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‘Dylan, it’s Maggie Hall. Have you still got those shoes of mine?’
Dylan froze then looked around, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out and say, ‘Punked.’ Thank God she hadn’t sold them, she thought.
‘Yes, I do, would you like them back?’
Maggie laughed. ‘No, sweetheart, but I was wondering if you were busy right now?’
‘No, I’m at the library,’ said Dylan.
‘The library? Good for you,’ said Maggie, sounding sort of pleased or proud of her, which was totally weird but Dylan wanted to hear more.
‘Yeah, I’ve been working all morning,’ she lied.
‘Isn’t that great? Now listen, Dylan, do you have an hour to meet with me? I’d like to discuss a job I think might be good for you.’
Dylan did a triumphant fist pump in the air and then realized she looked like a complete idiot.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said casually, but with a hint of deference.
‘Great, meet me tomorrow at Culina at seven,’ said Maggie and before Dylan could answer Maggie had hung up.
Dylan typed Culina into the search engine and saw it was a bar at the Four Seasons Hotel. Jesus, she thought, she had nothing to wear that was close to good enough for either the venue or Maggie Hall.
Perhaps she should call Addie back and get her to FedEx the T-shirt, she thought as she quickly packed up her things and left. But at the door she stopped, rushed back to the table to pick up the book and checked it out using her mom’s library card.
The following evening, at exactly seven o’clock, Dylan was sitting at the bar in the simple black dress she had worn to graduation, paired with Maggie’s shoes, when she felt the energy in the room grow charged.
Turning, she saw Maggie approaching the bar. She was wearing a white jumpsuit split to the naval and silver heels. With her blond hair slicked back showing off her cheekbones and silver dangly earrings showing off her long neck, she looked like she was off to Studio 54 to chill with Jerry Hall.
Maggie kissed Dylan on the cheek and nodded at the barman, who immediately walked them to a private booth.
‘Dylan, how are you?’ said Maggie as she slid into the booth.
Dylan felt the eyes of all the other bar patrons on them, and wondered if Maggie even noticed the attention any more.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She wiped her sweating hands on her dress.
Maggie smiled at her and Dylan tried to relax, clenching and unclenching her toes as her father had taught her, but all it did was make her feet hurt even more in Maggie’s shoes.
‘Is your thesis going well?’
Dylan frowned and then remembered her lie in the bathroom at the Oscars party.
‘Well, it’s mostly research at the moment, I haven’t got onto the writing part yet,’ she said.
‘Ah, good, so you write as well?’ Maggie leaned forward and Dylan saw the edge of some tape that was making sure the jumpsuit didn’t gape open.
Dylan nodded. ‘A little,’ she said.
Maggie looked up at the waiter who had appeared at the table.
‘A soda water with lime, thanks. Dylan?’
‘Same, thanks,’ said Dylan, trying to emulate Maggie’s casual body language.
‘Are you twenty-one yet?’
‘Nearly nineteen,’ said Dylan, hoping this wasn’t a problem. ‘I finished school last July and took some time off, before I came out here.’
Maggie nodded, but didn’t seem especially interested in Dylan’s past activities.
‘Well, as I said, I have a job I need to talk to you about. It’s not a long-term thing, it may be just for a few months, but I thought it could work with your college schedule.’
Dylan paused, wondering whether to spill the beans about college. Then she remembered the lone packet of noodles sitting in her soon-to-be-vacated apartment. She needed this job. Beside, she justified to herself, she was going to college next year…
‘And if I were to get the job, what would I be assisting you with?’ she asked politely, as though she was offered jobs by movies stars all the time.
‘Ah, well, you see, you wouldn’t actually be working for me,’ Maggie said, and Dylan felt disappointment wrap around her like a shawl. If Maggie noticed, she didn’t say. ‘It’s for a dear friend of mine, who wants to write a book,’ she went on.
‘Oh,’ said Dylan. She didn’t know how to write a book, and if she lied, she would be found out in a heartbeat.
‘My friend has been sick, and he’s kind of an introvert,’ Maggie added.
Dylan watched Maggie as she spoke. Dylan had grown up watching that beautiful face on the screen. Maggie had starred in so many movies, mostly ones about love, and she was still adored. She was the woman every girl wanted to be best friends with, and the woman every man wanted to marry. Dylan didn’t want to let her down, but she knew she had to tell the truth.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help your friend. I’m not a writer,’ she said apologetically.
Maggie laughed. ‘Oh no, Dylan, I don’t want you to help him write it. I want you to help get him out of the house! ‘
Dylan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Maggie paused. ‘He had a heart transplant and it’s kind of knocked him around. He was sick for a long time before the new heart and we all thought the heart would make him excited to live again, but he’s depressed.’
‘Why doesn’t he try therapy?’ Dylan asked, thinking of her father.
‘He doesn’t need therapy,’ Maggie snapped. ‘Taking about his feelings isn’t going to help anything; he needs someone his own age to help him engage with life again. You know, to take him out to see friends, concerts, movies, go shopping, just to do stuff with him.’
She threw her hands up as she spoke, as though tossing confetti into the air.
Dylan was worried. ‘I don’t know if I can look after someone who’s had a heart transplant.’
‘You don’t need to nurse him,’ laughed Maggie, ‘you need to show him fun things to do.’
‘I don’t know LA that well yet,’ Dylan explained. ‘I’ve only been here eight weeks and I have to find a new apartment and I have no idea where to even start looking,’
Disappointment flooded through her that this wasn’t the opportunity she had hoped it would be. Everything about this person that Maggie wanted her to help sounded difficult. An introvert heart transplant patient who wanted to be a writer? Hell no.
‘Did I mention it’s a live-in position,’ said Maggie, ‘with full use of a car? The salary is a thousand dollars a week.’ She paused for effect, then said, ‘Cash.’
Dylan only just succeeded in not spitting her soda water across the table.
‘Will you at least come and meet him?’ asked Maggie, smiling radiantly. ‘I can’t say any more until you’ve signed a confidentiality agreement, but I really think you’ll like him. He’s gorgeous, such a sweet guy.’
Dylan did a backflip on her thinking. How hard could it be? He was probably some old guy who’d been in love with Maggie, and all she’d have to do was take him to concerts at the Hollywood Bowl and drive him around to medical appointments.
She remembered her mother’s words: You can do anything you put your mind to, Dylan.
‘Sure,’ she said with a smile that she hoped covered her nerves, ‘I’d love to meet him.’
After all, who could say no to Maggie Hall?
Chapter 8 (#ulink_9b1000bc-9c84-5b94-adeb-bf64c4d036d4)
Zoe woke in the middle of the night and sat bolt upright.
There were two things that caused her to wake up fretting at night. One was money—even though she had plenty, it never felt like she had quite enough.
The other was the fear that a stranger was in the house—even though she had a serious security system and nothing like that had ever happened the whole time she’d lived in LA.
But old habits die hard and she was sure she could hear the creak of footsteps in the hallway.
Turning on the bedside light she listened to the silence, trying to calm her racing heart and telling the panicked voices in her head she was safe in her own home. There was no leering foster brother with rough hands about to creep in to her room. Hand jobs had kept him at bay, but she’d always wondered how long that would last.
And still, after all these years, Zoe worried that she would never be safe again.
Just to be sure, she got out of bed and walked into her dressing room.
Her house was modest by Hollywood standards, but her dressing room, the size of a small bedsit, was a tribute to her success.
It was her sanctuary, custom built to her design.
There were shelves for all her bags, racks for her shoes, a centrepiece for her belts and accessories, and all climate controlled by the same people who did the system for the Museum of Contemporary Art.
All of Zoe’s work clothes were elegant, in muted tones and blacks. She preferred to blend into the background at work events, leaving the colour to her clients. However, they were all the best quality: Calvin Klein tunics, Armani suits, Roland Mouret cocktail dresses and white shirts from James Perse.
Her off-duty clothes consisted of jeans, yoga pants and anything that was comfortable and soft. Cashmere cardigans and T-shirts worn till they were as soft as a baby’s wrap. At work she was Zoe Greene, but at home she was herself with a love for beautiful things.
Sometimes, to calm herself, she would clean her leather handbags with a special cream. Other times she would check the soles on all her shoes to see which ones might need repairing. Zoe believed in repairing things. When you had worked so hard to get things, you had to look after them.
She did whatever it took to calm the thoughts and her racing heart.
But when she wasn’t at home, and the fears took over her mind, the only place in the world that could calm her was a department store.
Walking through Barneys, she would feel the weight of her troubles slide off her shoulders.
Now Zoe sat on the padded chair in her dressing room and contemplated her success, but still she felt troubled.
The rumours that Jeff’s studio was in financial trouble had to be true, she thought, and explained his demand that Zoe find a new star for the role of Simone. Clearly he didn’t have the money to pay for an A-list actress.
Jeff had also demanded a lower cost director, maybe someone from Europe, he had said. During the meeting in Jeff’s plush office, staring at the Kandinsky on his wall, Zoe had wondered if it was too late to get out of the deal. But she had signed the papers and was an official executive producer on The Art of Love.
She picked up a pair of Sergio Rossi boots and ran her hand over the smooth, handcrafted leather but she didn’t feel the calm that usually came when she spent time with her possessions. An unfamiliar restlessness surged through her and she wondered what Jeff was doing. Probably taking some young actress to bed with promises of stardom.
Tonight her wardrobe couldn’t fix what she needed, she thought. The only remedy was Barneys and a serious shopping spree.
The next morning she nursed a coffee and ninety-nine problems, as she entered Barneys.
The store felt like retail valium, she thought, as she took in the marble, silver and soft music.
Sleep had finally arrived at her house at four a.m. and now at eleven in the morning, she was feeling slightly hungover when she heard her name.
Turning, she saw Stella Valancia coming towards her in a cloud of leopard print and musk scent.
‘Stella, how are you?’ she asked politely.
‘I am fine,’ said Stella, over-pronouncing the ‘fine’, so it sounded like the word was never going to end.
She really was gorgeous, thought Zoe, it was just a shame she couldn’t act. But with a spectacular body and more ambition than talent, Stella hadn’t looked back since moving to Los Angeles.
Will had asked Zoe to manage Stella, but she had refused on the grounds she didn’t have any more room in her talent stable.
‘I want to audition for The Art of Love,’ Stella said abruptly.
Zoe felt her jaw drop. She could not be serious, could she?
Simone and Stella were as similar as Meryl Streep and Marilyn Monroe. Zoe was familiar enough with Stella’s work to know she couldn’t possibly bring the gravitas to the role of Simone that was required.
Zoe paused, trying to find the right words. ‘I will put your name forward to Jeff and the author, Stella, but they have ultimate sign-off on auditions. I’m sure you understand this is going to be a highly sought-after role.’
Stella shrugged. ‘Of course, but I want to try.’ She paused. ‘I also think, if I do the role, she shouldn’t die in the end.’
Zoe wondered for a moment if she was dreaming.
‘But she does die in the end?’ she said slowly, making sure Stella understood. ‘Simone did actually die, in real life.’
Stella shrugged. ‘Yes, but it would be nicer for ze audience if she didn’t die, no?’
‘Okay,’ said Zoe, shaking her head, now wishing she were at home in her wardrobe again.
Stella picked up the Marni shoe on the stand next to Zoe. ‘Why does Maggie come to Will’s house so often?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?’ Zoe said, looking Stella in the eye.
‘Is she still in love with him?’
Was she ever in love with Will? Zoe wanted to say. Perhaps for a time Maggie had convinced herself that she was, but Elliot was the reason she had stayed in the marriage, Zoe knew, and why she couldn’t keep away now.
‘Maggie’s just very close to Elliot, that’s all,’ Zoe said, trying to edge away from Stella.
