The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  She smiles at him. She seems to like him. I’m relieved, and suddenly exhausted. All I want to do is go to bed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to them, but they’re deep in conversation already and ignore me. I scope out the room. Oh yeah, there’s Charles … surrounded by girls. It’s like Lily in reverse, only somehow I don’t think it’s his body they’re after. I walk up to him.

  ‘Hi,’ I wave.

  He sees me through the crowd and extricates himself. He looks hunted.

  ‘Anna,’ he says with relief. ‘This is Anna,’ he says to the crowd. ‘My girlfriend,’ he adds firmly.

  Damn. This is ridiculous. I like Charles but …

  I know I should be sensible. I’m a girl without many romantic prospects. I’ve managed to claw my way up the beauty ladder to only three or four rungs below normal. And here’s a nice guy with a huge fortune and he’s actually interested in me.

  But I look at the goatee and the platform shoes and I just know …

  There’s no spark. At all. I just can’t spend the rest of my life with this man.

  I’ll tell him, I promise myself. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

  ‘Lovely to see you, darling,’ I say just as loudly, kissing him on the cheek. ‘You know, I’m…’ I resist the temptation to say ‘knackered’, ‘rather tired. I think I might pop off to bed.’

  ‘OK,’ says Charles gloomily.

  ‘I’ve been having the most wonderful time,’ I hasten to reassure him. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  * * *

  I wake up not quite sure where I am. There’s the familiar sound of Lily snoring like a train and the unfamiliar sound of twittering. It’s birds. Outside.

  I blink and clear my head. Right, I’m at Chester House. Blearily I haul myself out of bed. No chance of waking the two Sleeping Beauties, they’re both crashed out in their party frocks and full make-up. I can feel the beginning of a nasty headache crunching around my temples but at least I’m in my nightie. They’re going to suffer when they get up.

  As I step into the bath, this thought cheers me up. But only a little. I’ve got to break up with Charles today.

  I look regretfully around me at the beautiful house (the bathroom has antique Chinese wallpaper), the furniture, the carved four-poster, the view outside the window – in the daylight even more special: apples trees covered in green apples, lush grass, terraced lawns, a large pond, even some deer – actual deer – grazing in the background. I must be mad.

  But I just can’t do it to him.

  Poor sod. He’s been mucked about by women after his great country pile all his life. I can’t do the same thing, can I? Go on dating him, just because he’s loaded? We’ve nothing in common, except that we’re both part of life’s rejects club.

  I put on make-up, quickly, check myself – the hair still looks pretty good, Paolo really is a magician – and unzip my case. Janet has packed everything, bless her. The morning outfit is the black dress I first tried on. With a pair of stack-heeled slides. Add the bronzer on my pale skin and I look sort of OK. Definite result.

  I’ve just managed to zip myself up in the back when there’s a quiet knock on our door. I tiptoe over (though nothing short of a nuke is going to wake those two right now) and open it a crack.

  It’s Charles.

  ‘Are you decent?’ he hisses.

  I nod. ‘The other two are asleep.’

  He fidgets a bit. ‘Can you come out for a walk?’

  ‘A walk? What time is it?’

  ‘Half eight,’ he says. He looks totally despondent. ‘I understand if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, no,’ I say hastily. ‘I’d love to come for a walk. Obviously.’

  Charles leads me down a flight of back stairs.

  ‘We won’t go through the kitchen,’ he says. ‘Bit of a zoo in there. Lots of people never even went to bed.’

  ‘I expect they’re having breakfast,’ I say hopefully. I could kill for a good breakfast. A bacon sandwich. And scrambled eggs. And maybe some grilled mushrooms and tomatoes …

  ‘Want a Husky?’ he asks, handing me a coat. ‘And some wellies? You don’t want to ruin those lovely shoes…’

  I suit up obediently. How long will this take before I can steer him back to the important subject of breakfast?

  ‘We’ll just slip out here,’ Charles says, opening a little side door. And now we’re outside. It really is a beautiful day, already warm, the dew starting to evaporate. He leads me along gravel paths lined with lavender bushes, down the terraced steps of his lawn, past huge stone urns covered with trailing roses.

  ‘Nobody can see us now,’ he says breathlessly.

  ‘That’s great,’ I say nervously. He isn’t going to make a move, is he? Expecting a good morning quickie?

  ‘Anna,’ he says, and suddenly he just looks so down I want to hug him, ‘my life is shit.’

  I glance behind us at the grey stone mansion.

  ‘Um…’

  ‘You don’t need to lie about the book,’ he says plaintively. ‘Vanna got drunk last night and told me I had no talent.’

  ‘I – well –’

  ‘I thought it was amazing,’ he says. ‘I thought it was a masterpiece. It took me ages to write,’ he adds defensively.

  ‘You had great discipline,’ I say weakly. ‘Just because she – we – didn’t care for it…’

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s rubbish. Like everything else I do. You don’t know what it’s like,’ he says, unhappily. ‘Everything I try goes bad. I went into the stock market and lost half a million. I bought a racehorse and it never won. I tried to be a lawyer once…’ shakes his head. ‘Stupid exams. And now this. It was my way out, it was everything. I’m nothing, am I? I’m just a useless failure. And people are all so horrible to me. All the bloody time.’

  ‘You know, when I met you,’ I say carefully, ‘you were a bit … stand-offish and stuck-up. But you’ve got a lot better since then,’ I add hurriedly.

  ‘It’s only because people laugh at me,’ he says pathetically. ‘If I don’t stand up for myself they all laugh. So I have to say that it’s literature. And you know, then they can’t laugh so much. I don’t give them the chance.’

  ‘So … you’re striking first,’ I ask. ‘In the stuck-up stakes?’

  He looks at me, smiles weakly, and nods.

  ‘And girls?’ I ask relentlessly. ‘You were quite mean about how I looked.’

  ‘Same thing,’ he says. ‘If you look like me. All those pretty girls. At first I believed them,’ he says bitterly. ‘But they were always just laughing. I can’t help it if I’m a bit short. And my hair’s going.’ He turns to me and takes my hand. ‘You’re so different from them, Anna. You didn’t know about Chester House. You’ve got your own life. A real career,’ he adds, admiringly. ‘More than I’ve got. I want you to help me find something to do – just to help me,’ he adds, sadly. ‘If I didn’t have you I wouldn’t have anything.’

  I open my mouth. Now would be the time. To bravely break up with him.

  ‘You’re the one good thing in my life,’ he says, and to my horror breaks into sobs.

  Pants!

  ‘Don’t – don’t cry,’ I say, pleadingly, fishing around for a tissue. There’s a disgusting old hanky in one of the pockets of the Husky. ‘Here.’

  He blows his nose loudly and offers it back.

  ‘Um, you keep it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ he goes on. ‘If you left me I don’t know what I’d do.’

  What can I say?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him with a forced smile. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  * * *

  Back in the kitchen there are indeed loads of people, and to my amazement two of them are Lily and Janet. They’ve pulled themselves together in record time. Lily is wearing sexy white jeans and a clingy pink sweater, and Janet has on a red skirt and matching silky top that look wonderful with her skin tone. They are both nursing Alka-Seltzers.
And sitting with blokes!

  OK. The fog lifts. Nothing but men would persuade them to get up this early. Janet is curled up with Ed on a cushioned window seat, and Lily’s sitting on the lap of someone I haven’t met yet. He’s younger than her usual type. Very handsome, dark and intense. And there are Vanna and Rupert; I didn’t see them last night.

  ‘Anna,’ Vanna says, looking absolutely thrilled. ‘You two lovebirds been out for a romantic tryst?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Charles smugly. ‘In the orchard.’

  Everybody goes ‘Oooh’. My skin prickles with embarrassment.

  ‘Love the new haircut,’ says Rupert loudly. ‘You look a much better filly like that. Have you lost weight? Bloody good job. Ow, Vanna! Mind your damn foot, it’s on my toe!’

  ‘Vanna, have you met my flatmates?’

  ‘We’ve been introduced,’ Vanna says politely, which means she doesn’t think much of them. Vanna’s quite high-powered. She doesn’t value modelling as a career.

  ‘I hope you slept well, Anna,’ says Lily, warmly. ‘We don’t want you too tired on the way back. Anna’s a top movie executive,’ she announces to the room. ‘She needs to be fresh! For her business.’

  I blink. Apparently I have travelled into another dimension, where Lily is nice and sings my praises to everybody.

  And then it dawns on me. Charles still has his arm round me. Vanna and Janet are beaming at him. A few of the Sloaney girls curled round their coffee cups are casting death stares in my direction.

  They all have me married off already. I might as well be registered at Harrods and popping in to Vera Wang for a fitting.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I ask Lily, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘I’m Henry,’ he says, extending a firm hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Henry’s going to be my boyfriend,’ Lily purrs.

  ‘Only if you’re very lucky,’ Henry says sternly. ‘And play your cards right. And know how to iron a shirt properly.’

  Everybody laughs while I just blink. Nobody talks to Lily like that, even for a joke! But she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s tracing her fingers across his chest.

  ‘Henry’s in property,’ she says. ‘It’s a very exciting field.’

  ‘Deathly dull, actually,’ Henry says. ‘But a family tradition.’ He shrugs.

  ‘That’s Henry Marsh,’ Lily tells me, with a sly nod.

  Oh, I get it. Henry Marsh. Must be of Marsh and Strutter, one of the biggest estate agents in the country. You see them everywhere. Trust Lily to pick up a property mogul for herself. But she really seems taken with him, at first glance. Not just stringing him along, like she does her older, richer sugar daddies.

  ‘Henry Marsh and Lily Venus,’ says Ed, squeezing Janet’s hand. ‘Men are from Marsh, women are from Venus.’

  ‘Oh, her real name’s not Venus,’ Henry says stoutly. ‘That was a load of old bollocks. It’s Frutt.’

  Lily nods meekly. Bloody hell, I really like Henry.

  ‘Want something to eat?’ Charles asks me.

  ‘Oh! Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d like bacon and eggs, please, and toast and marmalade, or jam will do…’

  I catch Janet’s eye.

  Damn.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ I say morosely, ‘maybe just some cereal’s fine.’

  * * *

  On the drive back, I don’t have to say much, luckily. Janet does ask me some questions about Charles, but all she really wants to do is talk about Ed. And Lily is equally taken with Henry. All that’s required of me is to drive home, and wonder how the hell I get out of this.

  ‘He’s bound to be worth masses.’

  ‘I think Bath’s a really beautiful place. He wants me to go for the weekend.’

  ‘They’ve got offices everywhere. They’re the people to see in Chelsea.’

  ‘He says he loves milking cows. He knows how to do it even though they use machines now.’

  ‘Henry’s probably got lots of properties himself.’

  ‘Ed likes rugby – do you think I could learn rugby? He said he’d take me to a game.’

  ‘I bet he owns, like, huge lofts in Soho and strings of buildings.’

  ‘Ed said I was better looking than J-Lo. And he said he likes the name Janet.’

  ‘I bet he’s got a place even bigger than Chester House.’

  ‘Ed said he’d like to take me to the theatre. He’s coming down to London.’

  ‘He can’t stay in our flat,’ snaps Lily, momentarily distracted. ‘There’s no room.’

  ‘He says he’s got friends,’ says Janet.

  ‘I don’t know how you can go out with him, Janet,’ says Lily airily. ‘He’s obviously totally skint.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything,’ says Janet, protectively.

  ‘If you can’t find a man that has any,’ shrugs Lily.

  ‘You really can be a complete cow, Lily,’ I snap. ‘Just shut up. Ed’s very nice. So what if he’s not rich?’

  ‘Darrrrling,’ says Lily in a patronizing drawl. ‘I’m just saying. Janet could do so much better. And money matters, you know. Sometimes even the prettiest models don’t make it all the way…’ She sighs with satisfaction, inspecting her reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘Though I’ve been lucky. Janet has to look to her future!’

  ‘Janet’s career’s doing just fine,’ I say.

  Janet stares at her lap. ‘I don’t care,’ she says mulishly. ‘I like him. He’s interesting. He talks about interesting things.’

  ‘Like farming?’

  ‘I like animals,’ says Janet. ‘Anyway, I’m going to see him again. On Tuesday, actually. We’re going out to dinner.’

  ‘Yeah, at McDonald’s,’ Lily says.

  ‘At least he’s not ninety, like Claude Ranier,’ I say. ‘He’s young and…’ I can’t very well say good-looking. ‘Pleasant.’

  ‘Well, pleasant doesn’t pay the rent.’ Lily examines her nails as I join the M25. ‘Now Henry, he’s young and gorgeous. As well as loaded.’

  ‘And deaf, obviously,’ I say. ‘Or haven’t you shown him that side of you yet?’

  Lily smirks. ‘He thinks I’m ideal girlfriend material, actually.’

  Does he? I wonder. Part of me wants to tell her what all those Yahoos were saying, before dinner. Warn her. But that would make Janet feel bad too, and anyway, just now I don’t feel tremendously sympathetic.

  ‘When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Probably Saturday,’ says Lily. ‘If I decide to let him take me out.’

  ‘He seemed to have a pretty good handle on you,’ I say. ‘Maybe you’d better not try your normal routine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks innocently.

  ‘Oh, you know. Keeping him waiting in the lobby for twenty minutes while you read Marie Claire,’ I say. ‘Vetoing all his restaurant suggestions. Sending back whatever you order. Taking the flowers he brings and dumping them into the bin right in front of him.’

  I have seen Lily do all these things, and the older guys she dates usually don’t say a word. Unless it’s to apologize.

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to take it,’ I warn her.

  ‘He’ll take whatever I give him,’ Lily says, shrugging. ‘And he’ll like it.’

  I remember what Henry said about her name.

  ‘Whatever, Lily Frutt,’ I retort.

  ‘Just shut the hell up,’ she says. ‘And keep driving. And before you take relationship advice from her, Janet, I do hope you’ve noticed she bagged herself the richest guy at the party.’

  ‘I know,’ says Janet loyally. ‘I think it’s fantastic.’

  I sigh. I wish I did.

  9

  I have a lot of time to think about that over the next couple of weeks. Mark Swan is called to LA to edit his last movie, and I’m left back at the office, in charge of the care and feeding of Trish Evans. Kitty, delighted to have me under her beady eye once more, debriefs me totally and then swoops in to massage Greta’s ego, and all her co-stars
’ too. She leaves the office almost every day at noon to have a power lunch with some actor or agent, trading fulsome compliments over Pellegrino and rocket Parmesan salads, leaving me trawling through scripts once again and writing up her memos to Eli Roth (apparently these are too ‘sensitive’ for Claire to do, but my theory is that Kitty just wants to put me in my place).

  I don’t care. On the first Thursday a courier package arrives for me from Hollywood. I rip it open, while John hovers around my desk.

  It’s from Swan. Scriptwriting software.

  ‘Final Draft?’ he asks. ‘What does Trish need that for? She’s already written her script.’

  Yeah, but I haven’t, and this stuff costs a bomb.

  ‘Oh well, you know directors,’ I say non-committally, stuffing the FedEx envelope in the waste bin so he won’t see it’s addressed to me.

  There’s a note in with the package, unsigned. It says, ‘Make it good.’

  I hug the package to myself, letting the emotions wash over me. Thankfully, he’s away. There’s no danger of me being tempted by crazy thoughts of him while I’m with Charles. But he hasn’t forgotten me. He’s sent me Final Draft.

  The image of him in the pub rushes back, like a movie, his face etched on my brain.

  I look down at the box. It seems more romantic than any bunch of roses or box of truffles …

  Of course, he didn’t mean it that way. But he does mean me to be a writer. I look round at the office and suddenly think how small and petty it all is. And I glance at the pile of useless scripts on my desk.

  I can do better. I’m sure of it. Mark Swan believes in me, and so do I.

  Let’s see. I start playing with ideas almost immediately. A comedy, definitely. I like those best. Something cheap to make. High-concept. But cheap, and unusual. How about a ghost? I like ghosts …

  Sharon slinks over to me. ‘Back at last?’ she purrs.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, pretending to be very busy reading one of the crap scripts. Why can’t she go away and let me think about my script? I can feel all the ideas simnmering at the back of my brain, bursting to come out. All at once, I feel engaged, excited, in a way I haven’t done in years. I can’t be bothered with Sharon’s office politics now!

  ‘You know, I’ve been waiting for your call,’ she says.