Not Without You. Harriet Evans
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that would never come true.
Mr Featherstone had called my parents himself, to explain who he was. ‘Funny guy, your old pop,’ he’d said. ‘Seemed to not give a fig where you were.’
I couldn’t explain that it was normal for me. I was alone, really, and I had been for years; I’d learnt to live that way.
I felt a touch on my arm, and I looked up to find Don Matthews watching me. He said, ‘It’s a culture shock, I bet, huh?’
‘Something like that.’
He smiled. He had a lopsided grin that transformed his long, kind face. I watched him, thinking abstractly what a nice face it was, how handsome he looked when he smiled. ‘It’s also …’ I took a deep breath, and said in a rush, ‘Don’t think me ungrateful, but I feel a bit like a prize camel. With three humps. Mr Featherstone and his wife are very kind, but I’m never sure if I’m saying what they want me to say.’
‘They don’t want you to say anything. They want you to look pretty and smile at the studio guys in the hope that they’ll give Louis some money to finance the picture. Oh, they say the studios are dying a slow death, but there’s no way Louis will be able to make Helen of Troy without a lot more money than he’s got.’ He reached out to the tree and twisted off another avocado. ‘A camel with three humps, huh? Well, you look fine from where I’m standing.’ He took a penknife out of his pocket, and sliced the thin dark green skin to reveal the creamy green flesh inside, then scooped some and handed it to me. Our fingers touched. I ate it, watching him.
‘It’s delicious,’ I said. ‘Like velvet. And nuts.’
‘It’s perfectly ripe,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it, my dear.’
I nodded, my mind racing.
‘What’s your real name?’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘It’s not Eve Noel, is it?’
I swallowed, blushing slightly at being thus exposed. ‘Sallis. Eve Sallis.’
‘Eve’s a nice name.’
‘I hate it. I wanted to—’ I looked around, weighing up whether to take him into my confidence. ‘I called myself Rose at drama school. Rose Sallis, not Eve. But Mr Featherstone liked Eve, so I’m Eve again.’
‘Why Rose?’
My hands were clenched. ‘It was my sister’s name. She died when I was six.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Don, his face still. ‘You remember her at all?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very clearly.’ Then, in a rush, ‘She drowned. In the river by our house. It was a strong current and she fell over.’
‘That’s awful. What the hell were you kids doing in there anyway?’
‘It was only her,’ I said, and I blinked. ‘We weren’t allowed. I was chicken.’
‘But she wasn’t.’ His tone was even, not judgemental.
‘Rose was … naughty. Very wild. They said it was dangerous, there’s a weir upstream and the current’s too strong. But she never listened.’ I scrunched my face up. ‘I can see her if I really concentrate. She was older than me, and she’d get so furious with them, shouting, screaming, and sometimes she’d play dead … I thought she was playing dead that time, you see, and I left her to get help, and it was too late …’
It felt so good to be talking about something close to me, to share a piece of my real self with someone, instead of this artifice all the time. Don watched me, a sympathetic expression in his kind dark eyes.
‘You must miss her.’
‘Every day. She was my idol, my sister.’ My shoulders slumped. ‘And they never let me see her afterwards, to say goodbye, you see. I …’ I shook my head. ‘I used to go over everything we did together in my head. So I’d remember. I didn’t have anyone else, you see. She – she was my best friend.’
‘So Rose was like a tribute to her.’ Don sliced another piece of avocado, watching me. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Nice is such a little word, isn’t it,’ I said after a moment’s silence. He raised his eyebrows.
‘You’re right, Miss Noel. It’s not nice. Well, I’m sorry again. Rose, huh? Maybe I should call you Rose.’
‘OK,’ I said, sort of laughing, because it was a strange conversation, yet I felt more comfortable with him than anyone that night.
‘OK, Rose.’ I liked how it sounded when he said it.
‘Can you tell me something?’
‘Of course, Rose. What did you want to know?’
The noise from the party inside washed over towards us. A shriek of hilarity, the sound of men laughing, the distant ringing of a bell.
‘What happens if I don’t stay quiet?’ I said. ‘What about if I tell them I’ve made a mistake and I want to go home?’
‘Do you think that?’
I breathed out. ‘Um – no.’ My throat felt tight all of a sudden. ‘I’m not sure. It’s been two weeks and …’ I swallowed. ‘This is stupid. I’m homesick, I suppose. It’s such a different world.’
The sky above us was that peculiar electrifying deep blue, just before the moon appears. He took my hand. His skin was warm and his fingers on mine strangely comforting, even though he was a stranger. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Look at the stars above you.’ I looked up. ‘And the fruit on the trees, the smell of money in the air. You’re in California. You were chosen to come here. You’re going to star in what could be the biggest picture of the year. I know Louis can come off as a jerk, but he knows what he’s doing, trust me.’ He shrugged. ‘This is the break thousands of girls dream about.’
‘I know,’ I said. I wished I could put my head on his shoulder. I could smell tobacco and something else on his jacket, a woody, comforting smell. ‘And I can’t go home. The thought of going back to London with my tail between my legs. And seeing my parents – explaining to them.’ I stood up straight. ‘I have to get on with it. Stiff upper lip, and all that.’
‘You British,’ he said. He released my hand. ‘Where’s home, then?’
How did I explain I didn’t really have a home? ‘Oh, it’s a village in the middle of the countryside. But I was at drama school, in London. I was living in a place called Hampstead. That was really my home.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Hampstead. Oh, yes,’ Don said, smiling at my surprise. ‘My father was a teacher. Taught me every poem Keats ever wrote.’ I must have looked completely blank, because he said, ‘Keats lived in Hampstead, you little philistine. I thought you Brits grew up on the stuff.’
I shrugged. ‘He didn’t write plays. I like playwrights.’
Don leaned his lanky body against the tree, sliced a little more avocado, and said, ‘How about screenwriters?’
I smiled. ‘I like them too, I suppose.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he replied.
‘There you are, Eve.’ Mr Featherstone came waddling out onto the terrace. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said guiltily. ‘I met Don – Mr Matthews – again, and we were—’
‘I was monopolising your star,’ Don said smoothly. ‘I should let you go.’
‘No, I don’t want to interrupt,’ Mr Featherstone said genially, wiping his moist brow with a handkerchief. ‘Eve, I wanted you to meet the head of publicity for Monumental, Moss Fisher. He’s a great guy, and if he likes you too I really think the Monumental deal’s in the bag.’ He smiled at me. ‘Joe Baxter liked you, honey. Really liked