His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  Despite the empty bottles, popped corks, shot glasses, I wasn’t actually that drunk, even more surprisingly I made a start tidying the kitchen, poured myself the last of the wine, put on something chilled in the background, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned down the sides. I could’ve really gone for some pot, alcohol always made me want pot, one drug to another, though one was far less accessible round here. I wouldn’t know where to get pot even if I wanted to.

  It must’ve been around 2am, still I wasn’t tired. I grabbed a jacket, opened the kitchen door and stepped barefoot into the garden. It was no night to be out, the rain had stopped but the wind hadn’t, it whistled as I made way across the lawn. I’d started to really appreciate the calmness of this place, very Zen-like, how I’d imagined rehab, nothing to do, nothing of temptation, just time to think and a view to talk to. I didn’t stay out there long, till my fingers went numb and my teeth chattered.

  “Night everyone,” I shouted at the wind and anyone else that might have been out there, sheep, ducks, paps, it was lights out for everyone. I locked the kitchen door behind me, turned the lights off, made my way upstairs through the dark of the house, past the shadows and ghosts, too merry to care which.

  I removed my eyelashes in front of the mirror, watching myself turn from beautiful to plain, before getting into a cold bed, in my big bedroom, in my big house, just me. Felt myself starting to cry, though I wasn’t sure why, I had plenty of reasons to cry, my job, my parents, my ex-boyfriend, my dead baby. Got myself into a bit of state, beyond sad, an urge to be anything but alone.

  Let’s just say that I messaged someone, told him to get here quick, someone I worked with, dreamy eyes and big shoulders, and let’s say he may have come over and at the door he didn’t talk, he just took me upstairs, and we had sex, and it was great and long overdue, it wasn’t romantic, but passionate and quick, quick in a good way, and quick again a second, and a third time, and let’s just say on the third time we did it by the window, stood up, curtains open, the fields and trees in front of me, in full view for all to see, cameras or no cameras, paps or no paps. I couldn’t have cared less, and he left and that was that, and the morning after I would be in bed thinking it over, probably a drunken mistake, but I wasn’t that drunk, in fact pretty much stone-cold sober, and would it have been out of character? Probably be the most in-character thing I’d done in a long time, and that is what everyone wanted wasn’t it? The real Lilly Goodridge, I knew I would feel better for it, and if there were repercussions, then I would welcome them with open arms, anything to feel different than I did at that exact moment.

  Or maybe I didn’t do any of those things, maybe instead of the fantasy – Rogan, the sex, sex like in the movies, up against walls, screams of passion – maybe instead I just cried a while longer, lay awake till bad thoughts turned to sleep.

  I couldn’t work out which was worse, or better. Neither, both were equally as tragic.

  * * *

  The next morning, well, the next morning was horrendous, worse than horrendous. There was an argument between me and Frank, a big one, one of the worst we’d had and we’d had a fair few, not like this one though, this was bad. ‘Bad’ you don’t always get back up from, ‘bad’ that sits unresolved till someone backs down or apologizes, or never speaks to you again – all were equally as conceivable.

  I decided to fly back home, packed a few things, told only those that needed to know, Sally obviously, Jon too, let them know I wasn’t deserting them. I could tell neither were too happy, but I wasn’t asking, I was telling, and at that exact moment I couldn’t have given a fuck if either told me never to come back, I was past caring.

  I just needed to be home, needed to see friends, needed to speak to my mom and dad, speak to them both, work out what happened. True to form, you could say, I’d ran away again, but I’d be running back soon, that I swore to both Sally and Jon. Just needed LA for a while, to feel that American sun again, make sense of things, a week to get my shit together, come back to England with a new focus. Sally said I’d come back worse, warned me about Max, said me being in the same city again was a bad idea, that I would do something I would regret. She was probably right, but whether I would prove her wrong or otherwise I was coming back regardless. Whether or not I’d want to was a different story, as would what I’d be coming back to.

  Part Three

  Tom

  My office/April/shot 91

  13

  There was a knock, then a rattle of keys.

  “Good God,” she sniffed, wafting her hands as she opened windows.

  “What time is it?” came from under the covers.

  “Time to get up.”

  “How’s the hand?”

  “Healing.” She was already cleaning things. “Bloody chip pan.”

  “Don’t worry about my room, it’s my mess not yours.”

  “Yes, but it’s my room.”

  “Dot. I’ll do it. It will be spick and span, I promise. I need to do some washing today. I’ll bring my clothes down later and you can show me how to work the machine.”

  “No, I wouldn’t dream of it. We don’t let paying guests go backstage, even you. Besides, it isn’t a man’s job to clean and wash.”

  “The world has changed, Dot. Equal rights. I’m a modern man.”

  “Not in this house, you’re not.”

  “You look busier than normal, Dot.”

  “Got a bus load of Americans arriving any time soon. Rooms to clean and beds to be made.”

  “Americans?”

  “We are being invaded, Tom.”

  “Do you normally have Americans?”

  “Can’t say we do. Must be something going on round here I’m not aware of,” she said, making my bed. “A royal visit, perhaps. What you up to today? Not being idle I hope.”

  “Working.”

  “On a Sunday? How horrid. Well keep wrapped up,” she said. “I want you downstairs in thirty minutes. Porridge and melon today, as requested.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You sure you don’t want some fried bread? Cheer you up a bit?”

  “No, porridge and melon is fine.”

  “Will I see you later or are you going to be back the wrong side of dinner again?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t imagine it will be too late.”

  “Well make sure you eat. Knock on my door if you need something making up. I’ll make a start on that muddy pile of yours later once all these Yanks have been fed,” she said closing the door, the little tornado moving room to room, as I fell back into my bed and tried to close my eyes.

  Woken up by gulls again this morning so I was in a bad mood already, I’d barely slept, last night was a late one with not much reward, as were the last few nights. I surveyed my floor – it was disgraceful, plates, camera equipment, muddy boots, clothes, they all needed washing or dusting or wiping. I’d fallen back into teenage habits, back at university all over again, surviving on fifty-pence noodles and wearing underwear for more days than I should.

  On the TV, all talk was of saving the country, I guaranteed Mum would have been embroiled in all this election shit, one thing she loved was a debate, especially where she got to choose a side to hate and shout at. Me, I didn’t recognize either candidate or their policies, let alone whether I’d vote red, blue or yellow. Still, the noise of men selling how good they were and how bad the other was my morning soundtrack.

  I closed the windows, quickly investigated the sky. Most of my mornings started with the assessment of the weather. Today looked nice, which was good news for many reasons, meant I wouldn’t get rained on, nothing worse than being damp and bored, also made getting a decent shot more probable if Lilly decided to come out and play.

  Who the hell was I kidding? I hadn’t gotten a decent shot since I’d got here, I’d got plenty of shots, volume wasn’t a problem, just the content. I wa
s far from front page news, Goodridge feeds duck, troubled actress makes daisy chain. I didn’t have the balls to show Vince, I already knew it would make him angry, or angrier, better to give him nothing than show up with proof I was failing.

  There was a pattern forming to my failure, a routine of just watching, watching her read, watching her eat, watching her be on her own, most times I’d do the same. Read when she read, ate when she ate, sharing each other’s company but just on different sides of the fence. There were some days when I wouldn’t even remove the lens cap, there had been a few times where I’d even fallen asleep, though to be fair Lilly was asleep too, the two of us having naps in the midday shade. Occasionally I’d get angry with myself, think of the money I wasn’t making, try to act all cut-throat and Vince-like, start concocting ways to bring some scandal to her door. But I couldn’t think of any, more often than not I was back to mirroring Lilly, watching her every move, trying to work out what made her tick, why she smiled when with company, but looked so sad and beaten when just by herself.

  The only time my job got hard was when she was on the move. Most of her working week was pretty predictable, her hours on set may have varied, some days she’d be finished and back home for dinner in the garden, but every so often she’d leave in the dark and get home in the dark. I guessed it depended on the scene she was shooting, how many takes, how often she screwed up. Regardless, I knew pretty much her on and off days, don’t ask me how but I managed to get access to the daily call sheets every now and then, turned out if you hang out in the same pubs as some of the film crew long enough, they don’t mind keeping a film fan in the loop if you keep their glasses full. Good thing was, it meant I knew roughly when to expect Lilly to leave and when she might arrive back, made planning my day a little less ambiguous.

  It was her days off I had to earn my money, when I knew I had to prepare myself for the question mark which was where Lilly may go off to next. Days like today, weekends when Lilly wasn’t satisfied with staying at home and wanted to explore further afield than her garden wall.

  That reminded me, I would need some change, learnt that lesson the hard way on that one, first week on the chase and without any coins I parked on a verge, came back three hours later with a sixty pound fine and a grinning parking attendant. I very quickly realised that any place worth visiting here involved paying for the privilege and it was a mistake I never made again.

  It had been a steep learning curve becoming paparazzi, lots of trial and error. Things you don’t think about, like how to charge your phone in the middle of a field, camera shutter response time, the importance of lens cleaner fluid, the life of a battery, the weight of a torch.

  I mean I had a few successes. Take binoculars – Vince thought I was a mug for the amount I spent in that little shop, not to mention the thirty miles I drove to get them. But my father always taught me the importance of decent raw materials, at least that was my justification for the extravagance. 8x25, multi-coated optics, man in the shop said it was voted Compact Binocular of the Year, I must have missed that awards show. I did feel bad after I bought them, though, it was money I could’ve sent home to Mum and Molly, but hey, short-term loss, long-term gain, if I was going spend most of my day staring through them I had to make sure they would do the job.

  But I’d made my mistakes too, I’d like to say I didn’t turn up those first few days in my Converse and jeans but, yes, I was that naive. Turned out denim and canvas didn’t do all that well when the clouds opened and I quickly realised there was no room for fashion in wet country, now I was head-to-toe black, head-to-toe weatherproof, too.

  Another lesson – don’t make friends with other paparazzi. I’d met one, Ludo, I’d seen others, half a dozen, making themselves known, in their little swarms, shouting and wrestling for better smiles and angles but Ludo was the only one I’d actually spoken to. He wasn’t pleasant either, a big-mouth who couldn’t be trusted, but he attempted conversation whenever our paths crossed and I had no choice but to respond and play along with our friendship. I didn’t like the way he talked about Lilly, or any woman for that matter. He referred to them as “it”, which at first I put down to pigeon English, but turned out was just blatant discrimination. He gave me some pot, said it helped with the late nights, I took it off him, but I hadn’t touched it since, probably still in my coat or car. Thank God, he hadn’t a clue where Lilly was staying, none of them did, although it felt like it was only a matter of time. Not that my upper hand made a difference, I may have known something all the others didn’t, but I still had nothing to show for it and I was sure if Ludo knew where she lived there would be a hell of a lot more gossip being sold.

  By now the bath had run. I’d managed to find some complimentary shortbread by the coffee sachets, biscuits in the bath, Jesus fucking Christ, I’d hit a low. I smelt of sheep shit, which should be no surprise seeing as I spend most of my time surrounded by both sheep and their faeces. They, too, had taken a mild interest in my location and when it rained they tended to congregate under my tree for shelter. They hadn’t done so in a while, since the good weather, not since I’d brought the dog with me, not that he’d be anything of a threat. Bringing the dog was nothing to do with Vince, by the way, more of a favour for Dot, also gave me a little company too. He didn’t do much, just sat under my feet, raising his head only when he was being handed bread crusts or sharing dog biscuits with the sheep. What a sight, me and my animals – Dr Doolittle – ironic, as that was literally what I did most days.

  Under the water I inspected my belly, still not what it used to be, but better than before. I’d gained weight here, not a lot but enough, all the sitting, all the stodge and sugar. Dot’s packed lunches were hardly small, had to ask her nicely to stop packing me all things butter and cream, which she did begrudgingly, sulked as scones and pasties were replaced with fruit and nuts as Dot continued to swear real men shouldn’t be fed like livestock. She reminded me of my Mum, I told her that, she laughed, agreed I needed mothering. It was funny, Dot’s husband Alfred warned me that there was a strong chance I would be wrapped in cotton wool by his wife, not that I’d stand in her way. Predictably, I became the boy and she became the parent. Funnily enough, though thorough in investigating my choice of coat, what time I wanted dinner, what time I got home, Dot hadn’t ever questioned my daily goings-on. I’d planned for it, had some ridiculous story about being wildlife photographers which could be argued had an element of truth to it, but so far, she hadn’t asked or cared – more preoccupied with the portions on my plate or the condition of my room.

  I stepped out of the bath and wrapped myself in a towel quickly. Weather changed quick here, like last night, crazy, sun, then wind, then hailstones. I didn’t recognize Lilly’s friend, she arrived not long after me, she didn’t leave till the early hours, sounded like they had a good time, she got picked up by a taxi, looked pretty tanked, shouting and giggling. I didn’t stay much longer myself, watched the house till the lights went, till Lilly’s bedroom went dark. Hence why I was in no real rush to get over to hers today, I guessed her hangover would last till lunch, so least I had a little bit of Sunday to myself before I turned Secret Agent.

  * * *

  Dot came over to take away my plate of melon skins, made some remark about my beard needing seeing to before heading off to clear another table. Then my phone rang.

  “Hi, Vince, you OK?

  “Oh, I’m peachy.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Cos it’s one in the morning arsehole, that’s why.”

  “Late time to call me. Something wrong?”

  “You tell me, Tommy. Where are you?”

  “The house.”

  “You’re at the cottage?”

  “Yep. Been here about an hour,” I said, as Dot poured me another coffee.

  “You are there right now?”

  “Yep, up bright and early.”

  “W
hat can you see?”

  “Erm…” scrambling for lies. “Frank loading blankets and bags into the back of the car. I’m gonna need to shoot, Vince, looks like they are heading off somewhere.”

  “Interesting. LG there, too is she?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “What she doing? She’s inside I guess.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Just got off the phone with a guy I know from the airline. Said she’s getting picked up from her house by one of their chauffeurs in about an hour. So, unless you’re seeing suitcases then you’re a fucking liar.”

  There was silence.

  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I’d ask you why but I doubt you know jack shit.”

  “She flying back home?”

  “Yep.”

  “Back for good?”

  “No. Return ticket, so I’ve been informed. Back in a week.”

  “Why is she leaving?”

  “I should be fucking asking you that same question. That’s not important. What is important is you. And what I should do with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Vince. I was about to head over, honest.”

  “Fuck you’re sorry. You need to put this right.”

  “What, fly to LA? I’m not…”

  “I’ll watch her this end. I’ll do this myself. Like I have a fucking choice. You are useless.”

  He went quiet.

  “You firing me, I guess?”

  “I fucking should be, Tommy.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I don’t give a fuck. Go home, take a week off, try and sort your head out, Tommy. Take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror cos at the minute, Tommy, you are this fucking close. I don’t like fucking liars, Tommy, especially ones that lose me money.”

  “I’m sorry.”