His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  “I’m not planning on slacking, Sally.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “A long bath.”

  “That sounds like slacking off.”

  “You haven’t let me finish. A long bath, whilst reading my lines.”

  “Better.”

  “Then we explore?”

  “Explore what?”

  “This place. The village. I read last night that we are close to the sea.”

  “Lilly. I’m not having you roam the village. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “Fine. Exploring the house then.”

  “Later. I want your nose in your script for a good few hours. Promise.”

  “OK, Mom, deal,” I said as I ruffled her hair. “Right, who’s for more coffee? I’ll make it.” I walked over to the Aga and grabbed the kettle. “And we’ll drink it outside, have a wander round the garden.”

  “Not me, not in that weather.”

  “Come on, Sally, the sun is out. I’m guessing in this country it doesn’t come out that often.”

  I started to fill the kettle with water. “Frank. You up for a coffee outside?”

  “Let’s concentrate on the coffee first before we think of where we are going to drink it.”

  “How do I know when it’s boiled?” I said staring at the kettle and the Aga.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll know,” Frank smirked.

  “Isn’t this place awesome? C’mon, Frank, it’s pretty fucking cool.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Ask me in a couple of days once I’ve had a chance to find my feet.”

  “Admit it’s a nice change, though. I knew I made the right choice. I knew it.”

  “It’s her that needs convincing, not me,” Frank said, looking over at Sally, still staring deeply at her cell.

  “Her and everyone else,” I said, startled by the kettle, whistling like a fire had broken out.

  * * *

  After my bath Sally backcombed my hair, as Frank tried to make sense of the house’s internal workings. We left him to it, Frank never could settle until he’d located the supply of water and electrics and know how to turn it off and on. Before she left I gave Sally a hug and thanked her for making me look like Jackie Kennedy and I was left to potter and wander, we’d made up on the journey down here, four hours forced to sit beside each other with nowhere else to go, it was inevitable we’d sort our shit out.

  The house itself was lovely, just the right side of nautical, any more themed and it would be Jimmy Buffets. Every room was huge, only one TV though, so I’d have to invest in one for my bedroom. I kept finding umbrellas everywhere and old books, a Dan Brown, an Agatha Christie, a book about birds, great tits, blue tits, bearded tits, lots of tits. Frank had started the fire, too. I added a few logs but it seemed to have a bad effect so Frank had to do his best to turn smoke and grey back into flames.

  I felt tired, last night’s sleep was not the greatest – new bed, new draughts, the sound of birds, too many birds. I made a note to buy earplugs, I was living in an aviary, it sounded like one might be trapped in a chimney, or the attic. Not to mention the sheep – I wasn’t used to so much wildlife on my doorstep.

  As I walked downstairs I met Frank, stood by the front door like a dog with a lead.

  “Sally won’t like us venturing too far.”

  “What she won’t know, won’t hurt her.”

  “I wanna check the lawnmower situation. Find out where the coal is kept.”

  “I’ll need to get dressed.”

  “Be quick then. I don’t think Sally is going out for long.”

  Ten minutes later I was ready. Frank looked at me and as per usual, his eyes rolled.

  “Well, what do you think?” looking down at myself, wellington boots, mac, headscarf, sunglasses, scarf, the only skin on show was my nose. “Still Jackie Onassis?”

  “Bin Laden, more like.”

  “You don’t think anyone is out there do you, y’know, paparazzi?”

  “If they are, I’ll be impressed.”

  “We could use this as an experiment, Frank?”

  “Could be an expensive one if it goes wrong.”

  “But if they aren’t, then I’ve got a free pass.”

  “You ready girl?”

  “I think so, no wait a minute.” I grabbed a walking stick from next to the door. “I always wanted to use one of these.”

  We opened the door, in front of us a long road that disappeared over a hill. Although it looked daunting, we both had the biggest smiles on our faces. Well, I did, it was always hard to tell if Frank was smiling or not.

  * * *

  Next morning, I checked every tabloid, blog and forum for photos of me and Frank rambling over fields and gates, I expected the worst, expected the two of us to have been caught. I checked the next morning too, still nothing.

  Success, I thought, but deep down I knew they would eventually find me. Paparazzi always did eventually, being in the middle of nowhere just meant it would take them longer.

  But still, I regarded it as a mini triumph, my day of freedom, I was going to make the most of it till the cavalry turned up.

  10

  England had rendered me disabled – my waist hurt, my back hurt, my breasts hurt, though despite my new disability, my first seven days’ filming had gone surprisingly well. The cast were lovely, a small gang, which only made it feel tighter knit. Jon had done a great job of creating a warm family atmosphere, set out his stall early on, made us all stand in a circle on day one, say what we all expected from each other, that we left our previous work behind us and our egos too. We all took our turns to speak, the highest paid to the lowest, those in front of and behind the camera – it was all very theatre, which should have been obvious seeing as that was Jon’s background. Though it all felt a little tranquil for me – I was used to more chaotic forms of direction. Yes, Jon had made us a family, created a calm environment, I just wasn’t quite sure at what point calm became lethargic.

  Shame about one particular co-star. My initial predictions of my fellow patriot Chris Rogan were accurate – he was a dick, and most of his tasks and comments were made very much with his dick in mind. But I would have to get used to him – to be fair, he was handsome, a part of me thought he would be nice to have some fun with. It would be interesting in the next few months to see what side of my moral conscience won that particular battle.

  It had been quite refreshing not having so many Americans around, to be in the minority, although the accents around me sounded nothing like I’d been practising, they all sounded so different, which I found peculiar seeing as it turned out they lived within a couple of hours’ drive of each other. The crew found that comment hilarious – apparently everywhere in England was a couple of hours away. But I appreciated the warmth they gave me, I wasn’t used to it, especially from the girls. Me and girls have never tended to get on. With a decade of dance education, I’d seen most types and the majority of them I tended to avoid, so most of my friends were either boys, boyish or tomboys, so I didn’t expect to meet a bunch of girls that I would now consider to be close and comfortable with.

  Talking of comfort, the painful process of getting me in and out of a corset was one I dreaded most mornings. I’m guessing a guy invented it, a guy who liked small waists and big tits. I hoped it hadn’t damaged me internally, I remember reading something on the plane about it moving organs out of place. I had visions of my intestines getting lodged in my chest, my lungs near my pelvis. This week showed me one thing, though, I’m starting to finally see the transition from Hollywood starlet to an English lady, at least physically. I made all the girls laugh as I waddled in front of them chanting ‘The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.’

  Jon agreed my accent still needed a little work, but not to worry myself too much, he assured me I wou
ld grow into the part. I was determined to nail it, spent days and nights going over and over each page, spent a week with a voice coach, becoming best friends with my tongue. It was tedious and repetitive, but necessary if I stood any real chance of not looking a fool, not being another American who failed at being un-American. Besides, it wasn’t like I could deviate from it, it wasn’t one of those movies, no room for ad-libbing. But I was used to rehearsing, Max drilled that into me, said spontaneity only comes from practice and planning, so ever since I always made sure I knew more than just a character’s lines, trying to find that “magical accident”, as Max called them. That is why I’d spend the bulk of my days pronouncing my Hs and not rolling my Rs, lots of “How now, brown cow,” looking inside my character’s head, working out what she was about to gain or lose. Making her human, making her more than words on a page.

  I heard the sound of my doorbell.

  I was neither dressed nor expecting guests, I nearly didn’t answer it. I shouldn’t have worried, it was only a courier, another box. I was getting a couple of boxes every couple of days, mostly clothes, sometimes make-up and jewellery, occasionally a new camera or a new pair of shoes, God knows where they came from.

  What’s worse is, I never opened most of them. Just because they were free, didn’t mean I particularly wanted to wear them, didn’t mean I liked all of them, even if they were designer. Not that I was being ungrateful, it’s just I had so much of my life already planned out for me, I thought choosing my own clothes would not be one of them. It was strange, this constant box after box of gifts, I should have thanked them. But I didn’t think for one minute the gesture was meant for me, it was not for my gain. I knew why I was being lavished with such things – if I wore it, if I endorsed it, better still if I was photographed in it, then every girl in the world would want one too and some man behind a desk would make his millions, and his company would go from small change to global. Perhaps I’m over-exaggerating, a tad cynical, but perhaps I wasn’t. Not to matter, Sally normally stole a few garments anyway, I always let her rifle through, take what she wanted, some lipstick or eye shadow. I could take some home with me when I go back to LA, I thought, let Mom choose what she liked, perhaps send a big box to my sister, we were about the same size. Worst case, I could donate them, give them to some flea market, just what the starving and homeless needed, accessories and red-carpet heels.

  I walked back to the front room quickly. I avoided the hallway, gave me the creeps at night, big and full of echoes. I wasn’t used to such a big house; my apartment back home was the size of the kitchen. Frank and Sally always offered to stay, and sometimes they did, but I insisted I wanted this to be my house, that I didn’t need babysitting, even though I was still a little scared of the dark.

  On the rug, as I returned to the task of buffing my nails, a pile of nail clippings about to be thrown on the open fire. My new bad habit: pistachio shells, dirty tissues, anything that could sizzle in the coals. This time it was toenail clippings, gross I know, hardly demure, in fact I was just doing it to pass the time, clock-watching. Tonight, I had plans.

  Jon thought it a good idea to all go out for a bite to eat, a nice way to get to know one another, said he’d take us to his new favourite restaurant in the world. So I’d spent the last hour getting myself ready, tending to my eyebrows, listening to hip hop. The only thing I hadn’t done was decide on what to wear, it was a dilemma I faced every morning and night. I’d underestimated the cold here, it was a temperature that didn’t make sense. How can such a blue sky be so cold at the same time? All I knew was, I would be in layers. I went upstairs, lights on of course to seek out appropriate attire, when what I’d most like to have worn was a fucking duvet.

  Luckily Devon wasn’t Melrose Avenue, and Jon assured me the Oyster Shack was the sort of place you could turn up barefoot and still be greeted with a smile and a bucket of crab claws. Frank told me there was quite a big surf scene around here, lots of little beaches and coves, seen lots of board shops around the place, said he was itching to hunt them down. I could get it arranged, I thought, I’d be a little rusty, hire out some beach. No, scratch that, sounded like far too much planning and knowing my luck I’d turn up and there would be no surf, probably upset the locals, and probably stir up too much media attention. Better to leave the quiet paradises untouched, I didn’t want to be the one to bring the whole of Hollywood’s scum life to their shores. I looked inside my suitcases. I still hadn’t unpacked, I didn’t think I ever would, tried to find something understated and above all warm.

  Frank messaged me asking if he needed to wear a suit. I very nearly told him yes, so he’d be the only one in a tux. Sally was coming tonight too, not that she’d be great company, I’m not even sure why I invited her. My radio interviews hadn’t gone down well, admittedly I wasn’t in the best of moods at the time. I suppose in hindsight I regretted some of the things I said but, hey, it had been a long day, I’d just done a six-hour photo shoot, and the guy interviewing was an absolute arsehole, it was obvious his only intention was to create a headline. He asked me some dumb questions about sexuality in celebrity, said I was more concerned with the current Nigerian military coup. Even asked me about the legalisation of cannabis and I really had to bite my tongue not to shout “Hell, yeah.” What else? He asked me about Obama; by that point I was bored of staying quiet, told him I’d wasted my vote, that it wasn’t progress, just blind hope, that I’d vote Republican next time. As you could probably tell, I wasn’t the interview they expected, and was certainly not the interview Sally had requested either. Someone blogged that I sounded stoned. Arseholes. Try jet-lagged, overworked, sleep-deprived.

  Now, after my telling-off by all in the Goodridge camp, Sally would be watching my every move – no white wine for me. I might try and get her drunk, I thought, sit her next to Frank, see what might happen. Actually, Sally would be doing me a favour, I’m not a particularly good drunk, some people flourish under the influence, me, I revert into myself, don’t think before I speak, get aggressive and even more opinionated – I was better without it. Now pot on the other hand, well that I did miss, a friend I knew in Brentwood grew the best hydroponic weed around, that I could quite happily sit and smoke all day.

  Fucking hell, my third movie, some God-awful saga set in space, months of set work and green screen. Me and a couple of co-stars, I won’t mention names, well we smoked a hell of a lot when we made that movie. I only ever saw the film once, thank God, it was embarrassing, my eyes in a permanent glaze. Critics blamed the script, but I think some of it rested on the actors too. Still, it made everyone lots of money, even though it was awful. There was actually talk of a sequel, which worryingly I may still have to do as I am contractually obliged. Worst case, if it happened, I’d speak to my agent, try and worm my way out of that one, ask if I could be killed off in the first scene – an impressive death, explosions and laser guns. I’d never died in a movie yet, so perhaps it could be my first, I’d have to practise my gasps and chokes. All I got from that movie was bad memories and a big pay cheque, which shouldn’t be anyone’s motivation, least not at the start of your career. Least it paid for Frank’s medical bills. I hoped this movie would be different, the money was certainly less. I felt happy here though, content. “No hiccups,” I overheard someone say the other day, sounded a good way of putting things. Tonight, tomorrow, the next few months, my aim was just “No hiccups.” A simpler life, like it used to be, before Lilly Goodridge, when I was just Lilly, Lilly from Silver Lakes. Before Max.

  Reporters and journos, no matter if instructed not to, still asked me about him on every single interview, directly and indirectly, and I could see why people would be interested, and I didn’t expect that to stop soon, not so soon after all the turbulence. But even though I had no cause to be loyal, whenever questioned about Max and my relationship with Max I always did my best to talk of the good in him. And there was a lot of good in Max Salter, not many saw it, but I had, a
nd I didn’t feel it would make anything better by making him an enemy, that was one thing I would not want to be. I’d known him three years and one thing I knew was, life was easier with him on my side, and that wasn’t fear talking – being loved by him was as complicated as being hated, the trick was somewhere in the middle, where he liked me enough to let me go, a clean break, without the need to haunt or hound me.

  God, how did things get so difficult?

  I was twenty when I met him, things were going well at that point, not in the career sense, but life was busy enough. My big sis had just got married and was expecting a little boy, Dad had gotten a bit part on some new daytime pilot on NBC. Me, I was doing OK, I’d gotten a new job over at the Dream Centre, felt good to help, I liked helping people, and the people there needed a lot of it, that and I was keeping up with my classes a couple of times a week. Dancing in a professional capacity was a world no longer available, it was now just a hobby, something I did after work, I was OK with that. It was Mom who had the issue with it, how much of a waste it was, both in time and money. Me, I was genuinely content with dancing for enjoyment rather than a pay cheque, not being up in front of all those stage lights suited me just fine.

  Now no one in Hollywood would have heard of Mr Maxwell Salter at that time, but in the circles I was in, everyone had heard mutterings of his arrival way before he turned up at our little dance school. And I was the only one who wasn’t caught up in all the hysteria.

  I’m going to be honest now – as much as I have tried since I was a little girl, all the hours spent practising, the years studying it at College, all the wanting in the world, I have never been a particularly good performer. Technical, but never natural; passionate, but quite ordinary. I wasn’t a natural exhibitionist, I hated the focus being on me, if only there’d been a way I could have danced alone with no one watching, then I would have been fine. But it was an art form meant to be observed and critiqued, live shows, auditions. It wasn’t for me, not the performance side at least. Came to reason that when rumour spread that a well-known theatre director was scouting dance schools for a lead actress in his first film, I was not in the least bit enthusiastic.