‘Do you ever think about him?’
Shay paused for such a long time, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Sometimes.’
‘He’d be fourteen now.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nearly the same age as when we first met.’
‘Yeah. Look, Maggie,’ he flashed me a quick smile. ‘I’ve got to go. Early start in the morning.’
‘Even on a Saturday? Tough schedule.’
He was handing me a business card. ‘I’m staying at the Mondrian. Out of office hours,’ he scribbled quickly on the card, ‘you can get me at this number. ‘Night.’
‘’Night.’
Then I was out of the car and standing in the humid, flower-scented night, listening to the screech of his tyres as he drove away.
42
Irang him in the morning, as soon as was civilized. I’d been awake since six, my arm itching like crazy, but made myself wait until five past nine before calling. Shay answered, sounding asleep.
‘It’s Maggie.’
Silence.
‘Garv… Walsh,’ I explained.
‘Oh, hi,’ he laughed. ‘Sorry, I haven’t had any coffee yet, brain not engaged. So, ah, last night was good fun.’
‘Yeah, it was. Listen. Shay–’ I said, at the same time as he said, ‘Look Maggie –’
We managed a laugh and he said, ‘You go first.’
‘OK.’ My blood was pounding in my ears and I plunged into what had to be said. ‘I was wondering… can I see you? Just for an hour or so.’
‘Today’s not so good. Or tonight.’
‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow night?’
‘OK, tomorrow night. Call here around seven.’
‘See you then. Thanks. And what were you going to say to me?’
‘Oh, nothing, doesn’t matter.’
My agitation calmed. I’d see him tomorrow night.
When Emily got up, we went to the supermarket for more supplies (mostly wine). As usual the raggedy man was in the parking lot, and when we abseiled down he yelled, ‘Interior shot. Night. Jill takes a box from under her bed and opens it. Camera lingers on the gun inside…’
‘Oh my God, Maggie,’ Emily clutched my shoulder. ‘Listen to him.’
‘What?’
‘Can’t you hear it?’ ‘What?’
‘He’s doing a pitch. He’s pitching a movie.’ She was walking over to him and I was hurrying behind.
‘Emily O’Keeffe,’ she stuck her hand out.
‘Raymond Jansson.’ He extended his filthy hand with its long black fingernails and gave her a good firm shake. From a yard away I could smell him.
‘Is that your movie you’re pitching?’
‘Yeah. Starry, Starry Night! His eyes were bright in his smeared face.
‘Has someone picked it up?’
‘Yeah, Paramount, but the producer got fired, then Universal did but they closed that division down, then Working Title came on board but they couldn’t get the financing.’ Suddenly he didn’t seem at all mad, until he said, ‘But I’ve got some meetings set up and I think I’m gonna get another deal real soon.’
‘Good luck with it,’ Emily said, linking me and moving away.
‘Jesus,’ she muttered, tears filling her eyes and overflowing down her cheeks. ‘This is an awful town. Is that what’s going to become of me? Going loopy from disappointment and pitching to the fresh air. That poor man, that poor, poor man.’ She wept all the way through fruit and veg, breakfast cereals, baked goods and dried pasta and didn’t stop until we reached savoury snacks.
Back home, we were unpacking the groceries (mostly wine) when the phone rang.
Automatically I went to answer it and what happened next was like the bit in a film where a child is about to get run over by a car, and the hero flings himself, in tortuous slow motion, into the road and an echoey ‘Nooooooo!’ is heard. Emily threw herself bodily across the room and screamed, ‘Noooo, don’t answer it! I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’ll be Larry the Savage and I need the weekend off.’
But it was another hang-up. ‘Definitely a stalker. I’m a fully fledged LA woman now.’ Emily sounded cheered.
‘We’re wilting in this heat,’ Mum gasped, flinging herself on to Emily’s couch and waving her hand in front of her face.
Anna, Helen and Dad trooped in behind her, their faces pink from the five-minute walk from the hotel.
‘It’s very oppressive,’ Emily agreed. ‘I think we might be due a thunderstorm.’
‘Rain?’ Mum sounded alarmed. ‘Oh God, no.’
‘Sometimes in Los Angeles you can have a thunderstorm without any rain,’ Helen said.
‘Is that a fact?’ Mum asked.
‘No.’
Shopping at the Beverly Centre was on that afternoon’s agenda.
‘Let’s get going.’ Emily jingled her car keys.
‘I’ve been practising my signature.’ Helen flexed her hands. ‘For all the credit-card slips I’ll be signing.’
‘Go fecking easy,’ Dad barked. ‘You’re up to your neck in debt as it is.’
‘I don’t know why you’re coming shopping,’ Mum said to him. ‘You’ll have an awful time.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Oh, but you will,’ Helen promised. ‘D’you know what I’m thinking?’ she asked dreamily. ‘I’m thinking underwear. Lots of revealing, lacy underwear. Half-cup bras and thongs and…’
‘He doesn’t know what a thong is,’ Mum said. ‘To be honest,’ she admitted, ‘neither do I.’
‘Let me explain,’ He len said, and launched into an eager exposition. ‘… no VPL and though everyone says that they’re like bum floss –’
‘Oh, those ones,’ Mum said sourly. ‘I’ve washed plenty of them. When did they stop being g-strings?’
As it happened, the Beverly Centre lift disgorged us not at an underwear shop but at the next best thing – a swimwear shop. In we all tramped, Helen leading, Dad bringing up the reluctant rear.
It was a class act: not just swimming togs, but coordinating wraps, sarongs, overshirts, hats, bags, sandals, sunglasses… Not cheap, mind. The bikinis cost more than the week in the sun they’d be bought for, the changing-rooms were bigger than my bedroom and the shop assistants were those determined, terrier-like helpful ones that you couldn’t fob off by murmuring, ‘Just looking.’ The type that riposte, ‘For what? An all-in-one? We have some great Lisa Bruce pieces that would be perfect on your figure.’ And before you know it, they’re frogmarching you to the changing-room, sixteen wooden hangers belonging to sixteen different pairs of togs clanking in their arms. These women were the type who’d squeeze in the door of the changing-room to get a gawk at you. The sort who’d double-bluff you by saying that one didn’t suit you – so you thought they were honest – just to tell you that the next one (the more costly one, of course) was wonderfully flattering. And if they saw you were in any way unconvinced, they’d call five or six of their fragrant, Twiglet-thin colleagues to press the message home.
Shay paused for such a long time, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Sometimes.’
‘He’d be fourteen now.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nearly the same age as when we first met.’
‘Yeah. Look, Maggie,’ he flashed me a quick smile. ‘I’ve got to go. Early start in the morning.’
‘Even on a Saturday? Tough schedule.’
He was handing me a business card. ‘I’m staying at the Mondrian. Out of office hours,’ he scribbled quickly on the card, ‘you can get me at this number. ‘Night.’
‘’Night.’
Then I was out of the car and standing in the humid, flower-scented night, listening to the screech of his tyres as he drove away.
42
Irang him in the morning, as soon as was civilized. I’d been awake since six, my arm itching like crazy, but made myself wait until five past nine before calling. Shay answered, sounding asleep.
‘It’s Maggie.’
Silence.
‘Garv… Walsh,’ I explained.
‘Oh, hi,’ he laughed. ‘Sorry, I haven’t had any coffee yet, brain not engaged. So, ah, last night was good fun.’
‘Yeah, it was. Listen. Shay–’ I said, at the same time as he said, ‘Look Maggie –’
We managed a laugh and he said, ‘You go first.’
‘OK.’ My blood was pounding in my ears and I plunged into what had to be said. ‘I was wondering… can I see you? Just for an hour or so.’
‘Today’s not so good. Or tonight.’
‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow night?’
‘OK, tomorrow night. Call here around seven.’
‘See you then. Thanks. And what were you going to say to me?’
‘Oh, nothing, doesn’t matter.’
My agitation calmed. I’d see him tomorrow night.
When Emily got up, we went to the supermarket for more supplies (mostly wine). As usual the raggedy man was in the parking lot, and when we abseiled down he yelled, ‘Interior shot. Night. Jill takes a box from under her bed and opens it. Camera lingers on the gun inside…’
‘Oh my God, Maggie,’ Emily clutched my shoulder. ‘Listen to him.’
‘What?’
‘Can’t you hear it?’ ‘What?’
‘He’s doing a pitch. He’s pitching a movie.’ She was walking over to him and I was hurrying behind.
‘Emily O’Keeffe,’ she stuck her hand out.
‘Raymond Jansson.’ He extended his filthy hand with its long black fingernails and gave her a good firm shake. From a yard away I could smell him.
‘Is that your movie you’re pitching?’
‘Yeah. Starry, Starry Night! His eyes were bright in his smeared face.
‘Has someone picked it up?’
‘Yeah, Paramount, but the producer got fired, then Universal did but they closed that division down, then Working Title came on board but they couldn’t get the financing.’ Suddenly he didn’t seem at all mad, until he said, ‘But I’ve got some meetings set up and I think I’m gonna get another deal real soon.’
‘Good luck with it,’ Emily said, linking me and moving away.
‘Jesus,’ she muttered, tears filling her eyes and overflowing down her cheeks. ‘This is an awful town. Is that what’s going to become of me? Going loopy from disappointment and pitching to the fresh air. That poor man, that poor, poor man.’ She wept all the way through fruit and veg, breakfast cereals, baked goods and dried pasta and didn’t stop until we reached savoury snacks.
Back home, we were unpacking the groceries (mostly wine) when the phone rang.
Automatically I went to answer it and what happened next was like the bit in a film where a child is about to get run over by a car, and the hero flings himself, in tortuous slow motion, into the road and an echoey ‘Nooooooo!’ is heard. Emily threw herself bodily across the room and screamed, ‘Noooo, don’t answer it! I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’ll be Larry the Savage and I need the weekend off.’
But it was another hang-up. ‘Definitely a stalker. I’m a fully fledged LA woman now.’ Emily sounded cheered.
‘We’re wilting in this heat,’ Mum gasped, flinging herself on to Emily’s couch and waving her hand in front of her face.
Anna, Helen and Dad trooped in behind her, their faces pink from the five-minute walk from the hotel.
‘It’s very oppressive,’ Emily agreed. ‘I think we might be due a thunderstorm.’
‘Rain?’ Mum sounded alarmed. ‘Oh God, no.’
‘Sometimes in Los Angeles you can have a thunderstorm without any rain,’ Helen said.
‘Is that a fact?’ Mum asked.
‘No.’
Shopping at the Beverly Centre was on that afternoon’s agenda.
‘Let’s get going.’ Emily jingled her car keys.
‘I’ve been practising my signature.’ Helen flexed her hands. ‘For all the credit-card slips I’ll be signing.’
‘Go fecking easy,’ Dad barked. ‘You’re up to your neck in debt as it is.’
‘I don’t know why you’re coming shopping,’ Mum said to him. ‘You’ll have an awful time.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Oh, but you will,’ Helen promised. ‘D’you know what I’m thinking?’ she asked dreamily. ‘I’m thinking underwear. Lots of revealing, lacy underwear. Half-cup bras and thongs and…’
‘He doesn’t know what a thong is,’ Mum said. ‘To be honest,’ she admitted, ‘neither do I.’
‘Let me explain,’ He len said, and launched into an eager exposition. ‘… no VPL and though everyone says that they’re like bum floss –’
‘Oh, those ones,’ Mum said sourly. ‘I’ve washed plenty of them. When did they stop being g-strings?’
As it happened, the Beverly Centre lift disgorged us not at an underwear shop but at the next best thing – a swimwear shop. In we all tramped, Helen leading, Dad bringing up the reluctant rear.
It was a class act: not just swimming togs, but coordinating wraps, sarongs, overshirts, hats, bags, sandals, sunglasses… Not cheap, mind. The bikinis cost more than the week in the sun they’d be bought for, the changing-rooms were bigger than my bedroom and the shop assistants were those determined, terrier-like helpful ones that you couldn’t fob off by murmuring, ‘Just looking.’ The type that riposte, ‘For what? An all-in-one? We have some great Lisa Bruce pieces that would be perfect on your figure.’ And before you know it, they’re frogmarching you to the changing-room, sixteen wooden hangers belonging to sixteen different pairs of togs clanking in their arms. These women were the type who’d squeeze in the door of the changing-room to get a gawk at you. The sort who’d double-bluff you by saying that one didn’t suit you – so you thought they were honest – just to tell you that the next one (the more costly one, of course) was wonderfully flattering. And if they saw you were in any way unconvinced, they’d call five or six of their fragrant, Twiglet-thin colleagues to press the message home.
