Czytaj książkę: «Not Without You»
Not Without You
Harriet Evans
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Harriet Evans
Read on for an extract
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
A BRIGHT SPRING day, sunshine splashing yellow through the new leaves. Two little girls stand on the banks of the swollen stream, which rushes loudly past their small feet.
‘Come on,’ says the first. ‘There’s magic coins in there. Gold coins, from the elves. I can see them glinting. Can’t you?’ She pushes the short sleeves of her lawn dress up above her shoulders; a determined imitation of the men they see in the fields beyond, backs curved over the soil. Her brown hair bobs about her head, sun darting through the bouncing curls. She grins. ‘It’ll be fun. Don’t listen to them.’
The second one hesitates. She always hesitates. ‘I don’t know, Rose,’ she says. ‘They said it’s dangerous. All that rain … Father said you weren’t to do it again. He said you’d be sent away if—’
‘You believe them, don’t you.’ Rose crosses her arms. ‘I’m not doing all those things they say I do. They’re making it up. I’m not bad.’
‘I know you’re not.’ The younger one mollifies her sister.
‘I didn’t mean to break the jug. Something happened to me, everything went black, and I didn’t know where I was.’ She bites her lip, trying not to cry. ‘I don’t like it. I want Mother and she tells me I’m bad when I do.’
A tear rolls through the brown film of dust on her cheek. They’re both silent, under the old willow tree. Eve speaks first. She points at the gold coins, swelling and then vanishing in the water’s rush.
‘Come on, let’s try to get them, then.’
‘Really?’ Rose’s face brightens.
‘I’ll do it if you do.’ She always regrets saying that.
Rose immediately clambers in. ‘I’ll go first.’
Eve watches her doubtfully. ‘It’s awfully strong. You won’t get swept away?’
‘I told you, it’s fine. Thomas does it all the time,’ Rose says, leaning over, confident again now, and Eve relaxes. Rose is right, of course. She’s always right. ‘There it is. I’m sure it’s gold! I’m sure the elves were here – their kingdom is right under the ground, ancient noble soil!’ She claps her hands. ‘Golly! Imagine if it is! I told you, little Eve. You mustn’t worry – they won’t send me away. I’m not going anywhere.’
This is the last image of her that Eve remembers. Standing like a miniature pirate, legs planted firmly in the stream. ‘We’ll always be together. I’m going to be a famous explorer. You’ll be a famous actress. We’ll do different things for a couple of weeks at a time. I’ll see some polar bears and … pharaohs. And you’ll do plays and dine with Ivor Novello. Then we’ll meet up in New York, under the King Kong building. You’ll have that delicious robe on, the one Vivien Leigh was wearing in Dark Journey. ’Member?’
Eve nods. She joins in the game, smiling. ‘Oh … yes. We’ll stay in beautiful hotels and we’ll drink milk stout.’ This was a great obsession of theirs, after Cook had told them it was her favourite tipple. But Cook had left, like so many of the servants lately. Gone in the night, shouting, ‘I’ll not stay here with that thing in the house!’
Rose nods. ‘We’ll always be together, Eve, like I say, ’cause I’m not going anywhere, not without you.’
And she screamed, then jerked forward. I can still see it, as if something else, an evil spirit maybe, was knocking her over from behind.
Should I have stayed? Or gone for help and left her prostrate in the water, eyes wide open, small body rigid? I still don’t know to this day if I did the right thing. I ran to the house, as fast as my legs would carry me.
But it was all over by the time they came back, by the time the doctor arrived. I stayed in the kitchen, with Mother; they wouldn’t let me go out there again, and when they finally returned it was much later. Too late. You see, Rose was gone. My beautiful sister was dead, and it was my fault. I should have stayed with her. Not without you, she’d said. And I let her down.
That was my first mistake, though I couldn’t be blamed for that, as everyone told me. I was only six. It was many, many years ago. But I know what I did was wrong. I left her when she needed me. I carried that mistake with me, maybe for too long. And when someone showed me a way out, a new life, I took it.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Los Angeles, 2012
‘And … coming up next … Sophie Leigh’s diet secrets! How the British beauty stays slim, and the answer is … you won’t believe it! Chewing cardboard! I know, these stars are crazy, but that’s Hollywood for you. That’s all when we come back …’
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL May morning. We’re on the 101, on our way into Beverly Hills. I’m heading into my agent’s office and I feel like crap. I’m super late, too. I’m always late, but when your most recent picture had an opening weekend of $23 million it doesn’t matter. I could turn up at Artie’s mom’s funeral and demand to have a meeting and he’d clear the synagogue and thank me for coming.
I flip the TV off and chuck the remote across the car, out of temptation’s reach. There was a time when a ten-second trail like that would have sent me into a tailspin. They’re saying I chew cardboard? But it’s bullshit! People’ll believe it, and then they’ll … they’ll … Now I just shrug. You have to. I’ve never chewed cardboard in my life, unless you count my performance in that action movie. It’s a slow news day. Sometimes I think they stick a pin in a copy of People magazine to choose their next victim and then make something up.
When you’ve been famous for a while, you stop reacting to stuff like this. It just becomes part of life. Not your life, but the life you wake up to and realise you’re living. People filming you on a phone when you’re washing your hands in the Ladies’ room. Girls from school who you don’t remember selling your class photo to a tabloid. Being offered $5 million to sleep with a Saudi prince. Working with stars who won’t ever take their sunglasses off, ’cause they think you’re stealing their soul if you see their eyes. Sounds unbelievable, right? But there’s been some days when I almost know what they mean. I know why some of them go bat-shit crazy, join cults, wear fake pregnancy bellies, marry complete strangers. They’re only trying to distract themselves from how totally nuts being famous is. Because that’s what fame is actually about, these days. Not private jets, diamond tiaras, mansions and free clothes, handbags, shoes. Fame is actually about how you stay sane. How you don’t lose your mind.
I know I’m lucky. It could have been any one of hundreds of hopeful English girls from small towns with pushy mums who curled their hair and shoved them into audition rooms, but it was me, and I still don’t quite know why. All I know is, I love films, always have done, ever since I was little. Lights down, trailers on, credits rolling; I knew all the special idents the studios use to open a movie by the time I was eight. My favourite was always Columbia – the toga lady holding the glowing torch like the sun. And I know I’m good at what I do: I make movies for people to sit back and smile at on a Friday night with their best friend and their popcorn, watching while Sophie Leigh gets into another crazy situation. OK, it’s not Citizen Kane, but if it’s a bit of fun and you could stand to watch it again, is there anything wrong with that?
Lately I’ve been wondering though: maybe there is. Maybe it’s all wrong. The trouble is, I can’t work out how it all got like that. Or what I should do about it. In Hollywood, you’re either a success or you’re a failure. There’s no in-between.
The freeway is crowded, and as we slow down to turn off I look up and there I am, right by the Staples Center on a billboard the size of your house. I should be used to it but still, after six years at the top, it’s weird. Me, doing my poster smile: cute chipmunk cheeks, big dark eyes peeking out from under the heavy trademark bangs, just the right amount of cleavage so the guys notice and don’t mind seeing the film. I’m holding out a ringless hand, smiling at you. I’m cute and friendly.
Two years of dating. She’s thinking rocks.
No, not those ones, fellas …
SOPHIE LEIGH IS
THE GIRLFRIEND
May 2012
My phone rings, and I pick it up, gingerly, rubbing my eyes. ‘Hi, Tina,’ I say.
‘You’re OK?’ Tina asks anxiously. ‘Did the car come for you?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘The clothes were OK? Did you want anything else?’
Do I want anything else? The late-morning sun flashes in reflected rays through the windows; I jam my sunglasses on and sink lower against the leather seats, smiling at the memory of him asking the very same question, then taking my clothes off piece by piece, getting the camera out, and what we did afterwards. Oh, it’s probably insane of me, but … wow. He knows what he’s doing. I’m not some idiot who lets herself be filmed by a douche-bag who puts it on the Internet. This guy is a pro, in many many ways.
‘I’m good. Thanks for arranging it all.’
‘No problem.’ Tina is the most efficient assistant on the planet. She looks worried all the time, but I don’t think she actually cares where I was last night. ‘There’s a couple things. OK?’
‘Go ahead.’ I’m staring out the window, trying not to think about last night, smiling and biting my lip because … well, I’m exhausted, that kind of up-all-night skanky, hungry, and a little bit hungover exhausted. And I can’t stop smiling.
‘So …’ Tina’s voice goes into her list-recital monotone. ‘The People interview is tomorrow. They’ll come by the house. Ashley will arrive at eight a.m. Belle is doing your make-up frosty pink and mushroom – she says the vibe is Madonna eighties glamour meets environmental themes.’ Tina takes a breath. ‘DeShantay wants to drop off some more outfits for the Up! Kidz Challenge Awards. She has a dress from McQueen and she says to tell you you’re gonna love it. It’s cerise, has cap sleeves and it’s—’
‘I don’t want to sweat,’ I say. ‘Tell her no sleeves.’
‘DeShantay says it won’t be a problem.’
‘I’m not—’ I begin, then I stop, as I can hear myself sounding like a bit of a tool. ‘Never mind. That’s great. Anything else?’
‘Tommy’s coming over later this week to talk through endorsements. And he’s gotten Us Weekly to use some new shots of you doing yoga on the beach. And the shots of you grocery shopping are being run again, in In Touch. And TMZ want the ones of you getting the manicure, only they need to reshoot—’
‘OK, OK,’ I say, trying not to feel irritated, because it’s so fake, when you say it out loud, but it’s true, and everyone does it. You can so tell when someone doesn’t want their photo taken and when they do, and those ones of me pushing my trolley through the Malibu Country Mart wearing the new Marc Jacobs sandals and a Victoria Beckham shift, holding up some apples and laughing with a girlfriend, came out the same week as The Girlfriend and I’m telling you: it’s part of the reason that film has done so well. It’s all total bullshit though. The clothes were on loan, and the friend was Tina. My assistant. And I don’t go food shopping; I’ve got a housekeeper. Be honest. If you had someone to do all that for you, would you still go pushing a trolley round the supermarket? Exactly. Today stars have to look like normal, approachable people. Fifty years ago, it was the other way round. My favourite actress is Eve Noel; I’ve seen all her movies a million times, and A Girl Named Rose is my favourite film of all time, without a doubt. You didn’t have photos of Eve Noel in some 1950s Formica store buying her groceries in a dress Givenchy loaned her. Oh, no. She was a goddess, remote, beautiful, untouchable. I’m America’s English sweetheart. Pay $3.99 for a weekly magazine and you can see my nipples in a T-shirt doing the sun salute on Malibu beach.
Another thing: I starved myself for three days to fit into that fucking Victoria Beckham dress. That girl sure loves the skinny.
We’re off the highway, gliding down the wide boulevards of Beverly Hills, flanked on either side by vast mansions: old-looking French chateaux wedged right next to glass-and-chrome cubes next to English Gothic castles, Spanish haciendas, and the rest. My first trip here with my best friend Donna, both aged nineteen, driving round LA in a brown Honda Civic, these houses blew our minds – they looked like Toytown. It’s funny how things change. Now they seem normal. I know a couple of people who live in them, and I haven’t seen Donna in nearly seven years. Where is she now? Still living in Shamley, last time I Googled her.
We’re coming up to Wilshire and I need to check my make-up. ‘I’ll see you later,’ I tell Tina. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Oh – one more thing. I’m sorry, Sophie. Your mom called again.’ I stiffen instinctively. ‘She says you have to call her back.’ Tina clears her throat. ‘She says Deena’s coming to stay with you. Tonight.’
The compact mirror drops to the floor.
‘Deena? She can’t just— Tell her she can’t.’
Tina’s voice is apologetic. ‘Your mom said she has roaches and damp and it needs to be sprayed and … She’s got nowhere to go.’
‘I don’t care. Deena is not bloody staying. Why’s she getting Mum to phone up and do her dirty work for her anyway? No. No way.’
My head feels like it’s in a vice. It always aches when I don’t eat: I’m trying to lose ten pounds before The Bachelorette Party starts shooting.
‘Her cell is broken. That’s why. So – uh – OK.’ Tina’s tone conveys it all. She keeps me on the straight and narrow, I sometimes think. I’d be a Grade A egomaniac otherwise.
I clear my throat and growl. ‘Look. I’ll try and call Mum and put her off. Don’t worry about it. Listen though, if Deena turns up …’ Then I run out of steam. ‘Watch her. Make sure she doesn’t steal anything again.’
‘Sure, Sophie,’ says Tina, and I end the call with a sigh, trying not to frown. There are wrinkles at the corners of my eyes and lines between my eyebrows; I’ve noticed them lately. The Sophie Leigh on the poster doesn’t frown. She doesn’t have wrinkles. She’s twenty-eight, she’s happy all the time, and she knows how great her life is. That’s not true. I’m thirty, and I keep thinking I’m going to get found out.
CHAPTER TWO
‘SHE’S HERE! MAJOR star power incoming, people!’
Artie’s waiting for me as the elevator doors open, his arms open wide. ‘Sophie, Sophie, Sophie!’ The assistant on reception smiles, and someone whispers, ‘I loved your last movie,’ as I walk past, and Artie hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Hola! She’s here, people!’
It’s all an act, and he knows I know it.
‘You look. Amazing,’ he says simply, and leads me through to his office suite, overlooking Wilshire Boulevard, the wide straight road lined with palm trees right along from Rodeo Drive where Julia Roberts went shopping in Pretty Woman. I like going into Artie’s office, seeing what’s going on, what’s new. And though it sounds stupid, I like being in places where normal people work. Not that anyone at World Artists’ Management is particularly normal, but I’m an actress. OK, I’ll never be Meryl Streep, but part of my job is to play girls who work in offices and you don’t get that realistic a view of the world living in the Hollywood Hills and having the kind of life where you have your own florist.
Once upon a time I used to be like everyone else. I’m beautiful, but so are many people. It’s like being left-handed or having freckles – it’s just a fact. Plus I freely admit that the facials, the clothes and the instantly recognisable bobbed hair do a lot of the work for me. Seven years ago you wouldn’t have looked at me twice on the street.
‘Sit down,’ Artie says, gesturing to a thin, angled leather couch in the centre of the room. There’s an armchair opposite, for him, and a box of Krispy Kremes on a glass table.
I stare at the doughnuts and my stomach rumbles. I’m so hungry. I’m always hungry but I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime, unless you count the maki roll I had last night and the handful of popcorn – we watched a film before we went to bed. A film he’d made of us.
Tacky, I know. At the new memory of last night, I blush again, and my stomach rumbles with a sharp pain. Which is good. I hold onto that dragging, tightening feeling, the one you get when your stomach is crying out for food and you feel like you might faint. I hold it close, and smile brightly at Kerry, Artie’s assistant.
‘Can I get you something? Some coffee?’
‘That’d be great. No milk. And some water, please. Thanks so much, Kerry. Your top is so cute!’ I say, and she glows with pleasure.
‘Thanks, it’s from this totally—’
But Artie gestures that she should clear out, and Kerry’s mouth snaps shut. She retreats immediately, still smiling. Artie sits down, and stuffs a doughnut into his mouth. I watch him. I watch the crystals of sugar on his chin, on his fingers, watch his gullet move as he swallows.
When he pushes the box towards me with the tiniest of movements, I say nothing. I shake my head and give a regretful smile, though he and I both know, of course, I’ll never take a doughnut. It’s a test. I hate him just a little bit then.
‘So,’ he says, wiping his fingers and slapping his big meaty hands onto his black pants. ‘It’s great to see you, right? Everything’s good, isn’t it? It’s great!’
‘It’s great,’ I repeat.
He leans forward. ‘Honey. You’re being too British. The foreign numbers are in for The Girlfriend. We’ve already done forty million dollars – last week domestic gross was twelve million. That’s four weeks on! It’s killing everything else. It beat Will freakin’ Smith! You are back on top, baby. Back on top.’
‘Well, it’s the movie, not me,’ I say. This isn’t really true. The Bride and Groom, my breakthrough, was a really good film. Since then I think it’s been the law of diminishing returns, like Legally Blonde sequels. They’re not terrible, just not amazing. It’s not Tootsie: no one’s going to be studying the script of The Girlfriend in film school any time soon.
‘We’re on top of the world, OK? Enjoy it.’ His eyes linger on the doughnuts, and then he says, ‘So, you got a couple of weeks off now? Gonna read some scripts, take some meetings? Because we need to get thinking about your next project after The Bachelorette Party, don’t we? We’re excited about that, aren’t we? All good? You met up with Patrick yet?’
Artie put the deal together for The Bachelorette Party, the picture I’m due to start making in a few weeks. The male star, the director, the comedy-sidekick best friend, the scriptwriter and I are all agented by WAM. And Artie has got me a fantastic deal: I’m on a 20/20 – $20 million, 20 per cent of all revenues. If this film works, Artie will make a bomb.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s being fixed up.’
‘OK. Well, you’re gonna love Patrick, I promise you. He’s a straight-up guy. Brilliant comedian. I think you two’ll really get along.’
Patrick Drew is my co-star. He is a surfer dude with tatts who is always being photographed stoned or punching paparazzi. Last month they got him throwing up out of the side of a car, speeding along Santa Monica Boulevard. He’s extremely hot, but dumb as a plank. Apparently, we’re really lucky to get him because, you know, he’s authentic.
Artie reaches forward for another doughnut. His large meaty fingers hover over the cardboard tray, touching the smooth, shiny caramel frosting of one, the plump slick of custard on the other. I close my eyes for a second, thinking about how the sweet, fluffy cream inside would taste on my tongue. No. No. You fat bitch, no.
‘How about George?’ Artie says heavily, and when I open my eyes his mouth is full and he’s brushing sugar off his trim beard. ‘You guys met last month, yes?’
‘Yes. He’s great.’
‘George is a fucking great director.’ Artie nods. ‘The guy’s a genius. You’re lucky.’
‘I know it. He is a genius. I’m very lucky.’ I’m parroting it back to him.
Artie gives me a curious look. ‘I’m glad you two are getting along. Tell me something—’
Kerry comes in with the coffee and the water. Artie nods at her then shakes his head, swivelling on his chair.
‘Forget it.’ He rubs his hands. ‘What comes next, after you wrap on The Bachelorette Party. This is what we need to think about. The new Sophie Leigh Project, Fall 2013.’
Now’s my moment. My palms are a bit sweaty. I rub them together. ‘Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.’
‘Great!’ Artie smiles happily.
I take a sip of the water ‘Just … run some things past you.’ I don’t know why I feel nervous. It’s crazy. I’m the A-Lister – a film with me in will always be a tent pole, something for the studios to prop up their profits with while they try out other, smaller, more interesting projects. ‘I’ve had some ideas … been thinking about them for a while. I – wanted to find the right time to pitch them to you.’
Artie frowns. ‘You shoulda told me. I’d have come over. Twenty-four/seven, Sophie, I’m always here. You’re my number one priority.’
‘It’s OK, I’ve been crazy with promotional stuff,’ I say. ‘I only – I want us to think carefully about what we do next. I kind of want to move along a bit. Not make the same old film again.’
Artie nods violently. ‘Me too, me too,’ he says. ‘Man, this is great, you’re totally right! I totally agree.’
‘Oh, good!’
‘Sophie. You’re a really talented actress. We have to make sure we exploit that. Let me show you something.’ He’s still nodding. Then he stands up, strides to the other side of the huge office, picks up a pile of paper.
My gaze drifts out the window. Downtown Beverly Hills gleams through the glass wall. It’s a beautiful day. Of course it is. The purple-blue jacaranda trees are out all over LA; they stretch in a line down towards West Hollywood. It’s spring. Not like spring at home in the UK though, where everything’s lush and green and hopeful. In northern California the wild flowers litter the canyons and mountains along Route 101, and the fog clears earlier in the mornings and the surf frills the waves, but in LA spring is like any other season: more sunshine. It’s the only time I miss home. I was never a country girl, but you couldn’t live in Gloucestershire and not love the bulbs coming up, the wet black earth, the freshly minted green everywhere. Sometimes I wish—
A loud thud recalls me to my senses as Artie throws a script on the table in front of me. ‘This,’ he says. ‘This will blow your mind.’
I look down at the title page. ‘Love Me, Love My Pooch’, I read.
‘Yes!’ Artie’s rubbing his hands. ‘It’s getting a lot of heat. Cameron’s interested, but she’s way too old. Universal want it for Reese but I heard she passed already. And some people say Carey Mulligan is super keen. So we need to move fast. Do you want to read it tonight?’
I’m still staring at the script. ‘Carey Mulligan wants to star in Love Me, Love My Pooch?’
Artie nods, looking amazed. ‘Sure, honey. Why not? You think – oh, wait, do you think it’s, ah, kinda silly? The title?’
‘A bit,’ I admit, relieved. ‘It’s—’
‘No problem!’ He waves his hands. ‘Listen. We can change that. The important thing is the material. And the material is fan. Tastic.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I heard it’s Legally Blonde meets Marley and Me. Schlubby guy meets hot girl, hot girl not interested, schlubby guy uses dog called Pooch to get hot girl. Girl falls for schlubby guy.’ He laughs. ‘Cute, huh? It’s so cute!’
I hear myself say, ‘Yeah! Sounds good.’ Then I correct myself. ‘What I mean, Artie, is – sure it’ll be great, but I don’t know.’ I take a breath. ‘I’d like to do a movie that’s – uh. Maybe not about some girl hanging out for a boyfriend and being ditzy. Something a bit more interesting.’
Artie nods enthusiastically. He brushes sugar off the front of his black silk shirt. ‘Great. Sure. I’m with you. Let’s talk about it. I can see you want a change. You’re not just a beautiful face. You’ve got so much talent.’
‘Well … thanks.’ I nod politely; I’ve learned to accept compliments over the years. Not that everyone agrees with him. The critics are … hmm, how shall I put this? Oh, yeah, VILE about my films; the more money I make the ruder they are. ‘Sophie Leigh’s Sweetener Overload,’ the LA Times called my last movie.
‘Listen, I don’t want to play Chekhov or anything. I’m not one of those annoying actors who tries to prove themselves on Broadway.’ I can hear my voice speeding up. ‘It’s that I don’t always want to be playing someone who’s a dippy girlie girl who gets drunk after one cocktail, who’s obsessed with weddings and babies and has a mom and dad with funny one-liners who live in the suburbs.’
There’s a pause, as Artie tries to unpick what I’m saying. ‘I guess you’re right.’ The smile has faded from his eyes and he’s silent for a moment, tapping one foot against the coffee table. ‘We don’t want to get into a Defence: Reload situation,’ he continues, suddenly. ‘You’re back on top. We shouldn’t jeopardise that, Sophie, that’s totally true.’
‘No way,’ I say warmly. Though I hadn’t said anything of the sort, he’s right. ‘God, that was terrible.’
‘Listen.’ He grabs my hands. ‘You were great in it! Astonishing! It’s just America’s not ready for you to do martial arts action.’ He shrugs. ‘Or hipster mumbly independent shit. You’re with me now, OK? I am never gonna let you make the same mistake.’
‘Sure.’ Artie’s right, as always. Anna was my old UK agent back from South Street People, the teenage soap that I had my first big role in. I left her after first Goodnight LA, the art-housey independent film I’d always wanted to make, disappeared without trace and then Defence: Reload totally bombed. Two flops in a row. Biiiiiig mistake. Huge. As they say. I’m not made to wear leather and do high-kicks. The film was horrible and Anna was useless about it – everything seemed to take her by surprise and she’d flap and cry down the phone. It was time for a change. I went with Artie, and he put me in Wedding of the Year, and it spent three weeks at number one and was the fifth-biggest grossing picture of 2009. Anna understood I had to move. It’s all part of the game – we’re still friends. (Translation: I sent her a gift basket. We’re not friends.)
‘I’m not talking about doing another Defence: Reload,’ I say. ‘But … well, I don’t always have to be the daffy girl who loses her engagement ring, do I? Look at that pile. There has to be something in there.’
Artie gets up. ‘You don’t want to see everything, trust me. Here’s the highlights.’
He flicks the list over to me.
Bridezilla. Boy Meets Girl. Bride Wars 2. Two Brides One Groom. I glance down the list, the same words all leaping out and blurring into one huge inkjet mush of confetti. I turn the page. ‘This is the rest of the scripts I’m getting sent?’
‘Yeah, but you don’t need to worry about that. These are not projects to take seriously.’
I scan the second and third pages. Pat Me Down. She’s So Hot Right Now. From Russia with Lust. ‘What’s My Second-Best Bed?’ I say wearily.
Artie takes the piece of paper off me and looks at the list. ‘No idea,’ he says. He gets up and goes over to his glass desk, taps something into his computer. ‘Hold on. Oh, yeah. It’s some time-slip comedy. They sent it to you because … there was some note with it. I remember reading it but I can’t remember it. I think it was because you can do a British accent.’
‘Well – yes,’ I say. ‘They’re right there. What is it?’
‘Second-Best Bed …’ His finger strokes the mouse. ‘Second-Best – oh, yeah, here it is. She’s a guide at Anne Hathaway’s cottage and she dreams Shakespeare comes and visits her.’ Artie shakes his head, then turns to the shelf behind him, picking a script out of a pile. ‘Who’d wanna guide people round Anne Hathaway’s cottage? Why’s Anne freaking Hathaway living in a cottage anyways? She just got a place in TriBeCa. I don’t understand, that’s crazy.’
‘Anne Hathaway was Shakespeare’s wife,’ I say. ‘That’s who they mean. Her house was outside Stratford-upon-Avon.’ I’ve been to Anne Hathaway’s cottage about three times. It was a short coach drive from my school. Closer than the nearest Roman fort or working farm, so our crappy school used to take us there every year – it was almost a joke. I remember one year Darren Weller escaped from the group and ran into the forest. They had to call the police. Darren Weller’s mum came to meet the coach. She screamed at Miss Shaw, the English teacher, like it was her fault Darren Weller was a nutcase. I can picture that day really clearly. Donna and I went to McDonald’s in Stratford and drank milkshakes – simply walked off while the others were going round his house or something. It’s the naughtiest thing I’ve ever done.
