by Kim Izzo
The sexpot waitress grabbed a bottle of something red and poured me a glass. Guess my options were limited.
“Here you go. A nice Malbec,” she said and slid the glass in front of me before disappearing through a swinging door, which I assumed was the kitchen.
“I see you’ve met Saffron,” Trinity said, standing behind me, her phone still in her hand.
“She’s a sweetheart,” I said sarcastically and wondered what kind of parents called their kid Saffron.
“Just get a move on, love!” a woman called out cheerfully as she came out of the kitchen and stood behind the bar. She was much older than Saffron and wore a sweet expression beneath a crown of short, wavy salt-and-pepper hair.
“Milly Goodge, this is Clara Bishop,” Trinity introduced us. “She’s the friend from Hollywood I told you about. She’s a screenwriter.”
I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Milly.”
“What have you written? Anything I’ve seen?” she asked the usual question and started wiping the bar with a dishtowel.
I was about to give the answer all unproduced screenwriters gave, “not yet,” but decided it was time to come clean. “I’m not really a screenwriter.” I could feel the scowl on Trinity’s face. She was sort of like Marjorie that way, never wanting me to give up. She was about to speak when her mobile rang yet again. She stamped her foot. “Sorry, will be right back.”
When she was gone, I turned back to Milly. “I’m a journalist. Celebrity stuff.”
“Tabloid, eh?” she said breezily and continued cleaning in silence. “You didn’t have any of that phone-hacking business in America, did you? Just teasing.” She burst out laughing.
“We did not,” I said proudly.
“You Yanks are smarter. I bet you burned the evidence before you got caught out,” she said and winked at me. She was the type of merry barmaid made famous on shows like Coronation Street; the type people poured their hearts out to. I bet she had plenty of stories, maybe even some advice on how to win back Dean.
“So Milly, how long have you been the bartender here?” I asked.
“I’m not the bartender,” she corrected me in her fizzy manner. “I’m the owner of The White Stallion. The bartender quit, bloody bastard he was.” She winked again.
“Oh,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “I take it he left on bad terms?”
“Not exactly.” Milly began to wave the dishrag so close to my face that I could smell the mopped-up beer. “He found a better-paying job at a swishy hotel. The Savoy. Couldn’t blame the chap, had a whole brood of kiddies to support.”
I felt my face turn white. The Savoy was where Dean was staying. Of all the hotel bars Milly could have mentioned, it was the only one that mattered to me.
“I always wanted to go to The Savoy,” I said, trying not to sound shaken up.
“I bet you’ve stayed at your fair share of fancy hotels, what with being from Hollywood,” she said and stopped wiping the bar to fix her eyes on me. “What are you drinking?”
“A Malbec,” I said. She picked up the bottle Saffron opened and shrivelled her nose. “That’s the cheap stuff. Let me get you something nicer.”
“Do you know how to make a sidecar?” I asked hopefully.
“I do,” she said. “I haven’t had a customer ask for one of those in years.”
I grinned and turned to face the room once more. The place was now brimming with well-scrubbed men and loads of fashionable-looking career girls. The crowd seemed a mix from every walk of life. I got the impression that everyone from bankers to shop girls to garage mechanics came here. Tufnell Park must be an eclectic area, I thought. And everyone was drinking their faces off. Saffron glided throughout the room like a butterfly in a meadow, hovering elegantly just long enough to enchant before flitting away. The men’s eyes poured over her like cream on ripe berries. They sat straighter too and hung on every word like it was poetry, and not the daily special, she was reciting.
“She’s quite the flirt,” I said sourly to Milly. Every time I looked at Saffron I saw Amber.
Milly looked past me to the dining room and grinned maternally. “Saffron is a pretty girl, and everyone loves a pretty girl, don’t they?”
“Do they?” I said. “Half those men are probably married.”
“So what if they are,” she chortled. “She’s serving them beer, not performing lap dances. Here’s your sidecar.”
Milly stood watching me as I took the first sip. It was perfect. “Delicious!” I announced and she beamed.
“What’s that?” Saffron was at my side.
“A sidecar. You wouldn’t like it,” I said coolly. She shrugged and ordered a bottle of champagne for one table, and a pint of pale ale for another.
“Champagne will be a good bit of cash,” Milly said brightly.
“Yes, need to make up for budget buddy at table nine,” Saffron snipped.
Milly looked over to what I assumed was the feared table nine. But I refused to look.
“What do you expect from a poor bloke like him?” Milly asked. “He’ll always be a single-pint drinker until he can find another job.”
“Until that happens, I wish he’d find another spot to brood in. He practically lives here, acts like the pub is his living room,” Saffron said with a pout and took the drinks away.
Intrigued, I turned and watched her deliver the pint of beer to table nine. The so-called budget buddy was unshaven and his face was covered in coarse hair that, while not exactly a beard, was slightly darker than the sandy hair on his head. He was dressed in dark jeans and a check shirt—nondescript clothes that said nothing and concealed everything. Saffron didn’t spend quality time with him as she did with the other customers. The man didn’t look at her either. Her charm was wasted on him. I smiled and thought how frustrating this type of man must be for all the waitresses in the world with names like Saffron and Amber. Then he looked up and caught me smiling at him. It was Niall Adamson. I raised my hand to wave but he didn’t seem to recognize me. He just stared blankly. Maybe he needed glasses, or maybe as usual I hadn’t made enough of an impression to be worth remembering, or perhaps I looked different without my arms around a toilet bowl.
“You okay?” Trinity had returned from her phone call.
“I’m fine,” I said as Milly shook the cocktail shaker. “Just looking at the man seated all alone back there. The scruffy blond guy.”
Trinity looked over at the table and shrugged. “He’s always here. Doesn’t seem to have a home, if you ask me. Do you know him?”
“Met him at a press junket in LA. He writes freelance for the Daily Buzz,” I explained. “But he doesn’t seem to remember me at all.”
“Do you know him, Saffron?” Trinity asked the waitress who had returned to the bar to pick up an order.
“Niall?”
“Yes, him.”
She shrugged. “Lives around here. But don’t know much other than he thinks tipping is a city in China.”
I laughed at her joke and she smiled at me. Maybe all pretty blondes weren’t the enemy. Trinity only shrugged and took a sip of my sidecar, then made a face like she’d sucked a lemon. “Milly, can you make up one of your signature G&T’s?” she gasped.
I chuckled and slowly my gaze returned to Niall. He was reading a newspaper, immune to the charms of sexy waitresses.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sky showed no mercy. Blackening clouds battled overhead and lashes of rain scraped like a cat’s tongue. I stood on a street corner, my knapsack over my shoulder, within sight of the set for Come to Daddy. At least I had an umbrella. Trinity had been asleep when I’d tiptoed out of the flat. I didn’t tell her where I was going because I didn’t want to hear all the reasons I shouldn’t try to see Dean. I wanted to talk to him. If he saw me again—far away from LA and Amber—maybe he’d come to his senses.
The set was a large warehouse in an area called Shoreditch. Walking from the tube station, I had gathered the area wasn’t especially
affluent, but it was a neighbourhood on the verge. Dotted among the working warehouses and auto shops was the right amount of edgy art galleries and hipster cafés to justify the zone’s claim to cool. Yet in all its sorrowful glory, this pile of bricks and mortar was the perfect setting for a lurid reality show. I imagined the set for Come to Daddy was like all the others Dean made—a giant loft with multiple bedrooms and communal areas designed and decorated to make the most of sexy young things who were out to snag a man, in this case a dirty old rich one.
Large white production trucks sat outside on the pavement like mechanical sculptures, orange pylons bookending each vehicle, as security men paced up and down, clutching damp collars to their faces to stave off the rain. Car tires splashed through the waterlogged road behind me, and I ducked in front of one of the trucks like an assassin. A chauffeured sedan rolled through the rain and stopped about ten feet away. It could be another producer or some of the English cast members or nobody at all, but it could also be …
The driver jumped out and opened a black umbrella to shield his mystery passenger from the rain. But I’d recognize those long legs anywhere. Dean unfolded his lanky frame from the back seat and stood rubbing his hands together for warmth. He always had the manly slouch of Gary Cooper. I swooned at the sight of him, like the college girl I was when we met, which was followed by an overpowering urge to wipe the rain from his forehead, to touch him again. Being so close sent my anxiety packing, and for the first time I felt like things would be okay, like we could get back to a normal life. It would take time to forgive the affair, but we would still be together. It would be one of those crazy episodes you hear about in an otherwise stable marriage.
I was about to step forward, ready to forgive and forget, when Dean’s next move stopped me dead. Instead of rushing indoors, he waved off the umbrella and extended his hand. I heard a loud gasp as Amber, in sizable heels, short coat and even shorter skirt, stepped out from the car like a gazelle, grabbing Dean’s hand and giggling all the while. Then I heard another gasp as he took the umbrella from the driver and held it gallantly over Amber’s beautiful head. I realized then that the loud gasps were all mine. He quickly escorted Amber inside.
I stood shivering, from the cold or the shock of seeing Amber, I didn’t know which. I probably would have stood there, frozen to the ground, if it weren’t for the suspicious looks from several crewmen wondering about the crazy girl hovering by a production truck in the rain. Eventually, a nervous-looking assistant director, his walkie-talkie banging against his leg, came over.
“Are you here to audition?” he asked me suspiciously.
I didn’t know what to say, but I knew it was time to confront the agony head-on.
“I’m here to speak to Dean Lapointe,” I answered icily.
“And you are?” he asked archly.
I smiled as sweetly as I could. “His wife.”
Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he offered no immediate response, so I continued to stand my ground and tried to gain strength from the prolonged awkward silence. After what felt like an eternity, he finally clicked into AD mode.
“I’ll let him know you’re here,” he announced with mock authority. He then turned and trotted off, speaking hurriedly into the walkie-talkie. I didn’t have long to wait before he was back. He was still fidgeting nervously.
“He says he’ll be out in a moment. Can I get you a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I said politely. “I just want Dean.”
He nodded and we stood there not speaking—he, rocking back and forth on his feet and whistling, and me, staring at my shoes and checking my watch. Eventually, Dean emerged from the set and stalked towards me through the rain, his face expressionless and his shoulders tense. We were face to face for the first time since he’d walked out on our marriage, and he looked like he wanted to kill me, and all I wanted to do was fall in his arms.
“Nice meeting you,” the AD yelped before rushing away.
Dean stood in stony silence, the rain pelting out a loud rhythm on our umbrellas. I forced a smile.
“Hello, Dean,” I said. My stupid smile was now a nervous tick that wouldn’t go away.
“I knew you’d do this. You’re always so predictable, Clara!”
I swallowed hard and tried to salvage my dignity. “I wanted to see London,” I answered sarcastically.
“Have you seen enough?”
“Not yet.”
“Why don’t I get my assistant to book you on a tour bus?”
“I prefer to walk.”
“Then walk away and don’t look back,” he said severely.
I flinched and fought to keep the steel in my voice, but that nagging tap of heartbreak was getting harder to ignore. “Why are you being this way?” I asked with an audible tremor.
Another awkward pause; this time I could see that some of the film crew was watching us. If I wanted to create a scene in front of an audience, now was my chance.
“Look, we grew apart,” said Dean, giving the pat answer.
“That’s not true!” I pleaded, fully aware that instead of a grand scene with me in the lead part, I was playing the role of the crazy ex. “We were trying for a baby, a family. That’s all we wanted.”
“It’s what you wanted,” he hissed and glared at those within earshot. They scattered away. “Look, we tried to carry on like we married out of some wild passion. But that’s not what happened and we both know that. Let it go. Let me go!”
“Dean’s right. He just wants you to set him free,” Amber announced as she slipped in under Dean’s umbrella and wrapped her arm around him possessively. He looked uncomfortable, and in his one act of decency, he didn’t put his arm around her. “He was being polite. But someone has to tell you the truth. He’s not in love with you, Clara. He’s in love with me.”
“How dare you speak to me?” I snapped. “As far as I’m concerned we’ve never met. You hurled a canapé at me; I don’t count that as an introduction.”
She laughed. “That was an accident. Fine, I’m Amber Ward.”
She held her hand out but I refused to take it. She snorted with laughter. Dean looked back to the set as though wishing an AD would rescue him.
“You better go, Clara,” Dean croaked. “There’s nothing left for us to talk about.”
Amber smirked at me. I wanted to wipe that look off her smug puss, but I was paralyzed. I had to make do with standing there like a fool as she grabbed Dean’s hand and led him away. I stood there like an unwanted dog abandoned by its owner as the man I wanted to spend my life with, the man whose children I wanted to have, walked away from me. I watched them open the door to the set and vanish into the darkness.
“Are you sure you don’t want a coffee?”
The assistant director held out a steaming paper cup, and I watched the rain plop in it like a pebble skipping across a pond. Where he’d come from or how long he’d been there I had no idea. But I took the coffee from him. He was the closest thing to sympathy around and I needed it.
“Thanks.”
He nodded and dashed away again as though not wanting to be seen fraternizing with the enemy.
Police Station—Cirencester
“It must have upset you a great deal to see Amber with Dean like that.” Hooper watched as I paced the room. The gold gown made a distinct swishing sound as I moved. My feet were killing me, but I wasn’t going to ruin the effect by going barefoot.
“It did,” I admitted flatly.
“Now I understand how all of you got embroiled in this mess. At least I think I do.”
“You know the players,” I said archly. “You don’t know the plot. Not yet. What I haven’t told you is that things were about to change. And I think, for the better, though I didn’t know it at the time.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I held the coffee in my hand as I wandered around in the rain, the umbrella folded up and useless. I wasn’t sure how far I’d walked, but eventually I sat down on the stone steps of a townh
ouse and wept. I was grabbing for some tissues in my knapsack when the door of the townhouse opened and footsteps slowly descended the stairs and stopped beside me. I looked down and saw a pair of expensive black brogues with charcoal pinstripe trousers hemmed just so, pink socks peeked out between, and I knew whoever he might be he was a man of good taste.
“You look lost.” He spoke with a voice that went with the tailoring—crisp and masculine and very English.
“I didn’t mean to trespass,” I said faintly.
“Good grief! This isn’t the Wild West!” the man exclaimed. “You’re soaked to the bone. Doesn’t that umbrella work?”
I stared down at the black nylon umbrella that I’d closed when I left Dean’s set.
“Allow me to get you a towel.”
He disappeared into the townhouse, leaving the front door open. It was warm and inviting with classical music, Mozart I thought, gently wafting towards me. The hallway was covered in gold damask wallpaper with glossy white trim and held formal console tables with lamps and framed photos. This was not the home of a hipster filmmaker from Los Angeles. Nor was it the kind of place that a blonde waitress/actress/mistress would hole up in. This was as anti-Dean and anti-Amber as I could get. So I walked in.
I heard cupboard doors clanking shut and water running from deep inside the house. I followed the sound towards the back. As I walked gingerly down the hall, I saw a living room and a formal dining room to the right. The walls were painted a vibrant red, with a large white marble mantelpiece and white built-in bookshelves on either side. More framed photographs decorated the tables and shelves, and curiosity drew me closer to investigate. There was a large black and white photo of a young boy in a dark suit squished between a nattily dressed couple.
“Those are my parents.”
I swallowed hard, mortified that I had been caught snooping. I turned around and at last saw the man who had been so kind standing there with a towel in his hand. He held it out to me and I took it delicately.
“You’ll need to warm up too,” he continued, without the least hint of alarm or irritation at having a stranger in his house. He picked up the photo and I saw now that he was dressed in a suit with a purple shirt, no tie, and that he was younger than a man in this house ought to be. He had a long nose that was noticeably crooked, as though he’d been punched several times and hard. He had dark brown hair the colour of espresso with a receding hairline on either side of his temples. His face was remarkably unlined, yet he looked like a man of forty-five or thereabouts. He was attractive without being overly handsome. Most women would find him appealing, even with his ladylike taste in décor, or in some cases, because of it.