Not Without You. Harriet Evans
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historical figures keep appearing, like Jane Austen and Lord Nelson and the ones they didn’t use in Bill & Ted, and it’s ridiculous. In the end you sort of wonder if it’s a piss-take.
It annoys me, because like I say it could be really good. Some of the scenes have a special sharp, cool charm, and I want to keep reading, no matter how ridiculous it gets. It’d be easy to whip into shape – if I had my own production company or some people on my side I’d get them to work with the girl who wrote it. But I don’t and I can’t take it back to Artie; it needs to be straight out of the ballpark good, this one.
Idly I look at the title page, wondering if there’s an email address for the writer or her agent.
My Second-Best Bed
Tammy Gutenberg
I sit up straight. I know Tammy. Maybe it’s because seeing Sara and thinking about those Venice Beach days is fresh in my head but it comes to me right away this time. She used to hang out at Jimmy Samba’s; she got a job at Castle Rock, I think, and moved on from that scene before I did. She was half English: her mother was from Bristol and she knew some of the places I knew. It’s a sign, I’m sure it is. Well. I type her an email, which I send to Tina to pass on, asking if we can have coffee some time to talk about it. I don’t know what good it’ll do but it’s a start. I’ve done something, at least.
My neck hurts, my shoulders are stiff. I look up to see it’s nearly seven. There’s a framed photo of Bette Davis in All About Eve I’ve had hung on the wall next to the clock. No one ever sent Bette Davis a script called From Russia with Lust. I think for a moment. Fatigue, adrenalin and excitement mingle in my stomach, making my blood pump faster round my body. I pick up the phone and dial a number I’m ashamed to say I’ve learned by heart.
A deep, gruff voice answers, smoky with promise. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, George – it’s me.’
‘You? Hey, you. How are you?’
‘I’m good.’ I wriggle in my chair, pleased. Last week when I rang him he thought I was his sister. She’s fifty-five and lives in Wisconsin; I remember everything about him.
‘What you up to, honey?’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘Just hanging out. Had the meeting with Artie.’
‘Good, good,’ George says. ‘He tell you how good you’re gonna be in The Bachelorette Party? How hot you are? How tight your smooth little buns are, honey? Did he tell you that?’
I laugh. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Well, he’s a fucking idiot,’ George says. ‘Tell him I’m taking that deal away from him and going to Paramount. What else?’
‘Artie gave me a load of scripts for my next project, and they’re kind of crap. I don’t know, I want to—’
‘Show ’em to me,’ George interrupts smoothly. ‘He should know what to put in front of you. He shouldn’t be wasting your time with stupid art-house shit and sci-fi. He doing that to you?’
‘No, the other way round,’ I say. ‘It’s … Oh, never mind.’
‘We’ll get it sorted out.’ There’s a noise in the background, voices, an echoing sound, maybe splashing from a pool. George’s voice gets closer to the phone. ‘Listen, now’s not a great time, sweetie. Listen to me. I have to fuck you today, honey, otherwise I’ll lose my mind. Come over, later.’
I’m knackered, I realise. ‘Well …’
He lowers his voice even further. ‘I want to show you something, Sophie babe.’
‘Really?’
‘What we shot last night. I want you to see it. I want you to see how hot you are. There’s one shot I got of you – mm.’ His soft, low voice rasps gently into the phone. I press myself against the leather chair, mad for him. ‘Can you bring some different clothes? You got any babydoll nighties, that kinda thing?’
‘Honey, what I’ve got’ll blow your mind,’ I say softly into the phone. I can hear him breathing. ‘I’ll come by this evening?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Around eleven, eleven-thirty? I have to have dinner before with some friends.’
‘Oh – OK,’ I say.
He says slowly, deliberately, ‘Will you be ready for me?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Yes … I will.’
He puts the phone down. I uncurl myself from the chair and stand up. I realise I’m flushed, and my heart is pounding. I’ve never been with anyone like George before. He is like a drug. It’s a cliché but it’s true. He’s so powerful; it oozes out of him, and he knows it. He’s not a megalomaniac, he’s just … intense. When you’re with him you know he’s in control and he’s so used to being in control you’ll let anything happen.
I mustn’t let him bite my tit again though. That fucking hurt. I don’t care if it was hot on film or not. And that stupid girl bashing into my boob – humph. Sara. I open the bottom drawer to put the script of My Second-Best Bed away until I hear back from Tammy, and see a bag of Goldfish crackers I’d stowed for a day like today. I’m sick of doing what someone else says all the time. I tear open the bag and munch, and when the other scripts cascade to the floor I pay no attention. I close my eyes, imagining the night ahead. It’s good to be bad sometimes.
CHAPTER SIX
UP IN MY white bedroom, I take off my clothes and stand naked in front of the mirror. I turn around slowly, appraising myself. I hate this part so much but it’s my job, this delicate balancing act. You can’t have any fat on you, yet you don’t want to end up like Nicole Richie. It’s not a good look for a bona fide A-Lister being scary-thin – unless you’re Angelina, but Angelina’s a basket case. I turn slowly. My butt is still high, and firm. When I turned thirty a couple of months ago, Tommy suggested I get it lifted before it needs to be, but I told him to fuck off in such definite terms I don’t think he’ll mention it again. My tits are good – I wish they were bigger, but bigger means you’re fatter and so far I’ve had no complaints. Tommy’s suggested having a tiny lift in a year or so. He says it just makes the job easier later on. I cup them in my hands, thinking about tonight, wondering what George will make me do, what I’ll do to him. I shiver with anticipation and smile at myself in the long mirror, shaking my head at my stupidity; but it’s so good to have someone to go and be this person with, someone who understands, and he does.
And then a shadow on the bed reflected in the mirror catches my eye.
At first I think it’s just a crease in the sheet, but when I turn around and walk towards the bed, I realise it’s not. It’s a rose. A perfect, white, single rose. There’s the faintest hint of cream in the soft buttery petals, and when I pick it up I cry out, sharply, because it has thorns. It smells delicious.
I suck my thumb and look towards the window, almost expecting to see a face there, but this side of the house looks directly over the hills and the road and they’d have to be suspended 30 feet above the road to get a good look in. I pull on some sweatpants and a top, hurriedly peering into the bathroom, then into my closet, but there’s no one. A hair on my neck itches, as if there’s something else there.
So I tell myself I’m overreacting. It was probably delivered to me and left here by Tina. Or maybe Deena stole it from somewhere and left it as a present. There’ve been guys in and out of the house all day, fixing the TV, steaming the carpets. Probably some loser trying to make a joke.
Why do white roses ring a bell though? There’s something about them that makes a knot tighten in my stomach. I can’t put my finger on why. I stand there for a moment trying to remember, then suddenly I pick up the rose and throw it out of the window. It loops awkwardly in the air and disappears. It will