by Holly Smale
They fell in love across a crowded set.
Dad, a young, ambitious lad from America – so tall, so handsome, such a go-getter! – and Mum, a beautiful young rich girl from London, following in her famous family’s footsteps. They connected immediately during one beautiful week, yet circumstances tore them apart because that’s exactly what circumstances do.
But – after years of thinking about each other, of sending letters and faxes or whatever – they finally found their way back to each other, got married and had us.
Proving that true love always triumphs. And also proving that Mum was fifteen when she had her first role in a movie. A point I will obviously be taking up with Grandma when I get home.
‘So,’ my guide, Patrick, says as a group of us climbs into the golf buggy with laminated passes round our necks. ‘This is the second oldest surviving film studio in America and the only original studio still based in Hollywood.’
I get my phone out and smooth back my curls. Just because I’m here for a pacific reason doesn’t mean I can’t take photos of any celebrities or maybe get spotted by a director for a main role in five years’ time. Mum would be so proud of my multitasking!
‘There are twenty-three stars over the mountain logo,’ our guide continues as we zoom down a neat little road. ‘Each star represents one of the original contracted actors, such as Gloria Swanson, Mary Pickford—’
Oooh! There’s the famous iron gate through which they once walked full-grown elephants!
‘Douglas Fairbanks, Wallace Reid, Pauline Frederick—’
Just imagine walking through these gates, knowing that your set is waiting for you. You’ve learnt your script, your costume is ready—
‘Marguerite Clark, Pauline Valentine—’
I spin round in shock. ‘Pauline Valentine was one of the original stars of this studio?’
‘She was!’ Patrick looks delighted to have such a keen-bean on board. ‘Fun fact: Pauline was originally a waitress from York in England. She worked part-time in a chocolate factory before she jumped on a boat over here and landed her big break in the silent-movie industry.’
‘I know,’ I beam proudly. ‘She was the leading lady in sixty-seven movies and has a star on the Walk of Fame.’
My great-grandmother was a legend.
The tour buggy keeps whizzing down tiny streets. ‘To the right is Stage Eighteen,’ Patrick continues, pointing at a vast hangar. ‘It’s big enough to fit a plane inside, and you can control everything: light, warmth, sound, air …’
A man walks out but it’s not Dad. We keep driving.
‘This is a parking lot, but it can be turned into an enormous wave pool. It holds nine hundred fifty thousand gallons of water and has been used for films like The Ten Commandments …’
I put my hand up.
‘Um, I think it’s time to repaint the background,’ I suggest politely, gesturing at a giant muddy-grey wall with little grubby clouds puffed across it. ‘It looks a bit faded and dirty.’
Our guide laughs. ‘It’s supposed to. The Californian sky is so blue and cloudless it doesn’t look like a real sky on film. They have to make it less perfect to make it more genuine.’
He’s right: the sky behind it does look like a sapphire sheet. So blue it’s unreal.
With another loud wheeeee – I was not oversold – the buggy-cart whips round the corner. Suddenly, life-size brownstone townhouses appear out of nowhere, complete with rusty fire escapes, basement windows, curved doorways and bright red fire hydrants.
‘New York,’ Patrick explains cheerfully. ‘An almost perfect replica, slightly smaller than in real life. Look.’
We all hop out of the buggy for a closer view.
‘They’re not actual houses,’ he continues. ‘They’ve got printed plastic bricks stuck on the front. And if you open a door …’ He pushes open the nearest front door. Behind it is thin plasterboard coated with small ripped squares of wallpaper, just enough to show from outside the window. ‘It’s called a facade, which is French for fake front.’
I follow curiously behind.
‘And … umm …’ I get as close as possible. ‘What about The First Butterfly? Do you know much about that film? It’s a really old movie that was filmed here in 1990, and it’s set in New York. I’m doing a – uh – school project on it.’
‘Yeah.’ Patrick considers for a second. ‘I think I know it. A lame romance, some really bad acting, but a minor cult classic. Some of the scenes were shot in fake Greenwich Village, I think.’
I frown. Ooh, that could work.
‘Hop in, folks!’ Patrick climbs back into the buggy and we all dutifully follow. ‘While we’re driving past the Technicolor Building, I’ll tell you a story about Katharine Hepburn …’
I stare around, fascinated. One day, this is where I’m going to be, wandering from my trailer, getting my make-up done, learning my lines, grabbing a coffee before my first take of the mor—
I sit bolt upright. A very tall man has just walked out of one of the vast hangars, talking animatedly on his phone. I’m now hanging off the back of the buggy.
‘Dad! Dad! DAD!’
‘Ma’am.’ Patrick’s head swivels. ‘Ma’am, please sit down and keep your head inside the moving—’
Too late – I’ve already gone.
As if my legs aren’t strong enough.
They certainly have enough power to send me zipping down the empty street and out of the clutches of Patrick, who is pegging it desperately after me.
‘Ma’am!’ he’s yelling. ‘Get back in the car! You were distinctly told at the start of this tour to stay in the cart and to respect the working privacy of film-studio staff—’
I just run faster.
Dad must recognise the sound of my pounding feet, because he suddenly freezes and spins round.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Rivers,’ Patrick calls from behind me. ‘I did tell the guests to stay in the cart, but this one wouldn’t—’
With a thud, I wrap my arms round my father.
‘It’s OK,’ Dad tells Patrick over my head. ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid this particular little rule-breaker happens to be mine. I got this.’
We wait for a few moments until the guide’s gone and the little buggy has whizzed away, then my father bends down. ‘Hope, baby, what’s going on? What are you doing here? Why are you wearing a black catsuit and leather gloves when it’s eighty degrees?’
Intense relief is rushing through me: finally, we’re getting somewhere.
Don’t worry, Mum. We’re coming home.
‘Dad,’ I say quickly into his T-shirt, tightening my grip. ‘Please don’t be angry with me. I know you said I couldn’t come, but you don’t understand how important this is. There’s something I have to show you, so you need to come with me right this minute.’
Without delay, I start pulling on his hand towards fake Greenwich Village.
I’ll work out how to be subtle when I get there. Maybe I can get them to turn on the street lamps and play some violin music or something.
‘Hope.’ Dad hasn’t budged and he’s six foot five so I’m basically just walking on the spot while tugging on his fingers. ‘Sweetheart, what are you talking about? Go where? Calm down and explain.’
Maybe it’s time to stop scuttling sideways like a crab. I’m just going to say it …
‘We’re going back to the place where you first met Mum,’ I explain impatiently. ‘To the exact set. And then you’ll remember in a sudden rush of intense romantic memories how much you miss her and how much you love her. Then you’ll wrap up this film you’re making and come home and Mum will leave rehab and she won’t be sad or crazy any more and the newspapers will shut up and the family will be just like it used to be and nobody will leave and we’ll all have our happy ending.’
We’re so close. In fact, if I work really fast, Dad can probably leave this afternoon and get back in time for Mum’s visiting hour yesterday.
‘Please,’ I beg, stil
l tugging as hard as I can. ‘Please, Dad. Let’s go – let’s go— We can—’
Without a word, I’m suddenly being wrapped in an enormous hug. Silently, Dad tightens his arms. Then he pulls away and bends down to look at me.
I can’t work out what the expression on his face is. It doesn’t seem angry or irritated or surprised or overjoyed or impressed or any interesting and complex mixture of the above.
‘Baby,’ he says quietly. ‘Sit down for a minute.’
Then he slowly lowers himself on to a very familiar bench – taking up most of it – and pats the space next to him.
My eyes open wide. ‘Is this—’
‘Forrest Gump’s bench?’ Dad smiles with one side of his mouth. ‘One of them, yes. Tom Hanks got all dressed up after the film had wrapped and sat here with a box of chocolates as a prank. Nobody at the studio even noticed, bless him.’
I sit down impatiently and glance at my watch. As fascinating as this insider information is, we don’t really have time for another tour. I’ve already done one; we’ll have to come back for the special extras at a later point.
‘Hope,’ Dad says slowly. ‘The clothes and bits of jewellery, the ones scattered around the house every morning. They’re not yours, are they?’
I nod in exasperation. ‘Obviously not.’
‘And …’ My father frowns. ‘The smell … That weird smell on my pillow …’
‘Mum’s iconic perfume,’ I explain in a duh voice.
‘I see.’ Dad smiles slightly. ‘But Juliet has never worn that perfume, Hope. She was the official face of it, but she thought it stunk of old socks and used it as poop spray in the bathroom.’
Oh, for the love of—
‘My God, the song.’ Revelation has just hit my dad’s face. ‘Elton John. Did you think that was our song? Mine and your mom’s?’
This is like pulling teeth. Why is it so difficult to trigger any of Dad’s romantic memories?
‘The year I thought you met,’ I explain extremely slowly, as if I’m talking to a preschooler. ‘Dad, why didn’t you tell me you actually met Mum when you were fifteen?’ I can feel my eyes lighting up. ‘I want to hear the whole story, the romance, where did you first see each other, what did you say, where was your first kiss, how did you feel, what happened when the movie wrapped—’
I bet it was on a step in fake Greenwich Village, and my dad brushed away one of my mum’s tears and said—
‘Hope,’ Dad says quietly, taking my hand. ‘We’ve made a mess of this, and I’m sorry. We’re both so sorry.’
I stare at him. ‘Well, there’s no need to be dramatic, Dad. You can just tell me the big love story now, but make sure you start right at the beginning because the meeting is always … the …’
I crunch to an abrupt silence. Because I suddenly know what the expression on my father’s face is: it’s sadness.
‘So,’ I say, quickly turning away and picking at one of the armrests. ‘What do you mean by one of the benches? How many were there exactly, because—’
‘Look at me, Hope.’
Reluctantly, I lift my gaze.
‘At me, sweetheart. Not at my left ear lobe.’
‘Whatever you’re about to say,’ I interrupt quickly, ‘just consider how tired you are, and how hard you’ve been working. You know, you’ve both been tied up on these intense films in different countries, and that kind of stress can put a lot of pressure on—’
‘Hope, your mother and I are getting a divorce.’
I blink. ‘Nu-uh.’
‘We are.’
‘No, you’re not. That’s just what the papers say, Dad. You can’t let the media rip you apart; you can’t listen to them. They’re just jealous singletons who are terrible at their jobs and—’
‘Those fool journalists,’ Dad sighs, rubbing his face. ‘We weren’t going to say anything until both the films wrapped. The plan was to sit down and explain it to all of you together, as a family. But this one ran over and the story got out before we were ready.’
I shake my head, looking down at the bench.
‘So, when you say Tom Hanks got dressed up, do you mean the full cream suit with the blue tartan shirt and the socks, or the—’
‘Po.’ Dad’s eyes get even sadder. ‘I know you’re very adept at shutting out the reality you don’t want to face. You’re exactly like your mom in that way. But you can handle the truth, sweetheart. You have to.’
‘No, I don’t.’ I fold my arms. ‘Because the truth, Dad, is that nothing can pull apart what is supposed to be together. Love is all that really matters. It’s what lies at the heart of us. So, when you find it, you hold on to it.’
‘And when you lose it,’ he says gently, ‘you let go.’
I stare at him.
This is crazy. This is madness. This is—
‘You’re wrong,’ I say, standing up. ‘All relationships have ups and downs – that’s how love goes. They all have obstacles you have to overcome. That’s part of the narrative. You’ve just lost hope, that’s all. Same as Mum. But that’s what I’m here for.’
Dad closes his eyes briefly. ‘Sweetheart—’
‘Don’t worry, Dad. Everything’s going to be fine.’
TUESDAY AFTERNOON: HOPE lies on her bed in LOS ANGELES, watching a video on the giant flat-screen television.
The video is of JAMIE and HOPE lying in a park, her head on his chest. JAMIE looks straight at the camera, then leans over and kisses HOPE’S nose. He freezes for a few seconds.
HOPE
(tapping him and laughing)
It’s a video.
JAMIE
My bad.
He grins and waves.
JAMIE (CONTINUED)
Hey – my first big interview!
HOPE
(holding out her hand as a microphone)
Tell us, Jamie Day, how are you enjoying your cheese-fest tourist adventuring through this nation’s great capital city?
JAMIE
It’s been awesome. Check out my co-star. Does it get any better than this girl? Look at that FACE.
HOPE beams up at him, adoration written all over her face like subtitles.
HOPE
So you like it, then? Is that what you’re saying?
JAMIE
(looking at her)
No. I’m saying I love it.
I grab the remote and rewind.
JAMIE
Does it get any better than this girl? Look at that FACE.
Then forward.
JAMIE
No. I’m saying I love it.
Then back.
JAMIE
… I love it.
Then I open my messages.
It’s been two days now and Sunday’s message to Jamie has two blue ticks: read but unanswered. Although the balloon was very vague.
Plus Jamie’s been at school, so he’s obviously very busy. He must have got caught up in all the barbecues and whatever else he did yesterday. Maybe he read my text in his sleep, but forgot he’d read it, or thought he’d replied but hadn’t. Or maybe he was so impressed with my use of emojis that he’s still working out what to send back.
Deliberating, I lick my lips. Maybe I should send a different colour balloon?
My stomach flips. At the top of my phone screen it says Jamie is online. I stare at it for a few minutes: Jamie is online Jamie is online Jamie is online. Then I impulsively search ‘cat’ in GIFs, find an adorable tabby kitten falling asleep and toppling over, paste it in and press SEND.
The ticks go blue, then Jamie is no longer online.
Oh God, no. What have I done?
Haha! I wasn’t being passive aggressive! It was just a cute kitten! Not annoyed you haven’t replied to my message from two days ago! LOL xxxx
Seconds later: Jamie is online.
Ticks go blue, then Jamie is no longer online. And, for a second, the cinema screen in my head splits in two and I can see me on one side – clutching my phone four centimetres from
my nose – and him on the other side with that hard, stony expression on his face.
Which is ridiculous. He’s probably just on the toilet or something.
Or, you know, mid-lunge.
Having a good day? :) Hxx
Impulsively, I press SEND.
Then I put my phone firmly down on my bedside table and wander through the silent house. Dad’s gone to work already. He’s attempted to talk to me a million times since he drove me home on Sunday, but I’ve kept my headphones in and/or faked being asleep/mid-imaginary-phone-call.
I’ve written a Post-it note that says:
Remember that time you were having a really bad day at work so Mum kept pulling silly faces while filming a scene until you laughed even though it took seventeen takes.
And another one:
Remember that time Mum made her entire Oscar speech about how much she loves you and how you’re her rock and literally everybody in the film industry cried.
I’ve stuck them in Dad’s leather script bag so he can find them throughout the week. At this rate, I reckon it’ll take two days to break my father: we’ll be home by Friday.
Remember that time Mum took you for an ice cream in Hyde Park and you told her for the first time that you loved h
My phone beeps.
Dropping the pen on the floor, I leg it into my room.
Yup. x
A kiss from Jamie – hurray! Then another beep.
Ha cute cat
All I need now is to subtly Segway into the right topic.
How was your bbq? How’s your car doing? Is it good? x
Jamie is typing Jamie is typing Jamie is typing Jamie is typing Jamie is typing Jamie is typing Jamie is typing Jamie is—
What?
OK, the groundwork is laid.
Just wondering if you’re free after school some time this week? xx
