Not Without You

The first time I saw A Girl Named Rose, I was ten. I remember we had a new three-piece suite. It was squeaky, because Mum didn’t want to take off the plastic covers in case it spoiled. I was ill with flu that knocked me out for a week and I lay on the sofa under an old blanket and watched A Girl Named Rose, and it changed my life. I never thought about being an actress before then, even though Mum had been one, or tried to, before I was born, but after I saw that film it was all I wanted to do. Not the kind Mum wanted me to be, with patent-leather shoes and bunches, a cute smile, parroting lines to TV directors, but the kind that did what Eve Noel did. I’d sit on the sofa while Mum talked on the phone or had her friends over, and Dad worked in the garage – first the one garage, then two, then five, so we could afford holidays in Majorca, a new car for Mum, a bigger house, drama school for me. The world would go on around me and I’d be there, watching Mary Poppins and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, anything with Elizabeth Taylor, all the old musicals, Some Like It Hot … you name it, but always coming back to Eve Noel, A Girl Named Rose, Helen of Troy, The Boy Next Door. I even cut out pictures of my favourite films and made a montage in my room: Julie Andrews running across the fields; Vivien Leigh standing outside Tara; Audrey Hepburn whizzing through Rome with Gregory Peck; Eve Noel walking down the road smiling, hands in the pockets of her flared skirt.

Everyone else at school thought I was weird. It was weird, probably. But Eve Noel and that film opened a world up for me. It seemed magical. It isn’t, any more, and I should know. Back then it was all about glamour and artifice, these gods and goddesses deigning to appear on a screen for us. Whereas I know what it’s like now. It’s a business, less profitable than online poker, but a profitable business still, until the Internet kills it totally dead.

Mum and I used to drive past Eve Noel’s old house. It’s in ruins now. It’s funny – everyone knows that’s where a film star grew up. But no one knows the film star any more, or even where she is now. Her last picture was Triumph and Tragedy, in 1961, and it was a big flop. There’s a picture of her at the Oscars, the year she didn’t win and her husband did. She’s smiling, so lovely, but she doesn’t look right. Her eyes are odd, I can’t describe it. And then – nothing.

I try and explain all this to Artie. He nods enthusiastically. ‘Give me the pitch then,’ he says.

‘The pitch?’

He’s grinning. ‘Come on, Sophie. You know it’s you, but you’re gonna have to get some big guys to put big money up if you want this thing made. Give me the one-line pitch.’

‘Oh …’ I clear my throat. ‘Kind of … A Star is Born meets … um … Rebecca? Because the house burns down. I suppose maybe it’s more The Player set in the fifties meets A Star is Born, or—’

‘Boorrring!!’ Artie buzzes. My head snaps up – I’m astonished.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘You are my number one client. You are so important to me. This could be amazing. I’m talking Oscar-amazing. But it could be career suicide. Again. And you can’t afford that. Again.’

He stands up again and pats his stomach. ‘I’m a pig. I’m a pig! Listen to me, sweetheart. Go home. Think up a great pitch. We have to get this thing made.’

‘Really?’ I stand up, stumbling slightly.

‘Really. But you’re totally right. If we can’t do it properly we should forget all about it.’

‘That’s not—’

‘And you’ll read the dog script? For me? Think about who’d be good, who you’d like to work with?’ I must have nodded, because he gives a big smile. ‘Thank you so much. Take the other scripts. Read them. I wanna know what you think of them all. I’m interested in your opinion. Sophie Leigh Brand Expansion. We’re big, we need to go bigger, and you’re the one who’s gonna lead us there. Capisce?’

‘Thanks, Artie,’ I say, aware that something is slipping from my grasp but unsure of how to take it back. ‘But also the Eve Noel project, let’s think—’

‘Sure, sure!’ He pats me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. ‘I think with the right project and a good writer we could have something wonderful. And listen, I spoke to Tommy, did he tell you?’ I shake my head. Tommy’s my manager, and he rings Artie roughly ten times a day with ideas, most of which Artie rejects. ‘It’s fantastic news!’

‘What?’

‘He tested the line we discussed for the Up! Kidz Challenge Awards on a focus group and it came back great. So that’s what you’re saying. OK? Wanna give it a try, for old times’ sake?’

I smile obligingly, hold up my bare left hand, then scream, ‘I LOST MY RING!!!’

This is the line I’m famous for, from The Bride and Groom. It’s a cute film actually, about a wedding from the girl’s point of view: bitchy bridesmaids, rows with parents – and from the guy’s point of view: problems at work, a bachelor party that ends in disaster. The bride, Jenny, loses her ring halfway through in a cake shop, and that’s what she screams. I don’t say it often, because I don’t want to have a catchphrase. Tommy would sell dolls that scream ‘I LOST MY RING’ and T-shirts by the dozen if I let him. I don’t let him.

‘Wonderful. Just wonderful.’ Artie’s clutching his heart. I push my sunglasses back down over my eyes.

‘It’s good to see you,’ I say, hugging him. ‘We’ll talk soon. When are the awards?’

‘Two weeks. Ashley will brief you. So you’re OK? You know you’re going with Patrick, yes?’

I hesitate. ‘Well, and George,’ I say. ‘A bonding night out before we start shooting.’

‘George? OK.’

I match him stare for stare and as I look at him I realise he knows.

‘George is a great director.’ For once Artie’s not smiling. His tanned face droops, like a hound dog. His beady eyes rake over me.

‘I know he is,’ I say slowly.

‘That’s all.’ He turns away. ‘That’s all I’m gonna say. OK?’

I can imagine what’s going on in his mind. If she’s banging George, they’ll be making trouble on set. Patrick Drew’s gonna get difficult about his close-ups as it’ll all be on her. George’ll dump her halfway through and start fucking someone else and she’ll go schizoid. This is a disaster.

I know it’s nothing serious, me and George. He’s A-list, so am I; we won’t squeal on each other. He’s way older than I am, he’s been around. Plus I don’t need a relationship at the moment, neither does he. If we screw each other once a week, what’s the harm?

Artie chews something at the back of his mouth, rapidly, for a few seconds, then claps his hands. ‘OK, we’ll regroup afterwards about your Eve Noel idea. I like it, you know. If not for you then someone. Maybe you’re right! Could be big …’ He pauses. ‘Hey, you should be a producer.’

He laughs, and I laugh, then I wonder why I’m laughing. Me, in a suit, putting the finance on a movie together, all of that. Then I think … no. That’s not for me, I couldn’t do that. I’m too used to being the star – it’s true isn’t it?

‘Read the scripts, think it over,’ he says, as I leave the room. ‘Then we’ll talk.’

CHAPTER THREE

AS I EXIT the building, I’m still thinking about Darren Weller and the day we went to Stratford, me and Donna escaping to McDonald’s. I’m smiling at the randomness of this memory, walking through the glass lobby of WAM, clutching this bunch of scripts, and suddenly—

‘Ow!’ Someone’s bumped into me. ‘Fuck,’ I say, rubbing my boob awkwardly and trying to hold onto the scripts, because she got me with her elbow and it is painful.

This girl grips my arm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, her eyes huge. ‘Oh, my gosh, that was totally my fault. Are you OK—?’ She looks at me and laughs. ‘Oh, no! That’s so weird. Sophie! Hi! I didn’t recognise you with your shades on.’

I’m trying not to rub my boob in public. I can see T.J. waiting by the car right outside. ‘Hi there,’ I smile. ‘Have a great day!’

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

I stare at her. Who the hell is she? ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say, beaming my big megawatt smile and going into crazy-person exit-strategy mode. ‘But, it’s great to meet you, so—’ She’s still grinning, although she looks nervous, and something about her eyes, her smile, I don’t know, it’s familiar. ‘Oh, my God, of course,’ I say impulsively. I push my sunglasses up onto my head. ‘It’s …’

I search my memory, but it’s blank. The weird thing is, she looks like me.

‘Sara?’ she says hesitantly. ‘Sara Cain. From Jimmy Samba’s.’ She’s still smiling. ‘It’s been so long. It’s really fine.’

I stare at her, and the memory leads me back, illuminating the way, as scenes light up in my mind from that messy, golden summer.

‘Sara Cain,’ I say. ‘Oh, my gosh.’

Back in 2004 I starred in a sweet British romcom, I Do I Do, during a break in South Street People’s shooting schedule. It did really well, better than we all expected, and LA casting agents started asking to see me, so I went out to Hollywood again the following summer. That was when Donna and I kind of fell out, actually; she told me it was a big mistake and I was in over my head.

She was wrong, as it turns out. It was a great time. I was young, didn’t have anything to lose, and I thought it was pretty crazy that I was there anyway, to be honest. Jimmy Samba’s was the frozen-yoghurt place on Venice Beach where my roommate Maritza worked and we all practically lived there: a whole gang of us, actors, writers, models, musicians, all waiting for that big break.

‘Your twin, remember?’ I stare at her intently. She gives a small, self-conscious giggle.

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘The twins. Sara, I’m so sorry, of course I remember you.’

The thing about her was, we had a few auditions together, and every time people always commented on how similar we looked. She had a couple of pilots, and the last time I saw her it looked like things might be about to happen for her.