by Susan Lewis
Elliot stiffened. This was the kind of detail Laurie didn’t need to hear. ‘Can I speak to your guy?’ he asked.
‘He’s not ready yet. But he’s not ruling it out. Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s a holiday here and we’ve got a big family thing going on. But I need to speak to you again. There’s more on the currency scam, details that might just get us a whole lot closer to where we need to go.’
As Elliot rang off Laurie looked at him, waiting for him to fill her in.
‘The writer’s with her, the producer’s on his way,’ he told her.
‘So she won’t be alone, that’s good. How is she?’
‘Out of surgery. Pulling through.’
Looking up at him, she said, ‘Elliot, I want to go over there. No listen, I have to do something to make her understand that we’re on her side. I could talk to the writer and producer as well, get them to tell me what’s in that damned book at least.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, but don’t let’s rush into anything now,’ he responded. ‘Wait for her to leave the hospital, see what ripples out of this regarding the syndicate, then we’ll decide from there.’
She nodded. Then, becoming too aware of her hand in his, she freed it and, attempting a smile, said, ‘As always, you’re right.’
His eyes were ironic, ‘I’m glad you think so,’ he commented.
She pulled a face, then looked off down the street.
Neither of them moved, though she knew he was still watching her, and her heart was thudding hard with the longing for him to say or do something that would at least acknowledge that anything was going on between them.
‘We need to talk again,’ he said finally.
Relief almost made her laugh, but she only nodded, and glanced briefly up at him. ‘Not now though,’ she said.
‘No.’
For a moment neither seemed to know what to do. Then a horrible sensation swept through her as he said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
Dizzied, and feeling herself recoiling from any more, she started to turn back to the pub.
‘Laurie,’ he said.
‘It’s OK. I can handle it,’ she responded.
‘Listen …’
But she was already gone.
Dashing a hand through his hair he swore under his breath, for he knew very well that he’d just done exactly what he’d tried not to. But which was worse, he asked himself, hurting her or lying to them both?
Though the sun was dazzlingly bright outside, the room where Ava lay was shady and cool, and safe from the world beyond. The blue and cream silk-canopied bed made a plush, feathery haven in the midst of all the white lacquer chests and cupboards that contained her belongings. Rhinestone chain belts and floaty chiffon scarves were draped over an exquisite hand-painted screen; red kidskin mules, jewelled ankle straps and four-inch black heels were amongst the shoes that were tumbling from the door of a closet that wouldn’t stay shut. A photograph of her and Colin was on the bedside table; another of Georgie and Blake was on top of the large-screen TV at the foot of the bed.
Since bringing her back here, to the house on Mulholland, Theo had hardly left her side. He was taking care of her himself, because he believed that no one was more responsible than he for what had happened. In his heart, he’d known how she and Mitzi were helping to raise the finance, but if they were OK with it, and it was going to get the movie funded, why interfere? Why even own up to knowing, when so much of it went on – don’t discuss it; just let it happen. Or in this case, set it up and let it happen, because that was what he’d done. Even that night, when he’d called to wish them luck, he’d known what he was wishing them luck for, and his advice, not to get carried away, was all the more despicable for its intention to purify his involvement. But God knew how many movies got backing that way, and half the careers in Hollywood would never have been launched if those kinds of favours hadn’t been put out at the start.
So Ava had only been keeping up the age-old tradition of putting out for putting up – she puts out the favours, the guy puts up the cash. Parties went on in Hollywood every night of the week to accommodate the system, and though Theo had never actually articulated it to himself, he’d pretty much known she’d get into it, because he’d been aware when he brought her out here of how vulnerable she was after what had happened to her husband; just like he’d known how persuasive, and even irresistible, Mitzi’s kind of lifestyle could be to someone who was in such dire need of escape.
Well, it was over now. Mitzi had gone back to her house in Laguna, too uncomfortable to stay and witness the results of her little Svengali trip; and Eric Weston, goddamn him, had vanished off the face of the planet since the bitter encounter they’d had just after Theo had flown in.
‘Honest to God, man,’ Weston had cried, ‘I swear I had no idea the guy was into all that S&M crap. Fuck, he’s got to be some kind of psycho, doing something like that …’
‘Which one was it?’ Theo demanded. ‘Who did that to her?’
‘It had to be Wingate,’ Weston answered. ‘But if you’re thinking of going to the cops, Kleinstein’s already dealt with them. They take care of their own, those bastards.’
Knowing how true that was, Theo moved on to the next. ‘Who gave her the drugs?’ he growled.
‘I got no idea who her supplier was, but Mitzi told me she was high before she got there that night. And there was a shitload of it going round the party. She couldn’t get enough of it. Nor the dudes. But hell, she’s a game chick. You got to know that. Why else would you send her there? You know what Kleinstein’s parties are like?’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone coming out in that state,’ Theo snarled.
‘For Christ’s sake, no one forced her.’
‘Have you seen her wrists and ankles?’ Theo raged. ‘Go take a look, then come back and tell me no one forced her.’
‘Hey, come on, give me a break man,’ Weston groaned. ‘I’m a director who was just trying to help you get your shit together, right? And who knows, we could find ourselves with a whole lot more than five mill after she put out like that.’
At that Theo grabbed him by the throat, hauled him physically out of the house and dumped him across the hood of his car, leaving him to decide how he was going to get in without the keys he’d dropped in the scuffle.
Now, the only one left to tell him what had really happened was Ava herself, and so far she hadn’t spoken a word. She simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling, hardly moving, except while she slept, when she’d writhe a little and mumble and moan, and call her husband’s name in a voice of such anguish it was almost as hard to listen as it was to look at her wounds. But as her self-appointed nurse Theo made himself, regularly, checking to make sure none of the swollen, livid weals across her back and thighs was doing anything but healing. There was still a long way to go, but at the end of next week he was taking her to have the eighteen stitches removed. Three were in the two weals across her breasts, two more were in her lips from where she’d been slapped or punched; the rest were across her shoulders and back. The bruises from the bonds that had held her wrists and ankles would no doubt clear up the fastest, while what would undoubtedly take the longest was whatever damage had been done to her mind, not only by the physical experience, but by the cocktail of drugs they’d had to pump from her system.
Since coming back from the hospital he’d been sleeping in the room Mitzi had vacated and working in the study overlooking the pool. Occasionally people dropped in, or called on the phone, mainly friends of Mitzi’s whom he redirected, and if anyone but Georgie asked for Ava he told them she’d returned to England, though Georgie actually asked for Beth not Ava. He’d spoken to her a couple of times, keeping her posted on progress, and assuring her that as soon as Beth was up to it he’d have her call. He could hear how concerned she was, but he had no more to offer right now, though he’d have encouraged her to come over had she not confessed that her husband was refusing to allow it. He didn’t get
into why; he had too much else going on to spend time on anyone else’s problems right now, like trying to keep this movie alive with no director, no writer, and no goddamn book to back it up. He had to confess that a part of him was almost prepared to try to get Kleinstein on the line to find out if there were any funds forthcoming, because, God knew, the man owed big time after this.
Now, having exhausted all the contacts he could think of for today, he was sitting in a deep armchair that he’d positioned in front of the window in Ava’s room. His thick blond hair flopped across his forehead, while his handsome, clean-cut features were set in a frown of concentration, as he read a script by a new writer, that was supposed to be a comedy, but had so far failed to elicit so much as a smile, though he had to admit he was hardly in the mood.
Hearing Ava moan he glanced up, expecting to find her still asleep, but, seeing her eyes open, he put down the script and went to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘OK?’ he said softly, looking down at her pale, battered face.
She gazed back at him with eyes that didn’t appear fully focused. ‘Colin,’ she murmured.
‘You’re going to be OK,’ he told her. ‘You’re pulling through.’
Her head moved from side to side in sluggish agitation. ‘Colin,’ she said again, then her face crumpled as she started to cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wailed. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
It wasn’t the first time she’d woken disoriented and distressed like this, so he took her hands and held them between his own, hoping that somehow the contact would steady her.
‘Please forgive me,’ she gasped. ‘I didn’t mean to …’
‘Hey, come on, none of this is your fault,’ he told her. ‘Let’s just get you well and put it behind us, huh?’
‘Colin,’ she said brokenly. ‘I want to see Colin.’ Her grip tightened on his hands as desperation came into her eyes.
Not wanting to remind her of how impossible that was, he said, ‘How about we get you something to eat?’
‘Colin!’ she cried. ‘I have to see Colin.’
‘Sssh,’ he soothed, pushing her down gently as she tried to get up. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘No. It won’t. It can’t,’ she protested. ‘Oh God, help me. Please. What have I done?’
‘You didn’t do anything,’ he told her. ‘You’ve just got to get yourself well.’
Her eyes came to his, and as their gaze held he willed her to stay with him, to understand who he was and what he was saying. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, still seeming bewildered, though this was the first coherent utterance she’d made in four days.
‘Someone had to take care of you,’ he answered.
‘You came all the way from New York?’
‘It’s not so far. And I live here, remember?’
‘Where?’
‘Actually, right here at the moment.’
She looked around, frowning as though unsure where she was. ‘Where’s Mitzi?’ she finally asked.
‘At her own place in Laguna.’
Slowly her eyes began to dilate, then, noticing their joined hands, she snatched hers away. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! No!’
‘What? What is it?’ he said, his eyes filling with alarm as she began cowering away.
‘It was you who told them, wasn’t it?’ she wept. ‘No, don’t touch me,’ she gasped as he tried to capture her hands.
‘OK, OK,’ he said, backing off. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Her breath was becoming laboured; her eyes seemed to be hunting for escape. ‘You told them, didn’t you?’ she accused. ‘You know who I am, so you told them.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I didn’t tell anyone anything.’
‘Then how did they know who I was?’
‘Who? How did who know?’
‘Them! The ones who did this to me. Did you know they were going to do it?’
‘Of course not. Hell, I’m the one who’s been taking care of you here –’
‘Because you’re one of them! You’ve sent Mitzi away and you’ve got me here like a prisoner.’
‘Ava, that’s not true.’
‘I’m not Ava. I’m Beth. You know I’m Beth, and you told them.’ She was sobbing now, as tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘I want to see Colin,’ she cried, throwing back the sheets. ‘I have to see him.’
‘You’re going to hurt yourself. Ava. Beth, for God’s sake –’
‘No! Don’t touch me,’ she shrieked, backing into a corner as he tried to get hold of her. ‘I’ll kill you if you come near me.’
‘Please, I swear I only want to help you,’ he said.
She was still glaring at him, her eyes as wild as a cat’s, her hands crooked ready to claw. He saw that blood was seeping from her wounds, staining her nightdress, while her breath was coming in short, frightened gasps.
The stand-off continued, with neither of them moving, or breaking the stare, until very slowly and cautiously he took a step towards her. ‘I’m really not going to hurt you,’ he said, holding it there. ‘You’ve been through a bad time, I know that, but honest to God I had no idea anything like this was going to happen.’
Somewhere, behind the paranoia, he thought he could sense a longing to believe him, a desperation to be helped, even rescued from her fear. He moved a little closer. ‘Come on,’ he said gently. His hand was only inches from hers now, but there was still a panic about her eyes, and he was afraid, if she attacked, that he’d open her wounds trying to hold her off. He tried another step, then caught her as she fell sobbing against him.
‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ she gasped. ‘I swear I didn’t tell them anything.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘It’s good you didn’t tell them.’ He didn’t know what she was talking about; it just seemed the right thing to say. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to bed,’ he said after a while. To his relief she didn’t resist, nor did she object to him checking her wounds. She merely lay there, staring at the blinds as though disconnecting from what was happening to her body, maybe even disconnecting from her mind too. But at least she’d spoken, he told himself. Maybe next he could persuade her to eat.
That night Beth lay alone in the darkness, watching the shadow of a giant yucca swaying and swooping across the blinds, as a Santa Ana wind hurled its might through the valley below. It was reminding her of the Punch and Judy shows she’d watched as a child – alone, at the back of the crowd, too shy to make friends though longing to. Once, she’d turned round, looking for her mother, and had cried when she couldn’t find her. She’d cried for her again the other night: ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ she’d sobbed, hardly able to get her breath, trapped with her arms and legs spread-eagled, tears, saliva, mucus and blood streaming over her face. ‘No! Please, no more! MUMMY!’ she’d screamed as the whip tore into her flesh and terror scrambled her brain. It must have been an instinctive, primal response, because her mother would never come to save her. It was her father who’d found her as a child, then Joyce had slapped her for wandering off. As far as her mother was concerned the whipping would be her just deserts for behaving like a tart. Colin and Georgie were the only ones who’d ever cared. She wondered why Georgie wasn’t here now, but maybe she didn’t know. She hoped not, because she didn’t want anyone to know.
She felt calm at the moment, though still nervous of any movement outside, and afraid of the way her memory kept trying to lead her back into that black, terrifying hell of screaming and begging and pain so intense she’d wanted to die. She forced herself to think of Theo and how he’d fed her earlier, like a child, one spoonful of gazpacho soup at a time, arm around her, napkin ready to dab her chin. He hadn’t made hot soup, he’d told her, because he was afraid it might burn her lips. She hadn’t looked in the mirror, but knew, because she could feel it, that her lips were cut and bruised and maybe even stitched. That was how it had all started, when the Texan had punched her in the face. At least she thought it was, it w
as hard to remember now, and she didn’t want to anyway. It was harder to avoid when Theo had taken off her nightdress and lowered her into the bath, but he’d put a clotheshorse in front of the mirror so she couldn’t see her reflection. He was so gentle and careful as he sponged her, but she’d cried anyway because the pain had torn through the gashes like knives. After he’d dried her he gently rubbed in the cream that would help to numb and heal and cleanse. She wondered what it was like for him, having to touch the bloated edges of the welts and red raw tissue of the wounds.
As he’d dressed her in a clean, cotton nightdress she’d never seen before, she’d started to become aware of his voice, lilting musically upwards, descending dramatically down, until she realized he was telling her the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. She was surprised and touched; it made her want to cry. He’d finished when she was lying in bed, tucked up with the lights out. ‘And they all lived happily ever after,’ he’d whispered, before kissing her on the forehead and quietly leaving the room.
Now, minute after minute was ticking by, taking her further and deeper into the night. She was listening, almost breathlessly, to the gusting wind outside, imagining an insect clinging to the false sanctuary of an autumn leaf that was, any minute, going to be wrenched from the tree, and swept into the chaos of the storm. The insect was her. Sleep was stalking the shadows, waiting to carry her to a place she was too terrified to go, but her eyelids were heavy and her mind was drifting towards the edge. She reached it and began to stumble over. She was falling, falling, but before she hit the bottom she came awake with a start. Her heart was pounding and a film of sweat was damp on her skin. Her wounds throbbed and burned; it was as though her entire body was on fire with the pain.
She had to escape it. She couldn’t bear it. The torment just went on and on and on. She had to go, find somewhere else to hide, because she couldn’t stay here and she couldn’t go back. It didn’t matter whether she was Beth or Ava, she wasn’t safe anywhere now, not even inside her own head.
She needed some star dust. She couldn’t stand herself or life without it. It was the only way she could survive this.
