Neighbourly Behaviour

Neighbourly Behaviour.

 

 

Unfortunately I wasn’t alone in the lobby. A man and what looked like a crack whore were leaning against the opposite wall, eying me up like a piece of meat. Crap. I smiled politely and began trudging up the stairs as quickly as I could. It made no matter, the man took the stairs two at a time and reached me in seconds.

          “You’ll be wanting to make a donation tonight.” He said, his teeth yellow and broken, his breath horrific.

          “I’m sorry?” I could only assume he wanted my money, but I didn’t have any on me, just spare change. “I only have spare change and not much of that.” I said, trying to step around him.

His long greasy hair hung in front of his eyes, one had been blackened in a fight and his lip was split. I couldn’t think why, as he was such a delightful gentleman.

He pulled a wicked sharp hunting knife from his pocket and waved it in my face unsteadily. He was either drunk or on something and dumb too as mugging people in this building was pointless.

          “You can have whatever I’ve got, but it’s not much.” I said, my heart hammering and my vision darkening at the edges. I was about to have a full blown panic attack, just what I need.

My breathing became shallow and quick, my palms sweaty, my vision a little weird. My hands struggled to open my bag as they were shaking so hard. He swiped the knife across my cheek lightly to hurry me along. I felt the blood beading from the wound. Scars were only sexy on men. What a stupid thing to think in that moment!

          I pulled out my wallet and opened it, spilling everything into his upturned palm. He was not happy at how little there was.

          “Looks like we’ll be taking a walk to the ATM missy.” He said with a feral smile.

His female friend had appeared, struggling with the stairs in her six inch heels. She was swaying too, her skin a mess of ragged flesh. Meth by the looks of things. Awesome.

          “I don’t have any money in my bank. I live in this shit hole! Do you think I would do that if I had money?” I babbled, my voice getting higher and higher as I went on.

He considered that for a moment.

          “You got anything worth selling?”

I shook my head. My flat was completely devoid of anything, apart from my dress  and my iPod.

          “I don’t believe you. We’ll be taking this little lady to a cash point.” He said to his crack whore.

She nodded, but looked so out of it I doubted she had any idea of what was going on.

He jabbed the knife into my back until I began to walk back down the stairs. I felt blood where the knife had poked me. He had no control over his hands, they were shaking more violently than mine were, and the knife found my back several more times. The back of my t shirt was damp, but I didn’t think any of the wounds were serious as I could feel no pain. It was adrenaline, but I clung to it as it was all I had. Could I disarm him? Push him down the stairs?

          We reached the bottom and he pushed me towards the door, the knife adding another hole to my back as he failed to stop in time.

The dizziness that accompanies a panic attack was starting to make its presence felt, and my feet grew sluggish and unresponsive. I was stumbling more than walking, the fear making my knees lock. I was rewarded with several more pokes and the blood was running past my waist band and down my thigh. More worrying that the cuts was what the knife had been used for previously. I doubted it was clean and HIV and god knows what were worse than being mugged or cut a little. I wanted Van. I wanted someone, anyone to stop this. I wanted all the people who were usually on the street screaming abuse at one another to step in. But would they help or make things worse, mugging me themselves?

          “Faster.” He snapped, another two punctures.

His whore was straggling behind on unsteady legs. This was my chance. I could disarm him and run, but where to? He knew where I lived and would just follow me. No, I was not going to be a victim. I didn’t give a shit if he gave me a few more scars, I was not being that scared little girl anymore. I didn’t need anyone. I could stand on my own two feet.

I took a deep breath and turned around, using my knee to hit his hand making him drop the knife. I picked it up quickly and waved it in the air between us.

          “Ok lady, you’ve made your point.” He said, raising his hands and backing up.

          “I don’t think I have. Down on the ground, both of you.” I yelled, hoping someone would come to see what the commotion was about.

The whore fell to her knees and lay down, breathing as though she were minutes from death. The man joined her, his fingers twitching by his sides.

I took my phone out and called the police.

The man clearly had no intention of being arrested, and climbed to his feet. A knee to the groin soon fixed that, and when the cops came, he was still writhing on the floor in agony.

 

After taking a statement and arresting the couple, they took me to the hospital to get my cuts cleaned up, and to give me a blood test. They were clearly concerned about what would be on that knife too.

What a weird day. What a terrifying, confusing, weird day.

          The staff at the hospital were lovely, but I had a nightmare as far as health insurance and all that jazz were concerned. In England, you walk into A and E, join the queue, get seen, then leave. Here you have to fill out paperwork, even if your arm is falling off. It’s completely insane. What if you’re unconscious?

          They took blood, cleaned me up, covered my back with gauze and told me to call them in a couple of days for the results. I really didn’t like having that hanging over my head, but there was nothing that could be done about it. I hurt now that the adrenaline was spent, and my cheek stung. It had been a deeper cut than I’d thought and needed butterfly stitches to hold it together. I would look so pretty tomorrow, I would be getting all the boy’s numbers.

          I got back to my flat at 4.30am, feeling like stir fried shit, shaking with fear at every single noise the building made, jumping at every car that drove past in the street below. Not good. Not good at all.

 

I met Van bright and early the next morning at his apartment. I didn’t know the way to an audition he had today, so he would drive me. His son had left late last night so I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to Luke or Sofia, but didn’t have time to dwell on it due to Van’s reaction to my face.      

          “What happened?” His eyes were wide, his jaw hanging open. His hands flapped in the air between us as he didn’t know what to do with them.

          “Good morning to you too.” I said as he stepped aside to let me through the door.

The colour had drained from his face as his eyes traced the line across my cheek. I hadn’t had the guts to look at it yet, holding the mirror in such a way that I couldn’t see it when I had been getting ready that morning. Showering had been a bitch. The soap and shampoo ran into all the cuts and stung, plus it meant all the tape and stitches came off. I couldn’t reach my back so left it, and finally having to examine my face to put new butterfly stitches in place.

          “Just your friendly neighbour meth addict wanting money.” I said, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve made a list of the pros and cons of all the scripts you gave me.” I took out the paperwork and handed it to him. “Have you had breakfast?” I asked, not giving him room to question me further.

          “You’re bleeding.” He said quietly, his voice monotone.

My hand moved to my cheek, but it was fine.

          “Your shirt…” He pointed to my back where a poppy coloured stain was spreading across my back and edging across the sides of my shirt.

          “Awesome. That’s the only clean shirt I have. So have you had breakfast?”

          “Jesus George, we need to take care of this.” His hands were lifting my shirt carefully. “What the fuck happened?” He asked, letting it drop to grab some tissue. He blotted the wound gently, using the back of the shirt to carefully pull me over to the sink. Thankfully I wasn’t dripping on the carpet, I didn’t want him losing his deposit on the flat.

          “A meth addict called Stabby McStabbison decided I would make a good pin cushion. It’s ok, I took his knife, kneed him in the nuts and called the police. He and his crack whore friend were arrested.”

          “Why the hell didn’t you call me?” He asked.

I thankfully couldn’t see him as he was cleaning up my back with a wet flannel.

          “Why would I call you? Besides, it was stupidly late and you don’t sleep enough as it is.” I continued.

          “Georgiana stop. Regardless of our working relationship, I am your friend. I am here if you need me. If you are in trouble, you call me. You shouldn’t have been alone in your flat after this happened.”

I yawned, unable to keep it in any longer. I was so tired I felt dead on my feet.

          “I’m ok.” I said, not even convincing myself. “Do you have any gauze? We’re running a little late.” I said, checking the time.

          “Screw the audition, they can wait.” He said irritated. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the audition or because of me. “How can you be so blasé about this?”

          “Because if I think about it too much I won’t ever be able to go back to that building and will get on a plane back to England and live in my parent’s spare room until they or I die. I’m not doing it. I’m fine.” I tried to inject my voice with something resembling courage or at least cover the fear. I failed epically.

He took my shoulders and turned me around to face him, his expression unreadable. I looked down at my feet and surprised when he pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around my waist. He was careful not to touch the holes in my back, his hands gently brushing my skin like you would when trying to soothe a child. I couldn’t help myself, my throat tightened and my eyes filled with tears. I was fine until someone asked me if I was ok, or showed me affection or that they cared, that was generally my undoing. I sobbed and sniffled into his shoulder, my arms tight around his neck as though if I let go, there’d be nothing left. We were going to be late and it was all my fault, but that just made me cry even more.

He made ‘shh’ing sounds and told me everything was going to be ok, that he was here for me and I wasn’t alone. I was thankful I didn’t wear makeup as it would be all over his shirt if I did and that would just slow us down even more.

          “I’m so sorry.” I stuttered between sobs, wiping my eyes roughly with the backs of my hands and pulling away reluctantly.

          “Don’t be silly, you have nothing to apologise for. Come on let’s get these cuts covered and we’ll see if I can find you a shirt to wear.”

 

We got to the audition on time, but I had no doubt of what they thought when I walked in, red eyed, sniffing and wearing a man’s shirt that was at least three sizes too big. I didn’t care anymore, I was just too tired.

This audition had been arranged before I’d become his PA, so I knew nothing about the role or what was involved. For auditions, I waited with the other hopefuls in the waiting room as it would be inappropriate to go marching in with him. I used the time (and their Wi-Fi) to check my emails, contact a few people about things Van needed arranging, and to check on my haters.

          Twitter ran slow on my ancient machine - that and the fact that it was threatening to crash under the sheer volume of nasty messages. Just bloody great. I wasn’t having the best day and really didn’t need this.

I went through and reported the worst ones, before typing my own ‘tweet’.

          “I’m sorry that people are failing to understand that I work for VM. We are not a couple, we are not dating. It is my job to make his life easier. Sending me hate mail is not the best way to get in his good books.” Admittedly it had to be split over a couple of tweets, but I was thoroughly fucked off with it all.

          I checked my face book and found friend requests from my Beloved, Masanobu and 1000 rabid fan girls. I’d been sent a link to the ‘I HOPE GEORGIANA MACMANUS DIES!” page. The only photo they had was the one Van had taken of me and they’d edited it in such a delightful way. I had a speech bubble coming from my mouth that said; ‘I’m a skanky, dirty, disease ridden whore.’ and they’d blacked a couple of my teeth, given me wrinkles and added flies buzzing around my head. I joined the group and complimented the originality of their photo editing skills, offering them several more photos that they would have more fun with. I even littered it with kisses and smiley faces. I didn’t care anymore. I just didn’t have the energy. I scrolled down to a document called; ‘Why we hate that British fucktarded bitch.’ and felt my jaw hit my lap.

          The reasons they hated me? I was using Van. I was probably giving him STDs by being in the same room as him. I was causing him to drink more, smoke more and sleep less. Since I had become his PA, he had looked progressively less happy with each passing day. I was ugly. I was stupid. I was going to trick him into getting me pregnant then I was going to steal all his money. I stopped him seeing his son and I hated his ex (but so did they by the looks of things) Seriously, what was wrong with these people!

          I shut the thing down as the battery was dying, plugging it into the wall and looking around at the picture perfect men and women I was surrounded by. There were several other PAs, they were easy to spot as they had their phones surgically attached to their ears. Did they have hate groups dedicated to them on the internet? Somehow I doubted it. They seemed so efficient and professional with their immaculate hair, nails and business suits. I got a lot of evil stares and wide eyed curiosity when they saw the cut on my face. Maybe I should have sent the haters a photo of my face so they could start a rumour that I was in a gang fight or a riot or something.

          I rubbed my tired eyes and pulled some paper out of my bag. I’d write my mum a letter as I had nothing much else to do without my laptop.

          ‘Dear Mum and Dad,

                                             I hope you’re well. Things here are great. The weather is always amazing and I love my job. My boss is incredibly sweet and kind, and the work is varied and challenging. Next week I’ll be going to a premiere with him so you might even see me in a magazine. I’m not looking forward to it as you know how clumsy I am and how socially inept, but it should be fun and will be the first time I’ve seen some of his work.

          I might be moving to New York when Van heads back there after pilot season, but I’m not sure as of yet.

Is there anything you’d like me to send over to you? American food or whatever?

Take Care

George.’

 

We weren’t a family of many words.

 

Van strode out of the audition looking weary but elated.

          “How was it my lovely?” I asked.

Everyone’s eyes had turned to focus on Van, the women longingly, the men jealously. He pulled me to my feet and put my arm through his.

          “I think it went well. I’d love to do this movie as the script is really unusual. We’ll see.” He said, pecking me on the cheek.

I blinked. Oh if the fan girls had seen that! No doubt several of the people in the waiting room had witnessed it and would be ensuring the world at large knew what a disgusting floozy I was. He had just kissed me. Van Murphy just kissed me. Today just got a whole lot better.

 

We went to lunch at a small restaurant as Van liked to avoid the ones that Hollywood royalty frequented for any number of reasons. I was relieved, plus they had a Vegan option. I vetoed Van’s idea of just having dessert and he pouted melodramatically.

          “I have to ask…how are you still alive?” I said as they brought our meals. I’d forced him to get a side salad as well as the burger and chips. Was he allergic to vegetables?

          “Pure luck I expect.” He said raising an eyebrow and his favourite salute. I returned it with a big grin.

          “Love you too. I’m serious though, you have a son. You need to look after yourself better, if only for his sake.” I snarfed a piece of pasta and popped it in my mouth. It was so good!

          “I know.” He said. “I’m doing good with the cigs though.”

I nodded, thrilled that he had cut down so much. We ate in companionable silence, his smile fading every time he looked upon the cut on my face.

          “The interview cancelled for this afternoon.” I said, checking my mobile. They didn’t even bother to call, just sent a half arsed text. Nice.

          “Booyah!” He said raising his drink in a toast. “Thank the lord. That means we can get you moved!”

          “I’m sorry, what?”

          “You’re coming to live with me. No arguments. I’m not having you in that hell hole a minute longer, besides, we won’t be in town for more than four weeks, so we’ll find you a place in New York.”

I stared at him open mouthed, not having a clue of what to say.

          “You’re coming to New York right?” he asked, stabbing a piece of lettuce with his fork.

We’d never really discussed what would happen when he went back to NY, he couldn’t need a PA once pilot season was over as he mostly did movies the rest of the time and they were long term with a lot less that needed arranging. Was he just being polite? I mean I’d follow him into Hell if he asked, but was I really needed? And living with him? For a month! What the hell! How would that work? I’d be driving him crazy the whole time.

          “I’d love to go with you to New York, but I’m ok in my flat at the moment. As you say, it’s only for a month.”

          “I said no arguments. It’s happening. You can cope with me for a month right?” He winked.

          “Fine. Let me know how much you want for rent and junk like that and first thing we need to do is go food shopping because if we’re living together, you’re going to be eating properly.”

          “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the idea of being able to nag me 24/7.”

I threw my napkin at him but he ducked it easily.

          “You have next to nothing to transport, so it should only take one trip.” He said.

          “Yeah, but you’re not allowed to see my dress.”

He nodded before returning his attention to dissecting the salad. I was with him on that one, salad is vile. I’m probably the only vegan on the planet that doesn’t eat them. Yuck. But needs must and he was going to be the healthiest son of a bitch in the country if I had my way. Where had this control freak come from? Was it born out of concern or a power trip? I had no desire for power and shied away from the idea of it. It was because I couldn’t bear the thought of him being ill, but if he ever was, I’d look after him happily. Poor boy would be sick of me within 24 hours, I’d put money on it.

 

The Morning After

I woke with a mouthful of Van’s hair. He was snoring like…well, nothing was comparable to the noise he was making. My mouth tasted vile, my head hurt and I ached everywhere. I thought I remembered everything that had happened last night, but I couldn’t be sure. I eyed up the coffee table suspiciously, my leg throbbing in response. I would be a big bruised mess no doubt.

          I got up as carefully as I could to assess the damage. It was still really early, so I may as well let him sleep while I go die somewhere. My head pounded out a rhythm any trance producer would be proud of. I filled a glass with water and downed it, following it with another two, hoping to wash the alcohol out of my body. I don’t drink! This boy was a bad effect on me. It didn’t matter that he was older than me, he was still a boy as far as I was concerned with his ‘Booyahs’, ‘dopes’ and ‘awesomes’, along with the t shirts he wore that were inappropriate for just about every situation (swearwords on most of them) and his one finger salute which I’m sure he probably even used on his mum…yup, he was a boy in a man’s skin. It was just one of a myriad of reasons that I adored him. The ‘making me drink’ thing was on the cons list.

          I looked through the fridge and cupboard to see what I could fix him for breakfast, but it was pretty pitiful. Sadder than my cupboards in fact and that was saying something because my freezer compartment on the fridge is bust. I found the most random things that wouldn’t work no matter what I tried. Hmmm….

 

It was such a shock to my system to meet a ‘building attendant’ who wasn’t a complete bastard! When I went down to the lobby to see if there was a shop locally, the guy couldn’t have been more helpful. He even offered to draw me a map (had he been warned about my useless sense of direction?) but I thought I could cope.

          The sun was ever present and shining so brightly, my headache was soon forgotten and I was grinning like a fool. I doubted I’d ever get sick of that sight; unending blue skies and very few clouds, and the sun! The actual sun! I sighed happily and almost skipped to the shop.

I grabbed all kinds of things, not sure what he liked; fruit juices, croissants, muffins, bread for toast, a grapefruit and a couple of boxes of cereal. I also grabbed coffee, milk, sugar, tea, some apples, bananas and Oreos (everyone loves Oreos) as his cupboards were so bare.

Another thing in America that I don’t get is the stupid paper bags. They don’t have handles. How is that any use? In England, you can carry like twenty bags because they have handles. Here, I was struggling with two. How in the hell did people open doors? I was also stung by the ‘tax’ thing when I got to the till. That I would never get used to. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

          I rushed back upstairs and let myself into the flat (I’d stolen the key mwahahahahahaha!) and put some coffee on for him, even impressing myself with working out the machine thingy that he had.

I cut the grapefruits, heated the croissants, put all the other bits away and set the table. When that was all done, I debated on how best to wake him. Was I kind or evil? He deserved evil as revenge for the god awful headache, but my stupid heart was all swollen with love for him and other vomit inducing crap, so I gently shook his shoulder.

          “Hey you.” I said, placing the coffee on the evil coffee table.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes over and over as though he couldn’t really believe he was actually awake. He stretched, yawned and tried to sit up. It was slightly pathetic, so I took his arm and yanked it.

          “Thanks.” He said as I handed him the coffee. At least I knew how he liked it, but I couldn’t  be sure I’d made it very well.

          “I got breakfast, but I don’t know what you eat so I got bits of everything.” I said feeling slightly pleased with myself.

He blinked several times, rubbed his eyes again and sipped the coffee.

          “Not bad.” He said, looking exhausted.

I could only imagine how I looked, I hadn’t showered or anything yet. I’d have to be careful not to breathe on him as if my breath was anywhere near as bad as my mouth tasted…well, he’d be running.

The croissants were attacked with the enthusiasm of a half-starved man, though it was a purely mechanical action. He didn’t seem to be completely awake yet. I snagged an apple and bit into it, sipping the tea I’d made. Heh heh there was soya milk in his fridge heh heh.

          “I don’t suppose you got cigs while you were out?” He asked, his eyes pleading.

          “Like hell I did.” I said with a laugh. “You want cancer, you feed it yourself. It’s my job to look after you and that includes your health. By the way, what is going on with the empty cupboards?” I was feeling brave, solely because he was too tired and out of it to tear me a new one, not that I thought he would.

He was the Zen master. Nothing seemed to bother him, apart from that whole ‘death threat’ thing yesterday. Just thinking about it made my stomach knot up.

          “Yes mom.” He said, ripping another croissant apart and popping a bit in his mouth. He chewed slowly as he considered what I had said.

          “I want you to know that…I like that you’re not afraid to tell me when you’re pissed off, or when you need to tear me a new one. I don’t want this to be a boss/employee relationship in the usual sense. That’s not remotely me. I’d rather we were…friends?” He said doubting himself now that the words had left his mouth. “You were such a shy little thing when we met, what happened?” He laughed.

          “I don’t want you to get sick and you don’t look after yourself properly. You have a son. You owe it to him to be sensible with your wellbeing.” I bit into the apple again, almost bracing myself for the moment where I pushed him too far and he fired my ass.

          “Are all English women as scary as you?” He asked, snarfing the rest of the pastry.

          “They’re worse. I’m behaving at the moment so you better look after yourself. I don’t care what movies you’ve been in, I will kick your ass if I have to. You’re the only friend I have out here and I’m damned if I’m letting anything happen to you.” I hid behind the mug, sipping the tea slowly so I didn’t have to look at him.

That’s it girly, tell him too much, why not propose while you’re at it? That would be a great way to start the day!

          “Do you mind if I take a shower?” I asked, keeping my distance from him due to how disgusting I felt.

He nodded, chewing, and pointed the way.

 

OMG his shower is the best thing in the whole world. The one in my apartment is weaker than spring rain, but this…wow. I could actually wash all the shampoo out without using the sink! And I felt cleaner than I had since I’d got to this country. I felt so good! And my headache was easing too. Once my teeth were clean, I felt almost human. I just needed to hurry him along a little or we’d be late.

          “You didn’t need to buy me food.” He said, looking a little misty eyed as he looked through the cupboards. “That’s really sweet Iana.”

          “If you die, I have to find another job.” I said, biting my lip.

He snorted back a laugh and headed for the bathroom.

I did the washing up whilst he was in there, tidying up the breakfast bits and ensuring all my junk was packed up for us to leave. We had a photo shoot today that would most likely take several hours. I would need to find a coffee shop nearby to keep him dosed up and somewhere to buy real food for lunch. He had a habit of skipping meals, and regardless of whether that’s what ‘Hollywood’ did or not, I wasn’t going to accept it. The bitch was back (though I’d never been one for her to leave if I was honest) maybe I was being a Tiger mother like in the books I’d seen. The fierce women who ensured their kids were on the straight and narrow. Sometimes he was so childlike I felt the need to protect him, and other times he seemed so much older than me, closer to my parents’ age than my own. Once everything was tidy, I didn’t know what to do with myself. My hands were twitchy and I felt useless if I didn’t keep busy.

          He appeared looking too perfect to be true, practically sparkling with how clean and shiny he was. His hair was still wet and tendrils of it curled aga

forehead making him look really young again. I just wanted to…I don’t even know. Look after him? Kiss him? Pinch his cheeks? Kick his ass for not looking after himself?

          I checked the time and hurried him out the door, bagging up the fruit and croissants for him to eat later. I was turning into such a little house wife mother hen type. Urgh! Vom!

 

The photo shoot was taking place in an empty warehouse -the kind that usually graces every horror movie in the last twenty years- but in the blazing sun, it looked half passable. The crew was already there, setting up lighting and cameras. I was so excited! This was the first ‘proper’ photo shoot I’d been on, and I had to be careful to stay out of the way. The last one had been tiny in comparison to this, there were so many people here! Van had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, but he hadn’t lit it yet, watching me like I might snatch it out of his mouth. He’d been so good I couldn’t really begrudge him, besides, he could just fire me! I think he was forgetting that he was the boss in this relationship. Urgh, just using the word ‘relationship’ about us made my heart do little flips. Urgh, urgh, urgh.

          The photographer greeted us both, steering Van away to the wardrobe section, showing him what they would be doing. Was I supposed to follow? Crap. Van caught my eye and inclined his head for me to join them.

          “What do you think?” He held up two suits, both of which wouldn’t suit Van one jot. Was I allowed to say that? I looked at the rest of the rack and saw a couple that might do better.

          “I’m not going to claim to have a clue, but I think he’d look amazing in one of these two. Those ones will wash him out with his colouring.”

The photographer arched an arrogant brow, puffing himself up as though about to launch into a rant before he saw Van nodding in agreement with me. He let out a deep sigh and plastered on the fakest smile I’d seen, and I worked in Hollywood now. It seemed real enough when he looked at Van, but it turned to a sneer when he met my eye. I twisted a strand of hair around my finger and tried to look ditzy and unthreatening. He took the suits and left to talk to one of the lighting people.

          “Thank god you said something. They were awful!” He said, laughing and lighting the fag.

          “They really were! My half blind grandfather wouldn’t have been caught dead in either of those. Everything about them was wrong, the cut, the colour, the style.” I cringed.

Van laughed happily, glad to have someone on his side. I was a timid little mouse of a thing usually, but his faith in me was giving me a voice. I had no clue about fashion, but I knew Van and having spent entirely too long staring longingly at him, I knew what suited him and what didn’t.

          The photographer came back, his smile a little more convincing now.

          “Good choice on the suits, I’m inclined to agree with you now.” He admitted. The smile widened and grew warmer. I returned it, feeling like a bunny in headlights.

          “She’s the best in the business.” Van said, his face completely serious.

I snorted back hysterical laughter, covering it with a coughing fit. He was so full of shit sometimes, but I loved him for it. I really hoped he didn’t genuinely think I was of any use because he was seriously disillusioned if he did.

          “Ok, Mr. Murphy, would you mind going and popping one of these on. I’ll talk to Ms. MacManus about other options.”

Van nodded and headed off.

          “If you ever, ever, show me up like that again, I will ensure that you never work in Hollywood again.” The photographer had my wrist in his hand and was squeezing it so tightly I cried out. What the hell!

I remembered one thing from self-defense class at school. Just one thing. If someone grabs you, twist under their arm and pin it to their back. It was instinct. I might usually be shy and scared of my own shadow, I might be weak and mentally unstable, I might also be the most fucked up person in Hollywood (and that was saying something) but no one touches me. I pushed him to the wall, almost having blacked out whilst doing it. I had no recollection, just the adrenaline kicking in.

          “If you ever, ever touch me again, I will break your arm and you won’t be able to take photos, then you won’t ever work in Hollywood again.” My mouth was at his ear, shaking with panic and fear, though it sounded like barely contained rage. “I’m not fucking kidding.” I pushed him further into the wall and let go, walking away calmly and smiling at the crew I passed. No one had seen that thankfully, and I doubted my ‘new friend’ would be telling. Beaten by a skinny little thing like me? No, he’d take it to the grave. As would I. I couldn’t tell Van, it would sour the shoot or get it cancelled, and I couldn’t do that. Besides, I was utterly elated at my little ass kicking routine. Maybe I wasn’t as weak as I had always thought. Maybe I was worth something after all? Meh, we’d see.

          Van stepped out of the changing room like he was on a catwalk. The suit was a perfect fit. A little too perfect from the back if you know what I mean. I had a Vietnam style flashback of me throwing myself down on that ass last night when I was drunk. I bit back a smile, but it was hard. I really hoped he didn’t remember that, or me falling asleep on him. Or any of it if I’m honest. Bad times.

He had somehow managed to dress himself whilst still smoking. An impressive, if useless skill.

          “What do you think?” He asked, turning in front of me self-consciously.

          “Perfect.” I said unable to manage anymore. “It looks amazing on you.”

He began to preen in front of the long mirror they’d rested against the wall, fussing over imaginary fluff and straightening thing that were fine.

          “Seriously Van, you look great, don’t worry so much.” I adjusted the black tie and pressed the collar back down around it. Any excuse to be touching him.

The camera man called him over then, his eyes narrowing when they fell on me. Van missed it thankfully. I simply fluttered my eyelids at him and blew a kiss. What a complete bitch I was today! Maybe I still had some alcohol in my system, because this was not me.

          The second the camera was pointed at him, Van was like a man transformed. He stood straighter, shoulders back, chin held high. It was crazy that he became this professional, confident creature when the job needed it. He posed in all the ways they asked for, then posed some of his own, each straight from the pages of a glossy mag. He was a natural. I could see why all the fashion houses wanted him; graceful, beautiful, poised and oozing charisma through the lens…

 

The morning dragged. Van was growing restless, but was always perfect when the camera started snapping. I ran back and forth to the coffee shop I had found, and forced him to eat an apple and croissant, threatening him with violence if he didn’t eat more later. He laughed happily, giving me a warm, affectionate smile that melted me entirely.

The other outfits they had chosen were equally vile, and Van called me over to save him again. He must be desperate as I was grasping at straws. I agreed with what he suggested and picked out a couple of things that I knew I would want to see him in if I were a rabid fan girl. (if?) I chatted politely to the lighting crew when they weren’t working and found I was getting better at small talk. They all thought my accent was ‘too cute’ and asked a thousand questions about the royal family like they thought we were on first name terms. It was fun though and passed the time. Van grew more weary as the hours passed. Of course he was perfect, but it was evident to me that he hated it. He was an actor -that was his love. This was an unfortunate side effect he had to endure as part and parcel. I plied him with muffins and caffeine and told him embarrassing stories of when I was at school. It was so easy with him now, I just opened my mouth and was able to form complete and coherent sentences which had been impossible when we first met.

          He seemed a little happier when we’d been chatting, distracted enough to endure a couple more hours. What a long day for him! And it was repetitive and dull work; turn your head, click, to the left, click, head back, click. He was a brave man to put up with it, because I would have thrown a strop and flounced off the set by now.

He’d gone the whole day on two cigs and I was incredibly proud of him, and told him as much. He gave me a lopsided smile that was shy and proud in equal parts. So damned cute.

          It was dark by the time we were done, and he was barely conscious, yawning and stretching to stay awake.

          “Come on you, let’s get you home.” I said, handing him yet another coffee as we got to his truck.

He nodded, unable to manage anymore. Poor boy. He looked completely disheartened and fed up, unable to muster even the enthusiasm to flip the radio on.

He dropped me home and the journey passed in silence. What could I do to cheer him up? I’d never been happier in my life, but the one who made me that way was morose and depressed. I needed to fix this, but how?