My Life in Black and White (7 page)

T
he sky showed no mercy. Blackening clouds battled overhead and lashes of rain scraped like a cat’s tongue. I stood on a street corner, my knapsack over my shoulder, within sight of the set for
Come to Daddy
. At least I had an umbrella. Trinity had been asleep when I’d tiptoed out of the flat. I didn’t tell her where I was going because I didn’t want to hear all the reasons I shouldn’t try to see Dean. I wanted to talk to him. If he saw me again—far away from LA and Amber—maybe he’d come to his senses.

The set was a large warehouse in an area called Shoreditch. Walking from the tube station, I had gathered the area wasn’t especially affluent, but it was a neighbourhood on the verge. Dotted among the working warehouses and auto shops was the right amount of edgy art galleries and hipster cafés to justify the zone’s claim to cool. Yet in all its sorrowful glory, this pile of bricks and mortar was the perfect setting for a lurid reality show. I imagined the set for
Come to Daddy
was like all the others Dean made—a giant loft with multiple bedrooms and communal areas designed and decorated to make the most of sexy young things who were out to snag a man, in this case a dirty old rich one.

Large white production trucks sat outside on the pavement like mechanical sculptures, orange pylons bookending each vehicle, as
security men paced up and down, clutching damp collars to their faces to stave off the rain. Car tires splashed through the waterlogged road behind me, and I ducked in front of one of the trucks like an assassin. A chauffeured sedan rolled through the rain and stopped about ten feet away. It could be another producer or some of the English cast members or nobody at all, but it could also be …

The driver jumped out and opened a black umbrella to shield his mystery passenger from the rain. But I’d recognize those long legs anywhere. Dean unfolded his lanky frame from the back seat and stood rubbing his hands together for warmth. He always had the manly slouch of Gary Cooper. I swooned at the sight of him, like the college girl I was when we met, which was followed by an overpowering urge to wipe the rain from his forehead, to touch him again. Being so close sent my anxiety packing, and for the first time I felt like things would be okay, like we could get back to a normal life. It would take time to forgive the affair, but we would still be together. It would be one of those crazy episodes you hear about in an otherwise stable marriage.

I was about to step forward, ready to forgive and forget, when Dean’s next move stopped me dead. Instead of rushing indoors, he waved off the umbrella and extended his hand. I heard a loud gasp as Amber, in sizable heels, short coat and even shorter skirt, stepped out from the car like a gazelle, grabbing Dean’s hand and giggling all the while. Then I heard another gasp as he took the umbrella from the driver and held it gallantly over Amber’s beautiful head. I realized then that the loud gasps were all mine. He quickly escorted Amber inside.

I stood shivering, from the cold or the shock of seeing Amber, I didn’t know which. I probably would have stood there, frozen to the ground, if it weren’t for the suspicious looks from several crewmen wondering about the crazy girl hovering by a production truck in the
rain. Eventually, a nervous-looking assistant director, his walkie-talkie banging against his leg, came over.

“Are you here to audition?” he asked me suspiciously.

I didn’t know what to say, but I knew it was time to confront the agony head-on.

“I’m here to speak to Dean Lapointe,” I answered icily.

“And you are?” he asked archly.

I smiled as sweetly as I could. “His wife.”

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he offered no immediate response, so I continued to stand my ground and tried to gain strength from the prolonged awkward silence. After what felt like an eternity, he finally clicked into AD mode.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” he announced with mock authority. He then turned and trotted off, speaking hurriedly into the walkie-talkie. I didn’t have long to wait before he was back. He was still fidgeting nervously.

“He says he’ll be out in a moment. Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thank you,” I said politely. “I just want Dean.”

He nodded and we stood there not speaking—he, rocking back and forth on his feet and whistling, and me, staring at my shoes and checking my watch. Eventually, Dean emerged from the set and stalked towards me through the rain, his face expressionless and his shoulders tense. We were face to face for the first time since he’d walked out on our marriage, and he looked like he wanted to
kill
me, and all I wanted to do was fall in his arms.

“Nice meeting you,” the AD yelped before rushing away.

Dean stood in stony silence, the rain pelting out a loud rhythm on our umbrellas. I forced a smile.

“Hello, Dean,” I said. My stupid smile was now a nervous tick that wouldn’t go away.

“I knew you’d do this. You’re always so
predictable
, Clara!”

I swallowed hard and tried to salvage my dignity. “I wanted to see London,” I answered sarcastically.

“Have you seen enough?”

“Not yet.”

“Why don’t I get my assistant to book you on a tour bus?”

“I prefer to walk.”

“Then walk away and don’t look back,” he said severely.

I flinched and fought to keep the steel in my voice, but that nagging tap of heartbreak was getting harder to ignore. “Why are you being this way?” I asked with an audible tremor.

Another awkward pause; this time I could see that some of the film crew was watching us. If I wanted to create a scene in front of an audience, now was my chance.

“Look, we grew apart,” said Dean, giving the pat answer.

“That’s not true!” I pleaded, fully aware that instead of a grand scene with me in the lead part, I was playing the role of the crazy ex. “We were trying for a baby, a family. That’s all we wanted.”

“It’s what
you
wanted,” he hissed and glared at those within earshot. They scattered away. “Look, we tried to carry on like we married out of some wild passion. But that’s not what happened and we both know that. Let it go. Let me go!”

“Dean’s right. He just wants you to set him free,” Amber announced as she slipped in under Dean’s umbrella and wrapped her arm around him possessively. He looked uncomfortable, and in his one act of decency, he didn’t put his arm around her. “He was being polite. But someone has to tell you the truth. He’s not in love with you, Clara. He’s in love with me.”

“How dare you speak to me?” I snapped. “As far as I’m concerned we’ve never met. You hurled a canapé at me; I don’t count that as an introduction.”

She laughed. “That was an accident. Fine, I’m Amber Ward.”

She held her hand out but I refused to take it. She snorted with laughter. Dean looked back to the set as though wishing an AD would rescue him.

“You better go, Clara,” Dean croaked. “There’s nothing left for us to talk about.”

Amber smirked at me. I wanted to wipe that look off her smug puss, but I was paralyzed. I had to make do with standing there like a fool as she grabbed Dean’s hand and led him away. I stood there like an unwanted dog abandoned by its owner as the man I wanted to spend my life with, the man whose children I wanted to have, walked away from me. I watched them open the door to the set and vanish into the darkness.

“Are you sure you don’t want a coffee?”

The assistant director held out a steaming paper cup, and I watched the rain plop in it like a pebble skipping across a pond. Where he’d come from or how long he’d been there I had no idea. But I took the coffee from him. He was the closest thing to sympathy around and I needed it.

“Thanks.”

He nodded and dashed away again as though not wanting to be seen fraternizing with the enemy.

“It must have upset you a great deal to see Amber with Dean like that.” Hooper watched as I paced the room. The gold gown made a distinct swishing sound as I moved. My feet were killing me, but I wasn’t going to ruin the effect by going barefoot
.

“It did,” I admitted flatly
.

“Now I understand how all of you got embroiled in this mess. At least I think I do.”

“You know the players,” I said archly. “You don’t know the plot. Not yet. What I haven’t told you is that things were about to change. And I think, for the better, though I didn’t know it at the time.”

I
held the coffee in my hand as I wandered around in the rain, the umbrella folded up and useless. I wasn’t sure how far I’d walked, but eventually I sat down on the stone steps of a townhouse and wept. I was grabbing for some tissues in my knapsack when the door of the townhouse opened and footsteps slowly descended the stairs and stopped beside me. I looked down and saw a pair of expensive black brogues with charcoal pinstripe trousers hemmed just so, pink socks peeked out between, and I knew whoever he might be he was a man of good taste.

“You look lost.” He spoke with a voice that went with the tailoring—crisp and masculine and very English.

“I didn’t mean to trespass,” I said faintly.

“Good grief! This isn’t the Wild West!” the man exclaimed. “You’re soaked to the bone. Doesn’t that umbrella work?”

I stared down at the black nylon umbrella that I’d closed when I left Dean’s set.

“Allow me to get you a towel.”

He disappeared into the townhouse, leaving the front door open. It was warm and inviting with classical music, Mozart I thought, gently wafting towards me. The hallway was covered in gold damask wallpaper with glossy white trim and held formal console tables with lamps
and framed photos. This was not the home of a hipster filmmaker from Los Angeles. Nor was it the kind of place that a blonde waitress/actress/mistress would hole up in. This was as anti-Dean and anti-Amber as I could get. So I walked in.

I heard cupboard doors clanking shut and water running from deep inside the house. I followed the sound towards the back. As I walked gingerly down the hall, I saw a living room and a formal dining room to the right. The walls were painted a vibrant red, with a large white marble mantelpiece and white built-in bookshelves on either side. More framed photographs decorated the tables and shelves, and curiosity drew me closer to investigate. There was a large black and white photo of a young boy in a dark suit squished between a nattily dressed couple.

“Those are my parents.”

I swallowed hard, mortified that I had been caught snooping. I turned around and at last saw the man who had been so kind standing there with a towel in his hand. He held it out to me and I took it delicately.

“You’ll need to warm up too,” he continued, without the least hint of alarm or irritation at having a stranger in his house. He picked up the photo and I saw now that he was dressed in a suit with a purple shirt, no tie, and that he was younger than a man in this house ought to be. He had a long nose that was noticeably crooked, as though he’d been punched several times and hard. He had dark brown hair the colour of espresso with a receding hairline on either side of his temples. His face was remarkably unlined, yet he looked like a man of forty-five or thereabouts. He was attractive without being overly handsome. Most women would find him appealing, even with his ladylike taste in décor, or in some cases, because of it.

“You look uncomfortable in the photo,” I said and rubbed my hair gently with the towel. “The suit must have been wool.”

“And it was a hot July day, if I recall,” he added and put the photo back. He looked me up and down and I grew conscious of my appearance, which was as far from his stylish attire as one could get. “Had a bad day, have we?”

“What gave you that idea?” I asked, feigning innocence. Then he pointed to my right, where a large oval mirror was hanging. I saw what he saw. My wet hair looked matted, and my complexion was sallow, which only exacerbated the redness in my eyes. The soaking wet clothing added to the picture of a downtrodden and lonely woman. I was the shining example of a very bad day.

“I see what you mean,” I admitted.

“Would you like to use the bathroom? There’s a hair dryer. Not that I use it much,” he said with a wink, and I followed him down the hallway and into a kitchen. It was large and white with gleaming ceramic tiles and a large glass door that opened to a luscious garden bursting with colour. But I also noticed several swords hanging on the wall, as well as a mannequin dressed, oddly enough, in an elaborate cape with a scarlet satin lining. I pointed to it. “You a vampire fan?”

He chuckled. “I collect movie props,” he explained. “That was from a 1980s Dracula B movie, a very bad one. The swords came from a kung fu movie. I have an entire room devoted to such things. The plan is to open a museum one day.”

I nodded and smiled but said nothing further. People who collected movie memorabilia tended to be geeky men who lived alone, and if you started up a conversation about their collection, it could take hours to shut it down. So I continued on to the bathroom and found the hair dryer and got to work blowing the water out. I wished I could blow the memory of the morning away as easily.

When I came out of the bathroom the man was gone, so I quietly slunk down the hall towards the front door, lest he invite me to tour his room of props.

“Leaving so soon?” he called out, and I saw him perched at the top of the staircase. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

I shook my head, and began to feel uncomfortable for the first time. Maybe he was some deranged interior designer.

“On second thought, you look like you could use a real drink. Let me buy you one. Where do you live?”

“I’m staying at a friend’s flat near Tufnell Park tube,” I told him.

“Fine. We’ll go there and I’ll buy you a drink. There must be a pub nearby.”

I took in the soft touches throughout the house. Maybe he was a decorator. “Are you an interior designer?”

He smiled slightly but his tone was serious, “The feminine touches belonged to my wife.”

“She’s not home?” I asked, knowing I was being nosy.

“She’s never coming home,” he said darkly. Then, as if shaking a memory free, he looked at me again. “She passed away.”

I felt awful having pushed the point. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a few years now. She drowned.”

“Oh, how awful!” I said and felt selfish at being so caught up in my own trouble. “What happened?”

“It was in a swimming pool. Our swimming pool. At our country estate in Gloucestershire.”

“That must have been horrifying.”

He nodded and walked towards the door. I followed him outside, back into the rain.