KATE FORSTER lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband, two children and two dogs, and can be found nursing a laptop, surrounded by magazines and watching trash TV or French films.

Picture
Perfect
Kate Forster

www.mirabooks.co.uk

‘Half the people in Hollywood are dying to be discovered and the other half are afraid they will be.’

—Lionel Barrymore

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Los Angeles 11 May, 1996

The girl shivered and hugged her new baby closer to her chest. It had been a restless night in the hospital room, her friend shifting uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, while the baby snuffled into her chest, trying to find the source of the scent of milk.

She felt sick, but she wanted it finished. Every second she was with the baby was another second that might change her mind.

Her friend sat watching her, her slim legs in skintight jeans, chewing gum and sipping from the can of Mountain Dew she’d bought from the vending machine down the hall. She was swinging one foot, a habit that her friend knew came from nerves, not restlessness.

‘She’s gonna have a real nice life,’ her friend said for the millionth time.

‘I know,’ she answered numbly.

‘Better than anything we ever had.’

The baby stirred and she shifted her up onto her shoulder, and she felt her breasts ache. She was bottle-feeding, as they had all agreed, but her body yearned for the feel of her baby on her skin.

Her milk was coming in, the nurses had told her this morning, as the baby rubbed her little face against the bare skin on her neck.

Skin hungry, she thought, her tired mind recalling what she’d read about babies trying to bond with their mothers.

Is this what love feels like? she wondered, and then she felt the let-down of her milk, soaking her one good T-shirt.

‘Goddammit,’ she said and stood up from the bed. ‘Take her, I have to dry this,’ and she handed over the warm bundle.

Her friend took the baby with the confidence of someone who had grown up around younger children.

‘Hush now, little one,’ she said to the babe, and started singing about Jesus.

All her friend’s songs were about Jesus, thought the girl as she went into the bathroom and plugged in the hairdryer from the cupboard under the sink. This was a real nice hospital, with fancy toiletries and hairdryers in each room. Better than the apartment she shared with her friend. She waved the hot air over her milk-stained T-shirt. She saw the milk had left a shadow of two eyes on her front.

Proverbs 15:3, she thought. The eyes of the LORD are everywhere, keeping watch on the wicked and the good.

What was he thinking as he watched her now?

A knock at the door made her jump and drop the hairdryer.

‘Give her to me,’ she said, rushing out and snatching the baby back. Time is precious, don’t waste a moment, she heard the preacher say in her head.

Her friend walked to the door and opened it. ‘Hi there,’ she said, like she was about to serve them at the Pick ‘n’ Mix candy store.

She heard the woman’s breathless voice answering and she walked to the window and stared out unseeingly at the parking lot.

If the Lord was watching her, and he knew how she was feeling, then he would have found another way, wouldn’t he?

‘Sweetheart?’

Turning slowly, she saw the woman who was about to become her baby’s new mother.

The first time she met the woman she had been a tired, scared teenager, heavy with this child. Everything had ached.

Now everything ached for a different reason.

This woman had everything she didn’t and she had the one thing the woman couldn’t have.

Too old to adopt, the agencies had said.

The woman didn’t look at her, just at the beautiful baby in her arms.

‘How is she doing today?’ she asked, lines of worry and age on her face.

And here was she, too young to keep the baby without family support.

Who was anyone to say this woman shouldn’t have a baby just because she was older? It was unfair, but then the girl had always known life was unfair.

The woman didn’t dress like anyone she knew. No one in her life wore smart suits or scarves, not even in church.

The baby mewed. Though the girl’s breasts still yearned for the sweet mouth of the baby, she held her out to the woman.

‘Do you want to hold her?’ she asked shyly.

The woman pounced on the baby and cooed and clucked her tongue at the child.

‘She’s perfect,’ she said, looking up with tears in her eyes as she took her from the arms of the young mother.

‘Nobody’s perfect,’ she said quietly. ‘Not even a teeny, tiny baby.’

But the woman didn’t seem to notice anything but the baby.

‘You got the money?’ asked her friend and the girl frowned at her bluntness, but then her friend had always been able to separate money and emotion. It was business, she had said to her when she balked at the amount her friend suggested for the baby.

The woman reached into her black leather handbag and handed a yellow envelope to the girl.

Her friend took a sip of Mountain Dew and opened the envelope. ‘I need to count it.’ She set to work, carefully counting the money.

‘It’s all there,’ the woman assured her, tearing her eyes away from the baby for a moment. ‘And the contract for you to sign.’

Her friend looked up from the money with cold eyes. ‘She’ll sign when I’ve counted the money,’ she snapped.

The woman was rocking the baby. The girl looked, and saw the baby’s feet poking out of the pink blanket.

‘She’ll get cold,’ she said and she tucked the blanket more snugly around the baby.

The woman stared at her.

‘You are going to sign the papers, aren’t you?’ she asked, her eyes searching the girl’s face.

Her voice was filled with fear; something the girl knew well.

‘I am,’ she said in a low voice. She went to the drawers by the bed and pulled out an envelope, and held it out to the woman.

‘This is for her, when she’s old enough, just in case something happens…’

The woman tore her eyes from the baby and nodded, her expression kind, as she took the envelope from her.

‘Can I read it?’ she asked politely. The girl knew the woman would read it later, even if she had said no at this moment.

She nodded and the woman struggled to open the envelope with the baby in her arms. She thought about offering to hold her while she read it but she didn’t trust herself to hand the child back.

She’s not yours now, she reminded herself.

The woman started to read.

She knew the words by heart.

Dear Baby Girl,

I am your momma, and I love you, but I don’t have anything a momma needs to look after a little baby.

I promise you I will come back for you when I can. Until then, be happy with this nice lady, who wants to be your momma for a while. She can take care of you and buy you a four-poster bed and good food and lots of clothes and lots of other things I can’t.

One day, when I’m rich, I’ll come and find you again and give you everything else you need.

Until then, know that I will always love you, my precious little girl.

Your Momma

xoxoxo

The woman folded the letter and put it back into its envelope and she saw her eyes wet with tears, but still she refused to cry.

Crying never helped nobody do nothin’, Grammy used to say.

The old woman had been right. Crying wouldn’t make her rich, or magically give her everything she knew the baby needed. She didn’t have enough money for her own food, let alone to raise a child. How would she clothe her? Educate her? Take care of her in a crisis? God knows she had had enough drama in her own short life to know things happened, terrible things that no child should ever go through.

And there was no way she was going to let her go into foster care, not after what she has been through. There was not a time she could remember when she had felt as though her life was turning out okay. Too many foster homes and too many of her grandmother’s broken promises had shattered her trust that the world was a safe place for a young girl to raise a child alone.

There was no point in crying, no point in wishing. The best thing for the child was to be with someone who could make sure she would be safe, and that she would never go hungry. That she would have the opportunity to go to school, that she would have a packed lunch and shoes without holes and that no one would ever call her ‘white trash’ to her face.

Her friend nodded at her that the money was all there. She picked up the pen and, with a shaking hand, she signed the papers on the table.

All those years of practising her signature for when she was able to make her own decisions instead of the welfare department, and this was the first time she got to use it for something grown-up.

With aching breasts and a breaking heart she pushed the papers over to the woman and nodded to her friend.

‘She’s yours now until I can come back,’ she said dully.

‘Would you like to hold her again?’ asked the woman.

She shook her head.

She knew that if she held her baby again, she would never let her go.

‘No, thank you, you’re her momma for now,’ she said, and the woman who at forty-five had nearly given up on being a mother, blinked and nodded.

‘Please. You should hold her again,’ said the woman as she walked over to the girl. ‘It will help you say goodbye.’

But the girl shook her head and picked up the plastic bag that contained her few personal belongings.

‘There’s no goodbye,’ she said. ‘Just take care of her till I can. I’ll be back for her, I promise, and I’ll pay you back the money and take care of her myself.’ She spoke with absolute certainty.

Without a backwards glance, she left the hospital room, her friend following, with a copy of the adoption documents, thirty thousand dollars and a desperate dream that one day she would have everything she ever wanted, including her baby girl.

Chapter 1

Los Angeles March 2015

Zoe Greene checked her reflection in the mirror and carefully blotted her neutral-coloured lipstick. Her tawny hair was blow-dried straight, her make-up flawless but subtle. She never liked to take the attention away from her clients but she was a beautiful woman and men noticed her, although she rarely noticed them in return.

Dating an actor was out of the question, she had yet to meet an actor who wasn’t self-obsessed, and the power-players in Hollywood didn’t want a relationship with a woman who might negotiate them out of their last million.

She heard that familiar sniff in the stall behind her and rolled her eyes at the bathroom attendant. The only drug Zoe ever needed was making deals and the annual Vanity Fair Oscars party was the ultimate place to make the deal of a lifetime.

Picking up her Judith Leiber clutch, she left the bathroom, ignoring the attendant’s offer of a spray of bespoke perfume.

She didn’t need a spritz of perfume, she needed a stiff drink, but that would have to come later. First she had the meeting from hell to get through.

‘He’s ready,’ she heard from one of his assistants, who seemed to come out of nowhere to murmur in her ear. Squaring her shoulders, Zoe followed him into the private VIP room, where the truly famous partied together, away from the merely famous.

Angie and Brad sat in corner, talking intently to Anderson Cooper; Maggie Hall, her best friend and truly famous movie star client, was discussing something at length with Charlize Theron, and Sandy Bullock was sitting on Clooney’s knee, laughing like they were the funniest two people in the room.

Actually they were the funniest people in the room, Zoe thought as she walked towards Jeff Beerman’s table, trying to act nonchalant, but knowing all eyes were on her.

She lifted her head out of pride, as though she were the one accepting the Oscar. This was her moment and she had damn well earned it, she told herself.

She thought of the years of grovelling to men who couldn’t think without being told what to think about, men who dismissed her and asked her to get coffee when she walked into a meeting, men who tried to make deals with her while trying to get her into their bed.

Zoe had never had a formal meeting with Jeff Beerman; she had only met him at industry events and parties, where he would usually have a circle of hangers-on, and an extremely beautiful girl on his arm when he was in between wives.

Although the Oscars party wasn’t really a formal meeting, she still knew it was going to be the biggest moment of her professional life and if she was going to take a gamble, she might as well go for broke.

Zoe’s poker face was the best in the business but a rare smile crossed her lips as she thought of her trump card, or manuscript, as it were.

‘What are you smiling at, Greene?’ Jeff asked with a curt nod of his grey head.

He called everyone by their surnames, as though he was the captain of Hollywood and they were all his junior officers.

‘Nothing, just enjoying myself,’ she said, making sure her poker mask was firmly back in place.

‘You should smile more, it suits you,’ he said, as though this was a certain fact.

‘Thank you, I think,’ she answered, thankful she was wearing a simple yet elegant Calvin Klein black dress. This was not the time for big hair and low cleavage; she would leave that to the starlets. She was there for business and nothing more.

‘Don’t think, just smile,’ he said and Zoe laughed.

‘Isn’t that the standard advice you hand out to all your girlfriends?’ she half joked and then almost gasped at her lack of control.

She was always in control, especially in meetings, but Jeff had disarmed her with that whole smiling schtick. She knew his game and she wasn’t about to play by his rules.

‘Give us a moment,’ he said to his assistant, not taking his eyes off Zoe. The man backed away quickly.

‘Sit,’ he ordered and she did.

‘You wanted to see me?’ she asked, as though she had anywhere better to be than at a private table with studio head Jeff Beerman.

Jeff leaned forward. Maggie and Zoe had always agreed that he was handsome enough to be a movie star, except he loved the business of movies more than the films themselves.

Like Zoe, he loved the deals but unlike Zoe he was a very rich man and, at times, a very despised man.

‘I hear you’ve just signed Hugh Cavell,’ he said, his eyes running over her, and she squared her shoulders and sat up straight.

‘I have,’ she answered, trying to be casual but professional.

‘I want the option to his book,’ he barked. ‘How much does he want for it?’

His presumption annoyed her and fuelled by the thought of Hugh being her royal flush, she smiled sweetly.

‘You could try asking nicely, Jeff. Manners are free, you know.’

‘Don’t fuck me around, Greene. I want the rights to this book!’

‘You and everyone else,’ she answered, meeting his icy gaze.

They stared at each other, neither moving, and then Jeff broke.

‘You’re braver than you look,’ he said, leaning back in his chair.

‘You don’t intimidate me,’ Zoe lied, bestowing Jeff with another smile.

He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment. ‘Good for you. Most people shit themselves when they meet me,’ he said, almost proudly.

‘Should I be impressed or concerned for them?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure there’s an operation for that.’

Jeff’s expression changed from steely to resigned, and he rewarded her with the flicker of a smile. What a shame he was such a bastard, thought Zoe, before his voice broke into her thoughts.

‘Greene, listen to me, I have to have this book. I can make the movie a huge hit.’

‘So can Harvey, Brian or David,’ she said, listing the other studio heads who had all offered her meetings since word had spread that she had Hugh Cavell in her managerial stable.

‘Yeah, but why would you work with those morons? My studio will make the best picture—you know it and I know it—so stop playing games. What does the guy want? Money? A shot at writing the script? Casting approval?’

Zoe sat back in the leather seat and crossed her legs. ‘Yes, he wants all of those things, and the other studios have already offered them.’

‘So, what the fuck else does he want then?’ Jeff looked impatiently at his Breitling watch.

Zoe paused for effect. She might not be an actor, but she knew how to play the role.

‘Actually, Hugh wants me as the lead EP on the film,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t trust anyone to produce it, unless I’m involved.’

‘What?’ Jeff recoiled as if she had just announced she was pregnant with his child.

‘You heard me,’ she said calmly.

A passing waiter placed two flutes of champagne in front of them, but Jeff pushed his away.

‘Scotch, neat,’ he snarled at the waiter, who retreated as though stung.

Zoe, glad for the distraction, picked up her glass and took a sip, trying to not let her hand shake. Show him nothing, she reminded herself, not how much you want it, and certainly not how much you care.

Jeff looked Zoe up and down dismissively.

‘Come on, Greene, get real. You’re a fucking talent manager not an executive producer. ‘

‘Yes, I am.’ Zoe wasn’t insulted. She represented some of the biggest stars in town and could pull a deal together faster than any of her peers. She knew her own worth. ‘But that’s about to change.’

‘You’ve got no runs on the board,’ he said. ‘What else can you bring to this besides the author?’

‘My expertise, my people skills, my industry knowledge. I’m good at what I do.’

Jeff rolled his eyes. ‘You and everyone else in this room,’ he scoffed.

Zoe sipped more champagne and felt the amber liquid roll down her throat, hoping it would be an elixir of courage. ‘It’s simple, Jeff. The book comes with me attached as EP, that’s what Hugh and I have agreed, so don’t even think about going over my head. We have a contract even you couldn’t pull apart.’

Jeff was silent. Zoe pushed her chair back and stood up.

‘Think about it and call my office tomorrow if you’re interested, my assistant Paul will patch you through to my cell,’ she said, and made to walk away from the table.

‘Sit down and don’t make a scene,’ he snapped and again, she did as he asked.

Who needs who more? she wondered, as she felt the eyes of passing guests on them and saw waitstaff nervously pacing nearby, ready for the snap of Jeff’s temper.

There was silence, each one holding their cards close to their chest.

‘So you want to make movies, huh?’ Jeff asked finally with a sigh, as though she had just asked for the right to vote. ‘Not many women make it in this business. Do you think you can handle it?’

‘Don’t patronize me because I’m a woman,’ she said politely. ‘I can do any job as well as a man.’

‘I’m not. I don’t care what’s between your legs,’ he laughed. ‘I want to know you can handle the bullshit and the drama when your leading stars hate each other and I’m screaming at you on the phone and the director’s losing the plot and you haven’t slept in a week.’

Zoe smiled. ‘My film wouldn’t be like that,’ she stated.

‘Oh, really?’ Jeff smiled now, and he stared at her for a long time. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I would make sure everything was sorted before we got to set,’ she said, knowing she sounded naïve but she believed in thinking ahead, her whole life she had had to be one step ahead of everyone else.

Jeff pulled at the cuffs on his shirt, a glimpse of silver cufflinks caught the light and Zoe’s eye.

‘You can’t always be prepared for what happens while making a movie,’ said Jeff. ‘Life throws curveballs at all of us, even me.’

Zoe felt the room’s eyes on her, the sound of gossip and conjecture about why Zoe and Jeff were talking so intently. She heard laughter and some music, and somewhere a glass smashed but it was Jeff’s eyes boring into hers that steadied her.

‘Why do you want to make this movie, Greene?’ he asked.

‘Because it’s the most beautiful book I’ve ever read,’ she answered truthfully.

Jeff squinted and frowned and then he rolled his eyes and Zoe laughed as she continued.

‘And because it’s box office gold: the man who learns about love only after his wife is declared terminally ill? I mean, what about that isn’t perfect chick-flick fodder?’

‘And the author, do you think he can write a decent script?’

‘Yes, I think he can write a great script,’ she replied, crossing her fingers under the table.

Jeff swilled the Scotch in his glass, drained the last of it, and then cleared his throat.

‘This is the biggest hit in books since fuck knows what,’ he said. ‘I want it to be the best movie Palladium Pictures has ever produced, do you understand? This is the movie people will talk about when I die.’

Zoe nodded, secretly marvelling at Jeff’s ego. Did he come to Hollywood with that intact or did he earn it?

‘I understand,’ she said and then she appealed to his ego. ‘And this is why I’m coming to you,’ she said. ‘I want to learn from you.’

Jeff watched her as she sipped her drink, his eyes narrowed.

‘How old are you?’ he asked rudely, but Zoe didn’t flinch.

‘Thirty-six,’ she said.

‘You’re too old for me.’

Zoe laughed. ‘I don’t want to date you; I want you to teach me. You’re the perfect age to be my wise old teacher,’ she said with a cheeky smile, and she saw a flash of displeasure cross his face.

‘I thought you weren’t into men?’ He smirked, but she swallowed her temper.

‘Oh, I am into men, just not old ones,’ she said. ‘I prefer to leave them to the piranhas with silicone breasts and gold-digging dreams.’

Jeff laughed. ‘God knows there are plenty of those fish in the sea; I even married a few of them.’ Then he looked up at her, his face unreadable. ‘But not many like you, it seems.’

She sensed Jeff’s respect that she could hold her own.

‘Every agent, manager and motherfucker in LA was after this Brit. How the hell did you get him to sign with you, Greene?’

Zoe thought about her trip to London. She remembered the taxi ride to Hugh’s little house and the desolate, drunken state in which she’d found him. She had been shocked. The guy was so self-destructive he made Hemingway seem like a lightweight, but for some reason he had trusted Zoe. She had cleaned him up, brought him back to LA in secret, and rented him a secluded, light-filled house in Malibu where he could write, and dry out. She hadn’t even told Maggie that Hugh was in LA. ‘He trusts me,’ was all she said with a shrug.

Jeff nodded and shook his head. ‘You know I’m gonna try to screw you on the backend deal,’ he said.

‘You can try, but I doubt you’ll succeed,’ she answered, and for a brief moment, she saw respect in his eyes.

‘Come and see me tomorrow. I’ll get my assistant to call yours,’ he said.

‘So we have a deal?’ Zoe asked.

‘No, we don’t have a fucking deal! I asked for a meeting, not to fucking marry you.’

Zoe resisted the urge to punch him in his handsome but arrogant face.

Men like Jeff made her angry. Angry that they had more power than her and angry that she was just as deserving yet was still overlooked because she was a woman.

‘Okay, then you won’t mind if I go and meet with Harvey before you?’ she asked, using one of her last cards.

But what she understood about men like Jeff Beerman was that he hated competition of any kind.

Jeff stared at her, making her feel like she was twelve years old again and under the eyes of the social worker. Judging, assessing, making plans for her that weren’t in her best interest.

A small amount of bile rose in her throat but she swallowed it down with a sip of champagne.

‘Jesus, you’re a bitch, Greene,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Why?’ she challenged, the heat rising in her cheeks. She couldn’t tell if it was him or the champagne that was making her flushed. ‘Because I want what I want? You get to be ambitious but I’m a bitch? I’m disappointed in you, Jeff. I thought you were better than that.’

Actually, this was a lie. Jeff could be a misogynistic prick, whose three ex-wives would all testify to the fact, but Zoe wanted to give him a chance to dig himself out of his gender-biased grave.

To his credit, Jeff took a moment and then looked Zoe in the eye. ‘You’re right, that was unfair. You’re not a bitch; you’re just a pain in the arse.’

Zoe laughed a little, despite herself. ‘You have no idea how big a pain in the arse I can be.’

Jeff put his hand out over the table. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said. ‘Bring yourself to my office tomorrow to discuss the terms.’

Zoe took his hand in hers, feeling the smooth skin of a man who worked behind a desk all day.

‘Thank you, Jeff, you won’t regret it. This movie is going be a huge hit.’

‘It fucking better be. If it’s not, I’m gonna blame it all on you and you’ll never eat lunch in this town again.’

Zoe smiled. ‘That’s okay, I don’t eat lunch anyway,’ she said, and without a backwards glance, she walked out of the room that everyone wanted to be inside.

Outside, in the crisp midnight air, she handed the valet parking attendant the ticket for her Jaguar and shivered, not from the cold, but from the feeling that there was something exciting in the air.

She laughed as she got into the car and she thought about Jeff saying she was too old for him. The last thing she wanted was to be the next Mrs Beerman. She wanted something bigger than that: she wanted to be the next Jeff Beerman.

After nearly twenty years in Hollywood, Zoe Greene had finally got the break she needed, and she wasn’t going to let anything stand in her way.

Chapter 2

Maggie Hall was careful not to trip over the train of Penelope Cruz’s enormous silver ball gown as she manoeuvred through the room to gain a better view of Zoe’s conversation with Jeff Beerman.

The room was buzzing with celebrities catching up, waitstaff trying to keep up with the request for drinks and power brokers shaking hands and comparing egos.

The finest haute couture was being worn by the beautiful as if they deserved nothing less: clothes that hadn’t been worn by anyone else in the world yet but would dictate fashion pages for the next year. Trends were being started, careers were being launched, and deals were being made in every corner of the room.

Arrangements about management, pacts around casting, transactions in marriages and compromises with lovers. It was a cacophony of perfume and ambitions, the perfect night, thought Maggie as she watched a starlet make a play for Brad Pitt and Angelina smile as though indulging one of her youngest children.

Maggie was a people watcher, which was part of what made her a brilliant actress, but she wasn’t trying to play either Jeff or Zoe in a new role. She knew there was something going down, and—given Zoe was both her best friend and her manager—automatically assumed it had something to do with her.

But Zoe had already left the table by the time Maggie got a decent view and she was left talking to Gwyneth Paltrow about colon cleanses.

Damn you, Zoe, she thought, at least tell me which project Jeff wants me for so I can prepare.

Did she need to lose weight or gain it? Change her hair colour from blonde to brunette? Change her body shape with four-hour-a-day workouts?

Transforming herself came naturally to Maggie—she’d being doing it for nearly thirty-seven years. It was being herself she sometimes had trouble with, she thought wryly.

Gwyneth Paltrow had been joined by Willow Carruthers, and the two were now talking about London’s best colonic clinics.

God help me, Maggie thought when she heard her name.

‘Maggie?’ She turned and found herself face-to-face with her ex, Australian actor, Will MacIntyre and his Spanish girlfriend, Stella. Stella glared at Maggie as though she were the worst person in the world, which, to Stella, she probably was.

‘Thank you, I was about to have to make colonic conversation with Goop about her poop,’ she mock whispered and smiled at him brightly. On paper they had been the perfect couple, but things had never been so easy behind closed doors.

‘I like colonics,’ said Stella. ‘They help me lose pounds and pounds.’

Maggie thought about making a comment regarding what Stella was filled with, but left it alone. She didn’t need a scene, not with her mind on Zoe and Jeff’s meeting.

‘You look beautiful,’ Will said, his eyes scanning Maggie in her lilac strapless gown. Stella’s face fell at Will’s words, and for a moment Maggie felt bad for her. Stella would be in the colon clinic tomorrow, trying to rid herself of the ‘pound and pounds’, when in stead she’d be better off just dumping Will, who really was a big shit.

Stella was sexy, a tumble of dark hair, breasts and curves, but Maggie was tall and willowy, and often described as a classic beauty. Tonight her blond hair was drawn into a sleek chignon, accentuating her high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. And though her Nordic looks afforded her an enviable elegance, Maggie knew it was her trademark smile, the one that warmed her face and lit up a room, that earned her at least fifteen million dollars a movie, plus a cut of the backend. Zoe once famously said that when Maggie Hall smiled, a person would buy whatever she was selling, rob a bank or commit a murder just to keep the light in the room.

Maggie ignored Will’s compliment, not because it wasn’t pleasant but because she knew he’d only said it to annoy Stella, who was now glaring at Maggie as though she was putting a curse on her.

‘How’s Elliot?’ She asked after Will’s son. ‘He hasn’t returned any of my calls.’

Will shrugged. ‘Still in his room, playing video games.’

‘He’s too old for games,’ said Stella impatiently as though Maggie had addressed her. ‘He’s twenty-three, he needs to be out in ze world.’

Maggie shot her a look that made Stella toss her head but turn away from Maggie’s dislike.

Yes, Elliot needed to get back out into the world but the kid did have a reason to stay inside for a while, she thought tenderly. She may not have birthed Elliot but she loved him like her own child.

‘It’s been six months since the transplant. Haven’t the doctors said he can go back to college?’ she asked.

‘He doesn’t want to,’ said Will, looking exhausted just talking about it. ‘He doesn’t want to do anything.’

She and Will had only been divorced for eighteen months, and while Maggie was still single, Will had wasted no time in finding a replacement. Someone younger, someone who would no doubt give him the child they had fought about throughout their eight-year marriage.

‘We have Elliot,’ she had argued at the time. ‘He needs us, and we can’t bring a child into this home when he’s so sick.’

Her argument had contained a thread of truth, but what she had never said was that she just didn’t feel ready to have a child with Will. She thought her body would tell her that the time was right to be pregnant but it never did and when Elliot’s congenital heart condition had worsened, the idea was parked permanently.

But she couldn’t stay in a loveless marriage, not even for Elliot. Eventually she realized she didn’t love Will, and Elliot wasn’t enough of a reason to stay.

She had tried to stay in Elliot’s life—she was the closest thing to a mother that he had and she knew he wanted to see her—but Will’s anger at her leaving him made it difficult.

‘Do you want me to talk to him about it?’ she asked now. ‘He won’t return my calls but I can come over and I can stage a care-frontation.’

Stella rolled her eyes, and Maggie only just resisted the urge to slap her.

‘I see Zoe’s been doing the deal with Jeff,’ said Will, obviously trying to change the subject and taking a large sip of his wine.

The Vanity Fair photographers were circling, looking for a good candid photo of the past couple and the new girlfriend. Maggie took care to smile, radiantly, as she asked casually, ‘What deal is that?’

But before Will could answer, Arden Walker swept into the circle.

‘Hello, darlings,’ she said, but Maggie noticed she only kissed Will, touching his face in a way Maggie knew made him uncomfortable—she could see it in the way his eyes blinked too many times and his jaw tensed.

Poor Will, she thought, Arden Walker would never take no for an answer; she had ambition and charisma in spades, something that poor Stella didn’t have.

Arden worked her charisma the way Stella worked her body, and right now she was clinging to Will’s side like a lemur.

Will and Arden had made a film together, a big-budget action movie, two years earlier, when Arden was a mere twenty years old. Will had played her father. The film had done well at the box office, although Elliot and Maggie had watched it at her house and laughed at Arden trying to make a mediocre script sound like Chekov.

Maggie glanced at Arden’s ensemble for the evening: a mess of black leather and tulle, with a black lipstick that only accentuated her thin lips. It wasn’t that Arden was unattractive—she had a certain Euro-chicness about her with her blue-black hair—it was just that she looked mean. She looked like she would throw a sack of kitten in a lake and not turn back, Elliot had once said, and Maggie knew just what he meant. Elliot knew people, it was a shame his father didn’t have the same sixth sense.

Arden pushed in between Stella and Will. ‘Is it true you’re going to be my new leading man?’ she purred. ‘We could be the next Julia and Richard.’

Maggie rolled her eyes. She knew Arden was hoping to topple her from her pedestal and had gone from playing edgy, asexual roles to a recent part in a romantic tragedy.

‘Arden, what are you talking about?’ Will asked impatiently, draining his wine and waving the empty glass at a waiter for a new one.

‘I had lunch with Zoe’s old assistant Josh,’ she said knowingly. ‘He told me all about the film.’

Maggie, Will and Arden all shared a manager but Zoe was, and would always be, Maggie’s closest friend and confidante.

‘According to Josh, Zoe wants to know if I’m interested in the role. I knew she was seeing the big four studios, but I kind of guessed she’d go with Jeff, he’s a class act, despite what people say about him as a person.’ She looked at Maggie pointedly. ‘I always think it’s important to judge people on their talent, not their reputation.’

Maggie smiled. ‘I always think it’s important not to judge people,’ she said politely.

Arden looked like she knew she had lost that round and she turned back to Will, touching his chest with one black-leather-gloved hand.

‘Let me know if you’re going to be my leading man, Will;

I certainly hope so,’ she said in a feverish voice, which made Maggie glance at Stella and make a face. It wasn’t easy being with Will. Women loved him, and girls like Arden would always be using him for the next career move.

But what was the role Arden was talking about? Her brain was screaming. Will was a superb actor, at the top of his game right now. If there was a film he was being considered for, Maggie wanted to know. The only part of their marriage that worked was when they talked about work and although Zoe managed both of them, Maggie still felt proprietary towards Will and his career moves.

The movie he made with Arden had been something Maggie and Zoe had thought was a bad idea, which proved to be true at the box office. She didn’t want Will to make any more stupid choices—God knows he had made enough of them over the years.

Arden swanned off towards Bradley Cooper, and Maggie turned to Will.

‘What role is she talking about? She seems thrilled to have the chance to work with you.’ Maggie imitated Arden’s breathy delivery.

Will scoffed and took a large slug of wine. ‘As I said to Zoe, if you think I’m interested in the book that was responsible for ending my marriage, then you’re kidding yourself.’

Maggie gasped. ‘Zoe’s casting The Art of Love?’

‘Casting?’ exclaimed Will. ‘She’s trying to produce it as well, which is why I guess she was sitting with Jeff. I heard she signed that sad sack writer you love so much.’

Maggie clutched the stem of her glass and nodded. ‘Excuse me,’ she said and rushed to the bathroom.

Pushing open the door, she was grateful to see the plush bathroom was unoccupied except for the bathroom attendant.

Zoe had signed Hugh Cavell? She wanted to produce The Art of Love and hadn’t told her? Why hadn’t she asked her to be involved? They did everything together.

This was how they had rolled for twenty years and now Zoe was keeping secrets.

Christ, she was the one who had introduced Zoe to the goddamned book.

It was the most profound and beautiful book about love that Maggie had ever read, not that she had read many books. Hell, she had cried over this book, bought copies for everyone she knew and then walked out of her marriage.

She wanted what the author and his wife had had in The Art of Love, and nothing less.

The author had nursed his wife through cancer, had seen her through her best and worst, and he spoke of his wife in a way that Maggie doubted any man had ever spoken of her. It was her greatest desire to meet Hugh Cavell and learn from him everything she needed to know about love, and how to have a decent relationship.

She had even told Zoe all this. It was only now that Zoe’s reaction at the time made sense.

‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be some sort of relationship guru,’ she had said. ‘He’s just a journalist who wrote a memoir, I don’t think he’s really able to offer anything else beyond this.’

Zoe must have already met him by this stage.

The treachery of Zoe excluding Maggie from this deal made her both confused and angry as she faced her reflection in the mirror.

She was still beautiful, she was still slim and elegant, but there were subtle changes around her eyes, tiny highways of lines. All roads lead to Hollywood, she thought as she pulled at one to see if she should consider a facelift, but she couldn’t concentrate on her own reflection, so she knew she was upset.

Zoe knew she wanted to play Simone, she had told Zoe this when she’d given her the book. Even though Maggie was the wrong side of thirty-five and Simone was only thirty when she died, Maggie could still play younger—

The bathroom door opening interrupted her thoughts as another attendant came in to relieve the first one. Maggie watched the new girl in the mirror as she straightened the perfume bottles and made sure the hand towels were perfectly lined up.

She was beautiful, Maggie thought with envy, as she looked back at the mirror, aware of the slight crêping of the skin on her décolletage in the light. She stood taller and pulled her shoulders back.

Maybe Zoe had decided that she, Maggie Hall, was too old to play Simone? The thought hit her like a slap to the face.

‘Are you an actress?’ she asked the girl. Girls like this worked industry parties for any opportunity, each girl seemingly more lithe, beautiful and willing than the one before.

This girl would have more luck in the men’s bathroom, thought Maggie wryly.

‘No,’ said the girl, in a voice that was husky and low, the voice many voice-over artists wished they had. The girl was a complete package.

‘Really?’ she asked, surprised.

The girl shook her blond head and shrugged. She could have been a model, thought Maggie, taking in the long slender frame and startling green eyes.

‘So what do you do?’ asked Maggie, intrigued.

She must be the only beautiful girl in LA who doesn’t want to be an actress, she thought, almost laughing aloud at the irony. The girl reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite place her.

The girl paused. ‘I’m working on a research project,’ she said vaguely.

‘Oh, you’re at college?’

‘Kind of. I’m working on a thesis of sorts.’

Beautiful and smart, thought Maggie, as she turned back to the mirror. Beautiful and dumb had far more currency in LA, but still.

‘I never went to college, but I would have liked to,’ said Maggie.

‘You seem to have done okay without it,’ the girl said with a little laugh.

‘I guess I have,’ said Maggie, smiling along with her. ‘Do you work this kind of event often?’ she asked, wondering why she cared.

‘If I can,’ the girl said. ‘I also do waitressing and valet parking, anything really.’

‘Good for you,’ said Maggie, aware that it might sound patronizing, but she truly did respect hard work.

Maggie sat on the round love seat in the centre of the room, and pulled off one purple Givenchy shoe.

‘Wearing these shoes is what I imagine Chinese footbinding was like,’ she said as she rubbed her feet. ‘I said I’m an eight but I think I should have taken the eight and a half.’

‘Yeah,’ said the girl. ‘I’m an eight in some shoes and an eight and a half in others.’ There was a pause and then the girl spoke again. ‘Your dress is amazing.’

Maggie looked down at her figure-hugging lilac Lanvin dress and sighed. ‘It’s okay, I guess. Took me and my stylists over half a year to organize this outfit and I wasn’t even presenting. Sometimes it’s exhausting being perfect,’ she said dramatically and laughed.

The girl smiled shyly and Maggie shook her head. ‘Are you sure you’re not an actress? Have you ever tried it? Even modelling, perhaps? The camera would absolutely love you, you’re incredibly beautiful.’

‘I never really thought about it,’ said the girl, blinking a few times and frowning. ‘My parents think being an actor is a waste of time and education, unless of course you’re on Broadway in some obscure Russian play.’ She laughed.

‘Maybe,’ said Maggie defensively. ‘But my house in Malibu is evidence that they’re wrong.’

The girl laughed politely. ‘I guess I’ve never even thought about acting.’

Maggie narrowed her eyes at her. Was she being disingenuous or was she serious? False modesty was something Maggie couldn’t stand, along with liars and cheaters, which often made her wonder why she was still living in LA.

‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

‘My mom would like me to do law, but I can’t see myself doing all that arguing every day,’ she said. ‘If I get to choose, I guess I’d like to be a social worker or something.’

Maggie’s head snapped up.

‘What for?’ she said. ‘Social workers are assholes. They say one thing, but do another.’

‘Really?’ The girl frowned. ‘I just like helping people.’

‘Then I suggest you find another way,’ said Maggie roughly as she stood up, shoes in hand.

‘Okay,’ said the girl, looking intimidated.

Sometimes, Maggie knew, she could be almost too candid, too raw. But this was also what made her such a powerful presence on screen. She wasn’t afraid to show her character’s pain on her face or in the way she moved.

Softening, she smiled at the girl.

‘I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Maggie Hall,’ she said, extending her hand. She hated it when big stars just assumed everyone knew who they were. Manners are free, as Zoe always reminded her clients.

‘I know who you are,’ said the girl shyly, taking Maggie’s hand. ‘I’m Dylan Mercer.’

‘And now I know who you are,’ said Maggie warmly. ‘Great name; you really could be an actress,’ she said again, laughing.

‘And you could be an agent the way you hustle,’ Dylan laughed back. ‘I’ve been watching all the business going on here tonight, it’s crazy.’

‘I know.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘I could have been, but I like the free clothes too much.’ She winked at Dylan, looked a little closer at her and shook her head. ‘God, you remind me of someone,’ she said. ‘Hey, can I have your number? I mean, I know you don’t want to be an actor, but sometimes my assistant needs a little help. And you did say you like helping people. Maybe, if you’re interested, you could do a few errands for me here and there?’

Dylan nodded excitedly, pulled a pen from her pocket, and wrote her details on the back of a card from the events company.

Maggie took the card and handed her shoes to Dylan.

‘Hold these, would you?’ she said as she put the card into her clutch purse and smiled. ‘Thank you, Dylan, I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.’

Turning, she walked towards the door.

‘Your shoes,’ said Dylan, holding out the strappy Givenchy’s.

‘Keep them,’ said Maggie with a toss of her shining blond head. ‘I don’t need them. You might make something on eBay with them—Maggie Hall’s shoes from Oscars night—or keep ‘em and they might make a great story one day. Either way, you win.’

Chapter 3

Dylan stared at Maggie Hall’s discarded shoes in disbelief, turning them over and studying each detail.

She had never owned anything as gorgeous and frivolous as these, she thought, quelling the desire to slip off her plain black flats from the Gap, and try on the Givenchy’s. Her mother believed in buying the best you could afford, but ‘functional is always better than fancy,’ she would tell Dylan whenever she lusted after something pretty and useless.

She shoved the shoes in an empty gift bag left by a guest and placed them under the bench, then looked at herself in the mirror. Was she really as beautiful as Maggie Hall said?

She was okay-looking, she thought, but growing up with intellectual parents meant you were much more focused on your brain than your looks.

Dinner time in the Mercers’ brownstone was spent discussing her mother’s ethical legal riddles from her university tenure and her father’s more bizarre psychiatric cases, while Dylan tried to keep up with the conversation.

She was bright, but she had to work hard for her marks and staying on the honor roll wasn’t easy but she did it because her parents expected nothing less of her.

Sometimes Dylan longed to remind them that she didn’t have their genetic code so it was unreasonable to expect her to be as brilliant as them, but a part of her was grateful that they treated her as though she was an extension of them.

That was until she found the letter they had never shown her.

‘Excuse me.’ She heard a voice and turned to see another famous face, a starlet who had recently been named as the sexiest woman in film. ‘Do you have a Band-Aid? My shoes are killing me.’

Dylan opened the first-aid kit, took out a Band-Aid and handed it to the girl. Now she was beautiful, Dylan thought, after the girl had left the bathroom.

She glanced at her face in the mirror again. It was too wide; the sort of face that didn’t look right in everyday life, but it did kind of work in photos. She might have sought out modelling work, if she’d even known where to start, but it never seemed like the right time to say that to her law professor mother, with tenure at Columbia, or her ailing psychiatrist father, who had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

As more women came into the bathroom, there were several faces Dylan recognized, but she wasn’t as star-struck any more. Hell, she had Maggie Hall’s Givenchy shoes! She couldn’t wait to get home and tell her best friend back in New York.

That was the sort of thing Addie loved to hear. During their almost daily Skype sessions, Addie always wanted to know what celebrities Dylan had seen in LA.

But in the two months she’d been in LA, Dylan hadn’t seen many, until tonight. She thought she’d glimpsed Kevin Bacon in a frozen yogurt store, but couldn’t be sure. A Kevin Bacon sighting probably wouldn’t impress Addie anyway, but Maggie Hall was different.

Her supervisor walked into the bathroom with a sour face. ‘You can go now. Make sure you sign your hours sheet before you leave.’

‘Okay,’ said Dylan politely. The woman had been a total bitch all night, but Dylan refused to let it bother her. This job had been way better than working nights at the greasy chicken shop downtown, trying to avoid the slick on the floor and the even more oily owner.

Dylan picked up her bag and put the gift bag with the Givenchy shoes in it over her shoulder. ‘Thanks, it was fun.’

The woman looked at her and made a face. ‘Being stuck in a bathroom with needy celebrities bitching about each other and fighting over the mirror was fun? You’re nuts.’

Dylan smiled as she stepped into the elevator, feeling the slight weight of the shoes in the bag slung over her shoulder. Tonight had been a rare good night.

‘How you doing?’ she heard as the elevator doors opened and she saw a handsome man leaning against the opposite wall, one hand in the pocket of his tuxedo pants as though he was posing for a cologne advertisement.

It was both cheesy and funny, and she started to laugh.

‘What?’ he asked, looking behind him.

As he turned, she pressed the button and the doors of the elevator closed again, leaving her laughing out loud.

Was he serious? He probably worked that move in the mirror over and over before trying it on countless girls. Maybe some fell for it, but not Dylan. She liked boys who were less handsome and less presumptuous, guys who made her laugh and didn’t act like they were in a perfume ad.

So far she hadn’t met anyone close to decent in LA. Every guy wanted to be an actor, and assumed Dylan wanted the same thing. They all asked her who her manager was, who was her agent? Would she do nudity?

Checking her phone, she saw it was after two in the morning and she sighed as she walked towards the cab rank. Even though the cab was expensive, at least she’d get home to her studio apartment in Koreatown in time for a few hours’ sleep before her next shift.

She had to be at work again in five hours’ time, waitressing at a breakfast in a private home in the Hollywood Hills. She had begged for the shift as it was extra money and she could then afford to take two days off for her research.

Her furnished apartment was cheap because the owners were planning on pulling it down and rebuilding on the site, but according to her new neighbour they’d been saying that for ten years and there was still no sign of any development.

At seven hundred and twenty dollars a month, the apartment was manageable, just. There was no way Dylan would ask her parents for help. Not after what she knew now.

Inside her one room, she pulled her laptop out from under the mattress—it was the only thing in her room of any value—and opened it to check her emails.

An overflowing laundry basket sat in one corner, and a bowl half-eaten ramen noodles sat on the linoleum floor.

Her mom would freak if she saw how messy her room was, she thought, making a mental notes to clean it after tomorrow’s shift.

Nothing of any importance, she thought crossly as she slammed the laptop shut and went and lay back on the uncomfortable single bed that had come with the apartment, along with a dripping sink and some oversized cockroaches. They probably had fillers also, she thought, thinking of some of the faces she had seen at the party that night.

Why did people think they had to do that to their faces? she wondered as she rolled over on the lumpy mattress, her eye caught by the gift bag on the floor.

Clambering out of bed, she put on the strappy shoes and stood up. Maggie Hall was right, they hurt like hell, but they looked amazing. Taking her phone, she sent a picture of them to Addie with the text: Maggie Hall let me walk in her shoes. They are now mine.

It was six in the morning in New York, no chance Addie would be awake, but she knew her friend would be thrilled.

Tottering back to the bed, Dylan lay down again and lifted one leg to admire the shoe. What did shoes like this even cost? she wondered idly, as her phone started ringing.

‘Why the hell are you awake?’ Dylan said, as soon as she saw Addie’s number.

‘I wasn’t really, but I heard the message come through and saw it was from you. How the hell do you have Maggie Hall’s shoes on?’

Addie’s voice was groggy but excited, and Dylan laughed.

‘You didn’t need to call me now, Ads,’ she said. ‘I meant it to be a surprise for when you woke up.’

‘I always keep my phone on,’ said Addie. ‘Now spill.’

Dylan told her all about her night and her encounter with Maggie in the bathroom. Addie, as she’d expected, was duly impressed.

‘God, I wish I had your life! Instead I’m stuck here, it’s snowing, it’s boring, and I have no idea why I’m studying when my degree is just a ticket to working at Starbucks for the rest of my life.’

‘You don’t have to do that course,’ Dylan said for the one hundredth time.

Like most of Dylan’s friends from her prestigious private school, she and Addie had been spoiled for choice when it came to deciding which college to attend. Addie had ending up enrolling in a comparative literature degree because she didn’t know what else to do.

‘Show me the shoes again, without your ugly feet in them,’ Addie demanded, sounding more awake by the second.

Dylan obediently took off the shoes and sent the new photo. ‘She asked for my number,’ she said, when she put the phone back to her ear.

‘For what? Like in a date? Is she a closet lesbian?’ Addie squealed.

‘No, you tawdry hoe, I told her I’m looking for work and she said sometimes her assistant needs an assistant.’

‘Jesus,’ said Addie, ‘what a world.’

‘I know, right?’

‘How’s the search? Any more leads?’

Dylan was a smart girl, with a four-point average and acceptance letters to both Brown and Wellesley, so why was her task proving so hard?

‘None. I feel like I’m going about it in completely the wrong way. I can’t find anything. I’ve contacted the agencies, but no one will give me any information unless I have both parents’ signatures because I’m under twenty-one.’

Addie paused. ‘You know, babe, you could just ask your mom and dad who your birth mother was and save yourself all this trouble?’

‘I can’t,’ said Dylan. ‘It would kill Dad.’ She put on the heels again and flopped back on the bed. ‘Besides, I don’t think I could stand to hear any more of their lies right now.’

‘I get it,’ said Addie softly.

Dylan nodded, forgetting for a moment that Addie couldn’t see her. This was why she and Addie were so close. Addie really did get it, she got everything about Dylan, even her hare-brained scheme to head to LA and find her birth mother.

‘Hey, I have to crash. Gotta be at another job in a few hours,’ said Dylan, yawning.

‘Okay, sleep well, I love ya, you crazy bitch.’

‘Love you too, loser,’ said Dylan, and she went to sleep, still wearing Maggie’s shoes.

West Virginia

September 1995

Shay Harman looked at the pregnancy test and shook it vigorously.

‘It’s not a Magic 8 Ball,’ her friend Krista said, as she swung her skinny legs from her perch on the bench in the mall’s public toilet.

‘I wish it was,’ said Shay.

Someone had once left a cigarette on the bench, burning the lino into a perfect groove, which Krista now lay her finger in.

‘What are you going to do?’ Krista asked.

‘Go back and finish my shift,’ said Shay. ‘I’ll think about it later.’ Denial was always a good choice in the face of chaos, she thought.

Back at the Great American Cookies stand, the smell of the dough made Shay feel ill. She fought down the nausea, staring out at the crowd in the mall.

She didn’t feel like she belonged there, but soon she would become one of the throng, pushing a second-hand pram and living on welfare.

‘You okay, honey?’ asked her coworker Jackie.

Shay had no idea how old Jackie was. But as far as she could tell, after four babies in six years, Jackie wasn’t living, just existing, sleepwalking through her shifts at the cookie stand.

Jackie said she was lucky—she and her husband both had jobs and her kids went to school—but Shay couldn’t work out what was so lucky about that. Wasn’t that something everyone should have?

This attitude had gotten her into trouble with her foster families.

‘You need to be more grateful for what you get,’ said the social worker.

Eventually the social worker convinced Shay’s grandmother to take her in. At least Shay didn’t have to pretend to be grateful then. She knew her grammy only agreed so she’d get the extra welfare cheque for her dead son’s only child.

Shay served a teenage girl whose swelling stomach couldn’t be hidden by the oversized Disneyland sweatshirt. Was everyone pregnant all of a sudden?

Was she really any different to this girl? Shay wondered. Was her future now to raise a baby when she could hardly raise herself? And what would Grammy say when she went home to the trailer and told her she was pregnant to the first guy she’d slept with?

Bud Harris wasn’t her boyfriend. She’d only had sex with him because she’d yearned for someone’s loving touch. She knew damn well he wouldn’t want this baby; he was already working down the mines, never calling Shay again after he had left school.

Finally the shift ended and she was relieved to find Krista waiting for her.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Shay as she walked up to her best friend.

‘Sure,’ said Krista, tossing her bleached hair over her shoulder, ‘but I don’t want to go to my place, they’re all down on their knees praying for something that doesn’t include me.’

Shay laughed wryly. Some foster homes were better than others, but each had its own special way of reminding you that you didn’t quite fit in. It might be special food that wasn’t for the welfare kids, or second-hand clothing that was the wrong size. In Krista’s current ‘home’, it was prayer.

Shay looked around. ‘I don’t know where we can go,’ she said, and then she started to cry.

‘Hush now,’ Krista said, in that voice that always calmed Shay. ‘I’ll think of something.’

And Shay nodded, knowing that Krista would. She had never once let her down.

Krista’s eyes lit up and she smiled the magnificent smile that made social workers believe she really had changed this time.

Soon, Shay and Krista were sitting up the back in the only movie theatre in town, let in for free by the pimple-faced projectionist who had a thing for Krista.

‘What’s the film?’ whispered Shay.

‘Matilda,’ whispered Krista. ‘It’s about a little girl who uses her magic to get her revenge on her shitty family and school, and finds a new mom to adopt her. I’ve seen it twice already, it’s my favourite film ever.’

Shay smiled and took Krista’s hand and squeezed it tight.

‘Thank you,’ she said and Krista smiled in the darkness as the screen flickered to life.

Chapter 4

Zoe was driving out to Malibu in her new Jaguar sports car, the top was down and Bruno Mars was blaring out of the stereo. The overcast day couldn’t dull Zoe’s mood. Even when it was turning to winter, it wasn’t cold. She hated being cold almost as much as she hated being overlooked just because she was a woman. People assumed she was the mother hen of her clients, and to some extent she was, but this new deal with Jeff Beerman meant she was now a power-player. She couldn’t wait to tell Hugh the news about the deal and how well she had played her hand at the party, when her phone rang.

Christ it wasn’t even eight a.m. and people were hassling her already? The morning after the Oscars should be a public holiday in Hollywood, she thought crossly as she pressed the answer button on her steering wheel.

‘Zoe Greene.’

‘Zoe, it’s Rachel Fein, from Hollywood Reporter,’ came the nasal tones of the woman who could make or break a film with a single article.

‘Rachel, sorry I didn’t see you last night. How are you?’ said Zoe silkily.

‘You may not have seen me, but everyone saw you,’ laughed Rachel. ‘So what’s the dealio with you and Jeff Beerman? Is it business or pleasure?’

The dealio? Zoe rolled her eyes as she turned the corner and took the highway towards Malibu.

‘Rachel, we both know I’m too old and too smart to be anything other than business in Jeff’s life,’ she said.

Jeff’s three ex-wives would all attest to his penchant for young starlets, which was well known in the industry. Rumour had it that his last marriage had cost him twenty-seven million dollars.

‘So it’s true you’re executive producing The Art of Love with Jeff and Palladium Pictures?’ Rachel asked.

Zoe gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, imagining it was Rachel’s neck.

‘I can’t comment on any deals right now. But when I have an announcement to make, you’ll be the first to know,’ she answered. Just as soon as I’ve signed the papers, she thought.

‘I see. Well, is it true that Palladium Pictures is in financial trouble, and that Jeff Beerman has put up his own money to get this project off the ground?’

Zoe glanced in the rear-view mirror and pulled over sharply to the side of the highway.

‘Rachel, I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said evenly. Stay calm, girl, she reminded herself. You’ve got this.

‘Then I suggest you find out before you sign anything because you might find you just sold yourself, your writer and the book of a lifetime to a man who a few people are saying is on the downhill slide.’

‘What people? What are they saying?’ Zoe tried to keep her voice calm, as the cars went whizzing by her. Everyone was going in the right direction and here was Rachel telling her she wasn’t and if anyone knew what the state of affairs were with Jeff, Rachel knew.

‘Zoe, not everyone can stay on top for ever, not even Jeff Beerman. I’ve just heard a few money men saying Jeff needs a hit and soon. I’m just warning you. Anyway, you’ve given me a few leads over the years; I’m giving you one now.’

The line went dead and Zoe sat in the car staring at the road ahead.

This isn’t how it’s meant to play out, she thought, dialling Jeff’s number, knowing he would be in his office. People may question his morals but they could never question his work ethic.

‘Jeff Beerman’s office,’ an assistant answered.

‘Zoe Greene for Jeff,’ she said, tapping on the steering wheel with her fingernail.

‘Greene, how’s the head this morning?’ he asked, his voice filled with cheer.

‘Listen to me, I have to ask: are you in financial trouble? Because if you are, obviously I have to go elsewhere with this project.’

‘Good morning to you too, Greene,’ he said calmly.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘Say good morning and I’ll answer you,’ he said calmly. ‘Manners are free, remember?’

Zoe shook her head in frustration and gritted her teeth. The man was the worst game player she had ever met.

‘Okay, okay. Good morning, Jeff. Now, stop fucking me about. Are you in financial trouble?’

‘Me? Personally? Not at all.’

‘What about the studio?’ She asked. It was always best to be straight up with people, she had realized over the years, even if they found it confrontational.

Jeff took a moment to answer, and during those seconds Zoe felt herself fly backwards in time and space and she was outside, hearing the chickens roosting for the night, cold, alone and hungry. The emotional memory of her body always betrayed her, she thought, as she tried to remain present.

‘Greene?’ Jeff’s voice jerked her out of the chicken coop and back onto the side of the highway. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

Zoe blinked and breathed away the anxiety in her chest.

‘No, I didn’t, can you repeat it please?’ she asked, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.

‘I said, there isn’t a problem, as long as we keep costs down,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come in now and we can go through them together? I have your contracts here too.’

‘Really? That was quick, even for you,’ she said, thinking aloud.

‘I know a good thing when it’s offered to me,’ said Jeff, sounding as though he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘I had my lawyers draw them up last night.’

They must have loved that, thought Zoe. The night of the Oscars and they had to work? By all accounts, Jeff was a punishing man to work for, exacting and relentless, but there was no doubt he was brilliant and to learn from him was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

And she didn’t know if one of the larger studios would give her a producer title if she asked. Time was running out. If they didn’t move now, then the momentum of the book would be lost.

‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

Before she pulled out into the morning traffic again and headed back to Hollywood, Zoe dialled another number.

‘Zo.’ Maggie’s voice was groggy. ‘What’s up?’

‘I need your help,’ said Zoe as she did a U-turn. ‘But it’s a secret so you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

There was a silence on the end of the phone and then Maggie’s voice came through clearer this time.

‘When have I ever let a secret of yours out into the world?’

Maggie’s voice was terse, but this deal meant everything to Zoe at this moment. She needed someone she could trust and who was nearby in Malibu.

‘I know, but listen this is a big one,’ she said.

‘Has it got something to do with casting The Art of Love?’ said Maggie.

Zoe gasped. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

‘Will told me,’ Maggie answered crossly.

Damn you, Will, thought Zoe. He used any chance he got to needle his ex-wife, even privileged information like the initial casting discussions for The Art of Love.

‘He really shouldn’t have done that.’

‘It was actually Arden Walker who spilled first. She claims she’ll be playing Simone opposite Will,’ Maggie said in a tight voice.

‘What? She isn’t Simone. The movie hasn’t been cast yet. Hell, we don’t even have a studio on board!’ said Zoe, exasperated.

‘But the unofficial casting has begun?’ Maggie demanded.

Zoe made a face at the road ahead. The book was her baby and she wanted to bring it to life, the last thing she needed was Maggie and Arden fighting over a role, and causing drama.

‘No. I only asked Will because Hugh mentioned he liked him as an actor, but nothing more than that. Arden’s kidding herself if she thinks she’s right for this role.’

‘Arden thinks she’s right for every role,’ said Maggie wryly and Zoe laughed.

‘This isn’t funny, Zoe. I’m really hurt you didn’t tell me. You hadn’t even heard of that book before I gave it to you! ‘

Zoe sighed. ‘I didn’t tell anyone, I promise. It wasn’t personal, it was business.’

‘But you told Will,’ Maggie argued.

‘Yes, I admit that, but I had to see if he was interested before I went to the studios, so I could take a big name with me. I was going to talk to you about it, but I had to do the deal first,’ Zoe tried to defend herself.

‘I’m a big name,’ said Maggie, her voice sounding small. ‘You could have taken me.’

Zoe could have used Maggie as bait for the studios, but Will was an even bigger star at the box office, and she knew Maggie was too old to play Simone even if Maggie didn’t realize it yet.

They needed someone new, younger and without any expectations from the public. Someone audiences could easily fall in love with and identify as Simone. They needed to create a star.

‘Mags, I know you hate me right now, but I need your help, I’m going to tell you something no one knows, not my assistant, not even Jeff. Can you help me or not?’

Maggie was silent while she weighed it up. She loved to be included in anything, a legacy of having so often been left out and overlooked as a child, she would regularly remind Zoe.

‘Okay, I guess I’ll help,’ she said eventually. ‘But believe me, I’m still pissed at you.’

‘I know, hate me later, but help me now. I promise I’ll make it up to you,’ Zoe pleaded.

‘Go on then.’

‘Okay, so the thing is, Hugh Cavell is in LA,’ said Zoe. ‘He’s been here for about six months.’ Zoe paused. ‘He’s, ah… he’s been drying out.’

Maggie didn’t say anything, so Zoe continued.

‘He just did four months in Promises and he’s trying to stay on track. But he’s pretty self-destructive, Mags. I don’t like to leave him alone for long periods of time.’

‘Jesus,’ breathed Maggie, ‘that’s awful. I had no idea he was such a mess.’

‘If your wife died of brain cancer and you became a millionaire from the story of your grief, wouldn’t you feel kind of bad?’

‘I guess,’ said Maggie quietly.

‘You guess?’ Zoe started to laugh and Maggie joined in.

‘I don’t know, I suppose so,’ said Maggie. ‘What do you need me to do? Author-sit for you? Just so you know, I’m expensive.’

‘I do know, I write your contracts, remember?’

Zoe had checked in on Hugh every day via phone or email, and usually Hugh was fine, but he had sounded odd yesterday when she’d called. She didn’t want him to fall off the wagon when they were so close to what she wanted.

‘Where is he and what does he need?’ Maggie sighed.

Zoe gave Maggie the address in Malibu. ‘But don’t talk to him about the book,’ she warned.

‘What? How can I not? You know I love that book,’ cried Maggie.

‘I know, but he doesn’t.’

Hugh would roll his eyes whenever the book was mentioned. He said he felt uncomfortable about the hype around his wife’s death, that his readers were the ravens on the carcass of his marriage. He said he wished he had never written the book but then he took the film deal, which Zoe never quite understood. She had tried to understand it at first, but eventually she gave up trying to prise open Hugh’s armour.

She saw it was a façade of self-protection covering enormous grief. She understood grief, she had wanted to tell him, but she didn’t. She never told anyone about her own loss. Managing other people’s lives had suited her to a point, that way she didn’t have to focus on her own life, until now. It was now or never with the film and if it worked, then she really would be able to say she had made something of herself in Hollywood.

Maggie’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Okay, so what do I do? Sit and read him stories until you return?’

‘Whatever it takes, babe,’ said Zoe as she drove through Hollywood.

It was a rare grey day in LA and everything looked tired, even the palm trees, or was she just her projecting her own sudden weariness.

‘You know I want to play Simone,’ Maggie said.

Zoe paused. ‘I understand that. But you should know that Hugh has final casting approval, along with Jeff,’ she said carefully.

‘But you can help me make it happen, right? I want this, even if I have to play opposite Will,’ said Maggie firmly.

‘I’ll call you when I’ve finished with Jeff and see how things are going with Hugh,’ said Zoe, avoiding the topic.

One problem at a time, she thought, as she pulled up in front of Palladium Pictures. First Jeff, then Hugh and then Maggie.

She could handle it all, she thought as she locked her car. She had been solving other people’s problems for years, why couldn’t she handle a few of her own?

Chapter 5

Maggie hung up from Zoe and rolled over in her king-sized bed, groaning. It was too early to be up, she thought crossly, especially the day after the Oscars.

Her feet ached and so did her head, but her best friend had just asked her for help and Maggie had never let Zoe down.

She got up and padded to the window, opening the blinds to look out over the beach. A grey sky, to match her grey mood, she thought as went into the bathroom and stood under the fifteen jets of water in her polished stone shower.

Maggie’s modernist home had been showcased in Architectural Digest and was revered for its classic beauty and clean lines. These were also qualities Maggie was known for, and when she’d commissioned the house, they were what she had specified in the brief.

She bought everything that was expected of a woman of her taste and money. She had the right artists, the right clothes, she was on Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list six years in a row, and when she’d married Will her wedding dress had been considered a classic, along with the lace modesty of Grace Kelly’s gown and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s A-line shift.

She did whatever it took to rid herself of the stains from her past, wrapping herself in a bright, white, perfect world. She never missed a hair appointment or a session with her trainer, and her nails were always done. She was impeccable on the outside, but always felt she could improve on the inside, if only she knew what her heart and mind truly wanted.

A lifetime of being valued for her looks above all else ate away at her, particularly now she was getting older. She found herself wondering what more she had to offer.

And right now she was faced with the pressure of what to wear to meet the man who had shown her what true love really was. Just about everything she had learned about love was from movies, but Hugh Cavell’s book had taught her more than any script.

Meeting the author of the book that had changed her life and helped her leave her marriage was something she had wished for. Though she hadn’t factored in that the author was a drunk and didn’t want to discuss his own marriage, let alone Maggie’s failed union.

It wasn’t warm outside, she gathered from the empty beach and the choppy waves. A lone, scrappy-looking dog ran along the water’s edge, as though waiting for its ship to come. Hell, who wasn’t waiting for something somewhere? she thought as she pulled together an outfit. Stella McCartney white jeans, a white silk tank top, an oversized pale-pink Rag & Bone light cashmere knit that hung off one shoulder, and white ballet flats by Chloé, she decided. Elegant and refined, but relaxed. Without false modesty, she knew she looked good in white, and perhaps it would help to lift her grey mood.

Choosing outfits was Maggie’s second favourite thing to do. Her first was doing her own make-up.

After years of sitting in the make-up chair being worked on by professionals, Maggie could do her make-up almost as well as the best in the business. Working through her beauty routine, she carefully applied her products. When she was finished, she spritzed herself with Eau des Merveilles by Hermès, picked up her bag and a bottle of water, and headed out to her Mercedes SUV.

The address Zoe had given her was nearby, but Maggie would never dream of walking anywhere, unless it was on the beach and even then it was under duress.

Some people loved the beach, but Maggie had chosen to live in Malibu because it was expensive and elegant. She also liked the village feel of the shops there and the comparative lack of tourists. Privacy was something she valued above all else.

Growing up in the homes of strangers will do that to you.

A short drive later she found herself at a large nondescript house, with a white wall and green security gate. She pressed the button, and waited, but no one answered.

She tried again. Still no answer. When she tried the handle, the gate swung open.

He was certainly no native, she thought as she closed the gate behind her. No one in Los Angeles left a gate—or anything else, for that matter—open.

She knocked on the front door and a male voice with a British accent called out, ‘It’s open, Zoe.’

‘It’s not Zoe,’ she said as she walked down the hallway and into a large open living space.

Standing unsteadily near the big windows overlooking the water was the author she had been so desperate to meet. He was wearing grey boxers and nothing else and was holding what looked to be a whiskey bottle. He was thin, too thin, she thought, which was saying something in Los Angeles. He had the pallor of a man who spent too long indoors, with the curtains closed, wallowing in his own grief and swill.

‘You’re drunk,’ she stated aloud, the words sounding more accusatory than she’d intended. ‘I thought you would be more together than this.’

‘And you’re Maggie Hall,’ he answered, peering at her. ‘You look older than I thought you would.’

Maggie flinched and felt her jaw drop open. ‘And you look more pathetic than Zoe said you would,’ she snapped.

‘I’m a sad widower, didn’t you hear?’ he countered, dropping on to an oversized sofa and placing the bottle on the glass table in front of him.

She picked up the bottle and went into the open-plan kitchen, pouring the whiskey down the sink.

‘Hey, that’s mine,’ he said in his cut-glass accent, which reminded her of a television detective one of her foster mothers had loved.

‘Not any more,’ said Maggie. She handed him the bottle of water she had brought with her. ‘Drink this,’ she said impatiently.

‘It stinks in here,’ she said, turning up her nose. ‘Open a goddammed window, you’re not a teenager.’

She moved to the glass doors and opened them up, letting in the fresh sea air.

‘You seem upset with me, Maggie Hall,’ he said, looking at her sadly.

She saw his face was covered in grey stubble that matched the day. ‘I don’t know you, so how can I be upset with you?’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘You don’t like people who drink, do you?’

There were grey hairs in his chest hair and his skin had the tired look of someone who didn’t eat properly or do any exercise. He wasn’t fat, he was just, well, she tried to think of the word. Unremarkable, that was it. What a let-down Hugh Cavell was turning out to be, she thought, not hiding her disapproval.

‘I don’t have an opinion about your drinking,’ she lied.

She sat, crossed her legs and smoothed out the white fabric of her pants.

‘You look like a wedding cake,’ he said. ‘All white, pink and hopeful.’

‘An old wedding cake, remember?’

Then Hugh laughed. It was clear as a bell and Maggie felt the hairs on her arms stand up in response.

‘Shall we start again?’ he asked, seeming less drunk now, or was she just getting used to it?

‘I’m Hugh Cavell: author, alcoholic, widower and general emotional recluse.’

Maggie stared at him unsmiling. ‘Maggie Hall: actor, divorcee, and part-time babysitter for alcoholic novelists.’

Hugh laughed again and this time her body tingled a little as their eyes met.

‘Where’s Zoe?’ he asked, squinting at her. ‘And why did she send you?’

‘Because she said you weren’t to be trusted on your own, and it seems she was right.’

Hugh stood up and swayed a little. ‘She’s a smart one that Zoe Greene.’

‘She certainly is. Why don’t you go take a shower and then we’ll get something to eat. You need some food,’ she said sternly.

Hugh looked her up and down and nodded.

‘So do you,’ he said as he wandered off.

Maggie stayed where she was until she heard the sound of running water coming from a distant room and then she started snooping.

On the glass table sat a laptop, a copy of Scriptwriting for Dummies, a selection of notebooks and pens and a pile of magazines and mail, still in plastic wrappers, forwarded from an address in London.

Besides these few personal items, the room was actually very neat.

Moving into the kitchen, she checked the fridge and the cupboards. There was no food in either, but the rubbish bin was overflowing with takeaway food containers, cigarette packets and crumpled, handwritten letters.

She pulled out one of the letters with the fewest questionable stains and smoothed it out on the kitchen bench.

Dear Hugh,

Thank you for writing your book about your wife Simone’s battle with brain cancer. You had a beautiful marriage and I know she will always be in your heart. A love like that never dies.

My own husband died four years ago in a car accident. I will never get over him, just as you will never replace Simone.

I hope you remember all the love and the happiness and know that one day you will be together again in the house of God.

Sincerely,

Jenny Wallins

Maggie grimaced as she turned the letter over and saw the sign of the cross in one corner.

‘Reading my fan mail, are you?’ she heard and looked up to see Hugh in a towel, his hair wet, and wearing a freshly shaven scowl.

Maggie shrugged. ‘It’s better than some of the fan mail I get. The last time I dared to look, I was offered the chance to be impregnated, raped or murdered, I can’t remember which. Maybe all three.’

Hugh walked over and looked at the letter.

‘Ah yes, Mrs Wallins of Miseryville,’ he said and then scrunched it up again and threw it back in the bin.

‘Why be so mean?’ Maggie asked. ‘And why read the fan mail and not your other letters?’

‘None of your business,’ he said and then walked out of the room. Maggie pulled out her phone and texted Zoe.

I hate it when I meet someone I’ve admired and then find out they’re an egotistical idiot.

Within minutes Zoe texted back.

Ha. Now you know how your fans feel after they’ve met you. PS: I’m really grateful, is he okay?

Maggie looked at the overflowing bin and sighed.

Fine. He’s just a bit of a disappointment. I thought he would be nicer. TTYL

Zoe’s text came flying back.

WDYM? He’s TOO nice, that’s his problem.

Maggie heard Hugh’s footsteps and slipped her phone into her pocket.

‘I’m somewhat more sober and now desperate for a fry-up,’ he said as he walked into the room, in jeans, sneakers and a surprisingly nice white shirt.

It was the sort of shirt that a woman would buy a man, well cut, in beautiful cotton that would only look better with age.

Had Simone bought him that shirt? Maggie found herself wondering as she followed him out of the house. She almost felt like she knew the woman as a sort of friend, except she was dead and everything Maggie knew about her she had learned from a book.

‘You’ll have to drive because I can’t get the hang of driving on the other side of the road here,’ he said, as he stood next to her car.

‘And because you shouldn’t drive drunk,’ said Maggie as she opened the car.

‘Just for the record, I would never drink and drive,’ Hugh said. ‘I may want to kill myself, but I have no plans to kill anyone else.’

‘That’s good to know,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m sure your legion of fans will be thrilled to know their lives are safe.’

Hugh was staring out the window and the car filled with an uncomfortable silence.

How could the man who wrote the most beautiful book in the world be such an angry, ungrateful person? Where was the man who nursed his beloved wife for two years until she died in his arms?

Maggie had thought Hugh Cavell was perfect and now the realization that he was broken and bitter felt like a punch to the stomach.

Hugh cleared his throat and then he spoke. ‘I read my fan mail, all of it, and most of it’s very nice, very thoughtful. But I don’t keep it, like I didn’t keep the condolence notes after Simone died, they’re not something you want to read over and over again.’

Maggie stayed silent, feeling like he hadn’t finished.

‘But it’s more than that. I’m waiting for someone to recognize the truth about what I wrote, to see what lies beneath the words, but no one does, everyone takes it at face value and you, Maggie Hall, know more than anyone that it’s dangerous to think anything is perfect, especially people.’

She drove, grasping the steering wheel tightly. She did know what he was referring to; she had lived it every single day.

Maybe he wasn’t so terrible after all, she thought, and she glanced at him smiling, only to see he had fallen asleep, with his mouth wide open like he was a small child.

Chapter 6

Elliot was still lying in bed when he heard his father calling his name from upstairs.

‘Maggie’s here to see you,’ his father yelled and Elliot groaned.

The last thing he felt like was a lecture from Maggie about his lifestyle.

Maggie had a way of getting to the heart of the matter. Elliot almost smiled at his own pun, but decided that would take too much effort.

‘Get up, you lazy ol’ porch dog,’ said Maggie in the thick southern accent that always made Elliot laugh.

‘Go away,’ he said, burrowing deeper under the covers.

Light flooded in as Maggie flung open the blinds and pulled back the duvet.

‘Jesus, Maggie,’ Elliot said, sitting up abruptly and blinking at the day’s brightness.

‘Your scar looks intense,’ she said. ‘Very Sons of Anarchy.’

Elliot looked down at the angry red scar running down the centre of his chest.

‘Did someone on Sons of Anarchy have a heart transplant? I must have missed that episode,’ he said as he stalked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

‘I’ll still be here when you get out, so be modest,’ she called as he closed the door.

Maggie made the bed and opened a window to let out the smell of stale air. Why did men never open windows? She wondered, thinking of Hugh briefly.

Glancing down at the desk, she saw a photograph of an Indian man, surrounded by genuflecting people, all in pink and red robes. She turned it over and read a note from Elliot’s mother, Linda.

Guru Sam says you’re healed now, that he spoke to the Universe and it happened. BE grateful to him, we are fortunate to have him in our lives. Namaste Linda.

Maggie rolled her eyes at the note. It wasn’t Guru Sam that saved Elliot’s life, it was the donor and the doctors, she thought angrily.

Linda had been missing in action for ten years and now she thought she had the right to send Elliot a note telling him to be grateful?

If Maggie was still Elliot’s stepmother, she would tell Will to intercept any communication at all from his first wife, but that wasn’t her role any more.

She moved about the room, picking up dirty clothes. Clearly Elliot wasn’t letting the housekeeper down here to do her job, she thought, as she made neat piles of the books he had been reading. She turned one over in her hand, Scriptwriting for Dummies, the same book as Hugh, she thought briefly and she put it on top of a book on writing your life story. Frowning, she checked the other books, all of them to do with writing of some sort.

Unopened letters from Berkeley sat on the table and Maggie resisted the urge to open them, as she heard the shower turn off.

Grabbing a film magazine from the bedside table, she sat on his made bed and leafed through it casually.

‘Apparently your dad and I were the greatest couple since Liz and Dick,’ she said, holding up the magazine for him to see the shot of her and Will attending the Oscars years before.

‘Yeah, but they didn’t have to listen to the fighting.’ Elliot had pulled on what she hoped was a clean T-shirt and boxer shorts.

‘True,’ said Maggie with a wry smile and she reached down to her handbag. ‘Here,’ she said, and threw a disc at him.

‘What is it?’ he turned it over in his hand.

‘The first cut of the next James Bond. Don’t tell anyone, and don’t share it,’ she said firmly.

Elliot smiled. ‘You don’t always have to bring me presents when you see me, Maggie,’ he said. ‘You brought me so many thing when I was in hospital, I think you brought me thirty presents in all.’

‘A present for every day I saw you,’ she said, trying not to think of that month in Elliot’s life where they didn’t know whether his body would accept the new heart.

Elliot placed the disc down on the desk and she saw him glance at the neat piles of books.

‘Come on then, give me the lecture about how some poor bastard died and gave me his precious heart and how I only have one life to live and that I’m wasting it. And I’ll listen to you and nod, and change for twenty-four hours, and then we can all pretend the lecture worked.’

Maggie stared at him and then frowned. ‘Damn you, no spoilers please. If you knew how this was going to play out, you should have saved me the trip over.’

Elliot shrugged. ‘It’s the same shit I hear from Dad every other day, Mags. Lather, rinse, repeat.’

Maggie said nothing, she just watched him until he held his hands up at her.

‘What do you want me to say? I still feel like shit and I have no idea why I survived and some poor person died.’

‘Have you told the doctors?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s not the heart, the heart is fine, it’s in here,’ he said, tapping his head. ‘I don’t feel myself any more, but I don’t want to anyway, you know? I didn’t much like who I used to be. But I feel different and no one understands. I can’t go back to college; it feels like a waste of time, even though Dad’s freaking out.’

‘How can it be a waste of time when all you do is stay down here every day wasting time?’ she asked.

‘I knew you wouldn’t get it,’ he said and he slumped in the desk chair.

Maggie nodded. ‘I’m sorry, I do get it. I don’t understand what having a new heart feels like, but I get the whole bit about trying to be something or go somewhere without directions or a destination.’

Elliot said nothing, just stared at the floor.

‘Why don’t you leave the house at least? Go and do stuff, whatever it is young people are doing these days.’ Maggie smiled. ‘I mean, I know this place is like living in the Hotel California, with everything you need at your fingertips, but you really need to get out of here. Go see your friends, get drunk, have sex.’

‘Most of my old friends are away at college. And those that are here just want to party, and I can’t party like that,’ he said, looking down at his chest.

‘So you’re friendless, depressed and aimless,’ she said. ‘That sounds normal for Hollywood.’

Elliot tried to raise a smile, but couldn’t. Just the idea of heading out into the world made him anxious.

He felt Maggie staring at him as he ran his fingers through his dark hair.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to be an actor? Zoe would rep you in a heartbeat.’

Elliot gave her a look.

‘Okay, a poor choice of words, I admit, but you know you’re good-looking enough.’

‘Good looks don’t translate into being a decent actor, Maggie, you know this,’ he said wryly.

‘Are you saying I’m an average actor because I’m so beautiful?’ she asked, in mock horror.

‘No, you know you’re both, but how many kids my age want to be actors just because they’re good-looking? It’s insane. Half the girls in my final year at school were making sex tapes and the guys were taking steroids so they could all be famous and hot.’

‘And this is why I weep for the future generation.’ She sighed.

They were silent for a moment and then Elliot found himself saying out loud what he had only admitted to himself.

‘I feel like I’ve been sick for so long, in and out of hospital and stuff, I don’t even know how to live normally.’ He shot her a look. ‘I mean, I’m twenty-three and I’m still a freaking virgin, Maggie. I’m a joke!’

‘Oh, El, you’re so not. Having sex doesn’t make you a grown-up, trust me.’

The room filled with an awkward silence and Maggie took a new tack.

‘If you don’t want to go to college, then what do you want to do?’ She glanced at the books. ‘Writing?’

Elliot laughed meanly. ‘As if Dad will say yes to that. You know what a prick he can be.’

Maggie nodded. ‘I was married to him, remember? But in a perfect world, if you could write, what would it be about?’

Elliot took his eyes off the floor and met hers. ‘I’d like to write a book about what I’ve been through,’ he said slowly. ‘Is that self-indulgent?’

Maggie smiled. Her voice was gentle. ‘Nothing about you is self-indulgent. You’re amazing.’

Elliot laughed. ‘No, I’m not, I just have a few ideas I wouldn’t mind trying to put down. Except I don’t really know how to start.’

Maggie leaned forward. ‘I know an amazing writer,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit of a mess right now, but I think you two need to meet.’

‘Maybe,’ said Elliot. ‘I don’t really want to share my sad story with strangers.’

‘Isn’t that what writing a book is, though?’ asked Maggie with a smile.

‘I guess,’ said Elliot, looking down at his clasped hands. He was such a lovely kid, thought Maggie, wishing life had been different for him, and then she thought about herself at that age.

At twenty-three she was just coming up through the ranks of Hollywood, and while she may not have had a heart transplant, she did have an emotional, geographical transplant.

‘El, here’s the thing,’ she said slowly, formulating the tack to take to not put him offside.

‘What happened to you is awful and the fact you have a dead person’s heart in you is weird and unsettling,’ she said.

Elliot looked up at her, surprised by her candour.

‘But I think things happen for a reason. And while you can’t change the past, you can change your future, because you have one now. Write your story and see what happens afterwards, get the thoughts out of your head so you can start to think clearly.’

Elliot was nodding profusely. ‘Yes, that’s it, my head is filled with thoughts, I need to get it all out. I will write, I don’t care what Dad thinks, I have things to say.’

His eyes were wide and his voice passionate and Maggie bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in joy at finally seeing some excitement in him.

‘And if you’re writing a book, you’ll need an assistant,’ said Maggie, her eyes shining.

He laughed. ‘What the hell for? Sharpening my pencils?’

‘To help you write, research, do writer jobs,’ she said emphatically. ‘And maybe they could become your friend also.’

‘Jesus, Maggie, I’m not that desperate. You can’t hire me a friend, that’s stupid.’

But Maggie wasn’t listening.

‘Baby, this is Hollywood, I can hire you anything you want. I’m going to set up a meeting with my writer contact and then I’m going to find you an assistant.’

Elliot shook his head. ‘Dad won’t let you do it. He’s going to throw a fit if I don’t go to college. It’s his whole thing. My son, who will be attending Berkeley.’

Maggie scoffed. ‘When has your dad ever been able to say no to me? Anyway, he understands the need for assistants better than anyone.’

‘Assisting in what?’ asked Elliot, putting up his hands in confusion.

‘Life, kiddo.’ She clapped her hands and stood up. ‘Life.’

West Virginia

September 1995

Krista Calkins walked home the long way, through the back streets and the small wooded area where no one ever went after dark.

Some trouble only came out at night, but Krista had enough trouble during the daylight hours.

As she walked along the path, something glinted on the ground and she bent over to pick it up.

A penny, head side up. Everyone knew head side up was a good omen. Good luck was on its way, she thought happily, and put the penny in her pocket.

Back at the foster home, her foster family had stopped praying, and were now drinking. Her foster mother’s show poodles were barking wildly from the large spare bedroom that was used as their area.

Sliding the screen door across as quietly as she could, Krista hid her purse down the front of her blue-wash jeans, stolen from JC Penney, and hurried to the tiny boxroom where she slept. Everything nice she owned was shoplifted; even the slippers she had given her God-fearing foster mother for Mother’s Day had been stolen.

It made Krista happy to think her foster mother was wearing something stolen, when all she did was spout the Ten Commandments at anyone unlucky enough to be passing her way.

Krista had a job babysitting for Preacher Garrett over at the Haven of Jesus Pentecostal Church. His wife paid her in crumpled five-dollar notes from the offering bowl and Preacher Garrett made up for it with ten-dollar notes for the hand jobs Krista gave him in the back of the church.

After she saw the double lines on Shay’s pregnancy test, Krista knew she was right to convince the preacher that a hand job wasn’t real sex and that she was happy to keep doing it as long as he kept handing over the greenbacks.

The poor man was so desperate for any touch he probably would have let one of the rattlesnakes he kept in a glass tank bite him on the penis just to relieve the tension, she thought.

Krista hid her purse under the floorboard she had prised loose last year. If her foster mother saw any money she would take it, telling Krista she had to pay Jesus for bringing her to such a loving Christian home.

So many times Krista bit back the retort that Jesus didn’t get the money anyway seeing as how her foster mother spent it on cigarettes and whiskey, but she knew it wasn’t worth her breath.

She was sixteen and in two years’ time, she could leave and go to California, where she wanted to be Cinderella at Disneyland.

She was pretty enough, even she knew that. With the money she was saving she would have enough for a bus trip and to rent a costume for her audition.

But she couldn’t leave Shay here in Butthole, West Virginia, as they called it, she would die a slow death, like every other woman in this place.

Krista lay on her small, lumpy bed and stared at the ceiling, calculating how much money she had in her hidden stash. Maybe she could pay for an abortion for Shay?

So far she had saved two hundred and eighty-three dollars, but even she knew that wasn’t enough.

Closing her eyes, she thought about Shay and her predicament and then knew what she had to do.

She would tell the serpent-handling preacher she would sleep with him for two hundred dollars, and get Shay her abortion. Then the two of them would get the hell out of Butthole and move to California where everyone was rich, the sun was always shining and they would both live happily ever after.

Chapter 7

‘I don’t think I can last here much longer.’ Dylan was Skyping Addie from a corner of the UCLA library. ‘I’m down to my last packet of ramen noodles.’

Addie was lying on the bed in her dorm room at Columbia, a huge poster of movie star Will MacIntyre, looking moody in a dinner suit, behind her on the wall. The computer on her lap was reflecting blue light onto her face, making her look as though she was in a spaceship. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘I lost my job with the catering company, I’m being evicted and I’m still no further forward on my research.’

‘Where are you now?’ Addie leaned forward as though trying to see over Dylan’s shoulder.

‘The UCLA library. It’s peaceful here, and I can use their Wi-Fi,’ said Dylan, holding up her mother’s library pass, which was good for all universities across the country. ‘I might end up moving in here if I don’t get a break soon.’

‘You could sell Maggie Hall’s shoes on eBay,’ Addie suggested.

‘What? No way.’ In truth, Dylan had already thought about it, and decided it would be a last resort.

‘Well, you could ask your mom for some more money.’

Dylan shook her head. ‘I can’t ask my mother to fund what she sees as a betrayal. She hates that I’m here, she thinks I’m lowering my intelligence.’

‘Hey, speaking of which, I got you a present,’ Addie cried out. ‘Wait a sec.’

Addie disappeared from camera and Dylan looked at the pile of books on the table from the previous occupants.

Three books on business management, one book about walnut tree growing and two novels. Picking up the first, she glanced at the back, something about a soldier, and another with an ornate painted heart, cracked down the middle.

Her mother would be appalled if she knew Dylan was entranced by the cover of a book, and she heard her voice in her head: Never judge a book by its cover, Dylan, some of the best books in the world don’t have pretty pictures on the front. She turned it over and read the blurb anyway.

‘I’m back,’ said Addie and Dylan looked up at the screen.

Addie was wearing a T-shirt with black writing on the front.

Dylan leaned forward to read it.

‘“Too stupid for New York, too ugly for LA,”‘ she said and then cracked up.

‘And I got me one as well.’ Addie peeled off the T-shirt to reveal another one underneath, and read out, ‘“Too smart for LA, too ugly for New York.”‘

Dylan started laughing so loudly that the other occupants of the library turned to glare at her.

‘God, that’s funny, can you send one to my mom?’ she said, wiping her eyes and leaning on the book on the table.

She picked it up and held it up to the screen. ‘Do you know this book?’

Addie nodded. ‘Yeah, why?’

‘I don’t know, I just saw it here and I was wondering what it’s like,’ said Dylan, turning it over in her hands.

Addie leaned in close as though she was telling a secret. ‘Don’t tell anyone in my lit class but I loved that book. I bawled my eyes out at the end.’

‘Why can’t you tell your lit class?’ asked Dylan. ‘Surely they’re not that snobbish?’

‘Are you kidding? One critic said the book was Marley & Me but with a wife, not a dog,’ said Addie. ‘But he writes really well; it’s worth reading. And your mom would hate it,’ she added.

‘Then I’m gonna read it,’ said Dylan in a wicked voice and Addie giggled.

The sound of her phone ringing broke through the library’s hush again. ‘Hey, I’ve gotta go, this might be the catering company with an emergency reprieve.’

‘Call me tomorrow,’ said Addie before Dylan finished the session, and picked up her phone.

‘Dylan Mercer speaking,’ she said in her most professional tone.

‘Dylan, it’s Maggie Hall. Have you still got those shoes of mine?’

Dylan froze then looked around, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out and say, ‘Punked.’ Thank God she hadn’t sold them, she thought.

‘Yes, I do, would you like them back?’

Maggie laughed. ‘No, sweetheart, but I was wondering if you were busy right now?’

‘No, I’m at the library,’ said Dylan.

‘The library? Good for you,’ said Maggie, sounding sort of pleased or proud of her, which was totally weird but Dylan wanted to hear more.

‘Yeah, I’ve been working all morning,’ she lied.

‘Isn’t that great? Now listen, Dylan, do you have an hour to meet with me? I’d like to discuss a job I think might be good for you.’

Dylan did a triumphant fist pump in the air and then realized she looked like a complete idiot.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said casually, but with a hint of deference.

‘Great, meet me tomorrow at Culina at seven,’ said Maggie and before Dylan could answer Maggie had hung up.

Dylan typed Culina into the search engine and saw it was a bar at the Four Seasons Hotel. Jesus, she thought, she had nothing to wear that was close to good enough for either the venue or Maggie Hall.

Perhaps she should call Addie back and get her to FedEx the T-shirt, she thought as she quickly packed up her things and left. But at the door she stopped, rushed back to the table to pick up the book and checked it out using her mom’s library card.

The following evening, at exactly seven o’clock, Dylan was sitting at the bar in the simple black dress she had worn to graduation, paired with Maggie’s shoes, when she felt the energy in the room grow charged.

Turning, she saw Maggie approaching the bar. She was wearing a white jumpsuit split to the naval and silver heels. With her blond hair slicked back showing off her cheekbones and silver dangly earrings showing off her long neck, she looked like she was off to Studio 54 to chill with Jerry Hall.

Maggie kissed Dylan on the cheek and nodded at the barman, who immediately walked them to a private booth.

‘Dylan, how are you?’ said Maggie as she slid into the booth.

Dylan felt the eyes of all the other bar patrons on them, and wondered if Maggie even noticed the attention any more.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She wiped her sweating hands on her dress.

Maggie smiled at her and Dylan tried to relax, clenching and unclenching her toes as her father had taught her, but all it did was make her feet hurt even more in Maggie’s shoes.

‘Is your thesis going well?’

Dylan frowned and then remembered her lie in the bathroom at the Oscars party.

‘Well, it’s mostly research at the moment, I haven’t got onto the writing part yet,’ she said.

‘Ah, good, so you write as well?’ Maggie leaned forward and Dylan saw the edge of some tape that was making sure the jumpsuit didn’t gape open.

Dylan nodded. ‘A little,’ she said.

Maggie looked up at the waiter who had appeared at the table.

‘A soda water with lime, thanks. Dylan?’

‘Same, thanks,’ said Dylan, trying to emulate Maggie’s casual body language.

‘Are you twenty-one yet?’

‘Nearly nineteen,’ said Dylan, hoping this wasn’t a problem. ‘I finished school last July and took some time off, before I came out here.’

Maggie nodded, but didn’t seem especially interested in Dylan’s past activities.

‘Well, as I said, I have a job I need to talk to you about. It’s not a long-term thing, it may be just for a few months, but I thought it could work with your college schedule.’

Dylan paused, wondering whether to spill the beans about college. Then she remembered the lone packet of noodles sitting in her soon-to-be-vacated apartment. She needed this job. Beside, she justified to herself, she was going to college next year…

‘And if I were to get the job, what would I be assisting you with?’ she asked politely, as though she was offered jobs by movies stars all the time.

‘Ah, well, you see, you wouldn’t actually be working for me,’ Maggie said, and Dylan felt disappointment wrap around her like a shawl. If Maggie noticed, she didn’t say. ‘It’s for a dear friend of mine, who wants to write a book,’ she went on.

‘Oh,’ said Dylan. She didn’t know how to write a book, and if she lied, she would be found out in a heartbeat.

‘My friend has been sick, and he’s kind of an introvert,’ Maggie added.

Dylan watched Maggie as she spoke. Dylan had grown up watching that beautiful face on the screen. Maggie had starred in so many movies, mostly ones about love, and she was still adored. She was the woman every girl wanted to be best friends with, and the woman every man wanted to marry. Dylan didn’t want to let her down, but she knew she had to tell the truth.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help your friend. I’m not a writer,’ she said apologetically.

Maggie laughed. ‘Oh no, Dylan, I don’t want you to help him write it. I want you to help get him out of the house! ‘

Dylan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Maggie paused. ‘He had a heart transplant and it’s kind of knocked him around. He was sick for a long time before the new heart and we all thought the heart would make him excited to live again, but he’s depressed.’

‘Why doesn’t he try therapy?’ Dylan asked, thinking of her father.

‘He doesn’t need therapy,’ Maggie snapped. ‘Taking about his feelings isn’t going to help anything; he needs someone his own age to help him engage with life again. You know, to take him out to see friends, concerts, movies, go shopping, just to do stuff with him.’

She threw her hands up as she spoke, as though tossing confetti into the air.

Dylan was worried. ‘I don’t know if I can look after someone who’s had a heart transplant.’

‘You don’t need to nurse him,’ laughed Maggie, ‘you need to show him fun things to do.’

‘I don’t know LA that well yet,’ Dylan explained. ‘I’ve only been here eight weeks and I have to find a new apartment and I have no idea where to even start looking,’

Disappointment flooded through her that this wasn’t the opportunity she had hoped it would be. Everything about this person that Maggie wanted her to help sounded difficult. An introvert heart transplant patient who wanted to be a writer? Hell no.

‘Did I mention it’s a live-in position,’ said Maggie, ‘with full use of a car? The salary is a thousand dollars a week.’ She paused for effect, then said, ‘Cash.’

Dylan only just succeeded in not spitting her soda water across the table.

‘Will you at least come and meet him?’ asked Maggie, smiling radiantly. ‘I can’t say any more until you’ve signed a confidentiality agreement, but I really think you’ll like him. He’s gorgeous, such a sweet guy.’

Dylan did a backflip on her thinking. How hard could it be? He was probably some old guy who’d been in love with Maggie, and all she’d have to do was take him to concerts at the Hollywood Bowl and drive him around to medical appointments.

She remembered her mother’s words: You can do anything you put your mind to, Dylan.

‘Sure,’ she said with a smile that she hoped covered her nerves, ‘I’d love to meet him.’

After all, who could say no to Maggie Hall?

Chapter 8

Zoe woke in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright.

There were two things that caused her to wake up fretting at night. One was money—even though she had plenty, it never felt like she had quite enough.

The other was the fear that a stranger was in the house—even though she had a serious security system and nothing like that had ever happened the whole time she’d lived in LA.

But old habits die hard and she was sure she could hear the creak of footsteps in the hallway.

Turning on the bedside light she listened to the silence, trying to calm her racing heart and telling the panicked voices in her head she was safe in her own home. There was no leering foster brother with rough hands about to creep in to her room. Hand jobs had kept him at bay, but she’d always wondered how long that would last.

And still, after all these years, Zoe worried that she would never be safe again.

Just to be sure, she got out of bed and walked into her dressing room.

Her house was modest by Hollywood standards, but her dressing room, the size of a small bedsit, was a tribute to her success.

It was her sanctuary, custom built to her design.

There were shelves for all her bags, racks for her shoes, a centrepiece for her belts and accessories, and all climate controlled by the same people who did the system for the Museum of Contemporary Art.

All of Zoe’s work clothes were elegant, in muted tones and blacks. She preferred to blend into the background at work events, leaving the colour to her clients. However, they were all the best quality: Calvin Klein tunics, Armani suits, Roland Mouret cocktail dresses and white shirts from James Perse.

Her off-duty clothes consisted of jeans, yoga pants and anything that was comfortable and soft. Cashmere cardigans and T-shirts worn till they were as soft as a baby’s wrap. At work she was Zoe Greene, but at home she was herself with a love for beautiful things.

Sometimes, to calm herself, she would clean her leather handbags with a special cream. Other times she would check the soles on all her shoes to see which ones might need repairing. Zoe believed in repairing things. When you had worked so hard to get things, you had to look after them.

She did whatever it took to calm the thoughts and her racing heart.

But when she wasn’t at home, and the fears took over her mind, the only place in the world that could calm her was a department store.

Walking through Barneys, she would feel the weight of her troubles slide off her shoulders.

Now Zoe sat on the padded chair in her dressing room and contemplated her success, but still she felt troubled.

The rumours that Jeff’s studio was in financial trouble had to be true, she thought, and explained his demand that Zoe find a new star for the role of Simone. Clearly he didn’t have the money to pay for an A-list actress.

Jeff had also demanded a lower cost director, maybe someone from Europe, he had said. During the meeting in Jeff’s plush office, staring at the Kandinsky on his wall, Zoe had wondered if it was too late to get out of the deal. But she had signed the papers and was an official executive producer on The Art of Love.

She picked up a pair of Sergio Rossi boots and ran her hand over the smooth, handcrafted leather but she didn’t feel the calm that usually came when she spent time with her possessions. An unfamiliar restlessness surged through her and she wondered what Jeff was doing. Probably taking some young actress to bed with promises of stardom.

Tonight her wardrobe couldn’t fix what she needed, she thought. The only remedy was Barneys and a serious shopping spree.

The next morning she nursed a coffee and ninety-nine problems, as she entered Barneys.

The store felt like retail valium, she thought, as she took in the marble, silver and soft music.

Sleep had finally arrived at her house at four a.m. and now at eleven in the morning, she was feeling slightly hungover when she heard her name.

Turning, she saw Stella Valancia coming towards her in a cloud of leopard print and musk scent.

‘Stella, how are you?’ she asked politely.

‘I am fine,’ said Stella, over-pronouncing the ‘fine’, so it sounded like the word was never going to end.

She really was gorgeous, thought Zoe, it was just a shame she couldn’t act. But with a spectacular body and more ambition than talent, Stella hadn’t looked back since moving to Los Angeles.

Will had asked Zoe to manage Stella, but she had refused on the grounds she didn’t have any more room in her talent stable.

‘I want to audition for The Art of Love,’ Stella said abruptly.

Zoe felt her jaw drop. She could not be serious, could she?

Simone and Stella were as similar as Meryl Streep and Marilyn Monroe. Zoe was familiar enough with Stella’s work to know she couldn’t possibly bring the gravitas to the role of Simone that was required.

Zoe paused, trying to find the right words. ‘I will put your name forward to Jeff and the author, Stella, but they have ultimate sign-off on auditions. I’m sure you understand this is going to be a highly sought-after role.’

Stella shrugged. ‘Of course, but I want to try.’ She paused. ‘I also think, if I do the role, she shouldn’t die in the end.’

Zoe wondered for a moment if she was dreaming.

‘But she does die in the end?’ she said slowly, making sure Stella understood. ‘Simone did actually die, in real life.’

Stella shrugged. ‘Yes, but it would be nicer for ze audience if she didn’t die, no?’

‘Okay,’ said Zoe, shaking her head, now wishing she were at home in her wardrobe again.

Stella picked up the Marni shoe on the stand next to Zoe. ‘Why does Maggie come to Will’s house so often?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?’ Zoe said, looking Stella in the eye.

‘Is she still in love with him?’

Was she ever in love with Will? Zoe wanted to say. Perhaps for a time Maggie had convinced herself that she was, but Elliot was the reason she had stayed in the marriage, Zoe knew, and why she couldn’t keep away now.

‘Maggie’s just very close to Elliot, that’s all,’ Zoe said, trying to edge away from Stella.

Stella rolled her eyes and Zoe felt dislike welling in her.

‘I don’t understand why he is still at home. When I was twenty, I was already out in the world trying to become an actress,’ Stella said.

‘He’s been sick for the past ten years. For God’s sake, the kid’s just had a heart transplant,’ Zoe snapped, and then she shook her head, desperate to get away from Stella the Insensitive.

‘Have a good day, Stella,’ she said and quickly walked away.

What a cold-hearted bitch, Zoe thought furiously. She had no empathy for Elliot at all. There was no way she would be presenting her name as a potential Simone, she decided, as she headed out of the store.

The self-obsession of actors like Stella made her angry, arrogant men like Jeff made her angry, the self-destruction of talents like Hugh Cavell made her angry, the unfairness of kids like Elliot nearly dying made her angry.

Picking up her phone, she dialled the only person who would understand.

‘Mags, I hate everyone today,’ she said as soon as Maggie answered.

‘Oh, babe, I hate everyone most days,’ Maggie answered with a laugh. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call for the last two days. That Hugh is one messed-up writer and that’s saying something in this town.’

‘I know,’ said Zoe. ‘Was he drinking?’

Maggie paused. ‘No.’

‘Thanks, Mags. I am so grateful you could help out,’ said Zoe as she got into her car. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘I’m on my way to see Elliot and Will,’ Maggie said.

‘Oh, I just saw Stella. She thinks you’re still in love with Will.’

Maggie started laughing. ‘She’s an idiot,’ she said. ‘Besides her body, I don’t know what Will sees in her.’

Zoe debated whether to tell Maggie about Stella hoping to audition for the role of Simone, but something told her to stay quiet.

Zoe’s call waiting sounded and Jeff’s name flashed on her screen. ‘Mags, I’ve gotta go. I have Satan on the other line.’

‘Say hi to Jeff from me,’ Maggie laughed as she finished the call.

‘Hi, Jeff,’ Zoe said as she pulled into the driveway of her home. Banana palms and white bougainvillea screened the low, mid-century house, giving Zoe privacy and also the sense she was in the wild from the inside of the house. It certainly wasn’t anything Jeff would like, she thought as she stopped the car.

‘What the fuck is going on, Greene? I just had Stella Valancia’s manager on the phone, saying you offered her the role of Simone. I thought you had better taste than that. Tits and teeth ain’t gonna cut it for this role.’

At least we agree on something, she thought.

Three days ago she had signed the papers in his office, and since then he had rung her at every given opportunity to throw names at her, names that she knew were too expensive and to ask her how her hunt was going.

She still had a business to run, she wanted to remind him, but part of her wanted him to think she could do it all, and then some.

But God, he was a demanding asshole. Zoe gently banged her forehead on the steering wheel a few times. Was it worth it? she wondered, as Jeff’s voice lectured her.

‘She’s trash and why the hell she’s with Will MacIntyre I don’t know, not when he had Maggie Hall in his bed. I’ve a mind to call him and tell him he doesn’t know a decent woman when he has one.’

Zoe secretly agreed but she felt bad for Stella, despite her misgivings about her earlier.

‘Can you not talk about Stella or any other woman like that, please?’

‘Oh, Christ, don’t tell me I’ve just hired a lesbian feminist!’

‘It’s none of your business what I am,’ said Zoe calmly. ‘Just don’t speak of women like that to me. You’ve got a daughter, haven’t you? I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if you heard someone talking about her like that.’

There was a silence.

‘Just tell Stella she’s not right for the role,’ Jeff barked, and slammed down the phone.

Zoe sat in the car, her head still on the steering wheel, and wondered why the hell she’d ever thought working with Jeff Beerman was a good idea.

She wanted to be powerful, but would that mean she had to turn into a tyrant like him?

Chapter 9

‘He doesn’t need a bloody assistant!’

Will was yelling at Maggie, who sat at the far end of the enormous seventeenth-century oak dining table, bought when they were still married.

‘You said I could do whatever it takes to get him out of the house, so this is what it’s gonna take, Will,’ she yelled back.

‘I am not paying her wage,’ he said firmly.

‘I will,’ she stated.

‘And she can’t live here,’ he said.

‘She needs to live here in case Elliot has writer tasks that need to be done,’ she said vaguely, unsure what they were exactly and hoping to God Will didn’t ask her to elaborate.

They stared at each other at a stalemate, just like when they were married.

Maggie tried a different tack. ‘He wants to write a book, he needs help and he needs a friend, what’s the harm in that?’

‘He needs to go back to college.’

Maggie bit her lip and then spoke calmly.

‘He hates college,’ she said.

‘Too bad,’ Will snapped.

Maggie stood up. ‘Will, you nearly lost him once; don’t make him leave you this time. You may not get him back again.’

Will looked up at her. ‘Do you really think this is the right thing to do?’

Maggie nodded. ‘He wants to meet Dylan, the person I think is right for the role, and how can that be a bad thing? I mean, at least he wants to do something. It’s all part of the process, isn’t it? Trying stuff?’

Will sat in silence. Maggie glanced around the large airy dining room. This was where she and Will had planned to entertain their friends when they first bought the house. But their busy schedules hadn’t made it easy to create those Martha Stewart at-home moments Maggie had dreamed of when she was younger and living in a boxroom with another hypocritical foster family.

He frowned at her, but his tone was softer now. ‘You do know you’re nuts, don’t you?’

‘I know. Completely.’

Their eyes met for a moment and then Maggie looked away. She could read the pain on Will’s face and the guilt of leaving him was still too much to carry.

The sound of a knock broke the moment and Elliot stood in the doorway, clasping and unclasping his hands.

Maggie smiled at him. His hair was still damp from the shower and despite the swelling in his face from the anti-rejection drugs, he looked like any other young guy about to go to a job interview in his navy blue linen shirt over pressed chinos and decent sneakers.

‘You ready?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m ready.’ She walked over to Will’s chair and hugged him. ‘Just because you hate me, don’t take it out on El,’ she whispered in his ear.

‘I don’t hate you, Maggie,’ Will said in a low voice and he looked up at her, ‘not even a bit.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Elliot, as she pulled out of the driveway and drove past the manicured lawns and the perfect houses of the rich and famous.

Maggie had hated living in Beverly Hills when she was married to Will. All the bullshit homes and the lack of community made her feel isolated. Everything was always the same, without any personality. At least when she looked out at her view each morning, it changed with the tides.

‘I’m taking you to meet Hugh Cavell,’ Maggie said, as she turned off onto the Pacific Highway and passed a sign reading Malibu.

‘Who? I thought I was meeting the assistant today,’ Elliot looked unimpressed by the name.

Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘You will, but first you need to meet Hugh. He’s only the best author I ever read. He wrote an amazing book about his wife and her death, you must have heard of it? It’s called The Art of Love.’

Elliot shrugged and shook his head and Maggie sighed.

Elliot fiddled with the car stereo, flicking through stations until Maggie snapped, ‘Just choose something, for Christ’s sake.’

Elliot laughed and sat back in the seat as the sounds of an English rapper came through the speakers.

They drove in comfortable silence, the music adding to the backdrop of the beauty of the coast. This would make a great scene in a film, thought Maggie. She often thought like that, seeing scenes and directing in her head. It was a shame the other actors in her life didn’t follow her internal script, though, she thought with an inner laugh.

‘What did you say to this dude about me?’ Elliot asked.

Maggie tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. ‘I didn’t say too much,’ she said carefully as the Pacific Ocean came into view.

The water was calm and glittered invitingly. Maggie never tired of the view of the ocean, as the seagulls flew over them and down towards the water.

Elliot lowered his window and put his head outside, like a dog sniffing the possibilities of the day.

Maggie glanced at him and she smiled. Then she turned up the music and drove a little slower. Some days were worth slowing down for, she thought, as Elliot turned to her, his face flushed from the wind.

‘It’s good to be out,’ he cried over the music.

Maggie beamed back at him, relieved. Stage one of her plan was working out, she thought as she turned into Hugh’s street.

Pulling up, she turned to Elliot. ‘Now, don’t freak out if he seems a bit angry.’

‘Why would he be angry?’ Elliot looked concerned.

Maggie looked at the closed gate. ‘He doesn’t actually know we’re coming,’ she admitted.

‘What? Jesus, Maggie, you can’t just turn up and say, “Hello, this is my ex-stepson, can you teach him how to write a book?” Does he even know you?’

‘He knows me,’ she said firmly. ‘And he owes me a favour. Now come on, get out of the car.’

Maggie pressed the intercom, feeling nervous. People didn’t usually say no to her, but then Hugh Cavell wasn’t most people, she thought, remembering their brunch.

Hugh had swung wildly between charming, morose and fascinating and never once did he hit on her. Instead, he regaled her with stories about his childhood, his family. He never mentioned Simone.

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