Not Without You (50 page)

‘Kinda like she’d be having a mini-facelift?’ Artie says.

I look at him and try to smile at the joke. And then I realise he’s not joking.

‘No, Mr Morgan,’ says Mr Marsden. ‘This is a major operation.’

‘I know, I know. I’m just saying – if you’re in there anyway, would it be something you’d consider as a by-product of the procedure? You see?’ Artie spreads his hands out wide, the old gesture.
I’m an open guy. Trust me!

Mr Marsden looks at him, then me. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘I don’t know …’ Artie looks baffled:
Why would you? I know!
‘Hey, no idea. It’s just a thought, because of her career, people are gonna ask her these things …’

‘Your career?’ Mr Marsden says. He leans forward. ‘I’m sorry. Are you worried about your appearance from a professional point of view, then?’

He smiles at me kindly.

‘She’s Sophie Leigh!’ Artie says. I can hear Tina swallowing repeatedly.

‘I’m sorry—’ says Mr Marsden.

It turns out he’s never heard of me. Artie can scarcely believe it. ‘She’s
English
!’ he keeps saying after they have tried to explain it to him. ‘She’s from
England,
she’s your biggest star!’

Mr Marsden looks apologetic. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I don’t go to the cinema much, you see.’

Artie can’t fathom that a client of his who makes him this much money isn’t known to him, but I get Mr Marsden. He’s like the patrons of the Oak hotel. Why would a sixty-something guy have heard of the star of
The Girlfriend
and
A Cake-Shaped Mistake
?

‘You’re a film star?’ he says again, for perhaps the fourth time.

I write down on my pad,
Been over here shooting a film about Anne Hathaway and Shakespeare. With Alec Mitford.

His face lights up. ‘Alec Mitford! Wonderful actor. I saw him in this terrible costume drama, still my wife and I …’ And then his expression sags. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear me. Of course. You’re an actress. A film actress. My dear, this rather changes everything.’

I look up at him.

‘I’m afraid I can’t be quite so optimistic that you’ll make a full recovery, not to the level you’d require, I assume. You will heal and have a completely normal life, except you may limp for quite some time – your ankle has been quite badly shattered, you will need extensive physiotherapy for that. And you will have headaches, I expect, you usually do with this kind of head trauma. Pretty bad ones, but we can prescribe you something that’s jolly effective. But as for appearing on film, I’m afraid your injuries will be noticeable.’

I nod. I write,
How?

He says, ‘It’s relatively simple to mend a broken jaw without scarring. The cheekbone however … The surgery can leave you with an asymmetry.’

‘What’s that?’ Tina asks quietly.

He turns to her and says, ‘The shape of the face is altered. One eye may appear higher than the other. The broken collarbone will have a rather unsightly bump for a couple of years, which you could have surgery to remove, but then you’re left with a scar. I’m afraid the cuts around your eyes mean you will have noticeable scarring there. This will all fade over time, some more than others. But … I’m afraid … You won’t look the same. Perhaps it doesn’t matter though!’

‘We live in an HD age,’ Artie says, irritation in his voice. ‘It does matter. Listen, this sucks.’

Mr Marsden’s voice gets that high-pitched arrogant tone that public-school British men do so well. ‘I’m sorry, but with this level of trauma to the bone—’

Artie interrupts. ‘You don’t touch her, OK? We’re going back to LA tomorrow, we’ll get a second opinion, and you don’t go near her. You know who this girl is? No!’ He shouts. ‘You don’t know who she is, you have no fucking idea! Jesus, this country! I don’t wanna hear that she’s gonna have one eye higher – what the
fuck
is that about? Some kind of freak? One eye higher than the other?’ He’s shouting. He turns back to me. ‘Honey. Don’t worry. You don’t worry at all. This is gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine.’

He walks out of the room. Mr Marsden ignores his exit. ‘Sophie, I feel I have to be honest with you. You understand me?’

I nod and write down:
Totally understand.

At least I know.

MUM IS ON her way to see me, Tina says. She’s phoned to ask Mum when she’ll be here, in case I’m sleeping, but can’t get hold of her. Dad is out of the country, golfing in the Algarve. He’s coming to visit on his way back, he’s told her. He’s texted me:

So I wait, basically. I wait till I can get on a plane and go back to Casa Benita. I can’t ring Eve, she doesn’t have a mobile and I don’t know her home number, besides which I make no sense at the moment anyway. I’ve written to her, thanking her for everything instead.

Tommy, bless him, sends me a huge food hamper, full of nice soft gooey stuff, and a personal juicer. My own personal juicer, yes. A guy called Keith who has a programme on some obscure home shopping channel comes to the hotel and juices whatever I want. He is bright orange with extremely curious blue eyes and has the fanaticism of a cult leader. He keeps telling me juice will make me better.

In addition to this Tommy keeps trying to Skype me. I am sure this is because he wants to get a look at my face, see how damaged his goods are. I’ve lost all track of time, spending the last six days in hospital or in a hotel room, but I’ve stopped looking myself up on the Internet, which I’d started doing again, just to see what people were saying:

That was the
Variety
headline. I know, cheery.

The
New York Times
report said:

I’m sitting up in bed drinking one of Keith’s juices, a couple of days after I’ve returned to the Dorchester, when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Tina – it’s always Tina – and I nod at her. She peers around the door, looking nervous.

‘There’s someone here to see you,’ she begins.

‘Is it Mum?’ I put down my glass, trying to peer behind her.

‘No, it’s me. Tell me if you want me to clear out.’ Patrick looks around the door. ‘I just wanted to check up on you. I’m flying out later today. Hey, you’re doing great. Looking so much better.’

The swelling is starting to go down on my face, and it’s not frozen by painkillers. I can speak more clearly, with difficulty, but I have no idea if people understand what I’m saying. I pretend to be tidying up the mess on my bed, to hide my confusion at his appearance. ‘Thanks. Sit down. Want some fruit?’

I gesture to one of the ever-present fruit platters at the end of my bed, and put my good hand up to my hair, then let it drop, almost amused by my vanity. What’s the point? He’s seen me far worse, anyway.

‘How’s the pain?’ He sits down on the edge of the bed.

‘It’s OK. I don’t feel it most of the time. The foot and the cheek are the worst. But it’s getting better.’ I smoothe the sheets.

Patrick watches me, a worried crinkle between his eyes.

‘What’s Artie say?’

‘Well, he’s back in LA. Actually I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days,’ I say carefully. ‘He told Tina he was working on my options.’

Patrick shrugs. ‘He’s kind of a tool.’

I can’t help but laugh. It sounds like a donkey braying. ‘He’s your agent too!’

‘I know, but I don’t like him. I want to take some time off, go to film school, spend some time with my folks. He wants me to make him money. Maybe we’re not right for each other.’

I smile and nod. ‘What about
Surfer Dude 2
?’ I write the rest down.
He wanted me to be in it. Are you going to drop out?

‘No, I can’t, it’s too late and I’m carrying the picture, I can’t do that to them. I’m gonna make it, but it’ll be so, so bad no one’ll ever want me again. I’ve got my own plan, you see.’

‘It’s better than my plan,’ I say. ‘Having your face kicked in by a psycho.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ he says, and he smiles. ‘Wow, Sophie. I’m glad to see you. I can’t stop— I’m sorry you’ve been having a crappy time.’

‘Don’t want to talk about me,’
I say. I sit up in bed a bit and write slowly, with difficulty
, So all that stuff, coming out of nightclubs and vomming, being a dufus – what’s all that about?

He shrugs and takes the pen out of my fingers. ‘We’ve all upchucked once in public, haven’t we? That was eight years ago and they’re still showing it. I hate the way they try and put you in a box. And the way they behave like I’m important. I’m
not
important.’ He’s drawing on my pad.

‘No, you’re not,’ I say.

Patrick stops doodling. He laughs and slaps my knee, then looks horrified. ‘Oh, jeez, Sophie. Did I hurt you?’

I shake my head. ‘No. Honestly. Go on.’

‘I was thinking about it, you know. My mom’s friend Janet, she saved an old guy on Pfeiffer Beach last fall. It’s my dad’s birthday and I’m up in Big Sur, we were all just hanging out on the beach, catching some waves, and he’s drowning. Doesn’t make any noise, either. Just laying there, slipping in and out the water. And she knew what to do. I wouldn’t know what to do if that happened, that’s all I’m saying. She saved his life. That’s important. Being some guy in a movie, that’s not important.’

‘It’s because you’re gorgeous,’ I say fuzzily.

He says, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch—’

I take the pen back and write it down.
You’re gorgeous. People like looking at you.
Patrick shakes his head. There’s a strange silence between us. He is blushing, and I would if I could.

Thanks for the other day. You saved my life, you know, arriving when you did.

‘I didn’t. It was Eve Noel, not me. She’s amazing. Get her to tell you about it some other time. And anyway … it was my pleasure, Sophie. You just need to rest up and get better. Here. Want a banana?’

I hesitate. ‘I can’t eat—’ I begin. He gets a fork and a bowl from the untouched food on the tray they brought up earlier, and starts mashing the banana up.

‘Bananas are so great, man. When my dad got in a motorbike smash and had his jaw like pretty much wired shut I fed him bananas for about two months solid. Have some.’ He taps at my mouth with the fork, I open it obediently, and he shovels it in. It’s slimy and cold, but sweet.

‘Thanks a lot,’ I mumble. He nods.

‘No problem.’ He gives me another forkful. ‘So you pretty much shut the hotel down for a while, did you know that? Isn’t that cool? They had to cancel our press junket, so I owe you for that big time.’

I smile, or try to smile at him. ‘Good,’ I say slowly, ‘Don’t stay if you’re going to be late.’

‘I’ve got a couple of hours. I thought I’d keep you company, if that’s OK? I’ll just stay here and you can do whatever you want, sleep, whatever.’

I stare at his face, thinking again how perfect he is, like a Greek statue, breathing, twinkling at me. I think of the years I’ve spent trying to keep my beauty intact to please other people, grooming it and treating it like a pet, and how it was probably a waste of time. And I realise how little Patrick would care if his face was messed up. I don’t think he’d even notice. Alec, on the other hand, would go into a terminal decline. It hurts to smile, I realise now.

‘What do you want to do?’ Patrick says. ‘Play a game?’ He reaches over for my iPad. ‘I’m amazing at Scrabble, you know? Want to play?’

I hesitate, and then I nod. Then I write down,
Won’t you be late for your plane?

‘Ah, I’m all right for a while.’ He grins, takes off his jacket, and sits opposite me at the end of the bed.

An hour later, we’re both bored of Scrabble, and I’m bored of losing especially. It’s the painkillers, I tell him, they’re messing with my mind. I look at the alarm clock by my bed and he follows my gaze.

‘I’ve been here way too long. I ought to leave, let you get some rest.’

I clutch his hand, in a frenzy of panic that overwhelms me and I don’t know why. ‘Don’t go. Please don’t go.’

He stares down at me. ‘Sophie – it’s OK. Hey.’ He strokes my hair and cups my chin very gently in his hands. ‘Hey, there. Don’t cry, honey.’

‘It’s just – I feel OK when you’re around.’ I grip his other hand in mine. I don’t care what’s cool and what’s desperate any more, don’t care if it’s the wrong thing to say. I know he doesn’t either, never has done.

‘There’s plenty of people to look out for you, Sophie. Listen to me. I have to catch a plane.’ He waggles his fingers inside my iron clasp. ‘I’ll come see you back in LA. Yes?’

I let his hand drop and turn my head away. I know I’m being ridiculous. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m back the day after tomorrow, if they let me. You mean it? You’ll come see me?’

‘Er – sure.’ He stands up. I feel a dead weight plummet within me. I can’t talk to people any more. Of course he’s not going to come see me. I’m being insane. He’s Patrick Drew. He doesn’t want to hang out with some clingy freak who he’ll have to feed mashed-up banana to. He looks at his watch again. ‘Listen, I’m glad … I’m glad you’re all right. Hang in there, OK? I’ll come see you soon. I promise. Maybe we’ll have another coffee, yes?’

He smiles. I lean back against the pillows, trying not to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m being stupid. I just want to—’ I begin, but there’s a knock at the door and then it opens.