Not Without You

Patrick Drew grins, takes off his baseball cap and nods enthusiastically. His long shaggy hair bobs in front of his eyes. He is wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Sure, the T-shirt isn’t crumpled but … that’s it. We were sent twenty-eight dresses, I had seven different meetings with DeShantay, and today I spent four hours getting ready.

‘You look pretty,’ he says. ‘Wow, that dress must be hot.’

The pink dress with the cap sleeves is indeed hot. I stare at him, hating him.

‘OK then,’ he says. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ I say.

‘Let’s do it!’ As he kisses me, the people in the crowd nearest us roar their approval, like they’re witnessing our romance. Oh, fuck off, I want to snarl at them. This guy is an idiot. Then I feel guilty: we’re doing this for them, so they’ll go see a film that hasn’t even started shooting. I put my arm round him, like we’ve known each other for years.

‘See you later, P,’ someone says.

‘J-Man! See you. Dudehead, Billy – catch you afterwards, yeah?’

‘Yeah, man,’ they call out. I don’t know when it became obligatory to have an entourage if you’re a male star, but these days there have to be at least three dufusy-guys with you at all times, otherwise you’re nothing in Hollywood.

‘Bye, fellas!’ Patrick shouts happily. ‘Cool! Good guys, crazy guys. What a trip!’

How can you be this up all the time? I wonder. Is he on something? Perhaps he’s a Scientologist. I bet he is.

The crowd roars as we move and the photographers scuttle along beside us, crab-like at our feet. I remind myself of what Mum used to say to me as she pushed me into an audition. This is your dream, isn’t it? You like this. Enjoy the moment.

‘Sophie!’ I spin around; stupid of me to turn and look when someone calls my name but I’m rattled, I don’t know why – this is full on.

‘You OK?’ Patrick says. I smile brightly at him.

‘I’m totally fine!’ I tell him.

Perspiration starts to build on my back, on my neck. I keep my armpits closely wedged by my side.

‘Man, you totally are beautiful, you know?’ He shakes his head. ‘Everyone says it, I mean, I know it, I’ve seen you in pictures, obviously. But wow … yeah, you really are.’

I think it’s a line, but he says it like it’s a fact, not as a compliment, nodding his head.

‘Well, I’m really looking forward to working with you,’ I say inanely.

‘Me too. You’re the queen of this kind of shit!’ he says, with a kind of goofy smile. It’s gonna be great. You know George, right?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know George.’

Behind us, Ashley shouts, ‘Guys, this is Cally Colherne, E! news.’

‘Hi, Cally!’ I say. ‘It’s so great to see you!’

Cally bares her white, white teeth at us and sticks a bright green mike under our noses. ‘Hi, guys! Now, I hear you guys are just starting shooting a film together. That’s so cool!’

Patrick answers. ‘Yeah, Cally. It’s …’

Smile plastered on my face, I let my mind drift as I go onto autopilot. I wonder where George is.

We move on, stopping at each reporter, answering questions about the movie, about working with each other, and we don’t say, ‘We just met two minutes ago, I’ve no idea what his favourite ice-cream is,’ we say, ‘Hey, you love cookies and cream, I know you do!’ like we’re old friends in this big, shiny community of stars.

After about ten minutes I steal a glance at Patrick, as the intensity of the screams coming from the other end of the carpet indicate someone much bigger than us has arrived. He’s kind of cute, I have to admit it. He has big brown eyes, a huge sweet smile and this funny floppy hair and gangly limbs that almost seem to take him by surprise. He turns and catches me looking at him, and I feel myself blush with embarrassment. Maybe Tommy was right – I should have taken Botox armpit action.

Patrick talks incessantly, when we’re not being interviewed. How he just got a new dog. How he met Dennis Hopper before he died which was so cool because Easy Rider is his favourite film. How there’s this great new restaurant out on the highway next to the ocean that does unreal shrimp. He keeps asking me questions, but I answer in monosyllables, barely listening. I just want to get inside. As we’re reaching the end of the queue, he stops in front of a dinner-jacketed security guard, who nods and wave us through. ‘I think we could go further with the script and what we guys do,’ he says. And he looks across at me and smiles. ‘You’ve never done anything like that, neither have I.’

I am instantly wary, as that always, always means the girl has to go naked, probably full-frontal. Or do something disgusting. Going further, pushing boundaries, mixing it up – it’s all bullshit shorthand for: more girl nudity and if the girl complains, she’s a humourless bitch who doesn’t get comedy.

I know some cameras are still trained on us, so I keep my hands by my sides and say carefully, pretending to smile, ‘Have you spoken to George about it? What does he think?’

‘George is totally up for it.’ Patrick claps his hands and rubs them together happily. ‘It’s going to be so cool! You’re so talented. You’ll love it. I’m convinced you’ll get it.’

I know he’s trying to butter me up to do something disgusting on film and I’m not doing it. I feel flustered, cross that Patrick and George have already discussed this.

‘That’s kind,’ I say, buying time.

Patrick Drew nods enthusiastically, his broad grin even wider. ‘It’s not kind, Soph! You rock! You can really act, you know? I saw it and I was like— Hey, dude! You fucking rock, man! That beard is for real! It suits you longer! How are you!’

‘Er—’ I begin, then I turn around. George is standing behind us. The cameras click again; George is famous, the kind of director you might recognise on the street. Mainly that’s because he was married to Billie Gorky the year she won an Oscar, but also because he looks like an important person.

His hand is on my bare skin, where the dress is cut out at the back. ‘Hey, guys,’ he says, kissing us both. His brown, tanned arms, thick with black hairs, envelop us both. His cool grey eyes, flinty under the beetling black brows, meet mine. ‘Look!’ he says, in his rich, husky voice, to the reporters and the crowd behind them. ‘The stars of The Bachelorette Party! We’re going to have so much fun making this picture. Summer 2013, OK?’

And I am so flustered – from seeing him, from the heat, from the whole damn thing – that I raise my arm and wave. The camera shutters click madly, like a swarm of crickets chattering together. As I’m doing it, I realise it’s a mistake, and then I make a second one.

I look down.

Sure enough, the armpit is dark rose pink, and that’s the picture that changes everything. Not a photo of me stepping out of the car in my beautiful borrowed diamond earrings and hair that took an hour to style. Not me and Patrick with our arms round each other, laughing like we’re old friends or young lovers. No, the picture that runs on the front of Us Weekly, as the headline in TMZ, E! and every gossip website in the States, back home in the UK, on the front of Heat the following week, that’s re-Tweeted by everyone, is of me looking down in horror at the sweat stain under my arm, my face contorted into a twist of panic. SOPHIE’S STINKY SURPRISE! screams a tabloid the next day, like I’ve lost control of my bowels in front of the Queen, not just got a bit sweaty in the 90-degree heat of a muggy LA. You’re not allowed to sweat if you’re a star. It was only me who did, not those other stars gliding by, untouchable, beautiful, perfect, glittering in the golden evening light.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A WEEK AFTER Armpitgate, tired of the uncertainty, annoyed by everything else, I ask George to stay over, and he says yes. I can hardly believe it. I think he’s being nice to me because I want him more and more at the moment, I can’t stop myself, and of course – duh – he loves that. Like every time we fuck it pushes everything further away. He’s also being nice to me because he wants me to do something for him. I’m not stupid, though I think he thinks I am. But mainly I think he’s being nice to me because Armpitgate is bigger than anyone could have realised. In fact, it’s a total disaster.

But it’s a mistake, having him in my pretty white house. He’s like John Huston; I should have killed a bear and had it mounted on the wall to make him feel at home. He’s too big and hairy and … there, in my space. He arrives late, after dinner with some old buddies (I’m never asked, and I don’t want to go anyway), and he stinks of cigars and meat grease: I can smell it on his skin. I lie there watching him take his black silk shirt off and suddenly I wish he wasn’t here. I don’t know why.

So we don’t have sex and I can tell he’s pissed about it. He paws at me a few times and kisses my neck, says, ‘C’mon baby, c’mon.’ But I yawn, tell him I’m tired, I have an early start. I keep seeing the video camera by the side of the bed. I notice it more than I do in his room. It looks out of place.

‘That’s a shame,’ he says eventually. He lies in the white bed, naked, playing with himself. I think he’s going to go next door and jerk off in a minute.

I watch him, my arms crossed. ‘George, Patrick said something at the awards about a nude scene. Did you discuss it with him?’

The hand under the sheet stops moving. ‘What? No.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘I’m not lying to you, Sophie. I wouldn’t discuss stuff like that with Patrick Drew. He’s a pansy. He’d never agree. I thought you’d be totally into it though.’

‘So you do want a sex scene.’ I pull the sheet over myself, yanking it away from his body. He clenches his jaw and sits up. ‘Why didn’t you ask me? I’m not doing it, I can tell you that straight off.’