The admiring look in his eyes is as soothing as a hot bath, reassuring me that I’ve still got something going for me.
‘OK, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve had a horrendous day. I was fired.’
‘For real? From what job?’
‘Call centre.’
He winces sympathetically. His expression says: been there.
‘But I’m an actor really. And I would love to go in and see a film, even if it’s halfway through. I won’t disturb anyone. Just this once.’ I look at him pleadingly.
‘OK,’ he says eventually. ‘But only because my manager’s sick. And don’t tell your friends, yeah?’
‘I won’t, I promise. Thank you so much! You’re the best,’ I say, thrilled.
‘Remember me when you’re a famous actor,’ he says, waving me in with a gentlemanly flourish. ‘Send me a ticket to your premiere.’
‘Definitely,’ I promise him sincerely.
‘Hey,’ he adds. ‘Tell the guy at the popcorn counter that Ashraf said you could have a free popcorn. Regular size.’
Free film and free popcorn! Things are looking up.
I’ve missed the opening of the film, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a great reboot of the story and the script is fun. Emma Stone is also pretty bloody great. As the end credits roll up, I’m pinned to my seat with misery. I don’t want to be one of those people who can’t go to films or plays because they’re jealous of the actors. But that’s how I feel. Emma Stone is two years younger than me, and she’s already a star.
I know the ages of all the Hollywood celebutants. Emma Stone is twenty-two. Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Watson are twenty-one. Carey Mulligan and Gemma Arterton are twenty-six. Emma Stone moved to Hollywood when she was fifteen. What have I been doing with my life? They say that if you haven’t made it in your second year out of drama school, you won’t make it at all. Maybe it’s time to give up and do something else. But I can’t think of anything else: when I try, my mind goes totally blank, like the screen in front of me.
‘Excuse me,’ says someone. The lights have come on, and they’re tidying up the cinema. I look at the girl with her plastic bin bag, thinking: this is what my future holds. I’m never going to be up there on the screen; I’m always going to be down here watching. Or cleaning.
‘Sorry,’ I say, getting up. ‘I’m just leaving.’
In the train on the way home to Bromley, I wonder what would have happened if I’d asked my parents to move with me to Hollywood at fifteen. My dad would have taken my temperature, and then he would have explained about things like visas and mortgages and National Insurance contributions. Mum, though – I bet she would have considered it. She was always up for an adventure. She might even have gone back into acting herself. And if we’d lived in the States, she wouldn’t have had the accident …
But I can’t bear to think about that. Instead I remind myself that Chris, my older brother, would have had the casting vote, and he definitely would have vetoed it in case it interfered with his Duke of Edinburgh Award.
Just then I get a text. Hi love. Do you want a lift from the station? Lol Dad. I hope he never finds out ‘lol’ doesn’t mean ‘lots of love’; it’s too cute. I text back: Yes please. Poor Dad must be sick of giving me lifts. When I was at school, he used to drive me there with my bike in the back so I could cycle home. And if I didn’t feel like it or it was raining, he would drive me home as well, with the bike in the back again. My friend Maggie, who cycled every day in all weathers, called it my ‘comfort bike’.
‘Thanks for picking me up, Dad,’ I say, piling into the Volvo and kissing his cheek. He’s wearing a brand-new pair of jeans and a primrose-yellow jumper that looks to me as if Fi bought it for him. She’s very into her pastels and brights.
‘That’s quite all right, love … it’s a rotten night.’ He checks behind him and moves off carefully, wipers working. ‘How was your day?’
‘Awful. I got fired.’ I think this sounds better than ‘I quit’.
‘Fired? Why?’ He sounds horrified. But honestly, what did he think? That I was going to end up drawing a pension from my call centre job? Probably. He wants me to succeed at acting, but he’s also keen on pensions.
‘Because it was a living death and my manager was a dick.’
‘Lily …’
‘He was! He didn’t like the fact that I was practising an accent, so he fired me.’
Dad sighs.
‘What?’ I say brattishly. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I’ll get another job.’
‘That’s … never mind. Let’s wait till we get home.’ Before I can ask him what he means, he adds casually, ‘You know, we’ll have to get you driving again one of these days.’
I stiffen. He’s not going to bring that up now, is he? But thankfully he drops it, obviously sensing I’m not in the mood for a talk about how driving is a life skill, and Mum wouldn’t want me to be scared off the roads because of what happened to her. Which is good, because that talk generally ends with both of us in tears.
When we get home, the kitchen is looking nice and cosy, with the rain lashing the windows outside. The beef stroganoff I made at the weekend is heating up on the stove, and Dad’s cooked some wide noodles to go with it. I set the table quickly while Dad chooses the music.
‘Ella Fitzgerald sings Cole Porter or Ella sings Rodgers and Hart?’ he asks.
‘Rodgers and Hart please.’ I love ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ and ‘This Can’t Be Love’. And I need show tunes to cheer me up.
This is a routine we got into a few months after Mum’s accident, when Dad said we had to eat properly instead of having toast while slumped in front of the television. So we started taking turns cooking and choosing music, and we sometimes have wine and even flowers on the table. Weirdly, it’s more date-like than anything I ever did with Calvin, my ex. Calvin’s real name is Kevin, but he changed it, supposedly because there’s another Kevin Jones with an Equity card. I personally think that was just another red flag, along with him having a poster of himself in his bedroom and complaining about being typecast because he was so good-looking. Oh, and the fact that he rang NHS Direct when his dog was sick.
‘So Fi was saying she’s been watching your YouTube videos,’ says Dad, as we sit down and start on our beef stroganoff. ‘She said they’re really good; she’s forwarding them to her niece who’s doing English A level.’
‘Oh. Tell her thanks.’ I’ve uploaded a few self-tapes of Shakespeare monologues – Lady Macbeth, Cleopatra and Juliet – but so far they’ve only had about a hundred views. There are kittens in cardboard boxes with more hits than that.
‘She was wondering if you’d thought about emailing them to directors. I know that’s a little unrealistic, but perhaps you could tweet them, or …’
I count to ten to stop myself telling Fi where to stick her emails, and mutter, ‘Maybe’.
‘Don’t give up, Lily,’ he says gently. ‘One day you’ll have your break. You were so unlucky missing your showcase the way you did. It was bad timing, with … everything that was going on.’ He stops short as we both remember the horrible week that followed the accident, when I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone go to my end-of-year showcase. ‘But you have talent; you will get there.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, feeling a lump in my throat. ‘I’m sorry I was being a brat earlier.’
‘That’s OK. Look … there’s something I want to tell you. I have good news and bad news. Though I think it’s all good, as they say.’
I look up, and just like that I know. I know from his expression: guilty but also weirdly happy.
‘It’s you and Fiona. You’re getting married,’ I whisper. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, no,’ Dad says, sounding relieved to be reassuring me. Then he says, ‘We’re moving in together.’
‘Into her place?’
He looks uncomfortable. ‘Actually, I’d like her to move in here.’
‘Here? Into our house?’ I swallow with difficulty. My b
eef stroganoff has turned into salty cardboard. Ella’s mellow tones in the background sound like a car alarm.
‘It makes more sense, as her place will be much easier to rent out. Obviously this is your home, and you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want …’
‘No, I’ll find somewhere else,’ I say quickly.
There’s no way I can stay here and see my home invaded by Fiona’s kitsch Buddha statues and potpourri and hideous pink and purple ‘wall art’. I think of her sleeping in my parents’ bed, and using my mother’s wardrobe, and I feel ill. How could Dad do this to us? It’s only been three years since the accident. How can he wipe out his entire family history like this?
‘I know it’s hard, Lil,’ he says. ‘But I think it will be good for all of us. You should be living with people your own age, not your boring old dad. When’s the last time you had a night out with your friends?’
I shrug. I don’t really see people from drama school these days; they’re all busy being on TV or doing plays. The only person I see regularly is Maggie, and she spends a lot of time doing outdoorsy things with her boyfriend.
‘Does Chris know?’ I ask. He’s sort of half-heartedly Team Fi – at least he doesn’t think she’s as awful as I do and he’s said unforgivable things about Dad ‘moving on’.
‘Chris? No, no. I wanted to tell you first.’
Poor Dad looks so miserable at breaking the news to me. I know how lonely he’s been; I get it. I just wish he’d got a dog or something instead.
‘What’s the good news?’ I say faintly, hoping it’s that Fi has had a complete personality transplant. There’s nothing wrong with her, except she wears too much perfume and has a poster of a baby monkey saying ‘Hang in there!’ in her kitchen, and she can’t eat anything vaguely calorific without saying ‘Ooh! Naughty!’ She tries too hard, and she makes me feel guilty for not trying hard enough.
‘The good news!’ Dad says, sounding relieved. ‘You know your cousin’s wedding in Los Angeles?’
‘Of course!’ This is the one thing I’ve got to look forward to. Alice is my favourite cousin and I’m thrilled for her – and very excited that she wants me to be her bridesmaid. And I’m equally excited to see LA. I wish we could stay longer than a few days, but Dad has to go back for work and I won’t really know anyone else there except Alice and her friend Poppy, and they’ll both be with their boyfriends – fiancés, I suppose, in Alice’s case.
‘We should really book our flights, shouldn’t we?’ I ask Dad. ‘Do you want me to go online after dinner and have a look?’
‘Hold on a second, Lily. Alice rang up earlier today, and asked if you could come out a week early and stay with her and Sam. Apparently she needs help with various wedding things, so if you were happy to do that, she’d be really grateful. I’ll look after the flights.’
‘Seriously? Thanks, Dad, that’s amazing,’ I say, feeling happy for the first time since he dropped the F-bomb. ‘Can you imagine? An entire week in Los Angeles!’ I’m picturing sunshine, palm trees, celebs … Who knows who I might bump into? ‘Wait, what about Aunt Emily? And Erica?’ Alice’s mother and sister must know more about weddings than I do.
‘Well it’s all quite unfortunate timing. Erica will be having her baby around then. So Emily doesn’t want to fly out too early, and Erica can’t fly at all.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, I’d love to help her.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ Dad says. ‘Alice doesn’t want Sam to be put in an awkward position.’
‘Sam?’ I say blankly. ‘What – like seeing me in a towel or something? I can bring a dressing gown. But I honestly don’t think he’d notice; he only ever looks at her.’
‘No, Lily. She meant because he’s an agent. A film agent.’
I drop my knife with a clatter on the plate, scattering the remains of my dinner. ‘He’s a film agent? As in, he represents actors? I thought he was an estate agent!’
‘Well that’s what I thought too,’ Dad admits. ‘I must have misunderstood. I could have sworn your aunt said estate agent.’
‘But I’ve met him a million times! He knows I’m an actor! How come Alice never told me? She knows I’m desperate to get an agent …’
‘That’s probably why,’ Dad says drily. ‘Alice said that she’s sure Sam would give you advice at some point, but she doesn’t want him to be put on the spot. Especially not the week before their wedding.’
‘OK.’ I nod. ‘I understand. Of course I’ll go and help her, I’d love to. And if Sam happens to mention that someone’s dropped out of a film—’
‘Lily!’ Dad says. ‘No. No putting yourself forward. No mentioning parts, producers, directors, acting, or anything related to the above.’ There’s nothing like a solicitor for fine print.
‘Fine! I get it. I won’t mention acting.’
But secretly I’m pretty sure there will be a way around Dad’s prohibitions. And if I did get a break … I know Dad would be really happy. And Mum would have been so happy too. I’m sure the wedding stuff will be straightforward enough, and it’ll leave me plenty of time to investigate some leads. Especially if I’m staying with a Hollywood agent for an entire week!
Six weeks later, I land at Los Angeles International Airport. LAX! I’m a little disappointed to find that it looks like any other airport: sleep-deprived crowds, screaming children, shiny floors and baggage carousels.
But then I see them: the paparazzi. Four or five guys with cameras, all pointing them right at me. They’ve hardly seen my Sofa Warehouse ad, have they? Or have they mistaken me for someone else? I’m thrilled, obviously, but also panicked that I’m being photographed right now. I didn’t wear any make-up on the plane, and I’m bound to be all puffy and piggy-eyed. I’m not one of those girls who look naturally gorgeous, I need all the help I can get.
‘Move aside, miss,’ one of them says to me. I look and see that he’s actually trying to snap someone behind me – some E-lister from a reality show, I think. Now I feel like a total airhead. Did I really think I was getting papped on the basis of one Sofa Warehouse ad?
‘Lily!’ Alice is bounding across to me, blond hair flying, looking very pretty in a pale blue wrap dress, with huge sunglasses perched on her head, and high-heeled sandals. I feel like a slob beside her in my Topshop T-shirt, cardigan and jeggings. ‘It’s so great to see you! Welcome! Is this all you’ve brought?’ She gives me a huge hug and we both jump up and down with excitement. I’m so happy to see her, and also to have somewhere to be and something to do, even if it’s only for a week.
Walking out of the airport, I’m rendered speechless by the warmth. It’s October, but the sun’s blazing, the sky is blue, there are palm trees. It’s like heaven. And this is only the airport!
‘It’s as if the heating is on full blast,’ I say, pretending to stagger and fanning myself. ‘But we’re outside. How can this be?’
‘What’s it like back home?’
‘Like living in a damp Tupperware box at the bottom of the fridge.’ It’s hot in the car too, and it’s a relief when Alice turns the air conditioning on and we drive out of the airport.
‘I am so glad to see you, I can’t tell you. Thanks for coming out early. This wedding … let’s just say it’s time-consuming.’ Alice glances in her rear-view mirror. ‘Am I OK to change lanes?’
I look behind me and it seems fine, so I say, ‘Sure.’ Alice pulls out, to the sound of furious honking. I’m not nervous, though; for some reason, I’m never nervous if other people are driving. Only if it’s me.
‘Aargh. Maybe that was a bit tight. Oh well, it’s not far to our place. I can’t wait to show it to you,’ she says, sounding proud. ‘You’re going to love Venice. It’s the nicest part of LA by miles.’
I had pictured a huge beachside mansion, like in The OC, but Venice looks like an ordinary neighbourhood, even run-down in places. Lots of low houses painted olive green, grey or cream, or made of clapboard. True, we’re very close to the sea and there are pal
m trees on every street corner, but there are also lots of giant blue and green bins. There are fewer cars here and the streets are quiet; a woman goes by us on a bicycle, with a rolled-up yoga mat on her back. It’s not exactly the Beverly Hills-type scenario I’d envisaged.
‘Here we are,’ says Alice, pulling up at a grey-green building covered with a pink-flowered bush.
I follow her up some steps to a spacious terrace overlooking a canal, lined with picturesque little bridges and paths. The houses are all painted pink and blue and green, and several even have boats tied up outside them on the water. The terrace is beautiful too, with hardwood decking and a concrete pond filled with water lilies. I’m beginning to see what all the fuss is about.
‘Oh my God, do you have a boat?’
‘We do actually, it came with the house. We just haven’t had time to take it out yet,’ Alice says. She makes a face. ‘Sad, I know. Come inside.’
She opens up sliding glass doors to lead me into an open-plan kitchen-living room that looks like something from a magazine. Two luxurious grey sofas, with yellow chevron cushions, face each other near a high-tech fireplace. An antique chess set sits on a low glass coffee table. The room is on two levels: the kitchen, on the upper level at the far end, has a breakfast bar and a sleek oval dining table. If it wasn’t for the piles of cut-up paper all over the coffee table, and another basket full of pieces of paper, I would think it was a show home.
‘You’ve come a long way from Hertfordshire, girlfriend,’ I say, hiding my awe with a joke. ‘This crib is dope, yo.’
Alice beams. ‘Isn’t it? I especially love this.’ She strokes the exposed brick wall above the fireplace. ‘Let me give you the tour. This is our bedroom …’ She opens a door to a beautiful room with olive-green walls, white paintwork, and glass doors on to a flower-filled balcony. ‘And this is you.’
It’s small but perfect, with grey and cream walls, a double bed, a small silver-lacquered chest of drawers and a dressing table with a yellow-cushioned footstool. One side opens completely on to a little garden.
Girls on Tour Page 9
