by Shari Low
‘Okay, I don’t want to be bossy,’ Carol piped up–a strange statement because she was always bossy. ‘But I’ve got a plan. How about we spend the whole weekend at the beach and if the boys complain we’ll just keep feeding them ice cream.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ screamed Mac and Benny, who had no idea what they were excited about but figured that it involved a beach and ice cream so it couldn’t be that bad.
I almost felt like an LA native as we drove along through Santa Monica into Venice and then on into Marina del Rey, passing the huge mansions in the Silver Strand area. Thankfully, Mark was at the wheel so we hadn’t crashed once yet.
‘On your left is Nicolas Cage’s house, we might drop in for coffee and a chat later. On your right we have the mansion rumoured to belong to one of the cast of Friends. Next door to that is Robert Downey Jr’s pad and after that we have Pamela Anderson’s–if you look closely you’ll see her bras on the washing line acting as windsocks for the nearby Los Angeles Airport.’
‘Carly, are you making all of this up?’ Carol asked.
‘Absolutely all of it.’
‘Well, carry on, you’re doing a great job.’
By the time we reached Mother’s Beach we’d passed the homes of Kevin Costner and Colin Farrell, seen Julia Robert weeding her garden, spied Catherine Zeta-Jones pulling her G-string out of her arse while gabbing to Arnold Schwarzenegger and spotted Marlon Brando out jogging–although Mark did point out that Mr Brando died in 2004.
However, while Mark might not have been impressed by my tour of LA, he loved the beach. It was the usual weekend assortment of picture-perfect Californian families, and packs of joggers swarming around the walkways like some kind of anti-fat militia squad. I wondered where all the nannies and soccer moms that were there during the week went at the weekends–hopefully they all got up to something deliciously scandalous that would give them another whole week’s worth of gossip for their beach pals.
Mark immediately trotted off to play Frisbee with Benny and Darth Vader. Yes, he’d changed his name again and was now feeling the force. Or it might just have been the scrambled egg he’d had for breakfast.
As always, Carol turned every head on the beach. Her career might, as she often said, be in its dim-lit years, but she still had that whole shiny, stunning, late-Eighties supermodel thing going on and you could see people trying to work out who she used to be. Elle? Cindy? Miss America Porn Scandal?
She stripped down to a tiny swimsuit that showed every single inch of her perfectly toned body.
‘Urgh. You know, I’ve never liked you,’ I groaned. ‘And I’ve absolutely no idea what my brother sees in you.’
‘I’m great in bed,’ she replied with a grin.
‘Mmmm, me too.’
She stared at me quizzically for a second.
‘Oh, I knew something was different. You’ve had sex! With another person present!’ she exclaimed.
‘Carol, could you shout that a little louder–I think the bloke in the leopard-skin Speedos might not have heard you. Holy shit, what’s Peter Stringfellow doing in LA?’
She giggled as she dived down next to me. ‘So?’
‘Carol, I am not going to discuss my sex life with you–it might have escaped your notice but we’re not eighteen any more.’
‘That bad?’
‘No, it was actually great. Apart from the bit where I fantasised about someone else.’
‘Fuck, please don’t mention Liam Neeson again,’ she groaned. ‘So who was it? Bruce Willis? George Clooney? Brad Pitt?…I always go for Brad. How Gwynie could go for that bloke in Coldplay after him, I’ll never know.’
‘Are you finished?’
‘Yep, did I guess it right?’
‘It was Sam. I fantasised about Sam the whole time. I even made Mark stop talking because it was distracting me from the things I was doing to a man who was lying a hundred yards away in a different part of the house. I’m sick, Carol. Sick, sick, sick.’
‘Did you tell Mark?’
‘Of course I did. Right after I ripped his heart out and jumped on it. Don’t be so bloody stupid.’
There was a silence for a moment, then as always, I caved.
‘What do think?’ I asked her anxiously. I actually did value Carol’s opinion. She always told it as she heard it and called a spade a hoe.
‘Well, you know what they say, my love–two’s company, three’s a divorce. So what are you going to do?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Work it out. Hopefully this holiday will be what Mark and I need to get our relationship back together again. I really, really want it to work. And not just because of the boys, but also for the sake of how bloody brilliant we used to be. Honestly, Carol, if he were the person he was when things were great between us then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. But ever since the kids were born, he’s been…old. It’s like he’s quite happy to settle for the life of an old married couple. And I’m not. I love him, but I’m bored with what our life has become–same stuff day in and day out, no conversation, no sex, no passion. And I know that makes me sound like a fickle cow, but it’s the truth. I’m not ready to be old. Wrinkled, yes. But a life with no intimacy, no joy? This trip has proved that I’m not ready for that.’
‘Maybe he isn’t either–he just hasn’t realised it yet.’
‘I hope so, Carol. Anyway, we’re going to have the next fortnight together so we’ll have loads of time to work things out. And we will. I know we will.’
‘And Sam?’
‘Don’t ask. I think he’s keeping out of our way. He feels as bad about all this as I do, although obviously for different reasons. You know Sam; he’s a decent guy. He hates the fact that he’s getting in the middle of a relationship. I just wish he wouldn’t show up when I was having sex with my husband.’
‘What’s that about your husband?’ Mark asked.
We’d been too busy blethering to notice that Mark had come up behind us.
‘I was just saying that he’s an absolutely gorgeous guy, wickedly intelligent and amazing in bed…’
‘Did you mention my Trivial Pursuit skills? I’m great at Trivial Pursuit.’
‘Who is fan-fucking-tastic at Trivial Pursuit.’
He bowed slightly, accepting the adulation.
I was shocked and stunned. If I wasn’t mistaken, we’d just witnessed the rebirth of Mark Barwick’s sense of humour. His sense of humour! The thing that had made me fall madly in love with him aged twelve. The thing that had first got my knickers off aged…actually, I’m saying nothing in case my children read this one day. And the sense of humour that stopped him from divorcing me in times of PMT or shopping.
A little surge of joy manifested itself in a huge grin. We would work it out. All we needed was a little time together and we’d be fine.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked.
I couldn’t tell him–this wasn’t the time to be making him self-conscious about his behaviour by commenting on it.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
‘Tell me…’
Oh, the pressure. I racked my brain for a suitable answer. Something that would make me grin, that was frivolous, hilarious, ridiculous…
‘I think that’s Peter Stringfellow over there in those leopard-skin Speedos.’
CARLY CALLING…
Kate to Carly:
So ws Mrk arrvng good surprise? All ok?
Carly:
Had sex. Earth movd. San Andreas fault now unstable.
Kate:
Lip bite?
Carly:
Requiring stiches & poss plastic surgry.
Kate:
Congrats. If u cm home lookn like Joan Rivers wl kno ur a nympho. Gd lck 2day, fngrs crssd 4 u. Just b urself.
Carly:
Hopeless, disorganisd, talk pish?
Kate:
Good point…be som1 else. Luv ya, Kxxx
Step Eleven
‘How do I look?’ I asked the assorted
menfolk when I appeared for breakfast on Monday morning. Or perhaps it should be lunch, because Jojo had been there since 6 a.m., feeding me mocha chocca vanilla skinny twisty thingys while transforming me into a recognisable human being.
‘Jojo, move in with me. Please. I never want you to leave my side ever again.’
‘I think your husband might object,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Oh, I doubt it somehow.’ When Jojo had come into our bedroom and shaken me awake that morning, Mark had stirred, opened one eye, spotted this goddess and I’m sure I heard him say something about Christmas and giving thanks to the Lord. All those years we’d been together and I’d never realised he was religious.
I still had trouble believing that I had someone to come ‘fix’ me for meetings, but Sam and Jojo insisted that it was the way things were done here. It was going to have to stop, though, before I came to depend on Jo jo so much that she had to drag me around, clutching on to her ankle and refusing to let go.
Mark scanned me top to bottom when I did a twirl at the breakfast table.
‘You look good,’ he declared.
‘Good?’
‘Good. Why do you look disappointed?’
I wondered if it was the perfectly made-up, super-glossy, artfully coloured glum expression that was giving me away.
‘Because I was going for “fabulous” or “fantastic”,’ I replied. I know, childish and petulant.
‘Mummy, you are fab-lee-ous!’ said Benny proudly. Oh, how I loved my boy. Right up until he hugged me and got jam-covered fingers stuck in my hair.
I’d miss them. Mark had already decided he was going to take them down to Mother’s Beach for the next two days to let me go and play at dressed-up, grown-up, potential movie screenwriter.
‘Sam, can you give me a taxi number please–I should get going.’
I checked my watch. I was two hours early for my first meeting with Dave Marino, Head of Development at Global Studios. I’d been hoping that Sam would be able to go with me to the studios but when we’d dropped Carol at the airport the night before he announced that he’d be flying to Vegas this morning to do some promotional events for the movie that he had coming out the following month.
Mmmmm, I was cynical. Paranoid head took over. I dreaded the thought that we were forcing the man out of his own home. I swapped over to intelligent, practical head. Sam was a movie star. He would be staying in the finest suite in the finest hotel in the city and having every need pandered to. He would eat fine food, drink fine wine and watch damn fine lap dancers. Somehow, I didn’t think it would be a cross too heavy to bear.
‘Don’t take a taxi, take the Porsche,’ he replied.
‘The Porsche? Sam, I’m not to be trusted with the washing machine and you want me to drive a hundred-thousand-dollar car? That’s the equivalent of a house where I grew up. And besides, not only am I likely to wrap it around a lamppost, but it’ll be a lamppost in the wrong area of town because I’m bound to get lost. When I’m supposed to be drinking coffee with Dave Marino I’ll probably end up looting shops with gang members in South Central.’
‘Okay, tell you what,’ Sam acquiesced. ‘I’ll drop you off at Global on the way to the airport and you can get a cab back. There’s a Thomas Guide in my office–that’s a street map of the city. Take that and after your meeting, spend the afternoon driving the Porsche around getting used to it–that way, you’ll be okay to use it tomorrow. Sorted.’ A Porsche. That took ‘sorted’ to a whole new level.
I kissed the guys goodbye and set off with Sam. We weren’t even at the end of the driveway when I blurted, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For this. All of it. Arriving here, disrupting your life, causing chaos, Mark arriving, us. Everything. And now we’re chasing you out of your own home.’
‘You are not.’
‘Okay, so if Mark wasn’t here would you be going to Vegas?’ I asked, totally confident of the answer.
‘Yes.’
Oh.
‘But I’d be taking you and the boys with me.’
Oh.
‘Look, Carly, I just want to give you two some space to sort things out. It’s awkward. For the first time in years I’m jealous–jealous when Mark touches you, when he speaks to you, when you go off to bed. I hate it. I’m sorry, but I hate it. All those years it didn’t bother me in the least, but now…something’s changed. And if I could un-change it I would because I know how messy this is. So I think it’s better if I just stay out of the way for a while. You and Mark–if you can sort things out then you should.’
‘And if we can’t?’
‘You’ve got my cell number.’ He grinned.
I reached out and stroked his face.
‘You are such a good man, Sam Morton.’
‘Nah, I’m not really. If I was then I wouldn’t have put us in this position in the first place.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I think I was shamelessly lusting after your body first.’
‘Really?’ he said, with accompanying movie-star grin.
‘Yeah, but don’t get too flattered, I also fancy Jack Nicholson and he’s got a bus pass.’
‘You wouldn’t!’ he asked with a scrunched-up, horrified face.
‘All night long at many bendy angles,’ I replied.
There was an easy, comfortable silence for a few moments while Sam attempted to rid himself of that mental picture before I decided to get to the really important stuff.
‘So, tell me then–is it true that the casting couch is still the main method of recruitment in this town? Only I haven’t been shopping for new undies yet and I don’t want to scare anyone.’
‘Hi, I’m here to collect Cameron’s new script,’ said a shiny male-model type wearing a delivery jacket. How come the delivery blokes back where I live didn’t look like that? And who was Cameron? Diaz? Probably. Although in saying that it could have been Cameron Buttersworth the photocopier lady and I’d still have experienced a wee thrill.
Dave Marino’s gorgeous receptionist handed over a large envelope.
‘It’s ready–here you go. You take care now,’ she chirped in a singsong voice.
God, everybody was just so nice. I wondered if they went home at night, wrecked their houses and kicked holes in the walls while repeatedly screaming ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ as some kind of antidote to all this niceness.
I’d been waiting for half an hour for Mr Marino, but I didn’t mind in the least.
I know it’s a cliché, but I wanted to pinch myself. This was it. Since I was a kid I’d dreamed of a life of glitz, glamour and fortune and I was moments away from meeting the man who could make it happen. If my biological mother could see me now, she’d know for sure that I was a chip off the old diamond-clad, big-hair-wearing block.
Even coming through security had been a thrill. Sam had dropped me at the studio gates, and I’d gone into a glass booth beside them. ‘Carly Cooper,’ I’d announced to the guard with the big gun behind the desk.
‘Photo ID please!’
I’d showed him the very attractive photograph on my passport that made me look like an extra on Prisoner: Cell Block H.
He’d consulted his computer, and then hit a button. Beside him, a printer spat out my ID card.
‘Yes, Miss Cooper, Mr Marino is expecting you.’
Me. Carly Cooper. Was expected. I felt giddy. I wondered if the guard with the big gun was trained in first aid and would know what to do when I fainted. And I sensed that asking if I could sit down and put my head between my knees might just get me ejected at speed.
He’d given me a map of the lot (oh, I’m there with the lingo!) and marked Marino’s office. I’d set off, still waiting for a big hand to fall on my shoulder and someone to announce that I was trespassing and shouldn’t be there.
I’d had to cut through several movie sets to get to the offices. It was incredibly bizarre turning a corner into New York’s Times Square at Christmas, then turning another c
orner to discover that you’re in Oklahoma. In 1746.
When I’d got to the building that housed Dave’s office (we were already on first-name terms), I was, to be honest, a little disappointed. From the outside it looked like a warehouse. It was only a few licks of paint up from those Portakabins the police set up at murder sites. It was hard to tell if I was going to meet a Hollywood player or the cast of The Bill.
Inside, however, the transformation was astounding. I’d felt like I’d stumbled into a plantation house in Georgia–oak panels lined every wall, a huge chandelier hung from the middle of the reception and the exquisite oak furniture had definitely never seen the inside of IKEA.
The receptionist had instructed me to take a seat on a rich red velour chaise longue, and there I sat quite happily, while straining to overhear every word the receptionist muttered. I’d died and gone to superficial, movie-lover heaven.
I texted Kate. ‘In office of Hollywood movie mogul!’
She replied, ‘If you don’t leave fingerprints or DNA then they’ll never catch you.’
‘Carly Cooper!’ came a loud, contralto voice from a door on my right. I swung around to see a tall, dark-haired bloke in his late thirties, dressed in what looked like designer jeans and an open-necked pale blue silk shirt.
He was holding his arms out like I was a long-lost relative (a theory I ruled out as I was positive Jackie didn’t have a son). My senses were reeling. How was I supposed to react? Was this Dave Marino? In which case, falling to the floor and offering to suck his toes might be a good place to start. Or perhaps it was his secretary or PA? Should I rush into those outstretched arms? Would a simple handshake seem rude?
I tried frantically to remember the briefing that Sam had given me on the people I would be meeting.
Meanwhile, friendly silk shirt was advancing.
‘I feel like I want to hug you,’ he announced with an accompanying thousand-kilowatt grin.
And he did.
I caught a whiff of Bvlgari aftershave–it was the one that Sam wore. Sam. Where was he when I needed him to educate me on the finer points of Hollywood etiquette?