by Kim Izzo
“Yup. And you know how much You-Know-Who loves you.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my eyes. The movie star in question was a gorgeous blonde actress who did not love me. I had been one of the journalists who had broken the story about her split from her even more famous movie star husband and his equally famous dark-haired movie star lover before it was public knowledge. I guess I reminded her of that bad point in her life because our interviews have been terse ever since. So terse I’d taken to calling her “You-Know-Who” because, like Lord Voldemort, I dare not speak her name. Being late wasn’t going to win points, or worse, I’d lose the interview.
“What are these?” Sylvia held the remaining lorazepam pills in her palm. “Who gave you these?”
“Kiki,” I said glumly. “Didn’t think it would knock me out.”
“Did you drink?”
“Just three sidecars.”
She whistled. “Not smart. Go on, get into the shower and fast.”
We drove to the Four Seasons Hotel on Doheny in record time. Fortunately, Sylvia had a way with PR flacks and had moved our interview slot back by an hour, so when we arrived we were still technically on time. Sylvia was going to shoot You-Know-Who before our interview in case my questions irritated the star, and an irritated star never made a good portrait. At least that was how it was supposed to go.
“Clara first, photo after,” the PR woman said firmly.
“But I’d like to …” Sylvia began, but the woman shut her down with a wave of her hand.
“She has requested interviews first. Pictures second. Come now.”
I left Sylvia fuming and followed the woman down a long hallway. I began to feel sick. Really sick. I asked for water.
“I’ll get you a bottle after your interview,” she said snarkily.
I was led into a hotel room with a door to an adjoining suite and told to sit down. I sat all right. But I wasn’t alone. There was another journalist waiting his turn as well. He was a stern-looking fellow, not much older than me, with short-cropped blond hair. He had wide-set blue eyes, and if I wasn’t trying so hard to remain upright, I’d have had more time to think of how handsome he was.
“You feeling all right?” he asked me with a clipped English accent. “Your face is a rather grim shade of green.”
“I’m fine.” I gulped. Normally I enjoyed speaking with Englishmen; I loved the accent, but not today.
“Are you quite sure?” he persisted.
I nodded. He smiled at me then, and stood up to shake my hand. “I’m Niall Adamson from the UK. I’m covering the film premiere for the Daily Buzz.”
I could barely manage to lift my hand. I knew it was sweaty, like the rest of me. I told him my name. He sat down again but he obviously wanted to kill time by chatting. He waved the press kit with a large colour photo of You-Know-Who on it.
“I’ve never met her before, have you?”
I nodded. “You-Know-Who’s friendly to the right reporter.”
He looked at me sideways. “You-Know-Who?”
I grimaced and pointed to the photo. “We call her that here in LA. It’s an in-joke.” It was a white lie but I wasn’t about to tell him the details of my not-so-friendly relationship with her. “I take it you don’t live here?”
He shook his head. “London. The studio flew a few of us over.”
I really was feeling worse by the minute, but hoped the small talk would distract me, so I kept chatting. “A friend of mine lives in north London. Near Tufnell Park.”
Her name was Trinity Mayberry. She was an actress I met during a semester she spent at USC. She was one of my closest friends and once stayed with me for two months during pilot season, but unfortunately she never landed a role. I had yet to visit her and I was going to surprise her when I flew over to see Dean. But that was a plan two days too old.
“That’s an odd coincidence because I live in the same neighbourhood. What street?”
I didn’t want to give out my friend’s address, so I told him I couldn’t remember.
“Wonder if she’s near The White Stallion. It’s the local pub. What does she do?”
“She’s an actress. Mostly stage. Trinity Mayberry.”
A flood of recognition came across his face. “I know her. Not personally mind, but I have seen her. Does television too. Character actress.”
Trinity would agree with that depiction of her career.
The PR woman came in and escorted this Niall fellow into the inner sanctum of stardom.
It was a relief to stop talking; if only the room would stop moving. The swaying began to increase. All those doctors and rehab folks were onto something with their persistent claims that alcohol and drugs don’t mix.
Then, shockingly, the door to the adjoining room opened and You-Know-Who glided in like a golden panther. The PR woman and Niall must have left through the next suite. Clearly his interview was over in a flash. Probably said the wrong thing.
You-Know-Who sat down where Niall had been and fixed her feline eyes on me and forced a smile. She was always one of the polite ones. If she only knew how much we had in common now. But I was a professional and knew I had to ask about her latest romantic comedy even if the advance reviews said it stank. Only I didn’t get a chance to start asking because she fired her own question at me first.
“So Dean left you for an actress, huh?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, shocked. “How did you know?”
“You think tabloid reporters are the only ones with sources? So how does it feel? Being left for another woman?”
I swallowed. “It’s hell,” I admitted.
“I know. And what’s worse than being left for another woman?”
“What?” I was afraid of the answer.
“Being left for another woman in front of the whole world. But that’s what you do, don’t you? Expose people’s private lives.”
“You’re famous. Your privacy is never really private,” I answered, but it was no use.
“Let me introduce you to some people,” she said and walked to the door. “They want to talk to you.”
A slew of reporters scurried in, and I was suddenly surrounded by microphones and cameras all pointing at me. A flurry of voices began shouting.
“When did you first suspect your husband was cheating?”
“He says he’s in love. How does that make you feel?”
“What do you think of Amber Ward’s Oscar nomination?”
“What are your diet secrets?”
“Clara?”
“Clara?”
I opened my eyes but everyone had gone. I was lying on the bathroom floor in the hotel room, my arms curled around the toilet, with no idea how I’d gotten there. I looked up to see the concerned faces of the PR flack and Niall staring down at me. It was painfully obvious that I had passed out and dreamt the whole You-Know-Who scene. Blech.
“What’s wrong with her?” the PR flack asked.
“Perhaps it was food poisoning,” Niall offered as a polite explanation. I nodded weakly. There was apparently no end to humiliating incidents this week. Being discovered passed out in the washroom in the presence of a dashing Englishman was beyond embarrassing. Another screwball moment for Clara Bishop. At least I hadn’t thrown up.
“Well, she can’t do the interview like that,” the PR girl stated obviously.
“Really? You-Know-Who can’t sit on the tub for a few minutes?” Niall asked sarcastically.
The PR girl glared at him.
I kept staring at the toilet bowl but could feel Niall’s eyes on me.
“I’ll cancel it,” PR girl said.
“Give me your notebook and digital recorder and I’ll interview her for you,” Niall offered.
I was taken aback by such kindness but was also immensely grateful. I handed him my list of questions and iPhone. “I record on this,” I muttered. Sylvia was somewhere in another part of the hotel set up for the photo, which she wouldn’t get if I didn’t get the in
terview. Then neither of us would get paid and we’d risk pissing off an editor, which meant less work.
Niall took the notebook and nodded firmly.
“He just spoke with her,” the PR girl argued.
“That was for the Daily Buzz. This is for”—Niall looked to me. I tried to speak clearly when I said “Hollywood Hush.”
“Hollywood Hush,” he repeated.
“Fine, Clara,” the PR girl said, annoyed.
By the time Niall was done his second brush with fame, I had managed to toss some cold water on my face and redo my ponytail. The only parts I couldn’t clean up in time were my pride and my ability to make a good first impression.
“Here’s your mobile. I recorded the whole thing,” he said. “You look brighter. Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said and took my cell phone and notebook from him. With a slightly clearer head I saw how good-looking he was, albeit dressed a tad on the scruffy side. Typical entertainment journalist. “I appreciate it. She doesn’t much like me so it was probably good that I got sick when I did. Probably a sinus infection.”
He grinned a lopsided grin that gave him a mischievous look, almost boyish. “I recognize a hangover when I bloody well see one,” he said, teasing. I felt my face flush. “But not to worry, You-Know-Who was charming. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“I’m sorry. I was joking. I didn’t think you’d repeat it.”
“Don’t worry. I’m always willing and able to help a damsel in distress.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “I’m feeling like one today.”
“I see you’re married,” he said and pointed to my left hand. I stared at the wedding band but said nothing. “If I’d seen that earlier, I wouldn’t have put my contact info in your mobile.”
My eyes widened. A handsome Englishman who saw me passed out from a hangover found me attractive enough to give me his number? Why did I get all the freaks?
“Wasn’t trying to be bold,” he said urgently, as though not wanting me to get the wrong idea. “I thought if Hollywood Hush or anyone here ever needed a UK freelance reporter you could give them my name.” Cleary he wasn’t hitting on me, and he wanted to be sure I knew it.
“Don’t worry about it. I assure you, my husband won’t mind.” I started to leave the hotel room to find Sylvia. “Thank you again.”
“Try a shot of vodka,” he called out to me. “Always works for me. Hair of the dog and all that rot.”
“‘Rot’ is the right word.” I smiled weakly.
I found Sylvia and explained what happened. We drove to my place listening to Niall’s interview. Apparently You-Know-Who was in a fabulous mood and gave him loads of juicy quotes.
“Looks like the best interviews are the ones where I don’t show up. Even my job is abandoning me.”
“Stop it,” Sylvia said. “Not even You-Know-Who is immune to an English accent, and you said he was good-looking, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then she liked talking to him.”
“It’s weird he was hitting me up for work,” I said. “There are tons of papers and tabloids in the UK.”
“Maybe he wants to branch out, break into America,” Sylvia said.
I leaned against the car window. “I don’t want to go home to that apartment.”
“Where do you want to go?”
I knew the chances were good that I wouldn’t feel any better or hurt any less, but when a woman is left by her husband there is one place she inevitably ends up: back home with her mother.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The house I grew up in on Camrose Drive had been in my family for three generations. I was raised there when my parents divorced. Marjorie had grown up in it with her father and stepmother. But we all owed that roof over our heads to my grandmother Alice, who bought it after her role in He Gave No Answer and paid it off before she died.
Our house was only a five-minute walk from the famous High Tower Court, an enclave of five houses that were reachable by immense staircases built onto the hillside or an elevator that required a private key. Designed by Carl Kay in the thirties, the story goes that his wife was so fed up climbing the stairs that he built the elevator just for her. A tunnel led from a parking garage several storeys below, and only the homes’ owners had a key. Other people in the neighbourhood and gawking tourists alike could stroll up there on foot, and they often did. No matter what time of day, the area held an air of mystery, creeping with vines, bamboo and twisted prehistoric-looking ferns and palms. The steep staircases that twisted up through the hills and the glow from lamps seen peeking through the foliage and perimeter fences hinted at the private lives inside the house. I used to play along the pathways and pretend it was a jungle, as my mother had done when she was a child. It was a mystical place for a kid’s imagination. It might be just what I needed as an abandoned wife.
But before sober reflection along High Tower Court, I had to first take what was coming to me from my mother. The precise form of attack varied visit to visit, the only certainty being that there would be one. This time around the ambush started after wine had been poured and dinner was under way. In other words, all the trappings of a warm welcoming were in evidence, enough to lull a wayward daughter into thinking sympathy was on the menu alongside casserole. But that was foolish thinking. On this occasion, she chose as a starting point a long-standing source of contention: my appearance. Marjorie was convinced that there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be solved by a makeover. I felt differently.
“Have you thought of colouring your hair? Or getting a different style?” My mother had a sly way of asking such questions, like it wasn’t something she’d given much thought to, when in fact she’d run the dialogue through her mind repeatedly like they were lines from Shakespeare.
I stared at my mother the bombshell, at the blonde tresses that she kept in a quasi–Marilyn Monroe style, loose curls that fell just below her chin, then flipped up at the ends. Her eyebrows were their usual pencilled-in perfection. Her lips were candy-floss pink. The trouble with glamorous mothers is that they want you to be as glamorous as they are. As usual, I fell into her trap and felt a surge of anger flush my cheeks. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Just thought you might be ready for a change,” said Marjorie as she shoved dinner in the oven. “A new hairstyle can do wonders for a woman.”
“Really?” I asked and grabbed a fistful of my long hair. “I’m loyal to the mousy look. It’s stuck by me all these years. Longer than Dean did, that’s for sure.”
When I saw the look on my mother’s face, I knew I shouldn’t have said it. The look meant one thing: she’d known Dean was going to leave me and why. Her reasoning went far beyond hair colour. It was fate; a life philosophy that we didn’t share. Like most everything in this house, her beliefs were borrowed from another era. I waited for her to say what she had undoubtedly rehearsed.
“I discovered this new Cabernet last week,” she said instead.
Maybe this time I wouldn’t get the lecture. It was a false hope; still, I picked up my glass and swivelled around on the kitchen stool and took in the scenery. It always amazed me how nothing ever changed from what I remembered growing up. The furniture in the house was its usual eclectic mix of mid-century modern, art deco, and arts and crafts. The pieces were exquisite and cared for; a less discerning eye might take them for reproductions, like what you find in a Restoration Hardware store. But they were the real deal. The walls were covered with local artists’ watercolours and pencil sketches. The colour scheme was taupe, white and black with the odd punch of colour in a cushion, nothing flashy. The entire effect was art directed, like a set on a soundstage.
But the most striking object of all loomed large over the entire space. It was a giant, framed vintage movie poster from He Gave No Answer, the film that gave my grandmother her one big role. Alicia Steele was third from the left, staring straight at me. I raised my glass to her and wondered sil
ently what words of comfort, if any, she would have had for me.
“The house looks good,” I said, hoping to neutralize the enemy long enough to escape the ambush. Besides, the house did look good. My mother had a knack for décor and it was one of the few things we had in common. I loved décor magazines and rummaging around the California antique shops. The apartment had some quality things. I didn’t expect Dean to put up a fight over any of it. The fine lines of a Dutch teak coffee table never held much fascination for him. After all, that sort of thing was nothing compared to the fine lines of a blonde actress. I got up and crossed the room and stood in front of my grandmother’s poster. When I was a little girl, I used to stare at the poster and talk to her, usually to complain about Marjorie. I liked to think she protected me, looking out at the world from the poster, a sort of pulp-art heaven. Imagination is wonderful when you’re young, but how quickly it can turn to delusion as an adult. Like imagining Dean loved me and would come home. Such thoughts made me want to ask the question in spite of my better judgment. Bring on the ambush, I told myself; let’s get it over with. I called out to my mother.
“You aren’t surprised that Dean left me, are you?”
Marjorie crept up beside me. She took a long sip of wine and said nothing. The unfulfilled actress had never left her, so even everyday gestures took on a dramatic flourish. She looked at her mother’s face, maybe for inspiration, and shook her head.
“You know I’m not,” she paused, taking her time, drawing out the suspense like she was a character about to reveal a vital clue in a Hitchcock film, even though I knew what was coming. “It’s the family curse, Clara.”
It was precisely what I expected her to say. That didn’t stop me from snapping “Not that again!” as though I’d hoped it would be something new.
“I know you don’t believe in fate,” she said disappointedly.
“You’re right. I don’t,” I said. “Was it fate that Grandpa left Alice for Lillian? And that Dad left you for Emily? Chalk it up to fifty percent of marriages failing, not some character flaw that gets passed down generation after generation.”