Picture Perfect. Kate Forster
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a wedding cake,’ he said. ‘All white, pink and hopeful.’
‘An old wedding cake, remember?’
Then Hugh laughed. It was clear as a bell and Maggie felt the hairs on her arms stand up in response.
‘Shall we start again?’ he asked, seeming less drunk now, or was she just getting used to it?
‘I’m Hugh Cavell: author, alcoholic, widower and general emotional recluse.’
Maggie stared at him unsmiling. ‘Maggie Hall: actor, divorcee, and part-time babysitter for alcoholic novelists.’
Hugh laughed again and this time her body tingled a little as their eyes met.
‘Where’s Zoe?’ he asked, squinting at her. ‘And why did she send you?’
‘Because she said you weren’t to be trusted on your own, and it seems she was right.’
Hugh stood up and swayed a little. ‘She’s a smart one that Zoe Greene.’
‘She certainly is. Why don’t you go take a shower and then we’ll get something to eat. You need some food,’ she said sternly.
Hugh looked her up and down and nodded.
‘So do you,’ he said as he wandered off.
Maggie stayed where she was until she heard the sound of running water coming from a distant room and then she started snooping.
On the glass table sat a laptop, a copy of Scriptwriting for Dummies, a selection of notebooks and pens and a pile of magazines and mail, still in plastic wrappers, forwarded from an address in London.
Besides these few personal items, the room was actually very neat.
Moving into the kitchen, she checked the fridge and the cupboards. There was no food in either, but the rubbish bin was overflowing with takeaway food containers, cigarette packets and crumpled, handwritten letters.
She pulled out one of the letters with the fewest questionable stains and smoothed it out on the kitchen bench.
Dear Hugh,
Thank you for writing your book about your wife Simone’s battle with brain cancer. You had a beautiful marriage and I know she will always be in your heart. A love like that never dies.
My own husband died four years ago in a car accident. I will never get over him, just as you will never replace Simone.
I hope you remember all the love and the happiness and know that one day you will be together again in the house of God.
Sincerely,
Jenny Wallins
Maggie grimaced as she turned the letter over and saw the sign of the cross in one corner.
‘Reading my fan mail, are you?’ she heard and looked up to see Hugh in a towel, his hair wet, and wearing a freshly shaven scowl.
Maggie shrugged. ‘It’s better than some of the fan mail I get. The last time I dared to look, I was offered the chance to be impregnated, raped or murdered, I can’t remember which. Maybe all three.’
Hugh walked over and looked at the letter.
‘Ah yes, Mrs Wallins of Miseryville,’ he said and then scrunched it up again and threw it back in the bin.
‘Why be so mean?’ Maggie asked. ‘And why read the fan mail and not your other letters?’
‘None of your business,’ he said and then walked out of the room. Maggie pulled out her phone and texted Zoe.
I hate it when I meet someone I’ve admired and then find out they’re an egotistical idiot.
Within minutes Zoe texted back.
Ha. Now you know how your fans feel after they’ve met you. PS: I’m really grateful, is he okay?
Maggie looked at the overflowing bin and sighed.
Fine. He’s just a bit of a disappointment. I thought he would be nicer. TTYL
Zoe’s text came flying back.
WDYM? He’s TOO nice, that’s his problem.
Maggie heard Hugh’s footsteps and slipped her phone into her pocket.
‘I’m somewhat more sober and now desperate for a fry-up,’ he said as he walked into the room, in jeans, sneakers and a surprisingly nice white shirt.
It was the sort of shirt that a woman would buy a man, well cut, in beautiful cotton that would only look better with age.
Had Simone bought him that shirt? Maggie found herself wondering as she followed him out of the house. She almost felt like she knew the woman as a sort of friend, except she was dead and everything Maggie knew about her she had learned from a book.
‘You’ll have to drive because I can’t get the hang of driving on the other side of the road here,’ he said, as he stood next to her car.
‘And because you shouldn’t drive drunk,’ said Maggie as she opened the car.
‘Just for the record, I would never drink and drive,’ Hugh said. ‘I may want to kill myself, but I have no plans to kill anyone else.’
‘That’s good to know,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m sure your legion of fans will be thrilled to know their lives are safe.’
Hugh was staring out the window and the car filled with an uncomfortable silence.
How could the man who wrote the most beautiful book in the world be such an angry, ungrateful person? Where was the man who nursed his beloved wife for two years until she died in his arms?
Maggie had thought Hugh Cavell was perfect and now the realization that he was broken and bitter felt like a punch to the stomach.
Hugh cleared his throat and then he spoke. ‘I read my fan mail, all of it, and most of it’s very nice, very thoughtful. But I don’t keep it, like I didn’t keep the condolence notes after Simone died, they’re not something you want to read over and over again.’
Maggie stayed silent, feeling like he hadn’t finished.
‘But it’s more than that. I’m waiting for someone to recognize the truth about what I wrote, to see what lies beneath the words, but no one does, everyone takes it at face value and you, Maggie Hall, know more than anyone that it’s dangerous to think anything is perfect, especially people.’
She drove, grasping the steering wheel tightly. She did know what he was referring to; she had lived it every single day.
Maybe he wasn’t so terrible after all, she thought, and she glanced at him smiling, only to see he had fallen asleep, with his mouth wide open like he was a small child.
Elliot was still lying in bed when he heard his father calling his name from upstairs.
‘Maggie’s here to see you,’ his father yelled and Elliot groaned.
The last thing he felt like was a lecture from Maggie about his lifestyle.
Maggie had a way of getting to the heart of the matter. Elliot almost smiled at his own pun, but decided that would take too much effort.
‘Get up, you lazy ol’ porch dog,’ said Maggie in the thick southern accent that always made Elliot laugh.
‘Go away,’ he said, burrowing deeper under the covers.
Light flooded in as Maggie flung open the blinds and pulled back the duvet.
‘Jesus, Maggie,’ Elliot said, sitting up abruptly and blinking