Picture Perfect

Elliot was nodding profusely. ‘Yes, that’s it, my head is filled with thoughts, I need to get it all out. I will write, I don’t care what Dad thinks, I have things to say.’

His eyes were wide and his voice passionate and Maggie bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in joy at finally seeing some excitement in him.

‘And if you’re writing a book, you’ll need an assistant,’ said Maggie, her eyes shining.

He laughed. ‘What the hell for? Sharpening my pencils?’

‘To help you write, research, do writer jobs,’ she said emphatically. ‘And maybe they could become your friend also.’

‘Jesus, Maggie, I’m not that desperate. You can’t hire me a friend, that’s stupid.’

But Maggie wasn’t listening.

‘Baby, this is Hollywood, I can hire you anything you want. I’m going to set up a meeting with my writer contact and then I’m going to find you an assistant.’

Elliot shook his head. ‘Dad won’t let you do it. He’s going to throw a fit if I don’t go to college. It’s his whole thing. My son, who will be attending Berkeley.’

Maggie scoffed. ‘When has your dad ever been able to say no to me? Anyway, he understands the need for assistants better than anyone.’

‘Assisting in what?’ asked Elliot, putting up his hands in confusion.

‘Life, kiddo.’ She clapped her hands and stood up. ‘Life.’

West Virginia

September 1995

Krista Calkins walked home the long way, through the back streets and the small wooded area where no one ever went after dark.

Some trouble only came out at night, but Krista had enough trouble during the daylight hours.

As she walked along the path, something glinted on the ground and she bent over to pick it up.

A penny, head side up. Everyone knew head side up was a good omen. Good luck was on its way, she thought happily, and put the penny in her pocket.

Back at the foster home, her foster family had stopped praying, and were now drinking. Her foster mother’s show poodles were barking wildly from the large spare bedroom that was used as their area.

Sliding the screen door across as quietly as she could, Krista hid her purse down the front of her blue-wash jeans, stolen from JC Penney, and hurried to the tiny boxroom where she slept. Everything nice she owned was shoplifted; even the slippers she had given her God-fearing foster mother for Mother’s Day had been stolen.

It made Krista happy to think her foster mother was wearing something stolen, when all she did was spout the Ten Commandments at anyone unlucky enough to be passing her way.

Krista had a job babysitting for Preacher Garrett over at the Haven of Jesus Pentecostal Church. His wife paid her in crumpled five-dollar notes from the offering bowl and Preacher Garrett made up for it with ten-dollar notes for the hand jobs Krista gave him in the back of the church.

After she saw the double lines on Shay’s pregnancy test, Krista knew she was right to convince the preacher that a hand job wasn’t real sex and that she was happy to keep doing it as long as he kept handing over the greenbacks.

The poor man was so desperate for any touch he probably would have let one of the rattlesnakes he kept in a glass tank bite him on the penis just to relieve the tension, she thought.

Krista hid her purse under the floorboard she had prised loose last year. If her foster mother saw any money she would take it, telling Krista she had to pay Jesus for bringing her to such a loving Christian home.

So many times Krista bit back the retort that Jesus didn’t get the money anyway seeing as how her foster mother spent it on cigarettes and whiskey, but she knew it wasn’t worth her breath.

She was sixteen and in two years’ time, she could leave and go to California, where she wanted to be Cinderella at Disneyland.

She was pretty enough, even she knew that. With the money she was saving she would have enough for a bus trip and to rent a costume for her audition.

But she couldn’t leave Shay here in Butthole, West Virginia, as they called it, she would die a slow death, like every other woman in this place.

Krista lay on her small, lumpy bed and stared at the ceiling, calculating how much money she had in her hidden stash. Maybe she could pay for an abortion for Shay?

So far she had saved two hundred and eighty-three dollars, but even she knew that wasn’t enough.

Closing her eyes, she thought about Shay and her predicament and then knew what she had to do.

She would tell the serpent-handling preacher she would sleep with him for two hundred dollars, and get Shay her abortion. Then the two of them would get the hell out of Butthole and move to California where everyone was rich, the sun was always shining and they would both live happily ever after.

Chapter 7

‘I don’t think I can last here much longer.’ Dylan was Skyping Addie from a corner of the UCLA library. ‘I’m down to my last packet of ramen noodles.’

Addie was lying on the bed in her dorm room at Columbia, a huge poster of movie star Will MacIntyre, looking moody in a dinner suit, behind her on the wall. The computer on her lap was reflecting blue light onto her face, making her look as though she was in a spaceship. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘I lost my job with the catering company, I’m being evicted and I’m still no further forward on my research.’

‘Where are you now?’ Addie leaned forward as though trying to see over Dylan’s shoulder.

‘The UCLA library. It’s peaceful here, and I can use their Wi-Fi,’ said Dylan, holding up her mother’s library pass, which was good for all universities across the country. ‘I might end up moving in here if I don’t get a break soon.’

‘You could sell Maggie Hall’s shoes on eBay,’ Addie suggested.

‘What? No way.’ In truth, Dylan had already thought about it, and decided it would be a last resort.

‘Well, you could ask your mom for some more money.’

Dylan shook her head. ‘I can’t ask my mother to fund what she sees as a betrayal. She hates that I’m here, she thinks I’m lowering my intelligence.’

‘Hey, speaking of which, I got you a present,’ Addie cried out. ‘Wait a sec.’

Addie disappeared from camera and Dylan looked at the pile of books on the table from the previous occupants.

Three books on business management, one book about walnut tree growing and two novels. Picking up the first, she glanced at the back, something about a soldier, and another with an ornate painted heart, cracked down the middle.

Her mother would be appalled if she knew Dylan was entranced by the cover of a book, and she heard her voice in her head: Never judge a book by its cover, Dylan, some of the best books in the world don’t have pretty pictures on the front. She turned it over and read the blurb anyway.

‘I’m back,’ said Addie and Dylan looked up at the screen.

Addie was wearing a T-shirt with black writing on the front.

Dylan leaned forward to read it.

‘“Too stupid for New York, too ugly for LA,”‘ she said and then cracked up.

‘And I got me one as well.’ Addie peeled off the T-shirt to reveal another one underneath, and read out, ‘“Too smart for LA, too ugly for New York.”‘

Dylan started laughing so loudly that the other occupants of the library turned to glare at her.

‘God, that’s funny, can you send one to my mom?’ she said, wiping her eyes and leaning on the book on the table.

She picked it up and held it up to the screen. ‘Do you know this book?’

Addie nodded. ‘Yeah, why?’

‘I don’t know, I just saw it here and I was wondering what it’s like,’ said Dylan, turning it over in her hands.

Addie leaned in close as though she was telling a secret. ‘Don’t tell anyone in my lit class but I loved that book. I bawled my eyes out at the end.’

‘Why can’t you tell your lit class?’ asked Dylan. ‘Surely they’re not that snobbish?’

‘Are you kidding? One critic said the book was Marley & Me but with a wife, not a dog,’ said Addie. ‘But he writes really well; it’s worth reading. And your mom would hate it,’ she added.

‘Then I’m gonna read it,’ said Dylan in a wicked voice and Addie giggled.

The sound of her phone ringing broke through the library’s hush again. ‘Hey, I’ve gotta go, this might be the catering company with an emergency reprieve.’

‘Call me tomorrow,’ said Addie before Dylan finished the session, and picked up her phone.

‘Dylan Mercer speaking,’ she said in her most professional tone.

‘Dylan, it’s Maggie Hall. Have you still got those shoes of mine?’

Dylan froze then looked around, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out and say, ‘Punked.’ Thank God she hadn’t sold them, she thought.

‘Yes, I do, would you like them back?’

Maggie laughed. ‘No, sweetheart, but I was wondering if you were busy right now?’

‘No, I’m at the library,’ said Dylan.

‘The library? Good for you,’ said Maggie, sounding sort of pleased or proud of her, which was totally weird but Dylan wanted to hear more.

‘Yeah, I’ve been working all morning,’ she lied.

‘Isn’t that great? Now listen, Dylan, do you have an hour to meet with me? I’d like to discuss a job I think might be good for you.’

Dylan did a triumphant fist pump in the air and then realized she looked like a complete idiot.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said casually, but with a hint of deference.

‘Great, meet me tomorrow at Culina at seven,’ said Maggie and before Dylan could answer Maggie had hung up.

Dylan typed Culina into the search engine and saw it was a bar at the Four Seasons Hotel. Jesus, she thought, she had nothing to wear that was close to good enough for either the venue or Maggie Hall.

Perhaps she should call Addie back and get her to FedEx the T-shirt, she thought as she quickly packed up her things and left. But at the door she stopped, rushed back to the table to pick up the book and checked it out using her mom’s library card.

The following evening, at exactly seven o’clock, Dylan was sitting at the bar in the simple black dress she had worn to graduation, paired with Maggie’s shoes, when she felt the energy in the room grow charged.

Turning, she saw Maggie approaching the bar. She was wearing a white jumpsuit split to the naval and silver heels. With her blond hair slicked back showing off her cheekbones and silver dangly earrings showing off her long neck, she looked like she was off to Studio 54 to chill with Jerry Hall.

Maggie kissed Dylan on the cheek and nodded at the barman, who immediately walked them to a private booth.

‘Dylan, how are you?’ said Maggie as she slid into the booth.

Dylan felt the eyes of all the other bar patrons on them, and wondered if Maggie even noticed the attention any more.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She wiped her sweating hands on her dress.

Maggie smiled at her and Dylan tried to relax, clenching and unclenching her toes as her father had taught her, but all it did was make her feet hurt even more in Maggie’s shoes.

‘Is your thesis going well?’

Dylan frowned and then remembered her lie in the bathroom at the Oscars party.

‘Well, it’s mostly research at the moment, I haven’t got onto the writing part yet,’ she said.

‘Ah, good, so you write as well?’ Maggie leaned forward and Dylan saw the edge of some tape that was making sure the jumpsuit didn’t gape open.

Dylan nodded. ‘A little,’ she said.

Maggie looked up at the waiter who had appeared at the table.

‘A soda water with lime, thanks. Dylan?’

‘Same, thanks,’ said Dylan, trying to emulate Maggie’s casual body language.

‘Are you twenty-one yet?’

‘Nearly nineteen,’ said Dylan, hoping this wasn’t a problem. ‘I finished school last July and took some time off, before I came out here.’

Maggie nodded, but didn’t seem especially interested in Dylan’s past activities.

‘Well, as I said, I have a job I need to talk to you about. It’s not a long-term thing, it may be just for a few months, but I thought it could work with your college schedule.’

Dylan paused, wondering whether to spill the beans about college. Then she remembered the lone packet of noodles sitting in her soon-to-be-vacated apartment. She needed this job. Beside, she justified to herself, she was going to college next year…

‘And if I were to get the job, what would I be assisting you with?’ she asked politely, as though she was offered jobs by movies stars all the time.

‘Ah, well, you see, you wouldn’t actually be working for me,’ Maggie said, and Dylan felt disappointment wrap around her like a shawl. If Maggie noticed, she didn’t say. ‘It’s for a dear friend of mine, who wants to write a book,’ she went on.

‘Oh,’ said Dylan. She didn’t know how to write a book, and if she lied, she would be found out in a heartbeat.

‘My friend has been sick, and he’s kind of an introvert,’ Maggie added.

Dylan watched Maggie as she spoke. Dylan had grown up watching that beautiful face on the screen. Maggie had starred in so many movies, mostly ones about love, and she was still adored. She was the woman every girl wanted to be best friends with, and the woman every man wanted to marry. Dylan didn’t want to let her down, but she knew she had to tell the truth.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help your friend. I’m not a writer,’ she said apologetically.

Maggie laughed. ‘Oh no, Dylan, I don’t want you to help him write it. I want you to help get him out of the house! ‘

Dylan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Maggie paused. ‘He had a heart transplant and it’s kind of knocked him around. He was sick for a long time before the new heart and we all thought the heart would make him excited to live again, but he’s depressed.’

‘Why doesn’t he try therapy?’ Dylan asked, thinking of her father.

‘He doesn’t need therapy,’ Maggie snapped. ‘Taking about his feelings isn’t going to help anything; he needs someone his own age to help him engage with life again. You know, to take him out to see friends, concerts, movies, go shopping, just to do stuff with him.’

She threw her hands up as she spoke, as though tossing confetti into the air.

Dylan was worried. ‘I don’t know if I can look after someone who’s had a heart transplant.’

‘You don’t need to nurse him,’ laughed Maggie, ‘you need to show him fun things to do.’

‘I don’t know LA that well yet,’ Dylan explained. ‘I’ve only been here eight weeks and I have to find a new apartment and I have no idea where to even start looking,’

Disappointment flooded through her that this wasn’t the opportunity she had hoped it would be. Everything about this person that Maggie wanted her to help sounded difficult. An introvert heart transplant patient who wanted to be a writer? Hell no.

‘Did I mention it’s a live-in position,’ said Maggie, ‘with full use of a car? The salary is a thousand dollars a week.’ She paused for effect, then said, ‘Cash.’

Dylan only just succeeded in not spitting her soda water across the table.

‘Will you at least come and meet him?’ asked Maggie, smiling radiantly. ‘I can’t say any more until you’ve signed a confidentiality agreement, but I really think you’ll like him. He’s gorgeous, such a sweet guy.’

Dylan did a backflip on her thinking. How hard could it be? He was probably some old guy who’d been in love with Maggie, and all she’d have to do was take him to concerts at the Hollywood Bowl and drive him around to medical appointments.

She remembered her mother’s words: You can do anything you put your mind to, Dylan.

‘Sure,’ she said with a smile that she hoped covered her nerves, ‘I’d love to meet him.’

After all, who could say no to Maggie Hall?

Chapter 8

Zoe woke in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright.

There were two things that caused her to wake up fretting at night. One was money—even though she had plenty, it never felt like she had quite enough.

The other was the fear that a stranger was in the house—even though she had a serious security system and nothing like that had ever happened the whole time she’d lived in LA.

But old habits die hard and she was sure she could hear the creak of footsteps in the hallway.

Turning on the bedside light she listened to the silence, trying to calm her racing heart and telling the panicked voices in her head she was safe in her own home. There was no leering foster brother with rough hands about to creep in to her room. Hand jobs had kept him at bay, but she’d always wondered how long that would last.

And still, after all these years, Zoe worried that she would never be safe again.

Just to be sure, she got out of bed and walked into her dressing room.

Her house was modest by Hollywood standards, but her dressing room, the size of a small bedsit, was a tribute to her success.

It was her sanctuary, custom built to her design.

There were shelves for all her bags, racks for her shoes, a centrepiece for her belts and accessories, and all climate controlled by the same people who did the system for the Museum of Contemporary Art.

All of Zoe’s work clothes were elegant, in muted tones and blacks. She preferred to blend into the background at work events, leaving the colour to her clients. However, they were all the best quality: Calvin Klein tunics, Armani suits, Roland Mouret cocktail dresses and white shirts from James Perse.

Her off-duty clothes consisted of jeans, yoga pants and anything that was comfortable and soft. Cashmere cardigans and T-shirts worn till they were as soft as a baby’s wrap. At work she was Zoe Greene, but at home she was herself with a love for beautiful things.

Sometimes, to calm herself, she would clean her leather handbags with a special cream. Other times she would check the soles on all her shoes to see which ones might need repairing. Zoe believed in repairing things. When you had worked so hard to get things, you had to look after them.

She did whatever it took to calm the thoughts and her racing heart.

But when she wasn’t at home, and the fears took over her mind, the only place in the world that could calm her was a department store.

Walking through Barneys, she would feel the weight of her troubles slide off her shoulders.

Now Zoe sat on the padded chair in her dressing room and contemplated her success, but still she felt troubled.

The rumours that Jeff’s studio was in financial trouble had to be true, she thought, and explained his demand that Zoe find a new star for the role of Simone. Clearly he didn’t have the money to pay for an A-list actress.

Jeff had also demanded a lower cost director, maybe someone from Europe, he had said. During the meeting in Jeff’s plush office, staring at the Kandinsky on his wall, Zoe had wondered if it was too late to get out of the deal. But she had signed the papers and was an official executive producer on The Art of Love.

She picked up a pair of Sergio Rossi boots and ran her hand over the smooth, handcrafted leather but she didn’t feel the calm that usually came when she spent time with her possessions. An unfamiliar restlessness surged through her and she wondered what Jeff was doing. Probably taking some young actress to bed with promises of stardom.

Tonight her wardrobe couldn’t fix what she needed, she thought. The only remedy was Barneys and a serious shopping spree.

The next morning she nursed a coffee and ninety-nine problems, as she entered Barneys.

The store felt like retail valium, she thought, as she took in the marble, silver and soft music.

Sleep had finally arrived at her house at four a.m. and now at eleven in the morning, she was feeling slightly hungover when she heard her name.

Turning, she saw Stella Valancia coming towards her in a cloud of leopard print and musk scent.

‘Stella, how are you?’ she asked politely.

‘I am fine,’ said Stella, over-pronouncing the ‘fine’, so it sounded like the word was never going to end.

She really was gorgeous, thought Zoe, it was just a shame she couldn’t act. But with a spectacular body and more ambition than talent, Stella hadn’t looked back since moving to Los Angeles.

Will had asked Zoe to manage Stella, but she had refused on the grounds she didn’t have any more room in her talent stable.

‘I want to audition for The Art of Love,’ Stella said abruptly.

Zoe felt her jaw drop. She could not be serious, could she?

Simone and Stella were as similar as Meryl Streep and Marilyn Monroe. Zoe was familiar enough with Stella’s work to know she couldn’t possibly bring the gravitas to the role of Simone that was required.

Zoe paused, trying to find the right words. ‘I will put your name forward to Jeff and the author, Stella, but they have ultimate sign-off on auditions. I’m sure you understand this is going to be a highly sought-after role.’

Stella shrugged. ‘Of course, but I want to try.’ She paused. ‘I also think, if I do the role, she shouldn’t die in the end.’

Zoe wondered for a moment if she was dreaming.

‘But she does die in the end?’ she said slowly, making sure Stella understood. ‘Simone did actually die, in real life.’

Stella shrugged. ‘Yes, but it would be nicer for ze audience if she didn’t die, no?’

‘Okay,’ said Zoe, shaking her head, now wishing she were at home in her wardrobe again.

Stella picked up the Marni shoe on the stand next to Zoe. ‘Why does Maggie come to Will’s house so often?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?’ Zoe said, looking Stella in the eye.

‘Is she still in love with him?’

Was she ever in love with Will? Zoe wanted to say. Perhaps for a time Maggie had convinced herself that she was, but Elliot was the reason she had stayed in the marriage, Zoe knew, and why she couldn’t keep away now.

‘Maggie’s just very close to Elliot, that’s all,’ Zoe said, trying to edge away from Stella.

Stella rolled her eyes and Zoe felt dislike welling in her.

‘I don’t understand why he is still at home. When I was twenty, I was already out in the world trying to become an actress,’ Stella said.

‘He’s been sick for the past ten years. For God’s sake, the kid’s just had a heart transplant,’ Zoe snapped, and then she shook her head, desperate to get away from Stella the Insensitive.

‘Have a good day, Stella,’ she said and quickly walked away.

What a cold-hearted bitch, Zoe thought furiously. She had no empathy for Elliot at all. There was no way she would be presenting her name as a potential Simone, she decided, as she headed out of the store.

The self-obsession of actors like Stella made her angry, arrogant men like Jeff made her angry, the self-destruction of talents like Hugh Cavell made her angry, the unfairness of kids like Elliot nearly dying made her angry.

Picking up her phone, she dialled the only person who would understand.

‘Mags, I hate everyone today,’ she said as soon as Maggie answered.

‘Oh, babe, I hate everyone most days,’ Maggie answered with a laugh. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call for the last two days. That Hugh is one messed-up writer and that’s saying something in this town.’

‘I know,’ said Zoe. ‘Was he drinking?’

Maggie paused. ‘No.’

‘Thanks, Mags. I am so grateful you could help out,’ said Zoe as she got into her car. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m on my way to see Elliot and Will,’ Maggie said.

‘Oh, I just saw Stella. She thinks you’re still in love with Will.’

Maggie started laughing. ‘She’s an idiot,’ she said. ‘Besides her body, I don’t know what Will sees in her.’

Zoe debated whether to tell Maggie about Stella hoping to audition for the role of Simone, but something told her to stay quiet.