Читать книгу Picture Perfect - Kate Forster - Страница 8

Maggie Hall was careful not to trip over the train of Penelope Cruz’s enormous silver ball gown as she manoeuvred through the room to gain a better view of Zoe’s conversation with Jeff Beerman.

The room was buzzing with celebrities catching up, waitstaff trying to keep up with the request for drinks and power brokers shaking hands and comparing egos.

The finest haute couture was being worn by the beautiful as if they deserved nothing less: clothes that hadn’t been worn by anyone else in the world yet but would dictate fashion pages for the next year. Trends were being started, careers were being launched, and deals were being made in every corner of the room.

Arrangements about management, pacts around casting, transactions in marriages and compromises with lovers. It was a cacophony of perfume and ambitions, the perfect night, thought Maggie as she watched a starlet make a play for Brad Pitt and Angelina smile as though indulging one of her youngest children.

Maggie was a people watcher, which was part of what made her a brilliant actress, but she wasn’t trying to play either Jeff or Zoe in a new role. She knew there was something going down, and—given Zoe was both her best friend and her manager—automatically assumed it had something to do with her.

But Zoe had already left the table by the time Maggie got a decent view and she was left talking to Gwyneth Paltrow about colon cleanses.

Damn you, Zoe, she thought, at least tell me which project Jeff wants me for so I can prepare.

Did she need to lose weight or gain it? Change her hair colour from blonde to brunette? Change her body shape with four-hour-a-day workouts?

Transforming herself came naturally to Maggie—she’d being doing it for nearly thirty-seven years. It was being herself she sometimes had trouble with, she thought wryly.

Gwyneth Paltrow had been joined by Willow Carruthers, and the two were now talking about London’s best colonic clinics.

God help me, Maggie thought when she heard her name.

‘Maggie?’ She turned and found herself face-to-face with her ex, Australian actor, Will MacIntyre and his Spanish girlfriend, Stella. Stella glared at Maggie as though she were the worst person in the world, which, to Stella, she probably was.

‘Thank you, I was about to have to make colonic conversation with Goop about her poop,’ she mock whispered and smiled at him brightly. On paper they had been the perfect couple, but things had never been so easy behind closed doors.

‘I like colonics,’ said Stella. ‘They help me lose pounds and pounds.’

Maggie thought about making a comment regarding what Stella was filled with, but left it alone. She didn’t need a scene, not with her mind on Zoe and Jeff’s meeting.

‘You look beautiful,’ Will said, his eyes scanning Maggie in her lilac strapless gown. Stella’s face fell at Will’s words, and for a moment Maggie felt bad for her. Stella would be in the colon clinic tomorrow, trying to rid herself of the ‘pound and pounds’, when in stead she’d be better off just dumping Will, who really was a big shit.

Stella was sexy, a tumble of dark hair, breasts and curves, but Maggie was tall and willowy, and often described as a classic beauty. Tonight her blond hair was drawn into a sleek chignon, accentuating her high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. And though her Nordic looks afforded her an enviable elegance, Maggie knew it was her trademark smile, the one that warmed her face and lit up a room, that earned her at least fifteen million dollars a movie, plus a cut of the backend. Zoe once famously said that when Maggie Hall smiled, a person would buy whatever she was selling, rob a bank or commit a murder just to keep the light in the room.

Maggie ignored Will’s compliment, not because it wasn’t pleasant but because she knew he’d only said it to annoy Stella, who was now glaring at Maggie as though she was putting a curse on her.

‘How’s Elliot?’ She asked after Will’s son. ‘He hasn’t returned any of my calls.’

Will shrugged. ‘Still in his room, playing video games.’

‘He’s too old for games,’ said Stella impatiently as though Maggie had addressed her. ‘He’s twenty-three, he needs to be out in ze world.’

Maggie shot her a look that made Stella toss her head but turn away from Maggie’s dislike.

Yes, Elliot needed to get back out into the world but the kid did have a reason to stay inside for a while, she thought tenderly. She may not have birthed Elliot but she loved him like her own child.

‘It’s been six months since the transplant. Haven’t the doctors said he can go back to college?’ she asked.

‘He doesn’t want to,’ said Will, looking exhausted just talking about it. ‘He doesn’t want to do anything.’

She and Will had only been divorced for eighteen months, and while Maggie was still single, Will had wasted no time in finding a replacement. Someone younger, someone who would no doubt give him the child they had fought about throughout their eight-year marriage.

‘We have Elliot,’ she had argued at the time. ‘He needs us, and we can’t bring a child into this home when he’s so sick.’

Her argument had contained a thread of truth, but what she had never said was that she just didn’t feel ready to have a child with Will. She thought her body would tell her that the time was right to be pregnant but it never did and when Elliot’s congenital heart condition had worsened, the idea was parked permanently.

But she couldn’t stay in a loveless marriage, not even for Elliot. Eventually she realized she didn’t love Will, and Elliot wasn’t enough of a reason to stay.

She had tried to stay in Elliot’s life—she was the closest thing to a mother that he had and she knew he wanted to see her—but Will’s anger at her leaving him made it difficult.

‘Do you want me to talk to him about it?’ she asked now. ‘He won’t return my calls but I can come over and I can stage a care-frontation.’

Stella rolled her eyes, and Maggie only just resisted the urge to slap her.

‘I see Zoe’s been doing the deal with Jeff,’ said Will, obviously trying to change the subject and taking a large sip of his wine.

The Vanity Fair photographers were circling, looking for a good candid photo of the past couple and the new girlfriend. Maggie took care to smile, radiantly, as she asked casually, ‘What deal is that?’

But before Will could answer, Arden Walker swept into the circle.

‘Hello, darlings,’ she said, but Maggie noticed she only kissed Will, touching his face in a way Maggie knew made him uncomfortable—she could see it in the way his eyes blinked too many times and his jaw tensed.

Poor Will, she thought, Arden Walker would never take no for an answer; she had ambition and charisma in spades, something that poor Stella didn’t have.

Arden worked her charisma the way Stella worked her body, and right now she was clinging to Will’s side like a lemur.

Will and Arden had made a film together, a big-budget action movie, two years earlier, when Arden was a mere twenty years old. Will had played her father. The film had done well at the box office, although Elliot and Maggie had watched it at her house and laughed at Arden trying to make a mediocre script sound like Chekov.

Maggie glanced at Arden’s ensemble for the evening: a mess of black leather and tulle, with a black lipstick that only accentuated her thin lips. It wasn’t that Arden was unattractive—she had a certain Euro-chicness about her with her blue-black hair—it was just that she looked mean. She looked like she would throw a sack of kitten in a lake and not turn back, Elliot had once said, and Maggie knew just what he meant. Elliot knew people, it was a shame his father didn’t have the same sixth sense.

Arden pushed in between Stella and Will. ‘Is it true you’re going to be my new leading man?’ she purred. ‘We could be the next Julia and Richard.’

Maggie rolled her eyes. She knew Arden was hoping to topple her from her pedestal and had gone from playing edgy, asexual roles to a recent part in a romantic tragedy.

‘Arden, what are you talking about?’ Will asked impatiently, draining his wine and waving the empty glass at a waiter for a new one.

‘I had lunch with Zoe’s old assistant Josh,’ she said knowingly. ‘He told me all about the film.’

Maggie, Will and Arden all shared a manager but Zoe was, and would always be, Maggie’s closest friend and confidante.

‘According to Josh, Zoe wants to know if I’m interested in the role. I knew she was seeing the big four studios, but I kind of guessed she’d go with Jeff, he’s a class act, despite what people say about him as a person.’ She looked at Maggie pointedly. ‘I always think it’s important to judge people on their talent, not their reputation.’

Maggie smiled. ‘I always think it’s important not to judge people,’ she said politely.

Arden looked like she knew she had lost that round and she turned back to Will, touching his chest with one black-leather-gloved hand.

‘Let me know if you’re going to be my leading man, Will;

I certainly hope so,’ she said in a feverish voice, which made Maggie glance at Stella and make a face. It wasn’t easy being with Will. Women loved him, and girls like Arden would always be using him for the next career move.

But what was the role Arden was talking about? Her brain was screaming. Will was a superb actor, at the top of his game right now. If there was a film he was being considered for, Maggie wanted to know. The only part of their marriage that worked was when they talked about work and although Zoe managed both of them, Maggie still felt proprietary towards Will and his career moves.

The movie he made with Arden had been something Maggie and Zoe had thought was a bad idea, which proved to be true at the box office. She didn’t want Will to make any more stupid choices—God knows he had made enough of them over the years.

Arden swanned off towards Bradley Cooper, and Maggie turned to Will.

‘What role is she talking about? She seems thrilled to have the chance to work with you.’ Maggie imitated Arden’s breathy delivery.

Will scoffed and took a large slug of wine. ‘As I said to Zoe, if you think I’m interested in the book that was responsible for ending my marriage, then you’re kidding yourself.’

Maggie gasped. ‘Zoe’s casting The Art of Love?’

‘Casting?’ exclaimed Will. ‘She’s trying to produce it as well, which is why I guess she was sitting with Jeff. I heard she signed that sad sack writer you love so much.’

Maggie clutched the stem of her glass and nodded. ‘Excuse me,’ she said and rushed to the bathroom.

Pushing open the door, she was grateful to see the plush bathroom was unoccupied except for the bathroom attendant.

Zoe had signed Hugh Cavell? She wanted to produce The Art of Love and hadn’t told her? Why hadn’t she asked her to be involved? They did everything together.

This was how they had rolled for twenty years and now Zoe was keeping secrets.

Christ, she was the one who had introduced Zoe to the goddamned book.

It was the most profound and beautiful book about love that Maggie had ever read, not that she had read many books. Hell, she had cried over this book, bought copies for everyone she knew and then walked out of her marriage.

She wanted what the author and his wife had had in The Art of Love, and nothing less.

The author had nursed his wife through cancer, had seen her through her best and worst, and he spoke of his wife in a way that Maggie doubted any man had ever spoken of her. It was her greatest desire to meet Hugh Cavell and learn from him everything she needed to know about love, and how to have a decent relationship.

She had even told Zoe all this. It was only now that Zoe’s reaction at the time made sense.

‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be some sort of relationship guru,’ she had said. ‘He’s just a journalist who wrote a memoir, I don’t think he’s really able to offer anything else beyond this.’

Zoe must have already met him by this stage.

The treachery of Zoe excluding Maggie from this deal made her both confused and angry as she faced her reflection in the mirror.

She was still beautiful, she was still slim and elegant, but there were subtle changes around her eyes, tiny highways of lines. All roads lead to Hollywood, she thought as she pulled at one to see if she should consider a facelift, but she couldn’t concentrate on her own reflection, so she knew she was upset.

Zoe knew she wanted to play Simone, she had told Zoe this when she’d given her the book. Even though Maggie was the wrong side of thirty-five and Simone was only thirty when she died, Maggie could still play younger—

The bathroom door opening interrupted her thoughts as another attendant came in to relieve the first one. Maggie watched the new girl in the mirror as she straightened the perfume bottles and made sure the hand towels were perfectly lined up.

She was beautiful, Maggie thought with envy, as she looked back at the mirror, aware of the slight crêping of the skin on her décolletage in the light. She stood taller and pulled her shoulders back.

Maybe Zoe had decided that she, Maggie Hall, was too old to play Simone? The thought hit her like a slap to the face.

‘Are you an actress?’ she asked the girl. Girls like this worked industry parties for any opportunity, each girl seemingly more lithe, beautiful and willing than the one before.

This girl would have more luck in the men’s bathroom, thought Maggie wryly.

‘No,’ said the girl, in a voice that was husky and low, the voice many voice-over artists wished they had. The girl was a complete package.

‘Really?’ she asked, surprised.

The girl shook her blond head and shrugged. She could have been a model, thought Maggie, taking in the long slender frame and startling green eyes.

‘So what do you do?’ asked Maggie, intrigued.

She must be the only beautiful girl in LA who doesn’t want to be an actress, she thought, almost laughing aloud at the irony. The girl reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite place her.

The girl paused. ‘I’m working on a research project,’ she said vaguely.

‘Oh, you’re at college?’

‘Kind of. I’m working on a thesis of sorts.’

Beautiful and smart, thought Maggie, as she turned back to the mirror. Beautiful and dumb had far more currency in LA, but still.

‘I never went to college, but I would have liked to,’ said Maggie.

‘You seem to have done okay without it,’ the girl said with a little laugh.

‘I guess I have,’ said Maggie, smiling along with her. ‘Do you work this kind of event often?’ she asked, wondering why she cared.

‘If I can,’ the girl said. ‘I also do waitressing and valet parking, anything really.’

‘Good for you,’ said Maggie, aware that it might sound patronizing, but she truly did respect hard work.

Maggie sat on the round love seat in the centre of the room, and pulled off one purple Givenchy shoe.

‘Wearing these shoes is what I imagine Chinese footbinding was like,’ she said as she rubbed her feet. ‘I said I’m an eight but I think I should have taken the eight and a half.’

‘Yeah,’ said the girl. ‘I’m an eight in some shoes and an eight and a half in others.’ There was a pause and then the girl spoke again. ‘Your dress is amazing.’

Maggie looked down at her figure-hugging lilac Lanvin dress and sighed. ‘It’s okay, I guess. Took me and my stylists over half a year to organize this outfit and I wasn’t even presenting. Sometimes it’s exhausting being perfect,’ she said dramatically and laughed.

The girl smiled shyly and Maggie shook her head. ‘Are you sure you’re not an actress? Have you ever tried it? Even modelling, perhaps? The camera would absolutely love you, you’re incredibly beautiful.’

‘I never really thought about it,’ said the girl, blinking a few times and frowning. ‘My parents think being an actor is a waste of time and education, unless of course you’re on Broadway in some obscure Russian play.’ She laughed.

‘Maybe,’ said Maggie defensively. ‘But my house in Malibu is evidence that they’re wrong.’

The girl laughed politely. ‘I guess I’ve never even thought about acting.’

Maggie narrowed her eyes at her. Was she being disingenuous or was she serious? False modesty was something Maggie couldn’t stand, along with liars and cheaters, which often made her wonder why she was still living in LA.

‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

‘My mom would like me to do law, but I can’t see myself doing all that arguing every day,’ she said. ‘If I get to choose, I guess I’d like to be a social worker or something.’

Maggie’s head snapped up.

‘What for?’ she said. ‘Social workers are assholes. They say one thing, but do another.’

‘Really?’ The girl frowned. ‘I just like helping people.’

‘Then I suggest you find another way,’ said Maggie roughly as she stood up, shoes in hand.

‘Okay,’ said the girl, looking intimidated.

Sometimes, Maggie knew, she could be almost too candid, too raw. But this was also what made her such a powerful presence on screen. She wasn’t afraid to show her character’s pain on her face or in the way she moved.

Softening, she smiled at the girl.

‘I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Maggie Hall,’ she said, extending her hand. She hated it when big stars just assumed everyone knew who they were. Manners are free, as Zoe always reminded her clients.

‘I know who you are,’ said the girl shyly, taking Maggie’s hand. ‘I’m Dylan Mercer.’

‘And now I know who you are,’ said Maggie warmly. ‘Great name; you really could be an actress,’ she said again, laughing.

‘And you could be an agent the way you hustle,’ Dylan laughed back. ‘I’ve been watching all the business going on here tonight, it’s crazy.’

‘I know.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘I could have been, but I like the free clothes too much.’ She winked at Dylan, looked a little closer at her and shook her head. ‘God, you remind me of someone,’ she said. ‘Hey, can I have your number? I mean, I know you don’t want to be an actor, but sometimes my assistant needs a little help. And you did say you like helping people. Maybe, if you’re interested, you could do a few errands for me here and there?’

Dylan nodded excitedly, pulled a pen from her pocket, and wrote her details on the back of a card from the events company.

Maggie took the card and handed her shoes to Dylan.

‘Hold these, would you?’ she said as she put the card into her clutch purse and smiled. ‘Thank you, Dylan, I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.’

Turning, she walked towards the door.

‘Your shoes,’ said Dylan, holding out the strappy Givenchy’s.

‘Keep them,’ said Maggie with a toss of her shining blond head. ‘I don’t need them. You might make something on eBay with them—Maggie Hall’s shoes from Oscars night—or keep ‘em and they might make a great story one day. Either way, you win.’