Angels (13 page)

“Duh!” I gestured at the window and the dazzling day beyond it. “Go to the beach, of course.”

“I'll get my bikini,” she offered gallantly.

94 / MARIAN KEYES

I shook my head. “There's no need. Stay and do some work, you'll feel better.”

Emily had always been a hard worker, and though she claimed she wasn't making any progress on her new script, I knew how guilty she felt if she didn't put in the hours. She'd even done some work the previous evening.

Mind you, as well as writing, Emily spent half her life on the phone, hopping from call waiting to call waiting, like a juggler keeping several balls in the air. There was no such thing as a short conversation.

Connie—whom I still hadn't met—seemed to take up a lot of her time, on account of having drama after drama with flowers, caterers, hairdressers, bridesmaids' dresses…It made me queasy to overhear it; I didn't want anyone to ever get married, I wanted the whole world to get divorced—even single people—so that my life wouldn't feel like such a rare and conspicuous fiasco.

Connie's most recent wedding disaster related to her honeymoon.

In a strange version of life imitating art, the resort she'd picked for her honeymoon had been invaded by disgruntled local militiamen, who'd kidnapped seven of the guests. Connie's travel agent was refusing to return her deposit, and though Emily hadn't an ounce of legal knowledge, she was urging Connie to sue. “You've got rights, who cares if it wasn't in the contract. Oh, hang on, there's my call waiting…”

“I'll be back later,” I said, flinging a book into my beach bag.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Emily asked.

“Yes.” Well, I wasn't too bad—I'd been in Los Angeles for three days and not once had I rung Garv. I'd had two really compulsive urges, but luckily they'd both happened when it was the middle of the night in Ireland, so I'd convinced myself not to act on them.

“You're getting a great tan,” Emily said, sitting cross-legged on the couch and switching on her laptop. “Drive safely.”

ANGELS / 95

On the way to my car, I saw the New-Agey next-door neighbors, obviously on their way out to work. An incongruous pair: she was African American, haughty and graceful, with a swanlike neck and elbow-length extensions. Whereas he looked like Bill Bryson: bearded, balding, bespectacled, and kind of jolly. I gave them a nod. Smiling, they approached and introduced themselves: Charmaine and Mike. They seemed very pleasant and didn't mention my aura.

I said good-bye, turned away, and saw one of the neighbors from the other side returning from buying coffee for himself and his roommates, if the Starbucks tray he was carrying was any clue.

“Yo,” he yelled at me as he marched along in knee-length cutoffs and a torn vest. Even if Emily hadn't already told me the lads were all students, I think I could have figured out that this one wasn't exactly an insurance salesman, to judge from his shaved head, facial piercings, and elaborate facial hair. In my few short days in Los Angeles, I'd decided that next door could well be a halfway house for Goatees Anonymous. There appeared to be dozens of blokes—although Emily said there were only three—and they all seemed to be afflicted. Some just had wispy, pathetic efforts; others, the more hard-core cases like this guy, wore cultivated Fu Manchu mini beards.

Outside their house sat a long, low, orange car. It looked so rusted out, I thought it had been abandoned, but Emily told me it belonged to the boys. It had cost them only two hundred dollars on account of none of the doors opening, so entry and exit was by means of the windows. They called it their Dukes of Hazzard mobile.

“Hey,” I replied, climbing into my car.

I drove the shamefully short distance to the beach and parked.

The vista ahead of me was as picture-perfect as it always was. The sand, the sun, the waves, the clear, golden light. Pity I was so wretchedly lonely. Worse still—and I was ashamed to admit this—I was unsettled without the routine and structure of a job and, really, I can't tell you how annoying this was because I felt like I'd spent most of my

96 / MARIAN KEYES

working life fantasizing about winning the lotto, quitting the job, and having endless free time to loll around in the sun. Now that I had it, I was afraid of it. Of course, over the years, I'd taken holidays, but this strange, uncharted hiatus wasn't a holiday. I wasn't sure what it
was
, but I knew what it wasn't.

I noticed that my left ring finger no longer looked so weird—the raw dough color was becoming more normal, the sunburn had gone down, and the outline was plumping out to fit with the rest of the finger. It was like writing in the sand being washed away by the waves.

I spread out my towel and sat in the invisible plastic bubble that kept me cut off from the rest of the world—apart from Rudy, the ice-cream man. He hadn't shown up the previous day. His day off?

I asked.

No, he said. He'd been at an audition.

“So what'll it be today?” he asked.

“What do you recommend?” I was keen to prolong the contact.

“How about a Klondike bar?”

A Klondike bar it was, and away he went.

I watched him slog along the beach, getting smaller and smaller the farther he went. Where did he put the ice creams at night? I wondered. Was there a big place they all lived? Like a bus depot, but for ice creams? Or did he have to take them home with him?

And if so, was he worried about members of his family eating them?

It wouldn't matter so much if they paid for them, it'd save him trudging along the beach while people threw stones at him. But they probably wouldn't cough up…I drifted off to sleep.

I was never in danger of getting too much sleep. I was still sleeping that same dead-person's sleep that I had been at home—at least I did once the loudest telly in the Western Hemisphere was switched off. Being asleep was a blessed release, and waking up was like being delivered into hell. Each morning, when reality hit, my first thought was one of

ANGELS / 97

terror. “I can't believe this has happened. I can't actually believe I'm here.” But not long after waking, the horror usually dispersed, just leaving a wispy residue of dread.

When I got back, around six-thirty, Emily had fallen asleep on the couch, her laptop on her stomach. There was a flashing light on the answering machine. One message.

A man's voice, speaking in that laid-back, California, singsong way, as if this call wasn't a matter of life and death. “Yeah, hey, Emily. This is David. Crowe. Your hardworking agent.” He got particularly singsongy at that part. “I just got a call from Mort Russell at Hothouse. He's read your script and he's veeeeery excited.” Another little tune. “Call me.”

“Emily! Wake up!” I tugged her by the arm and tried to drag her across the room. “Wake up, you have to listen to this!”

Her face blank and dazed, I played the message again. Then she was off that couch and on that phone so fast…

“Who's Hothouse?” I asked. “Are they good?”

“I think they're part of Tower,” she mumbled, punching numbers.

“Don't have left for the day, oh, still be there,
please
. Emily O'Keeffe calling for David Crowe.”

She was put straight through.

“Yeah,” she said and nodded.

“Yes.”

“Right.”

Another nod.

“Okay.”

“When?”

“Okay.”

“'Bye.”

Slowly she put down the phone. Even more slowly she let her body slide down the wall until she was on the floor. Everything in her actions screamed catastrophe. She turned a strained face to me.

“You know what?”

“What?”

98 / MARIAN KEYES

“They want me to pitch it to them.”

It took me a moment. “But that's good!”

“I know.
I know
. I KNOW.”

Then she wept as I've never seen another human being weep.

Torrents. Buckets. Convulsions.

“Thank God,” she bawled into her hands. “ThankGod-thank-GodthankGodthankGod…”

“You artistic types,” I said indulgently.

“I have to talk to Troy.” She was suddenly urgent.

A quick phone call—at least it was quick by her standards, a mere twenty minutes or so—then it was all hands on deck. Hair and makeup and dresses and heels; we were meeting Troy at Bar Marmont at eight-thirty. Apparently Troy was a director and he would advise Emily on Mort Russell, Hothouse, pitching, and self-esteem, among other things.

“Is he married?” I asked, as I asked about everyone.

This sent Emily into fits of laughter. “Troy? Yeah, Troy is married, all right. To his work. But other than that, he's single. Single single.

Single, single, single, the most single person you've ever met.”

“What films has he made?” I asked as we sped along the 405.

“None that you'd have heard of.”

“Is he no good then?”

“He's brilliant. But he works in the independent sector, he's too uncompromising to survive in the studio system—at least at the moment. He's waiting for his reputation to be good enough so he gets total artistic control on a big-budget blockbuster.”

“God, would you look at them!” We'd passed a gym, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, so that everyone on the treadmills was visible to the whole world. Not only would I hate to have passing motorists witness my red, sweaty shame, but it was eight-thirty on a Friday night! Had they no bars to go to?

“Loads of gyms do that window thing,” Emily said.

ANGELS / 99

“There's always the chance that Steven Spielberg might be passing.”

Bar Marmont was dark and Gothic and very un-L.A. Plaster serpents snaked up the walls and even the mirrors reflected back gloom.

“There he is.” Emily marched over to a man sitting on his own.

After they greeted each other very excitedly, she introduced me to him.

“Hi,” he said shyly.

“Hi.” I was staring at him. I knew I was, and all I could do was wonder,
What makes a man beautiful
?

I knew there were certain conventions. Big jawlines, prominent cheekbones, long, thick eyelashes. Everyone likes a good set of gleaming white choppers, while soulful puppy-dog eyes do it for some people. (Although I'm not one of them.) And noses? No. Noses are meant to take a backseat. Everyone thinks it's just better if they keep out of the way.

However, sometimes a person breaks all the rules, and they still end up being devastating. Troy's long face was dominated by his nose. His mouth was a straight, underscored line that gave nothing away.

But the light bounced from his olive skin, and his dark hair was shorn GI short. His eyes were, perhaps, hazel-colored. A sidelong glance across the room, as he looked across at the bar, and a greenishness blazed.

“You girls like a drink?” he asked softly.

“Sure.” Emily said. “White wine.”

“Maggie?” And the eyes were on me. More khaki than hazel.

“Something.”

“You want to narrow it down for me some?” A little upward curve of his mouth.

“Aaah. Something frosty. With alcohol.”

“Something frosty with alcohol. You got it.” He smiled. Oh, and there we are. Gleaming white choppers, all present and correct.

100 / MARIAN KEYES

I watched him crossing the room. He wasn't very tall, but there was a careless grace to his movements, as if he wasn't terribly interested in himself.

“Y'okay?” Emily asked.

“Uh, yes.”

She rummaged in her handbag, smiling a private smile.

Then he was back. “Frozen margarita, Maggie. The best in town.

So, what brings you to L.A.?”

“Just…” I hated this question, just hated it. Then I knew what to say! “Just taking some downtime.”

No one looked at me funny. No one burst out laughing. Looked like I'd managed to use the new slang successfully.

Then it was debriefing time. According to Troy, Mort Russell was “Insane, but not in a bad way.

“Not always in a bad way,” he amended.

“And he's really EXCITED about my script,” Emily twinkled.

“I love your work,” Troy crooned at her. “I troooly love your work. I want to have sex with your work, I love it so much.”

“I love
your
work,” Emily said. “I'm getting all hot just thinking about it.”

“That's the way they go on,” she explained to me. “Mort Russell probably hasn't even read my script.”

“They just drop a love bomb on you,” Troy said. “Two days later they won't even take your calls.”

Not that that was going to happen to Emily, he insisted.

“So what do you know about Hothouse?” Emily asked.

“They've got good people and a lot of energy. You know they made
The American Way
?”

“Was that them?” Emily looked alarmed. “That wasn't so great.”

“Yeah, but only because they kept firing the directors.”

“You know
Glass Flowers
?” Emily went off on a tangent. “I heard they had
six
teen writers on it.”

“True. And it shows. Whatja think of
Sand in Your Eyes
?”

ANGELS / 101

“Not as bad as
Obeying Orders
. Like, I managed not to walk out!”

While I sipped my frosty drink with alcohol, Emily and Troy batted high-speed banter about movies they'd seen recently. Mostly they dissed them, but now and again they poured praise. “
Great
cinematography.”

“Really tight script.”

After a while I got the rules. If I'd heard of the movie, they didn't tend to like it, but if it sounded obscure, preferably foreign, then it got praised.

“So pitch me your movie, Emily?” Troy finally said.

“Okay. I'm thinking
Thelma and Louise
meets
Steel Magnolias
meets
The Thomas Crown Affair
meets
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking
Barrels
,” she said, in a rush. “Only joking. I haven't had time to work on it yet.”

“We have until Wednesday,” Troy said. “But you know? You'll be great. You” he pointed at her—“are Good in a Room.”

“Good in a Room?” I asked.

“It's what they say,” Troy said. “About someone who's got the art of the pitch. Emily tells a great story, she's Good in a Room.