‘What did he say?’
Julia laughed and shook her head.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Julia!’ I was getting cross now. There’s a limit to how much ridicule a sunburnt person should be exposed to. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said . . .’ She had to stop. She was laughing so violently.
‘Jules!’
‘He just said that . . . oh sorry, Sare, you know what it’s like when you start and can’t . . . stop . . . OK. Right. All it was . . .’ She nearly gave up, but like a trouper she persevered. She took a deep breath. ‘You’re the same colour as the chicken tikka we had for dinner!’
I mentally withdrew my ‘best friend nod of approval’ as I watched them erupt. I started to close my laptop on their laughing faces.
‘Oh, bubba, I’m sorry,’ Julia shrieked.
‘Jules, I’ve got a read-through in twenty-four hours with the whole cast and then a party in the evening. An LA film party. And it hurts. Look how slitty and swollen my eyes are. That’s because I’m in pain just opening my eyes. And look how I’m speaking with my lips closed. That’s because I’m in agony. And, AND, guess what I bloody well found in Simon’s Filofax at the airport?’
‘What?’
‘A photo of Ruth in her underwear.’
‘Huh!’ they gasped.
‘What, like a dirty sex photo?’ said Julia with a bit too much relish.
‘No, she was doing yoga. Her bum was in the air. No cellulite. Like none. Like she was airbrushed. The bitch.’
Now, I regret saying that because Ruth wasn’t really a bitch. She wasn’t the warmest of characters. She had a job in finance and was very career-driven and organized. But she wasn’t a bitch. And I shouldn’t have said it. Especially because the ‘bitch’ term proved very moreish.
‘Hmmm. Bendy bitch,’ agreed Julia.
‘Why did he split up with her?’ asked Carlos.
Julia and I looked at each other with wide eyes. It was another long story. But the gist involved a wedding at which Julia had jumped on Simon. They had a little snog. A very quick, drunken snog. But Ruth found out about it. Neither of us wanted to volunteer that information to Carlos though.
‘Oh, dunno really, they just weren’t right together,’ I mumbled.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Julia. ‘And she couldn’t have kids and he really wanted a family. So he said it was never going to be a long-term thing. They were both just having a bit of fun.’
Carlos said, ‘Oh, right,’ and I just stared at the screen.
‘She couldn’t have kids?’ I repeated eventually.
‘Did you not know?’ asked Julia, surprised.
‘No. When did he tell you?’
‘At that, um, wedding. Just before he told me how much he liked you.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Did he say anything else that night?’
‘Just that he liked you and you’d make a really good mum.’
Skype obviously doesn’t understand the concept of juicy relationship gossip because their faces froze on the screen at that moment and the connection was lost.
The news that Ruth couldn’t conceive rattled me. It made me wonder whether Simon and Ruth would still be together otherwise. It made me nervous that Simon might want a baby more than he wanted me. But I am relieved to say that I responded in a very positive and mature manner. I suddenly faced the fact that having children was very important to my Si and I made a vow to discuss the issue with him as soon as I was back in England.
However, just seconds before I had that mature epiphany, I sent him an accusatory text with no kisses:
Why didn’t you tell me that Ruth couldn’t have kids?
To which he instantly replied:
Weird question. No reason. Glad you landed safely. Xxx
Julia and Carlos called me back and we didn’t mention Ruth or babies again. The conversation took a completely different turn.
‘How was the flight?’ asked Carlos.
‘Cool,’ I nodded. We stared at each other’s images in silence for a few moments. Then for some reason I said, ‘Have you ever heard of a bloke called Leo Clement?’
They both scrunched their faces up.
‘Name rings a bell, but I don’t know where from,’ shrugged Carlos.
‘Why? Who is he?’ asked Jules.
‘Just some bloke who was on my flight. But he was like proper gorgeous. So I thought he must be famous.’
‘Did you chat to him?’
‘No,’ I shook my head. Then I gave them an alternative subject to laugh at me about. ‘He picked up my Canesten. It fell out of my see-through bag thing when I got up to go to the loo.’ Julia gasped. ‘Oh, hang on guys, there’s a knock at my door.’
I heard Carlos say, ‘What’s Canesten?’ but Julia was cackling so hard she couldn’t answer.
I got up slowly and walked to the door. Obviously it wasn’t just my face that was puce, but the entire front of my body, with the exception of where my big knickers and top were. I hobbled, winced and groaned my way there. I stood behind it and shouted, ‘Hello?’
I should have turned the computer off. It sounded like Julia was having some sort of seizure in the background. I could barely hear who it was.
‘Hello.’ It was an American girl’s voice. I thought she wanted to turn down the bed or something.
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Sarah, it’s Erin. How are you feeling?’
I opened the door a touch and then I took a step back. I was giving off a lot of heat. I didn’t want to stand too close.
‘I went to the pharmacist and spoke to him. He strongly recommends these products for you.’ She held up a carrier bag that was nearly full. ‘There’s a lot. You need to take two lots of tablets and then there’s a medicated cream as well, for extreme burns.’
‘Erin, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything. I was pleased to help. You could hardly walk there yourself.’
‘Come in, Erin, I’ll just get my purse. It must have cost you a fortune.’
‘Sarah, it’s a gift, please.’
Normally I do forceful wrestling, only stopping short of murdering the other party, in order to pay for something. That wasn’t an option with the sunburn. I stood speechless instead.
‘You’re an angel,’ I said eventually. I considered hugging her, then remembered that the gesture would be completely eclipsed by the intense pain on my entire surface area. I offered what I could manage of a smile. She smiled back. It was an oddly touching moment between two near strangers.
‘Tell us about that bloke on the plane!’ It was Julia at full volume.
I looked at Erin. She looked at me.
‘My friend on Skype.’
Erin nodded.
‘She’s a sweetie,’ I said emphatically.
‘Sweetie’ isn’t the first word I would use to describe Julia. It would be there, however it would follow other words that had sprung to mind sooner, like ‘nutter’, ‘mentalist’ and ‘hardcore’. I must have said ‘sweetie’ because Erin is religious. Not that it was a lie; it just wasn’t a fully realized truth. As though to prove this fact, Julia took that moment to try out a new one from her own encyclopaedia of inventive expletives.
‘SARAH! WHERE IN GOD’S BOLLOCKS HAVE YOU GONE?’
I winced, which hurt.
‘I’d better go,’ Erin said.
‘I am so, so sorry.’ I thought I’d sullied whatever Rachel Bird had left of Erin’s innocence. ‘Thank you, thank you. I’ll have to take you for a drink some time.’
‘Oh, I don’t.’
‘No, no, sorry, yes. But how about a milkshake, like they do in Grease?’
Erin looked blank.
‘The movie, not the place,’ I explained.
‘Sure,’ she smiled. ‘I hope that works,’ she said, nodding at the ba
g of creams I was holding.
Me too, I thought sadly, looking at it and willing it to perform a miracle in twenty-four hours.
fourteen
The miracle was unforthcoming. The creams did ease my sunburn very slightly but I was still the colour of ketchup the following morning. I didn’t know what to do. And I definitely didn’t know what to wear.
I’d bought two beautiful outfits especially for my first day. Julia and I had spent a whole day in Covent Garden with my credit card. I’d bought this lovely pink tea dress for the read-through and a strapless black dress for the party. The look was serious-yet-sexy-actress-about-to-be-discovered-in-LA-before-going-global. I was going to be a British style icon. The Sienna Miller for larger women. Julia was going to give up work and become my stylist. We had it all sorted. But, that morning, I tried on the pink dress. It looked like Miss Piggy had been put on a barbeque and someone had forgotten to turn her. And just the thought of the tight black dress next to my sunburnt flesh brought tears of acute agony to my eyes.
In the midst of this dermatological dilemma, I surprised myself by calling Rachel Bird for advice. And she surprised me again by getting straight in her car and coming to help me.
‘OK, I’ve got this,’ she said.
She held up a black polo neck. It looked like it would be tight on a Peperami.
I shook my head sadly.
‘Whose is it? Barbie’s?’
‘Well then, this is the only other thing I could find.’ She brandished a massive cloth with some sort of orange ethnic pattern on it. I stared at it.
‘It looks like a wall hanging.’
She looked uncomfortable for a moment.
‘It is a wall hanging.’
Rachel Bird suggesting that I wear a wall hanging was the last spliff before the whitey.
‘I thought it would look like a sarong.’
I let my face crumple even though it hurt.
‘Don’t cry, Sarah, don’t.’ Rachel stood there, unsure of what to do. Then she suddenly lurched towards me with her arms open. She was aiming for a hug. A look of horror must have crossed my face.
‘Oh, sorry, no touching,’ she remembered, jumping back.
‘I’m just going to have a little weep, Rachel. I’m OK, I just need a little cry.’
I was honestly trying not to feel sorry for myself. But no amount of positive thinking could dispute these facts:
1 I was about to do a read-through of a movie in which I would have to imitate an American accent, where most people in the room were actually American
2 There was a scene where I got killed. It involved crying, screaming, having sex and dying and I was used to playing comedy maids and bit-part shop assistants
3 I reminded people of chicken tikka
4 My entire front was excruciating
5 My boyfriend was obsessed by babies and his ex-girlfriend
While I was crying, Rachel Bird wandered around my hotel room. She glanced at a ketchup-smeared plate that was left over from my room-service binge last night.
‘What was that?’
‘A burger.’
‘You didn’t?’ Rachel gasped in horror.
‘Yeah, it was amazing.’
I’d always thought that placing some beef between two slices of bread was a lame contribution to global cuisine on America’s part. But that burger was a sensation. It was a thing of beauty and love and I was planning on ordering another one later that night. But I didn’t tell Rachel that.
‘I’ve got it!’ gasped Rachel. ‘There’s a gift shop downstairs. They sell hooded tops. I’ll get you one. You can wear that on the top and the wall hanging on the bottom.’
I would normally protest at the thought of teaming home decor with sportswear in a tropical climate, but under the circumstances it was a very good idea. I handed Rachel my purse. She left the room and I slumped on the bed and picked up my script. I read the first line that I would say. My stomach made a familiar nervous gurgle and within twenty seconds I was on the loo for the sixth time that morning. I wondered whether Kate Winslet prepared like that. I finished emptying my system and I heard the phone ring. Please, God, I thought, let it be someone telling me they’ve cancelled the read-through.
‘Baby?’
‘Simon.’
‘I just wanted to wish you good luck.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I just wanted to say you’ll be amazing. I thought you’d be so nervous you’d be shitting for England.’
‘I was.’ I laughed.
We didn’t say anything for a moment. It was just so nice to hear him there, even if ‘there’ was thousands of miles away.
‘I love you, Sarah.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Even when you are a dickhead,’ he said, obviously referring to my reaction to the Ruth photo.
‘Si,’ I replied, getting riled. ‘I really don’t want to think about that at the moment.’ I sighed. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
There was a tense pause.
‘How’s it going over there?’
‘I fell asleep in the sun, I look like a rare side of beef and I’ve got to wear a wall hanging to the read-through.’
I let him laugh.
‘I’ve always thought you’d look hot in a wall hanging.’
‘Thanks.’ I softened. ‘I wish you were here.’
‘I had a dream about you when I went to sleep.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You were wearing football socks and nothing else.’
‘Really? I’d like to see you in a half-pulled-up wetsuit.’
‘Sare, I’m going to try and hold it in before you get back, but I can’t guarantee.’
I smiled for a moment but then the thought of what I was about to do gripped me again.
‘Si, I don’t think I can go down there and do it. I mean it. You should see me!’ my voice had gone up three octaves. I was near the panic place.
‘You’re brilliant, Sare, I mean it,’ he said in such a calm voice that I almost believed him. ‘I’ve heard you practise this about eight thousand times. I should know.’
We were silent again. His breathing was so comforting. ‘I’d better let you go,’ he said eventually. ‘See ya, superstar.’
‘Bye, baby.’
It’ll be all right, it will, I thought as I put the phone down. And I managed to cling on to the edge of that thought with my fingernails, even when Rachel Bird returned with a XL red hooded top with ‘I Love California’ emblazoned across the front.
fifteen
The read-through was held in one of the basement function rooms at my hotel. As we waited to get started everyone looked at me. I would have blushed had that not already been my permanent state at the time. When I say everyone, I mean the forty-two actors sitting around the big table and the fifty-something other people with notebooks who sat on chairs around the sides of the room. Owing to the fact that we were sitting in a palatial meeting space with mirrors on all walls, even the people who were sitting behind me could see me. And I could see myself. Only I didn’t look like myself. I looked like a giant baked bean. My mother would have said that I was being self-conscious and silly but for once my mother would have been wrong. I knew that people were looking at me because every time I glanced up I caught eyes staring at me, like I was a breakfast menu, before they subtly looked away.
Eamonn Nigels, the director, walked towards me. Eamonn is a very much younger-looking fifty-nine-year-old. Rachel Bird said that when she met him she was struck by his gravitas. He’s certainly got an air of confidence and success about him. He’s not flashy or arrogant though. He’s unassuming, apart from a laugh that sounds like a large metal object has got stuck down a waste disposal. He is tall with a lot of thick grey hair, something of a Russian ballet dancer’s chiselled features and a focused look in the eyes.
He was smiling. A friendly face.
‘I won’t kiss you, darling,’ he said kindly.
I was gratefu
l for his sensitivity to my pain.
‘I might melt,’ he added. Then he guffawed.
‘Hysterical,’ I said flatly.
‘I’ve done it myself. British skin,’ he pronounced, giving me an affectionate half cuddle.
‘Ahhhh!’
‘Oops. There’s a wall hanging in our rental house like that,’ he said, looking at my skirt.
‘That’s nice.’
‘How was the flight?’
‘Amazing. I could get used to First Class.’
‘Rachel picked you up all right?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Have you ever been in a car with her?’
‘Yeaaas.’ Eamonn looked around him and then started to speak with over-acted nonchalance, ‘Was she OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Eamonn.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you quizzing me about your lady?’ I whispered.
‘She’s not herself at the moment.’
I always ended up playing Relate advisor with Rachel and Eamonn. I did want to help. But I was hardly qualified. It was like someone coming to me for sunbathing tips.
‘She’s just feeling a bit neglected,’ I told him.
‘I am here to direct a film,’ he puffed up.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I thought she was happy doing her yoga.’
‘Eamonn, if she gets any bendier she’ll be able to tie her hair up with her feet.’
Eamonn studied me thoughtfully. Then he straightened up and looked at the door impatiently.
‘Where IS he?’
‘Who?’
‘Your murderer,’ he told me with a freakish glint in his eye.
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘I thought it was that guy.’ I pointed out a man with a warm-looking if unconventional face who I had decided I could let touch my breast in an acting capacity.
‘No,’ Eamonn scoffed. ‘That’s the private investigator. We’ve got a great guy to play opposite you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Here he bloody well is. Finally.’ Eamonn moved towards his own seat.
I looked towards the door just as the sweatiest human being I have ever seen in my life bounded through it. He was tall and he was wearing tracksuit trouser shorts and a soaking wet T-shirt. I stared at the T-shirt. It was familiar. It had the word ‘suck’ on it. My heart plummeted. It was Canesten Man from the plane.
The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend Page 6
