Not Without You

by Harriet Evans

  My neck hurts, my shoulders are stiff. I look up to see it’s nearly seven. There’s a framed photo of Bette Davis in All About Eve I’ve had hung on the wall next to the clock. No one ever sent Bette Davis a script called From Russia with Lust. I think for a moment. Fatigue, adrenalin and excitement mingle in my stomach, making my blood pump faster round my body. I pick up the phone and dial a number I’m ashamed to say I’ve learned by heart.

  A deep, gruff voice answers, smoky with promise. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, George – it’s me.’

  ‘You? Hey, you. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good.’ I wriggle in my chair, pleased. Last week when I rang him he thought I was his sister. She’s fifty-five and lives in Wisconsin; I remember everything about him.

  ‘What you up to, honey?’

  ‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘Just hanging out. Had the meeting with Artie.’

  ‘Good, good,’ George says. ‘He tell you how good you’re gonna be in The Bachelorette Party? How hot you are? How tight your smooth little buns are, honey? Did he tell you that?’

  I laugh. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, he’s a fucking idiot,’ George says. ‘Tell him I’m taking that deal away from him and going to Paramount. What else?’

  ‘Artie gave me a load of scripts for my next project, and they’re kind of crap. I don’t know, I want to—’

  ‘Show ’em to me,’ George interrupts smoothly. ‘He should know what to put in front of you. He shouldn’t be wasting your time with stupid art-house shit and sci-fi. He doing that to you?’

  ‘No, the other way round,’ I say. ‘It’s … Oh, never mind.’

  ‘We’ll get it sorted out.’ There’s a noise in the background, voices, an echoing sound, maybe splashing from a pool. George’s voice gets closer to the phone. ‘Listen, now’s not a great time, sweetie. Listen to me. I have to fuck you today, honey, otherwise I’ll lose my mind. Come over, later.’

  I’m knackered, I realise. ‘Well …’

  He lowers his voice even further. ‘I want to show you something, Sophie babe.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What we shot last night. I want you to see it. I want you to see how hot you are. There’s one shot I got of you – mm.’ His soft, low voice rasps gently into the phone. I press myself against the leather chair, mad for him. ‘Can you bring some different clothes? You got any babydoll nighties, that kinda thing?’

  ‘Honey, what I’ve got’ll blow your mind,’ I say softly into the phone. I can hear him breathing. ‘I’ll come by this evening?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Around eleven, eleven-thirty? I have to have dinner before with some friends.’

  ‘Oh – OK,’ I say.

  He says slowly, deliberately, ‘Will you be ready for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Yes … I will.’

  He puts the phone down. I uncurl myself from the chair and stand up. I realise I’m flushed, and my heart is pounding. I’ve never been with anyone like George before. He is like a drug. It’s a cliché but it’s true. He’s so powerful; it oozes out of him, and he knows it. He’s not a megalomaniac, he’s just … intense. When you’re with him you know he’s in control and he’s so used to being in control you’ll let anything happen.

  I mustn’t let him bite my tit again though. That fucking hurt. I don’t care if it was hot on film or not. And that stupid girl bashing into my boob – humph. Sara. I open the bottom drawer to put the script of My Second-Best Bed away until I hear back from Tammy, and see a bag of Goldfish crackers I’d stowed for a day like today. I’m sick of doing what someone else says all the time. I tear open the bag and munch, and when the other scripts cascade to the floor I pay no attention. I close my eyes, imagining the night ahead. It’s good to be bad sometimes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  UP IN MY white bedroom, I take off my clothes and stand naked in front of the mirror. I turn around slowly, appraising myself. I hate this part so much but it’s my job, this delicate balancing act. You can’t have any fat on you, yet you don’t want to end up like Nicole Richie. It’s not a good look for a bona fide A-Lister being scary-thin – unless you’re Angelina, but Angelina’s a basket case. I turn slowly. My butt is still high, and firm. When I turned thirty a couple of months ago, Tommy suggested I get it lifted before it needs to be, but I told him to fuck off in such definite terms I don’t think he’ll mention it again. My tits are good – I wish they were bigger, but bigger means you’re fatter and so far I’ve had no complaints. Tommy’s suggested having a tiny lift in a year or so. He says it just makes the job easier later on. I cup them in my hands, thinking about tonight, wondering what George will make me do, what I’ll do to him. I shiver with anticipation and smile at myself in the long mirror, shaking my head at my stupidity; but it’s so good to have someone to go and be this person with, someone who understands, and he does.

  And then a shadow on the bed reflected in the mirror catches my eye.

  At first I think it’s just a crease in the sheet, but when I turn around and walk towards the bed, I realise it’s not. It’s a rose. A perfect, white, single rose. There’s the faintest hint of cream in the soft buttery petals, and when I pick it up I cry out, sharply, because it has thorns. It smells delicious.

  I suck my thumb and look towards the window, almost expecting to see a face there, but this side of the house looks directly over the hills and the road and they’d have to be suspended 30 feet above the road to get a good look in. I pull on some sweatpants and a top, hurriedly peering into the bathroom, then into my closet, but there’s no one. A hair on my neck itches, as if there’s something else there.

  So I tell myself I’m overreacting. It was probably delivered to me and left here by Tina. Or maybe Deena stole it from somewhere and left it as a present. There’ve been guys in and out of the house all day, fixing the TV, steaming the carpets. Probably some loser trying to make a joke.

  Why do white roses ring a bell though? There’s something about them that makes a knot tighten in my stomach. I can’t put my finger on why. I stand there for a moment trying to remember, then suddenly I pick up the rose and throw it out of the window. It loops awkwardly in the air and disappears. It will land on the road below me and be crushed by a car and it’s nothing – I’m being stupid. I go downstairs, to try and find something to eat.

  Carmen is clearing up, polishing the wood. ‘Carmen,’ I say. ‘Did someone leave a rose for me on my bed?’

  She frowns. ‘What?’

  ‘A rose. Single stem.’ I sound insane; I wish I hadn’t thrown it away.

  Carmen gives me a curious look. She shrugs. ‘No, Sophie, I have not seen a rose. No roses here.’

  ‘Where’s Tina?’

  A slight spasm crosses Carmen’s face. ‘She on the phone outside.’

  Tina is standing by the pool whispering urgently into her cellphone. I clear my throat and she jumps, automatically putting her spare hand on her head, like she’s been busted in a police raid.

  ‘Oh! Sophie. Hi there!’ She kind of bellows this at me. ‘Are you OK? Do you need something?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ I feel stupid, even asking. ‘Er – did you put a rose in my room?’ I say.

  She looks understandably confused at this question, though her rigid forehead remains immobile. ‘Uh – no, I didn’t, Sophie—’

  She must think I’m going mad today. ‘Not you personally,’ I say impatiently. ‘I mean did someone ask you to or did they drop it off there? I was just in there. There was a white rose on my bed.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Tina. She narrows her eyes and then clears her throat. ‘Do you think someone was in the house?’

  When she says it like that, it sounds kind of sinister, and I don’t want to hear it. ‘I’m sure not,’ I say. ‘I bet there’s a perfectly simple explanation.’

  ‘Sure,’ Tina says. ‘Let me just call Denis.’ She dials the gatehouse. ‘Denis, can you read me the list of w
ho’s been checked in today? Uh-uh … sure. Sure.’

  She ends her call. ‘You, well, you and T.J., the carpet guys, Juan was here in the garden, me, Carmen. The Mulberry guy but he didn’t come inside. A FedEx guy, ditto. We can go back to the carpet company too, see who came in, ask them if they left it. OK?’ She sounds calm. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I believe her. It could be any one of several things. There’s something about Tina – she is totally capable and calm dealing with my shit. I know I can totally trust her. Yet anything to do with herself is a different matter. I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘Look – Tina, I’m sorry about before,’ I say, edging towards her. She looks suspicious. ‘About you taking time off. It’s just two months is a long time, and I wanted to make sure – you are OK, aren’t you?’

  She shoves her phone in her pocket and scratches her face. ‘Of course I’m OK. I just don’t want to talk about it much.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, and then fall silent.

  ‘You are right. It is a surgical procedure,’ she says eventually. ‘It’s my lips. Yeah.’ She’s looking at the pool and I’m looking up at the sky, both pretending this is a normal conversation. ‘I was stupid. I got fillers from some quack doctor years ago. He screwed them up and I haven’t been able to get them fixed.’

  ‘Why?’ I say. ‘Couldn’t you sue him?’

  She smiles. ‘That costs money. I don’t have money. I wasn’t properly insured when I did it and it’s kind of impossible to fix unless you totally know what you’re doing. I’ve finally found someone on my insurance who’ll try and take some of the fillers out but it takes a few weeks to remove them. The surgeon’s in Vegas, so I’m going to stay with Mom …’

  ‘You should have asked me,’ I say. ‘I’d have helped you.’

  ‘Helped me take them out yourself?’ she says, with a glimpse of mordant humour. ‘Right. No, I need to …’ Tina looks across at the pool again, out to the city sprawled below us. ‘Some guy at a seminar told me if I got them done then I’d get more jobs, and I listened to him. Biggest mistake of my life.’ Her eyes fill with tears.

  My heart aches for her. ‘So … you were an actress?’

  She takes a tissue out of a pack and delicately wipes her nose. ‘A model.’ She adds, with a rush of bravado, ‘In fact I was Miss Nevada 1998.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She’s smiling. ‘They said I’d be a star, but I didn’t want that. All I ever wanted to do was be a Victoria’s Secret Angel. I loved those girls.’

  ‘Wow.’ I am amazed at how people give themselves up to you all in one go. ‘I never knew that, Tina. You’re beautiful. You should have—’

  ‘It’s a long time ago. And it didn’t work out, did it.’ Her shoulders slope again and she adds, with something more like her normal tone, ‘I came to LA, so sure I was going to be a star, you know?’ I nod. ‘But nothing was really happening, and a year later I had this done. It ruined everything, I was broke and ugly. No one wanted me. That’s when I started working for Byron.’

  ‘Is that what you really wanted? To be famous?’ I am fascinated at the idea of this new Tina, the gorgeous young beauty queen and the awkward, withdrawn woman she is now.

  She hesitates. ‘It was all I ever wanted. Then. Of course, now it’s different.’

  ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Now – you know what I want now?’ I shake my head. I literally have no idea. ‘I want a nice house, near the ocean. A good guy, a couple of kids, a normal life. And I want to stay working for you so I don’t leave that world behind, because I love it. That’s really all.’ My expression must be incredulous, as she laughs and says, ‘I like working for you, Sophie. You’re doing so well but you’re easy to get along with – you’re talented, and you’re not crazy. You need someone to look out for you. And forgive me, but you’re kind of naive about some stuff in this town.’

  This is completely fascinating. ‘What stuff?’

  But before she can answer, a husky voice calls from around a corner.

  ‘Hey, doll.’

  We both jump as a thin shadow falls on the ground, advancing towards us.

  ‘All right, Tina. Hi. Sophie. Wow. The gang’s all here, yeah?’

  I blink, sunspots dancing in front of my eyes.

  ‘Hi, Deena.’ I kiss her, inhaling the familiar scent of cigarettes, sweat and Giorgio Beverly Hills. ‘You got everything you need over there?’

  ‘Yeah. Nice painting in the bedroom. Is it new?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say shortly.

  ‘Cool. Cool. I like its vibe. It’s all good. Listen, kiddo. Just wanted to say thanks, OK? Thanks for having me. Damn air con. It broke and then the water tank went and the whole house was flooded.’

  ‘I thought it was—’ I begin, then stop. What happened to the roaches? Tina glances at me, and looks at the floor. ‘Hey. No problem. Stay as long as you want.’

  Damn. As soon as the words are said I wish I could reach out and cram them back in my mouth. ‘Hey, nice one, kiddo,’ says Deena. ‘We gotta look out for each other, haven’t we?’ She tips the imaginary brim of a hat to me. ‘Listen, there’s no kettle in the guest house.’

  ‘Kettle?’ Tina frowns.

  ‘You guys don’t do kettles. It’s fine. Just wondering if you could put one in there for me.’

  Bloody cheek. I sigh and look at Tina. ‘Er …’

  ‘I’ll talk to Carmen on my way out.’ Tina nods at me. ‘So – I’m off now. I’ll see you tomorrow. You have everything you need?’

  I nod, trying to meet her gaze, but she’s already halfway down the drive. ‘See you tomorrow. Thanks again.’

  ‘Odd gal,’ Deena says, after Tina’s vanished. ‘So how’s tricks? You’re on fire, en fuego, at the moment, huh? Everything lining up for little Sophie Sykes!’ She gives me a big wink. ‘Hey, sorry! Sophie Leigh.’

  She says this like she’s revealing a massive secret about me, like I was born and raised as a boy, when in fact you can see my name’s Sophie Sykes if you go on IMDb. It’s not even an interesting story: Mum made me change it when I was sixteen because she said Sykes was too common, much to my poor dad’s resigned amusement.

  I’m trying to think of the right answer to this when Carmen appears at the French doors. ‘Sophie. I got your dinner here. You want it outside?’ She looks at Deena. ‘Ma’am, can I get you anything?’

  Deena runs a finger thoughtfully over her teeth. ‘Hm. I don’t know. What you got?’

  ‘Anything,’ says Carmen. ‘What you want?’

  ‘You got some ham?’

  Carmen folds her arms. Her brows lower into one bristling black line. ‘Sure. I got some ham.’

  ‘Can I get a ham sandwich? With … some chips on the side. And some guacamole. Can I get that?’

  Carmen says briskly, ‘Sure. No problem.’

  She’s just retreating inside when Deena adds hopefully, ‘And a beer?’

  ‘You want Peroni, Budvar, Tiger? We got—’

  ‘That’s fine, just bring her anything,’ I say. ‘And thank you, Carmen. Listen to me, Deena.’ I move inside through the French doors, motioning her to follow me. ‘It’s fine for you to stay. But I might be having someone from the UK over in a couple of weeks, so …’ I scratch my head, searching for a name, any name. ‘My friend … Donna? My friend Donna’s coming to stay, yeah, probably in July? Just so you know.’

  Deena takes a Zippo lighter out from a pocket in her impossibly tight jeans and starts flicking it on and off. ‘Listen, kiddo, I don’t wanna outstay my welcome. I said two weeks, I meant two weeks. I’m busy, you know. I’ve got a lot of stuff on. It’s just while they’re …’ She falters, and I feel like a total bitch. ‘While they’re fixing the drains.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She moves a little closer. She’s always looked the same, Marlboro Man’s girlfriend: jeans, silk shirts, tasselled suede jackets. I see the flecks of brown in her hazel irises, the shadows under her eyes as her
gaze meets mine, but then she swallows and says, ‘Yeah, like I say, I’m busy. Got a TV pilot I’m auditioning for next week, did your ma tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her in a while.’

  ‘Hm, I know, she said.’ Deena’s still flicking the lighter. ‘She calls me when she can’t get through to you, you know that? You should call her.’

  I change the subject back. ‘That’s cool, what’s the pilot?’

  ‘Oh, it’s about this chick who lives down in New Mexico and … has a lot of fun.’ She smiles enigmatically. ‘And I’m working with a European director on a couple of projects. Made an advert for German TV a few months ago. It’s all good.’

  I would love to follow Deena one day. Just see what she gets up to, how she makes a living. Whether she’s totally feral when no one’s watching, living out on the hills and heading into the city to feed off scraps from restaurant bins. Her last entry on IMDb is 2004, some straight-to-DVD thriller. But she always tells Mum she’s shooting a new pilot, or working with a European director. I am sure ‘European director’ is code for something.

  Carmen brings in my tray of food. I make a vague gesture to Deena but she shakes her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m gonna grab my sandwich and go. Got to see a guy about a fido, you know?’ She slings her battered old leather satchel over her shoulder. ‘See you later, kiddo. Thanks again.’

  ‘No problem.’

  She’s halfway out the door when she hesitates, turns round and adds, ‘Hey. We should talk while I’m here. I’ve got a few ideas I wanted to run past you. Really good ideas. Maybe you could get me a meeting with … with some people.’

  Everyone wants something off you, that’s the deal. I realised it when a camera boom hit me in the face while I was filming Sweet Caroline and the triage nurse at Cedars-Sinai gave me her head shot while blood was pouring from my scalp. It’s money. All to do with money, whether they’re aware of it or not. So I nod and I say, ‘Sure. We’ll talk soon. Bye, Deena,’ and wave politely, as she strolls out of the room.

  Carmen is setting up the tray as I settle back into the La-Z-Boy recliner. There are fresh copies of Us Weekly and People on the coffee table – I reach for the former, then put it back with a sigh, knowing it’s for the best: it annoys me when I’m not in it, and it annoys me when I am. There was a time when I used to Google myself. I even had my own sign-in on a forum devoted to ‘Sophie Leigh Rocks!’ But I had to stop. Even the ones who like you still say things like: