by Asher, Adele
Luckily Marco’s description meant I didn’t miss the stark, stainless-steel clad exterior. The celebrated Californian architect was a long-term Malibu resident and fully aware of the wealthy-enclave by the sea’s propensity to go up in a raging fire every year, thanks to someone’s discarded Marlboro cigarette-end flung carelessly out of a passing Hertz Rental on PCH, setting fire to the arid oil-containing brush in the process before the Saint Ana winds whipping off the Pacific turned them into a national breaking-news firestorm. The industrial grade steel and concrete design had saved the 20 million dollar residence from a scorching even when the matchwood timber houses that surrounded it burned to the ground.
It didn’t look much from the outside, like an expensive plastic surgeon’s clinic or dentists. The only windows were geometric and frosted. Four garages flanking the entire front-side of the property next to a heavyweight frosted glass door, a small gate with a line of non-combustible palm plants.
I parked my Mini outside the small driveway, the property being built right up to the street-line, barely hanging off the road as the Pacific battered the most expensive beach real estate in the world into submission, threatening to engulf the concrete piers under the property and create a miniature island from it.
I got out of the car, butterflies raced around my stomach. I had no idea why I was so nervous, I had no reason to be. It was like being on a first date with a guy you had a crush on at school for months. Except I’d gone to an all girls Catholic school and didn’t have any contact with boys, so it was how I imagined it to be as I lay glued to my bed under the watchful eyes of the Nuns in the 18 girl dorms.
I summoned up the courage, opened the small gate. A brief last-minute panic to run away and hide like a kid playing postman’s knock.
I put my big girls pants on and rang the doorbell.
I was too broke and needed a paying job too much to let my nerves get the better of any possible exit route out of my current predicament.
Several minutes passed.
Maybe he was out.
Marco had suggested I called, I don’t know why I didn’t. Talking to a stranger on the phone seemed more nerve-wracking than actually just turning up at his house.
I rang the doorbell again. Hesitant to pound the thing repeatedly and come over like some sort of persistent lunatic.
Still no answer.
I shrugged. Not meant to be I guess. I turned and sighed with relief, headed for the gate.
“Can I help you?” the voice asked behind me.
The unmistakable English-accented deep tones of someone who probably smoked too much. Hoarse, slightly gravel-edged, so very manly. I admit I got goosebumps, butterflies and felt my knees tremble just a little, I summoned up the courage to turn around, with my best acting skills engaged, I fixed a subtle smile to my face.
Not too much.
Not grinning like a salesman, or psycho bunny-boiling bitch.
Just subtle enough to suggest I was amenable to engage with.
“Marco….erm,” I said. Then frowned.
It dawned on me I hadn’t actually done what all good actresses should do. I hadn’t learned my lines. But then I didn’t have a script. I had no idea, if I’m honest, exactly how to turn Marco’s typical agent verbal diarrhoea into some sort of meaningful explanation of what I was doing there. Hell, even I didn’t really know what I was doing there and it didn’t seem terribly British or the done thing just to blurt out I’m here for the job mate, how much ya payin’.
I stared at him.
I couldn’t help it.
Having had no idea what to expect.
Short…fat…tall…ugly…handsome, I was slightly taken aback for a moment whilst my brown eyes drank in this masculine feast.
He was tall, a shade over six foot. Athletic, not over-done like the muscle-beach inflatable goons, but toned enough to suggest he kept himself in check at the all-you-can-eat buffet. A soft tan, but not completely orange, just a subtle bronzing naturally acquired from long walks on his doorstep beach, with skin just nicely buffed by salt winds and fresh air. A mop of brown hair cut short in a messy, sun-bleached in places, mess, that was styled by frequent underwater time in the Pacific and barely tamed by Tony & Guy conditioner in an expensive German shower thereafter. A few days stubble, piercing blue-grey eyes that lingered like a tiger’s. He was dressed as I had imagined, a crumpled T-Shirt that barely covered his tribal arm tattoos, which for some reason, given his financial status, I didn’t expect. A pair of old Oakley board shorts and flip flops. Hairy legs. None of this L.A waxed-to-oblivion flesh but good old-fashioned, English hairy legs.
Like a man should have.
Then it occurred to me he might not actually be who I was supposed to meet. Given how he was dressed maybe he was the gardener or handyman.
“Marco?” he enquired.
“My agent. Marco. I’m not sure I’m in the right place….”
He looked at me the way a cat stares at you inquisitively, deciding if it was going to pounce on you, rub up against you for its chin to be tickled or simply saunter off with arrogant disinterest. Then he nodded and broke into a brief flash of a boyish grin. “Of course, that Marco. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“If it’s a bad time…”
“No, not at all. I was just…having an afternoon kip. You know how it is. Hot as hell out here this time of day.”
“Not exactly Brighton is it?”
“No…not really,” he replied with another flashed grin. “Sorry, I just. I mean I spoke to Marco a few weeks back but I didn’t actually expect you’d…you know.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I was curious,” I replied, to save us both further embarrassment at the slightly-odd social situation we found ourselves in. Being both terribly British it wouldn’t do to have any sort of social faux-pas. Especially when a commercial arrangement was involved.
“Sure. I’m glad. I’m not sure glad is the right word,” he said shaking his head and scrunching his eyes up a little with a frown. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes. I think so,” I said with a soft smile. “So….?”
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Still half asleep. I suppose you better come in?”
Now my mother always taught me not to go to a strange man’s house unaccompanied. And that was the best advice she ever gave me for a place like L.A where they might as well have had date-rape vending drug dispensers next to the Coke machines in certain executive suites, such was the sort of place that was full of young hopeful girls desperate for a break and no money, in an industry largely controlled by pervy old men with a penchant for young nubile flesh. But then this guy hardly fitted that stereo-type. He was like one of my brother’s friends, slightly shy. Doing his best not to get caught staring at my cleavage with his tongue hanging out. I just wanted to hug him, so I thought to hell with it, it would get over the awkward ice-breaking moment, and given my training, having to perform emotionally on demand, it was kind of my role to put him at ease, after all, I was the one on interview.
I held out my hand for him to shake it.
“I’m Natasha,” I said.
He shook my hand politely, as he took it I pulled myself closer, gave him a friendly hug and a polite friendly kiss on the cheek, the delightful faint trace of Gucci by Gucci for Him left an intoxicating imprint on my nostrils, causing those damn butterflies to go for another lap around my stomach. I felt his hand give my back a little rub. How beautifully English of him, most American guys I knew would go straight for the ass grab. I withdrew slowly as to not break the softness of the moment. Another soft smile.
“Yes I know,” he finally said. Then seemed a little embarrassed. “I’m a big fan, well not big. You know. I had a poster of you on my wall in my barracks room when I was younger. First teenage crush.”
“Barracks?” I asked.
“Yeah. In another life.”
I nodded and posted it away in the mental filing cabinet marked smalltalk to fill embarrassing
silent gaps later.
“I’m sorry, I’m being really rude. Bloody British. I’m Ryan. Ryan Butler.”
Yes, you guessed it. My immediate thought was, Natasha Butler. I like the sound of that. With the added benefit of moving up half a dozen or more places in the alphabetical credit listings.
“So do you want to come in? Or go for a walk? You know, if you don’t feel comfortable…”
I smiled, my word what a gentleman, it’s like he knew exactly what I was worried about and pre-empted it so I didn’t feel embarrassed. If you were cynical you’d think well, maybe he’s just a cunning rapist-axe-murderer and lulling me into a false sense of security, but I felt safe with him, he looked like the sort of guy who rescued kittens, but then he also looked the guy who would hunt down and snap their abandoning owner’s necks with his bare hands.
Maybe he was a Gemini.
I hoped not, the last thing I needed was a split personality to go with my assertive Leo the Lioness nature.
“No, I’d love to come in. Marco kept going on about the view from your place, and well you can’t see much of the ocean from this side so…”
It was a nicely dodged way of being forward without seeming forward.
Who doesn’t want to have a good look at the ocean in Malibu when usually the only chance you got was paying 700 USD a night for some overpriced B&B with no heating.
“Sure, come on…” he said opening the door wide. I closed the gate and turned to go in. “You don’t mind dogs do you?”
“No not at all, I had a pair of French bulldogs, but I had to rehome them when I was out filming in Mexico. I love dogs. What do you have?”
“Well come and meet them…” he replied.
I stepped in to the beautifully appointed double height narrow hallway. A steel and glass open stair-case rose upwards, then one down. The wall’s lined with a mix of cherry and Japanese Wenga wood panelling, modern art hung discretely. The sort of paintings that look like your toddler niece had attacked a canvas with a bucket of paint but cost more than a decent size home in the Valley. Even the entrance reeked of designer expense so you can imagine what awaited in the principal reception area. I followed him down the hallway, as we walked into the vast expanse of the triple-height living space, open-planned to a large designer kitchen made from more exotic materials than a NASA space shuttle, my jaw literally fell to the floor. A soaring wall of UV shielded glass filled with a vast expansive view of the blue Pacific Ocean, the room impeccably decorated with the sort of furnishings you see in Tatler’s Style guide, it was everything you dreamed a twenty-million dollar home would be, complete with a no-doubt fiendishly expensive large Loewe flat-screen TV big enough to double as a cinema and the sort of exotically sculpted speaker system that cost more than most apartments back home. Lavish just didn’t cut it. Ostrich leather sofas, Hermes cushions. It was expensive, but not over-done the way some Peasant-turned Oligarch’s place would be. It was every bit the West-Coast so cool it hurts billionaire’s beach house.
If James Bond had lived in Malibu, this would have been his house.
Lying across the large sofas that were wrapped around the perimeter central feature open fire-place, sculpted from titanium with a shallow fire pit of volcanic rocks and what appeared to be pure glass cut stones, a pair of beautiful black and rust Dobermanns, their ears impeccably cropped vertically, sat regally to attention, eyeing this new visitor to their domain through their matching dark brown eyes.
“Odin! Thor!” Ryan said with a short-sharp tone. Immediately on command the Dobermanns sprang from the sofa, across to their master then sat straight to attention either side of him, like Egyptian statues aside their Pharaoh master. They stared up at me.
I smiled approvingly. “Wow, you’ve got them well trained. My dogs wouldn’t ever do that. Come to think of it they wouldn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, they’re my boys. Don’t worry, they look much scarier than they are. They’re a pair of softies once they get to know you. Odin! Thor! Fall out.”
In an instant the dogs returned to their sofas, jumped up and lay down neatly on each end. A pair of macho dogs to match the completely stylish but masculine abode. The third household resident pooch caught me by surprise as he nestled between my legs - tail wagging.
“He’s not so well trained I’m afraid. But he is absolutely the boss,’ Ryan said and smiled with a nod, as the beautiful miniature lilac and tan Chihuahua, dressed in a small military camouflage jumper stared up at me through beautiful eyes.
“Oh he’s just adorable,” I said, not usually being prone to melting into girly mode, the sight of a toy Chihuahua sparked the maternal baby-craving instincts.
I picked up the small dog, was rewarded with a face lick and his little manhood lipstick tip poking out from its fur-covered hiding place.
Ryan smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I think he likes you…”
“I’m keeping him,” I said playfully as I gave the delightful little ball of fur a cuddle. I frowned at Ryan to communicate my surprise. “That’s a bit of a combination. A pair of Dobies and a Chi? Did your ex-girlfriend abandon him?”
“No, he’s a rescue. Someone found him up at the Malibu market wandering about, poor little fella. They left a card in the shop, nobody claimed him and they were going to send him down to the pound so I figured I’d give him a home. I’m a bit of a sucker for strays in need.”
“Is that what I am?” I asked playfully. “A stray in need…” I said, kissing the little Chi. “I think your daddy is looking to re-home actresses as well as cute pups now, isn’t he?”
“Oh that…” Ryan said, suddenly embarrassed. “I feel a bit weird about that. It was Marco. Trying to get me to invest in some movie project or other…but I must be the only guy in LA who moved here not wanting to get into the movie business.”
“Does kind of make you unique.”
“I’m here for the beach and weather.”
“Didn’t fancy the Caribbean? Some tax-exile? Those California rates have to hurt.”
“Well, if it pays for schools and stuff then I’d rather it do some good than have it sit in Wall Street. Anyway, he said you were struggling and I don’t know, I may have said something about needing some help…’ Ryan said with a shrug.
I looked around the impeccable house, there was a few old Chinese and Mexican takeaway cartons lying around but it was hardly falling about around the guy’s ears. “Looks like you keep things pretty neat here. You seem to be managing.”
“Yeah, well maybe not help. Just company. But not like that…”
I nodded, but frowned a little for more clarity, just to make sure.
“This sounds crazy I know, because, you know. The logical thing would be to get a housemate you know? Big six bedroom place. But people kind of do that because they need to split the rent. Which isn’t really a problem, so it’d be a bit kind of odd, putting an advert up for a room-mate. I mean. Just weird?”
“I guess so. Surely you have some friends you could have over to stay. I mean, this place if you rented it for the summer would set you back more than a hundred grand a week peak season. Who wouldn’t want to come and stay?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some friends. But not ones I’d want to live with,” he shrugged. “You know what guys are like when they get together. All cans of beer and late night football. I like my peace and solitude now….but…”
“But…”
“It would be nice to have some, I don’t know. Female companionship. Stop the place feeling so empty. The dogs are cool and everything. But they lack conversation.”
“Marco said you have plenty of offers, surely you aren’t struggling for dates?”
“No, I’m not interested in that. In my position, women in L.A…I feel safer with the shark predators out there in the Pacific than the ones swimming about on Rodeo Drive.”
“I know what you mean,’ I said with a smile.
Beverly Hills was the epi-centre of gold-digging and let’s face it, Ryan
was the Jackpot Rollover ticket come good.
“Besides I just want to be with someone normal.”
“You should go on that Secret Millionaire,” I said with a smile. “Pretend you’re a bin man.”
“Yeah? Would you date me if I was a bin man?”
“Course I bloody wouldn’t,” I said with a grin. “But I’m not a normal girl. I’m mildly famous. Although getting less so by the day…sadly.”
“Yeah, Marco said. Sorry to hear it. That must suck,” Ryan shrugged. “So I guess that’s why I might of said something, didn’t like the idea of you struggling and didn’t want you being exploited by all these casting-couch types.”
“So you thought you’d exploit me instead? You naughty rascal,” I said, obviously sarcastically, given my cheeky smile and emphasis on naughty.
“I love the way you say that. Naughty. So terribly English.”
“Well, Marco couldn’t decide if you were looking for a replacement Mother, or Miss Moneypenny? So which is it?”
Ryan shrugged. “Just a good friend, if you can cook once in a while, that’s probably a bonus. I don’t know. Someone to go and do stuff with. I don’t get out much. Who wants to go and sit at a table for one in bloody L.A?”
“You didn’t think about ringing an escort agency? You know that’s what they actually are supposed to do. Escort you to theatre and stuff. Not just turn up and bang you silly.”
“I’d feel weird about that. The whole escort thing.”
“But you are happy to pay me?”
“Selfish I guess, I don’t want to share you with someone else. Have your company Tuesday’s and Thursdays. I’m being rude. Do you want a drink? I’ve got Coke. Juice? Water?”
“Neat change of subject,” I said.
I followed Ryan through to the kitchen as he nosed in the large refrigerator. He took out a couple of glass bottles of Coke, knocked the tops off and handed me one.
“The whole thing is crazy. I know. And it sounds weird and creepy. You ever think about something, then think it back and then realise how fucking stupid it sounded in retrospect?”
