Angels
Page 76
Both Lou and Troy stepped forward, but Troy got there first and spread his arms in homage. ‘The success story! Need a director?’
‘Eat my shorts,’ Emily laughed.
‘So what’s the catch?’ Troy asked.
‘Why should there be a catch?’
‘C’mon Emily, you know these guys, there’s always a catch. How bad is it?’
‘Chip the dog gets a part.’
‘You happy to do that?’
‘If the man is happy to give me the money.’
‘Whatever happened to art?’ Troy teased. ‘Whatever happened to principles?’
‘Amazing how easy it is to compromise when you’re broke and scared,’ she grinned.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Troy smiled. ‘Congratulations, baby girl, I’m way happy for you.’
At this point, Kirsty decided that there was too much grinning and camaraderie going on with Emily and Troy, so she stepped between them and started whining to Troy about her mineral water having the wrong size bubbles, or something.
They arrived in their dozens: Lara, David Crowe, Mike and Charmaine, Connie and her entourage, Justin’s two friends from the dog park, a gang of scriptwriters from Emily’s Learning Annex class, another bunch from gyrotonics. It was so much like a rerun of last week’s premature shindig that when I found the Goatee Boys moshing in the front room, I groaned, ‘Groundhog day.’
Everyone brought presents: the studio had sent half a garden of flowers earlier; David Crowe had arrived with an arrangement only marginally smaller. It was a happy night, a night of celebration. Most of the people present were connected in some way with the world of movies, so Emily selling a script gave everyone a lift – a victory for one was a victory for all.
But I didn’t feel happy or celebratory, not even close: I was burning up from Troy’s treatment of me. Bad enough to use me for a one-night stand, but I wasn’t even important enough for him to hide his carry-on with Kirsty from. At least he respected her enough to lie to her. And I was complicit in my own humiliation – by keeping my mouth shut, I was going along with it and making it easy for Troy.
It was all wrong, but I could see no way to make it right. What would be achieved by telling Kirsty I’d slept with Troy, then bitch-slapping her like we were on the Jerry Springer Show?. Apart from the fact that I’d enjoy it?
So not only did I hate Troy – and Kirsty – but I hated myself. And, though I didn’t like facing it, I was angry with Emily for inviting Shay Delaney. Small wonder that I felt I hated the whole world. My sole consolation was that I didn’t hate Kirsty just because Troy was dancing attendance on her; luckily I’d already hated her.
I wandered around ungraciously shoving trays of food at people who seemed indignant at the implication that they occasionally ate. If it hadn’t been for Justin I’d have had no takers at all.
‘Gotta take care of this,’ he said, wobbling his belly and popping a jumbo prawn into his mouth. ‘I got my job to think of. Now, what about you, Princess?’
‘Sure, another three or four more can’t hurt,’ I said, reaching for a prawn.
But he was talking to Desiree, tempting her with a spring roll, which she disdainfully turned her nose up at.
‘See that?’ he asked anxiously. ‘She usta love Pacific Rim.’
‘Maybe she’s sick. Why don’t you bring her to the vet?’
‘She’s not sick. It’s worse than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m scared she has anorexia.’
‘Anorexia? But… but she’s a dog’
‘Dogs can get anorexia,’ he said sadly. ‘There was a thing in the LA Times about it.’
‘Please tell me that you’re joking.’ ‘Maggie,’ he said sadly, ‘I wish I was.’
I picked up my tray and set off on another thankless circuit and wondered: What kind of place was this where even the dogs got eating disorders?
‘See you at the pastries in five,’ Justin called after me.
Justin and I kept bumping into each other in the garden at the tray of pastries. They’d lured me back so often I was actually beginning to get embarrassed and, sure enough, a short time later, Justin and I both showed up beside them.
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ I said, and in the hope that if I couldn’t see them, I wouldn’t be as tempted to eat them, I turned my back – and came face to face with Troy and Kirsty. Shite.
‘Having fun?’ Troy asked.
‘Um, yeah.’ I turned around, located a thumb-sized chocolate eclair and threw it at my mouth. I just couldn’t help myself.
‘Great news for Emily, huh?’
‘Yeah, urn…’
Then, like I was possessed by a sugar demon, I was picking up a dime-sized doughnut. (When you ask for ‘miniature’ in LA, that’s exactly what you get.) Kirsty watched it carefully, following its journey from the tray to my mouth, then asked with fake sympathy, ‘That’s, like, number at least seven. Are you pre-menstrual?’
The taste of rough sugar vanished from my mouth, to be replaced with the taste of hatred.
‘You know what you gotta do?’ she carolled. ‘You gotta try zinc. Zap those sugar cravings! But forget glucose, forget candy! I got something even better!’ A statement like that was bound to attract a lot of attention in Los Angeles. Several heads turned to her and when she was satisfied that her audience were hanging on her every word, she continued. ‘Better’n all of them is – a frozen grape! Just buy grapes at the market, put them in the ice compartment, and any time those old sugar cravings come calling, scare ‘em away by eating a frozen grape. Totally sweet and zero, read my lips, zero calories.’
All I could say was, ‘Grapes have more than zero calories.’ A poor attempt, but better than nothing.
‘She’s right,’ Justin said, making mischievous eye contact with me. ‘Grapes are very high in fructose. You’re looking at fifteen to twenty calories a grape.’
‘More,’ I lied. I hadn’t a clue. ‘Depending on the size of the grape. If it’s a big one and has a particularly high sugar content, you could be looking at as many as–’ I paused for effect, ‘-FIFTY calories.’
‘Seems to me you should stick with pastries,’ Justin concluded, reaching for a tiny custard pie. ‘Better for you!’
‘Eat my shorts,’ Emily laughed.
‘So what’s the catch?’ Troy asked.
‘Why should there be a catch?’
‘C’mon Emily, you know these guys, there’s always a catch. How bad is it?’
‘Chip the dog gets a part.’
‘You happy to do that?’
‘If the man is happy to give me the money.’
‘Whatever happened to art?’ Troy teased. ‘Whatever happened to principles?’
‘Amazing how easy it is to compromise when you’re broke and scared,’ she grinned.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Troy smiled. ‘Congratulations, baby girl, I’m way happy for you.’
At this point, Kirsty decided that there was too much grinning and camaraderie going on with Emily and Troy, so she stepped between them and started whining to Troy about her mineral water having the wrong size bubbles, or something.
They arrived in their dozens: Lara, David Crowe, Mike and Charmaine, Connie and her entourage, Justin’s two friends from the dog park, a gang of scriptwriters from Emily’s Learning Annex class, another bunch from gyrotonics. It was so much like a rerun of last week’s premature shindig that when I found the Goatee Boys moshing in the front room, I groaned, ‘Groundhog day.’
Everyone brought presents: the studio had sent half a garden of flowers earlier; David Crowe had arrived with an arrangement only marginally smaller. It was a happy night, a night of celebration. Most of the people present were connected in some way with the world of movies, so Emily selling a script gave everyone a lift – a victory for one was a victory for all.
But I didn’t feel happy or celebratory, not even close: I was burning up from Troy’s treatment of me. Bad enough to use me for a one-night stand, but I wasn’t even important enough for him to hide his carry-on with Kirsty from. At least he respected her enough to lie to her. And I was complicit in my own humiliation – by keeping my mouth shut, I was going along with it and making it easy for Troy.
It was all wrong, but I could see no way to make it right. What would be achieved by telling Kirsty I’d slept with Troy, then bitch-slapping her like we were on the Jerry Springer Show?. Apart from the fact that I’d enjoy it?
So not only did I hate Troy – and Kirsty – but I hated myself. And, though I didn’t like facing it, I was angry with Emily for inviting Shay Delaney. Small wonder that I felt I hated the whole world. My sole consolation was that I didn’t hate Kirsty just because Troy was dancing attendance on her; luckily I’d already hated her.
I wandered around ungraciously shoving trays of food at people who seemed indignant at the implication that they occasionally ate. If it hadn’t been for Justin I’d have had no takers at all.
‘Gotta take care of this,’ he said, wobbling his belly and popping a jumbo prawn into his mouth. ‘I got my job to think of. Now, what about you, Princess?’
‘Sure, another three or four more can’t hurt,’ I said, reaching for a prawn.
But he was talking to Desiree, tempting her with a spring roll, which she disdainfully turned her nose up at.
‘See that?’ he asked anxiously. ‘She usta love Pacific Rim.’
‘Maybe she’s sick. Why don’t you bring her to the vet?’
‘She’s not sick. It’s worse than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m scared she has anorexia.’
‘Anorexia? But… but she’s a dog’
‘Dogs can get anorexia,’ he said sadly. ‘There was a thing in the LA Times about it.’
‘Please tell me that you’re joking.’ ‘Maggie,’ he said sadly, ‘I wish I was.’
I picked up my tray and set off on another thankless circuit and wondered: What kind of place was this where even the dogs got eating disorders?
‘See you at the pastries in five,’ Justin called after me.
Justin and I kept bumping into each other in the garden at the tray of pastries. They’d lured me back so often I was actually beginning to get embarrassed and, sure enough, a short time later, Justin and I both showed up beside them.
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ I said, and in the hope that if I couldn’t see them, I wouldn’t be as tempted to eat them, I turned my back – and came face to face with Troy and Kirsty. Shite.
‘Having fun?’ Troy asked.
‘Um, yeah.’ I turned around, located a thumb-sized chocolate eclair and threw it at my mouth. I just couldn’t help myself.
‘Great news for Emily, huh?’
‘Yeah, urn…’
Then, like I was possessed by a sugar demon, I was picking up a dime-sized doughnut. (When you ask for ‘miniature’ in LA, that’s exactly what you get.) Kirsty watched it carefully, following its journey from the tray to my mouth, then asked with fake sympathy, ‘That’s, like, number at least seven. Are you pre-menstrual?’
The taste of rough sugar vanished from my mouth, to be replaced with the taste of hatred.
‘You know what you gotta do?’ she carolled. ‘You gotta try zinc. Zap those sugar cravings! But forget glucose, forget candy! I got something even better!’ A statement like that was bound to attract a lot of attention in Los Angeles. Several heads turned to her and when she was satisfied that her audience were hanging on her every word, she continued. ‘Better’n all of them is – a frozen grape! Just buy grapes at the market, put them in the ice compartment, and any time those old sugar cravings come calling, scare ‘em away by eating a frozen grape. Totally sweet and zero, read my lips, zero calories.’
All I could say was, ‘Grapes have more than zero calories.’ A poor attempt, but better than nothing.
‘She’s right,’ Justin said, making mischievous eye contact with me. ‘Grapes are very high in fructose. You’re looking at fifteen to twenty calories a grape.’
‘More,’ I lied. I hadn’t a clue. ‘Depending on the size of the grape. If it’s a big one and has a particularly high sugar content, you could be looking at as many as–’ I paused for effect, ‘-FIFTY calories.’
‘Seems to me you should stick with pastries,’ Justin concluded, reaching for a tiny custard pie. ‘Better for you!’
