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
