by G J Morgan
“Lilly, you look cross. This wasn’t my intention.”
“You obviously think I’m doing a shit job.”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“You might as well have done.”
“Look, Lilly, let’s draw a line in the sand on all this. You’ve got today and tomorrow to get your head sorted till you’re back on set. Have a rest and we’ll take stock of things then, see how you are feeling and if we need to…” Jon stopped.
“Need to what, Jon? Fire me?”
“Oh God no, Lilly. See if we need to change things to make it better.”
I downed the last of the wine.
“Let’s change the subject.” Jon smiled. “Something a tad lighter. What plans have you for the weekend?”
I laughed. “Probably best you don’t know.”
“That sounds rather ambiguous.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Probably best I don’t know, then.”
Just then the manager came over, I assumed with the bill.
“Sorry to bother you, madam, but there seems to be some commotion out the front.”
“A commotion, where?” I said looking behind me.
“Lots of men with cameras. I don’t want to rush you, Miss Goodridge but it may be best for you to leave, before it turns nasty out there.
I looked at Jon. I could tell by his face he didn’t know how to deal with the situation.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can we leave round the back?”
“Yes, of course. Through the kitchen, I’d suggest.”
“Might be worth the calling the…” as I heard a police siren wail.
I looked at the manager and then to Jon, looked at all the children eating their cakes, the old ladies sipping their tea, their faces filled with fear, their little village turned from calm to chaos.
“I’m so sorry, Jon,” I said, getting up from my chair. “I’m so sorry everyone,” I added, as the manager started to guide me towards my escape.
26
I have a candle problem. That’s what I thought to myself as I stood back and looked at my assortment around the fireplace, the table, the windowsill. And it didn’t end there, they were all around the house, the kitchen, the bathroom, even the backyard. I don’t quite know how the obsession started, I blamed the cottage entirely, I never had this addiction back in LA, probably because I never stocked candles, or candle holders, or lighting matches. Here I had all three, and they were everywhere, scattered amongst various cupboards. Now I found it difficult to enjoy an evening without it being candlelit. Worse still, now I was buying the fucking things, as if I needed more, they had shops here dedicated to all things wax and wick. Now I was bringing home bigger candles, more elaborate holders and jars, now I even had a snuffer. But it looked pretty, inviting, human sacrifice may have sprung to mind, but it was cosy and at least it wouldn’t be me, it was normally the virgins that went first, or goats.
I walked back through the house, gave the beans another stir, opened the Aga to check the ribs, nearly grabbed a beer but didn’t as I stepped back outside, into the garden. The smell was grass, fresh cut, it stuck to my bare feet as I sank back down into my lounger. I took a deep breath. The sky was tinted, the sun was so bright today I’d spent most of it hidden behind my shades, think I’d even managed to burn my shoulders. England, I never knew you had it in you.
I looked down at my tummy, patted it with my hand. I’d lost weight, my boobs looked smaller too. Great, I’m sure the press would have a field day talking about how I’d lost a dress size, trying to work out what crazy-ass fad diet I’d been on so they could copy it. I’m sure publicists would decide one for me, some blood type or caveman diet. I guarantee they wouldn’t be honest, they wouldn’t tell the public it was down to stress and anxiety. Instead they’d lie and make out it was exercise and portion control, controlled anorexia has always been more socially acceptable than a poor emotional state, though both had the same desired result. Who gives a fuck as long as we were all thin, hey? I wouldn’t be after this meal, I had more barbecue in my oven than Bludso’s.
I felt myself yawn. Today had taken its toll, I started to count the tasks completed in my head: marinaded the meat, axed some wood, the lawn, packed the fridge with cold beers, unpacked the cold beers. Probably for the best, the records showed we weren’t at our best when intoxicated. I felt like the night needed to be one where our heads were clear and focused. I decided to move all the alcohol in the house into the pantry, somewhere out of reach, out of sight.
To my complete and utter shock, I’d found out too that the house didn’t have a barbecue – got a shitload of coal, but no barbecue. It was my own fault, I forgot momentarily I was in England, they probably never cooked outside. I had to go next door and ask the old guy if he had one, which luckily, he did, said he was surprised I hadn’t found one. He was really sweet, went out of his way to help carry it across. It looked like it was the highlight of his day, he told me about the area, intrigued by my house and garden, kept looking through the windows, said he hadn’t set foot in it in years, said it felt a little odd. I could tell he wanted to stop and chat and I’m sure if I’d have offered a pot of tea he would never have left, but I had too much to do, so thanked him for his help and the constant supply of eggs as he headed back towards his tiny cottage and clucking chickens.
Thank God for being busy, managed to take my mind off what happened earlier. I messaged Jon as soon as I got home, checked he got out unscathed, which thankfully he did. I was stupid going out on my own, sometimes I forget how much I need people like Frank, someone who could diffuse a situation, scare people off with just their sheer size. I hoped Sally would not catch wind of this, I certainly wouldn’t tell her, I didn’t need another telling-off today.
I looked across my garden, the whole me-and-Max thing in London had turned me a little paranoid, a little on edge, constantly felt like at any minute I would be found out. First few days I arrived back from London I checked around the perimeter of my garden, even climbed over the fence, walked around the back and front of the house, past all the sheep shit and mulch. But I never saw anything that proved someone might have been watching me, or had been. Didn’t help with my sleep either, which Jon had already seen first-hand.
It was a strange sensation to feel watched, to look out of my window and know amongst those trees and bushes and fields was a camera lens pointing back at me, maybe more than one, maybe none at all. But there was a comfort in it, too, knowing I might not be out here all alone. Though not in knowing who it was or how close they were willing to come.
I knew that must have sounded odd, I knew most people would’ve been ringing the police or checking in to the nearest hotel and most people would probably be right, I might indeed end up stabbed or murdered in my sleep and that would be my own fault. If this was a movie I would be screaming at the screen to run away too, but this was no horror movie. Instead I felt a comfort in knowing that there was someone out there, in fact I hoped there was someone out there. It would be more depressing if it was all just my own imagination, my mind playing tricks on me, that I’d made the whole thing up, that I was turning mad. That is what it does to people, after all, turns people deranged and senseless, it’s just a matter of when and how.
I’d need a quick shower soon, smelling my own armpit, not to mention the coal dust in my hair, the smell of raw meat still on my hands. Gotta sort my face out, it wasn’t ready for guests, or guest, I should say. I felt my hair, still felt as awful, my own fault, what was it with me and taking it out on my scalp? I have no idea where it stemmed from, but ever since Junior High I’d hacked at it, turned it red, orange, purple once when I was in my Limp Bizkit phase, surprised Mom didn’t send me off to rehab. She just knew it was my way of dealing with things, my little coping mechanism when things went bad, self-harm but not that leaves a scar.
Hence w
hy, on the day I arrived back from London, for a total of four hours I had peroxide hair. Don’t ask me how or why, I just felt like doing something drastic, make myself feel better. I thought turning myself Monroe would do the trick, which predictably, it didn’t. What the fuck had I done? I had filming the next day, I was an eighteenth-century duchess, not a fifties pin-up girl. I scrolled through my cell and luckily, I knew someone from the crew I could call, and with instructions and directions, one of the girls from hair and make-up arrived at my front door with a suitcase full of chemicals. She was brilliant, a life saver, spent the next few hours with my head over a bath whilst she fiddled with her potions till my hair resembled what it once was before. I felt such a dick, I apologized, offered to pay her, but she said not to worry, said it was our secret, asked instead for an autograph for her sister. I waved her off at the door, as she wheeled her trolley back to her car.
Panic over, my mini breakdown resolved, blonde back to brunette, no harm done. I didn’t think Jon would find out, but somehow, he had. At least Sally didn’t know, another secret she wouldn’t need to concern herself with. It would only worry her and she had enough to worry about, she was pretty occupied at the moment with the media shit storm back home.
I missed her not being here, but I suppose it was my own fault, it wasn’t her who kissed Max out in the open and I left her with no choice but to fly back to LA and defend my corner. Though from what she said it was all good news, apparently me and Max are what everyone is talking about; apparently, I may even have to fly back, put a voice to all the stories, let Jimmy Fallon interrogate me with a smile, let SNL poke fun at what my life had become, as long as the audience laughed.
Sally was quite pleased though – polarizing opinions, worshipped or detested, it was making all the right people smile, the fans, my agent, just not me. Me, I felt my career was going in a direction I didn’t want it to travel in. I’d need to sit down with everyone once this film wrapped, sort out where this career of mine was headed. Good luck on that one, Lilly, I thought. I got the impression my opinion was of the least concern in the world of profit and loss.
On a brighter note, Frank and I had talked, briefly. I asked him what he’d been up to, fishing mainly by the sound of it, charter fishing and reading, even gardening. Said his backyard was too grey, too much concrete and not enough colour and life. I agreed with him, I should know, I’d seen his backyard, forgotten pot plants and dead surfboards. Said living in an English cottage had turned him all green-fingered, he didn’t say but I think he missed us, or missed here, or both.
I’d never tell him this but I still felt let down by Frank, how he dealt with our argument. I’m sure when he returned we would both apologize for things we thought we did or did not say, explain both our actions. Only speaking for myself but the whole situation had left a bad taste. At first, I thought it was trust, but it wasn’t, I would always be able to trust Frank. I thought he would trust me a little more than he did, but we both knew I’d lied before, so I didn’t blame him for thinking I would again. What hurt the most for me was that he left, or didn’t follow me. And that was something he swore he would never do.
It’s funny the things you remember. Last year in his hospital bed, granted he was still probably pumped full of meds, I told him off for nearly dying and he swore he would never leave me, that no matter where, he would always be there and it wasn’t just words, he meant what he said, and I believed it.
Mine and Frank’s relationship was a unique one, it would be easy for a father and daughter comparison, me being the daughter he’d never had and he being the father I’d always wanted, so I would agree that it was similar. I just think we needed each other, that’s all. It wasn’t always like that. At first, I hated him and I don’t think he was very fond of me either. Party girl meets ex-navy, it was destined to be volatile and for the first month it was pretty horrendous for everyone involved.
Last March was when I first met Frank, when we were officially introduced. I was doing all manner of naughty things, management thought I was on a downward spiral, as did Sally, who for all her trying couldn’t keep me under control. Like a bad puppy, passed from owner to owner, they thought I needed a dog whisperer. So, in came Frank, the new pack leader with his whistle.
I actually read Cesar Millan’s book, you know, before I met Frank. My mom had it lying around the house the same time she was attempting to teach little Ringo good toilet etiquette. I doubt Mom read it as Ringo was and still is shitting and pissing in any room he sees fit. Well, I read it and I guess Frank must have at some point, too, judging by the similarities.
He didn’t say it but it was clear my new life with Frank consisted of exercise, discipline and affection. Day one, Frank read me the riot act, which I ignored. He’d reread the riot act and again, I would ignore it, deliberately and with intent, but still his three-pronged attack continued. Frank knew how and when I should be educated, told off or praised and he repeated it throughout the first few months of our time together. I resented it of course, but it continued regardless. Soon, rather than going out to parties, we would read together; instead of spending a night in a police cell, we would watch old movies together; instead of ignoring him, we started to talk. Frank was patient with me and the transition from wild child to angel was a gradual one, but one that brought us closer than either of us would have expected.
People tell me I could hire someone younger, even Frank told me the same thing. I’ve joked he’s no Kevin Costner, I’ve joked he’s too small and in truth I’m sure there were much more qualified bodyguards out there. But Frank has always looked larger them himself and I honestly felt he would do anything to protect me, fling himself off some cliff, take a bullet, or just hug me when I needed a hug, or tell me when I was being an arsehole. You’d be surprised how much I need to be told that. I have always appreciated people’s honesty, and the longer my career has gone on, the less I got of it. I get over-praised, to a point sometimes I start to believe it all, believe my own self-importance.
I thought I loved Frank, I loved him more than my own father, which is horrible but true. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loved my parents to death, they have always been very liberated and free, a ‘live your life through your heart’ mentality, which was a lovely way to live, I suppose, and I always felt loved and they truly made me feel I could be anything I wanted to be, conquer the world and all that shit.
But in a right-and-wrong sense, actions-and-consequences sense, they fell short. Frank was the father I needed and still needed. Tell me how it is, tell me “No” without explanation or discussion, just “No”. Not that I always listened of course.
I thought I’d lost him once, heart attack, lots of scans and tests, scared the life out of me, he was nearly a goner, his arteries closed up, had to go up through his groin. Doctor said they asked him who his next of kin was, he said me, made me realise how important I was to him, and he was to me. I visited him every day in hospital, paid for all the medical bills, which wasn’t cheap, had to make an awful movie to foot the cost. He told me off for that, said I owed him his life now, and that was a vow he took very seriously, so seriously it nearly got him into trouble. Paparazzi got too close to me once, I got flustered and fell, that was the only time I saw Frank ever lose it. I don’t know how many men he hit and shoved, but enough to make the cops throw him in a cell, enough to have to be bailed out, enough to buy the best lawyer I could find. It should have made me angry with him, his violent outburst, but it only made me love him more.
Honesty and security, that was all I have ever wanted, and Frank gave me both. That was why it upset me when he left, and how he had left me since. I felt safe when Frank was around, not so much in the physical sense, but in that my actions and choices were ones made together. I hadn’t a wise head, I could be easily influenced, without Frank I felt I could easily self-destruct and Frank knew that. That’s why he shouldn’t have promised to never leave and then do the comple
te opposite, no matter what he thought I’d done. When the time was right we would talk it through, we couldn’t let this fester. And at least he was now coming back, and then I could feel safe again. Until then I would have to fend for myself.
I don’t think Frank would approve of tonight’s plans. If Frank was around this would not be happening. Didn’t really know how it might pan out, round two, or was it round three? I’d lost count.
Good choice or bad choice, inviting him here was a choice made on my own, without Frank or Sally. We needed to talk, about what happened, about us, try and figure out what to do next so we would both come out of it in one piece and our careers intact. You never know, this could be the night that brings us together again. I’ve had time to reflect, about what he said, what I said, I still think he’s a bastard, but he was my bastard and the story of me and Max wasn’t quite over. Maybe it was worth giving us a second shot.
* * *
Three hours later I was still looking out of the window, into the dark and gales, all dressed up, dinner ready, candles lit, everything ready except Max. I was trying not to pace, my hand felt empty without a wine glass or bottle of beer. I went to the kitchen, added more sauce to the ribs, kept the beans on a low heat, much longer and they’d be ruined, too.
I checked the clock, he was late, later than I thought. Perhaps he was lost, I thought, the roads here were a labyrinth, even GPS didn’t know how to find this place, roads here weren’t even roads, hardly a street light in sight.
I walked over to the patio doors, checking if I’d had any missed calls but I hadn’t, I could try him again, I thought, though what was the point in sending a second voicemail? I looked out into the garden, the evening had turned darker than I’d hoped, and the weather had made eating outside impossible.
Come on, Lilly, I said to myself. Don’t let this shit drag you down. Trying to remind myself the night could still yet be salvaged.