‘Your twin, remember?’ I stare at her intently. She gives a small, self-conscious giggle.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘The twins. Sara, I’m so sorry, of course I remember you.’
The thing about her was, we had a few auditions together, and every time people always commented on how similar we looked. She had a couple of pilots, and the last time I saw her it looked like things might be about to happen for her.
The sight of her is like hearing ‘Hollaback Girl’ – that was my song of that summer. Takes you totally back there to a time that I rarely think about now. It’s gone and that’s weird, because we were friends. Her dad was a plastic surgeon, I remember that now, an old guy who’d done all the stars; I loved hearing her stories about him. She even came up to the rental house in Los Feliz, her and some of the gang, after I moved out of Venice. But it was an uncomfortable evening. Sara especially was weird. And even though I called her and a few others a couple of times afterwards, no one returned my calls. Turns out we weren’t all friends, just people in similar situations, and I didn’t belong in that gang, the clique of hopefuls. I’d passed onto the next stage, and they didn’t want to know me any more.
Now I try to look friendly. ‘That’s so cool, bumping into you here. How’s it going? Who are you here to see?’
She doesn’t understand and then smiles. ‘Oh. I’m not acting these days.’ My face is blank. She smiles again, a little tightly. ‘I – work here? I’m Lynn’s assistant? She’s in the same department as Artie.’
‘I know Lynn,’ I say. ‘OK, so …’ I trail off, embarrassed.
‘It’s fine,’ she says, nodding so her perky ponytail bounces behind her. ‘It’s totally fine. Guess some of us have it and some of us don’t. I don’t miss the constant rejection, for sure. That time they told me no when I walked in the room, you remember that?’
I screw up my face. ‘Oh … oh, yeah, I remember. What was it for?’
‘It was The Bride and Groom, Sophie.’ She grins. ‘You should remember, we were totally hungover from being up all night drinking Bryan’s tequila?’
‘Oh, my God,’ I say, shifting my bag onto my other shoulder. ‘That night.’
‘Some of us get the right haircuts at the right time, you mean!’ Sara smiles, and says suddenly, ‘That was a totally insane evening, wasn’t it? You getting that bob, like … who was it? Eve Noel?’ She looks at my hair. ‘Still rocking it, right? You always said those bangs got you the part – maybe that’s what it took!’ She stops, and then looks alarmed. ‘Sorry,’ she says, flushing. ‘I mean, of course … you’re so good as well, you totally deserve it!’
‘No way. I was probably drunk,’ I said. ‘I’d never have got that bob if I hadn’t been totally bombed. I owe Bryan … it was Bryan, wasn’t it?’
She nods. ‘It was.’
My memory is so shit, it’s terrible. Maybe the tequila drowned my brain cells, because they were kind of crazy times. We behaved pretty badly, we didn’t have anything to lose. I was still seeing Dave, my boyfriend back in London who I met on South Street People, but I knew he was cheating on me by then. (Turns out he was cheating on me about 80 per cent of the time we were together anyway.) It’s the only slutty period of my life; maybe everyone has to have a summer like that. I’d always worked so hard and all of a sudden it was so easy. America was easy. Sunshine, friendly people, and I was young. I lived for the ocean, the cafe, the bars and the crowd I hung out with.
I loved acting, but I never thought I’d make it, to be honest. I knew I wasn’t as talented as someone like Sara, knew I wasn’t trained. I didn’t know anything about stagecraft or method; I turned up and said the lines the best way I could. Still do, I think. I’d already got further with my career than I’d ever expected to without Mum by my side all the time, and I suppose I thought I’d ride it for as long as I was allowed to. They’d find me out and I’d be sent home and so for the time being, I reasoned, I should hang loose and enjoy myself – and for once, I really, really did.
I stroke my forehead and fringe, trying to remember. ‘Bryan. He was hot, wasn’t he? Kind of Ashton Kutcher-y.’
She smiles. ‘That’s him.’
‘I think I slept with him,’ I muse.
‘Yeah, I know,’ she says, then she adds, ‘You know, I went out with him for a while. Maybe we are twins!’
There’s an awkward pause. Sara clears her throat, and stares at me after a moment. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m being weird. But it’s really good to see you, that’s all. I never returned your calls. I suppose I was jealous. Brings back those days and it’s crazy, remembering how it used to be, I guess.’
‘You were really good,’ I say, changing the subject. She looks uncomfortable, but I press her. ‘Have you totally left it behind? That’s a real shame.’
Sara knits her fingers together. ‘Yeah. At my last audition, this guy, the director I think it was, stared at me and said, “This girl’s just an uglier Sophie Leigh. Next, please.”’ She’s smiling as she says this, but there’s an awful expression in her eyes. ‘That’s what made me give it up.’
‘That … that sucks, Sara.’ We’re silent. I sling my bag over my shoulder again and as the silence stretches on, and Sara says nothing, blurt, ‘So, Bryan! What’s he doing now?’
‘Bryan moved to New York. He has his own salon now – he’s doing really well.’ She recovers her smile again. ‘Hey, I’m super happy for him. And for you! You totally deserve your success, Sophie! It’s not only about the bob, so don’t believe people who tell you it is!’
‘Uh – thanks.’ Maybe it’s time to go. ‘Great to see you, Sara.’ I wave to T.J., my driver.
Sara calls after me, ‘You look so great, Sophie. Sorry again!’
I stride out, smiling at another WAM minion who glows when she spots me and at the doorman as I exit the building, momentarily catching the wall of fierce afternoon heat.
I climb into the car, sinking into my seat. T.J. has got me a diet root beer and some carrot and celery sticks, and there’s even a packet of crisps (which I’ll never eat, of course), all nicely laid out in the back. Chips, I should say. I’m mostly American these days, but some things never feel right. Chips are the chips you have with fish and burgers.
‘Mulberry sent you over some new stuff to pick out. Tina was unpacking it when I left and she told me to tell you,’ T.J. says. He pulls the limo away from the kerb.
‘Get Tanisha to come over.’ Tanisha is T.J.’s daughter.
‘I’ll call her. That’s kind of you. She did well on her test yesterday, Sophie, I’m real pleased with her.’
A thought occurs to me. ‘Did Deena arrive yet?’
‘I don’t know,’ T.J. says firmly. ‘She wasn’t there when I left.’ He switches topic. ‘So how’s your day going?’
I have to think for a moment. ‘Not sure.’ Now we’re gliding away from WAM, I recall what I wanted to say to Artie, and what in my hungover state I actually said. I said I would read that stupid script. I didn’t really get to talk about Eve Noel, the film I want to make one day, the mystery about her that I still don’t understand. Not because it’s complicated, because that’s obvious. But because she was new in town once like I was, and it must have started out OK for her. And I don’t know what happened to her, no one seems to know or care. I’m on every billboard in town but she was the last great film star,