Читать книгу Picture Perfect - Kate Forster - Страница 11

Maggie hung up from Zoe and rolled over in her king-sized bed, groaning. It was too early to be up, she thought crossly, especially the day after the Oscars.

Her feet ached and so did her head, but her best friend had just asked her for help and Maggie had never let Zoe down.

She got up and padded to the window, opening the blinds to look out over the beach. A grey sky, to match her grey mood, she thought as went into the bathroom and stood under the fifteen jets of water in her polished stone shower.

Maggie’s modernist home had been showcased in Architectural Digest and was revered for its classic beauty and clean lines. These were also qualities Maggie was known for, and when she’d commissioned the house, they were what she had specified in the brief.

She bought everything that was expected of a woman of her taste and money. She had the right artists, the right clothes, she was on Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list six years in a row, and when she’d married Will her wedding dress had been considered a classic, along with the lace modesty of Grace Kelly’s gown and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s A-line shift.

She did whatever it took to rid herself of the stains from her past, wrapping herself in a bright, white, perfect world. She never missed a hair appointment or a session with her trainer, and her nails were always done. She was impeccable on the outside, but always felt she could improve on the inside, if only she knew what her heart and mind truly wanted.

A lifetime of being valued for her looks above all else ate away at her, particularly now she was getting older. She found herself wondering what more she had to offer.

And right now she was faced with the pressure of what to wear to meet the man who had shown her what true love really was. Just about everything she had learned about love was from movies, but Hugh Cavell’s book had taught her more than any script.

Meeting the author of the book that had changed her life and helped her leave her marriage was something she had wished for. Though she hadn’t factored in that the author was a drunk and didn’t want to discuss his own marriage, let alone Maggie’s failed union.

It wasn’t warm outside, she gathered from the empty beach and the choppy waves. A lone, scrappy-looking dog ran along the water’s edge, as though waiting for its ship to come. Hell, who wasn’t waiting for something somewhere? she thought as she pulled together an outfit. Stella McCartney white jeans, a white silk tank top, an oversized pale-pink Rag & Bone light cashmere knit that hung off one shoulder, and white ballet flats by Chloé, she decided. Elegant and refined, but relaxed. Without false modesty, she knew she looked good in white, and perhaps it would help to lift her grey mood.

Choosing outfits was Maggie’s second favourite thing to do. Her first was doing her own make-up.

After years of sitting in the make-up chair being worked on by professionals, Maggie could do her make-up almost as well as the best in the business. Working through her beauty routine, she carefully applied her products. When she was finished, she spritzed herself with Eau des Merveilles by Hermès, picked up her bag and a bottle of water, and headed out to her Mercedes SUV.

The address Zoe had given her was nearby, but Maggie would never dream of walking anywhere, unless it was on the beach and even then it was under duress.

Some people loved the beach, but Maggie had chosen to live in Malibu because it was expensive and elegant. She also liked the village feel of the shops there and the comparative lack of tourists. Privacy was something she valued above all else.

Growing up in the homes of strangers will do that to you.

A short drive later she found herself at a large nondescript house, with a white wall and green security gate. She pressed the button, and waited, but no one answered.

She tried again. Still no answer. When she tried the handle, the gate swung open.

He was certainly no native, she thought as she closed the gate behind her. No one in Los Angeles left a gate—or anything else, for that matter—open.

She knocked on the front door and a male voice with a British accent called out, ‘It’s open, Zoe.’

‘It’s not Zoe,’ she said as she walked down the hallway and into a large open living space.

Standing unsteadily near the big windows overlooking the water was the author she had been so desperate to meet. He was wearing grey boxers and nothing else and was holding what looked to be a whiskey bottle. He was thin, too thin, she thought, which was saying something in Los Angeles. He had the pallor of a man who spent too long indoors, with the curtains closed, wallowing in his own grief and swill.

‘You’re drunk,’ she stated aloud, the words sounding more accusatory than she’d intended. ‘I thought you would be more together than this.’

‘And you’re Maggie Hall,’ he answered, peering at her. ‘You look older than I thought you would.’

Maggie flinched and felt her jaw drop open. ‘And you look more pathetic than Zoe said you would,’ she snapped.

‘I’m a sad widower, didn’t you hear?’ he countered, dropping on to an oversized sofa and placing the bottle on the glass table in front of him.

She picked up the bottle and went into the open-plan kitchen, pouring the whiskey down the sink.

‘Hey, that’s mine,’ he said in his cut-glass accent, which reminded her of a television detective one of her foster mothers had loved.

‘Not any more,’ said Maggie. She handed him the bottle of water she had brought with her. ‘Drink this,’ she said impatiently.

‘It stinks in here,’ she said, turning up her nose. ‘Open a goddammed window, you’re not a teenager.’

She moved to the glass doors and opened them up, letting in the fresh sea air.

‘You seem upset with me, Maggie Hall,’ he said, looking at her sadly.

She saw his face was covered in grey stubble that matched the day. ‘I don’t know you, so how can I be upset with you?’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘You don’t like people who drink, do you?’

There were grey hairs in his chest hair and his skin had the tired look of someone who didn’t eat properly or do any exercise. He wasn’t fat, he was just, well, she tried to think of the word. Unremarkable, that was it. What a let-down Hugh Cavell was turning out to be, she thought, not hiding her disapproval.

‘I don’t have an opinion about your drinking,’ she lied.

She sat, crossed her legs and smoothed out the white fabric of her pants.

‘You look like a wedding cake,’ he said. ‘All white, pink and hopeful.’

‘An old wedding cake, remember?’

Then Hugh laughed. It was clear as a bell and Maggie felt the hairs on her arms stand up in response.

‘Shall we start again?’ he asked, seeming less drunk now, or was she just getting used to it?

‘I’m Hugh Cavell: author, alcoholic, widower and general emotional recluse.’

Maggie stared at him unsmiling. ‘Maggie Hall: actor, divorcee, and part-time babysitter for alcoholic novelists.’

Hugh laughed again and this time her body tingled a little as their eyes met.

‘Where’s Zoe?’ he asked, squinting at her. ‘And why did she send you?’

‘Because she said you weren’t to be trusted on your own, and it seems she was right.’

Hugh stood up and swayed a little. ‘She’s a smart one that Zoe Greene.’

‘She certainly is. Why don’t you go take a shower and then we’ll get something to eat. You need some food,’ she said sternly.

Hugh looked her up and down and nodded.

‘So do you,’ he said as he wandered off.

Maggie stayed where she was until she heard the sound of running water coming from a distant room and then she started snooping.

On the glass table sat a laptop, a copy of Scriptwriting for Dummies, a selection of notebooks and pens and a pile of magazines and mail, still in plastic wrappers, forwarded from an address in London.

Besides these few personal items, the room was actually very neat.

Moving into the kitchen, she checked the fridge and the cupboards. There was no food in either, but the rubbish bin was overflowing with takeaway food containers, cigarette packets and crumpled, handwritten letters.

She pulled out one of the letters with the fewest questionable stains and smoothed it out on the kitchen bench.

Dear Hugh,

Thank you for writing your book about your wife Simone’s battle with brain cancer. You had a beautiful marriage and I know she will always be in your heart. A love like that never dies.

My own husband died four years ago in a car accident. I will never get over him, just as you will never replace Simone.

I hope you remember all the love and the happiness and know that one day you will be together again in the house of God.

Sincerely,

Jenny Wallins

Maggie grimaced as she turned the letter over and saw the sign of the cross in one corner.

‘Reading my fan mail, are you?’ she heard and looked up to see Hugh in a towel, his hair wet, and wearing a freshly shaven scowl.

Maggie shrugged. ‘It’s better than some of the fan mail I get. The last time I dared to look, I was offered the chance to be impregnated, raped or murdered, I can’t remember which. Maybe all three.’

Hugh walked over and looked at the letter.

‘Ah yes, Mrs Wallins of Miseryville,’ he said and then scrunched it up again and threw it back in the bin.

‘Why be so mean?’ Maggie asked. ‘And why read the fan mail and not your other letters?’

‘None of your business,’ he said and then walked out of the room. Maggie pulled out her phone and texted Zoe.

I hate it when I meet someone I’ve admired and then find out they’re an egotistical idiot.

Within minutes Zoe texted back.

Ha. Now you know how your fans feel after they’ve met you. PS: I’m really grateful, is he okay?

Maggie looked at the overflowing bin and sighed.

Fine. He’s just a bit of a disappointment. I thought he would be nicer. TTYL

Zoe’s text came flying back.

WDYM? He’s TOO nice, that’s his problem.

Maggie heard Hugh’s footsteps and slipped her phone into her pocket.

‘I’m somewhat more sober and now desperate for a fry-up,’ he said as he walked into the room, in jeans, sneakers and a surprisingly nice white shirt.

It was the sort of shirt that a woman would buy a man, well cut, in beautiful cotton that would only look better with age.

Had Simone bought him that shirt? Maggie found herself wondering as she followed him out of the house. She almost felt like she knew the woman as a sort of friend, except she was dead and everything Maggie knew about her she had learned from a book.

‘You’ll have to drive because I can’t get the hang of driving on the other side of the road here,’ he said, as he stood next to her car.

‘And because you shouldn’t drive drunk,’ said Maggie as she opened the car.

‘Just for the record, I would never drink and drive,’ Hugh said. ‘I may want to kill myself, but I have no plans to kill anyone else.’

‘That’s good to know,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m sure your legion of fans will be thrilled to know their lives are safe.’

Hugh was staring out the window and the car filled with an uncomfortable silence.

How could the man who wrote the most beautiful book in the world be such an angry, ungrateful person? Where was the man who nursed his beloved wife for two years until she died in his arms?

Maggie had thought Hugh Cavell was perfect and now the realization that he was broken and bitter felt like a punch to the stomach.

Hugh cleared his throat and then he spoke. ‘I read my fan mail, all of it, and most of it’s very nice, very thoughtful. But I don’t keep it, like I didn’t keep the condolence notes after Simone died, they’re not something you want to read over and over again.’

Maggie stayed silent, feeling like he hadn’t finished.

‘But it’s more than that. I’m waiting for someone to recognize the truth about what I wrote, to see what lies beneath the words, but no one does, everyone takes it at face value and you, Maggie Hall, know more than anyone that it’s dangerous to think anything is perfect, especially people.’

She drove, grasping the steering wheel tightly. She did know what he was referring to; she had lived it every single day.

Maybe he wasn’t so terrible after all, she thought, and she glanced at him smiling, only to see he had fallen asleep, with his mouth wide open like he was a small child.