car,” I said.
“But it's only for the month. And I have to share it with her .”
She jerked her head at Anna.
Then I heard something that catapulted me right back to the present.
“Ice-cream sandwich!”
I sat up on my towel. A young man was passing by, staggering under the weight of ice cream that he hadn't a hope of selling, not to this crowd of anorexics.
“Popsicles?” he called desolately. “Blue gelatos, cherry ices?”
I felt sorry for him. And hungry.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Give me an ice-cream sandwich.”
We conducted our business briskly, then he was once more on his profitless way. I wondered if anyone ever shouted abuse or threw stones at him as he plied his high-fat, high-sugar goods along the beach. “Go on—get away!” The way people do to stray dogs in other communities.
And then I was alone again. Suddenly I was very glad I was in California, because I could blame the horrible feeling of being out of step with the rest of the human race on my jet lag. It made it not my responsibility and I could always try fooling myself into thinking that I'd feel perfectly normal in a few days.
Watched hungrily by the two Scandinavian-looking girls, I ate my ice cream. Their expressions were so avid I felt quite uncomfortable. In fact I nearly offered them a bite.
I couldn't help feeling that if this was a book, someone would have invited me to join in a game of volleyball or at least struck up a conversation with me. The lifeguard or another sunbather, perhaps. But the only person who spoke to me all day was the ice-cream seller. And I suspected I was the only person who spoke to him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LATE AFTERNOON EMILY picked me up from the beach. When we got home, there was still no phone call from David Crowe. Her desperation filled the house.
“No news is good news,” I tried.
“Wrong,” Emily said. “No news is bad news. They keep the bad news from you and cover themselves in glory with any good news.”
“Well, call him, then.”
A bitter laugh from Emily. “It's easier to get an on-set pass to a Tom Cruise movie than to talk to an agent who doesn't want to talk to you.”
But she called him anyway. And he was “not at his desk right now.”
“I bet he wouldn't be ‘not at his desk right now’ if it was Ron Bass on the line,” she said gloomily.
I took it that Ron Bass was some hotshot screenwriter.
“I feel a strange but compelling urge to get crazy drunk,” she said.
“Could your jet lag handle going out this evening?”
“What do you have in mind?” Would I be forced to go out with a gang of girls and dance to “I Will Survive,” as always seemed to happen to women who'd just split from their men?
“How about dinner somewhere nice?”
“Lovely!” Relief that there would be no Gloria Gaynor made me sound more enthusiastic than I felt.
84 / MARIAN KEYES
“That's the spirit. You know what?” she said thoughtfully. “What you need to do is let your hair down a little.” Even though Emily was very fond of Garv, she'd always thought that I'd missed out on the necessary rites-of-passage high jinks by getting married so young. “Go a bit mad while you're here.”
“I'll see,” I said noncommittally. Jesus, little did I know…
“We'll call Lara. Lara likes a drink. And Connie. And Troy. And Justin.”
A quick round of phone calls, and then she went into her room and in no time got that really pulled-together look. Just bang-bang-bang, as if it's easy or something. The dress, the heels, the bag, the hair, all smooth and shiny, shiny, shiny.
Then she opened her wondrous makeup bag and shared with me some of her knowledge. Lotion was smeared on my lips, “to get that bee-stung look.” My eyelashes were curled with a little machine (I believe it might have been called an eyelash curler).
Then she produced a little tube and said, “This'll get rid of your jet-lag bags.”
“No need,” I countered smugly. “I have my Radiant
“But it's only for the month. And I have to share it with her .”
She jerked her head at Anna.
Then I heard something that catapulted me right back to the present.
“Ice-cream sandwich!”
I sat up on my towel. A young man was passing by, staggering under the weight of ice cream that he hadn't a hope of selling, not to this crowd of anorexics.
“Popsicles?” he called desolately. “Blue gelatos, cherry ices?”
I felt sorry for him. And hungry.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Give me an ice-cream sandwich.”
We conducted our business briskly, then he was once more on his profitless way. I wondered if anyone ever shouted abuse or threw stones at him as he plied his high-fat, high-sugar goods along the beach. “Go on—get away!” The way people do to stray dogs in other communities.
And then I was alone again. Suddenly I was very glad I was in California, because I could blame the horrible feeling of being out of step with the rest of the human race on my jet lag. It made it not my responsibility and I could always try fooling myself into thinking that I'd feel perfectly normal in a few days.
Watched hungrily by the two Scandinavian-looking girls, I ate my ice cream. Their expressions were so avid I felt quite uncomfortable. In fact I nearly offered them a bite.
I couldn't help feeling that if this was a book, someone would have invited me to join in a game of volleyball or at least struck up a conversation with me. The lifeguard or another sunbather, perhaps. But the only person who spoke to me all day was the ice-cream seller. And I suspected I was the only person who spoke to him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LATE AFTERNOON EMILY picked me up from the beach. When we got home, there was still no phone call from David Crowe. Her desperation filled the house.
“No news is good news,” I tried.
“Wrong,” Emily said. “No news is bad news. They keep the bad news from you and cover themselves in glory with any good news.”
“Well, call him, then.”
A bitter laugh from Emily. “It's easier to get an on-set pass to a Tom Cruise movie than to talk to an agent who doesn't want to talk to you.”
But she called him anyway. And he was “not at his desk right now.”
“I bet he wouldn't be ‘not at his desk right now’ if it was Ron Bass on the line,” she said gloomily.
I took it that Ron Bass was some hotshot screenwriter.
“I feel a strange but compelling urge to get crazy drunk,” she said.
“Could your jet lag handle going out this evening?”
“What do you have in mind?” Would I be forced to go out with a gang of girls and dance to “I Will Survive,” as always seemed to happen to women who'd just split from their men?
“How about dinner somewhere nice?”
“Lovely!” Relief that there would be no Gloria Gaynor made me sound more enthusiastic than I felt.
84 / MARIAN KEYES
“That's the spirit. You know what?” she said thoughtfully. “What you need to do is let your hair down a little.” Even though Emily was very fond of Garv, she'd always thought that I'd missed out on the necessary rites-of-passage high jinks by getting married so young. “Go a bit mad while you're here.”
“I'll see,” I said noncommittally. Jesus, little did I know…
“We'll call Lara. Lara likes a drink. And Connie. And Troy. And Justin.”
A quick round of phone calls, and then she went into her room and in no time got that really pulled-together look. Just bang-bang-bang, as if it's easy or something. The dress, the heels, the bag, the hair, all smooth and shiny, shiny, shiny.
Then she opened her wondrous makeup bag and shared with me some of her knowledge. Lotion was smeared on my lips, “to get that bee-stung look.” My eyelashes were curled with a little machine (I believe it might have been called an eyelash curler).
Then she produced a little tube and said, “This'll get rid of your jet-lag bags.”
“No need,” I countered smugly. “I have my Radiant
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