Page 10 of Second Act
Mrs. MacInnes had bought him some groceries and he made a light meal for himself. He watched a movie on TV that night and went to bed early. He was aware that he was lonely and far from home, but he would have been lonelier in LA, where he had become a pariah overnight. No one would want to know him now. That was how it worked. When you were on top, everyone loved you, and when you fell off the mountaintop, you were no one, instantly. He hadn’t wanted to experience that in LA. The tables restaurants wouldn’t have for him, the people who suddenly didn’t remember him. The salespeople who ignored him, the headwaiters with short memories, the adversaries he’d had who rejoiced in his fall and would gloat, the friends he thought he had who would turn out not to be. He had seen it all happen to others, and he had spared himself that by coming to England. It would seem cowardly to some people, but most of them wouldn’t care. He had flown away, out of range,out of mind, out of memory. He had a feeling his father would have told him to stand his ground and face them. And he would one day. But not now. Not yet. He was happy where he was, and for now, it felt like where he was meant to be. He was still wounded and needed time to heal. And the house in Winchelsea Beach seemed like the perfect place to do it.
Chapter 6
Andy called the local bank when he got up the next morning. He spoke to the person Frances had contacted to wire his deposit and the rent for the house, and asked if she knew anyone who might be interested in some secretarial work a few hours a day, nothing full-time and mostly computer work, responding to correspondence and general emails. The woman at the bank was very pleasant, said she’d ask around and call him back.
He took another walk on the beach then, and had an idea. There was no one he wanted to talk to at the moment, except for one man he knew in London and would like to see again, Dash Hemming. They’d put together one film. Dash was an independent film producer. He was English and a particularly nice guy. He was younger than Andy, in his early forties, but they had enjoyed meeting in LA, and Andy had promised to contact him when he went to England. Dash wasn’t part of the studio rat race, which was why hestayed independent. He wanted no part of all that, and said he admired Andy for how sane he had remained after nineteen years of it.
“Cowboy blood in my veins,” Andy had said, and they both laughed. “My father was the most unflappable man I’ve ever met. I have a little of that. You need it in this business.”
Andy found Dash Hemming’s number in the contacts on his phone and decided to call him on the spur of the moment, and was surprised when Dash answered the office number himself. He was amazed to hear Andy at the other end.
“Now that’s a surprise,” he said, sounding pleased. “What the hell just went on over there? I couldn’t believe what I read. It was a stupid move to sell, and even dumber to lose you. They’ll be up to their ears in shit and begging you to come back in six months.” A few others had said the same, but not many.
“I doubt that. They’ll figure it out without me.”
“You had it nailed. I’ve never seen a big studio operate like that. Smooth as silk. Dumbass corporate jocks, they don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground, and they think that anyone can run this business and make movies. The new guy in your seat has no experience.”
“I didn’t either when I started. You learn.”
“Damn few do. You’re smarter than all of them put together. So, what are you doing now? You should be making independent movies. At least you’d have fun doing it.” Dash loved what he did, and did it well. Andy respected him too, it was mutual.
“I’m not sure I’d be good at it. That’s your talent, not mine. My father always wanted to do one, but he didn’t need to. He had thestudios at his feet. It makes a difference when you go in as a big star.”
“When are you coming to England? It would be great to see you,” Dash asked. He was a big burly guy, and looked like a teddy bear with a beard, and he was a terrific producer. Andy admired his work. But making an indie film didn’t appeal to him. He liked the big business of the studio and running the show at a much higher level. It was what he did best.
“I’m here, actually,” Andy said, feeling a little sheepish. He hadn’t told anyone else what he’d done, except Wendy. “I figured LA was going to be unbearable for a while. The press, the paparazzi, the gossip, the bullshit. So I ran. I rented a house here for six months, and I thought I’d float around Europe for a while. I’m becoming a beachcomber,” he said wryly.
“You’re in London?” Dash sounded stunned.
“No, I’m in Winchelsea Beach. My assistant found a house on the internet, and five days later, I flew here. This is my second day. So far so good.”
“How on earth did you settle on that town, of all places?” Dash laughed at the image of Andy there. He imagined him in a small beach cottage, in a place that was asleep ten months a year.
“It’s the only place she found with central heating that wasn’t a one-room dollhouse in the Cotswolds.”
“Well, for God’s sake, come to London, and let’s have a drink. Let’s have quite a lot of drinks,” he said jovially.
“I will,” Andy promised, “and you’re welcome here anytime. I have guest rooms and the house is surprisingly nice. It’s up for sale, and I have it for six months.”
“I’ll try to come see you. I’m glad you called. And listen, you know things will calm down in LA eventually. It won’t stay hot forever. But I’m glad you’re here for now. It was a smart move, although I’m not sure that Winchelsea is so smart. You might die of boredom there.” Dash laughed again. “At least it’s not winter. It’s pretty damn bleak there in winter. You’ve got to come to London. We’ll go pub crawling together.”
“Sounds good,” Andy said, glad he had called him. Dash was a real person, and not part of the Hollywood hype.
“Stay in touch.”
“I will, for sure,” Andy said.
When he hung up, the woman at the local bank called him and said she had someone in mind for secretarial assistance. She didn’t know if it would work out, but she had called the woman, and she seemed interested. The banker had taken the liberty of telling the woman to go to the house at five o’clock to meet him, but said she could cancel it if it wasn’t convenient for Andy, or if he preferred to make the appointment himself.
“No, that’s perfect,” Andy said enthusiastically. The emails had continued to roll in, and he needed assistance. “What’s her name?”
The woman hesitated for a second. “Violet Smith,” she said smoothly. “She hasn’t worked for a while, but she’s bright and capable. I hope it works out,” she said briskly, and they hung up.
Andy was pleased. It had been a good morning. He had enjoyed talking to Dash Hemming, and he had an assistant on the way. He had a dozen emails he needed to print out, sign, and scan back. And he read through his emails again that afternoon, and there weremore. Frances would have handled them in minutes, but on his own, he felt swamped.
He explored the third floor that afternoon, and all the old servants’ rooms were filled with boxes and furniture. There was one whole room of children’s furniture and toys. They hadn’t even taken their children’s toys with them. For a minute, Andy felt sorry for the owners. They had left everything. But there were no rooms up there he wanted to use anyway, so he didn’t mind. He saw the gym equipment but didn’t want to use it yet. And there was no one to carry it downstairs for him.
He read through a big email from his financial advisor, with his suggestions of what to do with the severance money, and by the time he finished, it was a few minutes before five. Violet Smith arrived promptly. Mrs. MacInnes had just left and Andy opened the door to her himself. He was surprised by how attractive she was, and there was something vaguely familiar about her, he didn’t know why. She had dark hair pulled tightly back. She had big violet-colored eyes, a deep purplish blue, and creamy milk-white English skin. As he looked at her, he thought of Snow White in the fairy tale. She was wearing a caramel-colored twin sweater set, leather pants the same color, and high heels. Simply but elegantly dressed for the interview, she looked more like London than Winchelsea Beach. She followed him in and seemed stiff and uncomfortable. He escorted her into the library and invited her to sit down. He saw her looking around and he explained that he had just arrived and was renting the house for six months. And as he spoke to her, he realized she was the woman he had seen crying on the beach and continued talkingto her without acknowledging that he’d seen her before. And she showed no sign of remembering him.
