Beautiful People

by Wendy Holden

  "Like, just what does a girl have to do to remake her image?" Belle had wailed at her agent.

  "Hamlet?" he replied.

  "Excuse me?"

  He reminded her how Arlington, in the meeting, had seemed interested in the idea of her doing some Shakespeare. It was desperate, sure, but desperate times required desperate measures. Desperate Measure for Measures, even.

  Two days after this conversation, Belle had found herself in London.

  It was, Belle felt, a pretty depressing city. Quite apart from the rain. June it might be, but the gloomy, marbled-grey skies beyond the great penthouse windows gave, Belle thought, the impression that the whole city was on some great dimmer switch turned permanently down low. The trees in the park opposite were always bent under some windy blast. The pavements were always shiny with rain. How unlike the sunshine of California, as permanent and dazzling as everyone's grins.

  Thank God, her stay here was going to be short. The idea was that, having trod the boards as Lady Macbeth or whatever in London for a couple of weeks, she would succumb to a sudden, convenient virus and go back to L.A. with prestigious, serious-Shakespeare credentials. Having got a few weeks of real stagework under her belt. And if that didn't silence her detractors and impress people, nothing would.

  It was more difficult than it sounded, even so. This morning's audition had been a particular nightmare. Some actress who had played Cordelia in an avant-garde King Lear in a small Soho theatre had gone to L.A. apparently.

  "Good luck to her," Belle had sniffed. "She'll need it."

  "She's got it, lots of it," groaned the theatre director, which was not what Belle wanted to hear.

  There was an understudy for the absent actress's part, but the maverick young hotshot had naturally jumped at the chance to cast a Hollywood name like Belle, even if Belle's name was rather faded and besmirched of late. Indeed, so enthusiastic had been the director—business at the box office had been less brisk than hoped—that Mitch had assured Belle that she was a shoo-in for the role, and all she had to do was turn up.

  The phone at her bedside rang. Belle groped clumsily about for it.

  "How'd it go?" Mitch asked.

  "Gross. That nude stuff. You never warned me."

  "You never mind being nude normally," Mitch bewilderedly pointed out.

  "I don't, no," Belle snapped back. "It wasn't me I was worried about. I mean the guy playing Lear. He's about a thousand and has his dick out all through the performance."

  Mitch, from his end, sighed. None of this was working out the way it should. First, there had been the disappointment about the baby; admittedly, the timing seemed to have been slightly out there. And now London was going tits up too.

  She had sounded drunk just then, and possibly, Mitch suspected, he had overestimated Belle's ability to cope without a vast quantity of help. He had advised that the usual Hollywood entourage of bodyguards, a personal assistant, and press officer would adversely affect any efforts to give her image the realistic, authentic, down-toearth edge the studio clearly felt it needed. He had reminded her that you never saw Dame Judi Dench mob-handed with stylists, security, personal trainers, and spokespeople.

  But Belle had insisted on the Portchester, London's best and grandest hotel, and the penthouse suite to boot. She had also insisted on bringing Morning's nanny; it seemed she couldn't even pick her new adopted son up without help. Well, given the amount she seemed to be drinking, that was probably true, Mitch reflected gloomily.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For Darcy, the pampering of the plane proceeded seamlessly into the pampering of a limousine sent by Mitch to meet her at LAX. Whisked, with the rest of first class, off the aircraft before everybody else, Darcy whirled through Immigration and out of the baggage reclaim at a speed far faster than she imagined possible.

  She spotted her driver in the arrivals hall. He was a peak-capped diminutive Puerto Rican holding a sign with "Mr. Darcy" written on it.

  "It had what on it?" Mitch, calling her on the mobile once the limo was underway, did not see the joke.

  "It doesn't matter," Darcy said, blinking with tired eyes through the tinted windows at L.A. Her first impression was that it was bright and hot and busy with shiny, unfamiliar-shaped cars, sunlit roads, low, magnolia-coloured buildings, dusty palm trees, cloudless blue sky. Seeing it through glass gave it a distance, as if she was watching it on the television. Actually, it looked like it always did on the television. Perhaps she was watching it on the television and this was all a dream.

  "I thought it was funny actually," she added about the chauffeur. She wanted to comfort Mitch, who seemed upset about it for some reason.

  She thought it was funny? The hell it was funny, Mitch fumed to himself. A bad start was what it was. That limo company with its caps cost a freaking fortune. It was supposed to impress clients, not make them—and him, more to the point—look stupid.

  "Don't worry," he assured Darcy in a voice of grim determination. "Pretty soon you'll be so famous that no one could even think about making a mistake like that."

  "I'm not worrying," Darcy assured him back. She wanted to add that she neither particularly believed the bit about being famous nor wanted it all that much. But she desisted; it seemed impolite, given how excited about the Jack Saint meeting Mitch was.

  "How about dinner tonight?" Mitch asked. "Go to your hotel, have a siesta, and I'll come by and pick you up at about seven-thirty."

  Darcy's hotel was a cream-painted palace whose staff all looked like supermodels and whose entrance was flanked with lawns as smooth and glossy as bright green velvet. There were ornate fountains, palm trees, and beds of almost painfully colourful flowers whose every petal seemed hand-tweaked into position. It occurred to Darcy, as she looked about, that the extra brightness could be due to the fact that everyone seemed to wear sunglasses; you had to overcompensate on the colour front as nothing was ever viewed with the naked eye. Or was it because any colour out there had to compete with the California sky, a powerful swimming-pool blue?

  Inside the hotel, by contrast, all was muted and calm. Her room, which faced front over the zinging gardens, was vast and cream, with cream-coloured furniture. It was, she thought, a bit like being inside a meringue. The only non-cream aspects were striped white and yellow—the awnings on the enormous windows and the parasol and chair cushions of the table outside on the balcony. And, of course, when you combined white and yellow, cream was what you got.

  "Can I get you a glass of champagne, Madam?" the chipper bellboy who had shown her up asked on leaving. Darcy shook her head. She didn't want to even think about champagne now. She felt that she had drunk her own weight in the stuff on the flight; her head throbbed and her mouth was dry. Apart from water, something comforting and sweet was what she wanted: something that would send her into an afternoon doze. Suddenly, she could see it, in a tall glass in a silver cradle, foamy, light, warm, wonderfully thick and sweet.

  "Got any…um…hot chocolate?" she asked.

  The bellboy looked thunderstruck, then collected himself and nodded. "Certainly, Madam."

  Darcy wondered why he was so surprised. Surely it wasn't that unusual an order? It wasn't as if she'd asked for a whip and a blackpeaked cap with a Nazi badge on it. And yet, he'd looked almost as shocked as if she had.

  When the hot chocolate came, it exceeded all expectations. It was in the tall glass she had imagined, complete with the silver cradle, topped with cream and chocolate shavings, studded with marshmallows and with two chocolate-chip cookies on the side.

  Afterwards, Darcy lay down on the big bed, sinking immediately into the airy, cool, linen-scented embrace of the duvet and padded mattress. It was still hard to imagine she was really here.

  She burrowed into the billowing, cream bed linen feeling that her grandmother was smiling down on her. Alone of all her family, Darcy knew, her grandmother would have encouraged the L.A. visit. She was no stranger to the town herself, after all. She would, Darcy knew, a
lso have appreciated the meringue décor. And she would certainly have appreciated all the champagne.

  When Mitch turned up at seven-thirty, Darcy's first impression was that he was most unlike her idea of a Hollywood agent. His voice on the phone had been urgent and persuasive, and she had pictured some hawk-eyed Hollywood machine. But Mitch was large— enormous, in fact, billowing and bulging in all directions—and had an apprehensive, chaotic air to him that, contrary to such airs in England, was obviously not something he was cultivating. Rather, it seemed to be something he was desperately trying to hide.

  He looked at her, also approvingly. Darcy wore a vintage Dior sleeveless sheath dress she had been delighted to find in a Knightsbridge charity shop the very day before she had flown out to L.A. She had spotted it, gleaming darkly on the rail, and swooped with a gasp of delight. It was, Darcy had thought as she examined the dress, almost as if it had been waiting for her. It fitted her perfectly; its rich, inky-blue satin gave a velvety depth to her dark hair and a creaminess to her pale skin.

  Immediately after buying it, she had, in an uncharacteristic seizure of extravagance, splashed out on a pair of Prada heels to match it, which cost far more than the budget she had mentally earmarked for her entire L.A. wardrobe. She had not told Niall about these; although, admittedly, he was so angry about the L.A. trip in general that a pair of shoes was hardly likely to make a difference.

  "You look great, baby," Mitch assured her. He was relieved. The picture of Darcy on the website run by those mad old trouts in London who called themselves her agents had been the usual hideously unflattering monochrome headshot that British thespians for some reason preferred. It was incredible any of them ever got work.

  The headshot gave no indication of how very pretty Darcy was in real life. Her skin was a pure, milky white, so white it almost glowed; only as he looked at it did Mitch realise how boring the uniform roastchicken tans of L.A. could be. Her face was a pale oval with a touch of pink in the cheeks. Her thick, shiny black hair was unhighlighted. Mitch stared at it in awe as it slid about her white shoulders, probably the only undyed young female hair in the whole of the city.

  She was taller than expected and not as thin as he had imagined. Slim, certainly, but no twig. She had breasts and a bottom. She filled that stunning dress beautifully, Mitch thought. People were staring at her as they left the hotel lobby—and no wonder.

  She seemed both pleased and excited to be here too. That Brit reserve, all that hoity-toity stuff about the theatre she'd laid on him during that first phone call, seemed to have melted away like snow in June now she was here. As she greeted him in the hotel foyer, she was beaming. Those teeth looked natural too, although, being white and straight, entirely unlike the usual snaggly, yellow ones the British were famous for. She seemed positively bubbling with the excitement of it all.

  It was hard to believe she had just that morning stepped off an eleven-hour flight, but this, Darcy told him, giggling, was due to the restorative properties of a huge hot chocolate she had ordered from room service. Mitch had almost fallen over at this.

  "You're kidding." A hot chocolate! With cream and cookies on the side? "Hey! Young actress in Hollywood orders calorie shock," he grinned.

  Her face flashed with surprise. Then she smiled. "Oh. Now I get it," she said.

  "Get what?"

  "Why the waiter was amazed. Oh!" Darcy covered her hand with her mouth. "And I ordered a hamburger when I woke up as well. He must think I'm such a pig!"

  "Good for you," said Mitch approvingly. Like all fat people, he liked to encourage others to eat as much as possible. He led her to the limo waiting outside.

  "Actually, can you believe it, but I'm hungry again," Darcy admitted, looking excitedly about her as they emerged from the hotel entrance into the scented early-summer evening. "Where are we going to eat?"

  "Puccini's," Mitch announced, and confidently awaited the exclamations of surprise and delight. When they failed to come, he gave her a sideways look. "You heard of Puccini's, right?"

  "Er…no," Darcy grinned.

  "L.A.'s hottest Italian restaurant," Mitch told her, suddenly not minding that his great achievement in getting a table there meant nothing. There was something so infectiously open and unpretentious about this girl, her big black eyes everywhere, missing nothing, so obviously interested and amused. She was like a breeze blowing through the open window of a hot, noisy room, Mitch thought, as the limo drew up outside the hot and noisy room that was Puccini's.

  Puccini's looked unexceptional to Darcy, a long, low building swathed in vines and with tables outside with cream shades. But then everything exploded in shouts, grinding and zooming noises, and blasts of white light.

  Paparazzi, she swiftly realised as a sashaying waiter led them to a table. Not for her, thankfully, but for Jennifer Aniston just behind. Darcy was amazed both by the way the lights exploded—fast, furious, noisy, frightening—and the way the actress, far smaller and thinner even than she appeared in magazines, just smiled her way through it and walked to her table with her companion, seemingly undisturbed by the fuss.

  "Like this place?" Mitch reached for a breadstick. The table they had been given was one of the worst; restaurants of this sort, he suspected, had a Fame Board like his agency's in the back somewhere too. He would be somewhere way down the bottom of it. Darcy, on the other hand, wouldn't yet be on it at all. But she would, Mitch was certain.

  Darcy was examining the menu. It was enormous, although it had far few dishes than expected on it. None of which were as Italian as expected either.

  The champagne arrived. Darcy picked hers up gingerly; her head still felt slightly tight and thick from that on the plane.

  "To you!" Mitch declared, in a voice so loud that she cringed. She chinked back, reddening, desperate for people not to stare. Mitch, on the other hand, was desperate to attract as much attention to his client as possible.

  The champagne having helped suffuse her embarrassment, Darcy started to look about her again. Her wandering eye caught a well-known face. She leaned over to Mitch. "Is that…?"

  "Drew Barrymore, yes,"

  "And that…?"

  "Is Cameron Diaz." Mitch grinned delightedly. This was fun.

  A waiter glided to the table. "May I take your order?"

  "Oh, yes. Sorry," Darcy beamed. She applied herself conscientiously to the vast menu, then raised her head. "This is an Italian restaurant?"

  Mitch and the waiter affirmed that this was indeed the case.

  "But there isn't any pasta on the menu."

  The waiter's eyebrow arched upwards. The agent put a fat paw on Darcy's small, slim hand.

  "This is Hollywood," he reminded her. "No one eats pasta here. Carbs are a no-no."

  "Perhaps Madam would like the steamed fish with lemon," put in the waiter acidly.

  Darcy scanned the menu again. Her face lit up suddenly. "Hey. I've found some pasta. Nude ravioli. What's that?" she asked, her voice dropping slightly. "What's, erm, nude about it?"

  "It doesn't have any pasta." The waiter spoke with a touch of triumph. "It's just the stuffing."

  "Which is?" Darcy asked hopefully, her hungry imagination conjuring up rich patties of red-wine ragu. Or something deliciously cheesy and herby…

  "Steamed spinach balls," the waiter said flatly.

  "I'll have the shark risotto," Mitch said. It was the standard power order. Shark—for sharks. The nearest Hollywood restaurants got to a joke.

  As he handed the vast bill of fare over, Darcy watched, amused, as the waiter struggled to incorporate it about his person. There was nowhere to put it apart from under his arm.

  "An Italian restaurant without pasta!" she exclaimed as the waiter disappeared.

  "You don't get it," Mitch grinned at her. "Restaurants in Hollywood aren't for eating in. They're to avoid eating."

  The black eyes staring into his widened in amazement. "But you eat."

  "Yeah, but not in restaurants." Mitch thought guilt
ily of the jelly doughnuts and the doctor's advice he routinely ignored. He resolved to change the subject. "This meeting with Jack Saint," he began, deciding to get straight on to the important business, rather than waiting.

  Darcy nodded, tilting her head slightly and attentively. Her eyes slid slightly to the right of Mitch's face. It was then that it happened.

  The chat and buzz of the restaurant disappeared. Mitch's voice faded to nothing. The remains of her hangover vanished. Darcy was aware of nothing but a singing sensation in her every nerve-ending— and the eyes she was looking into. In which she felt caught, unable to move, almost unable to breathe.