Питер Робинсон: No Cure for Love

Sandi dashed off to the washroom, hand over her mouth. Slowly, the members of the birthday party started peeking from under the table and getting to their feet, all a little sheepish now it was all over. Pretty soon, Arvo thought, they’d be indignant. They’d start asking for their money back, replacements for the drinks that got spilled, maybe even threaten a lawsuit. He’d seen it happen before. Then they’d embellish what had happened for their friends, be the center of attention at parties.

The bar staff stood up and dusted themselves off. One of them poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch. Arvo nodded to Maria, who went to call Hollywood Division, then led Chuck by the elbow to one of the booths and jammed him in the corner.

Chuck wiped his face with a napkin. The tissue was so thin that it shredded and pieces stuck in little clumps on his cheeks and chin, like the bits of paper you put over shaving nicks.

“I’m glad it’s over,” he said. “You know that? I’m glad it’s over. I feel such relief. I haven’t slept for two weeks thinking about her. You know that? You know what that does to your mind? I loved that woman. Do you believe it? Loved her. She treated me like dirt. I couldn’t kill no one, man.”

“Calm down, Chuck,” Arvo said. “You only dated her a couple of times, isn’t that right?”

“So? What does it matter how many times I dated her? Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

Arvo sighed and wondered if he should give an honest answer. If truth be told, he’d lost a fair bit of sleep over Nyreen, too. Before he could say anything, though, Sandi stormed over to the booth and stood over them, hands on her hips. “Now look what you’ve done, you piece of white trash. A whole tray. You’re gonna have to pay for them drinks.”

Chuck fell silent for a moment, mouth open, then he started laughing through his tears. Arvo almost felt like laughing with him.

Sandi just stood there, eyes flashing, and Chuck looked at Arvo. “Isn’t she unbelievable? Isn’t she magnificent?” Then he turned back to Sandi, adoration clear in his eyes. “How about bringing me a drink, honey? Make it a Martini. Very dry. With a twist.” He glanced at Arvo again. “And maybe one for my friend, here, too.”

Arvo shook his head. One of those days. Then he heard the welcome sound of a police siren.

Sarah stood on Jack’s deck and looked at the lights of the other houses across Laurel Canyon. Some of them had Christmas displays, chains of green, red, yellow and blue winking on and off in the night. Someone had even put up a tall Christmas tree outlined in lights about halfway up the hillside. It was a clear evening, and cold enough that Sarah needed to wear a sweater over her blouse. The stars shone thick and bright above, and car lights meandered along the canyon road way below. She could smell woodsmoke in the air.

Standing so high up the canyon side, Sarah felt suspended in space. Behind her, the party was in full swing. People were laughing, dancing, drinking. Janis was belting out “Get It While You Can’ into the night air. But Sarah was taking a moment’s breather from the crowd.

Her peace was soon broken. Guests came out onto the deck and stopped to tell her how much they loved the show, how “great’ she was, or how “great’ she looked, the way people did in Hollywood, as if it were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

In return, Sarah smiled and made small talk as best she could, sipping on the same glass of rum and Coke that Jack had poured her when she arrived. The ice had melted by now, and the Coke had lost most of its fizz. Between conversations, she would glance around nervously now and then to make sure Stuart, her escape route, was still nearby.

The sweet, acrid smell of marijuana drifted through the air. Two young actors who played uniformed cops on the show stood near the door snorting coke through a rolled-up dollar bill. Or it could have been a twenty. Apart from the numbers, American money all looked the same to Sarah. She turned away from the actors; the scene brought back too many memories, all of them bad.

Music blasted out of Jack’s megawatt stereo system in the main room. Janis gave way to the Rolling Stones doing “Angie.” Sarah studied the lights of the houses across the canyon again and wondered if M were watching. Was she on stage tonight?

Inside the house, people danced wildly, tossing frantic shadows over the stark white walls. Sometimes the shadows and the dancers didn’t seem to connect, as if so much wildness disconnected them the way a retina might be detached from the back of the eye. Sarah looked for Jack, hoping he would manage to get away from the throng for a minute.

Jack Marillo was her co-star in Good Cop, Bad Cop , the biggest early-season hit the network had had for years, such a success that it was even being shown in the UK already.

People said the main reason for the show’s success was the chemistry between Sarah’s controlled, repressed and icy blond homicide detective, Anita O’Rourke, and her spontaneous, rule-bending, bed-hopping partner Tony Lucillo, played by Jack. Why was it, Sarah wondered, that female TV cops always had names that started with an “O’ and male cops had names that ended with one?

Sarah’s character was tough and competent, with a hint of vulnerability, an occasional hairline crack in the professional carapace. She was the one who always kept her cool when Lucillo shouted, gesticulated and went into his tantrums, but she also shed a tear or two in private after discovering the raped and murdered corpse of a twelve-year-old street kid.

Stuart said the audience liked the characters because they kept people in suspense about whether they’d end up in the sack together. They had filmed a kiss for the Christmas special — a chaste one, but with definite possibilities — then the network would be showing reruns for a couple of weeks to keep the viewers on tenterhooks.

Stuart also said the male viewers loved Sarah because, although she seemed a bit aloof and prim, very Brit, they just knew she was a screamer between the sheets. All that repressed passion. Strictly footprints on the ceiling.

Sarah took all the praise with a pinch of salt, and she took Stuart’s crude comment as a compliment. That, to her, was what acting was all about. Being someone different. She was by nature shy and quiet; her shyness was a personal prison she could only escape through acting. She could only be truly alive and real on stage or in front of the cameras.

Being reserved, Sarah didn’t like parties very much, either, but she understood the importance of attending them, especially in Hollywood. It wasn’t just a matter of being seen at the right places. Certainly that was important, as Sarah was still only an up-and-coming star, rather than a fully fledged one. But she was also relatively new to America, and she wanted to make friends; she wanted to be liked. It was especially difficult being English. People were inclined to think you were stuck-up and stand-offish just because of your accent.

So she showed up when she was invited, mingled and said the right things. She never really made any close friends that way, but at least she collected more faces to smile at when she dined at Spago’s, which she usually tried to avoid because it was too noisy there to hear yourself think.

Sarah turned to the sliding door and smiled to see Jack coming toward her with a bottle of beer in his hand. She liked Jack. Of all the people she’d met in Los Angeles — Stuart aside — he was the closest she had to a friend.

Handsome in a TV star sort of way, Jack was tall and slim, not exactly muscular, but in good athletic shape, with a dark complexion and a great head of shiny black hair. Sarah liked him because he was straightforward — no games, no bullshit — full of mischief and energy, and he had a sense of humor. Jack could act, too, not like some of the people in the show, who had walked right out of toothpaste commercials and used-car lots.