Angels
Page 91
‘Do you think you’ll be able to come tonight?’
‘Ah, yeah. I’ll need a break.’ She suddenly remembered something. ‘Look, sorry about telling you about Shay Delaney like that. I sort of panicked with the Bill Bryson thing and couldn’t stop talking.’
‘It’s OK, no biggie,’ I said quickly, keen not to dwell on it. ‘Who else’ll be there?’
‘Do you mean Troy?’
I winced. ‘S’pose.’
‘He’ll be there. How do you feel about him now?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I said airily, ‘mortified, embarrassed.’
‘Do you still want to sleep with him?’
‘Are you insane? Last man on earth and all that.’
‘That’s great. You’re not so messed up that you’ve become a rejection addict.’
‘And what’s that, oh pop-psychology one?’
‘You know – the more he pushes you away, the more you want him.’
‘God, that’d be worse, no doubt about it. As it is, I just feel really stupid.’
‘You’re not the first woman to have been taken in by a man and you won’t be the last, so go easy on yourself. All that’s wrong with you is that you’re out of practice,’ she added with a smile. ‘Soon you’ll have been duped by tons of men, and Troy will fade into nothing!’
‘Speaking of being duped, how’s Lou?’
‘Clever, I’ll give him that. Playing at being Mister Perfect. But I’m several steps ahead of him.’ Coolly she blew out a plume of smoke.
Down at the Ocean View, they’d all been awake since four a.m. and were looking for kicks. Spirits were high as we set off beneath a cloudless blue sky for Beverly Hills and purchased a ‘map’ of the stars’ houses. Everyone knew the maps were, at best, inaccurate and out of date, but who was I to ruin anyone’s excitement?
First stop was Julia Roberts’ house, where we spent a good twenty minutes parked on a well-kempt deserted road, trying to see through solid metal gates.
‘She’ll have to come out some time,’ was Dad’s reasoning. ‘To buy a paper or get a pint of milk or something.’
‘You haven’t a clue,’ Helen scorned. ‘She has people to do that. She probably even has people to read the paper and drink the milk for her.’
We resumed our silent vigil.
‘This is really boring,’ Helen said. ‘Although it’s good practice for when I set up my private-detective agency. A lot of that will be surveillance work.’
‘You’re not becoming a private detective,’ Mum said tightly. ‘You’ve got Marie Fitzsimon’s wedding on Monday week and you’ll send her down the aisle looking like a princess, or you’ll have me to deal with.’
‘Don’t you need qualifications to be a private detective?’ Anna said.
Helen thought about it. ‘Yep. First, I need to develop a drink dependency. Shouldn’t be any problem considering the gene pool I come from. Secondly, I need a wacky family.’ Helen swept an approving eye over the assembled group, over Mum’s patchy face, Dad’s argyle socks and Anna’s I-get-dressed-in-the-dark chic. ‘Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we appear to be in luck!’
‘Someone’s coming out. Someone’s coming out!’
‘Calm down, Dad.’
But it was just a Mexican gardener with a leaf-blower.
Dad rolled down the window and shouted at him, ‘Is Julia around?’
‘Hooleeya?’
‘Julia Roberts.’
‘Thees ees not Mees Roberts’ khouse.’
Oh,’ Dad said in consternation. ‘Well, do you know which one is?’
‘Yes, but eef I told you, I would have to keel you.’
‘Fine help you are,’ Dad muttered, rolling the window back up. ‘Come on, who’s next?’
After visits to the ‘houses’ of Tom Cruise, Sandra Bullock, Tim Allen and Madonna had yielded nothing but views of electronic gates and Armed Response signs, we gave up on it and went to the Chinese Theatre, which was overrun with tourists seeking their favourite actors’ handprints, then putting their own hands in and having their photo taken. Dad paid homage to John Wayne’s hands, Mum couldn’t get over the tininess of Doris Day’s shoes and Anna seemed very touched by Lassie’s paw print. Helen, however, wasn’t so impressed.
‘This is boring,’ she said loudly and tagged a passing official. ‘Excuse me, sir, where can I find Brad Pitt’s arse?’
‘Brad Pitt’s arse?’
‘Yes, I heard it was here.’
‘Didja? OK. Hey, Ricky, where can this lady find Brad Pitt’s arse?’
‘What’s an arse?’
‘An ass,’ Helen translated helpfully. ‘A butt, if you prefer.’
‘Do we have Brad Pitt’s butt? Hey, LaWanda, where’s Brad Pitt’s butt?’
But LaWanda wasn’t as stupid as the rest of them. ‘We don’t got it,’ she snapped.
‘Did someone steal it?’ Helen asked sympathetically.
LaWanda eyed Helen angrily. ‘You weird.’
‘Because I want to see a concrete copy of Brad Pitt’s arse? It’d be weird not to want to see it.’
‘Brad Pitt ain’t gonna come on down here, drop his pants and sit his ass in wet con-crete. He a star!’ By now LaWanda was giving the hand and doing that side-to-side, head-popping thing they do on Jerry Springer. I knew what usually followed. Before Helen got the crap beaten out of her, I moved her on.
Later, I dropped them back to the Ocean View, with instructions to get ready for the film screening, then to come round to Emily’s.
‘And we’re to get dressed up?’ Dad asked, hoping the answer would be no.
‘It’s a film premeer,’ Mum scolded. ‘Of course we are.’
‘Are we?’ he asked me again.
‘You might as well.’
Though Doves was only an independent film – which meant no household-name stars and no one in Ireland being impressed because they’d never hear of it – all the same, it was worth looking our best.
And then, I don’t know what got into me, but I decided I’d take a trip to Arizona and Third and get my nails done.
‘Ah, yeah. I’ll need a break.’ She suddenly remembered something. ‘Look, sorry about telling you about Shay Delaney like that. I sort of panicked with the Bill Bryson thing and couldn’t stop talking.’
‘It’s OK, no biggie,’ I said quickly, keen not to dwell on it. ‘Who else’ll be there?’
‘Do you mean Troy?’
I winced. ‘S’pose.’
‘He’ll be there. How do you feel about him now?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I said airily, ‘mortified, embarrassed.’
‘Do you still want to sleep with him?’
‘Are you insane? Last man on earth and all that.’
‘That’s great. You’re not so messed up that you’ve become a rejection addict.’
‘And what’s that, oh pop-psychology one?’
‘You know – the more he pushes you away, the more you want him.’
‘God, that’d be worse, no doubt about it. As it is, I just feel really stupid.’
‘You’re not the first woman to have been taken in by a man and you won’t be the last, so go easy on yourself. All that’s wrong with you is that you’re out of practice,’ she added with a smile. ‘Soon you’ll have been duped by tons of men, and Troy will fade into nothing!’
‘Speaking of being duped, how’s Lou?’
‘Clever, I’ll give him that. Playing at being Mister Perfect. But I’m several steps ahead of him.’ Coolly she blew out a plume of smoke.
Down at the Ocean View, they’d all been awake since four a.m. and were looking for kicks. Spirits were high as we set off beneath a cloudless blue sky for Beverly Hills and purchased a ‘map’ of the stars’ houses. Everyone knew the maps were, at best, inaccurate and out of date, but who was I to ruin anyone’s excitement?
First stop was Julia Roberts’ house, where we spent a good twenty minutes parked on a well-kempt deserted road, trying to see through solid metal gates.
‘She’ll have to come out some time,’ was Dad’s reasoning. ‘To buy a paper or get a pint of milk or something.’
‘You haven’t a clue,’ Helen scorned. ‘She has people to do that. She probably even has people to read the paper and drink the milk for her.’
We resumed our silent vigil.
‘This is really boring,’ Helen said. ‘Although it’s good practice for when I set up my private-detective agency. A lot of that will be surveillance work.’
‘You’re not becoming a private detective,’ Mum said tightly. ‘You’ve got Marie Fitzsimon’s wedding on Monday week and you’ll send her down the aisle looking like a princess, or you’ll have me to deal with.’
‘Don’t you need qualifications to be a private detective?’ Anna said.
Helen thought about it. ‘Yep. First, I need to develop a drink dependency. Shouldn’t be any problem considering the gene pool I come from. Secondly, I need a wacky family.’ Helen swept an approving eye over the assembled group, over Mum’s patchy face, Dad’s argyle socks and Anna’s I-get-dressed-in-the-dark chic. ‘Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we appear to be in luck!’
‘Someone’s coming out. Someone’s coming out!’
‘Calm down, Dad.’
But it was just a Mexican gardener with a leaf-blower.
Dad rolled down the window and shouted at him, ‘Is Julia around?’
‘Hooleeya?’
‘Julia Roberts.’
‘Thees ees not Mees Roberts’ khouse.’
Oh,’ Dad said in consternation. ‘Well, do you know which one is?’
‘Yes, but eef I told you, I would have to keel you.’
‘Fine help you are,’ Dad muttered, rolling the window back up. ‘Come on, who’s next?’
After visits to the ‘houses’ of Tom Cruise, Sandra Bullock, Tim Allen and Madonna had yielded nothing but views of electronic gates and Armed Response signs, we gave up on it and went to the Chinese Theatre, which was overrun with tourists seeking their favourite actors’ handprints, then putting their own hands in and having their photo taken. Dad paid homage to John Wayne’s hands, Mum couldn’t get over the tininess of Doris Day’s shoes and Anna seemed very touched by Lassie’s paw print. Helen, however, wasn’t so impressed.
‘This is boring,’ she said loudly and tagged a passing official. ‘Excuse me, sir, where can I find Brad Pitt’s arse?’
‘Brad Pitt’s arse?’
‘Yes, I heard it was here.’
‘Didja? OK. Hey, Ricky, where can this lady find Brad Pitt’s arse?’
‘What’s an arse?’
‘An ass,’ Helen translated helpfully. ‘A butt, if you prefer.’
‘Do we have Brad Pitt’s butt? Hey, LaWanda, where’s Brad Pitt’s butt?’
But LaWanda wasn’t as stupid as the rest of them. ‘We don’t got it,’ she snapped.
‘Did someone steal it?’ Helen asked sympathetically.
LaWanda eyed Helen angrily. ‘You weird.’
‘Because I want to see a concrete copy of Brad Pitt’s arse? It’d be weird not to want to see it.’
‘Brad Pitt ain’t gonna come on down here, drop his pants and sit his ass in wet con-crete. He a star!’ By now LaWanda was giving the hand and doing that side-to-side, head-popping thing they do on Jerry Springer. I knew what usually followed. Before Helen got the crap beaten out of her, I moved her on.
Later, I dropped them back to the Ocean View, with instructions to get ready for the film screening, then to come round to Emily’s.
‘And we’re to get dressed up?’ Dad asked, hoping the answer would be no.
‘It’s a film premeer,’ Mum scolded. ‘Of course we are.’
‘Are we?’ he asked me again.
‘You might as well.’
Though Doves was only an independent film – which meant no household-name stars and no one in Ireland being impressed because they’d never hear of it – all the same, it was worth looking our best.
And then, I don’t know what got into me, but I decided I’d take a trip to Arizona and Third and get my nails done.
