His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  “It’s domestic violence, that’s what it is.”

  “She’ll be fine. This could be big money for us.”

  “They’ll find a way to cover it. Make-up. Sunglasses. It will be hidden.”

  “Still doesn’t make it invisible. Right, we need to change lens, get us right in close. Let’s hope to God this shit doesn’t go viral before she arrives.”

  “The paps will catch wind of it? If you know I’m sure someone else does too.”

  “They don’t have the same source as me. No one knows about this.”

  “Still a gamble.”

  “That bruise could make us a lot of zeros, Tommy boy, a gamble is necessary. We need to be smart. It’s her left eye, so we have to think about our position.” He grabbed the camera, fiddling with its buttons. “I can’t stress enough how important it is you get a picture of that bruise.”

  So here I was, camera poised, Vince’s voice in my ear, barking directions from wherever he was in the airport, asking me to describe my view, describe my tactics.

  Suddenly the place went wild, a circle of bodyguards protecting a cargo I couldn’t see, using their muscle to fend off the frenzy. Somewhere in the middle she was there. Men shouted her name, bulbs flashed. I couldn’t get a visual on her, not even the top of her head. I quickly jumped on top of my chair.

  “Right, Tommy, it’s now or never. Now!” Vince voice cackled through my earphones.

  I aimed my camera, stretched my arm as high as possible, tried to get inside the circle.

  Click, click, click, click.

  It was over so quick.

  She disappeared down a corridor, led away to safety, the mob disbanded, rushed to their laptops and phones. Hours of quiet, for a minute of panic.

  “Quick, the laptop,” Vince shouted. “I hope to fucking God we got that left eye. Did you get the shot?”

  “I don’t know, Vince,” I said, taking the things out of my bag frantically, plugging wires from camera to laptop.

  “Come on, Tommy. We need this quick. This is a fucking race.”

  “It’s downloading. Give me a few secs.”

  “You better not have let me down, Tommy.”

  Waiting for the pictures to upload. Waiting to see how much money we’d made or lost.

  * * *

  The next day. Newspapers and magazines scattered over our hotel bed, headlines and front covers. Big money had been made, it was all there to see, the eye and the bruise. Someone got the photo, someone was smiling this morning, having a champagne breakfast or smoking a big fat cigar, but it wasn’t us.

  There was no smiling, no champagne or cigar, as me and Vince sat at the end of our hotel bed. Vince with his head in his hands, me looking at the photo, feeling sorry for LG but not for ourselves like I should have been.

  8

  I got off the phone to Molly, more chicken updates and the wait for our first eggs continued. Molly sounded concerned, her chicks were her babies and the role of Mother Hen was one she was taking seriously, quite cute really, I wished I was there. She was growing up fast, changing every day, so the more days I missed, the more I resented my time away.

  The day I left for London, as soon as she saw a suitcase she started to get upset, playing up, clinging onto my leg. Mum had to take her upstairs, it wasn’t pleasant, Molly hysterical, Mum trying to settle her, the taxi beeping its horn. I wanted to hug her, give her a big kiss. Instead I waved up at her bedroom window, as she waved back, red cheeks and a frown that made me feel like throwing up. I left her the biggest chocolate egg I could find, so she had something to open come Easter Sunday, but it would be no replacement for her father leaving.

  I’d rung her every day since, of course, made sure she didn’t feel abandoned, reassured her she had nothing to fear, that I was coming back, but months are hard to explain to a child, their minds only grasp day and nights, their minds only work on short term, waking up and going to bed. I told her sixty sleeps till I was back, but to her I might as well have said a year.

  * * *

  I was in our hotel room, internet on my lap. Every couple of days I’d check in on LG, see what she had written on the web on her various social media profiles, what photos she’d uploaded, where she’d been. It had become a routine, I told myself it was for research, to find out clues and vantage points, give us the edge, as Vince would say. Maybe at the start that’s what I was checking for, not any more, now I just checked because I liked her, found her actually quite witty and clever.

  I always assumed celebrities got someone else to update their web pages and fan sites, but she seemed to prefer to do it herself. Let the world in on her little bubble – quite refreshing really, can’t imagine a lot would, the rich and successful tended to be closed books, least they tried to be. They never stayed closed for long.

  I didn’t think LG did it for popularity or for fame, I think her intentions were far simpler, she just liked to speak her mind. Some would say it was career suicide, others would just say freedom of speech. Either way it was a dangerous game to play, one that left her quite vulnerable, and an easy target to shoot down.

  Certainly, made her more accessible though, the openness and frankness, all her little remarks, photos of her breakfast, photos of her hotel suite, her rants at presidents, her views on climate, might be why she was so popular, or so unpopular, perhaps that was the key to being famous and staying famous. Love or hate, neither mattered as long as she was being talked about, as long as she was dividing opinion.

  I logged in, opened up her profile page, I wasn’t expecting what I found. Jesus Christ, it was horrific, I scrolled down at the comments, there were hundreds, pages and pages. The internet hadn’t reacted well to LG’s recent update, a close-up photo of her bruise, her comment posted underneath. “I probably deserved it. LOL”

  Then the hate started, and there was a lot of it.

  Glorifying abuse. Great work Lilly.

  Wish he’d hit you harder bitch.

  Only way you can get on a front cover these days.

  Cry for help. How original.

  It went on.

  I agreed LG’s comment was ill-advised and I’m sure in hindsight she probably regretted posting it, and I’m sure her little team wouldn’t be best pleased either. But I didn’t agree with the abuse that followed, people had turned brave behind their keyboards, bullies who typed as well as punched.

  I hoped LG hadn’t read it herself, it wouldn’t be nice to see that volume of abuse in one swipe. But I bet she had.

  * * *

  Vince was still out, meetings, people to see he said, I didn’t ask. I’d actually enjoyed my day alone, took a walk through Covent Garden, had a little to eat outside, till the clouds opened. In an attempt to stay dry, I managed to find shelter in Shaftesbury Avenue movie theatre.

  It was empty, London’s midday possibilities were endless, but I chose to catch a film instead. Apart from me there was a young couple a few rows ahead. We were the only audience, the three of us, sat in the dark, me eating popcorn, them giggling and kissing. I did my best not to stare, felt like a private moment.

  Coincidentally, the film I chose was one of LG’s recent works, not sure why I chose it, there were plenty of others to pick from. Think I just wanted to see her up on the big screen, not on laptop screens, not in inches, I wanted to see her in high definition, her voice in surround-sound, how a movie star should be watched.

  Regretfully, it wasn’t great – weak plot, too much CGI, lots of needless explosions, a box office flop and it was easy to see why, it felt like a movie chosen for its pay cheque rather than its credibility. I’m sure LG had her reasons, but it was suddenly a step down from her previous work. Anyway, the film looked pretty, as did she, killed a few hours too and better than getting wet.

  I made my way back towards the tube station. By then the rain had cleared, the city left fr
esh and damp. I kept laughing to myself, thinking about that young couple kissing in front of me. I missed fondling in cinemas, took me back to a Sunday evening under the sun, a million other deck chairs, me and Cassie sipping warm Buds over a horizon of heads and palms, it was our first date. We barely watched the film, made out for most of it. I remember quite vividly she wore a stripy wife-beater vest and her hair in tails. She said she wouldn’t have sex with me till the fourth date. She was true to her word, it took me three visits to Hollywood Forever till she let me into her bed, after that I never left.

  The last time we went to the cinema we didn’t kiss, I can’t remember the movie, but I remember arguing in whispers. She told me I wasn’t doing enough with Molly. Told me that I needed to do more with her, create a bond, that I was always too busy with work, always tired. I disagreed, of course, so we watched the rest of the film in silence, and the drive home was in silence too.

  We argued too much, some things got resolved, some never did and they never would have, alive or dead. So many things left unfinished and unresolved. I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I made my way back to my hotel. What we said we’d do, our plans together, things I’d promised her. I couldn’t resolve everything but some things I still could.

  * * *

  I closed the laptop. I’d seen enough abuse and Vince would be back at any minute. I knew he was keen to leave so I knew it would be best if I was prepared to vacate at the drop of his hat.

  His moods were getting worse. The previous night had been a no-show, three hours in the rain, nothing. Turned out LG must’ve stayed home, that or she was at some other red-carpet event or party or exclusive dinner, though nothing I’d seen online suggested she had. More than likely she was cooped up in some hotel room attempting to recover from jet lag, or for her bruise to go down. The red carpet was hardly the best place to hide yourself, she probably wanted to stay below radar, let the press attention subside, but it hadn’t, in fact it had multiplied. The big conversation on every other blog, broadsheet and tabloid was still that first photo of her bruise, the photo we, or I, had failed to take. Vince was still sulking and was even more determined to put our mistake right.

  I heard keys rattle. He tossed me a paper bag.

  “Didn’t know if you’d eaten.”

  “Cheers, Vince. You want one?” offering him a pastry.

  “No, not hungry,” as he emptied out his pockets on the table. He looked tired. “Just got off the phone with Jen and the kids.”

  “How are they?”

  “It’s the twins’ birthday. They made me sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Quicker I get home the better. Is the Jeep ready?”

  “Yep. Just gotta finish packing.”

  “How long is the trip again?”

  “Hard to say, most of the time will be getting out of London. ’Bout four and a half hours, let’s say six hours, just in case we stop somewhere.”

  His face wasn’t impressed

  “Least you get to see the country.”

  “It’s hardly Route 66.”

  “So how did your meeting go? As bad as you thought?”

  “Worse. We are spending more than we are bringing in. Bosses aren’t too keen on that maths.”

  “We still get paid though, right? No matter what, Vince, at the end of this, we get paid?”

  Vince laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Tommy?”

  “I’m not stupid, Vince. I understand we have to deliver to get paid. But surely we get paid something, even if it’s small?”

  “This is the world of self-employment. Long and short of it. No photos, no money. We both go home with nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nada.”

  “That can’t happen, Vince. I need the money.”

  “And I don’t. We both have the same interests. We’ve all got mouths to feed. Your little mistake at the airport cost us six figures.”

  “You serious?”

  “That bruise was a money shot. Someone got rich out of that. It was supposed to be us.”

  “What do we need to do?”

  “We need to leave.”

  “Now?”

  “No, I’ve got some people to see before we leave, try and convince them I can make good on what I promised them. Get a decent night’s sleep, but we start early. 5am we are getting out of dodge.”

  He went into the bathroom and started to run a shower, as I went over to my bags and cases to check I had everything packed. I noticed my new reflection in the mirror for the first time, my newest additions.

  Still couldn’t believe I did it. The jeweller was very patient, his shop wasn’t busy, asked me lots of questions. I didn’t tell him about Cassie, I wanted the moment to feel genuine and celebratory, not mournful and dreary. Once I had chosen a pair of rings for me and Cassie he asked if I knew her size. I told him a six, he brought out an L, said she can come in and get it altered, I said that wouldn’t be necessary. He even checked I knew which finger she had to wear it on, third finger, left hand, just like the song, he said. Still I played along and smiled. In the end, I walked out of the shop with a ring for Cassie, a ring for me and a chain so I could wear them around my neck. It cost a lot, money I didn’t have, money I hadn’t technically earned yet. But it was something that had to be done, I knew all the things me and Cassie talked and argued about couldn’t be resolved, but getting her that ring I always promised her and making her my wife would not be one of them.

  I slipped on a T-shirt and started to get my belongings into some order, started to prepare for departure. Tried to tell myself that buying those rings was the right thing to do, as everything Vince had just said told me it wasn’t, not when I knew how much my family needed money, rather than the platinum sentiment around my neck.

  The journey felt hard work and longer than I or the GPS had predicted, a combination of bad weather and rubbernecking. There was a nasty accident, a lorry and a caravan, a mangle of iron and glass, ambulances and police, a line of traffic curious to see why they had been made to wait and queue. Brought back horrible memories seeing that crash, ones I’d thought I’d forgotten. Vince offered to take over, I lied and said I’d be fine to carry on, changed the subject quickly. We talked about home, talked about our fathers, I loved mine, he feared his. Talked about old Hollywood, Pantages, the Max Factor Building. Our favourite leading ladies, Lombard, Ryder, Harlow, Sheedy. We talked about LG too, a subject I knew far too much about, Vince too, to his credit.

  We didn’t agree on her acting ability, Vince said she wouldn’t last long, but we agreed on one thing though, we both liked her. She was different than the others, hard to pin down, hard to read, conflicted, just how we liked our film stars. She had only been in a handful of films, but it was her first that caught all the excitement of Tinseltown. Mesmerizing, intense. Oscars and Baftas, plaudits for her and her director boyfriend.

  LG wasn’t the polished, media-trained A-lister that Hollywood had come to expect, those who did as they were told. She was the opposite side of that coin. She was refreshingly shy, always truthful, awkward in her skin, uncomfortable with the position she had been thrust into so suddenly. She was the perfect description of what we expected from a modern-day celebrity – troubled youth, difficult to work with if rumours be true, turbulent relationships, spoke her mind, prone to nudity if the part demanded it, said the wrong thing – and she looked the part. I couldn’t put into words the way she looked. Vince had all manner of phrases and I’d heard all of them over the course of my employment.

  “If you were a rock star, she is what you’d expect to be riding your lap,” he told me once. “Girls wanna kiss her, boys wanna kiss her. Dads just wanna fuck her,” he’d said that numerous times. “She’d look good wrapped around a pole,” was his new favourite. Vince enjoyed finding new demonic ways to insult or complimen
t LG, depending on your own opinion. Truthfully, despite his vulgarity, he was right in his assessment, not that I told him that. Rightly or wrongly, she was the girl everyone could fantasize over and she fitted a broad demographic. Beauty was beauty, and she had enough sides to hers for everyone to fall in love with.

  Not that she was everyone’s cup of tea. LG caused debate, that was for sure, and I liked that about her. Some said she acted the way she did to make a statement, to rile people, but from what I’d read and seen, my view was she was just being herself, there didn’t seem to be an ulterior motive, she was just being who she was. There wasn’t enough of that in Hollywood – being yourself was frowned upon, being yourself was a sure-fire way of being derailed. I hoped she would never change, but I was sure over time, moguls and execs would grind her down to fit the appropriate mould. Eventually she would probably become the same as every other actress. The same smile, the same answers, the same films, but for the time being she was just being LG, which at that moment was tabloid gold. No wonder Vince and all the others were salivating, she would be around for a long time as long as she didn’t self-destruct. It always seems only a matter of time until fame turns people loco and it was easy to see why. LG fitted the bill when it came to predicting her future timeline. Awards and adulation, a lifetime of limelight, perfume commercials, clothes ranges, hounded by paps every waking hour, front-page wedding, awful offspring, cosmetic surgery, drugs perhaps, early death, another legend, another cemented handprint. I couldn’t work out if I felt sorry for the girl. I think I did. The more I found out about her, the more I felt a pang of sympathy. For all the glitz and glamour, I couldn’t help but feel anything else. The wolves were circling, all out for a little piece of her, fighting over scraps and fortunes. Me being one of them.

  Much to Vince’s distaste, wanting to beat the GPS, I decided to pull into a service station about two hours into the drive, for petrol, coffee and toilet stop. Vince decided to buy the whole of Marks and Sparks, magazines, chocolate, music, even showed me how to lose at fruit machines. For all his flaws Vince has always made me laugh, and despite his mood the night before, he was secretly enjoying discovering an England that Americans rarely got to see.