Epiphany Jones (27 page)

Epiphany puts her palms up for me to stop. ‘I didn’t, Jerry,’ she desperately lies. I move towards her until the gun is an inch from her snow-white skin. Spasms run across her face. Sweat makes her mascara bleed. ‘I didn’t –’

I shake my head and wipe tears on my sleeve.
‘Then how do you know she’s dead?’

I cock the gun and Epiphany’s eyes go wide as she realises how this is going to end. She lowers her hands halfway – a way of telling me to
‘just calm down’,
a way of saying,
‘we’re all friends here’.
And, as tears pour from my eyes, Epiphany stammers her last lie.

She says, ‘In the bar … when they warned me about the gun–’

Looking into the barrel of it, she says, ‘My voices–’ then shifts her gaze to my eyes.

She says, ‘My voices, they told me how much you are hurting.’

And I say,
‘Stop with the voices.’

And I fire into Epiphany Jones’ snow-white face.

I
n movies the term point-blank is thrown around incorrectly all the time. Point-blank actually refers to a shot fired from within one to two metres of the victim. When you shoot someone within inches of the face, as I just did, it’s called a contact shot. A contact shot will produce what’s called tattooing – a distinctively patterned wound from the powder burns that spray the face.

The sound of a gunshot has nothing to do with the mechanics of the bullet. The bang comes from gases that are released during the shot. In a contact shot the body will act as a suppressor for the muzzle blast, trapping the propellant gases under the skin, causing it to bubble up, thus muffling the sound of the shot so that even people walking on a busy boulevard forty feet away can’t hear it.

Now, what’s meant to happen when you shoot someone in the face at any range is the bullet leaves the barrel of the gun. It enters the victim, ideally between the eyes, travelling through the skull and that lump of grey matter we call a brain. Then the bullet, it exits the back of the head, taking a large chunk of skull and skin and mush with it.

Think JFK.

Think MLK.

Think Honest Abe.

This person you just shot, they’re supposed to collapse lifelessly to the ground. All thoughts, all memories, all pain and all joy, gone from them forever.

That’s what’s meant to happen. But guns, they act differently when you fire them at Epiphany Jones.

She’s still standing. Her eyes squeezed tight. Her breath held. Her whole body rigid like a bronze statue as she stands braced for impact against the half-inch shard of metal that’s supposed to end her shitty life.

One second passes. Two. And she opens her eyes a little. Three. She exhales. Four. She says, ‘God,’ and crosses herself. I flip the chamber open. Five. There are only five bullets in the revolver. The one that should have gone into Epiphany’s skull is lying somewhere on the floor of the Carlton’s bar.

‘Not God,’ I say, snapping the chamber shut, ‘luck.’

And maybe she’s convinced I’m right for once, because she doesn’t give me a chance to take another shot. With the broken heel of her silver shoe she kicks hard against my shin and grabs my wrist. And she slams my hand against the alley wall until I drop the gun. She’s relentless with her kicks and I stumble from the alley, tripping over a curb, landing in the middle of the street.

She kicks off her snapped heels and races barefooted down the street then turns onto the main boulevard. I grab the gun and sprint after her. I weave between the nightlife lovers and the celebrity seekers that fill the Croisette. A mass of people huddled around a DVD stall selling two-for-ones slows my pursuit. I push though them and run into the street. A black Benz blares its horn as it swerves to get around me. Epiphany is just twenty feet ahead of me on the sidewalk, and I’m gaining on her. Suddenly the mirror of another car hits me as it tries to swerve around me on the street. I leap back onto the sidewalk into the thickened crowd again. Then I realise it’s not just the crowd, but one of the roving bands of gypsies that have slowed my pursuit.

The gypsy and her children, they circle around me. The gypsy mother lifts her baby to my face and mumbles something about food. The longer the gypsy blocks me the smaller and smaller Epiphany gets down the boulevard. So I wrench the baby from the gypsy’s arms.

And I dropkick it.

And from behind me, someone yells, ‘My God!’

Someone yells, ‘That man just punted a baby!’

Someone yells, ‘Nice range!’

And I probably forgot to mention this before, but the gypsies that come from all over Europe to festivals like this – my dad told me all about them. They’ll roam around in packs, a mother and her gypsy children. The mother will always carry a baby wrapped in a blanket in her arms. As she carries this baby, she’s followed by her other little children, who weave through the people on the crowded sidewalk. The mother gypsy, she’ll hug her baby tight, whispering prayers in its ears. And the other children, they’ll wait for a cue from their mother. They’ll wait for a cue from their mother because, that baby she’s holding? It’s not real.

My father explained that what these gypsies will do is find a crowded area and ask people in broken English if they can spare some change to help feed the children. When no one offers any money, the gypsy will scream and scream until she’s attracted a lot of attention. Then she’ll toss her baby into the air. And the onlookers, they’ll all stand dumbfounded as this small baby sails through the sky.

While this is going on, while everyone’s attention is on the baby, the gypsy’s children will deftly pick the pockets of the onlookers. They do this in less than five seconds. And as the baby lands on the ground or is caught by a Good Samaritan, the onlookers will breathe a collective sigh of relief when someone shouts, ‘It’s just a doll!’ Everyone will slowly depart, crisis averted. ‘The woman is mad,’ they’ll say. They won’t realise until much later that their pockets are lighter.

And across the street a man has his hands stretched towards the sky. ‘Mine!’ he calls, like he’s Shoeless Joe Jackson waiting in the outfield. And soon three men are on me. Two wear tuxes. The third looks like paparazzi. They’re forcing me to the ground, and as a hand presses my head against the sidewalk, I gaze down the boulevard, my view all sideways. Epiphany has disappeared.

‘Someone call the police!’ a man is shouting.

‘Oh, take his picture, darling. The help will never believe this!’ a woman says.

Across the street, Shoeless Joe catches the baby to loud applause. He beams like he’s single-handedly won the World Series. But, ‘Wait!
Wait!’ he says. ‘It’s not real!’ And he gives the baby a squeeze and it squeals like a dog’s toy.

The men holding me down, they apologise. They help me up now. The anger on the boulevard turns towards the gypsy.

‘You should be ashamed!’ someone says.

‘Get a job,’ another shouts.

But the gypsy, she just gathers her real children and walks away. Their pockets stuffed full of wallets.

R
achel is in my room when I get back. She’s sitting in a chair by the window. But she has the decency not to say anything other than, ‘How could you let her get away?’ When I open the bathroom door, Ana Lucia comes running out. But she disappears just as quickly. It’s when I leave the bathroom that I find Bela lying naked in my bed.

In my head I keep hearing her say,
‘My alleegator.’
So I cry.

Then my phone rings.

‘Jerry?’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Phineas, Jerry. We met in the bar. Your father’s friend.’

I don’t say anything. Bela’s in my bed. Her mouth gaping open and eyes wide as she’s invisibly strangled.

‘Jerry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you OK, Jerry?’ His voice seems distant. ‘You ran out so quickly, I wanted to make sure everything is OK.’

‘How did you get this number?’

‘The concierge,’ he says. ‘I mention I work for Matthew and doors open. His name carries weight here.’ The way he says it is like he’s expecting me to chuckle.

‘So are you OK, Jerry?’ he says. ‘I’m up in the penthouse if you want to talk.’

‘What do you need?’ I say.

It’s a moment before he says, ‘There’s an event tomorrow night at the Martinez.
The Princess of the Sands
party. I thought you could come. I haven’t seen you since the wrap party and it would be nice to catch up with my old friend’s kid.’ Then he adds, ‘You remember that party? Your dad had that special present for you?’

I remember the party but I haven’t a clue what present he’s talking about. The only thing I ever got from my dad was his gold watch.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘That’s fine.’

‘Great, Jerry. I’ll have someone drop an invite by your room.’ Then he adds, ‘You with anyone here? You need another invite?’

I look at the bed and Bela has disappeared. ‘No,’ I say.

‘OK, Jerry. No problem,’ he says, like that’s the wrong answer. ‘Sounds good.’

We hang up and half an hour later someone slides a green envelope under my door and I go to bed but I don’t sleep.

I’
m standing in a roped-off area outside the Martinez Hotel. This is eighteen hours after I fucked up shooting Epiphany. I clutch the piece of parchment from the green envelope that’s the fancy ticket to
The Princess of the Sands
party. Fans, barricaded from the guests attending the party, scream endlessly. Celebrity after celebrity walks from limo after limo into the hotel. With each additional celebrity, the fans’ shouts increase.

There goes Brad.

Screams.

And Gwyneth.

Screams.

Ah, and here’s Tom.

And a girl on the sidelines – she
faints
. The celebrities, they’re like Greek gods in front of adoring legions of soldiers. There goes Zeus. Here’s Hades. Ah, Persephone is wearing a lovely laurel, isn’t she?

It’s different watching the celebrity procession in person than it is on television. You see what the cameras don’t show you: everything is orchestrated. The agents treat their celebrities like children. One scolds, ‘No dammit, not yet! Angelina hasn’t cleared the walk yet and we need all the cameras to be on
you
! Wait! Wait! OK,
now
!’ Another one shouts at an up-and-coming child star, ‘It’s no good just being seen! You
need
to be
photographed
! If you don’t make it to the glossy pages, your career is dead before you turn thirteen!’

A security guard asks to see my ticket. ‘OK, you go in once the As are done,’ he says.

A is for A-listers.

The celebrities keep coming. Megan. Julia. Natalie. Jennifer. And I’ve jerked off to them all. Standing over my keyboard, I’ve fucked them every which way and they don’t even know it. Then a large white limo pulls up. A valet opens the door and Matthew Mann gets out. It’s been more than a decade since I last saw him. He’s gotten fat, sloth like. His hair has gone grey, but his veneers are still whiter than the flashing of the cameras.

And he’s the reason I came to this stupid party. Not for what he’s done. Not for knowing what he does to little girls. Not to bust him. No. If he’s here, I’m betting Epiphany will show. I left my gun back in the room. Security is too tight, but I’ll use my hands if I have to. I’ll grab her by the neck and wring the life from her pale little face. I’ll grab a chair and bludgeon her to death while all the stars look on.
‘Luck doesn’t save you twice,’
I’ll say.

Matthew extends his big, fat, sausage fingers into the limousine and a slender, tanned hand takes his. And then out comes the belle of the ball. The hottest It Girl in the history of Hollywood. And the crowd screams like it’s one massive animal. It’s in ecstasy.

Jordan Seabring drifts up the red carpet as flash after flash after flash explodes from cameras. Shouts boom from the audience.
‘I love you!’ ‘Marry me!’ ‘Oh my God! Oh my Goooooooddddd!’
And Jordan, she looks perfect. Her wavy blonde hair shimmers. Her strapless black dress shows off her Cs just the right amount. And in the eyes of the crowd, with every flash Jordan becomes more beautiful; more important; more of who to aspire to be.

But as powerful as Matthew is, few of the screaming fans recognise him. Matthew knows this. But it doesn’t matter. Not to someone like him. The people with the real power in Hollywood don’t need to be recognised. They
make
the celebrities. And they know each star is just a cog in the wheel.
A brand
. Each star will be replaced when the time comes. They’ll be replaced with the younger, the more beautiful. But people like Matthew – they’ll be around until the day they die, celebritising the world as they see fit.

After Matthew and Jordan slip inside the golden doors, the crowds disperse. Everyone who walks in now is the Unphotographed – the people who don’t matter. And as the crowd thins, I expect to see Epiphany left standing behind, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

‘H
ow do you like the party?’ a voice says from behind me.

‘The Bellini is good,’ I say, holding up the same glass I’ve had for twenty-five minutes.

Phineas smiles. ‘Yes, these parties are all the same, aren’t they?’ He pauses for a moment, then confides, ‘You know, for the last ten years, Matthew just arrives at the parties for the press photographers? As soon as he gets in the door, he goes right out the back.’ Phineas laughs. ‘But that’s what he has me for. I’ll tell the reporters he had a wonderful time dancing with the star of whatever film until the early hours.’

All around us celebrities and Hollywood hacks talk and laugh and smile. And still they all look like they’re acting. Just past a waiter who’s dressed as a porcupine creature from
The Princess of the Sands
, an agent is saying to his seventeen-year-old Disney star, ‘The goal is when someone types the letter of your first name into Google, you’re the top auto-suggestion that appears.’

He’s saying, ‘The goal is to Tweet one sexy picture of yourself to your followers each week.’

He’s saying, ‘The goal is to get more “Likes” than Facebook has users.’

Always keeping an eye out for Epiphany, I say to Phineas, ‘I remember my dad saying this world really wears on you. After the first month in, it loses its shine. The mystery and sparkle are gone.’

‘Your father was an intelligent man,’ he says, ‘He knew there were better things than this.’ Then he looks at me for a moment. ‘How was the redhead? She looked like fun.’

‘I lost her in the crowd,’ I say.

‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘You said you’re here alone? Lots of pretty women to be had.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. But I’m only looking for one.

And Phineas looks like he’s contemplating me, like maybe he’s annoying me, so I say, ‘Look, thanks for the invite. I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.’

‘That’s OK, Jerry. You were just a kid the last time we met. You had to be, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? It’s a rough age and, well, that night was a rough night.’

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘How much of it do you remember? I spoke to your mom a few times after the accident and she said you were having difficulties.’

‘I remember enough,’ I say sharply. ‘The wrap party. The accident.’ And I feel bad how that came out, so I say, ‘Sometimes I think how differently my life would be if he hadn’t died. Like I wouldn’t be where I am right now if he were still around.’

Phineas puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Your dad would be so proud that you’re right here, right now. He spoke so highly of you. He hoped you would follow in his footsteps.’

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Dad was distant after Emma. I always wondered if he were mad at me for it. But to hear he spoke proudly of me … it makes me even angrier at the lies Epiphany told.

As the night goes on, I have a few drinks. Since Mann left I know Epiphany isn’t going to show, so I try to make the best of it. I try to ignore the occasional glimpses of Bela I see in the crowd. Phineas introduces me to more and more stars. He asks me how my mom is. He tells me old stories about my dad’s greatest PR coups and how my dad always had a crush on Audrey Hepburn.

And when a waiter dressed as one of the porcupine creatures from
The Princess of the Sands
stops in front of us, his quills momentarily blocking us from most views in the room, Phineas grabs my arm and leans close. ‘Here,’ he says and slips me a bar-coded bracelet. It’s black and looks like the ones you get when you’re admitted to hospital. ‘This is for a much better party tomorrow.’

I realise it’s the coveted invite to the party only spoken of in whispers.

‘Why are you giving this to me?’

‘Because you are your father’s son and he was a good man to me. I can see you miss him like I do. And,’ he looks into my eyes, ‘unlike everyone else in this room, your goal of coming tonight wasn’t to find a ticket.’

No, I think. It wasn’t.

‘Now, each bracelet gets two people in,’ Phineas speaks quietly. ‘The address on the other side is where you’re to go. A car will pick you up there and you’ll be driven to Matthew’s private villa in Antibes.’

‘Phineas!’ a voice cuts through our hushed conversation. It’s a voice that I immediately recognise. It’s a voice I’ve heard in countless movies.

Jordan Seabring, she stumbles over to Phineas and gives him a big hug. ‘P!’ she says tipsily. ‘How’s my favourite publicist?’

‘Enjoying the party, though not as much as you,’ he says with a good-natured smile.

‘Oh, P!’ she laughs.

And after Bela, I’d like to think I wouldn’t act like this, but I do. Maybe it’s because I’m American and celebrities are our gods. Or maybe it’s the too many Bellinis I’ve had. When Jordan notices me my body stiffens and I poke my chest out and suck my stomach in. In this moment, I wish I were better looking than I am. I wish I were funnier; more charming.

‘Miss Seabring,’ I say with bullshit confidence and I extend my hand, ‘I’m a big fan.’

She smiles with an ‘of course you are’ look and takes my hand. And when she does, something in me remembers the wrap party the night my dad died. But then I’m back at the current party looking at her plump lips and her round breasts and her windswept hair and she’s looking at me, and then she says, ‘Little J?’ And she turns to Phineas. ‘Little J?’ she asks him. He nods. And then the biggest movie star in the world slaps my outstretched hand away and wraps her arms around me. She kisses me on the cheek, her fake breasts crushing against my chest.

‘I believe you two have some catching up to do,’ Phineas smiles, and gives me a wink before he trots off.

‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ Jordan says and pauses for a moment to take my features in again. I begin to ask her what she means, but she just says, ‘Come on,’ and takes my hand and leads me through the room. And as we pass Natalie, and Brad, and Tom, they all give looks that say, ‘What’s
that
guy doing with
her
?’

We reach the balcony, where I see the moon shrink a little, jealous of the competition. ‘Some privacy, please,’ Jordan says, and all the people go back inside without saying a word.

A light breeze blows in the night. Ten storeys below us people scurry like ants on the Croisette. Out to sea you can just make out where the evening sky ends and the Mediterranean begins.

‘This is wild,’ Jordan says. ‘It’s been, what? Twelve years?’ And in the moonlight with the plump lips and the cleavage spilling from her dress and the windswept hair in the breeze, Jordan looks like she’s just pried her way from the pages of
Maxim
.

But if you think you know what this is like for me, being alone on the balcony with the most desired woman in the world, with an actress I’ve fantasised about for years and masturbated to enough times to populate the planet ten times over, you’d be wrong.

Talking to Jordan is like picking up a seashell on the beach and putting it to your ear, expecting to hear the sound of the ocean, but what you get is some slug that tries to make your cochlea its new home. I can’t get a word in. Her questions are all rhetorical. She talks only of herself; of how people love her and want to be just like her. She talks of how many hearts in Hollywood she’s broken and how she believes the more heartache you cause people, the more desirable you must be. And after each and every thing she says, she pauses, like she’s expecting me to clap or congratulate her or something. I’d call this conversation the dullest I’ve ever had, but a conversation only exists when both people are allowed to speak.

I listen to Jordan’s boastful crowing and it contrasts so starkly with Bela’s round, meaningful words with the little pauses in between. And
an unpleasant feeling creeps into my gut. Suddenly I’m so ashamed of how I reacted to her. How I puffed out my chest and tried to impress her.

‘But I think I’ve finally found true love,’ Jordan yaps. ‘I mean, he’s the world’s biggest star. He makes forty million a picture, did you know?’

Did know, couldn’t care less.

I glance inside to see if Epiphany has somehow made it into the party. Killing a person with my bare hands would be preferable to spending any more time with Jordan.

‘It started off as just another publicity move,’ Jordan explains, not realising I don’t give a damn. ‘I was piggybacking off his success, but then – then it kinda became something like love, you know?’

Love. I’m familiar.

‘I mean, I won’t fuck a producer anymore just to get the part, unless it’s a really, really big part…’

But as she prattles on, I notice something, first in her voice, and then by the lack of lustre in her eyes. She’s speaking to me in the way most people have an internal dialogue when they’re trying to work out the discrepancies between what they expected something to be and what it actually is. And then I realise that what she’s said – it’s not boasting or ego. It’s her talking to someone on the outside about the life she wished Hollywood would be and the reality that it is. And I pity her. She’s so moulded by what the fans demand. By what the studios demand. By what her handlers demand. Even when she laughs, it’s a hollow laugh.

‘But, you know,’ she says, ‘I owe everything to your dad.’

I really wish people would stop blaming their shitty lives on him.