Not Without You (27 page)

As for what happened at the house and who’s doing it, and how they got in, I don’t know.

They said they knew what I was thinking. They said I was going to die. That handwriting haunts my sleep: huge crazy words scrawled on the white walls in black marker pen. I keep seeing it, when I shut my eyes.
Someone stood there and wrote that
. How did he or she look, scribbling that they wanted me to die? Were they laughing? And the white roses, too: I kept telling the police about the ones before, left in my room, outside the house, but the strange thing is I don’t know if they believe me or not. I’m not making it up. I’m not crazy. I have to remind myself of that almost daily at the moment.

I didn’t sleep there again. I moved into a hotel and nearly two weeks later, I was on a plane to the UK. Denis is pensioned off, he’ll come back twice a week to supervise the garage and the repairs. My security detail became insane: four massive men walking with me at all times, so I couldn’t see anything from between their big black blazers, couldn’t hear anything behind the constant crackle of their earpieces.

Here there’s a revolving team of people who are with me most of the time and I have two personal guards now, Angie and Gavin. Angie is by my side almost twenty-four/seven but Gavin, her boss, covers for her in the afternoon. She’s six foot four, ex-army, and she sleeps in the next room connected by a door we leave unlocked at night. This is a bit of a blow to my love life, as there’s an extremely hot cameraman called Rick who Alec Mitford keeps teasing me has a thing for me. He looks like Patrick, even his name sounds like Patrick. He has lovely dark hair that falls in his face when he’s embarrassed about something and he’s quiet and shy. Maybe it’s the itch I need to scratch, or maybe it’s just more hassle than it’s worth. You’re not supposed to hook up with random guys if you’re a famous actress. Fine for the boys – it’s a big slap on the back if they turn up in some small town and bang everything that’s going – but not me. It’s just … it would be nice to feel the warmth of another body at night, to know someone is next to me.

I keep thinking about Patrick; he’s in my mind more often than I care to admit, a proper old-fashioned crush which I know is ridiculous. I rang him a couple of times before I left, to apologise about bailing out on the film. He never returned my calls. He’s probably mad at me now, and I don’t blame him. I had no choice. I wish I could tell him that.

And though the film might be falling apart I feel safe here. I don’t say this, though, as whenever I rail against the amount of people around me to Gavin, the head security guy, he stares at me and tells me I’m crazy.

‘Do you want me to be ringing your mother to tell her you’re dead? Huh?’

‘No, obviously not. But you could ring her anyway, get her off my back for me.’ I sound more British since I got here, more piss-takey. It’s creeping back into my language and my voice, over the years of LA gushing and industry slang.

The LA cops interviewed me a bunch of times and they’ve combed the Internet too. They’ve actually gone to Ohio, to question some girl who posted threats to me on Twitter.
Come on, guys
, I want to say. It isn’t some thirteen-year-old from Toledo with a grudge against me.

Or is it? The truth is, I have no idea. I don’t have any control over it, either. I did get Gavin to reduce the constant guard that surrounded me wherever I walked from four huge men down to two, which felt like a victory. I’m scared – of course I’m fucking scared. But four guards make it far scarier somehow. Realistically, what’s going to happen in this
Fawlty Towers
-style old hotel in the middle of nowhere when everyone’s either in the bar till 4 a.m., getting up at 5 a.m., and knows each other’s business? We are in the middle of nowhere on the edge of an ancient wood: forty-five minutes’ drive from Anne Hathaway’s house, fifteen minutes from the ancient Cotswold thatched cottage we’re using for extra scenes, and only half an hour’s drive from where I grew up. This is my life now. It’s kind of strange. But I like it.

I’m rubbing my face, trying to wake myself up, when there’s a sharp tap from outside. ‘Sophie, are you OK?’

‘Sure.’ I jump out of bed. ‘Sara, is that you?’

‘Yes. Well, good morning! Another nice British day. I have your breakfast.’

I open the door, on a chain like Gavin taught me, to verify that it is in fact Sara. I don’t know why the cops think someone would try to kill me by so accurately impersonating my assistant’s voice that I let down my guard and allow myself to be stabbed by a breakfast knife, but I’ll take what precautions he gives me.

‘I’m so glad I brought my bikini,’ Sara says, putting the tray down on the bed and patting my arm, in a gesture of hello. She stares out the window. ‘Wow, England. How did you cope growing up here? Do you have webbed feet?’

‘No. Alec does. Ask him to show them to you,’ I say. She laughs.

‘OK, so I have your schedule here. I checked with Marie. They’re setting up for the modern-day shot inside the house, but if it stops raining they’ll try and get the first scene in the garden. I left the script for that scene on your bed last night … did you see it?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I say. Sara is extremely efficient. Dare I say it, even more so than Tina. She double-checks everything, I never have to make a decision because she knows what I want, by some strange ESP. And she’s also a free gossip service: she loves being first with information. ‘Anything else?’

Sara nods. ‘It’s bad news. Cara’s got pneumonia for sure and she has to stay in the hospital another couple of days. The drugs aren’t working.’

‘Poor Cara. Maybe I should go see her? This evening?’

‘No visitors in case of infection.’ Sara shakes her head. ‘But I sent a bouquet and a muffin basket from you. The message read—’ She whips out her BlackBerry and intones: ‘“Dearest Cara, Get well soon, we need our Anne Hathaway back on set! We are all praying for you and a speedy recovery. With all my love, Sophie.”’ She slides the BlackBerry back into her pocket.

‘Oh, that’s great,’ I say, though in fact I’m not sure a bouquet and muffin basket is what you do in the UK. Plus Cara Hamilton, the much-feted and adored actress playing Anne Hathaway, is an old boot and has made it clear she loathes me, T.T., and most of the US crew. She communicates only with Alec, whom she considers to be at her level. She keeps going on about ‘the
first
time I was at Stratford, doing the Henrys with Peggy and John’.

I shouldn’t be horrible about Cara. She’s old, and not well, and I know everyone’s worried about her. It’s just she’s one of those people who makes you feel like shit. I’d forgotten what it’s like, being back in the UK. When we met this time (I didn’t remind her I’d auditioned opposite her once) she said, ‘How nice to meet you,’ in that way English people do when they mean totally the opposite. ‘I haven’t seen your work, I’m afraid, but I know you don’t need people like me to watch your films when you’re so …
popular
.’

‘Can I get you anything else?’ Sara asks. She’s standing there at the end of the bed, all bright-eyed and keen, her ponytail bouncing.

‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s all. Thank you so much, Sara. Why don’t you take a day to yourself. I’ll call you if I need you.’

Her face falls. ‘Oh. You sure? You don’t want me to bring your other shoes over later? In case it stops raining?’

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Go to Stratford or something. You’d love it.’

‘You really don’t need me to do anything else for you?’ She pats the bed. ‘Hey. It doesn’t feel right, just feeding through your calls and hanging out all day. You never need me. It sucks.’ Then her face freezes. ‘I don’t mean I don’t like being here,’ she says intently. ‘Listen, I’m not trying to be dramatic. I don’t mean that at all, Sophie.’

I pull at my face in the mirror, grimacing at its reflection in the dim room. ‘Oh, my goodness, I know that. I just feel bad, dragging you all the way over to the UK and leaving you hanging around all the time.’ I stop again, feeling my way. It’s sometimes awkward: we know each other, we were young together. Always at the back of my mind with Sara is the line that director said to her.
‘This girl’s just an uglier Sophie Leigh. Next, please.’
Guilt makes me feel responsible.

‘I’m so glad you’re here. I just don’t want you to feel you’re missing out on anything back in LA. Any … opportunities.’

Sara pulls back the curtains. ‘I have plenty to do!’ She smiles. ‘Now we got Wi-Fi we got all we need, am I right? Hey, did you check Deadline this morning? The script William Morris were touting that someone bid ten million dollars for?
Starlight
?’

I miss the sunshine in LA. I miss my beautiful house, the ocean, the markets, the food trucks, the beach, the people. And I miss California, the dream of a golden land that I fell in love with the moment I arrived. But I don’t miss Hollywood. I’ve totally stopped paying any attention to the business since I got here.

‘No. Is it good?’

Sara nods, biting her lip. ‘It’s
amazing
apparently. Fox bought it and it’s going straight into production – every actress in town is going nuts for it.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘What kind of thing?’

‘Very dramatic, really meaty.’ She pauses. ‘Should I ask Artie to—’

‘Yes,’ I say without any conviction. We both know I’m not getting that part. ‘Can you get me the script?’

‘He wants to talk to you. He called again last night.’

‘Tell him I’m shooting all day.’

‘No problem,’ says Sara. She types furiously on her BlackBerry, looking pleased to have something to do. ‘Will you let me know if there’s anything else?’ She looks up. ‘I think you’re feeling kinda uneasy about us knowing each other from before, Sophie. It’s not a problem for me. I promise you. I’ll do anything, anything at all. I’ll clean up your toenail clippings if you want.’ I laugh. ‘Gimme something.’

I tie my hair into a stubby ponytail and pin back the famous fringe, which I’m growing out now, so I’m all ready for my make-up and the wig that makes me look dramatically unlike Sophie Leigh. When Tommy saw the early head shots he rang me in a raging panic. ‘No one will recognise you! What’s the point of this film at all?’

‘Just give Artie the message. And have a nice day. Read something, go visit something,’ I say, ushering her towards the door. ‘Shall we have dinner later?’ She looks delighted. ‘Alec lost the bet. He’s buying drinks, so we have to go to the bar tonight.’

‘How come?’

‘Some bet about pulling Eloise.’

‘You’re joking me. That crazy set-designer lady?’ Sara laughs. ‘She’s intense. Way intense. She told me she’s looking to get married by the end of the year.’

My eyes widen. ‘Oh, my goodness. Poor Alec.’

‘Hm,’ says Sara. ‘This should be fun. OK, I’ll see you later! And – thanks, Sophie!’

I wave and as I’m shutting the door I see Angie outside in the corridor. I wave to her too. She raises her hand. She doesn’t smile. She never does.

I jump in the shower and get dressed quickly. I sip some tea, skimming the script just one more time. I feel suddenly nervous as I reread what we’re filming today; Alec and I have a couple of big scenes. I’m usually well prepared, but this movie is testing me. I want to say Tammy’s lines like they make sense. I want to be good, to make a film you’ll want to watch in fifty years’ time. I
have
to be good.

When I get downstairs it’s still only 6.30, so hardly anyone’s about, though to be honest the other patrons at the Oak Hotel and Carvery never recognise me anyway. I pretend to be relieved about this but am secretly annoyed. Wouldn’t you be? They always recognise Alec. He’s costume drama central. When I made
Jack and Jenny
, in a tiny town 5 miles from the middle of nowhere in Wyoming, I couldn’t leave the hotel without ten people waiting outside to get my autograph, and at the diner we all ate in most nights people would smile and come over, shake my hand – Americans are much politer than Brits. ‘It’s a real honour to have you here in Dead Dog Ridge,’ they’d say. ‘Old Tom here, he wants to shake you by the hand.’ And some grizzled old war veteran would stump into view and stiffly have his picture taken with you and then stump off into the night with a hearty farewell. Here: blank, annoyed incomprehension, and some subtle social signals I can’t interpret. I’ve been away too long.

‘Morning, Sophie. I hear Alec’s buying tonight,’ Bill Claremont, the cinematographer, calls from the alcove where he’s working his way through a hearty breakfast. Bill is a living legend, nominated for an Academy Award, actually worked with David Lean and Alfred Hitchcock. I don’t know how we got him for this film, to be honest, but people say Tony Lees-Miller, the famous producer of this whole thing, whom I’ve yet to meet, pulled him out of his bag of tricks. They’ve been doing it for years, this band of mild-looking British guys, and they have Ealing, Rank and Gainsborough in their blood. Bill can drink Alec under the table, which is pretty easy, but he can drink me under the table too, which is not bad going – as I told him after a night at the bar when I woke up the next morning fully clothed hanging off a corner of the bed and immediately fell off it, causing Angie to rush in from the adjoining room with a chair above her head ready to knock out any assailant, like we’re in an old Ealing comedy. In fact the whole thing, now I come to think of it, is a little like an Ealing comedy.

‘Morning, Bill,’ I say. ‘You off now?’

‘Just finishing my breakfast. I don’t need the make-up you do. I’m all natural.’ He slaps his jaw and smiles. ‘Big day today. You ready?’

I nod, chewing the inside of my mouth. ‘Sure!’

The car’s outside. Jimmy, the driver, is having a cigarette, sheltering under the porch.

‘Morning, Soph,’ he says, stamping the cigarette on the ground. ‘You ready?’ He nods at Angie, who climbs in the car

‘Sure,’ I say again. He comes round and opens the door for me.

‘Ready to make some more magic today?’ he says as we drive away, down the long verdant drive, out towards the cottage where Shakespeare’s wife grew up, through the yellow fields and green hedgerows. A swift darts out in front of us, under and up into the trees, and I sink back into the leather seats and smile, because he says this every day, and it’s sweet.