Picture Perfect

Chapter 5

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.

Chapter 6

Elliot was still lying in bed when he heard his father calling his name from upstairs.

‘Maggie’s here to see you,’ his father yelled and Elliot groaned.

The last thing he felt like was a lecture from Maggie about his lifestyle.

Maggie had a way of getting to the heart of the matter. Elliot almost smiled at his own pun, but decided that would take too much effort.

‘Get up, you lazy ol’ porch dog,’ said Maggie in the thick southern accent that always made Elliot laugh.

‘Go away,’ he said, burrowing deeper under the covers.

Light flooded in as Maggie flung open the blinds and pulled back the duvet.

‘Jesus, Maggie,’ Elliot said, sitting up abruptly and blinking at the day’s brightness.

‘Your scar looks intense,’ she said. ‘Very Sons of Anarchy.’

Elliot looked down at the angry red scar running down the centre of his chest.

‘Did someone on Sons of Anarchy have a heart transplant? I must have missed that episode,’ he said as he stalked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

‘I’ll still be here when you get out, so be modest,’ she called as he closed the door.

Maggie made the bed and opened a window to let out the smell of stale air. Why did men never open windows? She wondered, thinking of Hugh briefly.

Glancing down at the desk, she saw a photograph of an Indian man, surrounded by genuflecting people, all in pink and red robes. She turned it over and read a note from Elliot’s mother, Linda.

Guru Sam says you’re healed now, that he spoke to the Universe and it happened. BE grateful to him, we are fortunate to have him in our lives. Namaste Linda.

Maggie rolled her eyes at the note. It wasn’t Guru Sam that saved Elliot’s life, it was the donor and the doctors, she thought angrily.

Linda had been missing in action for ten years and now she thought she had the right to send Elliot a note telling him to be grateful?

If Maggie was still Elliot’s stepmother, she would tell Will to intercept any communication at all from his first wife, but that wasn’t her role any more.

She moved about the room, picking up dirty clothes. Clearly Elliot wasn’t letting the housekeeper down here to do her job, she thought, as she made neat piles of the books he had been reading. She turned one over in her hand, Scriptwriting for Dummies, the same book as Hugh, she thought briefly and she put it on top of a book on writing your life story. Frowning, she checked the other books, all of them to do with writing of some sort.

Unopened letters from Berkeley sat on the table and Maggie resisted the urge to open them, as she heard the shower turn off.

Grabbing a film magazine from the bedside table, she sat on his made bed and leafed through it casually.

‘Apparently your dad and I were the greatest couple since Liz and Dick,’ she said, holding up the magazine for him to see the shot of her and Will attending the Oscars years before.

‘Yeah, but they didn’t have to listen to the fighting.’ Elliot had pulled on what she hoped was a clean T-shirt and boxer shorts.

‘True,’ said Maggie with a wry smile and she reached down to her handbag. ‘Here,’ she said, and threw a disc at him.

‘What is it?’ he turned it over in his hand.

‘The first cut of the next James Bond. Don’t tell anyone, and don’t share it,’ she said firmly.

Elliot smiled. ‘You don’t always have to bring me presents when you see me, Maggie,’ he said. ‘You brought me so many thing when I was in hospital, I think you brought me thirty presents in all.’

‘A present for every day I saw you,’ she said, trying not to think of that month in Elliot’s life where they didn’t know whether his body would accept the new heart.

Elliot placed the disc down on the desk and she saw him glance at the neat piles of books.

‘Come on then, give me the lecture about how some poor bastard died and gave me his precious heart and how I only have one life to live and that I’m wasting it. And I’ll listen to you and nod, and change for twenty-four hours, and then we can all pretend the lecture worked.’

Maggie stared at him and then frowned. ‘Damn you, no spoilers please. If you knew how this was going to play out, you should have saved me the trip over.’

Elliot shrugged. ‘It’s the same shit I hear from Dad every other day, Mags. Lather, rinse, repeat.’

Maggie said nothing, she just watched him until he held his hands up at her.

‘What do you want me to say? I still feel like shit and I have no idea why I survived and some poor person died.’

‘Have you told the doctors?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s not the heart, the heart is fine, it’s in here,’ he said, tapping his head. ‘I don’t feel myself any more, but I don’t want to anyway, you know? I didn’t much like who I used to be. But I feel different and no one understands. I can’t go back to college; it feels like a waste of time, even though Dad’s freaking out.’

‘How can it be a waste of time when all you do is stay down here every day wasting time?’ she asked.

‘I knew you wouldn’t get it,’ he said and he slumped in the desk chair.

Maggie nodded. ‘I’m sorry, I do get it. I don’t understand what having a new heart feels like, but I get the whole bit about trying to be something or go somewhere without directions or a destination.’

Elliot said nothing, just stared at the floor.

‘Why don’t you leave the house at least? Go and do stuff, whatever it is young people are doing these days.’ Maggie smiled. ‘I mean, I know this place is like living in the Hotel California, with everything you need at your fingertips, but you really need to get out of here. Go see your friends, get drunk, have sex.’

‘Most of my old friends are away at college. And those that are here just want to party, and I can’t party like that,’ he said, looking down at his chest.

‘So you’re friendless, depressed and aimless,’ she said. ‘That sounds normal for Hollywood.’

Elliot tried to raise a smile, but couldn’t. Just the idea of heading out into the world made him anxious.

He felt Maggie staring at him as he ran his fingers through his dark hair.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to be an actor? Zoe would rep you in a heartbeat.’

Elliot gave her a look.

‘Okay, a poor choice of words, I admit, but you know you’re good-looking enough.’

‘Good looks don’t translate into being a decent actor, Maggie, you know this,’ he said wryly.

‘Are you saying I’m an average actor because I’m so beautiful?’ she asked, in mock horror.

‘No, you know you’re both, but how many kids my age want to be actors just because they’re good-looking? It’s insane. Half the girls in my final year at school were making sex tapes and the guys were taking steroids so they could all be famous and hot.’

‘And this is why I weep for the future generation.’ She sighed.

They were silent for a moment and then Elliot found himself saying out loud what he had only admitted to himself.

‘I feel like I’ve been sick for so long, in and out of hospital and stuff, I don’t even know how to live normally.’ He shot her a look. ‘I mean, I’m twenty-three and I’m still a freaking virgin, Maggie. I’m a joke!’

‘Oh, El, you’re so not. Having sex doesn’t make you a grown-up, trust me.’

The room filled with an awkward silence and Maggie took a new tack.

‘If you don’t want to go to college, then what do you want to do?’ She glanced at the books. ‘Writing?’

Elliot laughed meanly. ‘As if Dad will say yes to that. You know what a prick he can be.’

Maggie nodded. ‘I was married to him, remember? But in a perfect world, if you could write, what would it be about?’

Elliot took his eyes off the floor and met hers. ‘I’d like to write a book about what I’ve been through,’ he said slowly. ‘Is that self-indulgent?’

Maggie smiled. Her voice was gentle. ‘Nothing about you is self-indulgent. You’re amazing.’

Elliot laughed. ‘No, I’m not, I just have a few ideas I wouldn’t mind trying to put down. Except I don’t really know how to start.’

Maggie leaned forward. ‘I know an amazing writer,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit of a mess right now, but I think you two need to meet.’

‘Maybe,’ said Elliot. ‘I don’t really want to share my sad story with strangers.’

‘Isn’t that what writing a book is, though?’ asked Maggie with a smile.

‘I guess,’ said Elliot, looking down at his clasped hands. He was such a lovely kid, thought Maggie, wishing life had been different for him, and then she thought about herself at that age.

At twenty-three she was just coming up through the ranks of Hollywood, and while she may not have had a heart transplant, she did have an emotional, geographical transplant.

‘El, here’s the thing,’ she said slowly, formulating the tack to take to not put him offside.

‘What happened to you is awful and the fact you have a dead person’s heart in you is weird and unsettling,’ she said.

Elliot looked up at her, surprised by her candour.

‘But I think things happen for a reason. And while you can’t change the past, you can change your future, because you have one now. Write your story and see what happens afterwards, get the thoughts out of your head so you can start to think clearly.’