pop shimmering out of sleek new sound systems in the shops and cafés. The only constant sound was that of hundreds of pairs of flip-flops slapping their way up and down the busy street.

  When Leo had first come to LA five years ago he’d lived in a neighbourhood called Silver Lake but had decided to settle here in Venice Beach once he’d made enough money to buy his first place. Sure, it was out of town but with his motorbike he could get anywhere quickly. And with its grungy, alternative vibe, Venice was easily the most British-feeling part of LA, often prompting Leo to wonder if that was why he’d settled here. There were times when it reminded him of Camden Town in London but with a pronounced Californian twist and, of course, never-ending sunshine.

  On Leo’s left he passed an acne-encrusted teenager with a snake draped around his neck. He remembered that Eden had had her photo taken with the snake the first weekend she’d stayed with him in Venice. Again he felt a surge of sadness and realized that he was missing her. Or more accurately, that he was missing the girl he’d hoped she’d be.

  Coming up on the right Leo spotted one of his favourite Venice characters – a stoned tramp zonked out and slumped over a begging sign he’d made saying ‘Need for Weed’. Leo couldn’t help chuckling to himself – weed was clearly the last thing this guy needed. Leo loved the fact that Venice was full of characters like this, rather than Hollywood’s interchangeable personality-free models of physical perfection. Characters like this were what gave Venice its colour and unique feel. Another of his favourites was coming up now – a heavily tattooed bull dyke who worked in the newsagents and always saved him a copy of his favourite British newspapers. ‘Hey, Leo,’ she boomed. ‘How’s my favourite Limey?’

  Next appeared the tarot reader from Texas, who’d dyed his hair so badly that it looked like a cheap wig. ‘Hey, dude, how’s it hangin’?’

  And then he saw the contortionist with ears the size of rhubarb leaves, who always wore a leopard-print thong and shuffled up and down the seafront in unimaginable positions. ‘Whassup Leo? Where’s Eden?’

  Leo sighed, wondering why everyone was so fixated on him and Eden being together. I tried my best! he wanted to shout. It wasn’t my fault she turned into a monster!

  Watford let out a loud fart and Leo quickly scanned round to check that no one had heard. This was a long-standing habit of Watford’s and whenever Eden had stayed over at Leo’s apartment, he’d had to follow the dog around lighting matches to neutralize the various bad smells he left around the place.

  Now that it was just the two of them he wouldn’t have to bother.

  *

  ‘Señora, Meester Bob ees here!’

  Mia’s Mexican housekeeper Ramona was shouting up the stairs.

  ‘I’m coming!’ she yelled back at her. ‘Just a second!’

  She threw on a thick white dressing gown and skipped downstairs with a new bounce. That morning she’d woken up to memories of last night’s disastrous date hitting her with a dull thud. But now that Bob had arrived, things were hopefully about to perk up.

  Bob was Mia’s Thai masseur, who she’d been using regularly for three years. She always thought it funny that he had such an English name as he’d managed to live in LA for more than a decade without learning a single word of the language. But he was perpetually polite and never seemed to stop smiling so over time Mia had grown comfortable with his long silences, particularly as everyone said he was the best masseur in the business. Her assistant Hector liaised with him to book her appointments and she had no idea how they communicated – she’d given up trying long ago. Ramona, however, hadn’t. As Mia reached the kitchen she saw that the two of them were engaged in their usual giggly round of flirtation – despite the fact that neither of them spoke a word of the other’s language.

  ‘¡Ay Bob, que chulo estás hoy!’

  ‘Phom yaak cha non kab khun.’

  ‘Quiero que me chingues lo más pronto posible.’

  They stopped as they spotted her, Ramona touching her neck and colouring with embarrassment.

  ‘Will you two knock it off?’ Mia joked fondly. ‘Come on, Bob, we’re ready for you upstairs.’

  In their usual silence she led him out of the enormous, gleaming kitchen and into what she called her den. This was the entertainment room she’d fitted out for fun nights in with her girlfriends. It boasted a movie-sized TV screen, a fully stocked bar, a karaoke machine with its own stage, and a revolving dance floor complete with top-of-the-range lighting rig and a huge rotating glitter ball
in the centre. There was even a pole for dancing around, which Mia had learned how to use when preparing for her role in the film Lapping it Up. An enormous framed poster for the film was hanging on one of the walls, together with other movie posters and framed magazine covers, all featuring Mia modelling various different fashions.

  Next she led Bob through to her lounge, which was much warmer and cosier. Here, Mia had gone for a very simple look, with white walls, sofas and countless cushions, and a huge chandelier in the centre of the ceiling. On the glass coffee table there was an oversized vase of gigantic white calla lilies, and dotted around the room were pictures of Mia with her mother, girlfriends and a smattering of famous co-stars. Asleep on the sofas were her pet Russian Blue cats, who she’d bought as kittens when her first film had hit number one at the Box Office. At the time she’d been overwhelmed that her Hollywood fairytale was coming true so had named them Bogie and Bacall after one of Hollywood’s golden couples. One of the cats yawned as Mia and Bob passed through.

  Mia swept him through her marble-floored hall, awash with sunshine streaming through its stunning domed skylight, up the grand staircase with its elaborate wrought-iron banisters, and past the entrance to the home’s master bedroom. As the door was only slightly ajar, all Bob could see was a glimpse of pastel pink. Mia hadn’t been able to resist decorating it in her favourite colour.

  Next door was a guest bedroom, which Mia had converted into a walk-in wardrobe, with endless racks of clothes arranged by colour, and entrances to two other closets – one for shoes and one for accessories. As she walked past she told herself that she may still be looking for love but at least in the meantime she had every girl’s dream wardrobe. And she’d never stop appreciating it.

  Just before their destination was Mia’s favourite room of all – her very own hair and beauty salon, complete with huge cylindrical hairdryers and light-studded mirrors. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to this, and every time she saw it she felt like the luckiest girl in the world. What man could compare to this? She let out a dreamy sigh but couldn’t stop her voice from cracking.

  Finally she led Bob through to her treatment room, which was Moroccan themed and decorated in various shades of dusky green, lit by genuine North African lanterns and scented by numerous Diptyque candles in her favourite jasmine. Sitting on a sofa waiting for them was Mia’s best friend Serena. Bob gave her a little bow and began quietly unpacking his bags.

  Serena was Mia’s agent but they’d moved on from the usual actor–agent relationship years ago; Serena was more like a big sister to Mia now, always on hand to give her personal as well as professional advice. It was a role in which she excelled, being a few years older than Mia and having accrued a solid store of wisdom since she’d arrived in LA from her hometown of Harlem at the age of eighteen. Serena had been toughened up by an early career working as a model – not easy for a black woman in a largely white industry. Now she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, even if it was sometimes difficult to take.

  As Mia removed her robe and lay down on her front for her massage, Serena sat back and sipped a green tea. ‘Hey, sister,’ she said, ‘have you looked online this morning?’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Well, when you do, take a look at Perez Hilton. He has a pap shot of you and some boring-looking dude on your way home from a date. Says he’s a carpenter or something?’

  ‘Yeah that’ll be Dan – Nice Man Dan. Although he didn’t turn out to be quite so nice once the paps showed up.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Oh, you know, it was the usual story: a quick car chase home and then he was falling over himself to dump me.’

  ‘Man, that is such a pain in the ass. Well, at least the bloggers got their story straight for once.’

  ‘Oh yeah, great, thanks Serena – everyone’ll be having a good old laugh at me this morning then.’

  ‘Don’t say that Mia. Being unlucky in love hasn’t done you any harm in the past – your fans go crazy for heartache, you know that. It only makes them love you more.’

  ‘Yeah but you’re not the one who has to read those headlines about yourself. “Mia Sinclair may be the First Lady of Love but in real life she can’t get a man.” Have you any idea how that feels, Serena?’

  ‘I know, baby. But you’re going to have to be brave because it’ll be all over the papers later.’

  ‘Yeah well, I was really upset last night but I’m over it now. I mean, it’s not as if it comes as a surprise anymore when the paps screw everything up. I just don’t know what to do about it, that’s the problem.’

  In the corner, Bob was busy preparing his various potions and warming up his hands.

  ‘Mia, I’ve told you before – I don’t mind helping you out with decoy cars and stuff like that. We’ve fooled their ass before so I’m sure we can do it again.’

  ‘Yeah but we couldn’t do that forever – sooner or later any man who dates me would have to face the paps. And if he’s going to dump me I’d rather it happened straight off than months into a relationship.’

  ‘Well there is that, I guess. At least the paps are your built-in bullshit detector.’

  ‘Hmpf, well they’ve sure been working overtime lately.’

  The two of them laughed and Bob moved over to begin working on Mia. Within minutes she could feel herself starting to relax.

  Very soon she’d have forgotten all about Nice Man Dan.

  *

  In his home nestled away in a secluded corner of the Hollywood Hills, Billy Spencer was lying in a bed so big that his interior designer had joked it could sleep a family of four. Of course, he was aware that some people might find a bed so big sickeningly extravagant but it was also damn comfortable. And not only had Billy worked hard for everything he’d achieved in life but he’d also made major sacrifices along the way – which in his book meant that he was entitled to enjoy the perks of being a movie star.

  Right now he was supposed to be reading a pile of scripts his agent had sent over but he just couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he’d settled into a daze, looking out through the bedroom’s glass walls at the view of the city, opening and closing his remote-controlled floor-to-ceiling shutters so that the famous Hollywood sign appeared and then disappeared as if it were winking at him. Man, it’s good to be me.

  That morning Billy could justify lounging around in bed as he’d been up late attending a fundraiser thrown by the trophy wife of a studio boss in aid of some obscure charity she ran in order to boost her social life. The dinner had gone on for hours and he’d been sitting in between a pair of crushing bores with terrible halitosis but at the party afterwards he’d been bombarded by admirers telling him how wonderful he was, how much they enjoyed his work and how much they loved him. He’d only had to make the occasional banal observation and everyone had thrown their heads back and given off gales of uncontrollable laughter. Even though he’d originally intended to dip in and out of the event and do only what was expected of him, he’d ended up staying for hours, lapping up the adulation.

  Ooh, he remembered, I might have a little look online to see how the photos turned out.

  He reached down for his laptop at the side of the bed, fired it up and entered the name of the official photographers who’d been hired to cover the event. Straight away he was hit by several images of himself; his chestnut hair, square jaw and muscular frame complemented by a fitted Dior suit and slim tie, staring into the cameras, flashing the trademark smile he’d perfected through years of studying photos like these. There he was, smiling with his hands in his pockets, leaning slightly forwards – a pose he always knew delivered great results. And there he was again standing to one side fiddling with his cuff, as if casually distracted – another tried-and-tested favourite. In shot after shot his smile looked exactly the same but that didn’t bother him. As long as he looked good, that’s what was important.

  And these were the kind of photos Billy loved, ones which he knew were
coming and which he could prepare for. They were so much more flattering than the photos the paparazzi took when they caught him off guard. He hated those – they always managed to capture him at his worst, with his nostrils flared like a carthorse or his mouth straining at a funny angle, as if he were curling out a huge dump. Of course he knew that was the point but all the same, it didn’t make him feel particularly good about himself.

  And people always assumed that because he was one of the most famous men in the world, Billy didn’t need any help feeling good about himself. But nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, the only reason he’d become famous in the first place was because he desperately wanted people to like him – then perhaps he could like himself that little bit more.

  He clicked off the site and was automatically redirected to Google’s homepage. Staring out at him was the empty white box into which he’d entered his name so many times. And right now it was very tempting . . .

  B-I-L-L-Y

  He began typing his name.

  I really should get up and start reading those scripts.

  S-P-E-N-C-E-R

  His finger hovered over the Enter key.

  Oh come on, just one little Google search first . . .

  He hit the Enter key and in an instant the page flashed up the top ten search results. He scanned down and quickly took in a couple of news stories about last night’s fundraiser, a lengthy blog speculating about his love life, a preview of his next film War of Words, and an article reporting that last month he was the fifth most Googled celebrity in the world. Now even allowing for his own considerable activity Googling himself, that must mean a lot of people were interested in him. And a lot of people liked him. And that felt good – it felt really good.

  Forgetting that he’d rationed himself to just one little search, he was soon logging onto fan sites and forums such as ilovebillyspencer.com and billylicious.org. He already knew the most popular ones off by heart and had even set up fake accounts and usernames so he could join in the discussion. Oh he knew that most people would think what he was doing was vain and egotistical but the truth was that he found reading what other people thought about him relaxing. Some stars might have a massage or a facial but he liked to read nice things about himself. Where was the harm in that?