Not Without You

by Harriet Evans

  ‘Listen,’ Ashley says. ‘Now we know about it –’ she glances at me – ‘it’s gonna be fine. We just have to make sure security is in place. I’ll stay here. What are your plans for later?’

  ‘I have Steve and Suzy’s party tonight. But I don’t know if I’ll go, now.’

  ‘You should go,’ Artie grunts. ‘Listen, Tommy – are you there?’

  ‘I’m fucking there! Of course I’m there! Whose party?’ The phone on the side is practically jumping with static and barely controlled rage. ‘Whose party you going to?’

  ‘Steve Levine,’ I yell. ‘It’s Suzy’s benefit for something. Suzy’s his wife.’

  ‘I know who fucking Suzy Levine’s married to, OK? I know Steve Levine. Cock-sucker wouldn’t return my calls when I started out – he can screw himself.’ Tommy has an outsider’s chip on his shoulder; he didn’t come up through the agent system but worked in the music industry first and he’s extremely sensitive about what he sees as ‘old’ Hollywood.

  ‘Tommy, I got this.’ Artie is eyeing up the cakes, sliding his finger inside his watch strap so the thick silver links rub over his knuckles. ‘Let me take care of it.’

  ‘No way, Artie. You said you had it before and we got ourselves into the armpit thing, OK? We shoulda caught the tabloid before they printed the story. Now we look like we were fucking sleeping our way through this thing, plus this – if she gets whacked by some psycho …’ Tommy leaves the sentence hanging in mid-air.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I say. ‘Tommy, you’re freaking me out.’

  ‘I know, sweetie, but you don’t need to worry. It’s all gonna be OK. I got fucking Mossad and the fuckin’ SAS coming out to look after you. And after that, you know what I think? We have you hospitalised for exhaustion. I know this place in Arizona …’ He cuts out. ‘Shit. I’m breaking up.’

  Artie’s grinning, wolflike. He knows he’s winning this one.

  ‘We get you to Arizona and you wait this thing out there. In the desert for two months. It’s fine, we’ll …’

  There’s another loud crackle, and after a few moment’s silence Artie turns the phone off and slides it down the side of the couch.

  ‘This will all work out OK,’ he says. ‘I promise you.’ He picks a cupcake off the tray Carmen has left. ‘Mm. So good.’

  ‘“Work out OK?”’ Ashley watches him incredulously, clutching her hands in her lap. ‘How can you—’

  ‘You can go, Ashley. I’ll call you,’ Artie says. ‘I wanna talk to Sophie alone.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ashley looks at me for explanation. I can only shrug. She stands up, pulling her wrap dress over her thin tanned knees, and smiles mechanically. ‘I’ll call you guys later. I’m working on this.’

  I watch her walk out of the sliding doors into the sunshine. In the distance, I see Deena pass by with her loping stride. She is clutching the keys to her truck, and smoking a roll-up. She doesn’t look in, just keeps on walking. Guilt washes over me; I shouldn’t have yelled at her. And I remember the message again:

  @SophieLeigh You’ll be getting another white rose from me soon. And then you’re going to get what you deserve.

  It’s just me and Artie. He dusts the cake crumbs from his trousers, gives a little laugh and then says, ‘We need to get serious, Sophie. OK? You listening to me?’

  I nod.

  ‘We got two problems, the way I see it.’ Artie holds his palm face out towards me, pulling his index finger down towards the floor. ‘Numero uno. The armpit thing, the boyfriend talking about boozing and that crap – your image is no good. Out of nowhere, I don’t know why either.’

  Because I’m being found out, at last. ‘It’s bad tim—’ I start to say, but he interrupts.

  ‘If we don’t lock this thing down fast, you’re in trouble. Trust me, I’ve been around. I don’t like this pattern.’ He pulls down the next finger. ‘The other problem is some weirdo who’s got into your house and left you roses. That, in my opinion, is distracting you from what the real issue is. Don’t get me wrong, it’s scary, but we deal with it. We get you better security, proper protection, and they don’t do it any more. OK?’

  I think about the roses. Each one, velvet-and-wax petals, barely unfurled. Someone brought them. Someone came into the house, put one on my bed, left the others at the gate. Someone created this Twitter account. Whoever it is is thinking about me right now. This person hates me and wants to kill me.

  ‘But – they were in my house. Now they’re sending me death threats, and—’

  ‘Honey, I totally get that,’ Artie breaks in abruptly. ‘Try and see what I’m telling you. The truth is we get about ten letters a week from people who wanna kill you.’ Artie slices the butter cream off another cupcake and inserts it into his mouth. ‘Mm. That’s good.’

  ‘Ten people?’ I say, trying not to sound hysterical.

  ‘Yuh-huh.’ He licks his finger, swallows. ‘Hey, maybe not ten, but a lot. Every big star has someone who hates them. People are jealous of you, Sophie. Girls want to be you, boys want to do you. When you don’t do what they say they get … kinda mad. Fame is a crazy business. But they’re not going to do it because we eliminate the possibility of it happening, OK? You should have told us about it before. You’re getting distracted by it and making it out to be something it’s not when the fact is Denis and the current set-up you got needs to go and we need a proper security system up here and that’s going to happen. I know you better than you think. Stop using it to get other ideas in your head.’

  ‘I’m using it? Gee, thanks, Artie.’ He shrugs. I’ve never seen him like this. So … kind of … uninterested. ‘What ideas?’

  ‘Like “I’m going off to England, UK, to make some crazy movie about Shakespeare.”’ His voice is girlish and high. ‘Like “I don’t wanna do comedy any more.” Like “I’m too good for it all of a sudden.”’

  I lean forward so we’re almost nose to nose. ‘Hey. I never said that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, but you think it. So here’s where we’re at.’ He licks his sugary fingers. ‘You gotta trust me. The Bachelorette Party is a great script, it’s a great cast.’ He throws away the cupcake casing. ‘Sophie, I know you been screwing George and I know it’s not working out and you’re pissed at him. Stop acting like a baby. Grow up, turn up on set and don’t let him get to you. He’s just messing with you. You’re a big star, you got people relying on you, you hear me?’

  I sit back again and fold my arms. ‘It’s not like that.’ I try to keep my voice steady. ‘He’s a bully.’

  Artie sighs and turns his watch around his wrist again. ‘He’s a freaking director, Sophie. That’s what he does.’

  Maybe he’s right. ‘I don’t trust him any more.’

  ‘You don’t have any choice. Do the movie and then we’ll see.’

  ‘What about Love Me, Love My Pooch?’ I say. ‘I’m not doing that film. I won’t do it.’

  He doesn’t say anything for so long I wonder if he’s heard me, but then he says, ‘I can’t force you to do it, so I won’t. But you’re making a mistake. It’s the perfect vehicle for you. And if you’re serious, we need to make a decision on what you commit to. Urgently.’

  ‘But I’ve found what I want to do,’ I say, trying not to sound impatient. ‘I really want to make My Second-Best Bed.’

  Artie rubs his nose and closes his eyes. ‘I thought we were clear on that one. It’s not for you.’

  ‘I think it is,’ I say. ‘And the Eve Noel project after that. I want to do them both. Go to the UK to film the first one and research the second one while I’m there.’ I clutch my hands, pushing them away from me, stretching my arms. ‘You have to listen to me, Artie. Just because it’s my idea doesn’t mean it’s wrong. I know what I’m talking about, and I know I’m right. In here.’ I touch my heart. ‘I’m not stupid. I’m going back to England, I’m going to do that film after Bachelorette’s finished shooting, and I’m going to find out about Eve Noel too. And you’re
just gonna have to trust me, OK?’

  Artie stands up, slides his BlackBerry into his jacket pocket. ‘I gotta go.’

  My mouth falls open. ‘Did you hear any of that?’

  ‘Sure I did. But My Second-Best Bed went away.’

  ‘Went away? What the hell do you mean?’

  His eyes meet mine for the first time. ‘We found the last piece of finance for them. They start shooting in a week’s time. They got some girl off of Downton Abbey to play Anne Hathaway.’ I slam my hand down on the table, but he smiles. ‘So it’s all worked out for them. They’d have loved to have had you …’

  ‘You paid them off?’

  ‘No,’ Artie says. ‘Listen to me, Sophie. I’m not the villain here. You got it right. It could be a great movie, and the agency wants a piece of it – we got a couple of clients involved, Tammy, Cara Hamilton, T.T. the director. We need to make sure it works out. OK? And it’s looking good. They got Tony Lees-Miller from Canyon producing it – the guy knows what he’s doing, for a Brit. And they got Alec Mitford. Plus the script is way better now. It’s actually a good picture.’

  ‘I’m the one who got the better script for them!’ I yell. ‘That was me!’

  He’s fumbling in his pockets. ‘Sure, I know it was, and you were right. Listen, it’s a fantastic project, for the right actress. But you’re just not the right actress. You’re a star!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I’m facing him, so angry I could slap him, my teeth gritted.

  ‘Listen, it’s not a bad thing!’ He laughs at my furious expression, this man who’s controlling my career. ‘OK? It’s good! But you’re … Honey, you’re just a little too sweet and nice. Bland. Is that the word?’ He thinks to himself for a moment. ‘Maybe not, but you know what I mean.’ He pats his stomach in a satisfied way. ‘You do know what I mean. Tell Carmen those cupcakes were the business. I gotta go.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I FLOAT ON my back, staring up at the blue nothing, then down at the gold hoops of my bikini glowing in the heat of the afternoon sun. I flip over, sliding down towards the bottom of the pool. You can’t hear the rest of the world underwater. Just the womb-like sounds of the world outside. A plane or a car going by, a conversation inside the house, the whooshing, clear sound of my slippery body. I emerge into the light, blinking. My fingers are pale and wrinkly after too long in the water. Twenty minutes? An hour? I don’t know. I lie back again and stay very still, like I’m listening for something. If you saw me you’d think I was dead, arms spread wide, just floating like a lily on the surface. It’s peaceful.

  Another tear slides from my eyes into the water. I’m being childish, I’m sure. But I don’t like this. I don’t like any of it.

  I hear the buzz of the gate, behind me. There are footsteps on the patio. I turn around, and look up. A figure stands in front of me, blocking the sun.

  ‘Kiddo, I’m off.’

  I look up. ‘Deena?’

  Deena’s standing beside the pool, ancient leather bag slung over one shoulder. She lowers her aviator sunglasses. ‘Been great to stay with you. Stay gold, Ponyboy.’

  I tread water and stare at her. ‘You’re going? Right now?’

  ‘The condo people called. My place is clean again. Won’t be troubling you no more.’

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I was – I got some bad news.’ I climb out and put my robe on. ‘Listen, you can stay as long as you want—’

  She interrupts, putting her hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m in your way. Don’t want to take up your space. I’ll see you soon, OK? Maybe we’ll have a drink. Or …’ She trails off. ‘If your mum comes to visit.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, since there’s no other way I’d see her and we both know it. I peer at her, my eyes dazzled by the setting sun. ‘So – you’re going home, yes?’

  ‘Sure,’ Deena says, but there’s something odd about her tone, a cavalier ring to it, and I’m not sure. Because I know her condo wasn’t ever being sprayed in the first place. I’m not sure she has a condo.

  ‘Deena – where are you going?’ I ask. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  She strokes her long, dry hair and gives me a smile. ‘Gotta go where the work is, kiddo. And I know when I’m overstaying my welcome. So I’ll see you around, OK? Thanks for the hospitality. It’s been great, hanging out with you.’

  I can feel the chlorine and sun tightening my face. I raise my hand. ‘OK. Thanks …’

  She walks towards the truck and I feel uneasy. Panic at letting her go suddenly hits me, I don’t know why, except that maybe she’s a link to my old life, someone who might look out for me. She’s my godmother, after all, even if she is crazy and drives an orange pickup with three sets of mannequin legs in the back.

  ‘Deena—’ I yell. ‘Hey. Hey, Deena! Will you call me if you need anything? I mean, you know where I am.’

  She doesn’t stop walking, and I think she’s just going to go. She climbs into the truck, and then there’s silence, and the door opens again.

  ‘Can I just say something?’ She stands on the driveway.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I ruffle my wet fringe with my fingers.

  ‘You’re better than you think, you know?’

  ‘Um – thanks.’

  Deena puts her bag down, and takes a Zippo from her jeans pocket. She flicks it open and lights it, then smartly snaps the lid shut, then lights it again, and I try not to laugh because every second-rate loser at school with a bomber jacket used to light and relight their Zippos. ‘Kiddo, listen, I know you’re doing really well. But I want to give you some advice.’

  I chew on a tiny snag of my cuticle. ‘OK.’

  ‘So look. I know you don’t like to hear it, but there was a time there when I was the same as you. Not quite the same –’ Deena leans forward as if reluctantly acknowledging this point – ‘but yeah, it was looking good for me. You know, I had the biggest comedy motion picture of ’81?’

  ‘You did?’ I say, trying to conceal my disbelief. I pull the towelling robe closer around me, a little colder now.

  She smiles. ‘Sure. Caring and Sharing. Yeah?’ I shake my head. ‘Oh, OK. Load of balls, but it was massive.’ She shrugs. ‘Course, because it was a load of balls no one remembers it now. They don’t show it on TNT, you know. It wasn’t bad enough to be camp, either.’

  ‘Was that before Laurel Canyon?’

  ‘No, right after,’ she says. ‘I left because my agent kept telling me I should be making movies, I’d be huge. But they kept putting me in the same old crap. Not even terrible, just unmemorable, you know? And then I made my big mistake.’

  She falls silent and shakes her head.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I took my clothes off. Death after that. I was a titty actress, no going back.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘You know? No, you don’t, because it’s different now and you’re a little princess. But still – yeah. If you’re a woman and you take your clothes off – bam – you kinda can’t put them back on again. Ever.’

  We’re silent, staring at each other. My robe falls open. I look over at Deena’s long hair. It’s blonde, but it’s dry and looks as if it’d snap if you bent it. She’s really thin: she always has been. But she’s not young any more – she must be well over fifty-five – and years of drugs, extreme diets, starving herself (or bingeing and throwing up) have given her a stringy, washed-out, flappy look that means she looks a lot older. I glance down at my flat stomach, at my jutting hips, my sharp elbows, at the way all this makes me feel so in control. I’ve always loved the exhilaration you get from feeling thin. But lately, the thrill isn’t the same. There will always be someone thinner than you. Someone younger than you, prettier than you, cheaper than you.

  ‘I’m not going to do that,’ I say. ‘That’s not – I’m not going that way.’ I pull the robe around me again, a little tighter.

  ‘You’re a woman in Hollywood,’ Deena says. ‘Hate to break it to you but your days are numbered anyway. So get your back-
up plan organised, you hear me? You’re clever, but you’re being stupid. There’s stuff going on with you you don’t even see. I see it and I’m just saying you ought to be worried.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I say. ‘Have you been – do you know about the roses?’

  She stares at me, blankly. ‘What roses?’

  ‘Someone’s been leaving roses in the house.’ I sound nuts, I can hear it in my voice. And Princess Di and Jesus are sending me secret messages through my washing machine. I backtrack. ‘Don’t worry. It’s nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Kiddo, it’s not about roses, OK? That’s what I’m saying. It happens slowly. Real slowly. You’re on top of the world and then you wake up one day and it’s another beautiful blue day and – you’re over. You’ve spent your life making trash, and trash don’t hang around – it gets buried in the ground. For every Julia Roberts there’s a hundred girls who used to open the biggest pictures, star opposite Tom Cruise, and then they disappear, because they turn thirty and that’s it, then they’re forty and they might as well be dead. You don’t see them any more. Unless they marry some young guy and start getting really good work done, or they go totally nuts or totally upmarket. Those are your options.’ I’m gaping at her. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she says, smiling grimly. ‘A lot.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, look at …’ I rack my brains. ‘Look at Kathleen Turner. OK. Meryl Streep.’

  ‘Meryl Streep’s Meryl Streep. That doesn’t count and you know it. Kathleen Turner? Come on, she’s exactly what I’m talking about. Used to be the hottest actress in town, and the last thing I remember her in was Chandler’s fucking dad in Friends.’

  ‘She’s got other things to do—’

  Deena’s voice is sharp. ‘I’m not having some long conversation about the highlights of Kathleen Turner’s career, OK, Sophie? Give me a film. What’s your favourite film?’