The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  ‘Oh?’ I pretend not to know what she’s talking about.

  ‘Mark Swan. Whether he has a new girlfriend yet.’

  ‘Oh, that. Well, I didn’t ask him.’

  ‘And why not?’ she demands, eyes narrowing into little slits. ‘That’s very selfish of you, Anna. I do think you might have done me that favour.’

  ‘I feel awkward asking him personal questions,’ I say. ‘But you’ve no chance,’ I tell her.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Everybody wants him.’

  ‘I’m a little more than everybody,’ she retorts, with supreme self-confidence. She lowers her voice so nobody can hear us, but looks me right in the eye. ‘Anyone would think you wanted him for yourself!’

  ‘Actresses want him,’ I tell her. ‘Models. Film students. Just ordinary girls. They fling themselves at him wherever he goes.’

  ‘So?’ she snaps.

  ‘So what does he want another reasonably pretty girl from the film business chucking herself in his path for? Look, Sharon, I haven’t seen him off-hours – much, anyway – but he doesn’t live with anybody. And he never mentions anybody.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gay.’

  I laugh, the idea is so ridiculous. ‘He’s as straight as a ruler.’

  ‘Then you can’t say he wouldn’t want me,’ Sharon hisses. She pulls back her slender shoulders and shoves her not-very-impressive tits in my direction. ‘Who wouldn’t want to get with this?’

  ‘Mark Swan for one,’ I say, giggling. She’s so ridiculous!

  ‘I could be a model if I wanted,’ snarls Sharon furiously. ‘You’re quite simply jealous. You want to sabotage another woman’s chances with the perfect man.’

  ‘And why is he the perfect man?’ I say, ignoring her shots. ‘You don’t even know him. You’ve never met the guy, for heaven’s sake. You don’t even think he’s good-looking, you said so, before. The only thing about him that appeals to you is that he’s rich and powerful.’

  Sharon laughs bitterly. ‘Oh yes, and you’re such a bloody saint! Going out with that book guy, and why? Because of his sex appeal?’ she says, sarcastically. ‘Can’t resist those pint-sized good looks?’

  ‘Shut up,’ I snap. ‘You do know you’re a total cow?’

  ‘I thought so,’ she says, triumphantly. ‘Oh, let me see, what could it be about Charles Dawson that makes you want to go out with him? It couldn’t possibly be all that money and the big manor house, could it?’

  I shudder inwardly. She sounds just like Lily.

  ‘Or maybe it’s because a girl like you could never get a man like Mark Swan,’ she says, with a mean glint in her eye.

  ‘Well, nor could a girl like you,’ I tell her. ‘And you couldn’t get a man like Charles Dawson either. He’s a great person and he wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot bargepole.’

  ‘He’d never get the chance,’ she says. But it’s a lie and we both know it.

  ‘Goodbye, Sharon,’ I say, picking up my script and ostentatiously opening it in front of my face.

  She makes me think, though. I don’t particularly want to, but I have to face it. Lily said it before – not that Sharon would ever have an original thought in her head anyway, but I know the idea’s out there. That I’m dating Charles because he’s loaded. And it stings. All the more because I’m not being fair to the guy.

  I look at the cool cardboard box of software on my desk. I have a career going now, I have my dreams. I don’t want to use Charles Dawson just because I’m afraid of winding up alone. I’m going to have to break up with him. I’m going to have to actually go through with it this time. And it makes me sad.

  * * *

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Lily says, as I walk through our front door and flop down morosely on the couch. ‘Your brilliant career taken a dive?’

  ‘No.’ I glance inside my bag at the Final Draft software box. I’m going to boot it up on my laptop tonight. Start writing something, and not something about bloody love and romance. My funny ghost story. I’m not in the mood for any more suffering. There’s enough of that in real life.

  ‘Charles?’ she says.

  ‘Bugger off, Lily,’ I tell her.

  ‘He’s dumped you?’ she asks with fake concern. ‘Oh well,’ she adds. ‘I thought it wouldn’t last. You two are just so different.’

  ‘He hasn’t dumped me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, disappointed.

  I ignore her. I go to my tiny desk, slide the software into my laptop. I’ve already got the idea. A ghost story … a caper …

  I flex my fingers, and start typing.

  It feels really good. I write the first scene, then the next, then the next. I stop to read it over, love it, and write some more. It’s as if I can’t stop!

  By the time Janet comes out of the bathroom, her slim body wrapped in a gorgeous cashmere dressing gown, I’ve written fifteen pages. I look enviously at the dressing gown! Models do get the best perks.

  ‘Hey, girl,’ she says. ‘Wazzup?’

  ‘Not bloody much,’ I say, gloomily. ‘Janet, what should I wear to…’ I look over at Lily. ‘To an important dinner with someone I respect?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Businesslike?’

  ‘Not really. I just don’t want to be too sexy.’

  ‘Ho ho,’ Lily says. ‘Too sexy! That’s a good one.’

  I try to ignore her.

  ‘Conservative,’ Janet pronounces, ‘but feminine, flattering. Long skirt, fitted round the bust…’

  ‘Would you go shopping with me again?’ I ask diffidently. ‘I need this one outfit.’ I think of work and Mark Swan. ‘And maybe a couple more casual. For later.’

  ‘Love to,’ she says instantly. ‘When do you need it by?’

  ‘Tonight or tomorrow night…’

  ‘I can’t make it till the weekend but I’ll pull you out something nice, anyway,’ she promises. ‘Something from Joseph. What you really need, Anna, is for me to show you what to buy, so you can get it yourself. Once you know what to do, you can look stylish all the time.’

  Lily snorts.

  ‘No need to mock,’ Janet says severely. ‘Just think of Chloe Sevigny.’

  ‘Anna’s not going to look like you,’ Lily says. ‘Don’t you think you should stop filling her head with nonsense, Janet? It’s not kind,’ she adds, piously.

  I look at Janet, uncertain.

  ‘I know that,’ she says stoutly. ‘But Anna can look stylish. Anybody can look stylish. You’ve got some good features,’ she promises me. ‘We just have to bring them out on your body, the same way we did with your hair.’

  I smile at her. Why not, eh? She did do amazing things with me last time.

  The phone rings and Lily dives on it.

  ‘Hello, Lily Venus’s residence,’ she says. ‘Oh hi, Charles, darling, how are you? Oh, that’s wonderful. Anna?’ Yes, she’s here, she says reluctantly. ‘It’s for you,’ she tells me, her tone surly.

  ‘Hello, sweetie,’ says Charles. ‘How was your day?’

  A fresh wave of guilt breaks over me. ‘Oh, fine. Look, do you think we could go out for dinner? I’d like to talk to you,’ I say, picking my words carefully so Lily doesn’t read anything into them.

  ‘Love to,’ he says. ‘How about tomorrow? That new place. Vespacci’s? New Bond Street. Great reviews.’

  ‘That’d be perfect,’ I say, and I feel a great sense of relief because I know I’m doing the right thing. Of course he’ll be sad, but he’ll thank me for it later.

  On the other hand I’m sad right now, and I wonder if I’ll be thanking myself …

  * * *

  ‘Hello,’ says Charles, pecking me on the cheek and then stepping back admiringly. ‘You look absolutely marvellous.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I’ve dressed really carefully. You’d never know how depressed I’m feeling. Somehow, breaking up with Charles merits the best I (and Janet) have to offer in the old style stakes. I’m wearing my most chic dressy dress, a pa
le yellow silk thing with an A-line skirt that comes just below the knees, a little cream, lacy cardigan, ivory heels, and I’m back to Chanel No. 5. I imagine Vespacci’s is hideously expensive, and I don’t want to disappoint him.

  I’m going to dump the guy. At least I can try to make him look good. Right?

  ‘You look fabulous yourself,’ I lie.

  Actually, he doesn’t look bad, for Charles. He’s skinny as a rake, but at least he has a good tailor.

  The restaurant is perfect. I’d never heard of it, but obviously a lot of very rich people know it; you could blind yourself just from the glitter of gems sparkling in the candlelight. The waiters are immaculately dressed and very discreet, they seem to sort of glide between the tables like ghosts. There’s plenty of space between each table, a good deal of mahogany and burgundy, leather, and absolutely wonderful food. Charles orders smoked salmon and a cheese soufflé, and I get a salad and some roast beef.

  ‘Let’s have champagne,’ he says. ‘Goes with everything.’

  ‘We’re not celebrating, are we?’ I ask, anxiously.

  ‘Every day with you is a celebration, Anna,’ he says, making a little bow with his head. Oh, this is a disaster. How am I supposed to break up with him? Please don’t say things like that. And the waiters. Whisking things away, setting things down …

  I’ve had absolutely no practice at being the dumper. I am a lifelong dump-ee. I try to think of the ways various exes have done it to me before. It started with Robby Caldwell in fourth form. I think his parting shot was ‘You’re fat and ugly’. And then there was Pete Villa in college. He told me he needed to find himself in the arms of another man. Kevin Feathers said we should start seeing other people. ‘Not including ourselves,’ I remember him adding, in case I hadn’t got the point. And Brian, my latest and lamest, something along the lines of fresh stimulus and real positivity. Oh yes. Plus, that looks were important to him.

  I don’t think any of these will do. Charles doesn’t deserve the unwanted open-heart surgery without anaesthesia that men apparently think it’s OK to practise on women.

  ‘I’d rather have the house red,’ I say to the waiter. ‘Just a glass. To go with the beef,’ I explain to Charles, who’s looking a bit crestfallen.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have some Pouilly-Fuisse,’ he says.

  Quick, change the subject. ‘I’m really enjoying being back in the office,’ I lie brightly. ‘Away from Mark Swan for a bit. Getting lots of work done. I thought I might write a script.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Charles says, warmly. ‘You’re a star, Anna. You have to give me some career advice. I’m bloody useless, can’t do anything.’

  That takes care of the starter course; I rabbit on inanely about Kitty and John and Sharon, between telling Charles he isn’t useless at all, he just hasn’t found the right job for himself yet. The wine also helps. I am convinced that without alcohol the entire planet would come crashing to a halt. I take big, healthy gulps, get another glass, and almost start enjoying myself. Charles is so genuinely pleased for me. I really like the guy. It’s such a shame I’d rather chew my own foot off and swallow it whole than think of his hands on my boobs.

  But nothing lasts forever, and eventually we are halfway through our main course, the waiters are all melting quietly towards other tables, the natural beeswax candle is flickering low and warm, and I still haven’t said a thing. And Charles is going on about some new hedges he’s having planted at Chester House, and how difficult it is to find craftsmen who know how to lay a drystone wall …

  I take one more big, fortifying gulp of wine and plunge right into it.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I do understand about the hedges.’

  ‘They’re such a terribly important microclimate.’

  ‘Yes … look, Charles, we need to talk.’

  He looks perplexed. ‘We are talking, aren’t we?’

  ‘About us, I mean. I think you’re a fantastic person, but I don’t think we’re right for each other.’

  He looks amazed, as though I’ve just remarked I really work for the CIA.

  ‘Do you mean romantically?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say gently.

  ‘But why?’ he asks, bewildered. ‘We get on OK, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ I say, agreeing with him. ‘I think you’re great.’

  ‘I know I was a bit bloody at first,’ he says, apologetically, ‘but I thought you’d forgiven me.’

  ‘Oh. I have. Totally.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Arrrgh! I thought nothing could be worse than being dumped, cruelly, by selfish fuckwits, but obviously I was wrong. There must be a tenth circle of hell where all you get to do is break up with poor, innocent men twenty-four hours a day.

  ‘I think you’re a wonderful friend and I really enjoy your company,’ I say. ‘But there just isn’t that spark between us.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, sounding relieved. ‘That. I know that. That’s not a problem.’

  ‘Um … how exactly isn’t it a problem?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Charles says airily, eating some more soufflé. ‘That goes away. Everyone says so. You have passion for a few years, then it wears off, and you’re left with friendship. Long-term success is about getting on with the other person. Seeing eye to eye.’

  ‘I think I need that passion, though.’

  ‘You don’t,’ he says, sighing heavily. ‘You need to be part of a family. To not be lonely. To spend time with a person you like. Otherwise, life’s bloody awful. Passion? What’s passion? I wanted passion with all those other women,’ he says, a glint in his eye. ‘But it didn’t last. Soon I was looking for any way to get them out of my life.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say uncertainly.

  What he says makes sense. It sounds completely reasonable. So why do I still feel like I want to run away?

  ‘How many girls do you know who have followed passion, only to be completely miserable within six months?’

  I think of Janet, chasing Gino. And others. ‘Maybe one or two,’ I concede.

  ‘And old married couples. How passionate are they?’

  Well, I can’t visualize Mum and Dad rattling the bedposts. Thank God. But I do know other older couples who are still walking around hand in hand. And some who can’t bloody stand each other.

  None of them appear to have any passion at all, as such.

  ‘Not very,’ I say. ‘But don’t you think people should at least start out with passion? Then they mellow as they get older.’

  ‘Yes, ideally,’ Charles concedes. ‘But look, we’re just skipping that stage. I don’t fancy you,’ he says earnestly.

  ‘Oh. Well, thanks.’ That explains a lot. All the delicious food, for one thing. What was it he said about my dieting? ‘What would be the point?’ I suddenly understand why it rankled when he told me he liked me for my personality – it meant he didn’t like me for my looks.

  I don’t want much. I know what I look like. Logically I shouldn’t expect anything in that department. But the fact is, the thought that Charles is completely indifferent to me does hurt.

  On the other hand, if I insist on waiting for a man who actually wants me, I’ll be waiting forever, won’t I? Waiting alone. Charles sees the look on my face, tries to decipher it.

  ‘But you know, I could fancy you,’ he offers. ‘It’s possible. You look very elegant,’ he adds politely. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to learn to fancy you, Anna. The more we get to know each other, I mean. You look so much better since you had your hair changed. That evening at the ball, you almost looked pretty.’

  He’s so sincere it’s hard to be cross.

  ‘And I know you don’t fancy me,’ he says. ‘Who would?’

  ‘Lots of girls,’ I lie.

  ‘But, you know. Dark room, couple of bottles of champagne, we’d be OK,’ he says heartily. ‘I bet you’d be a great mother. And I could be a good husband. Supporting your career. Providing you with nice things.’

  �
��I don’t care about that.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, smiling. ‘It’s one of the main reasons I like you so much. But we could be so happy together. Close friends. We could have a nice family and lots of money. I can give you anything you want.’

  I look down at my glass of wine. For the life of me I can’t think of a good reason to say no. It may be a little out there, but he’s sounding awfully practical. I can’t stop myself thinking of the seagrass flooring and gorgeous oil paintings in his flat. Imagine Lily or Sharon, say, coming to an engagement party there. I can just see it now. They’d be furious!

  I’m grinning foolishly at the idea.

  ‘And you say you want to write films? I can support you while you do that,’ he offers earnestly. ‘You’d never have to be a struggling writer. You can live in comfort with me for as long as it takes for you to be successful.’

  I smile at him. What a gorgeous thing to say. He’s not asking me to give the writing up – he knows exactly what to say.

  ‘It would be a terrific wedding,’ he says, encouraged.

  I blink. ‘Wedding?’

  ‘Of course wedding,’ he says. ‘Girls love weddings,’ he adds, with the air of an expert. ‘Imagine ours. You could plan it, anything you wanted. Of course, it’d have to be at Chester House,’ he adds hastily. ‘No eloping, things must be done properly. But you can pick the flowers, any gown you like. Vera Wang’s very popular, isn’t she? Perhaps your friends could be the bridesmaids. Janice and Lila.’

  ‘Janet and Lily.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, making a dismissive little gesture with his hands. I beam at him. Ha! I introduce Charles to two younger models and he doesn’t even register their names. Bridesmaids, yes, they could be bridesmaids. Janet smiling and happy for me and Lily, aggravated beyond belief, scowling her way down the aisle. Course, she’d most likely try to spill red wine on my Vera Wang, so maybe best not to ask her.

  I drift off for a few seconds into fantasy – a warm stone village church, its porch wreathed in flowers, white and yellow, I think, a huge cream-coloured marquee on the lawn, the chink of champagne glasses, as yet faceless bridesmaids in moss-green empire-waisted dresses, and me (in Vera Wang – Vera would be there personally, of course, with the safety pins and the needle and thread in case I needed a last-minute touch-up) looking all stately, because even in my fantasy I am not transformed into a delicate, elfin little bride.