His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  Back in the Jeep spirits were high as we made up lost ground, told dirty jokes, recited Dumb and Dumber quotes, debated breasts and arses, doing what men do when in each other’s company. There was plenty of singing too, courtesy of Vince’s brand new power ballad compilation and no surprise that Vince loved the sound of his own voice – both spoken and in song – and his renditions of one-hit wonders made up the soundtrack of the journey. It felt like a road trip, felt like I was going on holiday, for those few hours with me and Vince in the car, laughing and joking and singing, I completely forgot what I was driving towards and the person I would have to become to succeed.

  I parked the Jeep a short walk away from the house. Vince agreed he should have worn more appropriate footwear and he cursed every puddle and bog, as if I was singularly to blame for the terrain and weather conditions. But he was adamant that before we checked into our hotel he wanted a quick look at the farmhouse before LG’s planned arrival the following day; said he didn’t want any nasty surprises, wanted to make sure he was happy with the set-up before he let me loose on my own.

  The house looked as impressive as I remembered, even more so. I’d seen pictures and visited the property several times as part of my research, but on seeing it up close again it reconfirmed its purpose of making its guest feel safe and comfortable and, above all, undetected. Inside would be low wooden ceiling beams, an Aga, open fires, a roll-top slipper bath. It was old fashioned and must’ve been over a century old, but there was enough modern luxury to make an actress feel at home

  In the driveway, it was heaving with bodies as furniture, flowers and food were being transported from the back of vans to inside the house, it looked an organized outfit. LG would be there in less than twenty-four hours and you could sense the urgency around the place, men with clipboards shouting down their phones. It had to be perfect, it was not every day a world-famous actress came to stay.

  Me and Vince walked closer towards the house through the trees and bushes, whoever had found this property had done an excellent job. Sat at the bottom of a big hill, sheep and trees made up the horizon, it looked like any other country farmhouse, so it was easy to miss, hard to get to and perfect for someone wanting to avoid the gaze of the public. God knows how Vince found out she was staying here. I asked him but all I got was a wink, he obviously had his sources and thank God, he did, otherwise finding LG’s house amongst a million holiday homes would have been damn near impossible.

  The garden itself had changed dramatically since my last visit in early March. Fresh turf, sculptured bushes, extra security alarms, a whole corner of patio had been removed and in its place a floor of white flowers, in fact white flowers were everywhere, and a bench sat in the heart of the garden. The whole rear side of the house was the kitchen and was predominantly glass, which led straight out onto grass and trickling ponds. According to the floor plan, her bedroom was right above the kitchen. I guessed that was where we would see most of our action – the kitchen, the bedroom, the garden.

  Together, me and Vince climbed over the brambles towards the place I’d unofficially declared our base. Luckily it had not been pruned or altered since I last saw it and was still as erratic and unkempt as it had been previously. It was the perfect hideout, my little hole under a tree.

  “This is out of my comfort zone, Tommy boy. You’re pretty exposed out here. Be careful in the daytime, keep low and quiet. You can’t be getting burnt out early in the game.”

  Vince talked some more, tactics and advice, but even he could see its potential. As Vince discussed camera angles I could already see dollar signs in his eyes – he knew we would make money here. He very nearly gave me a compliment, but it never came. We didn’t stay much longer, just enough time for Vince to whet his appetite. We headed back.

  * * *

  We arrived at the guest house just as it was getting dark. The owners, Alfred and Dot, were there to greet us both, with warm smiles and welcoming arms. They had been very kind to me before, especially Dot who fed me and looked after me like I was her own. Their huge dog was sat by reception in the same coma-like state that I’d last seen him in. I stroked him but he didn’t recognize me, nor did he move from his slump. We ate our dinner quickly and without much conversation – we were all talked out and just wanted our beds.

  “That dog Tripod you liked so much. Could be…”

  “His name isn’t Tripod.”

  “Dogs have saved me on many occasions. Oh, sorry officer I’m just out with my dog. I didn’t know this was private property.”

  “A dog accomplice?”

  “Yes,” he said, finishing the last of his steak.

  “It’s not even our dog.”

  “Why does that matter? Look, we are doing the dog a favour. Looking at it, I doubt it gets walked much. That’s even if it can walk, seeing as it’s missing a front leg.”

  “No, Vince.”

  “Just saying, that’s all.”

  As our plates of leftovers were taken away we agreed a time to meet at reception and both went our separate ways to our separate rooms. I rang Mum, it didn’t sound a well house, Mum felt under the weather, kept blowing her nose down the phone and apparently Molly wasn’t much better, blocked nose and an awful cough. Mum said Molly had gotten a little upset at bedtime, kept asking for me and Cassie. I felt helpless, Mum shouldn’t have to do that all on her own and I told her that, too. I thanked her for the present I’d found when emptying out my suitcase. She had written a message inside, Molly had scribbled one alongside it too, I assumed she wished me the same luck as Mum. It was nice of them both, completely unexpected, very thoughtful. I promised I would make a conscious effort to write in it every day, my trials and tribulations, the memoirs of a paparazzo.

  In bed, my phone beeped, it was a message from Vince, complaining about English television and the lack of adult pay-per-view. I messaged him back, he messaged me, and so on and so on till we both agreed to call it a night – we had an early start, we needed our rest. I sometimes thought it was the only reason I was there, to keep Vince entertained. Apparently, I was vital, so Vince told me, but it didn’t feel that way. I was there to keep Vince company and all my research and planning didn’t seem to add any value to the job at hand. I wasn’t qualified to be on this job. Yes, I’d been a tour guide, but it was hardly the same thing. I had no experience, limited camera work, above all I wasn’t cut-throat enough. All I could say was I was knowledgeable. I had to laugh at myself, three months of work, what a farce.

  All I knew was LG – an expert on one person, three months of learning about someone inside and out, lies and half-truths, a hundred contradictions, I couldn’t see how it made me any more equipped or qualified to take photos of her than if I didn’t know anything at all. And what did I know exactly that was of any value? That she had a peanut allergy, that she loved Walt Whitman, that she smoked a little pot, that her sister married a vet. None of it mattered, the outcome would be the same. Photos, photos, photos. Of her hair, her clothes, her body, her bruises, whatever sold.

  I wasn’t this person. I wasn’t this job. I’d avoided both, battled with it long and hard, changed what I’d become into more desirable titles, stuck up for it to make it feel less sadistic. But my job title didn’t matter anymore, I needed money. I had a sick daughter, a sick mother, a dead wife and no way of supporting any of them.

  Perhaps that’s what Vince saw in me, I mean really saw in me – a man on his knees, vulnerable, with nothing to lose. But I didn’t resent Vince for it. I was old enough to take responsibility for my actions, I was the one who agreed to do it and this was what needed to be done. I looked at the clock, she would be here in less than eight hours, and soon Vince would go back to LA, leave me to do what needed to be done.

  Better go to sleep, I thought. That’s when the madness would begin. Day one. First page of my journal. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve any of what is coming her way. She must
n’t take it personally, I hope she understands this is business, I hope what happens, good or bad, won’t do her any harm, it’s just photos after all, yesterday’s news, tomorrow’s chip paper, it will just be spying, an infringement of her privacy, all part of the cycle, she will have her role to play and I would have mine.

  Tomorrow she would arrive in a little corner of England that no one’s ever heard of, including her.

  And tomorrow I would become a paparazzo.

  And from tomorrow, until she flies back to Hollywood, my job would be to follow her day in, day out, no matter where she goes or how far.

  Lilly Goodridge, I’m sorry in advance, I really am, but not sorry enough to stop.

  Part Two

  Lilly

  The bridge/April /shot 36

  9

  Wish he’d hit you harder bitch.

  I hope you get raped.

  Whoever punched you, must’ve just seen your last movie. What a waste of $7!

  I scrolled down my cell, screen after screen. The funny thing was, I wasn’t even being ironic when I posted the photo the night before. I did deserve it, I wasn’t being witty or vulgar or trying to get sympathy, I 100% deserved it, I would have hit me too. I suppose I should have been more offended than I was. Frank called them cowards, Sally had another word for them, starting with the same letter. Me, I just called it freedom of speech. And for some twisted reason the worse the abuse was, the more it felt like comedy. Sally says I should take it more seriously, but it’s hard to feel threatened by someone you can’t see. It’s hard to be threatened by someone typing at a keyboard.

  Despite Sally telling me not to, the temptation to add more fuel to the fire was hard to resist, but somehow, I didn’t retaliate. Not that I knew what I would’ve written, something to fuel the fire, or just one word in capitals, both would have given Sally a heart attack.

  Sally was still in a mood with me, told me I had to consult her before I opened my big mouth online. I told her I could open my big mouth whenever I wanted, with or without her authority. It didn’t go down well, she called me a time bomb, said she was the one who always had to pick up the fallout. Not to worry, she’ll simmer down eventually, she always does.

  I felt a tug on my bangs. Two women were working on my head, possibly three, moving around my chair, arms flailing madly, brushing and clipping and painting. It was my third transformation of the day, application and removal, application and removal, the more elaborate and time-consuming, the prettier I looked at the end.

  Bored at looking at cyber trolls I turned my cell off, picked at the sliced mango on the side – breakfast was fruit, lunch was fruit, my drink was fruit, my diet was juiced or about to juiced.

  Jeez, I was hungry, I could eat everything right now, my stomach rumbled, though my dress felt tight against my bladder, made me feel hungry, made me want to go for a pee. A young girl came over and offered me a drink. I declined, I didn’t fancy attempting a toilet break in my current ensemble. Instead, I dreamt of room service.

  I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror. There was a brief talk about playing up the whole bruise thing, making me even more bloodied up, boxing gloves and gumshields, but the powers that be agreed that it might send out the wrong message. Three said Yes, four said No, that was how my life worked – democracy, just not my democracy. My hand wasn’t part of the vote and why would it be?

  Hey, I couldn’t complain, it hadn’t been a bad shoot, I’d been on worse. The photographer was a sweet old dude, spoke with whispers and his hands. Survived the day with no real direction, just smiles and thumbs up. He gave me flowers, I thanked him, put them with the rest, the corner of my dressing room was starting to look like a grave. I wasn’t in the mood for smiles today, which was lucky seeing the mood of the shoot was quite sombre and serious. Meant I could get away with looking distant. I often got asked why I looked so sad all the time and I never knew quite how to respond, or what response they expected. I was tempted once to say it was because I wanted to kill myself, see how they took it, see if they took it like the joke it was intended to be – I’m guessing not. It was easier to give them the answer they expected, or the answer that caused the mildest reaction. I had gotten called lots of things in my short life as an actress – antagonist, spirited, one hack called me ingénue. I quite liked being abused in words I didn’t understand, meant I could take it neither as cruel nor complimentary. People always get me wrong, perhaps it was better that way, let them write around me rather than inside it was better they didn’t get me exactly, no matter how hard they tried. My agent said not to worry, just to keep doing whatever it was I was doing, apparently whatever it was, it was paying the bills and then some.

  I felt cold, I thought of how many sweaters and scarves I’d packed and how most photo shoots always involved me showing skin. I’d been more naked than I was today, but still my arms and legs were out and not all the green tea in the world was going to change that. It didn’t help the dressing room being open and closed constantly, people coming in and out, constant draughts. I hoped this wasn’t how cold I would always be in England, the next two months trying to keep warm. Sally assured me the farmhouse would be heated, two open fires apparently, it would be fun working that one out. I assumed I’d just light a match, wasn’t that how fires were started, I assumed it would be that simple? If cavemen could work it out I was confident I could too.

  This was my first time in England, and all I’d seen so far was an airport terminal and a studio, and of course my hotel. Didn’t matter what city I was in or what continent, all I ever saw was the first five yards, from kerbside to indoors, but somehow those fuckers still managed to get their shots of me. Luckily my hotel room was top floor, too high up for paparazzi, though I wouldn’t put it past some to attempt the climb.

  Sally came in, face like thunder, told me I had a radio interview in two hours, told me not to mention the bruise, or Max, or the shit storm online. I jokingly asked what I could say, she said why don’t I try talking about why I was here and let her in on it, too. As you can tell, she wasn’t best pleased to be back on home soil.

  I felt my cell vibrate on my lap – it was Max. I typed a reply, short and prompt. I felt obligated to respond, I could hardly ignore his messages after what happened at the party. I must have been his only friend, seeing as to the rest of the world he was still public enemy number one. Though I wasn’t sure how long I wanted this daily communication between us to carry on, made life more difficult and our break-up harder to get over. I needed to get a new cell, get Sally to sort me out a new number and quick, not that that had ever worked before.

  I heard my name being called. It looked like it was show time, action stations, time to pout and look thin. Frank came through the door, handed me a sub. Told me I needed to eat, as it looked like it was going to be a long one. This was what I liked to call a ‘shit ton day’.

  * * *

  Four hours later I was on a plane. It was only a short flight, still, I slept through most of it. Just what I needed, more jet lag. The drive was insane, I asked the driver if we were driving off-road, he said no. By the time we arrived the sky had gone from dark to black, Frank cursed every pot plant till he found the elusive door key as we did our best to transfer us and our luggage from car to house without getting wet. Finally, we’d made it.

  My new home. Our new home.

  Shame I was too tired, went straight from car to bed, the grand tour would have to wait till tomorrow.

  * * *

  Apparently next door was given away free eggs, a ‘bumper lay’ the neighbour told Frank, whatever that meant. Not that I was complaining, I hadn’t eaten properly in two days. Sally made sure I had no bread, of course, though Frank passed me toast from under the table, I ate it quickly, like contraband.

  “Did you get hold of your dad?” Frank asked sorting through a box of travel plugs.

  “No, he wasn�
�t there. Spoke to Mom though.”

  “So, did he like it?”

  “I think so. She didn’t really say. It was all a bit weird actually.”

  “I bet he loved it. Probably out taking it for a spin as we speak.”

  “I’ll try him again later, wish him happy birthday probably.” I walked over to the kitchen doors. “Are we expecting a great flood?” pointing at the sandbags piled up outside the door.

  “Think it’s just a precaution. I’m guessing our little stream may burst its banks from time to time.”

  “What stream?”

  “Over there,” Frank said, pointing through the glass towards a stream I still couldn’t see.

  “How much rain they expecting?”

  “I’m guessing quite a bit,” Frank said, taking my socks off the Aga.

  “That’s why I need today off, Sally. Have a look round, find out where everything is.”

  “And you will,” she said, typing at her cell. “Just not today.”

  “Can’t we just have today off? I think I deserve it.”

  “Not a fat chance.”

  “Go on then, hit me with it. How bad is it?”

  “Wardrobe at twelve. Voice coach around two, actually I need to check if their train left on time.”

  “OK. That’s not too bad.”

  “Oh, and Jon too.”

  “Jon as in Director Jon?”

  “He said he wanted to touch base with you. Though I don’t know when.”

  “I have some hours free then?”

  “Well, not free, Lilly.”

  “You said wardrobe aren’t getting here till after lunch. It’s seven am.”

  “That is correct. But it doesn’t mean you can slack off.”