I noticed that my left ring finger no longer looked so weird –the raw-dough colour was becoming more normal, the sunburn had gone down and the outline was plumping out to fit with the rest of the finger. It was like writing in the sand being washed away by the waves.
I spread out my towel and sat in the invisible plastic bubble that kept me cut off from the rest of the world – apart from Rudy, the ice-cream man. He hadn’t shown up the previous day. His day off? I asked.
No, he said. He’d been at an audition.
‘So what’ll it be today?’ he asked.
‘What do you recommend?’ I was keen to prolong the contact.
‘How about a Klondike bar?’
A Klondike bar it was, and away he went.
I watched him slog along the beach, getting smaller and smaller the further he went. Where did he put the ice-creams at night, I wondered. Was there a big place they all lived? Like a bus depot, but for ice-creams? Or did he have to bring them home with him? And if so, was he worried about members of his family eating them? It wouldn’t matter so much if they paid for them, it’d save him trudging along the beach while people threw stones at him. But they probably wouldn’t cough up… I drifted off to sleep.
As far as I was concerned, there was no such thing as too many zeds. I was still sleeping that same dead-person’s sleep as I had been at home – at least I did once the loudest telly in the Western hemisphere was switched off. Being asleep was a blessed release, and waking up was like being delivered into hell. Each morning when reality hit my first thought was one of terror. ‘I can’t believe this has happened. I can’t actually believe I’m here.’ But not long after waking, the horror usually dispersed, just leaving a wispy residue of dread.
When I got back around six-thirty, Emily had fallen asleep on the couch, her laptop on her stomach, and there was a flashing light on the answering machine. One message. Not for me.
A man’s voice, speaking in that laid-back, Californian, singsong way, like this call wasn’t a matter of life and death. ‘Yeah, hey Emily. This is David. Crowe. Your hardworking agent.’ He got particularly sing-song at that bit. ‘I just got a call from Mort Russell at Hothouse. He’s read your script and he’s veeeeery excited.’ Another little tune. ‘Call me.’
‘Emily! Wake up!’ I tugged her by the arm and tried to pull her up. ‘Wake up, you have to listen to this!’
Her face blank and dazed, I played the message again. Then she was off that couch and on that phone so fast…
‘Who’s Hothouse?’ I asked. ‘Are they good?’
‘I think they’re part of Tower,’ she mumbled, punching numbers. ‘Don’t have left for the day, oh still be there, please, Emily O’Keeffe calling for David Crowe.’
She was put straight through.
‘Yeah,’ she said and nodded. ‘Yes… Right.’ Another nod. ‘OΚ… When?… OK. Bye.’
Slowly she put down the phone. Even more slowly she let her body slide down the wall until she was on the floor. Everything in her actions screamed catastrophe. She turned a strained face to me. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘They want me to pitch it to them.’
It took me a moment. ‘But that’s good!’
‘I know. I know. I KNOW.’
Then she wept as I’ve never seen another human being weep. Torrents. Buckets. Convulsions. ‘Thank God,’ she bawled into her hands. ‘ThankGodthankGodthankGodthankGod…’
‘You artistic types,’ I said, indulgently.
‘I have to talk to Troy.’ She was suddenly urgent.
A quick phone call – at least it was quick by her standards, a mere twenty minutes or so – then it was all hands on deck. Hair and make-up and dresses and heels; we were meeting Troy at Bar Marmont at eight-thirty. Apparently Troy was a director and he would advise Emily on Mort Russell, Hothouse, pitching and self-esteem, among other things.
‘Is he married?’ I asked, as I asked about everyone.
This sent Emily into fits of laughter. ‘Troy? Yeah, Troy is married all right. To his work. But other than that he’s single. Single, single. Single, single, single. The most single person you’ve ever met.’
‘What films has he made?’ I asked, as we sped along the 405.
‘None that you’d have heard of.’
‘Is he no good then?’
‘He’s brilliant. But he works in the independent sector. He’s too uncompromising to survive in the studio system – at least at the moment. He’s waiting for his reputation to be good enough so he gets total artistic control on a big-budget blockbuster.’
‘God, would you look at them!’ We’d passed a gym with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, so that everyone on the treadmills was visible to the whole world. Not only would I hate to have passing motorists witness my red, sweaty shame, but it was eight-thirty on a Friday night! Had they no bars to go to?
‘Loads of gyms do that window thing,’ Emily said. ‘There’s always the chance that Steven Spielberg might be passing.’
Bar Marmont was dark and gothic and very un-LA. Plaster serpents snaked up the walls and even the mirrors reflected back gloom.
‘There he is.’ Emily marched over to a man sitting on his own. After they had greeted each other very excitedly, she introduced me to him.
‘Hi,’ he said shyly.
‘Hi.’ I was staring at him. I knew I was, and all I could do was wonder, What makes a man beautiful?
I knew there were certain conventions. Big jawlines, prominent cheekbones, long, thick eyelashes. Everyone likes a good set of gleaming white choppers, while soulful puppydog eyes do it for some people (although I’m not one of them). And noses? No. Noses are meant to take a back seat. Everyone thinks it’s just better if they keep out of the way.
However, sometimes a person breaks all the rules, and they still end up being devastating. Troy’s long face was dominated by his nose. His mouth was a straight, underscored line which gave nothing away. But the light bounced from his olive skin and his dark hair was shorn GI short. His eyes were, perhaps, hazel-coloured. A sidelong glance across the room, as he looked across at the bar, and a greenishness blazed.
‘You girls like a drink?’ he asked softly.
‘Sure,’ Emily said. ‘White wine.’
I spread out my towel and sat in the invisible plastic bubble that kept me cut off from the rest of the world – apart from Rudy, the ice-cream man. He hadn’t shown up the previous day. His day off? I asked.
No, he said. He’d been at an audition.
‘So what’ll it be today?’ he asked.
‘What do you recommend?’ I was keen to prolong the contact.
‘How about a Klondike bar?’
A Klondike bar it was, and away he went.
I watched him slog along the beach, getting smaller and smaller the further he went. Where did he put the ice-creams at night, I wondered. Was there a big place they all lived? Like a bus depot, but for ice-creams? Or did he have to bring them home with him? And if so, was he worried about members of his family eating them? It wouldn’t matter so much if they paid for them, it’d save him trudging along the beach while people threw stones at him. But they probably wouldn’t cough up… I drifted off to sleep.
As far as I was concerned, there was no such thing as too many zeds. I was still sleeping that same dead-person’s sleep as I had been at home – at least I did once the loudest telly in the Western hemisphere was switched off. Being asleep was a blessed release, and waking up was like being delivered into hell. Each morning when reality hit my first thought was one of terror. ‘I can’t believe this has happened. I can’t actually believe I’m here.’ But not long after waking, the horror usually dispersed, just leaving a wispy residue of dread.
When I got back around six-thirty, Emily had fallen asleep on the couch, her laptop on her stomach, and there was a flashing light on the answering machine. One message. Not for me.
A man’s voice, speaking in that laid-back, Californian, singsong way, like this call wasn’t a matter of life and death. ‘Yeah, hey Emily. This is David. Crowe. Your hardworking agent.’ He got particularly sing-song at that bit. ‘I just got a call from Mort Russell at Hothouse. He’s read your script and he’s veeeeery excited.’ Another little tune. ‘Call me.’
‘Emily! Wake up!’ I tugged her by the arm and tried to pull her up. ‘Wake up, you have to listen to this!’
Her face blank and dazed, I played the message again. Then she was off that couch and on that phone so fast…
‘Who’s Hothouse?’ I asked. ‘Are they good?’
‘I think they’re part of Tower,’ she mumbled, punching numbers. ‘Don’t have left for the day, oh still be there, please, Emily O’Keeffe calling for David Crowe.’
She was put straight through.
‘Yeah,’ she said and nodded. ‘Yes… Right.’ Another nod. ‘OΚ… When?… OK. Bye.’
Slowly she put down the phone. Even more slowly she let her body slide down the wall until she was on the floor. Everything in her actions screamed catastrophe. She turned a strained face to me. ‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘They want me to pitch it to them.’
It took me a moment. ‘But that’s good!’
‘I know. I know. I KNOW.’
Then she wept as I’ve never seen another human being weep. Torrents. Buckets. Convulsions. ‘Thank God,’ she bawled into her hands. ‘ThankGodthankGodthankGodthankGod…’
‘You artistic types,’ I said, indulgently.
‘I have to talk to Troy.’ She was suddenly urgent.
A quick phone call – at least it was quick by her standards, a mere twenty minutes or so – then it was all hands on deck. Hair and make-up and dresses and heels; we were meeting Troy at Bar Marmont at eight-thirty. Apparently Troy was a director and he would advise Emily on Mort Russell, Hothouse, pitching and self-esteem, among other things.
‘Is he married?’ I asked, as I asked about everyone.
This sent Emily into fits of laughter. ‘Troy? Yeah, Troy is married all right. To his work. But other than that he’s single. Single, single. Single, single, single. The most single person you’ve ever met.’
‘What films has he made?’ I asked, as we sped along the 405.
‘None that you’d have heard of.’
‘Is he no good then?’
‘He’s brilliant. But he works in the independent sector. He’s too uncompromising to survive in the studio system – at least at the moment. He’s waiting for his reputation to be good enough so he gets total artistic control on a big-budget blockbuster.’
‘God, would you look at them!’ We’d passed a gym with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, so that everyone on the treadmills was visible to the whole world. Not only would I hate to have passing motorists witness my red, sweaty shame, but it was eight-thirty on a Friday night! Had they no bars to go to?
‘Loads of gyms do that window thing,’ Emily said. ‘There’s always the chance that Steven Spielberg might be passing.’
Bar Marmont was dark and gothic and very un-LA. Plaster serpents snaked up the walls and even the mirrors reflected back gloom.
‘There he is.’ Emily marched over to a man sitting on his own. After they had greeted each other very excitedly, she introduced me to him.
‘Hi,’ he said shyly.
‘Hi.’ I was staring at him. I knew I was, and all I could do was wonder, What makes a man beautiful?
I knew there were certain conventions. Big jawlines, prominent cheekbones, long, thick eyelashes. Everyone likes a good set of gleaming white choppers, while soulful puppydog eyes do it for some people (although I’m not one of them). And noses? No. Noses are meant to take a back seat. Everyone thinks it’s just better if they keep out of the way.
However, sometimes a person breaks all the rules, and they still end up being devastating. Troy’s long face was dominated by his nose. His mouth was a straight, underscored line which gave nothing away. But the light bounced from his olive skin and his dark hair was shorn GI short. His eyes were, perhaps, hazel-coloured. A sidelong glance across the room, as he looked across at the bar, and a greenishness blazed.
‘You girls like a drink?’ he asked softly.
‘Sure,’ Emily said. ‘White wine.’
