by Susan Lewis
Allowing her eyes to lose focus, she pushed out the depressing images she was passing and let the excitement of where she was going come flooding in. It took only seconds for her heart to start beating with hope and, as the blood of the person she was about to become began to flow through her veins, it was as though she was rising up like a phoenix from the fag ash of this turgid existence to become her real self, a smart and educated young woman who, as she’d told them at her interview, had helped her father run a lively little bookshop and coffee bar in their country village home, until he had died a few months ago. She had sold the business now and after many years of caring for her sick father she was ready at last to start living. And having just landed a job with McCann Walsh, one of the most important theatrical agents in London, she didn’t see how she could fail to do just that.
She shivered as a frisson of excitement eddied through her heart – the future was suddenly so filled with possibilities and promise that her imagination was whirling out of control. But stranger things had happened than a little Miss Ordinary being plucked from anonymity to become the latest stage and screen sensation. OK, she’d never acted, but it couldn’t be that hard and, like everyone said, she was nothing if not a quick study. Or maybe she was going to be a businesswoman and head up her own agency, provided she didn’t meet a stinking-rich playboy first, of course, who wanted to fly her off all over the world and pamper her with all his manly attention and millions of dollars. Actually, that was a nice idea, but what interested her more was Michael McCann, one of her new bosses. She hadn’t met him yet because he’d been out of the office when she was there for her interview, but she’d seen plenty of photographs dotted around the walls of him with dozens of famous faces and the minute she’d laid eyes on him she’d known that it was for a man like him and the kind of life he was leading that she had to go to London. It was meant to be, her getting this job, she could feel it in her bones, just like she could feel the trip in her heart every time she thought of Michael McCann. It was like that thing across a crowded room, except he hadn’t actually been there, of course, but there was just no way she could have reacted to a photograph like that without there being something to it – and she was just dying to find out if it was going to happen to him too, the minute he saw her. It would be so incredible if it did, because he was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, in a Ralph Fiennes kind of way, and from the very little she’d managed to find out from Zelda, the woman who’d interviewed her, he was still single.
A bolt of nerves suddenly shot through her as the grim reality of what she was going to do when she actually got to London crudely blocked out her dream. It wasn’t going to be easy and she knew it, for she had to find herself somewhere to live in a city she’d only ever been to once and where she knew absolutely no one at all – except Zelda Frey, the woman who’d interviewed her. And Zelda Frey wasn’t going to be interested in seeing her until Monday week, when her job was due to start, by which time she should have moved in with the cousin she had assured Zelda she could live with until she found herself a place.
Her throat started to ache as the apprehension in her heart expanded. God, how she wished that were true, that she had a cousin in London, or a friend, or even the friend of a friend.
She was only two stops from the station now. She didn’t want to stay here, but she was suddenly terrified to go on. Her hands were tight on the strap of her bag, her knees were pressed hard together. She wished there were someone she could do this with, for she suddenly felt so horribly alone she wasn’t sure she could go on with it now.
The bus went through a tunnel and catching her reflection in the window she felt her courage make a hesitant return. She looked good, she had an air about her that didn’t belong to dead-and-alive holes like this. And besides, she had it all worked out. She was going to get off the train at Euston, go straight to a newsstand and buy a copy of the Evening Standard, where all the flats for rent were listed. Then she was going to find a tourist information office and ask them to recommend a cheap hotel. She might have to stay there a couple of nights, but at least she’d have a roof over her head and somewhere to leave her suitcase while she went out looking for a place to live.
Filled with the dread of how much even a cheap hotel might be, she got up from her seat and rang the bell. Two minutes later she was carrying her case through the drizzle, across the road to the station. It all seemed to be happening so fast now and she had never felt so scared in her life. The part of her that was electrified and excited and unbelievably courageous had beaten a cowardly retreat. But it would come back, she told herself firmly, it was only hiding to give her the chance to realize that, OK, it would probably be tough at first, and there were doubtless going to be times when she might want to chuck it all in and come running back home. But she wouldn’t, she’d handle it, because destiny had her marked down for something big, she was sure of that, it was only getting started that was a problem. But she had a good job now and once she got going there would be no stopping her, for she really didn’t care what she had to do to make things work, she’d do it, because she was never coming back here again – not ever.
Chapter 2
ELLEN SHELBY WAS sitting in her favourite spot on the porch, swaying idly back and forth in the old iron swing as she watched the setting sun drag those final fiery rays into the far horizon. She sat with one foot tucked carelessly under her, the other skimmed the dusty porch boards as she rocked. Her arms were spread out across the back of the seat, her thick, shiny brown curls were twisted into a band at the top of her head. Between her and that far-away edge of the world was nothing but space, and carpeting that wide, wonderful space was acre upon luscious acre of ripe, almost ready for market, soybeans.
The leaves of the plants fluttered like tiny wings in the breeze. Thin furrows lined the sandy loam, as though a giant comb had descended from the heavens and run itself through the disorderly plants to tidy them up and stand them to attention for harvest. It had been like this for as long as Ellen could remember, planting in spring after the frosts had gone, harvesting in October once the leaves had fallen. It was as regular and monotonous as the endless loop of the sun and she had come to rely on it in much the same way. It never changed, only the weather cast different shades or different patterns upon the ceaseless tangle of lush vegetation.
The house didn’t change either, always dust on the porch, a couple of brooms propped up behind the fly screen, a pail lying on its side, a supply of logs stacked against the wall. Suspended over the handrails were her mother’s cherished clay planters, filled with impatients and cyclamen, and snaking up the posts were the pretty bell flowers of pink and purple fuchsias. One of the steps descending into the yard was missing. It had been like that for years, if anyone replaced it now it was likely someone would take a fall.
Ellen yawned and resting her head on the seat-back gazed out at the darkening sky. A tiny sliver of moon was peeking through a drifting cluster of cloud. A jet plane, way too high to be heard, passed on to an unknown destination. The scent of damp earth rose into the night air and mingled with the pleasing smell of home baking. If she were to close her eyes it would be easy to imagine she was still only five years old, or twelve, or sixteen.
In three months she would be thirty. She wasn’t sure whether to be concerned about that or not. Sitting here right now she couldn’t have cared less, but this wasn’t LA where things like age, laugh lines, gravity responses and hair loss mattered more than God. This was Nebraska where the only thing that mattered more than God was the harvest.
She was here, spending a short vacation with her folks, before flying on to New York to finalize a movie deal for Ricky Leigh, the stand-up comic who, just last year, had turned his successful club act into a smash-hit sitcom for NBC. The guy wasn’t only a great performer and a great star, he was a great big pain in the butt, but Ellen was well used to pains in the butt now, they came with the territory of being an agent, much like paranoia and ego.
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p; Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, as though to absorb the rich, soothing calmness of home. The thought brought an ironic smile to her lips. She’d been here two days now and her father had yet to speak to her directly. Everything he had to say was relayed through her mother, even though Ellen was standing right there. It had been like that for years, ever since she’d returned from college and announced she was leaving again to go join her cousin Matty in LA. Matty was an actress, which, in their house, was the same as saying Matty was a harlot; and now Ellen was an actors’ agent, which, according to her father, was just a fancy way of saying she was a begetter of flesh for the devil.
The first time he had said that Ellen had made the grand mistake of laughing. Not noted for his humour, Frank Shelby, the giant bear of a soybean farmer who drove fifteen miles to church every Sunday and read to his wife from the Good Book every evening, had reached for his belt. There was no place for the devil in his house and if his daughter, his own flesh and blood, thought she could bring him here, then he, as God’s servant, was going to drive him out.
He hadn’t whipped her, he never did; he just thwacked his belt on the table a couple of times, making both her and her mother jump, then took himself off in a rage to go pray for God’s guidance on the matter of his fallen daughter.
Ellen’s heart ached for him, as deep down inside she knew he loved her, though never in all her twenty-nine years had he been able to to tell her that. She knew too how deeply hurt he had been when she had chosen to study literature and dramatic art at NYU, when the University of Nebraska had some of the finest agriculture and economics teachers in the world and Lincoln was just a couple hundred miles down the road.
The college battle had been fought and won a long time ago now, but it still saddened her to think of how badly let down he felt that she hadn’t chosen to stay on the farm and marry Richie Hughes, the boy next door, the way everyone had expected her to. She’d known Richie all her life. He lived with his folks further along the road to North Platte, the small town where everyone hereabouts shopped for their groceries, picked up the local gossip and placed a weekly bet on the lottery. Richie and his family were their nearest neighbours and closest friends. Richie was a good and dutiful son who had gone to college in Lincoln, got all his diplomas and degrees in subjects that mattered and was back home now, preparing for the day he would take over the farm from his father. He’d have married Ellen if she were willing, they’d been sweethearts since high school, their families expected it, and no one would be happier than Frank Shelby for Richie Hughes to become the son he’d never had and combine the Hughes’ precious four hundred acres of the world’s most important bean with the Shelby four hundred when the Good Lord saw fit to call Frank to the great farm in the sky.
Ellen had adored Richie and still did. He was kind and funny, steady and dependable, deeply moral and far too handsome to be buried away in Nebraska. For years she had thought she would marry him, they’d talked about it often enough, especially as teenagers, when he would borrow his dad’s truck after church and take her over to the bluff near Laramie for picnics. At first, as they ate their mothers’ home- made pies and drank Pepsi from bottles, he used to entertain her with stories about the pioneers who had ground their wagons along this route towards the Oregon trail. She had loved those stories and doubted she would ever forget them. Nor would she forget the first time he kissed her, a real, grown-up kiss, using his tongue and pressing his body against hers. It had turned her breathless and weak with feelings she had never experienced before, but though she’d wanted him to carry on as far it could go, she’d been too shy to say and he too respectful to try. It had taken almost a year for them to pluck up the courage to go all the way, but it had happened right there on the bluff, with the bubbly, rocky river rushing along below and the huge, billowing clouds sailing by overhead.
She’d broken his heart when she’d told him she was leaving. It hadn’t been easy for her either; never in her life had she left Nebraska and the only time she had ever spent away from home was when she had been taken into the hospital to have her appendix removed. But she had promised her cousin Matty, a promise sealed in blood when they were eight years old, that one day they would go to college together in New York. As Matty and her brothers lived in White Plains with Aunt Julie and Uncle Melvin, Matty’s side of the bargain hadn’t been hard to keep. For Ellen it had been the most difficult step she had ever taken in her life.
But that was a long way behind her now; Richie had married a girl from Omaha three years back and just yesterday Ellen had stopped by to say hello to the newest member of the family. Richie’s wife, Mitzi, who was as addicted to showbiz as anyone Ellen knew, had wanted to hear all about Ellen’s wildly glamorous life in LA, how many big stars she knew, which famous places she went to and whether or not it was true what they were saying about Bruce and Demi. Even before she had a chance to answer Mitzi was telling her what was happening in Melrose Place, then declaring how she just didn’t understand why everyone raved about The Nanny, when the woman’s voice was like a cat in a garbage can and what she knew about kids had been tossed out with towelling diapers. Richie, who obviously loved his wife a great deal, teased her for getting so involved and tried not to seem embarrassed when he asked Ellen if she’d met anyone special yet. Ellen had merely winked and tapped the side of her nose, before changing the subject to much more important matters, like what they were going to call the new baby.
Now, as she sat there on the porch, her tall, slender body curled up on the seat, her lovely face turned to the moon, she wondered what they would say if she told them the truth. A smile curved her lips as a current of excitement stole through her heart and closing her eyes she felt herself sink into the tingling warmth of her secret.
Hearing the TV go on inside, she was tempted to escape the noise and go wander round to the barns, maybe check on the horses or sit a while with the dogs. Her mother was addicted to TV. If she could, she’d watch it around the clock, but Frank wouldn’t allow that. It was a miracle he had allowed a TV in the house at all, considering his views on it, but as softly spoken, pliable and easily dominated as Ellen’s mother appeared to be, when it came to wanting something badly she knew how to get her way. And over this she’d really done herself proud for there were now TVs in the living-room, kitchen and two of the four bedrooms; and if Ellen had to lay bets on who knew more about Seinfeld, ER, Savannah or any of the other soaps and sitcoms currently bombarding America, she’d probably have to put her money on Frank. How he reconciled this with the Good Lord she had no idea, but she imagined he’d found a way.
Of course, with her parents watching TV as much as they did they’d know exactly who Clay Ingall was, were she to mention his name. Anyone would, for not only had Clay played lead guitar for the Stones, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and the Doors in his time, he’d also starred in three major hit movies in the past three years and was currently, thanks to a messy divorce, making most of the gossip shows and all of the tabloids on a pretty regular basis. It was amazing, in fact quite unbelievable really, that no one had gotten hold of his romance with Ellen yet, particularly as Ellen was something of a name in her own right and the affair, such as it was, had been going on for the best part of six months.
Of course, they had gone to great pains not to be discovered, for if Clay’s wife, Nola, were to get wind of Ellen then God only knew how many more millions she would add to her alimony suit, nor how much more bitter her attacks in the press would become. Already she had labelled Clay a lousy lover, a recovering alcoholic and a wife-beater, none of which was true, though Clay had not uttered a single word in his own defence, for fear of making it any worse than it already was for his children.
He and Ellen had met at a party hosted by American Talent International, one of the top-ranking agencies in LA where Ellen now worked. She’d started out, five years ago, as a booking clerk at a much smaller agency over on Olympic where the owners, Phil and Flynn, two wicked old gays, taught her the bas
ics of agenting, introduced her around town, hyped her up to the press and promoted her to full-blown agent within a year. They’d also brought her to the attention of Ted Forgon, the owner of ATI, who had approached her soon after with an offer Phil and Flynn wouldn’t hear of her refusing. It was time for them to pack up and retire to Palm Springs anyhow, so Ellen didn’t only get herself a new job, she also got to take the cream of Phil’s and Flynn’s client list with her. Now, thanks to some ruthless manoeuvres and a remarkable gift for discovering new talent, as well as recognizing great scripts, she had a list to rival many in LA and a reputation for pulling down a deal and promoting her clients that had made her the talk of the industry. Being as beautiful as she was, it seemed the press were forever on her case, taking shots of her coming and going from restaurants or night-clubs and taking great delight in pairing her name with anyone from Ted Forgon, her boss, to Felix Moselle the disgraced California senator whose wife was currently doing any talk show that would have her, telling the story of how she had caught her husband writhing around the bed in a Hollywood hotel with three budding bimbos and a couple of chihuahuas.
Hearing the theme tune for Lucy start up inside, Ellen picked up her cellphone and, wandering down from the porch, walked across the yard and round to the back of the machine shed. It was dark now, but she knew this place like the back of her hand and since her parents would be engrossed for the next half-hour it was a perfect opportunity to make a call without being overheard. Her stomach was already churning, her muscles were tensing and her heartbeat was starting to race at the prospect of hearing his voice. The disappointment that he hadn’t yet called when he’d said he would was lessened by the understanding that he was busy with a new band this weekend and had probably got so engrossed he’d forgotten what day it was, never mind what time.