Not Without You

Another thing: I starved myself for three days to fit into that fucking Victoria Beckham dress. That girl sure loves the skinny.

We’re off the highway, gliding down the wide boulevards of Beverly Hills, flanked on either side by vast mansions: old-looking French chateaux wedged right next to glass-and-chrome cubes next to English Gothic castles, Spanish haciendas, and the rest. My first trip here with my best friend Donna, both aged nineteen, driving round LA in a brown Honda Civic, these houses blew our minds – they looked like Toytown. It’s funny how things change. Now they seem normal. I know a couple of people who live in them, and I haven’t seen Donna in nearly seven years. Where is she now? Still living in Shamley, last time I Googled her.

We’re coming up to Wilshire and I need to check my make-up. ‘I’ll see you later,’ I tell Tina. ‘Thanks again.’

‘Oh – one more thing. I’m sorry, Sophie. Your mom called again.’ I stiffen instinctively. ‘She says you have to call her back.’ Tina clears her throat. ‘She says Deena’s coming to stay with you. Tonight.’

The compact mirror drops to the floor.

‘Deena? She can’t just— Tell her she can’t.’

Tina’s voice is apologetic. ‘Your mom said she has roaches and damp and it needs to be sprayed and … She’s got nowhere to go.’

‘I don’t care. Deena is not bloody staying. Why’s she getting Mum to phone up and do her dirty work for her anyway? No. No way.’

My head feels like it’s in a vice. It always aches when I don’t eat: I’m trying to lose ten pounds before The Bachelorette Party starts shooting.

‘Her cell is broken. That’s why. So – uh – OK.’ Tina’s tone conveys it all. She keeps me on the straight and narrow, I sometimes think. I’d be a Grade A egomaniac otherwise.

I clear my throat and growl. ‘Look. I’ll try and call Mum and put her off. Don’t worry about it. Listen though, if Deena turns up …’ Then I run out of steam. ‘Watch her. Make sure she doesn’t steal anything again.’

‘Sure, Sophie,’ says Tina, and I end the call with a sigh, trying not to frown. There are wrinkles at the corners of my eyes and lines between my eyebrows; I’ve noticed them lately. The Sophie Leigh on the poster doesn’t frown. She doesn’t have wrinkles. She’s twenty-eight, she’s happy all the time, and she knows how great her life is. That’s not true. I’m thirty, and I keep thinking I’m going to get found out.

CHAPTER TWO

‘SHE’S HERE! MAJOR star power incoming, people!’

Artie’s waiting for me as the elevator doors open, his arms open wide. ‘Sophie, Sophie, Sophie!’ The assistant on reception smiles, and someone whispers, ‘I loved your last movie,’ as I walk past, and Artie hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Hola! She’s here, people!’

It’s all an act, and he knows I know it.

‘You look. Amazing,’ he says simply, and leads me through to his office suite, overlooking Wilshire Boulevard, the wide straight road lined with palm trees right along from Rodeo Drive where Julia Roberts went shopping in Pretty Woman. I like going into Artie’s office, seeing what’s going on, what’s new. And though it sounds stupid, I like being in places where normal people work. Not that anyone at World Artists’ Management is particularly normal, but I’m an actress. OK, I’ll never be Meryl Streep, but part of my job is to play girls who work in offices and you don’t get that realistic a view of the world living in the Hollywood Hills and having the kind of life where you have your own florist.

Once upon a time I used to be like everyone else. I’m beautiful, but so are many people. It’s like being left-handed or having freckles – it’s just a fact. Plus I freely admit that the facials, the clothes and the instantly recognisable bobbed hair do a lot of the work for me. Seven years ago you wouldn’t have looked at me twice on the street.

‘Sit down,’ Artie says, gesturing to a thin, angled leather couch in the centre of the room. There’s an armchair opposite, for him, and a box of Krispy Kremes on a glass table.

I stare at the doughnuts and my stomach rumbles. I’m so hungry. I’m always hungry but I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime, unless you count the maki roll I had last night and the handful of popcorn – we watched a film before we went to bed. A film he’d made of us.

Tacky, I know. At the new memory of last night, I blush again, and my stomach rumbles with a sharp pain. Which is good. I hold onto that dragging, tightening feeling, the one you get when your stomach is crying out for food and you feel like you might faint. I hold it close, and smile brightly at Kerry, Artie’s assistant.

‘Can I get you something? Some coffee?’

‘That’d be great. No milk. And some water, please. Thanks so much, Kerry. Your top is so cute!’ I say, and she glows with pleasure.

‘Thanks, it’s from this totally—’

But Artie gestures that she should clear out, and Kerry’s mouth snaps shut. She retreats immediately, still smiling. Artie sits down, and stuffs a doughnut into his mouth. I watch him. I watch the crystals of sugar on his chin, on his fingers, watch his gullet move as he swallows.

When he pushes the box towards me with the tiniest of movements, I say nothing. I shake my head and give a regretful smile, though he and I both know, of course, I’ll never take a doughnut. It’s a test. I hate him just a little bit then.

‘So,’ he says, wiping his fingers and slapping his big meaty hands onto his black pants. ‘It’s great to see you, right? Everything’s good, isn’t it? It’s great!’

‘It’s great,’ I repeat.

He leans forward. ‘Honey. You’re being too British. The foreign numbers are in for The Girlfriend. We’ve already done forty million dollars – last week domestic gross was twelve million. That’s four weeks on! It’s killing everything else. It beat Will freakin’ Smith! You are back on top, baby. Back on top.’

‘Well, it’s the movie, not me,’ I say. This isn’t really true. The Bride and Groom, my breakthrough, was a really good film. Since then I think it’s been the law of diminishing returns, like Legally Blonde sequels. They’re not terrible, just not amazing. It’s not Tootsie: no one’s going to be studying the script of The Girlfriend in film school any time soon.

‘We’re on top of the world, OK? Enjoy it.’ His eyes linger on the doughnuts, and then he says, ‘So, you got a couple of weeks off now? Gonna read some scripts, take some meetings? Because we need to get thinking about your next project after The Bachelorette Party, don’t we? We’re excited about that, aren’t we? All good? You met up with Patrick yet?’

Artie put the deal together for The Bachelorette Party, the picture I’m due to start making in a few weeks. The male star, the director, the comedy-sidekick best friend, the scriptwriter and I are all agented by WAM. And Artie has got me a fantastic deal: I’m on a 20/20 – $20 million, 20 per cent of all revenues. If this film works, Artie will make a bomb.

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s being fixed up.’

‘OK. Well, you’re gonna love Patrick, I promise you. He’s a straight-up guy. Brilliant comedian. I think you two’ll really get along.’

Patrick Drew is my co-star. He is a surfer dude with tatts who is always being photographed stoned or punching paparazzi. Last month they got him throwing up out of the side of a car, speeding along Santa Monica Boulevard. He’s extremely hot, but dumb as a plank. Apparently, we’re really lucky to get him because, you know, he’s authentic.

Artie reaches forward for another doughnut. His large meaty fingers hover over the cardboard tray, touching the smooth, shiny caramel frosting of one, the plump slick of custard on the other. I close my eyes for a second, thinking about how the sweet, fluffy cream inside would taste on my tongue. No. No. You fat bitch, no.

‘How about George?’ Artie says heavily, and when I open my eyes his mouth is full and he’s brushing sugar off his trim beard. ‘You guys met last month, yes?’

‘Yes. He’s great.’

‘George is a fucking great director.’ Artie nods. ‘The guy’s a genius. You’re lucky.’

‘I know it. He is a genius. I’m very lucky.’ I’m parroting it back to him.

Artie gives me a curious look. ‘I’m glad you two are getting along. Tell me something—’

Kerry comes in with the coffee and the water. Artie nods at her then shakes his head, swivelling on his chair.

‘Forget it.’ He rubs his hands. ‘What comes next, after you wrap on The Bachelorette Party. This is what we need to think about. The new Sophie Leigh Project, Fall 2013.’

Now’s my moment. My palms are a bit sweaty. I rub them together. ‘Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.’

‘Great!’ Artie smiles happily.

I take a sip of the water ‘Just … run some things past you.’ I don’t know why I feel nervous. It’s crazy. I’m the A-Lister – a film with me in will always be a tent pole, something for the studios to prop up their profits with while they try out other, smaller, more interesting projects. ‘I’ve had some ideas … been thinking about them for a while. I – wanted to find the right time to pitch them to you.’

Artie frowns. ‘You shoulda told me. I’d have come over. Twenty-four/seven, Sophie, I’m always here. You’re my number one priority.’

‘It’s OK, I’ve been crazy with promotional stuff,’ I say. ‘I only – I want us to think carefully about what we do next. I kind of want to move along a bit. Not make the same old film again.’

Artie nods violently. ‘Me too, me too,’ he says. ‘Man, this is great, you’re totally right! I totally agree.’

‘Oh, good!’