What the hell was happening? Everything was ruined, every bloody thing, even Jane Eyre. Five months ago I had stepped out into the street in my silver dress. I was a fairy godmother, who could make her own three wishes. Why, oh why, had I wished them to come true? If only I had stayed indoors that day, Trev would still love me.
Four
I WENT TO Budget and rented a car. It was a little two-door Ford, the cheapest they had. I drove it around for a while, trying to get my bearings in this vast, sprawling non-city. Like all American conurbations, LA is laid out for imbeciles, on a grid-system, but the distances disorientated me. The whole 100 square miles was just a sliding glitter of cars. Half an hour passed and I scarcely saw another human being. It had been weird enough on foot; in a car I felt utterly disconnected. I drove past Wendyburgers and Pizza Huts and Fitness Centers, past a high school which had its coming events mounted on a huge plastic sign, like functions at a Holiday Inn. It all unrolled with the sunny gloss of a movie. In a car you are passive and sealed-off, released from responsibility; you sit in the driver’s seat like you sit in the cinema. You can do anything and who’s to know? Recently there had been a spate of freeway shootings – random killings in the traffic. There was a current joke going the rounds: ‘Take cover honey, I’m changing lanes.’ I drove up Santa Monica Boulevard, past the skyscraper towers of Century City. If I saw Trev in the street, I could riddle him with bullets, put my foot down and hey presto!
I had the LA map spread out on my knee. You can guess where I was going. It was the morning of the fourth day’s filming and I wasn’t needed until lunch. To get to Lila’s place I had to turn left, drive through Beverly Hills, join Sunset Boulevard for a few blocks and then turn north up Doheny Drive.
Trev was living at Lila’s house. There was a good chance, of course, that they would both be at home; by the doppelganger nature of my job, my free morning was also Lila’s. But I was prepared to risk it, now I had transport. After all, I was only going to look.
Me, nervous? Calm as calm, I took a left and drove up Maple Drive, past white, hushed mansions set back on emerald lawns. In the sunshine they looked as implausible as houses in a dream. They looked like something in The Wizard of Oz. Their paintwork made my eyes ache. When had Trev moved in? Early December? Earlier than that? He must have flown over some time then. Were they just friends for a while, or was it instant combustion? They can’t keep their hands off each other. Trev was a fast worker. How long had it taken, before they’d started balling? Bonking. Boffing.
My eyes hurt. In fact, I seemed to be crying. But you can do anything in a car, and nobody notices. I drove on, past rows of tall, alien trees which lined the road. Their shadows lay across the street like strips of black velvet; their trunks were as smooth and pale as human skin. When I closed my eyes I had dreamed this Technicolor landscape; at night, Lila’s house had assumed so many shapes and sizes that it would be a shock to see the real thing. Would I recognise it, from one of my lurid nightmares? I re-wound my dreams, tasting them in my throat, watching Trev’s head popping in and out of windows like a cuckoo in a cuckoo clock. In Jane Eyre, it all went up in flames.
Christ, it was hot. The radio said it was a record high for January. Sweat trickled down between my breasts; my t-shirt was stained damp down the front. Gentlemen sleep on the damp patch. Trev did, actually; as a lover he was surprisingly considerate. Have I told you that before?
I drove up Sunset, and turned left at Doheny. The street climbed steeply, winding up towards the canyons. Laurel Canyon, I’d said to Trev, the starlet with the big tits who so admires your work. Wasn’t I a silly-billy? Fancy thinking a mere starlet would do.
Some of the houses were open to the street; others were walled in. Luxuriant foliage frothed over the walls – bougainvillaea, some large leathery leaves I didn’t recognise. I slowed down, searching for numbers. The houses were hidden behind electronic gates; I glimpsed the Armed Response plaques. Famous people lived here; people so rich and terrified that, like Mr Rochester, they hired armed bodyguards to take their children to school. They shoot film stars, don’t they? Not just on celluloid. They had taken a pot shot in Rockefeller Plaza; there had been another incident, here in LA, a week or so ago. Some TV starlet; some maniac. But who could be frightened of me? Just a lone woman, in a car. I wasn’t going to harm anyone, was I?
I had arrived. I slowed down, my heart knocking. Her house was hidden behind a blinding white wall and white metal gates. But that was the number, all right. I’d copied it from a letter I had found in her apartment.
I couldn’t see much, the wall was too high. The street was deserted. On my left, a van was parked in a driveway; a team of gardeners, in green uniforms, was working silently. They descended on the houses like Vietnamese killer squads. One of them was clearing dead leaves with a sort of industrial blower. Otherwise there was no sign of life.
I switched off the engine. I could just see over the wall. I glimpsed a roof, and the top floor. It was Spanish-type. Those ribbed, terracotta roof tiles, mock fishing-village style. White walls; fancy ironwork grilles around the windows, the top of some arches. A profusion of blossoming, climbing plants. That was all I could see.
I climbed out of the car, closing the door quietly, and crossed the road. TOW-AWAY ZONE, said the sign. It was very hot; some insect was scraping away in the bushes, like a demented violinist. The street was swept so clean, it seemed no human had ever set foot here. I felt exposed.
I stood for a moment, watching the gates. I pictured them opening, with an electronic sigh; I pictured Trev driving out in a convertible. Lila was beside him, her blonde hair billowing.
My legs felt weak. I stood still as a deer, my head cocked, listening. Was that a voice? Far away, a telephone warbled, then stopped. Someone must have answered it. I smelt perfume – was it Lila’s, or her flowers’? She had given me perfume, once. With my damp finger I had touched my pulse points. Trev was touching her now; a few yards away, at this very moment.
‘You have a problem, ma’am?’ I didn’t hear the car; it must have driven up behind me. The first thing I registered was the voice. A police car had slid to a halt beside me. The window was open and a cop was speaking to me. He had a large, red face.
‘You have a problem?’ he asked, again.
I must have stuttered something. I can’t remember. They must have thought I was crazy, standing in the street like that. What did they think? I was an assassin?
I hurried over to my car, started up the engine and drove away. I reached the bottom of Doheny, driving on the wrong side of the road. I only realised this when I pulled into Sunset Boulevard. Horns blared; cars slewed around me and somebody shouted.
I shrugged. For some reason I started giggling – a weird, high, chattering sound, like a marmoset.
I thought: I can’t do anything. I can’t walk. I can’t park. I can’t get out of my bloody car. I can’t do a bloody thing.
In New York, men stood in the middle of the street, gibbering.
Do you remember the book? Jane Eyre is intensely jealous of Mr Rochester’s fiancée, Blanche Ingram. Her first sight of Blanche is when the couple arrive at Thornfield on horseback.
Times had changed. Blanche wore Ralph Lauren now, and the scene was being shot on Santa Monica beach. Jane Eyre, whilst out jogging, sees Mr Rochester and Blanche horseback riding along the surf. In this updated version Blanche Ingram was a man-hunting divorcée who worked for Mr Rochester’s oil corporation as a public relations consultant. Ruthlessly ambitious, she is after both his fortune and a place on the board of his multi-million-dollar conglomerate.
I arrived as the horses were being unloaded from their box. Lila strolled up to me. I blushed. How stupid of me – how could she know where I had been that morning? She was dressed in a dove-grey tracksuit – Jane Eyre wore dove-grey, remember? She was drinking Minute Maid orange juice straight from the carton.
‘Hi, hon,’ she said. ‘Where’ve you been? Boy, am I pooped out.’
I didn’t ask why. We stood there, watching the actress who played Blanche mounting a shiny black horse. It stamped its foot restlessly, and tossed its head.
Lila tossed the carton into a garbage pail. She didn’t look pooped-out. She looked wonderful. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail; her cheeks glowed. Trev had a rejuvenating effect on older women; I could testify to that. No doubt he was a lot more fun than her exercise bike.
‘Why’re you staring?’
I jumped. She was looking at me.
‘Nothing,’ I said, and turned away.
The scene took a long time to shoot. Any scene involving animals is unpredictable, and in this case there were not only two horses but also Mr Rochester’s dog, Pilot. This was a wolfhound which kept barking when the horses broke into a canter. Between each take they had to rake the beach clean of hoofprints. Hours seemed to pass as the horses cantered and Lila jogged.
Finally they set up reaction close-ups of Lila’s face as she looked at the happy couple. Standing nearby, I watched her more attentively than any camera. Nobody, not even the director, watched her as I did. Hutt Sanbourn was actually quite a sensitive man, and had a reputation as an enabling director, who didn’t impose his ego on actors but who coaxed out of them their own interpretations. I could see that he found it unrewarding, working with Lila. The camera was her confidante, she loved it, but there was no depth to her performance. As she watched the lovers riding by her face was blank. Her head turned, following their progress as if she were a spectator at a Wimbledon tennis match. All she did was to blink several times, and wrinkle her snub nose. Hutt was frustrated, I could see that.
‘Let’s go for it one more time,’ he said, ‘OK, Miss Dune?’
If only I could step in! I could show her; I could show them all. Watch me! I wanted to shout. Want to see rage, despair and humiliating jealousy? Want to see a real performance, from the heart?
In disgust I moved away, and went to pour myself a coffee. I’d had no lunch, but I wasn’t hungry. What did Lila know about helplessness? What the hell did she know about jealousy? It was laughable.
I couldn’t bear to watch her. I sat on the steps of the make-up trailer, looking at the sea. The waves looked swollen and oily.
Somebody laughed. In the trailer they were telling jokes about the guys who drove the trucks. I rummaged in my bag for my cigarettes. The beach was the only place in California where you were allowed to smoke.
‘How can you tell if a teamster is dead?’
‘The doughnut falls out of his hand.’
They laughed again. I gazed at the sand, pitted with hoof-prints.
‘How does a teamster ask a woman to have sex?’
‘Back it up, back it up.’
Feeling around for my matches, my hand closed around something spiky and metal. It was a key-ring. I took it out.
I knew what it was, of course. It was the keys to Lila’s apartment; I had never given them back to her.
I sat there for a moment, looking at the sunlight on the water. Way across the beach, far away, a black guy was doing Tai Chi exercises; he slowly extended first an arm and then a leg.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I remember the sun beating down, and the knobbly feel of the keys in my hand. I gripped them; they dug into my skin. They were surprisingly heavy. I was going to give the keys back to her, that was why I had put them in my bag. I really was. Why on earth would I want to keep them?
Afterwards you remember those turning points. Looking back, I can think of at least three. One was when Eric stepped out of that sweet-shop in London, smoking his cheroot. Another was that moment in Saks, when Lila happened to see a zit. And the other was when I got up to give Lila back her keys.
They had finished shooting. A handful of people had gathered, and Lila was signing her autograph for a young girl carrying roller-skates. She said something and everybody laughed, unctuously. Ten to one it wasn’t funny. Then she left them and walked towards her trailer, looking at her watch. I went up to her, the keys in my hand.
‘He’s late,’ she said. ‘The rat.’
‘Who?’
‘Tee. He said he’d be here by four.’ Impulsively, she linked my arm. ‘Know something? I owe you a hell of a lot. You’re my Cupid, know that?’ She squeezed my arm. ‘When you introduced us, that moment, I knew it was something special. Like, the chemistry there! Pow!’ She pulled the band out of her ponytail and shook her hair loose. ‘We didn’t do anything for a while, I think it was too strong for us. You know, it’s never happened to me before, not like that, and know why? Because I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t mature enough. That’s why I kept having these no-hope relationships with older men. And I want to thank you because it’s you who’s helped me.’
I must have replied, because she was going on talking. I watched the horses being led into their box; one of them stopped, lifted its tail, and deposited a load of steaming dung on the sand.
‘. . . you taught me how to be myself, to liberate myself. To be independent, I guess. That’s something I’ve always admired in you, and I learnt from you . . .’
Jabber-jabber. I watched the smoke rising from the dung.
‘. . . see, before I’ve always felt I was like kind of a vacuum. I learnt my lines but I had nothing to say, I had no real identity inside. But you gave me confidence. I just want to tell you that. And now I can respect myself, I can really give myself emotionally to a man . . .’
How long was she going to blather on, the stupid bitch? The sea blurred and danced, like a mirage, in front of myeyes. Nothing was safe. I turned away, so she couldn’t see my face.
The unit was packing up. The catering guy was pulling the plastic sacks out of the garbage pails and dragging them into his van. All those styrofoam cups; all that rubbish. They used you, then, when they didn’t need you any more they threw you away like an old Kleenex. That’s what they did.
When I had recovered myself I turned round. Lila had gone into her trailer and closed the door. I gazed at the beige, ribbed aluminium and the metal handle. She hadn’t registered anything. Happiness made her blind and ruthless. She hadn’t bothered to ask me anything about myself, about how I had met Trev. She hadn’t listened to me at all, or even noticed my face.
I put her keys back into my handbag. I didn’t know why. I just felt too angry to give them to her. Maybe I wanted to hold on to something powerful, to keep it in reserve like the last, hidden bullet for a gun.
I closed my handbag with a click. That was the third turning point.
I met Trev a few minutes later. At first I didn’t hear the sound of his car, the camera equipment was being loaded into a truck nearby and there was too much banging and shouting. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits that day; maybe because we were beside the sea. But then one of the grips, a guy called Shorty, turned and pointed.
A car was speeding towards us across the sand. It was a black, open Porsche. It slewed to a halt, skidding around sideways. Sand spurted. I heard the thump of pop music. There was a final, throaty rev of the engine and it stopped.
A man jumped out. He wore dark glasses, a plaid work-shirt and jeans.
It’s curious. For weeks you imagine something happening; you play it over and over in your mind, in various locations. You rehearse it endlessly, your heart pounding in anticipation. And yet, when it happens, it’s still utterly unexpected. You can never be prepared; it happens so fast that you can’t catch up with yourself.
I moved behind the equipment truck, so he couldn’t see me. He sprinted past, towards Lila’s trailer. He looked smaller than I remembered; his-hair was longer and my God he’d pulled it back in a ponytail. The trailer door opened and Lila came out. She half-tripped down the steps, regained her balance and flung herself into his arms.
I fumbled in my bag for a cigarette. My hands wouldn’t work properly; my legs buckled, they felt as weak as string.
Maybe I didn’t stagger at all. Maybe I looked perfectly normal. I heard my na
me being called.
‘Hey, Jules!’
The two of them were walking towards me. They rose and fell, as if I were dreaming them. Trev’s face was deeply tanned. I couldn’t see his eyes, they were hidden by his shades. His stubble was thicker.
Lila was talking. ‘. . . you guys . . .’ I heard. ‘. . . getting you together at last . . .’
Trev’s hand seemed to be stretched out, waiting. I looked at it for a moment. What was it doing there?
I shook it. His skin was warm and dry. Wasn’t he nervous at all?
‘How’re you doing?’ he asked. His voice was just right – polite, friendly. ‘Long time no see.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘So you finally made it to sunny LA,’ he said.
‘So did you.’
‘Been keeping well?’ He asked.
‘Fine.’
‘Like the tan.’ He spoke to me like an acquaintance.
There was a silence. The catering truck roared into life and drove away.
I said, ‘I thought that was a hamster on the back of your neck.’
He grinned, and fingered his ponytail. ‘It’s just in development,’ he said. ‘It’s soon to be a major hair design experience, we’re very excited about it.’
There was another silence. He stood there, the smug shit, his fingers laced with Lila’s. Above us the seagulls circled, mewling.
‘I’ve been telling people what a great actress you are,’ he said. ‘We went to this party last night, at George Lucas’s.’
‘How kind of you,’ I said.
He turned to Lila. ‘I saw Jules on the stage, in London. She was fantastic.’
We paused. The gulls swooped down, jabbing at some spilled garbage.
‘I see you’re still forgetting to shave,’ I said pleasantly.
‘Not kidding,’ laughed Lila. ‘My skin feels like it’s been rubbing against a cheese grater.’
Trev cleared his throat. I couldn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on his workboots.
The Stand-In Page 21
