Lucky Break (34 page)

‘Let's drive around and find somewhere nice to eat.'

There was a map in the glove compartment and Jemma stretched it over her lap. ‘Sunset Boulevard,' she read.

‘Really?' Dan peered out.

‘No. I just had to say it.' She took a breath. ‘Venice Beach.'

‘You're confusing me.' Dan sped through a junction.

‘Beverly Hills. West Hollywood.'

‘Look, we're on Santa Monica Boulevard.' Dan pointed. ‘Shall I keep going?'

Jemma stared at the map. ‘It leads right to the sea. That would be fun. What do you think, kids? The ocean!'

An hour later they were still on Santa Monica Boulevard. The traffic stopped and started, grinding slowly forward in the rain. Dan kept his eyes open for a restaurant. Burger bars and fast-food chains lined the deserted streets. ‘I thought everyone was meant to be so healthy out here.' Jemma squinted.

‘Not everyone. Just Brad Pitt. Everyone else is fat as fuck.'

‘Daddy!'

‘Fat as a duck, I said.'

‘How about there?' Jemma pointed, but it wasn't a restaurant at all, just an antique shop with a table laid for supper, rosebud crockery and a bowl of glass grapes. They drove on, the windscreen wipers working powerfully, Green Day playing over again.

The children were unusually quiet, stunned by the time change, the rain and the music. ‘If we don't stop soon, they'll go to sleep,' Jemma worried. ‘And we'll all be up again tomorrow at three a.m. Or some of us will.'

Dan turned off Santa Monica Boulevard and sped along smaller streets, crossing junctions and searching left and right until with a screech of brakes he pulled up at a sign for pizza.

But it was too late. All four were fast asleep. Dan and Jemma looked over at their children. Honey with her halo of gold curls, her black lashes lying like a fan against her skin, Ben, his thick mouse tufts unbrushed for several days, one ear bright red where it had folded back against the seat, and the twins in their own row, still bald, their faces unformed, a silver line of dribble hanging from each chin.

‘Shall we go back to the house?' Dan said quietly. ‘I bought some food. We could make lunch there and then wake them up.'

They glanced at the pizza restaurant. A row of men in beige security uniforms sat at the window on stainless steel stools. ‘Or not wake them?'

Jemma slid her hand on to his knee. ‘Or not immediately. We could recline these seats and have a quick sleep first.'

‘Mmm, lovely.' And more slowly, with the music lower, they drove home.

 

It was a week before Dan had his first casting. His American manager, Finola, called to say that things were Great. They were going Really Well. A lot of people had seen his series on BBC America – a dark and chilly drama about police corruption at the highest level – and she'd been sending out his show reel, talking him up, and now, finally, he had a meeting with a casting woman from CBS. ‘But how are you managing?' she asked, concerned, ‘with your little ones, and all this rain?'

‘Fine, fine,' Dan told her. ‘We're used to it.'

But it wasn't true.

‘What's the point of this place if it isn't sunny?' Jemma shook her head, and Dan overheard her telling Grace, ‘If it rains one more day, we're going home.' He didn't ask her how she planned to break the news to the Dutch osteopath and his family who'd rented their house for half a year, or to Finola, who swore she was working round the clock to get him seen. ‘It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fucking pool. The children never let up for a moment, whining and pleading to be allowed to swim.'

‘Just let them then,' Dan muttered, but he had to agree that it was freezing, the surface of the water awash with debris, palm fronds and the dried brown tendrils of a plant that looked like spiders.

 

The day of the casting Dan woke early. At first he imagined it must be nerves, but then he realised that it was silence that had woken him. The downpour had stopped and the window was filled with a thick grey rainless light. Miraculously, the children were still sleeping, Grace and Lola in newly assembled cots at the end of their bed, the others in the room next door. Very carefully, he tiptoed into the kitchen. He took a breath. It was the first time in a week, the first time since the car-hire centre, that he'd been alone. He opened the French doors and stepped out into the garden. The air smelled good. Musty and foreign. He knelt down and dipped his fingers in the pool. The water was still cold, but hopeful and intoxicating and above him hung one tall palm, its leaves a far-off flower.

Dan was startled by a shriek. ‘We're going in!' There were Ben and Honey, tugging off their pyjamas, screaming and hopping with joy.

‘Hang on, you two, it's only 6.45!' But Dan didn't have the heart to stop them.

‘Don't move,' he said instead and he ran in and grabbed Ben's armbands, unpacked and waiting since the first day. As fast as he could he blew them up. Honey was in first. ‘It's not cold!' she said defiantly, although her teeth were chattering. Ben screamed as he jumped, and then screamed louder and longer as he hit the water. ‘It's not cold either,' he promised once he'd recovered from the shock. Dan pulled a chair outside and watched them, ducking and fighting and flicking water at each other until their lips were blue.

Jemma made porridge, although like everything, it tasted different – finer, softer, further removed from the original oat. Her face was creased and heavy with a rare night of unbroken sleep. ‘I think we're over the worst,' she rubbed the children's towelled bodies to bring back blood and she smiled hopefully at Dan.

After breakfast Dan tried on his suit. Did men wear suits in California? He didn't know, but he couldn't help admire himself in the charcoal cut of it. He moved back and forth before the mirror, sucking in his cheekbones, sticking out his chest, checking the imperfect creases of his trousers. ‘No hands! No hands!' he warded off the children as they rushed towards him, and he heard Jemma cluck disapprovingly.

‘I thought the meeting wasn't till 12.'

‘Yes. But I need to find it first. It's somewhere in West Hollywood and I thought I'd go for a coffee before . . . get my bearings. Take stock.'

Jemma handed him a muslin and then Lola, both of which he took reluctantly. ‘Right,' she said. ‘I'm going to get a shower.'

As soon as she was back she dressed the children and then began to pack a bag. Rice cakes, water, tangerines, bananas.

‘Where are you going?' Dan asked, holding both twins now, hardly daring to take his eye from them in case they threw up, one over each shoulder.

‘I thought we'd come with you. We can find a Starbucks or something and wait.'

Dan was appalled. ‘No . . . really.' He imagined running from the flock of his children, scattering rice cakes and baby milk, muslins and frappuccino, arriving red-faced and dishevelled at the marble steps of CBS.

‘We can't stay here all day.' Jemma didn't meet his eye. She didn't want an argument and they both knew she'd waver if she saw the fury in his face.

‘Jem, it's why we came. For me to get work! It's what we decided.'

‘I know. I know.' She bustled at the sink, putting the porridge pan on to soak, wiping down the surfaces. ‘But I can't spend another day in this house . . .' she swallowed. ‘No school. No nursery.'

Dan put both girls on the floor, where they sometimes could and sometimes couldn't stay upright on their own. Grace sat for a second and then fell forward, her face squashing into a rubber mat. ‘Sweetheart.' He took hold of Jemma's shoulders. ‘I won't be gone all day. It's stopped raining now. You can take them for a walk or something.'

‘Dan,' she looked at him and her face was white. ‘What's more important to you? An episode of
Entourage
or finding your wife and children lying at the bottom of that pool?'

‘For God's sake! The drama! Why did you give up acting again?' and he picked up Grace, who had found an ancient Oreo and was forcing it into her mouth.

‘Because I was thrown out of drama school. Remember?' Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘And in case you've forgotten they kept you on for one more year, to try and convince you you were gay.'

Grace spat the Oreo out down the front of Dan's suit. ‘Bugger!' He put her down again and she began to cry. He wet the muslin and began to dab at the cloth, and then, accepting defeat, he walked into the den and shouted at the others to switch off Cartoon Network, NOW, and get into the car.

The Starbucks on Wilshire was huge. Dan sat in an armchair, the stain still visible on his left lapel, and read the
International Guardian
while Jemma slumped on a sofa, eating a biscotti, and breastfeeding Grace, who had a scattering of crumbs over her ear. The children ran riot at the other end, climbing on to and then jumping off a horseshoe of chairs which were luckily deserted. Occasionally Dan looked up from his paper to check that the staff weren't calling the LAPD for reinforcements, but the noise was conveniently drowned out by the sound of the cappuccino machine whirring and buzzing for the line of takeaway orders. How did this happen? he thought to himself, but it was hard not to smile.

‘Right.' It was 11.30. ‘I'll be off.'

‘See you back here then,' Jemma looked up at him. ‘Give me a call when you're on your way. And sweetheart . . .'

He waited.

‘Good luck.'

 

Dan walked twice round the block to shake all thoughts of his family off. Was it possible to be a great actor, and still be loyal to your wife? He searched round for examples and couldn't think of any. And then, to his relief, he remembered that Paul Newman had been married to Joanne Woodward for almost fifty years. They had three daughters and lived on a ranch in Connecticut where, as well as directing and starring in numerous films, he marketed his own brand of salad dressing and donated the proceeds to charity. And he'd still managed to win an Oscar. In celebration Dan walked round the block again. ‘Hey there! Great to meet you.' He had five more minutes in which to practise his American accent. ‘Fantastic day.' But when he finally came face to face with Pammy, the casting woman at CBS, he put out his hand and his greeting was as mild and British as an advert for Marmite. ‘So nice to meet you.'

‘And you,' she told him. ‘Come. Sit down.'

Pammy had seen his show reel and was full of praise. ‘I really think we could use you out here,' she nodded, and she began to outline for him a new series that was coming up. ‘How's your American accent?'

‘Good. Pretty good.' Dan knew if he had any guts he'd break into one right there and then. ‘I was in
Streetcar
. I played Stanley Kowalski . . . in Sheffield . . .' he tailed off.

‘That's just great!' Pammy beamed. ‘So you're out here with your family, I hear.'

‘Yes.' Dan nodded. ‘My wife and . . . we've got four kids, Honey, who's six, sweet as anything but a bit of a handful.' He pulled out his phone and showed her a photo – Honey, fresh, from her swim, grinning into the camera, her face a dazzle of delight. ‘And Ben, who's two . . .' Just in time he noticed her eye flicker towards the clock. He slipped his phone away.

‘Well, I expect Finola explained this is a general meeting. As soon as there's something more concrete we'll have you right back in.' She paused as if remembering something. ‘If only you'd been out here last month.'

‘Really?'

‘Well. Not to worry.' Pammy was standing up, brightening. ‘We'll see you again soon.'

‘All right. Bye then.'

‘Have a great day.'

‘And you. Have a . . .' he coughed, ‘great day too.'

 

Dan stood out on the street. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, just for a minute. Maybe this is it, he thought, a lifetime of general meetings, one after another, and he imagined himself having endless great days, in his increasingly stained and filthy suit. Before calling Jemma he dialled Finola's number.

‘How'd it go?'

‘Fine. Pretty good. She talked about something called
Flamingos
.'

‘Oh that.' Finola sounded disappointed. ‘That's not ever going to happen. And if it does it's got Declan McCloud attached. But did she like you?'

‘Umm. She seemed to. Yes. It was great.'

‘Great!!!' Finola sounded reassured. ‘Well, I'll call you as soon as there's more news.'

 

Dan walked slowly towards Starbucks. They could just about manage, he calculated, for three months, and then if nothing happened, they could always fly home, and . . . and stay with his mother in Epping. A car beeped and he spun round. He felt self-conscious, the only person walking, and he was sure that cars slowed a little to stare at him as they passed by. The day was warming up, the sun visible finally through the breaking clouds. I'll make it work, he told himself. From now on I'll swim a hundred lengths each morning and spend an hour a day with my language tapes working on my accent. And then behind him a car screeched to a stop. Dan's heart leapt into his mouth. His knees turned weak. So this is it? Murdered at the end of my first week in LA, and he imagined the news stretching back to London, the shock, the laughter (he was walking!), the quiet satisfaction of a handful of actors whose work he always took. ‘Hey!' There was a shout, and he imagined Jemma waiting for him with the children, still there at three in the morning when Starbucks forced her out. ‘Stop, you gotta stop!' and rather than be shot in the back, Dan turned slowly round. A young man was striding towards him, unshaven, arms spread wide. ‘Hey,' he was squinting. ‘It
is
you! It's You.' The boy looked almost tearful. ‘You're the guy from
Rainstorm
. Doody. You was my inspiration, man, when I was a kid.'