by Rosie Blake
‘I was not!’ I felt myself grow as red as the outfit I was wearing, ‘Well…maybe.’
‘Was it the sex one?’
‘Nooo…’ I shifted, my worst lying voice see-through as anything.
‘Was he wearing the tux again? Were you downstairs or upstairs in the cottage? Oh wait, were you on the swing set?’
‘Er…’
Dammit.
Mel clutched her sides. ‘Amazing. I love how English you are: even your sex daydreams are polite. Did he ask whether he could enter you?’
‘Stop it!’ I squealed, clapping my hands to the side of my face.
‘Tell meeeeeee…’ She clasped both her hands together in prayer, looking over at me expectantly.
Quietly chewing on the last of the peach, I said in a half-whisper, ‘I saw him.’
Mel dropped her hands. ‘I know, that is the whole point of a sex dream. Unless you were blindfolded which, by the way, I highly recommend…’
‘No, not in my dream,’ I interrupted, placing the can on the bench by my side. ‘Saw him, saw him in the flesh, for real, alive.’
My man, my fantasy Andrew Parker. I thought back to his shoulders, wide and reliable, his confident gaze as he passed the camera.
‘I really saw him, Mel,’ I repeated.
‘Not in your head?’ she checked.
I shook my head from side to side. ‘No.’
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Yeah, right, where did you see him? Here?’
I shook my head again, feeling the green stalk hat move with me. ‘On the television, back home, I mean he was back home on the television. On the news.’
‘He presents the news! Cool!’
‘No. Not presenting, he was on the news…’
‘He was a criminal on the news,’ Mel interrupted.
‘No, not a criminal – and thanks for that. No, he was just on the news. Behind my dad.’
‘Your dad was on the news too?’ Mel frowned.
‘Yes, talking about a vintage car, but that’s not the point, focus, I SAW him, he was right there, right in England.’
Mel turned her whole carrot body around to look at me. ‘Well that’s like completely mental.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘So what are you going to do? Track him down and make him marry you?’ she laughed.
I didn’t respond at first. ‘No, no, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Er…no, you could not, weird English girl, because, well, there are many reasons – for example, it might not have been him, you…’
‘It was him,’ I interrupted.
‘…don’t know where he lives…’
‘England.’ I pouted.
‘Well that narrows it right down.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And, HA!’ She pointed at me. ‘He might already be married.’
‘Hmm…he didn’t look married.’
‘What? How is that even possible? Do married men have like a weary stoop or something?’
‘He is married to me so if he were married again, he would be a polygamist and I would know.’
‘You mean a bigamist.’
‘I mean what I mean,’ I said cryptically (because I wasn’t absolutely sure who was right).
I wasn’t ready for Mel to shatter my illusions. I felt I would have known somehow if he was married (again) – that my brain would have given up thinking back to him and conjuring up that life with him if he had been taken off the market.
‘So what are you planning, Iz? Just to appear and be like, “Hey, random man I haven’t seen in two decades who I dream about, want to get hitched?”’
‘No of course not,’ I snapped, hot and bothered in my costume and feeling the truth of her words.
‘Hey, lovely, it’s not so bad, you need to focus on what is here and now. Maybe you’ll get a break.’
‘Maybe.’ I sighed, feeling guilty. Recently I had been on such a downer, I wondered why Mel stuck around. ‘Thanks for being such a supportive carrot,’ I said, making her grin.
‘It’s my pealeasure.’
‘You’re a prat, you know that, don’t you?’
She lowered her head, the long green tendrils of stalk flopping forward. ‘Yeah. Hey,’ she looked up at me quickly, ‘aren’t you seeing your agent later today?’
My stomach flipped as I remembered the email I’d received the previous week. He had things he wanted to talk about face to face and I was really hoping this was it – the big audition I had hoped for, maybe for one of the networks. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ I tried to say but Mel was hushing me with a hand.
‘Maybe this is it, Iz?’ She grinned.
I felt my whole face lift. ‘Maybe it is,’ I said, hope bursting in my chest. ‘Thanks, Mel.’
Celine sashayed over at that moment. She had found a bit of straw to chew on between her glossy plump lips.
‘Hellooooo, am I like the only one working here?’
Mel readjusted her carrot face and stood up. ‘Keep your tiny hot pants on, Celine, we were just discussing strategy.’
‘Yes,’ I said, standing up and patting the front of my tomato costume. ‘Let’s courgette them,’ I said putting on my most gung-ho voice.
‘Sorry?’
‘Courgette, you know, go, get ’em.’
‘Oh right, leave the puns to me, babe.’
‘Seriously, Mel, we are not babe-type girls.’
‘I feel ya, sista.’
‘Well please don’t.’
*
The morning dragged by and the only highlight was when Mel decided to start a line dance as a carrot and made some people join in. I think someone put it on YouTube so at least I am on TV a little now.
Traipsing across town to my agent’s office on a tree-lined avenue off Santa Monica Boulevard, I buzzed the intercom.
‘The Starlight Agency.’
‘Isobel for…Randy?’ I said into it, feeling foolish for stuttering over his name. As I did, every time.
The buzz sounded with no response and I pushed through, pausing to check my face in the reflection of the next internal door, pushing my hair behind my ears and licking my lips. Right. Crossing all my fingers and toes in an imaginary way, I started up the first flight of stairs arriving outside the office two minutes before I was due to be there. This could be exciting, Isobel, I thought as I opened the door to the outer room and his receptionist, Demi. Maybe he had news…
Demi looked up from her desk. ‘He’s on a phone call, Annabel.’ She had one of those Bluetooth headsets on which always makes me suspicious.
‘Isobel,’ I said, trying not to let the frustration show in my face. Keep smiling, Iz. Today could be the start of big change for you…
‘Isobel,’ she repeated as if it were a new word in her vocabulary. ‘Take a couch.’ She pointed to the corner where I went to sit on the hardest, slipperiest sofa, the red faux leather making it impossible to remain still.
I idly trawled through my phone as I waited, five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. At twenty, I surreptitiously sent Mel a photo message of me pretending to hang myself with boredom. Demi stared at me as I panicked, coughed and slipped about some more.
‘Ha!’ I held my phone up as some kind of further explanation. Stop this, Isobel. Behave. I popped it back in my bag to end further temptation.
I waited for ten more minutes and realised I had now been waiting long enough to complete a game of Imperial Yahtzee, which is longer than anyone should wait for an appointment. By the time the door opened, I had practically forgotten why I was there. Your CAREER, Iz. This man has your career in his manicured hands. (Yes, once a week; last time we met, someone was doing them for him, hand propped on a little pouffe by his desk. It was like being interviewed by a camp Henry VIII.)
‘Darling, darling, darling, darling, darling.’
He said the last three leaning wide and going for a double air-kiss.
I puckered my lips belatedly, smacking at the air in return. ‘Randy,’ I said, tripping over the word as in England this is just NOT A NAME.
He drew me back with two arms, assessing me. ‘You look great. Open brackets. Have you had work? Close brackets. FOLLOW, you gorgeous creature, follow.’ Spinning on one foot he marched ahead into his office, his suit trousers obscenely tight, forcing me to stare.
I felt exhausted already.
His office was a confusing mix of Bond Villain meets kitsch. A lot of gold discs in frames on the wall, a lot of china cats and a globe glittering with jewelled patches in one corner. His enormous high-backed armchair looked out onto the Avenue, glowing people buzzing past, cars at a standstill, air filled with the occasional toot of horns, shouts and chatter.
‘So you’re here,’ he said, throwing himself into his chair and pointing to the seat opposite. ‘Shoot, baby girl,’ he said, two arms up on the rests of his chair, unfathomably white teeth flashing in his tanned face.
‘Well,’ I said, sitting abruptly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. ‘Well, when we spoke on the phone last week you said we needed to talk urgently. And, well, I wondered if there’d been any news, over at the networks; did they like the latest stuff on my show reel?’
‘You are divine, do you know that? Business, business you are.’ Then he tilted his head to one side and held up his hands, making a square with his fingers to frame me in. ‘You would suit being a redhead, you know. I don’t have many on the books; a fiery redhead.’ He waved both hands as if drawing a rainbow. He did this. He did this every time I saw him and I knew it was my job to bring him back.
‘So did they?’ I asked, slowly lowering my head, as if to look at him over imaginary glasses. Very school ma’am.
The trick worked and he shot one arm out to click on the mouse, staring at the screen.
‘They did not, my darling, full stop.’
Oh no, I hated it when he spelled out punctuation.
‘Look, baby girl, I did call you and I did need to see you and I think you know why.’ His finely plucked eyebrows raised as I scrabbled about for a reason.
‘This, sweetheart, this,’ he said pointing to me and him. ‘Between us, it’s not going anywhere, is it?’
Where was this headed? What was he saying? This didn’t seem good, the networks hadn’t called. Was he…? Was he…?
‘Look, you are super-cute with your little British ways and I totally thought they’d fall over their shiny little asses to sign you up but, baby girl, it’s been an age now and we’ve been pushing you all over town and no one is biting.’
Oh no, this was bad.
‘Are you? Do you think…?’ I felt my usual fight drain away. He was telling me, clear as day, that he was dropping me. That it was over. I was agent-less, which in LA meant that I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere in TV.
‘I mean, you’re dreamy, you know? In that sort of royal way you have with your brown hair and your accent. Hello, I would DIE for it, but it’s never happened, has it? So we need to part ways.’ He mimed the last two words with both hands separating and a pseudo-sad expression on his face.
‘I…’ I didn’t know what to say; this was the last thing I’d imagined. I mean, Randy was peculiar, and pretty irritating, but he was a great agent. He knew EVERYONE in LA and at the start I had been his cute English pet, attending parties, meeting executives from production companies. Now that I thought about it though, that had all been a while ago. When had I really last heard from him? Randy had started one of his anecdotes about a party he had been to in Beverly Hills the week before.
‘…So I said to him I wouldn’t make out with a man in upturned jeans unless he were Michael J. Fox and it was 1994.’
I tried to raise a smile as he came to a stop.
‘Look, baby, my girl, let’s not make this hashtag awkward,’ he said, moving round from his chair to give me a hug. ‘Randy is here for you if things happen, but for now…’
He let the sentence linger and returned to his desk, fiddling at his computer to show that this meeting was over. I felt my throat thicken and, choking a goodbye, I picked up my bag and walked out of the office, past Demi, down the stairs and out into the hustle and crowd-filled street. Staring up at the pedestrian crossing opposite, watching it turn to DON’T WALK. Like my career I thought, letting a tear fall now. Not going anywhere. What the hell was I going to do?
Wearily inserting the key into my apartment door, picking up a stray crisp packet that had blown onto the step and noticing mould in the corners of the downstairs flat windows, my phone buzzed.
I couldn’t face speaking to anyone now. I needed to have a night on my own. Not bothering to reply to either, I spent the next few hours mindlessly browsing the Internet looking at videos of people doing crap hair tutorials, cats doing funny shit and beauty pageants gone wrong.
None of these raised a smile and I found myself staring around the room as if looking for answers on the walls. How had I ended up here? What if my life had been different? What if I’d never come to LA. What if…? My finger hovered uncertainly in the Google search bar and then before I could stop myself I had done it. I had typed 12 letters. Andrew Parker.
Pressing ‘Enter’ I held my breath as numerous websites appeared in a long list. Scrolling quickly down them it became clear that one Andrew Parker was a pretty big deal in the world of espionage. Clicking on an article announcing his appointment as Head of MI5 my hands became clammy. He was Actual James Bond. This was unbelievable. My mouth lifted for the first time that night as the page loaded. A spy. A man of mystery. A…perfect stranger. The man staring back at me bore no resemblance to the Andrew Parker I knew.
The search for the real Andrew Parker seemed to rouse me and I clicked on some travel websites and looked up the cost of flights to England. I had saved money doing the promotional jobs, thought maybe I would need it if and when I went back to trying to get work as a presenter. It sat in my bank like a permanent reminder that I was giving up on my dreams. I thought back to today, the work, the hideous meeting with Randy. Everything seemed to become clear in my mind. I knew what I had to do.
Walking through to my bedroom, I opened up my bedside table, rummaging through it for what I was looking for. I’d kept it all these years – couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It was nestled in an old plastic jewellery box. Pulling it out, I pushed it onto my finger. It slipped on. The yellow pipe cleaner, faded with time but still the reminder of that day. I stared at it from every angle, memories flooding through me.
Still wearing it, I moved back through to my laptop and, without another thought, entered my details, chose a seat by the window, a meal choice and then emailed my mum.
I picked up my phone and texted Mel.
Darling,
Just received your email. How completely wonderful. We’ll pick you up from Bodmin station. I’ll tell your father he is not to go to boules and start beating the red carpet for your arrival. Today we saw a dolphin so maybe he heard the news too and is getting excited. Can’t WAIT to see you, my darling, do you need money for the flight?
Mum x
Chapter 6
I started packing that night for a flight the next day. It was sad really how little I’d accumulated in the last couple of years, so most of my belongings were coming with me. Mel had been texting me all night with comforting things like: ‘England will be cold’, ‘Andrew will be a jerk’ and my personal favourite, ‘WHAT IF CELINE AND I HAVE TO BECOME BFFs?’
Snuggling down in my bed I felt certainty wash over
me (and also White Musk because I had lit a scented candle). In the half-light I could see the outline of my suitcase, sunhat perched on top, handbag by its side. I set my alarm, closed my eyes, sank into the pillow and had a totally dreamless sleep.
When I woke, I felt pumped for the day ahead, blocking out the day before and trying to shake the hopeless feeling that had followed me around these past few weeks. This would be a fabulous adventure and I would answer those questions that had been bugging me all these years. Cramming the last items in and zipping up the suitcase, I cast my eye over my bedroom. The muslin curtains were tied back, a strip of blue sky seen over the flats beyond. A horn blasted and I knew this was it. Everything looked tidy. I’d left a pile of books and a framed photo of me and Mum and Dad outside a fish restaurant in Fowey by the bed. I turned down the duvet, plumped the pillows and took a last look around before turning off the light. Rolling my suitcase out and down the stairs to the street below I stepped into the waiting cab.
Dear diary,
In school it was funny because we all stood on big plastic barrels and made a line of us and tried to roll the barrels along, all rolling them at the same speed. If we fell down it was okay because it was on the grass so no one was hurt. I didn’t fall down. To get balanced, we held hands and I held Jenny’s hand and Andrew’s hand and it was good because when Jenny let go I was safe because Andrew didn’t.
I x
Chapter 7
Bodmin
My mother was wearing a mustard-yellow shawl over a knee-length navy-blue dress and Wellington boots and was waving at every train carriage, just in case it contained me. I couldn’t help grinning and waving back, despite the fact that she was looking in a completely different direction. As we came to a stop, I attempted to manoeuvre my suitcase off the rack and out onto the platform. A guy who looked like a surfer (early twenties, dreadlocked hair, filthy tan) managed to do much of the hard work for me. I followed behind him, daintily carrying my handbag in two hands to my chest like it contained something precious like the map to Atlantis/massive diamonds.
‘Thanks,’ I said to him as he hauled it up the steps, over the platform and down the other side where my mother had already started squealing and running towards us. He looked mildly alarmed before loping off with an ‘’t’s okay,’ at me.