Based on a True Story (12 page)

With her back she opened the door of the loo and pulled him in. He glanced around nervously. Was it a firing offence to be caught in the ladies’ room of
BBC
Bristol? But then she was on him again, her warm hands sliding under his shirt.

“The door,” she whispered. “Lock the door.”

And of course he did as she ordered. Then he reached for her, sliding his hands under her arms, his nose in her hair.

“Wait,” she whispered, and put her bag on the ledge by the mirror.

There was a plastic vase filled with plastic irises, and she swept them off into the bin. Opening the bag from the greengrocer’s, she took a little wrap of paper from inside. She’d seemed happy before, but now she positively glowed.

“Augusta,” he said, as she laid out a tiny heap of cocaine. His voice sounded half-hearted even in his ears.

“Credit card,” she whispered.

“Augusta.”

“Credit card.”

What he should have said was: I’m not your chauffeur, your drug buddy, your mule, your lackey. I’m not any of those things. You won’t let me be any of the things I want to be in your life. But he couldn’t think beyond the fact that he was going to shag her. Reaching for his wallet, he handed over a credit card on which the numbers were barely visible.

It took less than a minute for her to lay out four lines. Taking the ten-pound note he handed her, she inhaled two of them deeply and tilted her head back. He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed, her breasts rising underneath the ridiculously tiny flowered dress, and it was all he could do not to pull her to him. Instead, he took the ten-pound note she offered, and bent over the two remaining lines.

The icy blast hit the back of his throat, his teeth, his brain. Everything he needed was there, in the ladies’ toilet in
BBC
Bristol. He turned to Augusta and she was looking at him with such wolfish hunger that he thought:
I’m not going to last thirty seconds.

Then her mouth was on his, and he could feel the sink at the back of his thighs. As she unzipped his trousers he tried to turn and lift her onto the sink and they nearly fell, giggling.

“I missed you,” she murmured against his neck.

“Bloody liar,” he said, pulling her hair away from her face, harder than he’d intended. “Fucking little liar.”

And then he didn’t care, at least for the next five minutes. He had her hands up above her head, clapped flat against the mirror, and she was moving frantically against him when they heard a knock at the door.

“Miss Price? Are you in there? You’re on in five.”

nineteen

It was painful to gaze upon people who were half her age and twice as successful.
They don’t even look old enough to drive
, Frances thought. She sat at a table by the hotel’s rooftop pool, watching pods of glossy teenagers nestle together on red velvet beds.

The poolside was designed to look like an opium den, each bed outfitted with a blackened but non-functioning pipe. No one swam, although the morning sun was already searing. She’d forgotten how oppressive constant sunshine could be.

At least she remembered how to speak Californian: “I’ll have an egg-white omelette, tempeh sausage, and a glass of pomelo juice,” she told the waitress.

She hadn’t even looked at the price. Let the people from Fantasmagoria™ pay $30 for her conversion to health. Frances felt a fleeting sense of peace: a breakfast that contained neither alcohol nor anything fried. She was home.

Why, then, did she feel like an imposter? One of the girls on the opium bed squealed, and Frances pulled down her sunglasses to watch. She recognized the young woman, star of a Disney sitcom who’d gone badly off the rails. After a successful stint in a Miami clinic, the starlet had emerged and returned to her Idaho hometown. There she methodically apologized to every schoolmate who had ever been the subject of her cruelty.
The Sorry Tour
, as it was called, became a popular reality show on the Healing Network. Frances had a bit of an addiction to
The Sorry Tour
, which she watched on her computer late at night. Not a single popular girl from school had ever apologized to her.

Frances turned back to her computer, shielding its screen from the sun’s glare. She had three tabs open: the outline of Augusta’s new book, her Facebook page, and a web site titled How to Tell If Your Loved One Is Back on Drugs.

On the addiction page, each warning sign was written in lurid pink:

Number 3: Erratic or thoughtless behaviour.

Number 7: Borrowing or stealing money.

Number 8: Self-obsession to the exclusion of all others.

She sighed and closed the page.

With one tentative finger she opened Stanley’s Facebook page. It felt as if she were spying on him, as if she were lurking in a doorway across the road from the
Advance
. He had changed his profile picture; instead of the scowling photo he’d had taken one lunch hour at Snappy Snaps, there was a tabby cat. Puzzled, she clicked on his profile. She sat back, pushed the computer away. Under “Work,” where it once listed his editor’s job, it now said: “Accepting suggestions.”

So he’d been sacked, too. She felt a heaviness settle over her. In a way, this was worse than her own firing. It was over, officially. The curtain had fallen on their adventure. Perhaps she could go back to the
Bakersfield Californian
. Frances pictured the glorious vista of her future stretching from town-council meeting to tractor-sales report.

Her breakfast arrived and she murmured “thanks” to the waitress. It looked less like food than a sculpture of food. She poked at the omelette with a fork. Overhead, a helicopter beat the air — police or news channel, it was difficult to tell. This was another thing she’d forgotten about Los Angeles: there was almost as much traffic in the sky as on the streets below.

She pulled her computer back and called up her own Facebook page.

She hadn’t updated her status in weeks. After a minute, she typed on Stanley’s wall: “I’m home, wherever that is.” Message in a bottle.

twenty

“I wish someone would turn off that ungodly sun, just for a day.”

Augusta sat huddled on the passenger seat of the rental car, shrinking from a beam of midday light. She wore a diaphanous orange kaftan and last night’s mascara. Both hands clutched a water bottle.

“Everyone in this city is the wrong colour,” she grumbled. “Shades of nut and tangerine. Only I am the colour God intended.”

Frances fought to conceal a grin. Outside, the streets of Burbank baked. Gym, taco shop, dollar store, gym, taco shop. There was one office tower on the block, and they’d parked outside. It was the first time she’d found something funny in two days. At the rental car desk, she’d crossed her fingers behind her back as she handed the clerk her credit card.

“This is why my career never advanced in America,” Augusta said, and took a swig from her water bottle. “I refused to tan.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know,” Augusta continued, “that I was once offered quite a plum role on
Dynasty
? I was meant to play Joan’s sister. Her much younger sister. It stretched credulity, but there you are.”

Frances frowned. “I don’t remember Joan Collins having a sister on
Dynasty
.”

Augusta took another sip of water. After a moment, she said: “It might not have been
Dynasty.
It might have been
The Love Boat
.” Frances bit her lip, and Augusta glared: “It was a two-part special. At Christmas. I was meant to bring a certain grandeur to the high seas. But there was an unfortunate incident with the purser on the Lido Deck, and my role was recast.” She took a swig from her water bottle. “I have loathed the sea ever since.”

They sat in silence, the only sound the car’s air conditioner. Frances’s phone emitted a tiny beep. Her thumb hovered over the responses to her new Facebook post. Her mother, never more than thirty seconds from “Like,” had responded: “I don’t get it, sweetheart. Where are you? Call!” There was one other new post. Frances’s breath caught as she read Stanley’s message: “So that’s where you’ve washed up, mysterious creature. Remember you’ve got another home.”

She read the message over and over, trying to distill the essence of its meaning.

She turned to Augusta: “Can I have a sip of water?”

Augusta clutched the bottle more firmly. “The question is may I. And the answer is no. I have . . . germs.”

As Frances watched Augusta tuck the bottle carefully into the bag at her feet, a sudden thought hit her: she’d never seen Augusta drink water before. It seemed a bit late to begin. She was tempted to snatch the bottle and give it a sniff, but instead let out a small huff of exasperation. This was her life, for the moment: baby sitter and designated driver.

“What are we doing here, Augusta? We should be working on the book.”

“I’ve told you. We’re waiting for an old friend of mine. I’d like to surprise him. He should be coming out any time now.”

A small cluster of people stood outside the revolving doors of the office tower.

“And what does this mystery man look like?”

“Well, I haven’t seen him in years,” Augusta said. She took out her compact, and dabbed at her nose. “Tall, but likely running to fat. He’ll be wearing a suit if I know him — bespoke suit, the vain prick. Face like a crushed meringue.”

Vain prick. A series of calculations slowly fell into place in Frances’s mind, the tumblers of a lock clicking open.

“Wait a minute, Augusta. Are we stalking —”

“There is no stalking, darling. I am not the Countess of Fuckland hunting deer with the Queen.”

“But —”

“Shh!” Augusta clapped a hand over Frances’s mouth, and Frances noticed, through her irritation, that it tasted like a martini. “That’s him.”

Frances craned her neck. “Which one?”

But Augusta was silent, her eyes locked on a man who strode down the street toward them. Immediately, Frances knew he was foreign. Unlike most middle-aged men in Los Angeles, he wasn’t dressed like a high school student. Despite the heat, he wore a dark suit and brogues. The sun caught strands of thinning blond hair. He had a slightly bashed handsomeness that reminded Frances, for some reason, of Stanley.

“I’d give him a second look,” she said without thinking.

Augusta sat bolt upright and whipped around with a furious glare. The movement caught the man’s eye and he paused on the sidewalk, squinting against the light.

“Mother of God,” Augusta whispered, and slid down in her seat. She peered at the man over the dashboard as he stood on the sidewalk, caught in indecision.

“Get down,” she hissed at Frances. “Get down before he sees you!”

“That would really attract his attention, Augusta,” Frances said.

Their prey took a step toward the car and Augusta, huddled under the dashboard in a cocoon of orange chiffon, hissed: “He’s seen us! Drive, for the love of God. Drive!”

As Frances turned the key in the ignition, she wondered exactly how badly this would end. The feeling of powerlessness was familiar; in middle school, she’d never defied the girls who wanted to copy her homework. She pulled out into traffic. In the rear-view mirror, she saw the man staring after them, eyebrows knit together.

“So,” she said. “That’s Mr. Romance.”

twenty-one

It was the work of a moment to unscrew the Smirnoff bottle. The crack of the cap coming free was lost in the shouting from the front of the store, where Frances stood, fists clenched, dark hair in disarray.

“There’s no way it could be declined.”

The only other customer in the shop pretended to read a magazine, but secretly feasted on the drama at the cash register. Augusta saw Frances swallow, make a deliberate effort to control herself.

“Please try again. There’s plenty of credit left on that card.”

With a sigh, the clerk swiped again.

Calmly, Augusta unscrewed the cap and guided a stream of vodka into her water bottle. For a moment, she was a stranger watching herself: a middle-aged Englishwoman stealing vodka from a corner shop in Hollywood. At one time the image would have shocked her, but she’d long since realized there was always another step down.

The shop door slammed. Hastily she slid the water bottle into her bag and waggled three fingers at the clerk on the way out.

Frances paced outside, jabbing at her phone, and Augusta considered, for a moment, whether to give the girl some privacy. She sidled closer.

“Hey Mom, it’s me.” Augusta watched the girl’s shoulders hunch. The irritation she felt at Frances’s feebleness was diluted by a less familiar sensation, something like pity. Maybe Frances’s mother would know what to do with the child.

Augusta crept closer. If she eavesdropped, she might even learn a thing or two about this mothering business. It couldn’t be too late. But Frances saw her, frowned, cupped the phone with her other hand.

Augusta wandered to the curb. Across the boulevard, two businesses nestled in the derelict shell of a theatre, their competing services advertised with neon signs.
JESUCRISTO ES EL SEÑOR,
read the larger and more garish one. The other invited passersby to
EAT SKOOBY’S HOT DOGS.

“The blood of Christ and the sausage of Christ,” muttered Augusta, “together at last.”

Frances stood looking at the phone in her hand. It was unpleasantly clear to Augusta what would come next. She took a quick swig from her bottle and walked back to the girl. How did one offer comfort in a situation like this?

She reached into her bag. “Cigarette?”

The girl’s face crumpled.

“Oh no, darling,” Augusta said. “No tears before lunch. Please. I’m not properly fortified.” She reached for Frances’s hand, patting it awkwardly. “We’ll work on the book today, shall we? That will make you feel better. Our path from ruin.”

“I’m not about to cry,” Frances said. She began walking back toward the car. Under their feet, dusty gilt stars of the Walk of Fame named celebrities of the past and present. “I wish that I could phone my parents with good news, that’s all. Just once.” She stopped, seeming to steel herself. “Augusta, when do you think we might see that advance from the publisher? We could put it toward the bills we’re piling up.”

Augusta scuttled ahead, suddenly very interested in the star below. Rhonda Fleming. Who in God’s name was Rhonda Fleming? At one point she must have shone brightly indeed. She turned to Frances. “Any moment now, darling. I’ve just had a call from them this morning. Apparently there was some tangle over the international bank transfer, but it’s sorted now.” She was pleased with how plausible this sounded. Indeed, there were messages on her phone; none was from her publisher, however.

Frances’s eyes were red in the bright light, and Augusta led her over to a bench. She dropped her cigarette, noticing with some regret that it had fallen, sizzling, on Boris Karloff’s star. From her bag she pulled a pair of giant sunglasses that had come free with a magazine.

“Here,” she said, shoving them at Frances. “These will help.”

Frances sat unmoving while Augusta slid the glasses onto her face, adjusting them so they sat just so.

“There you are, darling. Very alluring. One should always choose mystery over mucous.”

“You mean I look great with my face half covered.” But Frances gave her a grateful smile.

For a moment they sat and watched the parade of pilgrims paying obeisance to the sidewalk.

“My father was utterly disgusted that I wanted to be an actress,” Augusta said. “He said I would bring shame on the family. I might as well be a streetwalker, he said. Do you know what he wanted me to be?”

Frances shook her head.

“An accountant.”

“He did not!”

“No word of a lie. The man thought I should be in charge of other people’s money. Which is one of the reasons I was always convinced that he wasn’t really my father.”

Frances dissolved into hopeless giggles on the bench beside her. Augusta patted her knee.

“You should get used to it now or you’ll be in tears from here until death. You will often disappoint your parents.” Augusta took a swig from her bottle. “And sometimes your children, too.”