Angels

by Marian Keyes

  Emily and Lara both chuckled. ‘Because writers in Hollywood have no power,’ Emily explained. ‘They’re the amoebas of the Hollywood food chain, even further down the scale than the caterers on a movie set.’

  ‘Then,’ Lara bit her lip, ‘just when I think it can’t get any worse, my girlfriend threw me out. She’d found out about me sleeping with the director. I had no job, no money, no girl, no self-respect – no rice-cakes, even. The long, dark cocktail hour of the soul.’ She laughed, but saw fit to add, ‘It was horrible – I can’t tell you. The dream was over, I knew I was beat and it just about broke my heart. I saw myself going back home to Portland on the bus and I felt like the biggest failure in the history of the world. So there you go – my sordid life as an actress!’

  ‘At least you never did a porn film,’ I comforted.

  ‘Oh, I did.’ She sounded surprised. ‘I even put it on my résumé. For a while.’

  ‘But the moral of the story,’ Emily prompted. ‘Let’s not get sidetracked.’

  ‘The moral of the story is I thought I would never be happy again,’ Lara said. ‘I was twenty-six years of age and all washed up. I’d had plastic surgery, I’d given years of my life, I’d used up every bit of my hope and I had nothing to show for it. I hated myself and I wished I was dead.’

  ‘She tried slitting her wrists,’ Emily said.

  ‘But I couldn’t even do that right. Did you know you’re supposed to do it longways instead of crossways?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Smarter than me. But here’s a thing – my life did get better. I made the decision to let go of my dreams, because they were killing me, and I stopped asking the impossible from myself. I changed my attitude and decided to focus on what I had rather than what I didn’t have. And most of all, I decided I wasn’t going to be bitter.’

  ‘So you went back to school,’ Emily said.

  ‘So I went back to school and two days – two days – after I got those little letters after my name, I got hired by a production company. So I still got to work in the movies, right? I hadn’t wanted to work behind the scenes, I’d wanted to be in front of a camera, but I sucked it up and got with the programme. And yeah, there are times when I see a girl’s face on the silver screen and I wish it was me,’ she said. ‘But most times I’m down with it. I love my job – except for when I nearly got canned for missing Two Dead Men. I love the movies I work with and I got over the girl. So there you go.’

  ‘I love that story,’ Emily sighed. ‘Makes me think that whatever happens, I’ll be OK. And so will you, Maggie.’

  We lapsed into a silent glow of hope and, for the first time, heard a conversation floating over the hedge from next door. The Goatee Boys were also taking the evening air in their backyard.

  One of them said, ‘… crusty and kinda green…’

  This gave rise to groans and ‘Oh man!’s. ‘Like peeing razor blades,’ the first voice said, and more groans ensued.

  ‘Venereal disease,’ Emily whispered, her face alight with disgust. ‘Ssshhh, listen. One of them has VD.’

  Sure enough, we listened and there was more talk of peeing fire and a visit to the quack.

  ‘Which one of them is it?’ Lara asked. ‘Ethan? Curtis?’

  ‘Betcha it’s Ethan.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘And Curtis is too weird, who’d sleep with him?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  We earwigged a bit more. Whoever it was, their winkie was like a war zone and the doctor had only added to the grief because he’d put a type of furled umbrella down into the afflicted willy – then opened it! Behind the fence, cries of horror rose up into the night and I myself felt the first signs of queasiness.

  ‘It’s not Luis,’ I insisted. ‘He’s too sweet.’

  ‘So who is it, then?’

  ‘I’ve got to know.’ Emily pulled her lounger across, stood on it and poked her head over the fence. ‘Which one of you is it? Luis? I’m surprised.’

  Still standing on the lounger, she turned back to us. ‘It’s Luis, and they want to know if we want to come over. They’re doing tequila shots. Dude, that’s most excellent!’

  Despite her sarcasm, she seemed happy enough to go round. So did Lara, and I had no problem at all with it: nearly everything I did in Los Angeles was strange and new, this was no different. But as we passed through their darkened house, I got the fright of my life when I saw a seven-foot-tall figure looming blackly out of a corner. It transpired to be a cardboard Darth Vader – Curtis’s most prized possession. ‘I got a C-3PO too, and a Chewbacca suit,’ he boasted. ‘And three of the original posters.’

  God, he was peculiar. To humour him I said brightly, ‘So you’re a Trekkie.’

  ‘Star Wars.’ He sounded appalled. ‘Not Star Trek!’ Under his breath I heard him mutter with contempt, ‘Girls!’

  Indeed.

  They’d dragged their flowery old sofa out into the back, where Luis was installed, with a slight air of the invalid about him. His hands seemed to hover and flutter protectively over his groin. Or maybe it was just to fend off prying eyes: Emily, Lara and I all stared long and hard at the diseased area.

  ‘You girls look like you got x-ray vision,’ he said nervously.

  ‘You’d better believe it.’ Lara gave a menacing wink.

  Ethan doled out shot glasses of tequila, then stopped in front of me. ‘You look different,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘No pantyhose on her head.’ This from Luis.

  ‘No-o, not just that.’ He paused to give Curtis a sharp poke and hissed like a mammy, ‘Get off the sofa and let the ladies sit down,’ then resumed his scrutiny of me. ‘You haven’t… had your moustache shaved off?’

  ‘She’s had her eyebrows done,’ Lara contributed.

  ‘Ahhh, gotta be that!’

  And so began a pleasant, mellow night which only ended when an argument broke out over who should have the worm at the bottom of the bottle. (‘Stop!’ I berated Lara and Emily, who were both flushed from the tussle. ‘It’s Ethan’s bottle. He should be allowed to have it.’)

  Then we all went home and slept soundly.

  27

  I awoke to find a woman, approximately four foot high, banging a swiffer around my room. Conchita, I could only imagine.

  ‘Sorry I wake you,’ she beamed.

  ‘I was awake anyway,’ I lied back, grabbing some clothes.

  In the kitchen, Emily was hurriedly putting on her sandals. ‘Didn’t I forget to get Conchita’s bun, so I’ve to run up to Starbucks. She refuses to touch the bathroom unless we give her a sugar hit.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I offered, still on my keeping-busy kick.

  ‘Are you sure? Well, thanks. But listen, she won’t eat anything with bananas or blueberries,’ she yelled after me.

  Outside, yet another beautiful day was presenting itself for inspection. Considering it was a Monday morning, the world was suffused with triumphant yellow light, and everything looked picture perfect – the pretty little houses, the even-skin-toned lawns, the velvet petals of the blazing pink flowers.

  In Starbucks I got us a chocolate muffin each, even though all Emily would do with hers was to crumble it into bits, then announce she was stuffed. Then I set off for home again, passing Reza’s salon as I went. She was within, grimly tugging the hair off someone. I waved at her and she glared at me. Just as it should be! God was in his heaven and all was well with the world.

  But the second I walked back into the house, I knew something bad had happened. Emily was shaking on the edge of the couch and Conchita was ministering to her.

  ‘They passed,’ Emily declared.

  For a confused moment, I thought she was talking about exams or a driving test. Where I come from, ‘passed’ is a good word – the opposite of ‘failed’.

  ‘Who passed what?’

  ‘Mort Russell. Hothouse passed on my script. David just rang.’

  Shock rooted me to the spot.
They couldn’t have passed. What about Julia and Cameron? What about the three thousand screens? It took a moment for my hope to dwindle away, to understand that none of it would be happening. The lying bastards!

  Emily was hyperventilating with squeaky gasps and she was shuddering as if she was crying, but her eyes were dry. ‘What am I going to do? I’m fucked, I’m so totally fucked. I’ve no money, not a red cent. Oh my God, oh my God!’

  From her apron pocket, Conchita produced a little bottle and said, ‘Xanax. To calm her down.’ I made sweeping, go-for-it, no-time-like-the-present motions with both my hands.

  ‘Can I’ve two?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Ob course.’

  But when Conchita shook some pills into the palm of her hand, there was a little ruck and before I knew what had happened Emily had roughly grabbed not two, but four xanax and crammed them into her mouth.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled – but only once they were good and swallowed.

  Conchita and I exchanged a look. Who were we to deny her?

  Another wave of disbelief hit. ‘But they were so enthusiastic,’ I voiced. ‘It sounded like a done deal.’

  ‘That’s the way they all carry on.’

  ‘Did they say why they passed?’

  ‘They said it’s not what they’re looking for right now,’ Emily gasped. ‘But I don’t know what the truth is. Probably they just hated it.’

  ‘Sssssh,’ Conchita urged, pulling Emily to her bosom and stroking her hair.

  ‘But–’ I started up again, a thousand indignant questions forming, but Conchita nitched them with a firm shake of the head.

  The three of us sat in silence while the hopeless day ticked by. I was at a complete loss. Everything had been geared around this coming through, and though I’d had my worries, I’d never really considered that it wouldn’t. What was Emily going to do now? Come home to Ireland with me? But I didn’t want to go home. Especially not now. Now that Troy – It was then that I realized he still hadn’t called me. Unless he’d called while I’d been out getting the muffins, and it so wasn’t the right time to ask…

  ‘Maybe you go to bed?’ Conchita suggested and Emily nodded obediently.

  ‘Four xanax, she sleep until Websday,’ Conchita told me.

  I was on the verge of asking for a couple of pills for myself when the phone rang. My immediate thought was of Troy, but when I answered, a woman’s voice said, ‘Hold for David Crowe calling for Emily O’Keeffe.’

  ‘She’s busy right now.’ Having a nervous breakdown. ‘I’m her assistant. Can I help?’

  But the woman was gone and after a few clicks the next voice I heard was David. ‘Hey, Emily!’ he chuckled.

  ‘It’s Maggie. Emily’s a little upset.’

  ‘Sure. But I got good news. Larry Savage over at Empire took a look. He wants to meet with her.’

  ‘Well, that’s great! When?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said regretfully. ‘She can’t go right now. She’s just taken four xanax.’

  A pause. Not a cordial one.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ he said, all traces of affability gone. ‘She needs to get it together now and get over to Empire. We can’t push this meeting back. She’s got to get in today before Larry finds out that Hothouse passed, xanax or no fucking xanax. Coffee, cocaine, I don’t care how, but she’d better get it together. And if she can’t do it, you do it. I’ve put my ass on the line here.’

  All the moisture had retreated from my mouth. It was as dry as carpet. What had happened to David Crowe, charm monster? I was frightened of him, genuinely frightened. He sounded so dangerous, so vengeful.

  And I had got the gist of what was happening. Some machiavellian machinations meant David had managed to con Larry Savage into thinking that Mort Russell was still interested. There was a tiny window of opportunity before Larry discovered that Mort had passed. If Larry found out, then David was in the shit. And Emily’s last chance was gone. So the pitch had to be today.

  I glanced into Emily’s bedroom. She was lying down, her eyes closed, Conchita stroking her forehead. There was no point asking her what we should do. And I hadn’t a notion. I thought of Lara – she could help, even though she was up to her eyes organizing the launch for some movie called Doves. Or how about Troy?

  ‘Could you give us a couple of hours?’ I glanced at my watch, it was ten-twenty. ‘Say until midday?’ That should be enough time for either Troy or Lara to get here, and then they could take over, they’d know what to do.

  ‘No. I can’t give you five fucking minutes,’ he snapped. ‘The clock is ticking and news gets round this town way fast. It’s this morning, or never. By lunch-time it’ll be all over.’

  Desperately, I tried to focus, to think intelligently. Oh, Jesus Christ! ‘ Oh, OK… what can you tell me about Larry Savage?’

  ‘Larry, Larry, Larry… what’s to say?’ There was a clicking sound like David was banging his pen off his teeth. ‘Weeell, he’s rumoured to have sex with animals. But, hey, it’s only a rumour!’

  I pushed down my frustration and asked, ‘Any career information?’

  ‘A coupla years back he made Fred. Remember it? Old English Sheepdog who saves the circus from closure?’

  I remembered it.

  ‘Seen it?’

  ‘No. I was more than five years of age at the time.’

  ‘Cute,’ David said unpleasantly. ‘Well, lie. Tell him you loved it.’

  ‘OK. Now, can you tell me how to get to Empire?’

  Irritably, David gave sketchy directions, and just in case there was any chance that I might calm down, he ended the conversation by saying, ‘This is Emily’s last chance. Make sure she doesn’t fuck it up.’

  ‘Right.’ With a pounding heart, I hung up the phone and hurried in to Emily. Who, floating away on a pink xanax cloud, was having none of it. ‘Al go ch’morr,” she said sleepily.

  ‘Tomorrow’s too late.’ Hysteria skimmed my voice as I explained the situation.

  Luckily, Conchita displayed an astute grasp of the workings of Hollywood. ‘The man find out the other man have passed, he not berry happy!’ She hoiked a startled Emily from the bed.

  ‘Emily, you’ll have to make yourself sick,’ I said urgently.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Stick your fingers down your throat and make yourself throw up. To get rid of the tablets.’

  Dazed though she was, she looked disgusted.

  ‘I’m sorry. But desperate circumstances call for desperate measures.’

  Conchita and I marched her to the bathroom, where despite issuing some impressively inhuman gawking noises from her gullet, she couldn’t recall the xanax.

  ‘I’j nevr make ablimic,’ she said, slumping against the bowl, her forehead beaded in sweat from her efforts.

  ‘One more time,’ I encouraged. ‘Just try once more.’

  ‘K.’

  But though she strained until her face was bright red and running with tears, there was still no joy. What was I to do with her?

  Conchita was on top of things, though. ‘Emily, you get in the shower! And you –’ she pointed at me, ‘make coffee. Strong!’

  After her shower, we dressed Emily and tried to get a comb through her hair.

  ‘You look good,’ Conchita encouraged.

  Emily shook her head and said sadly, ‘Everything is wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘My ‘spensive suit’s in jrycleaner’s, I haven’t been reiki’d, my hair’s a Jackson Five special.’

  ‘Nebber mind,’ Conchita said, forcing a cup of treacly coffee on her. ‘You got a pitch, lady!’

  When we were ready to leave, Conchita whipped out a little plastic bottle of holy water and flung generous handfuls of it at us. As a drop splattered on to Emily’s face, she turned to me in confusion.

  ‘Maggie, is this actually happening? Or mi jreaming it?’

  ‘It’s happening,’ I said grimly, marching her to my ca
r and wondering how the hell you got to The Valley.

  The drive was horrible. My heart was banging against my ribs and my breath didn’t want to be drawn – there is nothing more terrifying than the LA freeways when you don’t know where you’re going. Lanes and lanes of aggressive cars on all sides of you. My right arm was begging to be scratched. To make matters worse, I was trying to make Emily practise her pitch.

  ‘Camera pans over a breast of pairs…’

  ‘Good,’ I tried to encourage. ‘Good.’ I saw a sliproad approaching and peered around, looking for signs. ‘Is this where we turn off?’ And how did I cut across three lanes of traffic to do so?

  By the time I’d discovered it wasn’t our turn, Emily had meandered off into silence. I managed to take my eyes off the road just long enough to see her chin nodding on her chest and a delicate trail of dribble heading south to her second-best suit. Christ! That was all we needed. Her falling asleep mid-pitch.

  I shook her and begged, ‘Drink some Jolt, try and stay awake. Please!’

  ‘Oh my God, Maggie,’ she mumbled. ‘This is a nightmare.’ I felt for her, because she genuinely understood how serious the situation was, but simply couldn’t control herself.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said.

  ‘You can.’

  ‘I can’t.’ There was a pause and I knew what was coming next. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘What? The pitch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  What could I say? With dreadful resignation I said, ‘You’d better remind me how it goes.’

  So then I was trying to remember the pitch as well as concentrate on directions. My palms were so wet they were sliding all over the steering wheel and I still couldn’t seem to get enough air.

  Some time, today will be over, I told myself. Some time in the future this horrible day will have ended. Then I changed it to, Some day I’ll be dead and at peace and none of this will matter.

  More by luck than judgement, we finally arrived at Empire Studios. You couldn’t miss it. On top of each of the two gateposts they had twelve-foot-high Freds.

  I rolled down the window and gave our names to the man with the clipboard, who confirmed we were on the list. ‘Welcome to Empire Studios.’