Drive Me Crazy

by Portia MacIntosh

  My appearance seems to be a hit with the male population of LA, but it took a lot of work to get like this. Back in Kent I was Mia Harrison, a chubby brunette with very few men vying for her attention, and nothing much going on in life apart from work. When I moved to the States I decided it would be the perfect time to reinvent myself (what better place to fake it than LA?), so I slimmed down to a US size six (which is absolutely no fun to maintain), dyed my dull brown locks a sexy honey blonde colour, and every morning I meticulously curl my long hair with tongs, squash myself into something sexy and step into a high pair of heels.

  Now my name is Mia Valentina. I’m twenty-nine years old. I believe in taking care of myself, believe in a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. OK, so I’m not really a female Patrick Bateman, but before I get dressed each day I do have a particular routine to make sure I can keep up my new look and maintain my new body.

  I’m not sure if adopting a fancy sounding pen name and looking the part is helping my career at all, but let’s just say I’m not short of men vying for my attention any more. Men didn’t look twice at Mia Harrison, but Mia Valentina… she’s a hit. I don’t know why I’m referring to myself in the third person because that’s me now. Mia Harrison is nothing but a distant memory. Even when I go home to visit (which, I have to admit, is not very often) no one from my past recognises me and my family all tell me how much I’ve changed – although not necessarily for the better. In fact, the new me isn’t a hit with my family at all. I’m not talking about the way I look, more the way I am. I’m a different girl on the inside too. The old me had panic attacks. I was pushed around at work, messed around by men and ever since the birth of my younger sister even my family have made me feel like the second favourite child – please keep in mind that there are only two of us. Life before my sister Annabelle was born feels like a weird dream that didn’t really happen, because ever since beautiful baby Belle bounced onto the scene the attention has been fully on her. Sure, I achieved everything first, but Belle did it all better. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I almost feel like I was the starter child, the practice run before Belle came along. I was five years old when Belle was born, so I’ve been’ second best for the majority of my life. That’s why I love living out here, alone. No one knows the old me, I can totally be myself without worrying about the consequences – and believe me there are consequences, because these days my true self can be a bit of a bitch.

  ‘Good morning, Mia,’ my assistant Dalia chimes brightly, despite it being past noon. That’s the great thing about having an assistant, they go out of their way to assist you, even by making you feel like you’re not incredibly late for work when you really are.

  ‘Hey Dalia, what’s happening?’

  ‘Well, the meeting started ten minutes ago, I tried to reach you on your cell.’

  Oh, shit. I wish I could say that this was a one-off, but with great success comes a great ego. Even though I know that if I just got up a little earlier on a morning I could be on time for work, I still roll out of my bed when I feel like it and spend ages doing my hair when really I should be rushing to the office to make my meetings on time.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say cheerily as I burst my way through the doors to the meeting, grabbing an apple from the buffet table before taking a seat with the rest of the Pink Inc. team.

  ‘It’s not morning,’ Molly informs me.

  ‘OK,’ I say, twirling my chair from side to side as I munch my apple.

  ‘We were just talking about the script changes,’ Savannah says, kindly bringing me up to date.

  Between the three of us, we have the formula for making movies down to a fine art – although unlike me, Molly and Savannah are way into all the romantic junk that I have no time for in real life.

  ‘Here,’ Molly says, tapping the page of the open script on the table in front of me. ‘We need to make some changes to this line.’

  At the moment we’re working on a movie called Three’s A Crowd, which tells the tale of two twenty-something best friends. Both party girls, their friendship comes under strain when one of them goes off on holiday and returns engaged.

  ‘I wrote that line,’ I say, almost offended. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘I’m just struggling to believe that when Katie’s best friend tells her she is engaged, she asks her if it’s because she is pregnant. No one would do that.’

  I have a little chuckle with myself because that’s exactly what I said to my sister when she told me she was engaged.

  ‘OK, so what were you thinking instead?’ I ask.

  ‘Perhaps it should be a sweet and sincere moment,’ Savannah suggests.

  We could try that. After all, we write romantic comedies, it needs as much romance as it does jokes.

  ‘Sure, but what?’ Molly asks.

  We all sit in silence for a moment – well, almost silence. The unattractive sound of me crunching my apple can be heard all around the room.

  ‘OK, let’s try this,’ I start with my mouth full. ‘So, Emma tells Katie that she is engaged and Katie is shocked – she drops her cosmopolitan and spills it all over Emma’s dress, just like we wrote originally. This time, instead of asking her if she’s pregnant, the pair rush off to the toilets together to try and get the stain out of Emma’s dress. For a moment no one says anything, they just both work together in silence, Emma holding the bottom of her dress taut as Katie carefully dabs at the stain with a wet paper towel. Now, the stain isn’t as bad as it looks, and together they get it out. Then Emma leans on Katie while she dries it under the hand dryer.’

  ‘I don’t think any girl watching the movie is going to care so much about fashion that she’ll want to watch them just removing a stain in silence,’ Molly interrupts me.

  ‘Let me finish then,’ I say sharply. Another thing that changed when I became the new Mia was my tolerance for girls and their bitchiness. I don’t really have any female friends here in the States, unless you count Dalia, but she’s paid to be friendly to me and she doesn’t try that hard. I have a sneaking suspicion she secretly hates me. Yesterday when I sent her out for condoms she looked at me like she wished I was dead. After an anti-climatic night with Zack (who I’m going to have to try hard to avoid today) I’m starting to wish she hadn’t bothered. Well, that I hadn’t bothered with Zack, not that we hadn’t bothered with protection.

  Other than Dalia, the only other girls I have to deal with for lengthy amounts of time on a daily basis are Molly and Savannah. Savannah is a lovely, bubbly girl. We don’t have much in common but we get along OK. When all else fails we can always have a girly chat together, about things like hair and shoes, because Savannah is a girly girl too. She has long, naturally curly brown hair and bright green eyes like me, which we bonded over the day we met because supposedly green eyes are quite rare. Whether it’s true or not, it gave us something to talk about and thanks to that we’ve always got on well since.

  Sadly, I never hit it off with Molly. We just don’t seem to have anything in common apart from our girl parts. Molly is very tall and very thin. She’s quite gothic looking, with her sharp black inverted bob and her heavy black make-up, but while she isn’t particularly girly, she is still a romantic just like Savannah – and that is the one thing I don’t have in common with either of them. The thing is, being a romcom writer, there’s no way I can openly admit to my aversion to love. If people knew that I thought the stuff I wrote was slushy propaganda, cleverly designed to trick women into thinking they need a husband and a happy ever after – I’d be finished. The film industry may not benefit from you having a happy love life directly, but through the use of product placement they can helpfully suggest the kind of shoes you need to wear to do so, or the bag you need to carry, or the car you need to drive. Molly and Savannah believe that all you need is love, and making these movies is their way of showing you just how beautiful love is and how true love conquers all. Sadly, I don’t believe a word I say. I know that every word I wri
te comes from a dark and cynical place inside me, and the more I write, the less I’m inclined to believe in Love as a thing. It’s not a thing, it’s a marketing tool. It’s how you convince people to splash out on weddings and buy chocolate and flowers on Valentine’s Day. Thankfully the people who watch the movies written by the Pink Inc. team don’t feel the same as me, which keeps me in my flashy lad pad and my designer shoes.

  Right, back to work. So Katie has just helped Emma clean the cocktail stain off her dress.

  ‘So, they’ve cleaned the dress together in perfect silence, both just thinking about what has happened and how life as they know it is going to change. Katie is worried, not only because her best friend is about to have someone else equally as important in her life, but also because to an extent she’s going to be left behind. Emma is going to be playing house, Katie is still going to be a single girl – only now she’s doing it alone. She’s scared. Anyway, Emma sees this. She takes her hand and she says: “Katie, you mean more to me than anyone in the world. I have known you all my life and just because I am getting married, it doesn’t mean I won’t want you around any more – I need you around. Look at the way you just helped me clean my dress – granted you were the one who spilled a drink down it – but even though you were upset you helped me, no questions asked. I lean on you, and not just when I need to dry my dress under a hand dryer. Yes, I have fallen in love, but it will never compare to the love I have for you, my best friend. It may not work out between me and this guy, but you and I will be friends for ever. No one can change that.’

  ‘Wow,’ Savannah gushes. ‘That’s so beautiful.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Molly agrees. ‘Really beautiful.’

  For a moment my writing partners sit and think about what I have just said. What I want to do is roll my eyes, this friends for ever crap makes me throw up in my mouth every time I even think about it. Instead I force a smile and jot down my idea before I forget it – well it’s clearly an effective one. Is it hypocritical of me to write these loving and romantic tales if I don’t believe them? Of course not, I write fiction. Fiction can be whatever you want it to be. If you haven’t worked it out by now, I’m just really good at faking it.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Business or pleasure?’ an LAX employee asks me as I awkwardly rummage around in my handbag to make sure I have everything I need to fly. I’m not sure if it’s his job to ask me or if he’s just making small talk, either way I answer.

  ‘Neither,’ I reply, although this answer obviously isn’t a satisfactory one if I want to be allowed on an aeroplane. ‘My sister is getting married,’ I explain. ‘I’m going home for the wedding.’

  The man laughs and gives me a knowing smile, a smile that says: ‘Family gatherings are hell. I feel your pain, sister.’

  It’s not long until my flight now. While I wait, I suppose I should give you a little back-story (as we call it in the movie making business) so you can understand exactly why the business of my sister’s wedding will not be a pleasure. Belle and I have never really been that close. I think we were when we were kids, but as we grew up we grew apart. While I was a chubby, nerdy outcast at school, Belle was always a skinny, sporty member of the in crowd. Her friends were all exactly like her – you know how hard they try and make the different Bratz dolls look different, but at the end of the day they’re all exactly the same – massive heads, tiny bodies and huge eyes, but with different coloured hair? Well that’s what Belle and her mates were like. Despite being Belle’s sister – and me being older than her and her friends – they didn’t mind teasing me when they were all over at our house. I suppose it comes with the territory of being the uncool, podgy sister, but that doesn’t mean it hurt any less. They don’t pick on me any more, although I’m not sure if that comes with the territory of having loads of money and being able to get them tickets to movie premieres.

  When Belle called me up to tell me she was getting married, yes, I really did ask her if she was doing it because she was pregnant – and, yes, if I had been holding a cocktail I would have spilled it everywhere. I have only met Dan, the guy she is marrying, twice. He seemed OK, but at twenty-four years of age I think Belle is way too young to be tying the knot. Dan is twenty-four as well, and you’ve got to wonder about what’s going on inside the head of a young lad who is so keen to put his fun single days behind him so soon in life.

  The only thing that surprised me more than the fact that Belle was getting married was when she asked me if I would be her chief bridesmaid. My sister knows all too well what the new Mia is like and that includes the way I feel about weddings. I haven’t been a bridesmaid since I was a little kid (I suppose people stopped asking me when I got too chubby to look nice in photos) so I don’t really remember what it entails. Whatever it is, I know I am not the girl for the job. I asked her if I could think about it, and quicker than you could say “I do” my mum called me up and informed me that I would be calling Belle back and accepting her kind offer. The thing that bugged me was the reason why Belle asked me. I mean, we’re not close, so I can only imagine she is doing it for appearances; to have her successful sister by her side.

  Even though it sounded like my idea of hell, I finally agreed to do it, safe in the knowledge I could pop home for a couple of days, do the wedding thing and then jump back on a plane and pretend it never happened. Well, it was a nice idea while it lasted but shortly after I agreed, plans for the big day started being made – well, I say big day, it’s actually more like ten big days. I haven’t been fully briefed on the details yet, all I know is that the happy couple have rented a huge house on the beach in Cornwall so that most of the wedding party can stay there and celebrate with them. What I also know is that my boss hates me right now because we’re really busy and I have had to book over a week off instead of four days. I’m not the employee of the month at the best of times, so I’m going to have to do some major butt-kissing when I get back.

  While I am happy about not having to visit my hometown this time, I am not exactly jumping through hoops about the fact that I’ve got a twelve hour flight to London followed by a five hour train journey to the far side of Cornwall. I’m going to be knackered when I get there. Belle has planned my journey to the second, so at least I know when I arrive she and Dan will be waiting for me at the train station, ready to give me a lift to the party house so I can spend way too much time with the family I moved over five thousand miles to get away from. Oh joy.

  ***

  ‘Is this your first time flying?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Why would you ask that?’

  The young man sitting next to me nods towards my hands. I hadn’t even realised I was doing it, but I’m slowly but surely tearing up a sick bag into tiny pieces.

  ‘Oh. My sister is getting married,’ I say by way of an explanation.

  ‘So you thought you’d, what, make extra confetti?’ he teases.

  I playfully throw a handful of shredded paper at the total stranger. Thankfully he takes my gesture as intended – as a joke – and doesn’t have me manhandled off the plane by an air marshal.

  ‘I’m heading home for my little sister’s wedding. She’s twenty-four. I’m twenty-nine and I’m single.’ I stare at the stranger expectantly until he works out what is so wrong with that. It doesn’t take him very long.

  ‘Rather you than me, sweetie,’ the stranger says as he sweeps his long fringe from over of his eyes. ‘You should have paid someone to be your date, get everyone off your back.’

  ‘Oh, they would never believe I was a reformed character with a sudden respect for monogamy. It was only a couple of days ago I called my sis and told her she could come and stay with me if she wanted to call it all off. Anyway, it’s too late now – unless you’re not busy,’ I jokily suggest with a wink.

  ‘Honey, they’d be far more likely to believe you’re a romantic than they would me being a straight guy.’

  I can’t help but laugh. It did occur to me that my new friend was rather
camp, but this is LA after all and you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘I’m going to London to try and meet a prince! I want to marry into royalty.’

  ‘I’m not so up on current events back home,’ I explain, ‘but I’m fairly sure most of the royals are taken and/or straight.’

  ‘Well aren’t you a Debbie Downer,’ he teases. ‘I’m Ethan, by the way. I suppose we should do names.’

  ‘Yes, we seem to have skipped that bit. A mere formality considering we’re already plane pals. I’m Mia.’

  ‘Yey! Plane pals!’ Ethan squeaks. ‘We can share our lunch and go to the bathroom together.’

  ‘I’m all for distributing the calories but it might look like we’re trying to join a different kind of club if we go to the loos together,’ I laugh.

  ‘Speaking of the not so exclusive Mile High Club – which I have been a proud member of since 2009…’ we slap each other a high-five, ‘… that cute flight attendant is checking you out.’

  ‘No! He’s gay, right?’ says the girl who was just preaching about not judging a book by its cover.

  ‘He’s straight. I’m the authority on the matter and he is hot for you.’

  I smile back at the tall, muscular flight attendant. His gorgeous smile and his dirty blonde hair would usually make for my type, but he’s almost too pretty. Too polished and perfect. Of course, I can’t tell Ethan that this gorgeous creature’s teeth are too white. That his face is too symmetrical. That his clothes are too neat. He looks like he’d want to snuggle afterwards and that’s the last thing people do in aeroplane bathrooms.

  ‘Not my type,’ I insist to Ethan.

  ‘Your type isn’t gorgeous and crazy for you?’

  ‘Nah,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘You might be into that weird stuff, but I’m not.’

  ‘You like a bad boy?’ Ethan asks.

  ‘I do. I like them manly and dangerous looking. Rough and ready, heartbreakingly handsome, could have any girl they wanted – that’s my type.’