by Shari Low
Okay, so his name was Rex, he was plastic, and the foliage was nothing more threatening than the landscaped gardens around Sam’s pool, but the fact remains that I’d finally, finally, after what seemed like centuries, been released from Sam’s office. I’d finished the script. Finished it. Drum-roll and trumpets please.
‘Hi, Carly, how’s it going?’ Eliza, chief cook, babysitter and Nobel Peace Prize nominee shouted over to me. That woman was a genius. She’d managed to keep the boys occupied and on the non-violent side of brotherly interaction for over 24 hours.
‘I finished, Eliza, I finished!’ was my joyous reply, before giving her a huge hug.
‘Oh, that’s great, Carly. Sam will be so pleased too. He just called to say he’d be here in five minutes.’
I blew kisses to the boys in the pool and told them that they had five more minutes to play before it would be time to change for tea, then made my way out to the front door.
When Sam came into sight, the huge involuntary grin on my face was matched only by the huge grin on his. The break had obviously suited him. He was tanned, bright-eyed and his hair was even blonder. He was physical perfection in the shape of six foot and two inches of hunka hunka burnin’ love.
I was standing at the door as he got out of the car and I had a momentary glimmer of discomfort. What was the etiquette in situations like this? Should I run over, hug him and generally treat him in the manner of someone returning from a tour of duty?
Should I casually say hi and give him a quick peck on the cheek? I was, after all, very practised in the pecking department.
Or should I take off all my clothes, lie down in the hallway and make his entrance particularly spectacular? I would like to point out that that particular suggestion was brought to the party by the organs in my reproductive area.
I went for big hug, small kiss on lips and a continuation of the huge grin.
‘Where are the boys?’ he asked.
‘Pool with Eliza.’
‘Mark gone?’
‘Yes.’ Our gaze held for a few moments. Nope, I wasn’t ready for this. I’d only just broken out of incarceration and discovered a brave new world; I was still far too traumatised to deal with emotional entanglements. I swiftly changed the subject. ‘So, how was the trip? What was the house like? Describe the toilets and who else was there?’
That’s what I loved about Sam–he described things, places and events like a girl. If it had been Mark, the answer would have been ‘fine’, ‘great’, ‘functional’ and ‘never noticed’. Sam, however, went into full chapter and glorious verse on every detail. I listened with utter fascination, devouring every word, until he mentioned that Cameron King had joined them.
‘Cameron King, as in Jojo’s boyfriend?’ I asked him.
‘Yep. Think things are a bit rocky there, though–he’s decided to direct my next movie and she’s not too chuffed about it.’
Now I was totally confused.
‘But I thought you told me that Bob Slazer was directing your next movie?’
‘He was. Past tense. Creative differences with the studio so he’s opted out. That’s the way it is in this town–everyone is dispensable and every project is liable to go tits-up at any moment. That’s why people here are, in the majority, barking. Anyway, Cameron’s signed up now, but Jojo’s not pleased, even though he’s got her contracted to run make-up.’
‘But why? All those months away in a glamorous location…sounds fabulous to me.’
Honestly, some people just didn’t know when they had it good.
‘They’ve moved shooting to Serbia.’
Oh. Well, thermals could be fashionable.
We wandered outside to see the boys. I shoved my hands deep in my pockets in a bid to fight off an overwhelming urge to hold his hand.
The boys’ feelings, however, were a little more straightforward.
‘UNCLE SAM!!!!’ they screamed. Glazing companies suddenly got a huge rush of business as windows shattered all over Pacific Palisades.
They clamoured out of the pool, rushed over and gave him the full ‘jumping up and down until bladder control was threatened’ welcome. And they couldn’t wait to show off Rex.
‘Wow, guys, he’s great! Did Mum get him for you?’
‘Nope, Mandy. And Daddy kissed Mandy.’
Sam looked at me quizzically.
‘Don’t ask,’ I told him dismissively.
‘Right, boys, who wants fajitas for dinner?’ Eliza asked.
‘Yeeeeeaaaah,’ they chorused.
‘Pardon?’ I prompted sternly.
‘Yeeeeeaaaah pleeease!’ they replied.
If they were going to speak like they were Californian surf dudes, then they could at least do it politely.
Sam and I dried off the boys, helped them get changed, and then we all had dinner together. Or at least, they all ate. I couldn’t. Nerves had kicked in. Terror had settled. If I decided to start a new life in the brave new world, was I going to be able to earn a living there?
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in the case of Hollywood versus Carly Cooper, for the crime of “Writing a script that’s fit for the shredder”–do you find Ms Cooper guilty or not guilty?’
Silence. Fifty pages of script. Two weeks’ worth of work. Several new stress-induced wrinkles. And now it was crunch time. The verdict.
I stared at Sam–not exactly a hardship, but at that moment it was the scariest sight in the world. He was bowing over the script and hadn’t moved for the last ten minutes. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. After all, I did have a previous history of men nodding off at vital moments.
Finally, after another few minutes that lasted at least a week and a half, he raised his head and smiled. ‘It’s good.’
‘Good?’ Was that like ‘nice’? Or ‘lovely’? Because if so I’d be really disappointed because I was definitely going for fan-fucking-tastic.
‘Fantastic, in fact,’ Sam said with a grin.
And the verdict was in! Not guilty! It was good. Fantastic. Yee-hah, as they say in some American counties where first cousins are allowed to marry.
‘Really?’ I replied.
‘Really. But it still needs a few minor tweaks. Nothing we won’t be able to sort out before you meet Stavorski, though.’
Tweaks were good. Tweaks I could do. I was overcome with a huge burst of adrenalin and happiness. I’d done it. I’d actually written a script. Okay, half of one. Two weeks of blood, sweat and buckets of tears and it was done.
I suddenly realised that my body position had changed. From sitting upright on a big overstuffed chair in Sam’s office, I’d been catapulted across the room and was now practically sitting on top of him on the sofa, hugging him like my life depended on it.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you!’ I squealed with sheer bloody happiness. Then my brain caught up with what my bionic gob was saying and pressed the intruder alarms, causing all power to the gums and lips to shut down. I stared at him, my mouth stuck open, nothing coming out.
‘Do you?’ he asked gently.
Was this it? Was this the moment where my ostrich head had to come out of that sand and face the realities of our changing relationship?
Nope.
The emergency generator kicked in and I regained my speech motor functions.
‘Sam, don’t. Not now. It’s all too…complicated.’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I’d made my mind up that I wasn’t going to say a single word about us unless you raised it first. I still feel crap about this situation, Carly. I feel crap about Mark, I feel crap about you being all churned up. I’m sorry.’
‘Muuuuuuuum. Darth Vader kicked me,’ came an indignant shriek from the telly room.
‘Darth Vader?’ Sam asked me.
‘Yep, he went over to the dark side. I actually miss the whole Superhero thing–Benny has not sung once since Mac changed sides because none of the villains have their own theme tunes. It’s tra
gic and blatantly unfair. I think it calls for union involvement–get the bad guys a tune and some better PR.’
The phone rang and Sam answered it while I went off to check on whether or not Benny still had all of his limbs. The guys were sitting at either side of the sofa, enjoying their post-dinner TV hour. I plonked down in the middle of them and they both automatically switched the way that they were leaning so that they snuggled into me. I’d never stop feeling lucky. All those years of fertility treatment and despair, and now I had not one but two gorgeous little boys. And I would never, never take them for granted.
I kissed the tops of their heads. They didn’t even raise their eyes from the screen–good to see that their male genes were functioning normally.
There had been a definite difference in their demeanour today. Apart from their spectacular welcoming committee for their favourite uncle, they seemed a bit lethargic, a bit less sparkly than normal. I put it down to the fact that they’d been by Sam’s pool all day with Eliza instead of racing around with all their pals down at Mother’s Beach. They were having withdrawal symptoms. That was it, withdrawal symptoms.
‘I miss Daddy, Mummy,’ murmured Mac.
‘I know, Darthie, I miss him too.’ I did. When I wasn’t busy with the whole uncontrollable sulks and petulance thing.
Sam wandered in, phone in hand. ‘It’s Ike–he wants to speak to you too.’
I took the phone. ‘Hi Ike,’ I said warmly. I liked Ike. True, I’d only actually met him once, but his occasional phone calls of one hundred per cent pure optimism and encouragement had gone a long way to sustain me over the last fortnight.
‘So I hear the script’s done and it’s brilliant. Genius!’
I laughed. ‘So Mr Morton tells me. He may just be trying to save my feelings, though–there’s nothing worse than a disappointed woman.’
‘Honey, I wouldn’t know,’ he replied, sending me into peals of laughter. You couldn’t beat confidence.
‘Okay, babe, so I’m getting back into town tomorrow afternoon, so as soon as you’re finished with Stavorski, call me.’
‘I will,’ I promised.
‘And good luck. Not that you need it–you’ll blow him away.’
And I thought that kind of stuff didn’t go on any more. Still, if that’s what it took…
‘Ready?’ Sam asked.
I nodded, smiled and shouted, ‘Yep, let’s do it!’
In my mind.
In reality I shook my head, grimaced and said, ‘Put your foot down and keep going, I’ve changed my mind.’
He laughed and turned off the ignition. ‘Go on, it’ll be great. You’ll be great. You’ll have Stavorski eating out of your hand.’
Ooh, mental image, foul taste in mouth.
We were sitting outside the security gates at GMG Studios and my heart was beating so loudly I sounded like the drum section on a parade. This was it. I was about to face a life-defining moment. The next hour could change the whole course of my entire life. And I was so glad that Sam was there with me offering support and gentle encouragement.
‘Carly, if you don’t get out the car, I’m going to have to drag you. Now go. Go, you mad woman.’
Gentle.
I took a deep breath. ‘Okay, wish me luck,’ I said.
He leaned over and kissed my cheek in a purely platonic way. After his little outburst the day before, he’d been a paragon of model behaviour right up until we fell into bed (separately) at 2 a.m. after a few hours of tweaking. Platonic tweaking. Sam’s suggestions had been perceptive and the script was all the better for it. In fact as far as I could tell, it might even be, as Sam said, quite good. This morning he’d been supportive and sweet. He’d even told me I was gorgeous despite the fact that I hadn’t recruited the services of the lovely Jojo. I felt she’d helped me enough and I didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. Unfortunately, the result was I looked like Mac had given me a quick blow-dry and Benny had applied my make-up.
‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be far away–just meeting Jojo for a coffee down on Wilshire Boulevard, so buzz me as soon as you come out and I’ll come back for you.’
I nodded, then climbed out. I pulled out Sam’s very poshest briefcase from the back of the car. He’d insisted I take it as a good-luck charm.
I waved him goodbye and blew him a kiss, then straightened up. Okay. This was it. I was a cosmopolitan woman of the world and I was about to crack Hollywood. With my thighs, if necessary.
Head up, shoulders back, hips a-swayin’ and strut, strut, strut over to the security booth.
‘Good morning again,’ I said to the same security guard who’d been on shift when I last visited. He obviously had absolutely no recollection of ever meeting me. Well, I was Carly Cooper, not Sharon Stone.
That thought suddenly gave me another idea for persuasive negotiating tactics, but damn! I was wearing trousers.
‘Just one moment please,’ said security man, then he tapped, tapped, tapped on his computer. A thrill was gurgling away in my stomach. I was nearly there. My moment of truth…
‘Er, sorry, Ms Cooper, but could you have a seat for a moment over there please?’
He directed me to two little seats on the opposite wall of the booth. This hadn’t happened last time. Oh well, probably just a computer malfunction.
Security man picked up the phone and dialled a number. I was out of earshot so I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. A minute later, he replaced the handset and came over to me.
‘Ma’am, you’re definitely waiting to see Mr Stavorski?’
I nodded.
‘I’m afraid Mr Stavorski isn’t available today.’ Oh, bollocks. All that build-up, all that work, all that unnecessary neurotic worry and now the bloody twat was off sick.
‘Oh, that’s okay,’ I replied with a smile–after all, it wasn’t the security guard’s fault that my life ambition had just been trampled on by Danny DeVito’s wee brother.
‘I’ll call his secretary later to reschedule,’ I told him.
‘Ma’am, I don’t think that will be possible. You see, Mr Stavorski doesn’t work here any more.’
For the second time in a month, in front of an innocent, unsuspecting security guard, I had a desperate urge to put my head between my knees.
‘Honey, I don’t fucking believe it! He was fired. Studio thought he’d lost his edge. Only just got back into the office and found out myself.’
‘So what does that mean, Ike? We need to wait for his replacement to take a look at my script?’
There was an ominous silence.
I was Carly Cooper, twenty storeys up on the metaphorical Hollywood high-rise, hanging on for dear life and desperate not to fall and land with a resounding thump on my arse. My ten fingers were clinging on by a thread.
‘Actually, it doesn’t work that way, honey.’
Nine fingers.
‘But why? Do you mean it’ll go on hold?’
‘Erm, no. That’s not how it works either.’
Eight fingers.
‘Carly, as far as GMG are concerned you were Lee Stavorski’s project. Now he’s on the highway, and that means you are too. No one else in that studio will touch you now.’
Seven fingers.
Think. Think. This could not be the end of my American dream. No! It just bloody couldn’t. Hang on, hang on…
‘Ike, we’ve still got Juliet Brookstein. She said she’d come back to us with an answer this week.’
See! There was still hope.
Silence. Oh crap, six fingers.
‘Honey, there was a message from Juliet waiting for me when I got back today.’
Flat tone, no cheer whatsoever.
Five fingers.
‘She says she loves it. Loves it. But her board has decided to pass on this one.’
Four fingers.
‘But, but, they make loads of rom coms, so perhaps I could show them my other book. Maybe they’d buy that one, Ike, it’s great!�
�
Desperation had taken over completely and I was now panicking big-time.
Three fingers.
‘Sorry, Carly, they think rom coms are over. They’ve decided to diversify into reality TV.’
Two fingers.
‘Any other ideas, Ike? Anything?’
One finger.
‘Honey, I think we’ve just got to put this one down to experience. We’ve made progress. People know who you are now. And I think it’s time to put this one aside and come back from a different angle. Maybe write another book, or finish that script and I’ll pass that around. But this deal, honey? I think this one is dead for now.’
Splat.
‘But hey, don’t be disheartened, babe, there’s always next time.’
I snapped my phone shut. Goodbye, Cliché Man.
My whole body felt numb. Apart from my stomach, which was going like a hamster on a spinning wheel and a diet of E-numbers.
That was it. It was over. I’d finally woken up from the Hollywood dream.
I wanted to cry. I really, really wanted to cry. Then I noticed I already was. And I was also starting to attract strange looks from passers-by.
I opened my phone again and pressed a speed-dial key. Sam answered straight away.
‘Sam, please come and get me. No. I’ll tell you later. Just come for me, please. I want to go home. Home to your house.’
CARLY CALLING…
Fastphone to Ms. C. Cooper:
Sorry to inform you that you have exceeded your call and message limit for this month. Please call Fastphone customer services to increase your account limit. Further usage will not be allowed until this issue has been rectified.
Thank you, Fastphone Customer Services.
Step Seventeen
‘You sure you don’t want me to come?’ Sam asked. ‘I’m happy to cancel my meetings this morning.’
I shook my head. ‘Thanks, Sam, but to be honest I’d quite like to spend some time with the boys on my own. I’ve missed them the last couple of weeks.’
It was the morning after the day before. Twenty-four hours ago I’d been beside myself with excitement at what the day could bring. Now all my day held in store was contemplation, a repetitive strain injury on my Frisbee arm and sand in places that it shouldn’t be.