Hello from the Gillespies (6 page)

‘Don’t worry, I’ve never seen the Chrysler Building and I grew up in New York,’ he said.

‘It’s there, look.’ She pointed behind them.

He turned, raised his eyebrows. ‘So it is. Wow.’ He gave her a big smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘This is my tenth coffee today,’ he said to her now. ‘I may look peaceful on the outside but I’m like Niki Lauda on the inside. The race-car driver? No? How about Nick Faldo? The golfer?’

She was too jittery to be able to joke back to him. She just smiled. His heart was racing? Hers felt like it was on warp speed. She collected her three coffees, smiled at him again as she walked past and then delivered the drinks back to Megan and Tim. They were still gossiping in the trailer. She couldn’t join in. She couldn’t even drink her coffee. Her pulse rate was at dangerous levels already. There was something she had to do. Right now.

‘Back in a while,’ she said to Megan.

‘More coffee? You won’t be sleeping for weeks.’

Genevieve had to ask for directions. She hardly knew what the director looked like, let alone where his trailer was. She’d had more dealings with the production manager. It had been going so well for her here in New York. She’d loved every minute of the past two years. She’d worked on feature films, music videos, TV ads, one-off specials. She’d met film stars from her childhood, up-and-coming indie actors. Nice people, horrible people. She’d seen great actors with ordinary faces and poor actors with photogenic faces. She’d pinched herself every day to think that the career that had begun as an after-school job in outback South Australia had brought her here, to New York, to the set of an Emmy Award–winning TV series —

That she had brought to a halt.

Her final steps to the director’s trailer felt like a prelude to an execution. Five people were standing in front of it. She knew just one of them, Laurence, the third assistant director. He was reading something on his phone that was making him frown. She waited, then took a breath and walked across to him.

‘Laurence? Can I have a word? In private?’

‘It’s not a good time —’

‘I know something about —’ she made a vague gesture, ‘the situation.’

‘Sorry, who are you?’

Why would he know who she was? ‘Genevieve Gillespie. I’m the hairstylist.’

‘You know something about the article?’

She nodded.

‘Stay there.’

She’d thought she could tell him and he would then tell the director. But he’d gone up the stairs, spoken to someone and was now back in the doorway, beckoning her over. To talk to the director? The director who had won four Emmys and was rumoured to be directing his first feature film for Harvey Weinstein as soon as this series wrapped?

He gestured again. Hurry up, it said.

She’d longed to meet the director. But not in circumstances like this.

She walked up the stairs. Laurence let her pass, then stepped outside. It was now just her, Genevieve Gillespie, hairstylist, age thirty-two, twin to Victoria, formerly of Errigal sheep station in outback Australia, standing in a small trailer in New York City, opposite one of the best-known TV directors in America.

She swallowed, so loudly they could both hear it. He stared at her, waiting. She started to talk. And talk. She told him everything, about the bar, the drinks, how she’d struck up a conversation with this man, how they’d laughed, how she couldn’t seem to stop saying things to him, because he was laughing so much. The more the director stared at her, the more she told him. Until finally there was nothing to add. Nothing to do but stare at him staring at her.

She’d hoped for understanding. For a brief flare of anger followed by forgiveness, reassurance that this would all soon be forgotten, that she’d learn never to trust eager listening ears in late-night bars, that this city thrived on gossip but gossip had a price.

She was wrong on all counts. Within seconds, a security guard was leading her back to the make-up trailer to collect her things. Her work phone was taken from her. Megan had the decency to give her a hug, to say, ‘I’ll call you’, even if she only whispered it in her ear. It was afterwards she remembered Megan had her work phone number and Genevieve no longer had her work phone.

She was brought back to the director’s trailer. An assistant had appeared, a printer was whirring. With shaking hands, she was forced to sign a hastily typed-up affidavit that would be couriered across town to the actress’s luxury hotel. It got worse. She was forced to film a confession, looking into the camera on the director’s iPhone. They told her exactly what to say. ‘I, Genevieve Gillespie, was the source of the false and hurtful gossip that appeared in this morning’s
New York Post
. I accept that it was wholly untrue and without foundation and I am deeply sorry for any hurt I have caused by my actions. I have handed in my resignation.’ It stuck in her throat, saying the words she knew were untrue, in front of the director she knew was having an affair with the actress. She also knew with sudden clarity that this confession, her stuttering apology, with her hungover eyes and hastily tied-back blue dreadlocks, would be leaked to Twitter, Perez Hilton, TMZ and every other gossip site in town, within minutes.

The door opened. Coffee Guy appeared. So she’d been right, he was a security guard. There was a quick exchange between him and the director. Genevieve heard just part of it. It was enough. ‘Get her off the set. Now.’

Outside, people still stood in groups. She heard snatches as she made her walk of shame to the edge of the set. The usual early-morning tourists were lined up against the temporary cordon, waiting for a glimpse of a famous face. They gave her only a passing glance. They probably thought she was a trespasser being escorted off the set. They were right.

They reached the barrier.

She turned to him. ‘Are you going to throw me over it?’

He shook his head. ‘Unless you want me to?’

‘No, thanks.’

He moved it aside and then handed over her bag. Not her handbag, which she had with her, but her work bag, all her brushes, scissors, combs, the tools of her trade. She must have left it in the director’s trailer.

‘I thought you’d need it,’ he said.

‘Thank you very much.’ His unexpected kindness almost made her cry. She hurriedly blinked away the tears. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but could you please do me another favour?’

‘I’m not allowed to. Of course. What favour?’

‘Megan, in Make-up. She only has my work number. Can you please give her this?’ She hastily scribbled her personal number on the back of a receipt.

He put it in his jacket pocket. ‘You did the right thing, by the way.’

‘What?’

‘You saved everyone’s jobs. Thanks.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re welcome.’ She had to say it. ‘I didn’t mean to make all this happen. I’d had too many cocktails. I thought it was common knowledge. That it didn’t matter.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘On this show? A few weeks.’

‘In New York?’

‘Two years.’

Behind them, a voice shouted, ‘Matt!’

He turned, gave a wave to say he’d be right there.

She’d taken two steps when she heard her name. She turned. He had his hand out. He wanted to shake hands with her? Then she realised.

‘Your pass. Sorry.’

She lifted it over her head and handed it to him. She’d loved that security pass. She’d loved what it meant. She was part of the American film and TV industry. Part of a closed world. Not any more.

‘Don’t worry too much.’

She made a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

‘I mean it. It’ll all blow over.’

‘But in the meantime, I’ll never work in this town again?’

This time he gave her a proper grin. ‘Worse things could happen.’

She stood and watched as he walked back onto the set. At least he’d been kind. Treated her with some dignity. The crowd near the barrier looked disappointed. Not only was she a nobody, she hadn’t even been manhandled off the set. She stood for a moment longer. Beside her, two curious onlookers were watching her. One of them came over.

‘Did you get kicked off the set for doing something?’

She shook her head.

‘So what were you doing in there? Do you work in TV?’

Not any more, she thought. ‘I was delivering something.’

‘To that actress?’ the woman’s friend asked, excited now. ‘What?’

Oh, what the hell, Genevieve thought. ‘Drugs,’ she whispered.

As both women’s eyes opened wide, she walked away. Through a gap in the parked trailers, she saw signs of action, lights being moved, sets being shifted. The actress must have accepted her apology. The show was back on the road.

She had turned the corner when she heard a phone ringing. For a second, she was confused. They’d taken her phone, hadn’t they? Then she realised it was her personal phone. She knew who it would be even as she scrabbled for it in the bottom of her bag. It wasn’t something she and Victoria ever admitted to the twin-obsessed people they met, but this happened all the time, one of them phoning the other just when she was needed. As if they sensed something was wrong even as it was unfolding. Like right now.

Genevieve answered. ‘Victoria, you won’t believe what’s just happened.’

‘It’s not Victoria. It’s me, Lindy.’

‘Lindy?’ Lindy never rang her. She was always in too much debt to be able to make expensive phone calls. ‘What’s happened? Is everyone all right?’

‘No! You won’t believe what happened to Ig! It was
disgusting
! Can you talk or have I rung at a bad time?’

Genevieve was now unemployed. Untouchable in her industry. She dropped her bags and sat down on a nearby stoop. ‘Go for it, Lindy. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

It was a blue, cloudless day in Sydney. As Victoria had done every morning for a month, she pulled back the curtain and checked her front garden for photographers. It was ridiculous. The world was in economic recession, injustice was rampant around the globe, yet
she
had somehow made the news.
Her
picture had appeared on front pages. Entire columns had been devoted to
her
. And why?

Because she had been silly enough, trusting enough, stupid enough to believe a string of silky words from a man she knew was a coked-up, megalomaniacal, lying, egotistical married idiot.

Never again. She’d learned her lesson. She was the one paying for it, out of work, unemployable. As for him – the whole incident had proved to be just one more rung on the ladder of success. If she chose to, she could turn on the radio beside her, tune it to a station she’d considered her competition, wait until after the nine a.m. news and there he’d be. His voice. His opinions. Mr Radio himself, broadcasting all over Sydney, all over New South Wales.

While here she was, humiliated, hiding in her tiny rented flat. The scapegoat.

On the table beside her, the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. It was Lindy. It usually was at this time of day. Since Lindy had moved back home, she’d taken to phoning Victoria every morning, ostensibly to see how she was. It always turned into a Lindy WhingeFest instead. Victoria would ring her back after breakfast.

It was Genevieve who Victoria really wanted to talk to. They spoke every day, sometimes twice a day, even if there wasn’t a drama in their lives. They weren’t just twins. They were best friends. Unfortunately Genevieve had been distracted today. It didn’t matter. They’d talk again later. Victoria knew what her twin would say, too. She’d been saying it to her since it happened: ‘Yes, it was horrible, Victoria. Yes, it was unjust. But you have to get over it. And you will.’

‘But how could he do that to me?’ Victoria had sobbed during one of their calls. She’d had too much wine that particular night and been very maudlin.

‘Because he’s a cad. That’s what cads do. Seriously, Victoria, you do need to get over it. Get over him.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. It’s all right for you, Miss Hair Queen. Miss Successful.’

Genevieve laughed. ‘I love you in this mood. But you’re right. It is all perfect for me. So why don’t you come and stay with me for a while? You can’t use work as an excuse now. Come back with me after Christmas. We can have New Year’s in New York together.’

‘I can’t afford it. I haven’t got any money left.’

‘Nor have I. I’ve spent all mine on my wild lifestyle. Let’s borrow some from Dad, if Lindy’s left any for us.’

Victoria had thought about her sister’s suggestion constantly since then. It was a great idea, she finally decided. She could get out of Sydney. Escape the media world. Leave behind all her friends who’d turned out to be her friends only when she produced Mr Radio’s show. She hadn’t heard from any of them since the blow-up.

She’d rung Genevieve not only to confirm her flight time, but also to give her the big news: she’d go back to New York with her. Not just for a holiday, but to try for work. She couldn’t wait to hear Genevieve’s excitement. To start planning. She’d try her again soon. Once her own morning routine was out of the way.

Step one, check the front garden. It seemed to be clear. There’d been no photographers for days, in fact. She’d sneak out, get her post and be back inside within a few minutes. Step two, something nice to eat. She’d already had a bowl of cereal that morning, but that was more to wake herself up. For fuel, rather than pleasure. What she was looking forward to now was a proper meal. A lovely fluffy omelette, she decided. With smoked salmon, cheese and chives. And buttered toast. And a pot of coffee. She had to take this crisis and turn it into an opportunity. It was time to spoil herself. She
had
been working too hard. She
had
been burning the candle at both ends.

She
had
been sleeping with Mr Radio. She had nearly fallen in love with Mr Radio. Yes, he was arrogant, egotistical, out of control at times. But he was also smart. He’d made her laugh. Told her she was a great producer. Given her other, sexier compliments when the two of them were alone . . .

But none of that changed her situation. She had clearly meant nothing to him. She had to take Genevieve’s advice and move on. And she would. Literally. To New York.

She was out to the postbox and back within a minute. Three letters, and no photographer, thankfully. They’d probably got enough unflattering shots of her to fill their image files. She’d been shocked to see the photos. She knew she’d put on a bit of weight recently, and they were taken at a bad angle, and she was also in her pyjamas, but still . . . Once she got to New York, she was seriously going to do something about it. Genevieve said she walked everywhere, that’s how she kept her weight down. Victoria had laughed and said, So it’s got nothing to do with the coffee you live on? The fact you don’t actually eat?

She put the letters to one side for the moment, unable to get the image of that fluffy omelette out of her head. Yes, there were definite advantages to being publicly humiliated and losing her job. She now had time to enjoy cooking again.

The eggs were free-range. The omelette was soon a rich golden yellow at the bottom of the pan. The smoked salmon turned from orange to luscious pink as it cooked. She sprinkled on some grated cheese and some freshly cut chives, gently folded it over, waited a moment, then lifted it onto the warm plate just as the toast popped. Two generous spreads of butter, a hot cup of coffee. She took a bite. Heaven. Who cared about work? Who cared about humiliation? Nothing mattered when life still offered pleasures like this.

It wasn’t until she’d eaten a third piece of toast that she opened her mail. Within seconds, she wished she hadn’t.

Her landlord was putting up the rent. It was already expensive, but she’d justified it to herself. She had to pay high rents if she wanted to live close to the city and have a sliver of harbour view. Even if she’d still had a job, she would have been stretched to cover the new figure. She put the letter back in the envelope. Then she put her empty plate on top of the envelope.

The second letter was worse. Her lawyer was writing to tell her that she wasn’t eligible for compensation from the radio station on account of her freelance status. He was also advising her that if she were to take the matter further, the station was within its rights to pursue her for compensation, on the grounds that she had ‘clearly been in error for allowing an intoxicated presenter to go on air’. The presenter who had subsequently left the station and taken hundreds of thousands of advertising dollars with him. But what could she possibly have done to stop him? The bill for her legal fees was also enclosed. She gasped out loud when she saw the figure. It was more than she had expected to get in compensation. It was five times the amount she had in her bank account. She put that letter back in its envelope and put a different plate on top.

The last letter was from Ig. Postmarked Adelaide, sent last month. It had obviously taken the scenic route to her, no doubt due to the incomplete address. She’d received quite a few of these from him this year. The latest message was just five words. He’d cut the letters out of a newspaper.

GeT mE OuT of HeRE.

Victoria already knew his plea had been answered. She’d received an email from her mother the previous week letting her and Genevieve know the latest about Ig’s ongoing battle with boarding school.
On the principal’s advice, we’ve decided to keep him home for another year and review the situation after that.

Genevieve and Victoria had immediately forwarded it to each other.

He’s run away a third time??
Victoria had emailed.

The Houdini of the South Australian school system strikes again!
Genevieve had written back.

Dear little Ig, Victoria thought. Dear mad little Ig. It would be so good to spend time with him over Christmas too. She clearly remembered the first time she’d seen him, in her mother’s arms at the Port Augusta hospital. At twenty-two, she and Genevieve had been old enough to be having their own babies, not welcoming a little brother. Her mother – and her father – had looked shell-shocked that day, she recalled. Happy, yes, but definitely shocked. As Genevieve had said, too often and too loudly, that would teach them to still be having sex at their age.

She’d picked up her phone to try Genevieve once more when it rang. Their twin ESP at work.

Victoria didn’t waste time with a greeting. ‘Genevieve? I’ve decided. I’m coming back to New York with you after Christmas. But not just for a holiday. To live.’

An unexpected voice replied. ‘It’s not Genevieve. It’s Lindy. And you can’t do any of that.’

‘I can’t? Why not?’

‘Because I’ve just hung up from her. She’s been sacked. She’s coming home too. For good.’