her answer. ‘Don’t worry too much. As long as you have a roof over your head you’ll be OK. I’ll have you earning in no time.’
‘Jesus, you sound like a pimp.’
Taking the Yves Saint Laurent dress from Lucy, Willow’s mind turned to the terrible story she had just been telling her about Eliza. It was meant to be funny but had ended up making Lucy sad she had put up with her for as long as she did. ‘How did you stand working for her for so long?’ Willow had asked.
‘I didn’t really have a choice. I have a flat with a mortgage and there isn’t a lot of work out there for people in my industry. The first thing companies do is slash marketing and PR budgets when times are hard.’
Willow felt the weight of Lucy’s mortgage as if it were her own. ‘Well, you better get me to work soon so I can help you pay for your flat,’ she had said, half joking, half seriously.
‘Oh don’t worry, I will. I already have many, many ideas – but first we need to get you ready for your audition.’
‘Oh it’s not an audition, it’s a “chat”,’ laughed Willow.
‘It’s an audition,’ said Lucy firmly.
Lucy was astute, but she deliberately underplayed herself; it made the clients feel better about themselves, she thought. She took an academic approach to her work: learn, offer advice when asked, and dress to underwhelm. That way when brilliance came out of her mouth, people would always be surprised. The biggest perk of being dowdy was that people told you their secrets more readily when faced with lace-up shoes rather than stilettos.
‘Now I’ll head off home and get started on your re-entry into the world of bullshit. You ring me straight after, OK?’ Lucy had said, as she gathered up her plain black bag and coat.
Willow laughed. There was something about Lucy that was so practical and sensible; she reminded her of someone. She thought about it. Yes – she reminded her of Kitty, only smarter. What was it about the two English girls that made them so likeable? Although Willow had been in England for years, she had yet to make close girlfriends with anyone. Most women were either jealous or in awe of Willow, and her homeschooling experience hadn’t helped her socially. She didn’t know how to make friends, but she decided as she gossiped with Lucy and talked about everything from fashion to interior design that this felt good. Sometimes she and Kitty talked, but Kitty seemed afraid of her and they didn’t have anything in common besides the children.
Lucy was not as she seemed, Willow had learned. She knew everything about fashion, parties, and people, and how the machinations of reputation worked, yet she refused to be a personal part of it. ‘I know my side of the room,’ she had said to Willow. ‘Besides, as my uncle used to say, you should never shit where you eat.’
Willow had laughed and laughed. ‘Good point.’
‘Right, now I know a bit about this director. He’s a bit mad,’ said Lucy.
‘I had heard that. In what way, do you think?’ asked Willow.
‘Well, he’s a visionary. Only makes a film every few years, when the creative urge strikes him. Always epic and huge. Total creative control freak,’ Lucy had said.
‘I must admit I’ve only seen one of his works; the one about the geisha. It looked amazing,’ said Willow, remembering the lush art direction but not much about the story.
‘Yes, I saw that too. No idea what the hell was going on, but I loved the costumes,’ Lucy had agreed.
And now Willow sat waiting for the legendary director to come to her suite for their ‘chat’.
She had offered to meet him but he was averse to the public in general, Simon had told her. Instead he was driven from place to place in a black Bentley with darkened windows. Reclusive, brilliant and married four times without any children, he was a fascinating and influential director whom the critics adored and the general public treated as an artist.
The doorbell to Willow’s suite rang. She wiped her clammy hands on the cream sofa, flipped her hair and answered the door with a smile.
‘Hello,’ she said.
A small man of about sixty, maybe older, stood on the other side of the door, wearing a silk smoking jacket, velvet slippers and a large pair of dark sunglasses. ‘Willow,’ he said in a transatlantic accent. ‘Harold Gaumont.’ He gave the briefest flicker of a smile and Willow threw her most charming one back.
‘Please come in.’ She stepped back to let Harold through into the living room. ‘I was about to order afternoon tea. Is that OK?’ she asked.
‘Can I ask you something before I make my decision about the tea?’
‘Of course,’ she said casually but racked with nerves.
Willow stood in the centre of the room waiting for the question, aware of his reputation for odd requests during auditions. She had once heard that he had put an actor through a secret audition: he had hired actors to push the man to breaking point while waiting in line at a railway station, all the while secretly filming him.
‘Can you please speak in a British accent while I visit with you?’ asked Harold.
‘Any particular region?’ asked Willow, more confidently than she felt. Please don’t ask me to do a Welsh accent, she thought desperately.
‘Think well bred, country house. Yes to the tea,’ he said.
Willow thought for a moment and Kitty jumped into her head. Channel Kitty, she thought, and she walked over to the phone, dialled the number for room service and gave the order for tea in a perfect English accent.
Harold sat down, smiled, took off his glasses and laid them on the table between them. ‘Excellent start, Willow. Now why do you want to be in my film?’ he asked, and sat back in his chair, resting the tips of his fingers together and placing them in front of his face.
Willow looked at him closely. He was quite handsome without the glasses, sort of like David Niven crossed with Willy Wonka, she thought.
‘Well, I would love to be in one of your films. Your work is legendary,’ answered Willow honestly, in an accent that could have cut glass.
‘Naturally,’ he said, with no arrogance at all. ‘But why do you want to be in my film personally? You haven’t worked in what? Five or six years? You won an Oscar for a film that really wasn’t worth an Oscar nomination. You must have been surprised when you won?’ he said, not unkindly.
Willow paused for a moment.
‘I was surprised to win,’ Willow said, still speaking in a perfect accent. She looked down at the table and straightened his sunglasses. ‘Honestly? I need the work. I need it more than you will ever understand. I want to work, I need to work, and I want to do something that I can actually be proud of, not like that silly film I won the Oscar for.’ As she spoke her eyes filled with tears and she realised it was all true. She was unworthy of the Oscar and she did want to work. She had three children and a fuckwit of a husband. It was time to get real, even in a faux English accent.
Harold lowered his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Good answer. Now where’s my tea that you promised me?’
Just
