Shay had no idea how old Jackie was. But as far as she could tell, after four babies in six years, Jackie wasn’t living, just existing, sleepwalking through her shifts at the cookie stand.
Jackie said she was lucky—she and her husband both had jobs and her kids went to school—but Shay couldn’t work out what was so lucky about that. Wasn’t that something everyone should have?
This attitude had gotten her into trouble with her foster families.
‘You need to be more grateful for what you get,’ said the social worker.
Eventually the social worker convinced Shay’s grandmother to take her in. At least Shay didn’t have to pretend to be grateful then. She knew her grammy only agreed so she’d get the extra welfare cheque for her dead son’s only child.
Shay served a teenage girl whose swelling stomach couldn’t be hidden by the oversized Disneyland sweatshirt. Was everyone pregnant all of a sudden?
Was she really any different to this girl? Shay wondered. Was her future now to raise a baby when she could hardly raise herself? And what would Grammy say when she went home to the trailer and told her she was pregnant to the first guy she’d slept with?
Bud Harris wasn’t her boyfriend. She’d only had sex with him because she’d yearned for someone’s loving touch. She knew damn well he wouldn’t want this baby; he was already working down the mines, never calling Shay again after he had left school.
Finally the shift ended and she was relieved to find Krista waiting for her.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Shay as she walked up to her best friend.
‘Sure,’ said Krista, tossing her bleached hair over her shoulder, ‘but I don’t want to go to my place, they’re all down on their knees praying for something that doesn’t include me.’
Shay laughed wryly. Some foster homes were better than others, but each had its own special way of reminding you that you didn’t quite fit in. It might be special food that wasn’t for the welfare kids, or second-hand clothing that was the wrong size. In Krista’s current ‘home’, it was prayer.
Shay looked around. ‘I don’t know where we can go,’ she said, and then she started to cry.
‘Hush now,’ Krista said, in that voice that always calmed Shay. ‘I’ll think of something.’
And Shay nodded, knowing that Krista would. She had never once let her down.
Krista’s eyes lit up and she smiled the magnificent smile that made social workers believe she really had changed this time.
Soon, Shay and Krista were sitting up the back in the only movie theatre in town, let in for free by the pimple-faced projectionist who had a thing for Krista.
‘What’s the film?’ whispered Shay.
‘Matilda,’ whispered Krista. ‘It’s about a little girl who uses her magic to get her revenge on her shitty family and school, and finds a new mom to adopt her. I’ve seen it twice already, it’s my favourite film ever.’
Shay smiled and took Krista’s hand and squeezed it tight.
‘Thank you,’ she said and Krista smiled in the darkness as the screen flickered to life.
Zoe was driving out to Malibu in her new Jaguar sports car, the top was down and Bruno Mars was blaring out of the stereo. The overcast day couldn’t dull Zoe’s mood. Even when it was turning to winter, it wasn’t cold. She hated being cold almost as much as she hated being overlooked just because she was a woman. People assumed she was the mother hen of her clients, and to some extent she was, but this new deal with Jeff Beerman meant she was now a power-player. She couldn’t wait to tell Hugh the news about the deal and how well she had played her hand at the party, when her phone rang.
Christ it wasn’t even eight a.m. and people were hassling her already? The morning after the Oscars should be a public holiday in Hollywood, she thought crossly as she pressed the answer button on her steering wheel.
‘Zoe Greene.’
‘Zoe, it’s Rachel Fein, from Hollywood Reporter,’ came the nasal tones of the woman who could make or break a film with a single article.
‘Rachel, sorry I didn’t see you last night. How are you?’ said Zoe silkily.
‘You may not have seen me, but everyone saw you,’ laughed Rachel. ‘So what’s the dealio with you and Jeff Beerman? Is it business or pleasure?’
The dealio? Zoe rolled her eyes as she turned the corner and took the highway towards Malibu.
‘Rachel, we both know I’m too old and too smart to be anything other than business in Jeff’s life,’ she said.
Jeff’s three ex-wives would all attest to his penchant for young starlets, which was well known in the industry. Rumour had it that his last marriage had cost him twenty-seven million dollars.
‘So it’s true you’re executive producing The Art of Love with Jeff and Palladium Pictures?’ Rachel asked.
Zoe gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, imagining it was Rachel’s neck.
‘I can’t comment on any deals right now. But when I have an announcement to make, you’ll be the first to know,’ she answered. Just as soon as I’ve signed the papers, she thought.
‘I see. Well, is it true that Palladium Pictures is in financial trouble, and that Jeff Beerman has put up his own money to get this project off the ground?’
Zoe glanced in the rear-view mirror and pulled over sharply to the side of the highway.
‘Rachel, I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said evenly. Stay calm, girl, she reminded herself. You’ve got this.
‘Then I suggest you find out before you sign anything because you might find you just sold yourself, your writer and the book of a lifetime to a man who a few people are saying is on the downhill slide.’
‘What people? What are they saying?’ Zoe tried to keep her voice calm, as the cars went whizzing by her. Everyone was going in the right direction and here was Rachel telling her she wasn’t and if anyone knew what the state of affairs were with Jeff, Rachel knew.
‘Zoe, not everyone can stay on top for ever, not even Jeff Beerman. I’ve just heard a few money men saying Jeff needs a hit and soon. I’m just warning you. Anyway, you’ve given me a few leads over the years; I’m giving you one now.’
The line went dead and Zoe sat in the car staring at the road ahead.
This isn’t how it’s meant to play out, she thought, dialling Jeff’s number, knowing he would be in his office. People may question his morals but they could never question his work ethic.
‘Jeff Beerman’s office,’ an assistant answered.
‘Zoe Greene for Jeff,’ she said, tapping on the steering wheel with her fingernail.
‘Greene, how’s the head this morning?’ he asked, his voice filled with cheer.
‘Listen to me, I have to ask: are you in financial trouble? Because if you are, obviously I have to go elsewhere with this project.’
‘Good morning to you too, Greene,’ he said calmly.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Say good morning and I’ll answer you,’ he said calmly. ‘Manners are free, remember?’
Zoe shook her head in frustration and gritted her teeth. The man was the worst