Not Without You. Harriet Evans
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Sykes was too common, much to my poor dad’s resigned amusement.
I’m trying to think of the right answer to this when Carmen appears at the French doors. ‘Sophie. I got your dinner here. You want it outside?’ She looks at Deena. ‘Ma’am, can I get you anything?’
Deena runs a finger thoughtfully over her teeth. ‘Hm. I don’t know. What you got?’
‘Anything,’ says Carmen. ‘What you want?’
‘You got some ham?’
Carmen folds her arms. Her brows lower into one bristling black line. ‘Sure. I got some ham.’
‘Can I get a ham sandwich? With … some chips on the side. And some guacamole. Can I get that?’
Carmen says briskly, ‘Sure. No problem.’
She’s just retreating inside when Deena adds hopefully, ‘And a beer?’
‘You want Peroni, Budvar, Tiger? We got—’
‘That’s fine, just bring her anything,’ I say. ‘And thank you, Carmen. Listen to me, Deena.’ I move inside through the French doors, motioning her to follow me. ‘It’s fine for you to stay. But I might be having someone from the UK over in a couple of weeks, so …’ I scratch my head, searching for a name, any name. ‘My friend … Donna? My friend Donna’s coming to stay, yeah, probably in July? Just so you know.’
Deena takes a Zippo lighter out from a pocket in her impossibly tight jeans and starts flicking it on and off. ‘Listen, kiddo, I don’t wanna outstay my welcome. I said two weeks, I meant two weeks. I’m busy, you know. I’ve got a lot of stuff on. It’s just while they’re …’ She falters, and I feel like a total bitch. ‘While they’re fixing the drains.’
‘Of course.’
She moves a little closer. She’s always looked the same, Marlboro Man’s girlfriend: jeans, silk shirts, tasselled suede jackets. I see the flecks of brown in her hazel irises, the shadows under her eyes as her gaze meets mine, but then she swallows and says, ‘Yeah, like I say, I’m busy. Got a TV pilot I’m auditioning for next week, did your ma tell you?’
‘I haven’t spoken to her in a while.’
‘Hm, I know, she said.’ Deena’s still flicking the lighter. ‘She calls me when she can’t get through to you, you know that? You should call her.’
I change the subject back. ‘That’s cool, what’s the pilot?’
‘Oh, it’s about this chick who lives down in New Mexico and … has a lot of fun.’ She smiles enigmatically. ‘And I’m working with a European director on a couple of projects. Made an advert for German TV a few months ago. It’s all good.’
I would love to follow Deena one day. Just see what she gets up to, how she makes a living. Whether she’s totally feral when no one’s watching, living out on the hills and heading into the city to feed off scraps from restaurant bins. Her last entry on IMDb is 2004, some straight-to-DVD thriller. But she always tells Mum she’s shooting a new pilot, or working with a European director. I am sure ‘European director’ is code for something.
Carmen brings in my tray of food. I make a vague gesture to Deena but she shakes her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m gonna grab my sandwich and go. Got to see a guy about a fido, you know?’ She slings her battered old leather satchel over her shoulder. ‘See you later, kiddo. Thanks again.’
‘No problem.’
She’s halfway out the door when she hesitates, turns round and adds, ‘Hey. We should talk while I’m here. I’ve got a few ideas I wanted to run past you. Really good ideas. Maybe you could get me a meeting with … with some people.’
Everyone wants something off you, that’s the deal. I realised it when a camera boom hit me in the face while I was filming Sweet Caroline and the triage nurse at Cedars-Sinai gave me her head shot while blood was pouring from my scalp. It’s money. All to do with money, whether they’re aware of it or not. So I nod and I say, ‘Sure. We’ll talk soon. Bye, Deena,’ and wave politely, as she strolls out of the room.
Carmen is setting up the tray as I settle back into the La-Z-Boy recliner. There are fresh copies of Us Weekly and People on the coffee table – I reach for the former, then put it back with a sigh, knowing it’s for the best: it annoys me when I’m not in it, and it annoys me when I am. There was a time when I used to Google myself. I even had my own sign-in on a forum devoted to ‘Sophie Leigh Rocks!’ But I had to stop. Even the ones who like you still say things like:
I think Sophie’s hair needs extensions or filling out, it’s really thin/rank lol
Why isn’t she on Twitter? Why does she think she’s better than us? Won’t she give back to her fans who <3 her n made her what she is?
I fucking hate her. Liked the 1st film and now it’s like oh my fucking god how many times can one person play a dumb bitch. That cutesy act makes me want to barf.
And this particular highlight from a ‘fan site’:
Who does she think she is? She acts all smiley and perky and she’s NOTHING. Mate of mine knew mate of hers on South Street and said she was a fat slag who reckoned herself, had no talent and f*cked her way to Hollywood. Apparently she gave head to anyone who’d ask. Also her breath stank because of how much head she was giving. Gross.
Nice, isn’t it!
I switch on the TV. TMZ is on. They’re standing around talking about Patrick Drew. He was filmed coming out of a club in West Hollywood, his arm around some girl. She’s supporting him. He sticks his finger up at the paps, and then he’s pushed into a car by some entourage member. He is beautiful, it’s true.
‘Car crash,’ says Harvey, the TMZ head guy, who’s always behind the desk leading the stories. ‘That’s a night out with Patrick Drew.’
‘What about Sophie Leigh?’ one of the acolytes says. ‘He’s filming with her next. Maybe that’ll do him good.’
‘Sophie Leigh?’ Harvey says. ‘She’s too stupid even for Patrick Drew.’ They laugh. ‘How snoozefest is that movie gonna be? Him crashing into walls on his skateboard, her smiling from under her bangs in some titty top, following him round, saying, “I LOST MY RING!”’ They all join in and collapse with laughter. ‘“Oh, here it is, Patrick!”’ Harvey mimes a ring down an imaginary cleavage. ‘“Oh, it’s here, here are my tits, look at my tits!” Then an argument with a mom or a wedding planner, yadda yadda yadda. GET ANOTHER HAIRCUT, LADY! BOR-ING.’
‘I liked one of her movies,’ says a girl behind another desk, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘The one in LA. What was it called?’
‘You’re a moron,’ says Harvey cheerfully. ‘Seriously, these people. Patrick Drew doesn’t give a damn so at least you give him props for that. But Sophie Leigh – oh, man, I hate that girl! She’s so fucking fake and smiley and you know she’s going through the motions for the cash. “Hey, honey. Put this tight top on so the guys can stare at your tits. Now smile, now say this pile of shit dialogue and put on a wedding dress the girls like, repeat every year till your tits reach your knees and everyone’s died of total boredom …”’ He looks up. ‘She’s probably watching this now. Hey, Sophie! Your films suck! Message from me to you: I LOST MY WILL TO LIVE!!’
His voice is deadpan. The others are laughing hysterically. I switch the TV off and lean back in the chair, pretending to smile though no one’s watching. My heart’s beating. My BlackBerry buzzes.
Sorry babe, have to rain check tonight. Keep your tight ass on standby. I’ll need u soon. Hard for u when I think about u. G
Oh. Well. It’s very quiet in here. In my head I list the things I love about my life. I think about the house, my white bedroom with the closet filled with lovely clothes, Carmen’s