The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘Sarah, you out on the tiles?’

  ‘Oh, no, I came to find you, actually.’

  ‘Oh, of course, well, we’re finished here. Dolph wanted to discuss the merits of adding a scene where Dolph interviews Leo,’ Eamonn told me. ‘But I think we’ve just come to the conclusion that it would be repetitious, what with the other scene we’ve already shot where Leo is interrogated by the police officers,’ said Eamonn, scarcely disguising his exasperation. The other man whose face I could now see nodded in agreement.

  ‘Sarah, have you met Joel properly? This is Joel. The writer.’

  I took in the man who was responsible for me stripping on camera. I tried to smile back. I really did. Then I turned my attention towards Dolph.

  ‘Oh, hello, Dolph, thank you so much for the party last night. It was great,’ I say, because my mum would have wanted me to and also because it was the truth. As far as parties went, that one was probably up there in my top five.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Dolph responded. His mum obviously didn’t teach him manners.

  ‘Sorry about the, er, you know, the end bit,’ I added to fill in the silence.

  ‘Well, if that’ll be all,’ said Eamonn, obviously noticing some tension, ‘I have a meeting now with Sarah. Thanks for dropping by, Dolph, it’s always great when actors are so passionate about their roles.’ They all stood up. It took Dolph three tries to pull himself up. The walkie-talkie man strode ahead.

  ‘I’ll see you out, Dolph,’ said Eamonn.

  They all filed out except Joel. I had imagined the writer to be morbidly obese, with a pacemaker and a penchant for porn. I didn’t think he’d be young and slim and good-looking. I stared at him.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, no, thank you.’

  ‘Not some champagne?’

  ‘I hope you’re not celebrating a new lesbian scene you’ve written for Taylor.’

  ‘No, I’m celebrating meeting you properly.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Nice to meet you, too. I have actually imagined myself meeting you once or twice.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Normally I’m holding a sharp implement, though, and you’re cowering,’ I said with glee. And then I laughed. It was my Beavis and Butt-head laugh. There was a small silence while I realized that not only had I threatened violence to a successful Hollywood writer, I had also laughed like a socially inept cartoon character. Unsurprisingly, this man, Joel, the writer, picked up his jacket, mumbled a curt goodbye and had departed within seconds. I watched him walk away and vowed to make myself more amenable to people who might be able to help my career in the future.

  ‘I really didn’t need that today,’ sighed Eamonn when he reached me. ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, I shouldn’t let Dolph Wax and my girlfriend leaving me drive me to the bar.’

  We both sat down. Eamonn sighed and then looked at me.

  ‘I can understand that I was neglecting her with this film as it is. But –’ He stopped and put his head in his hands. ‘I didn’t think it was this bad. For her just to leave. Nothing but a short note. I want to ask you something, Sarah. And I’d like you to be honest with me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Has she met someone else?’

  ‘Eamonn, no, it’s nothing like that. In fact it’s nothing to do with you at all.’

  ‘Why? What?’

  ‘Eamonn, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but she’s got breast cancer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is quite bad, I think. The doctor’s scheduled her a mastectomy and then she’ll need treatment. She left you because she didn’t want you to worry. She wanted you to be able to focus on your film. She knows how much it means to you. She doesn’t want to be ill and be a burden.’

  Eamonn said nothing.

  ‘She won’t be a burden.’ But it caught in his throat. ‘She won’t be a . . .’ He tried to say the words again but had to stop because he was choking on them. I stood up and walked towards him. ‘I can’t believe she thinks she’d be a . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ I whispered, and I squatted down and put my arms around him as he cried into his hands on the chair.

  ‘I’m supposed to be flying to New York later. Shall I cancel and come with you to see her?’

  ‘It’s up to you. But Rachel really wants you to do the film. That’s why she’s done this. She’ll hate you changing plans because of her. Go to New York and then come and see her when you get back. I’ll look after her while you’re gone.’

  seventy-six

  I did my best to look after Rachel. I didn’t really know what to do or how to be or the words to say. But I knew that she needed to be fed, martini-ed, and administered really rude jokes on a fairly regular basis. That was the syllabus and I stuck to it. I would definitely have flunked an OFSTED report and I could have done with Jamie Oliver to help with the meals.

  ‘Oooh, this looks delicious,’ she would say flatly when I served her broccoli in bed. ‘Such variety, Sarah. How do you do it?’

  ‘I feel uncomfortable when you praise me about my cooking, Rach,’ I would shrug bashfully. ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘How did you cook it?’ she would ask, scrunching her nose up and pretending to appreciate the aroma.

  ‘Well, I marinated it for four weeks and then flipped it around in the wok with some garlic and chilli, some home-grown herbs and a few other secret ingredients.’

  ‘Funny, it looks as though you steamed it over the kettle.’

  ‘Oh, that hurts!’ I would gasp, having spent the previous twenty minutes steaming broccoli over a kettle in an ornamental bowl.

  ‘How many Michelin stars do you have?’

  Talking bollocks was Rachel’s broccoli avoidance tactic. It had to be counteracted.

  ‘Here comes the aeroplane!’ I would then suddenly and maniacally scream before stumbling around the room with the fork of broccoli, making aeroplane noises, until I got to her mouth.

  ‘Oh, is that your phone?’ she would say, granting herself a few moments’ respite because I would always check to see if it was Simon. It never was Simon. Leo was the only person who tended to call me. Not that I answered his calls.

  ‘I bloody hate broccoli. Do I have to?’ she would sigh.

  This was always a tricky question. Of course she didn’t have to. I hadn’t taken up tyranny. I wasn’t studying The Idiot’s Guide to Stalinism. I had simply read online that broccoli could reverse cancer.

  ‘Is it really good for me?’

  ‘If you believe online doctors, it’s amazing, but, you know, it could be a load of old bollocks . . .’

  I would feel uncomfortable but she would open her mouth and grant the first sprig entry. Then she would slowly chew the rest. And this was what Rachel was doing on the third day of this, our Odd Couple life, when there was a knock at the door. She was laboriously chewing broccoli with a ‘could it ever get any worse’ look in her eyes. I was bent over the kettle peering at a minuscule lump of wet spinach and wondering how to market it.

  ‘Oh man, this will be amazing,’ I said, having decided to go for the hard sell. ‘Oh, was that the door?’

  Assuming it was hotel staff, I left the wilting spinach and skipped towards the door. I was wearing my pyjama bottoms with a hooded top but I wasn’t worried, as the hotel personnel were used to Worzel Gummidge in room 117 by now.

  Only it wasn’t a hotel employee. It was Eamonn Nigels, wearing a suit and looking embarrassed. He was flanked by two men in white jackets and bow ties. They were elderly men who held violins up to their warm, wise faces. I smiled at them. I love old men with instruments.

  ‘No, no.’ Eamonn turned to them and shushed. ‘Good God, no. That’s not her.’

  ‘Oh, Eamonn,’ I started gushing. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Sarah, is, er, Rachel here?’

  ‘Well, she says she can’t see anyone . . .’ Suddenly I was thrown out of t
he way. Rachel bounded towards Eamonn. I noticed she’d applied lipgloss and a bit of blusher.

  ‘Eamonn,’ she gasped.

  ‘Rachel. I want to be with you . . .’ Eamonn started, but then he realized that I was there.

  They both looked at me. I could understand why they wanted me to go because I’d already started crying. I knew I should go, but it was so beautiful and I’d got such a good seat.

  ‘Sorry, let me put some shoes on and I’ll leave you to it,’ I said.

  I had trouble finding my second flip-flop. And then my phone started ringing. Obviously I wanted to enhance Rachel and Eamonn’s romantic moment, but it could have been Simon. I grabbed my phone, decided to forget about the other shoe and as a last-minute decision I picked up the laptop too, in case I was stranded for ages. Eventually I squeezed past them all and left the room. As soon as I was out of the way, I heard the violin start playing. When I was far down the corridor I turned back. I saw Eamonn down on one knee.

  seventy-seven

  ‘You said you didn’t shag him. You said you didn’t shag him.’ It was Julia, unusually, calling on the mobile.

  ‘Are you pissed?’

  ‘You said you didn’t shag him. You said you didn’t shag him.’

  ‘Jules. I’ve just been ousted from my room with one shoe and now I’ve got you on the phone and you’re talking bollocks! What you on about?’

  ‘You shagged Leo Clement. Why didn’t you tell me, bitch face?’

  ‘Jules. I never shagged Leo Clement,’ I hissed. ‘And I’m in the foyer of my bloody hotel. So I’m not going to shout and protest at you like I would normally.’

  ‘That’s not what he says.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s not what he says in Nads magazine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He says he shagged you. Well, I presume it’s you. Blue dress, English and you won’t like the other comment.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me his column is called “JizBiz”?’

  ‘“JizBiz”, yeah, it is! What’s he like?’

  ‘Oh God.’

  I’d already got my laptop on my lap. I thought about typing the Nads address but then I remembered that the ‘JizBiz’ column wasn’t online.

  ‘Jules, Jules, you can’t get it online. You have to read it to me.’

  Julia coughed and then began.

  A good week amigos. I hope you had as much luck as me. I met my cheerleader on Tuesday. Mamma mia. She had a new uniform and she wanted to practise her routine for me. You have to humour these teenagers. I told her to jump higher and bend over more. I couldn’t resist it.

  ‘Jules, this is foul. Tell me you’re making it up!’

  ‘Nah! Holding it in my hand. Have to say, Sare, there’s a picture of him in here. And, wow. Wow. W-o-w. Anyway, there’s more, babe. Do you want to get a drink?’

  ‘It’s eleven in the morning here.’

  ‘Your call.’ She coughed.

  She’s a grade A cutie. But my best moment was an English girl. Not my usual type. Built for comfort not speed. But funny. You know, more dottie than hottie, but it made a change . . .

  ‘Oh my God! Jules! Jules?’

  My phone went dead. I caught sight of my face in one of the foyer mirrors. I looked like I’d done a sicky burp.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ I spat.

  ‘Bad news?’ a woman I have never met before asked me.

  ‘You could say that,’ I replied to the stranger.

  She sat next to me even though there were about forty other free seats in the foyer. She was about my age and she looked, and I didn’t say this often in LA, quite nice. I didn’t really want to make any new friends at the moment but there was something comforting about her plainness. She wasn’t the usual LA type. Her skin was a bit dry. She had some acne scars on her cheek and she too looked like she was built for comfort not speed. She could almost have been English.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a magazine called Nads?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, it’s an English magazine. It’s big.’

  ‘No, I’m big, apparently.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You look great.’

  Clearly I didn’t look great. I was unclean and unbalanced but I appreciated her effort.

  ‘According to Leo Cockhead Clement I am.’

  The stupid thing is, I am the first person to say that I am not the slimmest. But it’s not very nice to hear it from a man who has seen you naked. I wished I’d left that poo on his table.

  ‘Urgh!’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Do you know a bloke called Leo Clement?’

  Perhaps I shouldn’t speak about it, I thought. Then I remembered that Leo Clement had been happy to speak about it. In a lads’ mag!

  ‘Well, I know the name . . .’

  ‘Well, in the magazine Nads he talks about me! How I’m fat and he shagged me,’ I panted.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Wanker.’

  ‘What’s your name? I’m Carol.’

  ‘Hey, Carol. Sorry about all this. I’m Sarah. Wanker. Not you, Carol. Leo Big Cock there.’

  ‘Did he have a . . .?’ She glanced down at her lap and that was when I really started to like her, because I would have asked the same question.

  ‘Yes, no, I don’t know! I didn’t shag him!’

  Eamonn walked out of the lift carrying Rachel.

  ‘Don’t put your back out, Eamonn!’ I called.

  ‘Sarah, look!’ Rachel shrieked and held up her hand. A diamond the size of a Brazil nut sparkled on her ring finger.

  ‘Fuck me. Fraggle Rock.’ I watched them as they giggled their way out of the door.

  ‘Was that Eamonn Nigels?’ asked Carol.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Oh, I’m in a film he’s doing.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Are you an actress?’

  ‘God, no, nothing so interesting.’

  ‘Sarah!’ It was Rachel on her own legs running towards me.

  ‘Congratulations!’ We fell into a big messy loud screechy hug.

  ‘Oooh, careful of my boob.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Will you be my bridesmaid? Please. Eamonn wants you to be one too! Please.’

  I didn’t like to tell her that it would be my third time.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Ah! We’re going to do it soon, before I go in. I’ll call you tomorrow to plan!’

  She shrieked off to join Eamonn.

  seventy-eight

  Eamonn arranged for Rachel to see the best doctors in LA. I finished shooting all my scenes. My six-week adventure was over and I should have flown back to England. However, Eamonn asked me to stay on if I could, to keep Rachel company. I said yes. I moved into their mansion and Rachel asked me to help plan her wedding.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, do you mind?’

  ‘Like . . . be a wedding planner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can that be my title?’ I asked keenly.

  ‘Er, we can call you whatever you want.’

  ‘Wedding planner,’ I sighed. ‘Like whatsit in that film.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, Jenny from the block, in that film.’

  ‘J.Lo.’

  ‘Yes, what was the name of that film?’

  ‘The Wedding Planner, Sarah.’

  ‘Oh. Deep title. You’d never guess what that’s about. Right! When do we start looking at napkins and stuff?’

  ‘We need someone to marry us.’

  ‘Erin’s dad!’

  Rachel raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Honestly, Rach, he’d be great. I went to a prayer meeting of his. He said “knob gags”. He’d be perfect for you!’

  ‘We need to find a place to have it first.’

  ‘Oh. Probably wise.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Where are you thinking?’

  ‘Devon.’

  Li
ttle tingles of bliss danced through me. I love Devon. I think it might be my spiritual home. We used to go on our annual family holidays to a place called Salcombe. It was the highlight of my childhood year. I didn’t even mind the endless hours on the M4 and M5 when my father listened to his ‘Become Fluent in German in a Week’ cassettes. I knew that Devon was worth the wait. I would sit in the back with my head pressed to the window, watching the rain caterpillar across the pane, hopefully pointing out Little Chefs. I did get a little carsick when we came off the motorway and the roads got so windy that driving a quarter of a mile took forty-five minutes. But I’d always perk up at the first sight of the sea. California is nice and heated but it’s not a nicotine patch on Devon. I even loved carrying forty-five bags to the beach and then sitting in the rain eating sandwiches in a cagoule and sun cream.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re going to get married in Devon,’ I cried, and there were tears in my eyes.

  ‘Sarah, pull yourself together and look at these.’ She threw me a selection of brochures.

  ‘Oh,’ I sighed in pleasure at the shiny pictures. ‘Uh, oh,’ I groaned as I leafed through photos of bobbing fishing boats and coloured cottages. ‘Oh, Rachel, it’ll be so wonderful. Can I just have a little weep of happiness?’

  ‘Off you go,’ she smiled.

  And I did. I cried little tears at the romance and the wonder and at the memories of home and childhood. But the fact that the last time I went to Devon was with Simon was mingled into the tears as well. It was a few years ago when we were just friends. We were poor and in need of a holiday. He borrowed a tent from Paranoid Jay and I borrowed my mum’s car and off we went. I showed him my childhood haunts; we ate crab sandwiches on pontoons with our feet dangling in the sea, drank lager in ancient pub beer gardens and told each other ghost stories as the rain attacked the tent each night. As I remembered how much fun it had been, there was one loud thought in my mind. You really ballsed that up, Sarah.