‘I was angry with you after the whole Bachelorette Party thing,’ I say. ‘But I haven’t been elusive.’
‘Yeah, you have. The number of messages I’ve left with that damned assistant – she says you’ll call back right away, and you never do.’
I close my eyes. ‘Yeah. Well, that’s going to be sorted. Don’t worry.’
‘Never returning my calls, etc., etc.’ He slams his meaty hands across his thighs. ‘But it’s fine, I love ya, you’re my number one gal, aren’t you? So let’s talk. And I want us to nail down your next project. We got great feedback on you in Second-Best Bed. You’re doing some amazing work. Really great. It’s gonna get you an Oscar nom.’
He says this nonchalantly. I blink. ‘Seriously?’
‘Oh, yeah. I’m working on it. It’s what people want from you now. We made a good call with this movie. If they get Eve Noel it’ll be huge. King’s Speech meets Shakespeare in Love. Meets … I don’t know. Yu-huge. Cleopatra? Citizen Kane?’ He spreads his arms wide. ‘I want my diet Coke.’
‘She’ll be back soon,’ I assure him.
‘OK. Now you know, and I know, these kind of movies ain’t tent poles. But they go on and on. And it gives us a calling card. “She’s shown you what she can do. Sophie Leigh can do anything.”’
‘You said it’d be a big mistake.’ I don’t look at him. I move around the suite picking up ornaments, putting them down again. The sun has almost disappeared.
Artie blinks, throws another tiny biscuit down his throat. ‘I said that? I don’t remember it like that, honey. So what’s next? OK, so we couldn’t go down that road with The Bachelorette Party, but I have a lot of interest in you for Patrick’s next film. It’s a great role. Lot of heat. A lot. Really it’s a beautifully written part, and that’s what’s made me think I have to talk to you about it first, too, then you and Patrick should hook up and talk it through.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘What’s it called?’
He laughs, then wrinkles his nose. ‘Are you ready? Huh? Are you ready for this?’
‘Yes.’ I am surprised to find I’m annoyed. Bored, almost. Is that crazy? I wish he’d go.
‘You’re ready! OK.’ Artie pushes up one jacket sleeve, then the other. ‘Surfer Dude 2. It’s kind of similar to Surfer Dude, in fact. OK, so he’s a surfer, and he won’t grow up and commit, he’s totally obsessed with the waves, hanging out around Pismo. He has this girlfriend, and she wants to get married, and he’s like – no way – and he goes to Australia with his friends for one massive final party.’ Artie chuckles. ‘Hilarious. Kind of the Hangover meets … Point Break. It’s great.’ He nods at me. ‘So we need to get you signed. They’ll start shooting after Labor Day.’
‘Sorry, what’s my part?’ I say.
‘You’re his girlfriend. You are like the moral heart and compass of the film.’
‘Do I go to Australia?’
‘No, you’re at home. Like … calling him up and giving him hell!’ Artie smiles. ‘You know how to do that!’
‘The long-suffering girlfriend,’ I say.
‘Sure, but it’s more than that, honey. She’s a clever woman, she’s educated, she’s totally focused on her career … she’s pretty humourless. It’s almost a dramatic role, in fact …’
I stand up and smile at Artie. ‘No, thanks.’
He picks some more biscuits off the plate. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally.’
‘Nine out of last year’s top-ten grossing pictures were sequels, Sophie.’ He eats a biscuit whole. ‘They’re offering five mil and it’s only for three weeks’ work – it’ll be the biggest movie of 2013. You get five mil for douche-all, we get you back up there, people know you’re a player again.’ He wipes his forehead. ‘Plus there’s rumours, you know. You’re cracking up, that’s why you dropped out of The Bachelorette Party. You’ve made up the whole stalker thing.’
‘What?’
He’s shaking his head. ‘I know. It’s crazy. But that’s what they’re saying. Think about it.’
I laugh. ‘I’ve already thought about it, Artie. I’m serious. I don’t want to be the girlfriend any more. I want to be the person in my own right. I’m sick of being defined by someone else. Every single movie I’ve been in.’
Artie’s jaw clenches. ‘You – what? Honey, that’s not what I’m saying—’
‘I’ll dance in mud and fall over, I’ll eat fake shit and make out with a horse – I don’t have a problem with any of that. I don’t mind looking stupid, I’m just not doing shitty films about drippy women any more. Sorry.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? What’s made you start talking like this?’ Artie demands, as the door opens and Sara comes in bearing a tray.
‘I’ve been talking to some people.’ I’m almost laughing. ‘Artie, don’t worry. I just want to know there’s something better out there.’
‘There isn’t.’ He slaps the coffee table promptly. ‘OK?’
I smile – I’m not anxious or tense. Like I say, I don’t care any more. I know it’s nearly all over for me. I know sooner or later they’re going to get me, and whether it’s a knife or a gun or a 0.1 per cent rating on Rotten Tomatoes or being booed at the MTV Movie Awards, I can see my time’s up in some way. It’s been working towards this and it took seeing Eve and Rose for me to realise: sometimes you don’t have any control over what happens. You have your own mind and that’s it. And if you can sleep at night that’s fine.
Sara puts the diet Coke down on the table. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Sara, while Artie’s here I thought it’d be best to tell you. I think I’ll be going back with Tina when we’re in LA.’
I face her, watching her eyes move. ‘I know that’s not a surprise—’ I hesitate. ‘She’s keen to carry on. I just wanted to thank you for everything.’
Artie’s flicking through his BlackBerry, occasionally darting glances up at me as he does. Sara looks at him, then at me. She smiles. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I thought so. I hoped not but – hey, you can’t blame a girl for trying.’
I walk towards her. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’re really talented. I want to get Artie to help you. Set you up with an agent, get you to some auditions again.’
Artie is half listening. ‘Sure,’ he says. Then he stops. ‘What? No.’
‘Artie, as a favour to me,’ I say. ‘She’s really good. You’ll thank me. She could be in Surfer Dude 2, no problems. She’d be better than I ever could.’
Sara inhales sharply. Her eyes dart over me. ‘Serious?’
I nod. Swallow, painfully, in the back of my mouth.
She steps away from me. ‘I don’t know if—’
A shrill ringtone makes me jump. Artie looks at his BlackBerry. ‘Jeez. I have to take this. It’s Patrick, honey. He’ll want to know you’re here! I’ll be one second.’ He steps outside, and we’re alone. I turn to her.
‘I know it’s what you want.’ I keep my eyes on hers. My voice low. ‘You should be me. It’s fine. I think you could. It’s not too late for you.’
A curious expression comes into her tired eyes. ‘It’s too late for me,’ she says.
‘No, it’s not,’ I say. ‘You’re good. Just – no more crap any more, OK?’
‘What do you mean?’
I clench my hands into fists at my sides. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, Sophie, I don’t, I’m sorry.’ She’s knitting her fingers together.
‘I know it’s you who’s been doing this stuff. I know you messed up the house, and I know you set up the trap at the hotel. I know you’ve been leaving the white roses.’
Sara’s back teeth clack furiously together, like she’s chewing, a little rabbit movement. ‘That’s not true. How do you know that?’
‘The cops showed me the CCTV from my security gate, the time the first rose was delivered. I didn’t put two and two together. It was you, wasn’t it? You convinced Denis to let you in, you were dressed like
me. I remember he said, ‘You’re back so soon,’ when I arrived home that first time. It didn’t make any sense, and then I remembered, earlier today, when we said goodbye. You were wearing the same top today as the girl on the CCTV. Striped. Red trim.’
‘That’s all you’ve got?’ She’s laughing. ‘Seriously?’
‘No. Eve Noel. She recognised you when I showed her your photo. And she showed me a fax she wrote to … a friend. All about your visit to her.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t have any proof, and I don’t know how you did it all. Just a feeling. I think you’re angry about everything and you’re taking it out on me. You want me to fail because you don’t think I deserve it. And you’re right, you should have my career, I’m sure you’re a better actress, but I can’t help it, it’s mine. LA screws you up if you don’t know how to handle it, but it’s not my fault, OK?’
Sara rubs her eyes. ‘This is crazy. I love you. You’re amazing. Why on earth would I want to hurt you, Sophie?’
‘I don’t think you do really want to hurt me,’ I say, holding my sweating hands behind my back. ‘I think you’ve been festering away for so long that now you’ve got what you wanted, you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know what to do with the plan now it’s in action.’
She laughs. ‘This is stupid.’
‘I’m not going to tell anyone,’ I say.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m not. I made a lot of mistakes. I was a cow to you too. That summer, at Jimmy Samba’s? When I slept with Bryan … he was properly your boyfriend, wasn’t he? I only just realised recently. I’m sorry. I didn’t really get it, before, didn’t notice. It must have hurt you a lot. I was selfish.’
Sara brushes something imaginary away from her cheek. ‘Oh … wow.’ She looks down at the floor. ‘Well … yeah. I was really into him. You just – you never realised, you didn’t see the effect you had on people. You just waltzed in with your accent and your “I don’t care, I’ve got nothing to lose” and it was so weird to me. So weird when that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I suppose …’
I interrupt. ‘I’m sorry. That’s the thing – when you get your own way all the time you start to think you can’t be wrong about anything. Well, you’ve done a lot of stuff wrong. But so have I. When we’re both back in LA I’m going to arrange for you to see someone. Someone who can help you. I’ll help you get an agent but … you need to see a professional therapist. And then I reckon it kind of cancels out. Just … stop it. OK?’
I haven’t thought this through. I don’t know what she’ll say. I bend down and unfasten the straps on my shoes, buying her some time. I can hear her breathing, rapid, shallow. I look up again and think, She does look like me. I smile.
‘What’s funny?’ she says, almost impatiently.
‘We – us. You look like me,’ I say. ‘It’s true, everyone always said it. But you do.’
In her eyes, I was the lucky one, she wasn’t. I had a pushy, nightmarish mother who got me here. She didn’t. So I don’t blame Sara, I tell myself. I blame the system that spat her out and made her like this.
‘What do you think?’ I ask her.
‘OK.’ She says this after a moment. It feels like hours. ‘OK. Wow. Yeah. OK.’
The door bangs open again and Artie claps his hands. ‘Sorry, ladies,’ he calls. ‘Sophie, my apologies. Patrick’s on his way. He wants to say hi—’
He trails off, as he realises Sara and I are still facing each other.
‘Girls, what’s this about?’ Artie holds out his hands. ‘Is Sara causing you problems? Is—’
I wave him away, pick up my iPad and hug it to me, then turn to Sara again. ‘Nothing. I’m going to have a bath. We’re OK here, aren’t we, Sara.’
She nods slowly. ‘We are.’
‘Great.’ He isn’t interested. ‘So, Sophie. Hey. Where do we go now?’ He chews his lip. ‘Honey, honey. Let’s say – I’ll catch up with you later. There’s a lot of people want a little bit of Sophie! We got game, we got fuckin’ game, let’s use it, OK? We’ll talk later.’
I nod, and he kisses me on the cheek.
‘I’m going down,’ says Sara. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Artie gives her a non-committal grunt.
‘So, bye then,’ she says to me. She shoots me one last look as they leave.
‘Bye, Sara,’ I say. The door opens and I catch sight of the two big guys outside, black suits, sitting on black chairs, either side of the door before it closes again and I am all alone.
It’s only then I realise I am dead, dead tired. Fatigue washes suddenly over me and I can barely stand. I lie down on the blessedly cool, smooth, cotton duvet cover, roll onto my side and stare out of the window at the park. A helicopter flies over the trees in the distance. There’s the faintest sound of car horns and traffic. I hear one of the security guards chatting to the other, then nothing. I close my eyes and sleep, for how long I don’t know.
When I wake up it’s night. The lights of London are red and white outside and it’s dark in my room. It’s very quiet; I can’t hear anyone in the corridor. I’m the only person on this floor. I wonder what Sara’s doing. I check my phone. It’s ten-thirty p.m. Rubbing my eyes, still half asleep, I wander into the bathroom – coral, grey and gold, like a Moroccan riad. Hot-pink peonies everywhere. I’m going to have a bath. Yes, that’s it. A long, hot bath, and an early night. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll sleep now. I’m getting one of the guards from outside to stay in my room though, just to be sure.
There’s a huge bottle of Jo Malone grapefruit bath oil on the side and I pour it in, breathing in the citrus tang as it roils around the steam. The mirror fogs over, the water rushes. As I lean forward to inhale the sweetly sour fumes my head spins; I’m still knackered. It’s been a long day. This time yesterday I was getting ready for the night shoot. I hadn’t slept with Alec. I hadn’t seen Eve again. Nothing really had happened.
I wonder how Eve and Rose are, in their cold damp house. I wonder if today is a watershed for them, as it hopefully is for me. I need to tell the police I think it’s all over. Should I do that? How do I do it? My tired brain keeps short-circuiting. Get some sleep and think about it tomorrow.
Instead I’ll do something constructive. I make up my mind to call Don Matthews. I’ll get hold of his number and tell him to come over and see her. Tell him she wants to see him. She’s just afraid, and she doesn’t realise she’s got nothing to be afraid of … nothing at all. I take out the phone number I’d asked Sara to get for me and dial it.
There’s a long, long connecting crackle, about thirty seconds, and for a while I think it’s just not going to go through, that the number’s wrong, and then it rings, for ages, and again I think, no. Oh, dear. They’re not at home.
But suddenly a voice answers. ‘Hello? Who is this?’
I walk backwards and forwards. The connection in the echoing bathroom, with the sound of water roaring around me, is rubbish. ‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Hello!’
‘Yes. I can hear you. Who is it?’ It’s a thin, dry voice, slightly quavering.
‘My name’s Sophie,’ I say. I think I hear a sound behind me and I whirl around; it’s nothing. I clear my throat. ‘Is that Don? Don Matthews?’
‘Yes,’ says Don Matthews, though he sounds uncertain. ‘I’m having a nap. I’m extremely old, you know. What do you want, dear?’
‘Oh gosh. I’m so sorry … I’m calling from England …’
‘Right. Well, give me your cell, and I’ll make sure and call you when you’re fast asleep.’
I laugh, I can’t help it, his tone is funny. I turn into a corner, away from the bath, and unzip my dress.
‘I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just I wanted to talk to you. It’s important. About Eve Noel,’ I say.
There’s a silence. ‘What?’
‘Well, I saw her today,’ I say. ‘She told me – about you.’
‘Who are you?’ he says, sounding cross and old at the same time. ‘Why are you ringing?’
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I’m not trying to do anything. I just wanted to tell you not to listen to her. You have to see her when you’re over. She—’
The water is roaring loud and so I don’t hear her coming in.
Don’t hear the door close.
The blow comes from behind, and the phone drops to the floor, smashing into pieces. I fall, slipping on the marble, my knee tearing and burning. She stands over me, as I look up at her, and she’s laughing.
‘You stupid, stupid bitch,’ she says. ‘Did you really think that’d be it? Do you seriously, honestly, think you’ve forgiven me and that’s it?’
She stamps on my face, and I scream. I hear a crunching sound and I can’t see anything. I scream again. The pain is unbelievably, elementally bad. I curl into a ball, but she stamps on me again, my face, my shoulder, and she’s laughing as she kicks me against the bath, like you’d kick a rag doll. She is very strong.
‘Guess we won’t look similar any more after this,’ Sara says, laughing, and before I can find the strength to reach out and catch her leg with my other arm she raises her foot above me one more time, and brings it down, and everything goes black.
accept one’s fate
OUR ROUTINE WAS basic, and tedious. Get up. Breakfast, two cups of tea for me, coffee for Rose. Clean and do household chores – in a desultory fashion, it must be said. Read a little. Have some lunch. Then a nap. Rose would go for a walk, or to do the shopping, if needed. I would write to Don. Have some more tea. At 6 p.m. every day Rose had a bath, while I listened to the news and made our supper, then we ate supper, read some more or watched television if there was a film Don had recommended, and so to bed. I slept a lot. I read a lot. And most of all I wrote things down, about my life then. Or I wrote my faxes to Don, who was my life now. On the rare occasions I had to venture into the village or to town, I’d go in the morning, rather than the afternoon, because there were fewer people around. Once in a while one of us would attend church. That was the only variation to my routine. The biggest dramas of my life of late were the visits from those film people, and my ear infection, which required a trip to the doctor’s. I hadn’t been for ten years and though I wanted Rose to come with me, of course she couldn’t. It took me a week to get over it. People – waiting rooms – the pain in my ear – a doctor asking me questions I didn’t want to answer – until I realised she didn’t care that much, only wanted a solution to the problem so she could move on and treat the next patient.
Not Without You Page 37