The Making of Mia (23 page)

‘That was me when I first moved to LA.’

Jo examined the grainy photograph of a dark-haired man with bad teeth and looked up at Gable. She could see no resemblance
between the two – Gable was the complete opposite of the man in the photograph.

‘But …’ she began in disbelief. ‘How can this be you?’

Gable toyed with a piece of cucumber on his plate and sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’ He ate the cucumber and then started cutting
up an already sliced piece of tomato. He put it in his mouth gingerly and swallowed. ‘I used to be called Simon.’

Jo looked at Gable incredulously and he grinned at her, displaying perfect white teeth.

‘You remember when we were at Mynt that night and I told you that your life was like a film?’ Jo nodded. ‘What I meant was
that your life was almost as bizarre as mine. You see, when I wasn’t washing up dishes in dirty kitchens I was trying to audition.
When I say “trying” I mean just that – do you know how hard it is even to get the chance to audition in LA? You get open auditions,
where hundreds and hundreds of people go, but most casting people only see people with agents, and getting an agent is practically
impossible. Even more so if you’re gay and you looked like I did. So I finally got a meeting with an agent – but she told
me that I didn’t have the looks to be a leading Hollywood actor. She picked up that I was gay and told me I’d never be the
next Orlando Bloom, only a Rupert Everett, one without the looks, the accent or the talent. She told me all of this in the
nicest possible way, and I was grateful, but it didn’t put me off wanting to be an actor, it only made me more determined.’

Gable took a long sip on his mineral water and assessed Jo. ‘So far so similar, wouldn’t you agree?’ he said, and Jo nodded.
His life did have some strange parallels with hers.

‘I was nursing my wounds and wondering what I was
going to do when a new show –
Nip/Tuck
– came on TV. It was like a sign from God. I decided to move to Miami, get some plastic surgery, and start acting straight.
I told myself I’d sort myself out, turn into a heart-throb and move back to LA to start again.’ Gable’s eyes glittered in
the pink light. ‘Because, after all, what is the point of being an actor if you can’t reinvent yourself?’

The waiter came to take away their plates of cold, uneaten food, and Jo stared at the photograph of Gable in amazement. She
didn’t know what to say for the longest time, and just as Gable began to look uncomfortable at feeling so vulnerable and exposed,
Jo spoke. Her cheeks were flushed.

‘You must want to be an actor very much,’ she said.

Gable nodded earnestly. ‘I do. I really do. And I am so sorry that I didn’t tell you I was gay, but nobody out here knows.
If I was still Simon then I’d have told you in a flash, but I’m Gable now, and as far as South Beach is concerned Gable is
a straight, cute guy who is planning on moving to Hollywood to be an actor.’

Jo smiled. ‘So tell me about the surgery.’

Gable nodded and took another sip of his drink. ‘I was scouring magazines trying to work out what I wanted to have done, when
I came across a photograph of a Swedish soccer player in some tight Calvin Kleins – have you heard of Freddie Ljungberg? Plays
for an English soccer team called Arsenal?’ Jo nodded – Freddie Ljungberg was gorgeous, and suddenly Jo realised that Gable
looked very much like him. ‘I ripped the advert out of the magazine and took it to my surgeon, who said that if I wanted to
look like him I’d need a lot of work. My chin and nose were first, and then I had my teeth straightened and whitened. After
that I had Botox in my forehead, collagen in my lips, and cheekbone implants. I’ve had my ears pinned back, and I work out
at the gym for two hours every day. My hair is professionally done so that
you can’t tell I’m not a natural blond, and I top up my sunbed tan by spending as much time as I can on the beach.’

Jo recalled the image of Freddie Ljungberg nearly naked in the Calvin Klein advert and looked at Gable – if anything, Gable
was better-looking than the footballer. ‘Do you think it was worth it?’

Gable nodded at the photograph of him as Simon. ‘I’d say so, wouldn’t you? I knew that if I wanted to make it I couldn’t make
it as nerdy little Simon Lynott – I knew I had to look spectacular, and even though it has cost me thousands of dollars on
credit and months of pain and bruising I’m happy with the results. I look like the man I feel like I am inside, and now people
think I’m straight – as proven by the number of girls at Ernie’s who check me out – I feel like I could take on Hollywood
and win.’

Jo stared at Gable and could feel the beginning of an idea creeping through her body.

‘I wonder if—’

Gable interrupted her. ‘If you’re thinking about having surgery I wouldn’t even go there. Jo, you’re a naturally cute girl.
Sure, you’re not a model, but since when have journalists needed to look that hot? I didn’t have a choice – all actors have
to be devastating in the looks department – but you do. You don’t need surgery.’

Jo thought back to
Gloss
, and how every girl who worked there was stunning, from Rachel on reception to Lucy, who was cool, mysterious and could have
been a model with her huge grey eyes and long, lithe limbs.

‘I’m willing to bet you could rise up the ladder on a magazine with your talent alone – you have a slender body and an intelligent
face, and I’m sure you have more feature ideas in your little finger than any model would have in their entire lifetime. If
anything, not being supermodel-hot means you’d be taken more seriously.’

Jo picked up her drink and stared into it. As much as she wanted to believe what Gable was saying, she knew that talent alone
didn’t cut it in the magazine world, and even though she looked a hundred times better than she had done when she was at
Gloss
she wasn’t sure she was pretty enough. She wasn’t sure she was sparkly enough.

‘Besides,’ Gable said, gesturing for the bill. ‘Since when have freelancers had to worry about what they look like? I thought
the whole point of working from home meant you didn’t have to brush your hair or even get out of your pyjamas if you didn’t
want to.’

Jo grinned. He was right. She ignored the tiny voice inside her head that said that she’d eventually want to work in an office
again – running a magazine rather than going on coffee errands – and told herself plastic surgery was out of the question.
After all, Madeline Turner hadn’t had cosmetic surgery to get where she was, had she? Jo felt a wave of anger rush through
her. No, Madeline hadn’t needed surgery – she’d married the boss instead.

March 2005

Jo finished the last sentence of the email she was writing and yawned. A quick look at the clock on the laptop told her it
was three in the morning and she rubbed her eyes. If it hadn’t been for the sound of the surf sliding up the beach or her
tiny silver laptop placed on the smoked-glass dining-table, she could almost have imagined she was back in London, frantically
thinking up pitches before going to work as Garnet’s slave the next morning. Jo quickly reread the email and felt a familiar
buzz rush through her body – working for magazines gave her a high better than any drug could have done, and she hadn’t realised
how much she missed that hit until she started writing again.

For the last six months Jo had been busy establishing herself in the American magazine market, and Gable was busy in Hollywood,
where he’d landed an agent and a massive part in a film almost as soon as his plane had hit the tarmac in California. As he
waited to find out if he’d got the lead in another big blockbuster, he’d flown back to Miami to see Jo, and she had made sure
she made the most of her new best friend being in Miami. He wasn’t Amelia, who she could confide anything to, or William,
who she still yearned for late at night, but he was a great friend – easy, relaxed and happy in his skin.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Jo asked him, and Gable nodded. ‘You really want me to pitch this idea?’

Jo looked at her email to Lucy at
Gloss
and reread it. During a heavy night at Oblivion for Gable’s homecoming, Jo had told him how much
Cosmopolitan
had liked the ‘Help! I just came on to a gay man!’ piece she’d written as soon as they’d made up. Gable had suggested she
write about the culture of plastic surgery in Miami for a magazine back in England as an off-the-cuff remark, but something
had clicked in Jo, and she realised there was a whole scene in the city that British magazines would lap up. When Jo said
that she was still writing for
Gloss
– small pieces mainly, on fashion trends coming out of America – Gable had asked her if there was any reason that Lucy or
Madeline Turner wouldn’t want an article highlighting the growing inclination for cosmetic surgery in America. Jo couldn’t
think of one, and when she’d suggested it in an email, Lucy had, as usual, gushed over her idea. Jo supposed that Lucy was
still feeling guilty about how she’d let Jo down, but she didn’t care. As much as she hated her, Lucy was still her main contact
at
Gloss
, and this was business. One day she’d make sure Lucy apologised properly, but in the meantime Jo had a career to develop,
and that meant using whatever contacts she had, regardless of what she thought of them personally.

As a result of Jo’s idea, and the fact that ‘Olivia Windsor’ was now based out there,
Gloss
had decided to do a Miami special, with a large section on plastic surgery. Lucy had asked Jo if she knew of anyone out there
who had undertaken surgery to make his or her life better, and after a few drinks Jo had asked Gable, telling him that if
he’d like to share his story with
Gloss
readers it would be completely anonymous. Gable had nervously agreed, but now Jo was about to send her pitch over to Lucy
he didn’t seem so sure.

‘What if they find out who I am? My career will be in tatters before my first film comes out. I’ll be a laughingstock!’ He
walked around Jo’s living-room and Jo was struck by how camp he was in private. When they were in public nobody would have
guessed that Gable preferred men, but in the privacy of their own homes he could be completely himself – and he was almost
a sillier, younger, happier version of the serious, professional man that he became in the top bars in Hollywood.

‘Look, I’ve changed your name, and I’ve said you based your look on Thierry Henry rather than Freddie Ljungberg —’

‘Who?’ Gable interrupted Jo.

‘He’s French. Black. Sexy. He plays for Arsenal too, but—’

‘He plays for the same team?’ Gable looked at Jo in horror, and she sighed.

‘We could change it to Michael Owen if you like.’ When Gable looked none the wiser Jo smiled at him. ‘Or David Beckham?’

Gable’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, yes, please,’ he said, and Jo bit back a laugh. Even though the piece was anonymous Gable was still
incredibly vain about it. Jo made the changes and looked at him. Gable was now sitting on the red and black sofa, staring
into the distance.

‘Once I send this, Lucy will cream herself over it. You do know that, don’t you? Once this is in her in-box you’ll have to
do this interview with me.’

Gable nodded. ‘If this helps you out I’m happy to do it,’ he said, and Jo looked at him.

‘Are you sure?’

Gable stared at Jo and then broke out into a wide grin. ‘Of course I am, darling,’ he said. ‘Send it and let’s send your career
into orbit.’

Jo pressed ‘send’, and she imagined Lucy sitting in the office, reading her email and squealing with pleasure. Jo had to admit
that the pitch was incredible. She had suggested that she interview a previously unknown Hollywood actor who had landed a
leading role in a blockbuster because of his good looks, which were achieved through cosmetic surgery and full-on sessions
in the gym. The piece would not disclose who the actor was – Gable’s career would have been in shreds if anyone ever guessed
he hadn’t been born looking like a heart-throb – and in return the actor would give an exclusive interview to
Gloss
about his physical insecurities. It was tantalising stuff. The tabloids would all want to syndicate the article, and the
gossip websites such as Hecklerspray and Holy Moly would spend days trying to work out what Hollywood actor had spent $100,000
on surgery. So long as his surgeon never disclosed the work he had done on Gable – and he wouldn’t, as he had signed a NDA
that would cost him millions if he talked – Jo would have the biggest splash of her career.

‘It’s gone,’ Jo said ominously, and she joined Gable on the sofa, mentally working out the time difference and realising that
it was still only the morning in London. ‘So how is it all really going in LA? I’m really missing you, you know,’ she said,
meaning it. Since Gable had gone back to the West Coast, Miami had lost some of its allure. Even though she
had a wide circle of friends who hung out at the same clubs every night, without Gable by her side Jo felt a little bit out
of place. She had started to think about returning to London, but Jo still didn’t know how she was going to get her revenge
on Joshua Garnet. Until she knew what she was doing, she thought, she would have to stay in Miami. Jo grinned to herself.
Not that it was such a horrible thing to have to do, now she was a UK size ten and the girl she had always wanted to be.

Gable took another slug of his vodka and smiled. ‘LA is amazing,’ he said, putting his glass down on the floor and curling
himself up on the sofa. ‘Everyone’s talking about me, about how I suddenly appeared and landed the part in the new Cameron
Crowe film. Apparently Keanu was devastated,’ Gable said. ‘He thought the part had been specially written for him.’

Jo shook her head in amazement. She still couldn’t believe Gable was about to become a player, that he was name-dropping Keanu
Reeves into conversation. ‘My agent has been fantastic since the moment I walked into his office. He’s got me screen test
after screen test, has hooked me up with Violet Compton – you know, that girl who is going to be playing Jessica Alba’s little
sister in Ang Lee’s new picture – and we’re quite the celebrity couple,’ he said, smugly. ‘The paparazzi love us,’ he said,
and Jo burst out laughing.