tree. Eve speaks first. She points at the gold coins, swelling and then vanishing in the water’s rush.
‘Come on, let’s try to get them, then.’
‘Really?’ Rose’s face brightens.
‘I’ll do it if you do.’ She always regrets saying that.
Rose immediately clambers in. ‘I’ll go first.’
Eve watches her doubtfully. ‘It’s awfully strong. You won’t get swept away?’
‘I told you, it’s fine. Thomas does it all the time,’ Rose says, leaning over, confident again now, and Eve relaxes. Rose is right, of course. She’s always right. ‘There it is. I’m sure it’s gold! I’m sure the elves were here – their kingdom is right under the ground, ancient noble soil!’ She claps her hands. ‘Golly! Imagine if it is! I told you, little Eve. You mustn’t worry – they won’t send me away. I’m not going anywhere.’
This is the last image of her that Eve remembers. Standing like a miniature pirate, legs planted firmly in the stream. ‘We’ll always be together. I’m going to be a famous explorer. You’ll be a famous actress. We’ll do different things for a couple of weeks at a time. I’ll see some polar bears and … pharaohs. And you’ll do plays and dine with Ivor Novello. Then we’ll meet up in New York, under the King Kong building. You’ll have that delicious robe on, the one Vivien Leigh was wearing in Dark Journey. ’Member?’
Eve nods. She joins in the game, smiling. ‘Oh … yes. We’ll stay in beautiful hotels and we’ll drink milk stout.’ This was a great obsession of theirs, after Cook had told them it was her favourite tipple. But Cook had left, like so many of the servants lately. Gone in the night, shouting, ‘I’ll not stay here with that thing in the house!’
Rose nods. ‘We’ll always be together, Eve, like I say, ’cause I’m not going anywhere, not without you.’
And she screamed, then jerked forward. I can still see it, as if something else, an evil spirit maybe, was knocking her over from behind.
Should I have stayed? Or gone for help and left her prostrate in the water, eyes wide open, small body rigid? I still don’t know to this day if I did the right thing. I ran to the house, as fast as my legs would carry me.
But it was all over by the time they came back, by the time the doctor arrived. I stayed in the kitchen, with Mother; they wouldn’t let me go out there again, and when they finally returned it was much later. Too late. You see, Rose was gone. My beautiful sister was dead, and it was my fault. I should have stayed with her. Not without you, she’d said. And I let her down.
That was my first mistake, though I couldn’t be blamed for that, as everyone told me. I was only six. It was many, many years ago. But I know what I did was wrong. I left her when she needed me. I carried that mistake with me, maybe for too long. And when someone showed me a way out, a new life, I took it.
CHAPTER ONE
Los Angeles, 2012
‘And … coming up next … Sophie Leigh’s diet secrets! How the British beauty stays slim, and the answer is … you won’t believe it! Chewing cardboard! I know, these stars are crazy, but that’s Hollywood for you. That’s all when we come back …’
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL May morning. We’re on the 101, on our way into Beverly Hills. I’m heading into my agent’s office and I feel like crap. I’m super late, too. I’m always late, but when your most recent picture had an opening weekend of $23 million it doesn’t matter. I could turn up at Artie’s mom’s funeral and demand to have a meeting and he’d clear the synagogue and thank me for coming.
I flip the TV off and chuck the remote across the car, out of temptation’s reach. There was a time when a ten-second trail like that would have sent me into a tailspin. They’re saying I chew cardboard? But it’s bullshit! People’ll believe it, and then they’ll … they’ll … Now I just shrug. You have to. I’ve never chewed cardboard in my life, unless you count my performance in that action movie. It’s a slow news day. Sometimes I think they stick a pin in a copy of People magazine to choose their next victim and then make something up.
When you’ve been famous for a while, you stop reacting to stuff like this. It just becomes part of life. Not your life, but the life you wake up to and realise you’re living. People filming you on a phone when you’re washing your hands in the Ladies’ room. Girls from school who you don’t remember selling your class photo to a tabloid. Being offered $5 million to sleep with a Saudi prince. Working with stars who won’t ever take their sunglasses off, ’cause they think you’re stealing their soul if you see their eyes. Sounds unbelievable, right? But there’s been some days when I almost know what they mean. I know why some of them go bat-shit crazy, join cults, wear fake pregnancy bellies, marry complete strangers. They’re only trying to distract themselves from how totally nuts being famous is. Because that’s what fame is actually about, these days. Not private jets, diamond tiaras, mansions and free clothes, handbags, shoes. Fame is actually about how you stay sane. How you don’t lose your mind.
I know I’m lucky. It could have been any one of hundreds of hopeful English girls from small towns with pushy mums who curled their hair and shoved them into audition rooms, but it was me, and I still don’t quite know why. All I know is, I love films, always have done, ever since I was little. Lights down, trailers on, credits rolling; I knew all the special idents the studios use to open a movie by the time I was eight. My favourite was always Columbia – the toga lady holding the glowing torch like the sun. And I know I’m good at what I do: I make movies for people to sit back and smile at on a Friday night with their best friend and their popcorn, watching while Sophie Leigh gets into another crazy situation. OK, it’s not Citizen Kane, but if it’s a bit of fun and you could stand to watch it again, is there anything wrong with that?
Lately I’ve been wondering though: maybe there is. Maybe it’s all wrong. The trouble is, I can’t work out how it all got like that. Or what I should do about it. In Hollywood, you’re either a success or you’re a failure. There’s no in-between.
The freeway is crowded, and as we slow down to turn off I look up and there I am, right by the Staples Center on a billboard the size of your house. I should be used to it but still, after six years at the top, it’s weird. Me, doing my poster smile: cute chipmunk cheeks, big dark eyes peeking out from under the heavy trademark bangs, just the right amount of cleavage so the guys notice and don’t mind seeing the film. I’m holding out a ringless hand, smiling at you. I’m cute and friendly.
Two years of dating. She’s thinking rocks.
No, not those ones, fellas …
SOPHIE LEIGH IS
THE GIRLFRIEND
May 2012
My phone rings, and I pick it up, gingerly, rubbing my eyes. ‘Hi, Tina,’ I say.
‘You’re OK?’ Tina asks anxiously. ‘Did the car come for you?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘The
