My Life in Black and White (6 page)

I finished my tea. Sergeant Hooper crossed his arms and stared
.

“I
must say, the impression you give me,” he said, “that of a sad and rejected girl prone to madcap moments, is not the same as the polished, perhaps even dangerous woman I see seated across from me.”

“Is that so?” I asked, silently relishing being considered dangerous
.

“Which is the real Clara Bishop?”

I contemplated this. “I’ll let you decide.”

He grunted his displeasure
.

“So where is your father in all this mess?” he asked
.

“Funny you should ask,” I said. “He showed up that day in time for dinner. I remember them fighting when I was little. I used to escape the house and hide on the driveway until the yelling stopped. Then one day he was gone. He’d moved to San Diego, where he still lives. I saw him every other weekend. We’d go to McDonald’s and he’d buy me a Happy Meal. I kept those toys for years.”

Hooper picked up my Styrofoam cup and crunched it in his fist. The tiny bit of liquid left at the bottom spilled onto the table, and worse, onto his precious yellow pad. “Bollocks!” he said
.

I smiled and continued with my story. “I was shocked to see him. But my mother didn’t seem surprised …”

It was nearly suppertime, and I was finally feeling hunger pangs, when there was a knock at the door. Naturally, my first thought was
Dean
, but my mother quickly put that to rest.

“Your father is here,” she said. This was news to me.

“Who called him?” I asked.

“I did,” she answered casually as she went to the door. “He had to be told. And you weren’t doing it any time soon.”

I wasn’t very close with my father. Dr. Charles Bishop is an imposing man, a very no-nonsense, unemotional, typical doctor sort of person. He wasn’t even that upset when his second wife, Emily, left him for another doctor. Though I was relieved because I didn’t like her much. He always made sure my celebrity magazines were in his waiting room. He always said I’d be a great mother.

“Dad can’t see me like this!” I protested.

“Like what? Hurt and abandoned? That’s when a girl needs her father most.”

“Since when do you two talk anyway?”

“He’s been coming to LA for seminars and things,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’ve had lunch once or twice. Now, I must open the door for him!”

I was surprised she hadn’t told me about his visits, even though I shouldn’t have been. We never touched on the topic of my father.

He walked into the room and I dutifully got up to hug and kiss him.

“I hear you’re having a rough time,” he said and sat down beside me. His hair used to be the same mousy brown as mine but now was white, though immense waves of it remained, like sea foam, with a side part that created a kind of tsunami over his right eye. His pale complexion was almost wax-like. He was a dermatologist who took
his advice to stay out of the sun very seriously. He used to terrify Dean. The thought made me smile.

“I think you should go home and make a bonfire with that son of a bitch’s things.”

He spoke so calmly that he might have said “go home and make a pot of tea.”

“Someone’s phone is ringing,” Marjorie observed.

It was my cell, and it was Dean.

“It’s him.” I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Want me to talk to him?” my father offered a little too eagerly.

I shook my head and rushed out onto the back deck and slid the glass door shut, anxious not to miss his call.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Clara.”

“How are you?” I asked. I wasn’t breathing. All I wanted was to hear him say he was coming back home. That it had been a terrible mistake. That he still loved me.

“I’m at the apartment.”

I felt my hopes rise.

“I’m getting the rest of my stuff. I just want to warn you in case you’d rather not be here while I move out.”

I swallowed hard. “Are you sure you want to do it so quickly?”

“Yes. I leave for London tomorrow and I don’t want my things to be in your way when I’m gone.”

I wanted to say he’d never be in my way and his stuff could and should be with me forever. But all I said was “aha.”

“Okay, I’ll also leave you money for my share of the rent. Two months’ worth for now. We can discuss the rest later.” I knew by “the rest” he meant divorce. “Bye.”

And he hung up. It was over so fast, part of me wasn’t sure it had happened. I kicked myself for not saying something that mattered.
For days I’d waited to hear his voice, and all I could say was “aha.”

I went back into the house and my parents stared at me like I had a fatal disease.

“Apparently Dean is moving out as we speak.”

“Coward!” Dad snapped.

“It’s better that Clara isn’t there,” Marjorie interjected. She brought me a cup of tea and a platter of cookies. As I bit into a cookie, peanut butter chocolate chip, I made up my mind. Why should I change my plans?

“I’m not going home,” I announced. “I’m going away.”

“You shouldn’t run away,” my father said, sounding like I had a few days before.

“Shush, Charles,” my mother said gruffly. “I’m glad to hear it. So where are you going?”

I took another sip of tea and cleared my throat.

“London.”

I packed in the morning, tossing the usual suspects—jeans and more jeans—into my knapsack. I decided to make do with whatever clothing I had lying around my mother’s house; there was no way I could cope with going back to the apartment and seeing it empty of Dean. I looked in the mirror, the yoga pants, matching hoodie, ballet flats, banana clip in my hair, and burst into tears. Was it any wonder he had left me for a gorgeous young blonde with a name like Amber? But she was here in Los Angeles. I was going to London where Dean was, and I was going to win him back. I’d emailed Trinity, and fortunately she was prepared to welcome me with open arms and a shoulder to cry on.

I was ready to run out the door to where my father was waiting to drive me to the airport when I saw Alice’s suitcase—an entire wardrobe from another era. My mother called out to me.

“Clara, get a move on!”

I couldn’t let it sit there not knowing when I was coming back. The clothes would be all creased and musty, and after spending decades in my mother’s carefully constructed closets, it would be irresponsible, even insulting to her and Alice. Unsure what to do and with no time to find another solution, I grabbed the suitcase.

“I’m taking this with me,” I said to Marjorie on my way out the door.

She grinned. “You won’t regret it!”

“C
lara!” Trinity shrieked when she opened the door to her flat and ensnared me in a giant smothering hug. Being greeted by Trinity was like coming home to a golden retriever—complete with long blonde hair and big brown eyes—who knew there were biscuits in your pocket.

“I’m so thrilled to see you!” she cried.

Trinity was small and curvy, almost plump as if still carrying baby fat, and with her hair in two long plaits she looked about fourteen. She never wore makeup. Her skin was flawless and her lips naturally dewy and pink. High heels were only pulled out for an audition. So while people might not consider her glamorous, she was appealing, bubbly and men always found her sexy. She had the look of an Edwardian maid or a war bride, so it was not surprising that many of her biggest parts had been in BBC costume dramas.

Her flat was on the top floor of a Victorian townhouse, near Tufnell Park tube in north London. Once we climbed up the steep steps and through her door, the place opened up and the flat was airy with the extreme ceilings that make old houses so glorious. Her quirky taste stood out in every ornament and piece of furniture. Only Trinity could take a chair shaped like a giant high-heeled shoe—and in purple velvet no less—and make it work with a cowhide rug in zebra
stripe. A 1950s red Arborite kitchen table and matching red vinyl chairs lifted the stuffiness from the formal dining room. The kitchen was tiny but bright and gleamed with stainless steel. Books were everywhere, on shelves, in stacks, loads and loads of books.

“Nice place,” I said.

“I love it. It’s home. Let me show you your room,” Trinity said and, taking my hand, guided me into the tiny guest room. It seemed to be bursting with its contents of a twin bed, four-drawer dresser, nightstand, tiny desk and chair and even tinier closet space. This must be what people meant by “twee.” I wasn’t sure I could fit my grandmother’s suitcase inside the room. I plunked it down next to the dresser.

“Sorry this room leaves much to be desired!” she chuckled. “Once you unpack we can store your bag under the bed. With that size suitcase you must be planning on staying awhile.”

My ticket was for six weeks because I’d assumed I would stay with Dean for the length of the production.

“I can get a hotel as soon as you’re sick of me,” I said. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Stay as long as you like. I took advantage of your hospitality for two months, remember?”

“And you should come back to LA for pilot season next year!” I encouraged her.

“You know, I might. I’m older now. Could play someone’s mum on a sitcom!” she rolled her eyes, then turned it into excitement by jumping up and down. “I can’t believe you’re finally in London!”

Neither could I. What was I thinking stalking Dean like this? On the other hand, it gave me comfort to know he was here in London. But it wasn’t a plan I was going to share with Trinity. As far as she was concerned he’d left me high and dry, and I was here to get over him, not get him back.

“I don’t suppose I’d accidentally run into Dean here?” I asked, disguising my hope with anxiety.

She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s a total tosser doing that to you! London is a huge city. There’s very little chance you’d bump into him unless you wanted to.”

I thought about this. Of course I wanted to run into him. That was the point. I wasn’t about to let Amber have Dean without a fight. I wanted a different outcome than Alice and Marjorie had ended up with. He’d see I was intrepid, spontaneous, and that I loved him so much I travelled halfway around the world to show him.

“I washed the sheets and duvet cover yesterday,” she explained, jolting me from my thoughts. “Have a lie-down. I have to go run some errands, then we can go nurse your wounds. There’s a lovely gastro pub around the corner.”

“A what?” I asked, perplexed.

“Gastro pub, dearie. It’s like a pub but with better food and a decent wine list.”

“So what do I wear to a gastro pub?” I asked. Trinity was wearing black jeans, flat motorcycle boots and a heather-grey sweater, or jumper as they said here. “What are you going to wear?”

She shot me a look. “What I’ve got on me!”

“You look great,” I said, panicked.

“Don’t worry. Gastro pubs aren’t any more fancy dress than regular ones, but unlike normal pubs you’ve got to tip the staff.”

“I wouldn’t know any other way but to tip; I’m from LA!” I smiled. “I’ll take that nap.” But as I took a step towards the bed, I tripped over the suitcase and crashed into the dresser.

“You all right?” she asked, trying not to giggle.

“I’m fine.”

“It is a small room,” Trinity said and picked up the suitcase and flopped it on the bed. “So what do you have in here?”

“You’ll love them,” I said and grabbed the key. I tried to unlock the case but the clasps wouldn’t unfasten. It was jammed tight.

“Great, I brought all these clothes I didn’t want to bring and now I can’t even open the damn suitcase,” I said, thoroughly frustrated.

“What clothes?”

“My grandmother’s,” I explained to her. “From her wardrobe department days.” She lit up like any actress who worshipped Old Hollywood would.

“Alicia Steele. Film noir goddess!” she grinned and took a bow. She knew all about my grandmother from our film-school days. She’d also been introduced to my mother, who had forced her to watch
He Gave No Answer
at least five times.

“Wannabe goddess,” I corrected her.

She pooh-poohed me. “Alice was no doubt a very fine actress. It’s a tough slog. I know something about that you know. Though I will never be as pretty as she or your mother was.”

“Neither will I,” I lamented.

“I’m dying to see them. We could play dress-up for a bit,” she said excitedly.

“I should have known an actress with your taste would appreciate vintage,” I smiled, though in truth I was embarrassed. No one would ever imagine Clara Bishop in get-ups like these.

“Why don’t you wear one of Alicia’s dresses tonight?”

I shook my head. “I’d look like a fool. I shouldn’t have brought them.”

“Then why did you?”

I shrugged. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time. It’s all a moot point since I can’t open the suitcase anyway.”

She made a face and shoved her two thumbs under the clasp and tried to pry it open. It didn’t budge. Then I took my index fingers and grabbed at it from the top and she kept shoving from the bottom, but still it remained clamped shut.

“It must be so old it’s stiff as a corpse,” she said, puffing a little from the exertion.

“I can’t use pliers or anything harsh because Marjorie would kill me if I broke it,” I pointed out.

“I guess dressing up will wait.”

I sat on the bed, feeling the pull of jet lag on my eyelids. “That’s fine by me. Jeans will forever be my staple.”

T
he gastro pub was in an ancient brick building on the corner near the tube station. The large wooden hand-painted sign had a rearing white horse on it, and as I got closer I saw the pub was called The White Stallion. It was the very place Niall Adamson had mentioned. The brick was painted a dark red with yellow trim on the eves and shutters. But the bright exterior belied the establishment’s darker tone on the interior. The wood plank floor was polished but uneven, and its deep brown colour matched the wood panels along the wall. Wooden dividers separated booths and tables; each divider had beautifully crafted wrought-iron tree branches and leaves running along the top. But as delicate as it looked, each leaf and twig came to a sharp point like dozens of tiny daggers. The wrought-iron motif was repeated throughout the room in lighting fixtures and chandeliers, as though the whole place were wrapped in barbed wire, while white sheer fabric billowed down from the ceiling, creating a canopy. It was like stepping into a fairy tale gone wild.

“I half expect to see Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf,” I whispered into Trinity’s ear when we reached the long ebony bar that stretched nearly the width of the pub.

“I can promise you both,” she said cheekily and patted a bar stool. I sat obediently. Trinity’s mobile rang. “I have to take this. My agent.
I won’t be long. Order us something cold.” She dashed out the door. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, so I grabbed a drinks list that was lying on the bar. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sudden swoosh of red flash past me. I whirled around but whatever or whoever it was had already vanished. Suddenly, the front door opened and a slew of well-dressed men and women filed in one after another as if school were out. Then I saw it again. Only the swoosh wasn’t a blink of red, it was like a flag in a bull-fighting ring in the form of crimson jersey. The jersey was clinging to the shapely silhouette of a woman. Long cascading strawberry blonde hair should have clashed with the dress but didn’t. She was beautiful in the way that women with large blue eyes, a turned-up nose and a strong jawline often are—like the offspring of an aristocrat who mated with a showgirl. I instantly disliked her for no other reason than that she was a young, sexy waitress like Amber. And young, sexy waitresses like Amber were public enemy number one. If that sounds bitter, it’s because I
was
bitter. I grabbed the drinks menu and held it up to my face like a spy, a cowardly spy.

“You that Hollywood friend of Trinity’s?” she said archly as she waltzed behind the bar and pulled a wine glass down from the rack. I squirmed in my seat. “She told us you were coming. So you’re wanting a drink on the house, then?”

“I can pay,” I objected.

She rolled her eyes impatiently.

“Can you drink wine?”

“Yes, sometimes without spilling it,” I answered dryly.

The sexpot waitress grabbed a bottle of something red and poured me a glass. Guess my options were limited.

“Here you go. A nice Malbec,” she said and slid the glass in front of me before disappearing through a swinging door, which I assumed was the kitchen.

“I see you’ve met Saffron,” Trinity said, standing behind me, her phone still in her hand.

“She’s a sweetheart,” I said sarcastically and wondered what kind of parents called their kid Saffron.

“Just get a move on, love!” a woman called out cheerfully as she came out of the kitchen and stood behind the bar. She was much older than Saffron and wore a sweet expression beneath a crown of short, wavy salt-and-pepper hair.

“Milly Goodge, this is Clara Bishop,” Trinity introduced us. “She’s the friend from Hollywood I told you about. She’s a screenwriter.”

I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Milly.”

“What have you written? Anything I’ve seen?” she asked the usual question and started wiping the bar with a dishtowel.

I was about to give the answer all unproduced screenwriters gave, “not yet,” but decided it was time to come clean. “I’m not really a screenwriter.” I could feel the scowl on Trinity’s face. She was sort of like Marjorie that way, never wanting me to give up. She was about to speak when her mobile rang yet again. She stamped her foot. “Sorry, will be right back.”

When she was gone, I turned back to Milly. “I’m a journalist. Celebrity stuff.”

“Tabloid, eh?” she said breezily and continued cleaning in silence. “You didn’t have any of that phone-hacking business in America, did you? Just teasing.” She burst out laughing.

“We did not,” I said proudly.

“You Yanks are smarter. I bet you burned the evidence before you got caught out,” she said and winked at me. She was the type of merry barmaid made famous on shows like
Coronation Street;
the type people poured their hearts out to. I bet she had plenty of stories, maybe even some advice on how to win back Dean.

“So Milly, how long have you been the bartender here?” I asked.

“I’m not the bartender,” she corrected me in her fizzy manner. “I’m the owner of The White Stallion. The bartender quit, bloody bastard he was.” She winked again.

“Oh,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “I take it he left on bad terms?”

“Not exactly.” Milly began to wave the dishrag so close to my face that I could smell the mopped-up beer. “He found a better-paying job at a swishy hotel. The Savoy. Couldn’t blame the chap, had a whole brood of kiddies to support.”

I felt my face turn white. The Savoy was where Dean was staying. Of all the hotel bars Milly could have mentioned, it was the only one that mattered to me.

“I always wanted to go to The Savoy,” I said, trying not to sound shaken up.

“I bet you’ve stayed at your fair share of fancy hotels, what with being from Hollywood,” she said and stopped wiping the bar to fix her eyes on me. “What are you drinking?”

“A Malbec,” I said. She picked up the bottle Saffron opened and shrivelled her nose. “That’s the cheap stuff. Let me get you something nicer.”

“Do you know how to make a sidecar?” I asked hopefully.

“I do,” she said. “I haven’t had a customer ask for one of those in years.”

I grinned and turned to face the room once more. The place was now brimming with well-scrubbed men and loads of fashionable-looking career girls. The crowd seemed a mix from every walk of life. I got the impression that everyone from bankers to shop girls to garage mechanics came here. Tufnell Park must be an eclectic area, I thought. And everyone was drinking their faces off. Saffron glided throughout the room like a butterfly in a meadow, hovering elegantly just long enough to enchant before flitting away. The men’s eyes poured over her like cream on ripe berries. They sat straighter
too and hung on every word like it was poetry, and not the daily special, she was reciting.

“She’s quite the flirt,” I said sourly to Milly. Every time I looked at Saffron I saw Amber.

Milly looked past me to the dining room and grinned maternally. “Saffron is a pretty girl, and everyone loves a pretty girl, don’t they?”

“Do they?” I said. “Half those men are probably married.”

“So what if they are,” she chortled. “She’s serving them beer, not performing lap dances. Here’s your sidecar.”

Milly stood watching me as I took the first sip. It was perfect. “Delicious!” I announced and she beamed.

“What’s that?” Saffron was at my side.

“A sidecar. You wouldn’t like it,” I said coolly. She shrugged and ordered a bottle of champagne for one table, and a pint of pale ale for another.

“Champagne will be a good bit of cash,” Milly said brightly.

“Yes, need to make up for budget buddy at table nine,” Saffron snipped.

Milly looked over to what I assumed was the feared table nine. But I refused to look.

“What do you expect from a poor bloke like him?” Milly asked. “He’ll always be a single-pint drinker until he can find another job.”

“Until that happens, I wish he’d find another spot to brood in. He practically lives here, acts like the pub is his living room,” Saffron said with a pout and took the drinks away.

Intrigued, I turned and watched her deliver the pint of beer to table nine. The so-called budget buddy was unshaven and his face was covered in coarse hair that, while not exactly a beard, was slightly darker than the sandy hair on his head. He was dressed in dark jeans and a check shirt—nondescript clothes that said nothing and concealed everything. Saffron didn’t spend quality time with him as she
did with the other customers. The man didn’t look at her either. Her charm was wasted on him. I smiled and thought how frustrating this type of man must be for all the waitresses in the world with names like Saffron and Amber. Then he looked up and caught me smiling at him. It was Niall Adamson. I raised my hand to wave but he didn’t seem to recognize me. He just stared blankly. Maybe he needed glasses, or maybe as usual I hadn’t made enough of an impression to be worth remembering, or perhaps I looked different without my arms around a toilet bowl.

“You okay?” Trinity had returned from her phone call.

“I’m fine,” I said as Milly shook the cocktail shaker. “Just looking at the man seated all alone back there. The scruffy blond guy.”

Trinity looked over at the table and shrugged. “He’s always here. Doesn’t seem to have a home, if you ask me. Do you know him?”

“Met him at a press junket in LA. He writes freelance for the
Daily Buzz
,” I explained. “But he doesn’t seem to remember me at all.”

“Do you know him, Saffron?” Trinity asked the waitress who had returned to the bar to pick up an order.

“Niall?”

“Yes, him.”

She shrugged. “Lives around here. But don’t know much other than he thinks tipping is a city in China.”

I laughed at her joke and she smiled at me. Maybe all pretty blondes weren’t the enemy. Trinity only shrugged and took a sip of my sidecar, then made a face like she’d sucked a lemon. “Milly, can you make up one of your signature G&T’s?” she gasped.

I chuckled and slowly my gaze returned to Niall. He was reading a newspaper, immune to the charms of sexy waitresses.