His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  It was a beautiful dress, the stylist brought a rail of options the previous night. I never quite know where they come from, the stylist or the dresses. Not that I was complaining, the jewellery I’d be wearing tonight could have bought me a small condo in Claremont, made me nervous, I hoped they were insured.

  I was actually looking forward to tonight, I hadn’t gotten dressed up in ages. I couldn’t even remember the last carpet event I’d been to and it would be the first time I’d be back in the glare of photographers and microphones again. On the phone, I jokingly asked Sally if I had won an award, she didn’t even reply. Don’t worry, I told her, I knew the drill well enough, look the part, don’t fall over, not too much Moët. If only real life was that simple.

  I walked over to my balcony, past the piano. Yes, this room had its very own piano, I had no idea why. I didn’t know who the hotel was catering for, as it certainly wasn’t any of my doing. I kept feeling the urge to tap a few keys, attempt to play it, but I hadn’t yet. A waste for something so beautiful to be sat unused. It may not even work, it might have been for display only, like me. I’m kidding.

  Outside the window it still looked gloomy. I hoped it would brighten up for this evening as there is nothing worse than an awards show in the rain. I looked across London, regardless of the weather it always looked so tempting, like something was happening and I was about to miss it. Technically today was my day off, I should have gone and seen the sights, a bit of shopping, a bit of adventure, something a bit more cultural than shaving my legs and watching a weeks’ worth of Coronation Street. I’d missed quite a lot about England, more than I thought, not just their TV. I was looking forward to seeing my little cottage again and turning back into Betty Crocker.

  In LA I’d hardly cooked, hardly read either. My Englishness, like my jet lag, disappeared after a few days and it wasn’t long before I fell back into my old ways of sushi breakfast and liquid lunches. But it wasn’t all glitz and glamour, I saw a lot of family and friends, got all the cuddles and love I needed before I had to wave them all off again.

  The flight back to LA wasn’t great, bad turbulence over the Atlantic. I’ve never flown well at the best of the times, especially when alone, with no one to cling onto, but I had other reasons to be anxious, knowing a lot of people would not be happy or impressed with my decision to run home without warning or reason. I did my best to not think about it, caught up on sleep, drank the free champagne, read a little. I even bumped into a photographer I’d worked with before, he was sat a few rows behind from me, we talked briefly as we stretched our legs in the aisle. He was nice, kept calling me sister, telling me his favourite gay bars in Silver Lake – apparently, he’s taking me to Faultline. I agreed but we both knew it was a promise neither of us would be expected to keep.

  With my return home so unplanned I was surprised there were paparazzi as I walked my luggage through the foyer. They couldn’t have all been there for me, which quite quickly I found they weren’t, a pop star had just landed at another terminal, Britney Spears, so I was told. I was just their pleasant surprise, and even though I was hassled, it was a level of harassment I could cope with and I managed to get home with minimal fuss. Felt sorry for Miss Spears, taking the brunt of the chaos, though I was sure she was more used to it than me.

  It was so nice to be at home, saw a lot of my old friends, drank far too much wine, went to a few clubs, what else? Dad took me out in the car I got him for his birthday, drove up San Gabriel Valley with the top down. Didn’t see a lot of Dad whilst I was back, most days he was busy with work, or finding work should I say. I rang my sister too, spoke for hours, cried a bit, both of us booked time in our diaries to visit, be nice to see my little niece before she gets too old for me to recognize.

  Had some quality time with my mom, we did have a little argument halfway through the day, something trivial, made up soon after. Mine and my mother’s relationship was a strange one, we are better apart, better in small doses, we’ve never had that typical bond. I didn’t want an older sister, I already had one of those, what I wanted was a mother, a normal one, not a drinking buddy, or someone to go to a bar with. But as I said, all in all I had a nice day with her, got her full, undivided attention for a change. It started with taking Ringo for a nice walk over at Runyon Canton, where just like a typical Goodridge male he attempted to dry hump anything that moved. Later I took Mom to the ArcLight for a touch of nostalgia, a late showing of Kelly’s Heroes, sneaked in, disguised in our flats and hats. My late grandpa was big into cinema, fought the Nazis too, meant as a family we’d watched a lot of war movies over the years and westerns too. It was fair to say that, with a mom who danced, a dad who acted and Gramps the war vet, over the years I’d sat on many laps, watched a hell of a lot of movies, an unhealthy amount.

  I still got excited by the movies, even my own, the trailers, the smell of popcorn, the end credits. To see my name roll down the screen, whilst the audience left their seats, always gave me goosebumps. That love doesn’t change when you become a famous actress, in fact I was worse than ever, it doesn’t diminish just because you’re up there yourself.

  What else happened whilst I was home? I pottered around the house a lot, swam in the pool, tried to get my tan back. I’d become an English rose and my paleness didn’t suit the West Coast, so I tried to stay outdoors at every opportunity. I did cook a little I suppose, made us huevos rancheros one morning, cooked up a few mean T-bones in the smoker the night before I flew back. I joked with Mom I’d buy them an Aga, it’s the only way to warm socks I told her.

  I managed to get a bit of one-to-one time with Mom and Dad separately, too. Their divorce is already a done deal, both of them hell-bent on seeing it through and quickly too. Didn’t know what to expect, thought Mom would be in tears, Dad a broken man, but they were all smiles and happiness. Too happy, splitting up should not be so amicable, I’d have preferred to come back to tears and tantrums and custody battles. Least it would have showed a bit of passion, like hearts had been broken, rather than handshakes and high fives. I didn’t think Mom and Dad realised how much it had affected me and big sis, for them it was all bright futures, but for us it was the fucking end of the world. It should have been their end of world too, when in fact they acted like it was the start.

  I ended up going out that night, went a bit crazy, ended up getting with some hot ball player, which was silly – one, he was far too young for me; two, he had a girlfriend, a pretty famous one too. More drama, more front pages.

  What else? I had to sort my shit out too, money wise, bills and more bills. I tell you the more money I earned the less grasp I had of where it went. I had a feeling I was being robbed by someone, probably the state, the IRS, probably my agent. I never read contracts, so I had no idea legally how much he was allowed to screw me over, I didn’t want to know, it was better to be robbed blind. He rang me whilst I was back in LA, I’d been offered a lucrative commercial for TV in Japan, some drink full of caffeine, I didn’t ask too much. Big money apparently so I’d probably have no choice but to do it, even though I’d said before I never trusted artists who sold out. People are suspicious enough of us already, we are supposed to be role models, the embodiment of someone to be looked up to. I shouldn’t be telling people what toilet paper to buy or what fizzy drinks to rot their teeth with.

  Sad that I had more offers for advertising than I did movie roles. I’d become a trademark, a commodity, a face on a mug, a pencil case, one day I might even be a doll. I’d always wanted to be a doll, see it on the shelves of Kitson’s. Princess Lilly, Ballerina Lilly, Safari Lilly. I wouldn’t put it past my publicist, as long as it made money they couldn’t care less how I was sold, as long as it promoted my brand. Brand was the big word in the Goodridge Camp, I never liked it, made me feel like a barcode. Still, for the sake of taking a sip of something fizzy, saying “Konichiwa” to a camera, I could sort myself out financially, take a year out, invest, do something for me.
As if that would happen, my career was a wheel that wouldn’t stop turning, there was too much money to be made, for far too many people.

  It was sad to say goodbye though, Mom came to the airport with me, Dad wasn’t around, audition or golf, I couldn’t remember the lie he’d made up. Still, Mom waved me off, I cried a little, not in front of her. Luckily, I slept through most of the flight, arrived in London feeling fuzzy and cold. I already missed home, thankfully my homesickness didn’t last long, I was too busy to be homesick, too busy for most things. Could be a good thing, I thought, with all the shit going on with Frank.

  Still no news on that one. We hadn’t talked for over a week, not since the morning I left, not since our big argument, I thought it would’ve blown over, they normally did, but it hadn’t. Frank was a stubborn old mule, and I’d never been one to back down either, I had tried to make up, honestly I had, tried to ring a few times, dropped him a few messages from my cell. Made me sad that he never responded, I guess he still saw me as guilty, no matter how much I told him otherwise.

  It all started the morning after Kate’s visit, surprisingly I wasn’t hung over, and even more surprisingly I was up at sunrise with a mop and bucket. I’d managed to clean a fair amount the night before but the remains of mine and Kate’s drunken festivities extended throughout the whole house, not just the kitchen.

  Frank arrived not long after I’d woken up, he brought with him pop tarts and fresh juice, and although at first shocked at the trail of mess, after his first coffee he was helping me clean too. He was in quite a talkative mood, sounded like he and Sally had a nice evening, trying new food and old brandy. Took her for a walk afterwards, past the boats, found a pub, drank some more. I asked if there was any romance, he neither agreed nor disagreed. It was nice cleaning the house with Frank, dustpan and brush, buckets of soapy water. It didn’t feel like a chore as we talked, stopping for more coffee, talking some more, then cleaning again. Till he found something in the wash room.

  I tried to explain it wasn’t mine, I tried to explain I never took any. I tried to explain it must’ve been Kate’s, that she must have taken it without me knowing, but Frank wouldn’t listen. He thought the worst of me, to him I’d broken a promise and betrayed his trust. Things got a bit heated and I said some horrible things. It was a strange argument, it wasn’t even an argument, Frank hardly spoke a word, it was his eyes that did most of his talking. I’d never seen him look so disappointed in me and that was saying something as I had a way of disappointing people, especially Frank.

  Well, he left, so did I, he went off in his car, I went off in an aeroplane.

  Sally said to leave him be, said she’d speak to him, get him to calm down and come to his senses, which I thought by now he would have, but he hasn’t. So, for the time being I was Frank-less, left to fend for myself. I thought Sally may have demanded that I had some additional security, that she wouldn’t feel comfortable me being so isolated, so vulnerable. But so far, she hadn’t. We both knew my agent wanted Frank out for a new younger model – if he caught a whiff of this then Frank would be unemployed and neither me nor Sally wanted that, this was our little secret, one we had to sort out quickly.

  Thank God Sally had my back, I explained it all and she believed me, I couldn’t see why Frank couldn’t have done the same. Sally wasn’t best pleased with me running back off to LA at the time, but she could see it wasn’t up for discussion, even sorting out flights and transfers for me so I could leave on the same day. I even offered for Sally to come back too, she could stay with my family, or go back to New York but she decided instead to stay. Had things that needed sorting with her family in England so I promised her I’d be back in a week.

  I’m still super-pissed with Kate and I told her so. She apologized, said it was clumsy and stupid, but before I had a chance to get mad she told me she was pregnant. She was over the moon of course, she couldn’t believe it, complete shock she said, I guessed it wasn’t planned. Apparently, morning after our little party she found herself throwing up a lot, thought it was alcohol we’d drunk or something she’d eaten, few days later she was still being sick, it was then she took a pregnancy test. She actually got quite upset on the phone, said she was embarrassed, said it was shameful, the thought of putting cocaine into her body knowing there would’ve been a tiny baby inside her. She knew she’d done wrong and agreed it was stupid, it didn’t need me to make her feel worse. Kate’s life was always full of drama, most of it her own doing. She may have worn her pearls and French braid but she certainly was no preacher’s daughter. She wasn’t shy about her wealth, though she talked of it like a burden. Her father owned one of the largest vineyards in Napa County and without knowing it you’ve probably held, or owned or shared a bottle with her surname on the label. Kate had always gone out of her way to not be what was expected of her, the good little rich girl, she was anything but. But now she was reformed, funny what a blue line on a pregnancy stick could do, crazy how things can change in such a short space of time, one minute Tequila shots on my kitchen table, coke off my toilet seat, the next mat leave and trimesters. I was happy for her, she would be a great Mom, well I hoped so, this baby would be the reality check she needed, if this didn’t change her then nothing would. In the end, I managed to twist Kate’s arm to ring Frank to explain the situation, but he didn’t answer any of her calls, so she sent a letter instead, explaining it was all her doing. I don’t know if he’d received it, he hadn’t replied.

  It was getting cold now, so I closed the balcony door, went into the bathroom, sat on the chaise longue. I had a lot to do and not a lot of time, so the one thing I shouldn’t have been doing was relaxing. My cell buzzed. Two messages.

  One from Sally, wishing me good luck for the awards show, not that I needed luck, not like I was nominated for anything. It didn’t sound like she was having a great time visiting family, we had a long talk a few days before, I told her to take her another week off, not that she wanted it, but I thought it was about time she spent time with this family she never talked about. I’m sure she’d have rather been in London, or travelling back down to Devon with me, but I assured her I could fend for myself, promised her to have the cottage all spick and span when she returned, balloons and banners. She regretfully agreed.

  I was quite looking forward to my week on my own back at the cottage. I had many plans, making jello, reorganizing my closet, yoga. But left to my own devices I would most likely just end up trashing the place, eating junk and watching junk. That’s the problem with having chaperones, having things done for you, every minor detail planned out. It’s reversed me from an independent woman, back to an idle teenager. I hoped this week on my own might kick-start my adulthood again, a rehab of home baking and decluttering felt like the right thing to do.

  There was a knock at the door, hair and make-up, I let them in and they started to set up all their equipment as I checked the other message on my cell.

  Another one from Kate, she’d been messaging me all day, probably something to do with nausea. I’d already prescribed her all things ginger, ginger tea, ginger biscuits, grated ginger. God knows why I was suddenly the expert. I read her message, a warning that Max was in town, a warning I’d heard days before, still didn’t mean I wanted to be reminded.

  20

  I was in the limousine, took another sip of champagne, then another. I’d been in a complete mess the last few hours, the stylist came and went, the make-up girl too, I’m sure I looked wonderful but I’d neither noticed nor looked.

  Whatever precautions I’d taken to get through tonight without losing my shit had failed. I thought I’d psyched myself up, given myself the pep talk, but the closer we got to the Opera House the more I felt like bursting into tears. When I first heard Max would be in London I did ask Sally if I could give tonight a miss, make out I was ill, food poisoning, anything contagious. But none of my threats were taken seriously and as Sally kept reassuring me, he probably wouldn
’t even be there. Kate agreed too.

  A small part of me very nearly rang him, to avoid all the guesswork and just flat out ask him if he was coming. But I didn’t – one, it would inflate his ego and two, it would undo all my hard work this past month. Besides deep down I knew Max wouldn’t choose here and now for us to meet in public for the first time since that drama at the party, why would Max want to bring scandal and front-page news to his own front door? But there were many sides to Max and I didn’t know which one had flown to London or what were his intentions, be it avoid me or find me. I just had to prepare myself for the slim chance that he might at least try. Turned out I hadn’t prepared enough, judging by my heart rate as the car stopped and the screams started.

  The rest was a blur, flashing lights, my name shouted, smiling, waving. Men in suits ushered me somewhere else, towards a wall of press and reporters, microphones put in my face, questions fired, then more questions. I answered them but I didn’t know how well, I’d probably be slated, I’m sure they’d write I looked dazed and confused, out of it, they’ll say, probably say I was on drugs. I wished I was on drugs.

  I was ushered inside, handed a glass of champagne as I searched for a face I might know, or know too well, luckily, I didn’t have to wait for long.

  * * *

  “How do I look, Miss Goodridge?”

  “No corduroy tonight then, Jon?”

  “No, I felt this a tad more appropriate, be it dreadfully uncomfortable. I do feel like Fred Astaire, though I doubt I’m as agile in this get-up, feel like I’m about to burst out of my cummerbund.”