Not Without You

Two more white roses have arrived, you see. Both taped to the gate. Each one a week apart, after the first one. The CCTV didn’t cover the actual gate, just the path down to it. It’s been changed but we can’t see who put them there. I’m trying to play it down. I’ve told myself it’s just an over-enthusiastic fan. Someone a little bit too keen.

It’s strange though, I know it’s more than that. I just do.

There’s a loud banging and I jump. Someone knocking on the window, a guy in black with an earpiece. I wriggle in my pink dress, putting my fingers in my armpits. Tommy looks at me suspiciously. ‘You get them Botoxed?’ he says. ‘We don’t want slime.’

‘Relax,’ I say.

‘Sophie,’ says T.J., his voice a robotic static through the speaker. ‘I have a message from Ashley. Patrick Drew’s car is just ahead of ours. She says he’ll escort you up the carpet.’

‘I’ll see you the other side,’ Tommy says, putting down his BlackBerry and staring at me intently. ‘We’ll talk about this. All of this.’ He waggles his fingers at me, then reaches into his pocket for another piece of gum. ‘Get out there and make nice. Enjoy Patrick. He’s cute.’

I pull at my fringe, nod, and turn to Tommy. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine,’ I say.

The rushing sound is louder; the door is opened, and I step out onto the pavement, one glittering, designer-clad foot at a time, from the cool AC into the swampy evening air. It’s really muggy. I think there’s a storm coming. The roaring gets louder; I look up towards the bleachers full of ‘fans’ lining the carpet, as if I’m totally surprised, and smile my most engaging smile, waving enthusiastically. They scream back. It’s two types, it always is. Middle-aged, large women with tight perms and T-shirts that proclaim their devotion to various film stars or God; and teenage girls, all braces, hysteria and long, flicky hair. They scream when you smile, but just occasionally, there’ll be one who doesn’t respond, a blank glaring face watching you with open dislike, and you can’t show that you’ve seen them, that you want to go over to the bleachers and point at them, ask them, ‘What’s wrong? Do you hate me? Why?’

I think about the roses; the white perfection of them, the fact that someone’s hand put them there, laid the first one on the bed, taped the others to the metal gates. Is it one of these faces in the crowd? I shiver in the heat. There must be around a hundred cameras cocked like guns, firing in my face. People scream my name.

‘Hey!’ Someone pushes me from behind. ‘Hey, girl!’

I jump, then look round. ‘Hi, Patrick,’ I say, smiling mechanically and kissing him on the cheek. ‘It’s good to meet you.’

Patrick Drew grins, takes off his baseball cap and nods enthusiastically. His long shaggy hair bobs in front of his eyes. He is wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Sure, the T-shirt isn’t crumpled but … that’s it. We were sent twenty-eight dresses, I had seven different meetings with DeShantay, and today I spent four hours getting ready.

‘You look pretty,’ he says. ‘Wow, that dress must be hot.’

The pink dress with the cap sleeves is indeed hot. I stare at him, hating him.

‘OK then,’ he says. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ I say.

‘Let’s do it!’ As he kisses me, the people in the crowd nearest us roar their approval, like they’re witnessing our romance. Oh, fuck off, I want to snarl at them. This guy is an idiot. Then I feel guilty: we’re doing this for them, so they’ll go see a film that hasn’t even started shooting. I put my arm round him, like we’ve known each other for years.

‘See you later, P,’ someone says.

‘J-Man! See you. Dudehead, Billy – catch you afterwards, yeah?’

‘Yeah, man,’ they call out. I don’t know when it became obligatory to have an entourage if you’re a male star, but these days there have to be at least three dufusy-guys with you at all times, otherwise you’re nothing in Hollywood.

‘Bye, fellas!’ Patrick shouts happily. ‘Cool! Good guys, crazy guys. What a trip!’

How can you be this up all the time? I wonder. Is he on something? Perhaps he’s a Scientologist. I bet he is.

The crowd roars as we move and the photographers scuttle along beside us, crab-like at our feet. I remind myself of what Mum used to say to me as she pushed me into an audition. This is your dream, isn’t it? You like this. Enjoy the moment.

‘Sophie!’ I spin around; stupid of me to turn and look when someone calls my name but I’m rattled, I don’t know why – this is full on.

‘You OK?’ Patrick says. I smile brightly at him.

‘I’m totally fine!’ I tell him.

Perspiration starts to build on my back, on my neck. I keep my armpits closely wedged by my side.

‘Man, you totally are beautiful, you know?’ He shakes his head. ‘Everyone says it, I mean, I know it, I’ve seen you in pictures, obviously. But wow … yeah, you really are.’

I think it’s a line, but he says it like it’s a fact, not as a compliment, nodding his head.

‘Well, I’m really looking forward to working with you,’ I say inanely.

‘Me too. You’re the queen of this kind of shit!’ he says, with a kind of goofy smile. It’s gonna be great. You know George, right?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know George.’

Behind us, Ashley shouts, ‘Guys, this is Cally Colherne, E! news.’

‘Hi, Cally!’ I say. ‘It’s so great to see you!’

Cally bares her white, white teeth at us and sticks a bright green mike under our noses. ‘Hi, guys! Now, I hear you guys are just starting shooting a film together. That’s so cool!’

Patrick answers. ‘Yeah, Cally. It’s …’

Smile plastered on my face, I let my mind drift as I go onto autopilot. I wonder where George is.

We move on, stopping at each reporter, answering questions about the movie, about working with each other, and we don’t say, ‘We just met two minutes ago, I’ve no idea what his favourite ice-cream is,’ we say, ‘Hey, you love cookies and cream, I know you do!’ like we’re old friends in this big, shiny community of stars.

After about ten minutes I steal a glance at Patrick, as the intensity of the screams coming from the other end of the carpet indicate someone much bigger than us has arrived. He’s kind of cute, I have to admit it. He has big brown eyes, a huge sweet smile and this funny floppy hair and gangly limbs that almost seem to take him by surprise. He turns and catches me looking at him, and I feel myself blush with embarrassment. Maybe Tommy was right – I should have taken Botox armpit action.

Patrick talks incessantly, when we’re not being interviewed. How he just got a new dog. How he met Dennis Hopper before he died which was so cool because Easy Rider is his favourite film. How there’s this great new restaurant out on the highway next to the ocean that does unreal shrimp. He keeps asking me questions, but I answer in monosyllables, barely listening. I just want to get inside. As we’re reaching the end of the queue, he stops in front of a dinner-jacketed security guard, who nods and wave us through. ‘I think we could go further with the script and what we guys do,’ he says. And he looks across at me and smiles. ‘You’ve never done anything like that, neither have I.’

I am instantly wary, as that always, always means the girl has to go naked, probably full-frontal. Or do something disgusting. Going further, pushing boundaries, mixing it up – it’s all bullshit shorthand for: more girl nudity and if the girl complains, she’s a humourless bitch who doesn’t get comedy.

I know some cameras are still trained on us, so I keep my hands by my sides and say carefully, pretending to smile, ‘Have you spoken to George about it? What does he think?’

‘George is totally up for it.’ Patrick claps his hands and rubs them together happily. ‘It’s going to be so cool! You’re so talented. You’ll love it. I’m convinced you’ll get it.’

I know he’s trying to butter me up to do something disgusting on film and I’m not doing it. I feel flustered, cross that Patrick and George have already discussed this.

‘That’s kind,’ I say, buying time.

Patrick Drew nods enthusiastically, his broad grin even wider. ‘It’s not kind, Soph! You rock! You can really act, you know? I saw it and I was like— Hey, dude! You fucking rock, man! That beard is for real! It suits you longer! How are you!’

‘Er—’ I begin, then I turn around. George is standing behind us. The cameras click again; George is famous, the kind of director you might recognise on the street. Mainly that’s because he was married to Billie Gorky the year she won an Oscar, but also because he looks like an important person.

His hand is on my bare skin, where the dress is cut out at the back. ‘Hey, guys,’ he says, kissing us both. His brown, tanned arms, thick with black hairs, envelop us both. His cool grey eyes, flinty under the beetling black brows, meet mine. ‘Look!’ he says, in his rich, husky voice, to the reporters and the crowd behind them. ‘The stars of The Bachelorette Party! We’re going to have so much fun making this picture. Summer 2013, OK?’

And I am so flustered – from seeing him, from the heat, from the whole damn thing – that I raise my arm and wave. The camera shutters click madly, like a swarm of crickets chattering together. As I’m doing it, I realise it’s a mistake, and then I make a second one.

I look down.

Sure enough, the armpit is dark rose pink, and that’s the picture that changes everything. Not a photo of me stepping out of the car in my beautiful borrowed diamond earrings and hair that took an hour to style. Not me and Patrick with our arms round each other, laughing like we’re old friends or young lovers. No, the picture that runs on the front of Us Weekly, as the headline in TMZ, E! and every gossip website in the States, back home in the UK, on the front of Heat the following week, that’s re-Tweeted by everyone, is of me looking down in horror at the sweat stain under my arm, my face contorted into a twist of panic. SOPHIE’S STINKY SURPRISE! screams a tabloid the next day, like I’ve lost control of my bowels in front of the Queen, not just got a bit sweaty in the 90-degree heat of a muggy LA. You’re not allowed to sweat if you’re a star. It was only me who did, not those other stars gliding by, untouchable, beautiful, perfect, glittering in the golden evening light.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A WEEK AFTER Armpitgate, tired of the uncertainty, annoyed by everything else, I ask George to stay over, and he says yes. I can hardly believe it. I think he’s being nice to me because I want him more and more at the moment, I can’t stop myself, and of course – duh – he loves that. Like every time we fuck it pushes everything further away. He’s also being nice to me because he wants me to do something for him. I’m not stupid, though I think he thinks I am. But mainly I think he’s being nice to me because Armpitgate is bigger than anyone could have realised. In fact, it’s a total disaster.

But it’s a mistake, having him in my pretty white house. He’s like John Huston; I should have killed a bear and had it mounted on the wall to make him feel at home. He’s too big and hairy and … there, in my space. He arrives late, after dinner with some old buddies (I’m never asked, and I don’t want to go anyway), and he stinks of cigars and meat grease: I can smell it on his skin. I lie there watching him take his black silk shirt off and suddenly I wish he wasn’t here. I don’t know why.

So we don’t have sex and I can tell he’s pissed about it. He paws at me a few times and kisses my neck, says, ‘C’mon baby, c’mon.’ But I yawn, tell him I’m tired, I have an early start. I keep seeing the video camera by the side of the bed. I notice it more than I do in his room. It looks out of place.

‘That’s a shame,’ he says eventually. He lies in the white bed, naked, playing with himself. I think he’s going to go next door and jerk off in a minute.

I watch him, my arms crossed. ‘George, Patrick said something at the awards about a nude scene. Did you discuss it with him?’

The hand under the sheet stops moving. ‘What? No.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘I’m not lying to you, Sophie. I wouldn’t discuss stuff like that with Patrick Drew. He’s a pansy. He’d never agree. I thought you’d be totally into it though.’

‘So you do want a sex scene.’ I pull the sheet over myself, yanking it away from his body. He clenches his jaw and sits up. ‘Why didn’t you ask me? I’m not doing it, I can tell you that straight off.’

‘Why are you being so uptight?’ George is looking impatient. ‘It’s not that big of a deal. I thought you liked your body. You certainly act like you do when I’m filming you.’ He reaches out and tweaks one of my nipples. It hardens instantly. ‘Come on, honey. You’re acting crazy.’

I hug my arms tightly to me. I wish I wasn’t naked. ‘George, I’m not—’

‘It’s a shame, that’s all,’ George interrupts. ‘I know you don’t do full-frontal, and I wouldn’t ask you to. I respect you, you know that.’ He leans in towards me and lowers his voice, even though we’re alone. He strokes my ear and neck with his fingers, lightly dusting my skin, and I sigh a little, half-closing my eyes. ‘Baby, I just want you to think about it. It’s only your tits. You’ve done it before.’

‘I feel funny about it. I want to move on. Not start doing this kind of stuff. And I’m – I’m nearly thirty.’ Yeah, right.

‘Listen, think about it. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want. It’s that I think it could be really great. Provocative. If we can get the mask right, it’ll be like he doesn’t know it’s his fiancée showing him her tits – he thinks you’re just some stripper. You’re in control. That’s why you take your clothes off. You see? I think the audience would totally get that.’

They’re always saying that, I’ve noticed lately. Because of course we all know women who are in control are notable for the way they always take their clothes off.

Then he adds, ‘You’re hot, baby.’ He kneels on the bed and rubs my arms. His cock starts to harden. ‘You’ve had a crappy week, that’s all. Been hiding away here too long. You haven’t seen enough people. You need … some release. Mmm?’

I push him away and lie down, turning my back to him. ‘Sorry. No. No to all of it.’

As he gets up and stalks into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, I turn the light off and stare into the dark. He’s right, I am hiding away. Festering. I’ve been to George’s, been to Tommy’s office, been to the Malibu Country Mart wearing my sunglasses and cap, but I haven’t put my face on and got out there. I am still a bit mortified – I know it’s stupid. I’m sure you’ll agree that, in the great scheme of things, it’s not really that big a deal, is it?

Yet all around me, people are treating Armpitgate as if it’s something terrible. I’ve had emails of sympathy from other celebrities. The worst kind of humiliation, one of them, an Oscar-winner who played my sister four films ago, wrote. More humiliating than, say, losing all your money and having to beg on the street? I don’t think so. I got a text from my co-star on Defence: Reload, an action star who is so far back in the closet he’s practically out the other side in Narnia. I really feel for you with what happened. Stay strong, Sophie. I keep getting messages of support from the public. I even got a card from Sara Cain, a picture of a fifties lady in a pink dress, her hands in the air and the caption in white ticker-tape strip above it: Sometimes Muriel wondered if it would just be easier to walk around in a sack. Inside she’d written, It was really nice to see you the other day. I’m sorry you’re having a crappy time. You don’t deserve any of this. Which was actually really nice and made me smile.

Even Tommy said we should reschedule our original meeting and instead have a crisis meeting about Armpitgate, and when I told Artie, assuming he’d tell me Tommy was a madman, he said, ‘Maybe we need to discuss it. It’s going on too long. This thing has a tail.’

Perhaps he’s right. It’s been a week and this one image, with my terrible expression and my body twisted into a crazy shape and that dark raspberry stain, has become a sort of meme for the current celebrity culture. The hidden message of it all is: Hah – see how stupid they look when it all goes wrong, and I’m the one getting a kicking. There’s a Tumblr page of Armpitgate mock-ups: me on the moon, me transposed over some aide in the Situation Room with Obama and Hillary waiting for news about bin Laden, me and Ryan Gosling and he’s saying, ‘Girl … I’d never let you go out without checking for sweaty pits.’ Ashley, my publicist, is on the phone fifteen times a day and her voice gets higher every time we talk. ‘Laugh it off. Laugh like you’re a sweet klutz and it could happen to anyone. OK? Don’t be annoyed, or irritated, or comment in any way. You come off like a prima donna. OK?? Laugh it off. It’ll go away.’ Pause. ‘It has to. OK????’

But a week later it hasn’t gone away. Up on Hollywood Boulevard over the stars on the Walk of Fame they’re selling T-shirts and mugs emblazoned with that photo and the slogan, ‘I’VE LOST MY DEODORANT!

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.