The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  He sat back in his chair. ‘Carly, I’m not going to lie to you. The days of the studios doling out million-pound cheques for material are pretty much gone now unless you’re a big name.’

  Bollocks. There goes the trolley dash round Prada. Oh well, Primark would just have to do. In a dim light with the right accessories you could hardly tell the difference anyway.

  ‘I don’t want to set your expectations at levels I can’t meet, so let’s be realistic. A book like this, a studio might take an option–that means they’ve got a hold on it for a year and you can’t sell it to anyone else–for, say, fifty to a hundred grand.’

  Gulp. Fifty to a hundred grand? I was sure I could hear my credit cards chanting. Gimme a P. Gimme an R. Gimme an A….

  And the boys? Skiing lessons. A trip to Disney. Fuck it, I’d just blow the lot and buy them Donald Duck.

  Meanwhile, back in the real world…I think Ike mistook my silence for disappointment.

  ‘However, if it’s love at first sight, or if they sense that there’s going to be other interest and we get some kind of bidding war going, then they’ll skip options and go straight to purchase. And for that we’re probably talking somewhere around two hundred to half a mill.’

  For the second time in half an hour I felt faint. Half a mill. Half a million dollars. And holy crap, he was still talking.

  ‘Of course, that’s when the real talking starts. We’d want you in on the adaptation, writing the first draft of the script. Or consulting, at least. So we’d try to get you on board and help push it through development. Obviously that would mean you sticking around here for a while, or depending on timescale maybe going back to the UK and then returning here when they need you. Would that be a problem?’

  I gave it serious thought and contemplation before replying. He deserved honesty. I couldn’t ask him to stake his personal reputation on starting a process that could possibly derail six months down the line because of the constraints of my personal circumstances. After all, coming for a month had put my marriage on the same stability footing as the Middle East–so what would the repercussions be of moving here long-term? This was definitely something I had to think long and hard about. I had to analyse it. I had to discuss it with my husband. I had to consider the effect on my boys. I had to weigh up the financial reward versus…

  Unfortunately, no one had thought to transfer any of these deliberations from my brain to my gob. ‘Nope, that wouldn’t be a problem at all. In fact, it would be fabulous.’

  Fabulous.

  And as I shook his hand and said goodbye twenty minutes later, it was all I could do not to snog him–in a purely businesslike appreciation for services, no tongues kind of way. It’s not that I was counting my chickens before they were in the bush (as Carol, she of the mixed metaphors, was fond of saying), but Ike had given me a glimpse of the kind of life I’d dreamed of since I was a flat-chested, pre-pubescent reading Hollywood Wives by the light of her electric-blanket switch under a duvet in a council house in Glasgow. Imagine living out here. Imagine working in this industry. Imagine seeing something I’d written turned into an excuse for popcorn, hot dogs and groping in the back row.

  And I can’t deny the whole financial side wouldn’t be too hard to take either. If I was earning serious money then Mark could work fewer hours. Or maybe not at all. We could travel. We could live on an island while I wrote my next book under a coconut tree. The boys could learn to surf and water-ski and they’d be two little bronzed beach-bums. And we’d have loads of time together–I wouldn’t be a stressed-out basket case. Instead I’d drink pineapple juice and wear flip-flops and bikinis. Of course, I would have to leave our beach haven and scrub up for the premiere of my new movie. Or perhaps Matt Damon would collect me as he went past on his private jet.

  I noticed my hands were trembling and I wanted to hug people. And that was without alcohol. Suddenly I realised two things. Firstly, I was bursting with excitement. If nothing ever came of this, then I’d be grateful just for this moment of sheer bloody blissful anticipation. Secondly, I wanted to call Mark to tell him all about it. I checked my watch: 10 a.m. That would mean 6 p.m. in London. He’d still be at his desk, attempting to earn a medal for dedication to duty. Or perhaps he’d bunked off for the afternoon and was shacked up in a cheap hotel with one of the girls from the telephone pool. In which case he deserved to be interrupted.

  Sod it, it was time for this pettiness to be over. I missed my husband and I wanted to share this with him. Wasn’t marriage full of ups and downs? Okay, so we’d just staged the marital equivalent of the downhill slalom, but I knew it was a temporary blip. I dialled our home number. We just had to start talking again. Start communicating as adults and forget all the petty childishness.

  I dialled the direct line to his office. He answered on the tenth ring with a harassed, ‘Yep?’

  ‘It’s me. I’m still not speaking to you but I just wanted to tell you something.’

  I expected him to laugh, to giggle with relief that I was holding out an olive branch. Instead, a pause, then, ‘Hi.’

  Not ‘Hi darling!’, not ‘Babe, thank God you called, I couldn’t live another minute without hearing your voice.’ Not even, ‘We’re out of Pot Noodles, where’s the nearest place to buy them?’

  Branch trampled, olives mush.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’ve had the meeting with Sam’s agent in the Peninsula Hotel–oh Mark, we’re talking swanky with a capital fucking fabulous, or at least we were until the point when I fell on my arse, but that’s another story. Anyway, Ike, the agent, he’s really positive about the book, and Demi Moore might play the mother, and the big-wigs at the studios got it yesterday and they might buy it and it could be for up to half a million dollars, Mark–half a million! Could you imagine that? This could be so great, Mark, and…’ If the olive branch hadn’t worked, maybe the white flag would. ‘I miss you, Mark. The boys miss you. Please come over.’

  A deep sigh, then silence–a silence that lasted so long I thought he’d fallen asleep over his desk. And for anyone who thinks that’s a ridiculous notion can I just remind you of the whole wank/snoring situation that I relayed earlier. Since this was an emotionally charged, highly fraught situation that definitely involved sensitivity, feelings and possibly hormones, avoidance via sleep, feigning bad telephone line or acute, immediate laryngitis would normally be Mark’s first reaction.

  ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘They’re with Sam, he’s taking them to see Spiderman.’

  ‘Spiderman is a 12 rating, they’re too young for it.’

  ‘Not the movie. Spiderman. The real one. Sam is mates with Tobey Maguire.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Spiderman. The real one.’

  ‘Oh. I thought that was George Clooney.’

  ‘Nope, he was Batman…Mark, who cares! Did you hear anything I just said?’

  Jesus H. Christ. Our relationship was in turmoil and I was calling him with potentially life-changing news and at the same time attempting to build bridges, and all he could muster was a casual conversation about a blue and red bloke who liked to climb walls.

  ‘Carly, I’m sorry. I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Look, I’m pleased you’re excited about the meeting and I hate the way things are between us, I really do. But I’m not coming over. I can’t–my workload is crippling just now. I told you already, I’m working on a huge merger and it needs constant attention and care–if I fuck it up it would be a nightmare. And look, I want you to make a deal with me. I know you said that you were going for a month, but honestly, babe, I don’t want you all to be away for that long. So please, if nothing happens in a fortnight, just come home.’

  Typical Mark. Realistic. Straight-talking. Sensible. With all the giddy delight of haemorrhoids.

  ‘And I know you think I’m saying all this just to burst your bubble, Carly, but I’m not. It’s just because I want my family home. I miss you guys.’

  I could have
cried. In fact, I nearly did. Then I noticed that the receptionist bloke was clearly trying to guess what rehab centre I’d escaped from. I decided tears probably weren’t a good idea–I’d be in the Promises Clinic in Malibu before I could persuade them that the only drugs I took were Disprin. So instead of histrionics, I settled for mild fury and petulance.

  ‘You know, Mark, I didn’t expect excitement. I didn’t dare think you might be pleased. But I thought at least you might have looked deep inside yourself and somewhere among all that anal retention found a modicum of bloody support. And as for attention and care–your bloody wife needs some too!’

  I thought that was quite good–after all, there were a couple of three-syllable words in there.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Carly, will you get off your high horse?’

  ‘No, I bloody won’t. Jesus, Mark, when did you turn eighty? Do you want our lives to be one endless slog where you only get to see your kids when they’re sleeping and you’ve only got the energy to fuck your wife on an annual basis?’

  A passing woman gasped and drew me a filthy look. I was sure it was Sharon Stone. Yeah, like she could pass judgement. If I’d wanted to see those parts of the female anatomy I’d have been a gynaecologist.

  ‘Come on, Mark, at least be a little bit…’

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. He’d hung up. Hung up! I momentarily wondered if anyone had ever been arrested in the foyer of the Peninsula Hotel for screaming ‘Fuck, Fuck, Fuck’, while jumping on a Motorola. I quickly decided that probably wasn’t how I wanted to achieve fame in Hollywood. Instead, I did that thing you do when you’re mortified. I glanced around frantically to see if anyone was watching–strike one, the desk clerk. Strike two, Sharon Stone–then slapped a huge smile on my face and said in a voice borrowed from Marilyn Monroe especially for the occasion, ‘Oh, sweet cheeks, I love you too. No, you hang up. No, you. Oh, go on. Kiss, kiss, kiss.’

  I pretended to hang up, then flopped down on the lobby chairs and texted Sam, as arranged, to let him know I was done.

  I desperately wanted to call Kate or Carol for moral support, vindication and suggestions for really bad swear words, but the time difference ruled out calling for the ovarian cavalry–they’d both be up to their chicken nuggets in kids’ dinners.

  Instead I settled for texting Kate. ‘Emergency! During night, pls go nxt door & assault my husband with blunt object.’

  It would never stand up in court. And even if it did, hopefully the judge would be female and I’d get away with it.

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Cooper?’ The doorman interrupted my conspiracy to commit a serious assault. ‘Your car is waiting outside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I beamed, then panicked. Tip! He’d spoken to me therefore I needed to tip him. Bollocks, how much should I give him? I scrabbled in my purse and snatched out the first thing that came to hand. Exit one happy doorman with $20. No wonder he held the door open with a smile. Christ, he had Jojo’s teeth too.

  Flash, flash, flash, surreptitious flick of hair and Vicky Beckham pout. Oh, I know I’m pathetic, but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Hi guys,’ I yelled as I jumped into the car.

  ‘Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum!’ came the double chorus from two wee boys who were so excited they’d gone pink.

  ‘One at a time, guys!’ I laughed, before turning to Sam. ‘How were they?’

  ‘Great,’ he replied with a particularly gorgeous grin. ‘We saw Spiderman and I was so excited that I almost peed my pants. What about you?’

  I shrieked with rediscovered excitement. ‘Fabulous! Apparently by this time next week I could be sitting on ten mil, with a house in Beverly Hills and Paris Hilton will be begging me to be her shopping buddy.’

  He leaned over and squashed me in a huge hug. ‘Way to go, Coop, your first step on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I think this calls for a celebration.’ He turned to the boys in the back. ‘What do you think, guys, who wants to go to the beach and have a party?’

  It would take days for those seats to dry out.

  CARLY CALLING…

  Carly to Kate and Carol:

  Dear Friends, had meeting with v. big shot–says I’m going 2 b a huge star. Pls know that I’ll always b grateful 4 ur support along the way. Now pls delete me frm ur contact list as I’m getting far more important friends.

  Carol:

  Dear huge star, remembr Confucius say, pride comes b4 a smack in mouth from pissd off ex-pal.

  Kate:

  So can I sell story to Nws Of Wrld now? I’ll say we had lezzy affair–could do with dosh.

  Step Six

  If God were to appear in front of me and say, ‘Okay, dollface, I’m designing the perfect lifestyle and you’re the perfect chick to help me,’ I would have just shown him my holiday photographs from the weekend following my big-shot Tinseltown meeting. We’re talking hypothetically here, thus getting around the fact that Benny buried the camera in the sand ten minutes after we arrived at the beach and we never found it again.

  After a quick stop at the house to change following my meeting that Saturday morning, we piled back into the car. Half an hour (and several death-defying near misses on the Scalextric set that LA calls a freeway) later we pulled into a car park by the sea and Sam unloaded a kitbag and a hamper. Given my new, super-swanky, pampered lifestyle, I waited for Eliza, a personal chef, two waiting staff and a secretary to jump out of the boot too, but sadly he’d given them the day off.

  We took a child each and I followed his lead, edging around the side of a huge restaurant called the Cheesecake Factory, to the closest thing to kiddie heaven on earth that doesn’t include the Tweenies–Mother’s Beach. Which isn’t, as the title might suggest, an exclusive zone for women with postnatal breast droop and stretch marks.

  ‘Caesarean sections to the left, epidurals to the right, and all those who had episiotomies, it’s your turn for the pedalos.’

  Instead it’s a glorious bay in the very affluent surroundings of one of the world’s largest manmade marinas, Marina del Rey, and it was designed so that the water has no current and is therefore perfect for children. Add in a great picnic area and a playground on the beach and the result is two ecstatic boys and sand in places that it definitely shouldn’t be. Surprisingly it wasn’t packed out–just a handful of families all looking like they’d escaped from the pages of the Boden catalogue.

  We spent the whole day there playing Frisbee, building sandcastles and hiding valuable personal objects, then went back to Sam’s, changed and went to the Hard Rock Café for dinner, where more shiny waiters who bore a disturbing resemblance to the staff in the Peninsula served us with a perfect smile. I was beginning to think LA was just one massive feat of genetic interbreeding, but hey, the blokes were easy on the eye and I’m superficial, so it wasn’t a hardship.

  It was funny to watch Sam too. I stopped counting as he constantly got interrupted and asked for autographs and photos. Sam. My ex-boyfriend. The man who was standing on a nightclub door earning less than ten quid an hour when I met him, yet he handled this life of royalty like he was born to it. Which thankfully he wasn’t or he’d be related to the Windsors and have a predilection for large teeth, premature hair loss and an aversion to gainful employment.

  Later we got home and put the boys to bed, then spent the rest of the night drinking beer out of the bottle and singing at a zillion decibels on the karaoke system in Sam’s outdoor bar terrace. I think it was extremely churlish of the neighbours to phone the police and very generous of the officers to let us off in return for two signed photographs and a chance to sing Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive to a professional backing track in a very camp manner.

  On Sunday, the highest-paid tour guide in the world unapologetically played to his three-foot-high audience and took us further afield. Disneyland, California. The Holy Grail. Or, ‘Jesus, Mum, it’s Mickey Mouse’s house!’, as an overwhelmed Mac announced when we entered the park gates and he spotted the castle. I decided to classify his outburst as ‘prayi
ng in thanks’ rather than ‘blasphemous and deserves to be punished’.

  And, thankfully, it seemed that we’d outwitted the evil paps. In fact, surprisingly, Sam didn’t get recognised at all–a pair of big dark glasses, a baseball cap and a T-shirt declaring ‘Milwaukee Chiropractic Convention, 2006’ gave him total anonymity–although he was asked for his opinion on a spinal injury, a neck crick and a dislocated shoulder.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked him after we’d sat through three journeys around ‘It’s A Small World’, a cheesy boat-ride through animated countries of the world that came with a musical accompaniment so grating that you’d happily take out the speakers by firing Huey, Dewey and Louie at them from a large cannon.

  ‘Yeah, I’m great. You know, it’s strange, all these years I’ve been here and I’ve never done any of the tourist stuff, but the boys just make it all great. And you. I’m so glad you came, Carly.’

  I know. It was so nice of me to have arrived on his doorstep in a bedraggled state with two children in tow, cluttered up his house, forced him to call in favours from friends, almost got him arrested by two male LAPD officers who probably answered to the names Cilla and Whitney on their days off, and then subjected him to long queues, blistering heat, and conversations with large stuffed creatures called Mr Chip Monk.

  And the strange thing was it all seemed so natural. I’m sure that if casual passers-by had paid us any attention they’d have thought that we looked like the nicest family from Milwaukee that they’d ever seen. Several times I had to remind myself that this wasn’t real life. Me, Sam, the boys, all this fun. Real life was, in fact, being married to a workaholic and battering the door of a Wacky Warehouse at two minutes before opening time on a freezing Saturday morning, begging to be allowed in.