Picture Perfect. Kate Forster
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of herself in Hollywood.
Maggie’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Okay, so what do I do? Sit and read him stories until you return?’
‘Whatever it takes, babe,’ said Zoe as she drove through Hollywood.
It was a rare grey day in LA and everything looked tired, even the palm trees, or was she just her projecting her own sudden weariness.
‘You know I want to play Simone,’ Maggie said.
Zoe paused. ‘I understand that. But you should know that Hugh has final casting approval, along with Jeff,’ she said carefully.
‘But you can help me make it happen, right? I want this, even if I have to play opposite Will,’ said Maggie firmly.
‘I’ll call you when I’ve finished with Jeff and see how things are going with Hugh,’ said Zoe, avoiding the topic.
One problem at a time, she thought, as she pulled up in front of Palladium Pictures. First Jeff, then Hugh and then Maggie.
She could handle it all, she thought as she locked her car. She had been solving other people’s problems for years, why couldn’t she handle a few of her own?
Maggie hung up from Zoe and rolled over in her king-sized bed, groaning. It was too early to be up, she thought crossly, especially the day after the Oscars.
Her feet ached and so did her head, but her best friend had just asked her for help and Maggie had never let Zoe down.
She got up and padded to the window, opening the blinds to look out over the beach. A grey sky, to match her grey mood, she thought as went into the bathroom and stood under the fifteen jets of water in her polished stone shower.
Maggie’s modernist home had been showcased in Architectural Digest and was revered for its classic beauty and clean lines. These were also qualities Maggie was known for, and when she’d commissioned the house, they were what she had specified in the brief.
She bought everything that was expected of a woman of her taste and money. She had the right artists, the right clothes, she was on Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list six years in a row, and when she’d married Will her wedding dress had been considered a classic, along with the lace modesty of Grace Kelly’s gown and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s A-line shift.
She did whatever it took to rid herself of the stains from her past, wrapping herself in a bright, white, perfect world. She never missed a hair appointment or a session with her trainer, and her nails were always done. She was impeccable on the outside, but always felt she could improve on the inside, if only she knew what her heart and mind truly wanted.
A lifetime of being valued for her looks above all else ate away at her, particularly now she was getting older. She found herself wondering what more she had to offer.
And right now she was faced with the pressure of what to wear to meet the man who had shown her what true love really was. Just about everything she had learned about love was from movies, but Hugh Cavell’s book had taught her more than any script.
Meeting the author of the book that had changed her life and helped her leave her marriage was something she had wished for. Though she hadn’t factored in that the author was a drunk and didn’t want to discuss his own marriage, let alone Maggie’s failed union.
It wasn’t warm outside, she gathered from the empty beach and the choppy waves. A lone, scrappy-looking dog ran along the water’s edge, as though waiting for its ship to come. Hell, who wasn’t waiting for something somewhere? she thought as she pulled together an outfit. Stella McCartney white jeans, a white silk tank top, an oversized pale-pink Rag & Bone light cashmere knit that hung off one shoulder, and white ballet flats by Chloé, she decided. Elegant and refined, but relaxed. Without false modesty, she knew she looked good in white, and perhaps it would help to lift her grey mood.
Choosing outfits was Maggie’s second favourite thing to do. Her first was doing her own make-up.
After years of sitting in the make-up chair being worked on by professionals, Maggie could do her make-up almost as well as the best in the business. Working through her beauty routine, she carefully applied her products. When she was finished, she spritzed herself with Eau des Merveilles by Hermès, picked up her bag and a bottle of water, and headed out to her Mercedes SUV.
The address Zoe had given her was nearby, but Maggie would never dream of walking anywhere, unless it was on the beach and even then it was under duress.
Some people loved the beach, but Maggie had chosen to live in Malibu because it was expensive and elegant. She also liked the village feel of the shops there and the comparative lack of tourists. Privacy was something she valued above all else.
Growing up in the homes of strangers will do that to you.
A short drive later she found herself at a large nondescript house, with a white wall and green security gate. She pressed the button, and waited, but no one answered.
She tried again. Still no answer. When she tried the handle, the gate swung open.
He was certainly no native, she thought as she closed the gate behind her. No one in Los Angeles left a gate—or anything else, for that matter—open.
She knocked on the front door and a male voice with a British accent called out, ‘It’s open, Zoe.’
‘It’s not Zoe,’ she said as she walked down the hallway and into a large open living space.
Standing unsteadily near the big windows overlooking the water was the author she had been so desperate to meet. He was wearing grey boxers and nothing else and was holding what looked to be a whiskey bottle. He was thin, too thin, she thought, which was saying something in Los Angeles. He had the pallor of a man who spent too long indoors, with the curtains closed, wallowing in his own grief and swill.
‘You’re drunk,’ she stated aloud, the words sounding more accusatory than she’d intended. ‘I thought you would be more together than this.’
‘And you’re Maggie Hall,’ he answered, peering at her. ‘You look older than I thought you would.’
Maggie flinched and felt her jaw drop open. ‘And you look more pathetic than Zoe said you would,’ she snapped.
‘I’m a sad widower, didn’t you hear?’ he countered, dropping on to an oversized sofa and placing the bottle on the glass table in front of him.
She picked up the bottle and went into the open-plan kitchen, pouring the whiskey down the sink.
‘Hey, that’s mine,’ he said in his cut-glass accent, which reminded her of a television detective one of her foster mothers had loved.
‘Not any more,’ said Maggie. She handed him the bottle of water she had brought with her. ‘Drink this,’ she said impatiently.
‘It stinks in here,’ she said, turning up her nose. ‘Open a goddammed window, you’re not a teenager.’
She moved to the glass doors and opened them up, letting in the fresh sea air.
‘You seem upset with me, Maggie Hall,’ he said, looking at her sadly.
She saw his face was covered in grey stubble that matched the day. ‘I don’t know you, so how can I be upset with you?’ she said, crossing her arms.
‘You don’t like people who drink, do you?’
There were grey hairs in his chest hair and his skin had the tired look of someone who didn’t eat properly or do any exercise. He wasn’t fat, he was just, well, she tried to think of the word. Unremarkable, that was it. What a let-down Hugh Cavell was turning out to be, she thought, not hiding her disapproval.
‘I don’t have an opinion about your drinking,’