Kitabı oku: «Picture Perfect»

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.