nicky sargent

The Sometime Daughter

by Nicky Sargent

Prologue

December 31st – London

We were huddled on the top stair, our twiglet legs dangling through the banisters, two little girls in flowery nighties, camouflaged against the Laura Ashley wallpaper. Smoke from downstairs wafted up and tickled our throats, but we stifled coughs and giggles, not wanting to give ourselves away.

Bored of waiting, we played paper, scissors, stone until the radio eventually played the Big Ben bongs, and I remember seeing the shadows of the adults’ rush into the sitting room, all in a jumble, and I heard their cheers and screeching and then the sound of them all stomping up and down and dancing to a familiar song. Well, if you can tell by the way I walk, I’m a woman’s man….

Despite the loud music, Sadie had fallen asleep pinned against me, leaving me trapped. The music died down, the dancing stopped, and I felt cheated. Was that it? That was all that happened at the turn of a year?

I was tired and wanted to go to bed so was about to nudge my sister awake but then I heard two grown-ups move into the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Could they see us? I closed my eyes too and pretended to be asleep, making myself invisible that way. I couldn’t hear them very clearly at first, but as they got closer, I heard a familiar voice and realised that it was Dad, and when I opened my eyes, just a squint, I saw his familiar dark hair curling over the collar of his velvet jacket. He sounded cross. The other voice was a woman, her voice was slurred and unclear, but as Dad’s voice rose up, loud and angry, his words were unforgettably distinct.

‘Have it your way. I wish we’d never bloody adopted her.’

Chapter 1

May – 33 years later – Los Angeles

I neared the top of the staircase, leaned over the balcony, and peered into a cavernous Beverley Hills bear pit. Thirty or so round tables were ranged in a semi-circular flower, bowing towards the stage where in a couple of hours, the lucky recipients would assume their most modest faces and trot out charming words of gratitude.

Where was Carl? Aware of being by myself, I scanned the ballroom down below for any familiar faces, but the anonymous little people looked like avatars, making their choreographed paths through the gilt and marble facsimile of a grand old Venetian palazzo. Versailles crackled mirrors clashing with Fifth Avenue wooden panelled ceilings. All a mish-mash of props and set dressing. The fake staid opulence was lightened by fresh out-of-season ‘wild’ flowers tied with hay dripping from old-world milk bottles. Like the ones I remembered from way back when I went to school in England. Little bottles warm on the windowsill.

I felt exposed in this gathering despite it having been my world for years. All these stretched faces and shiny, tense bodies in dresses and suits that were inappropriate for daytime but necessary fancy dress for this event and location. The occasional plus-size figure, or unkempt head of hair reassured me. I can do this. It’s just for television, not The Oscars after all. Look at that woman in the yellow. Daring.

It was freezing in there. I wished I’d brought a wrap, but I didn’t think of it as my local radio that morning told me it would be heading towards 90 degrees on the Westside. I checked my watch, and feeling at risk of looking no-mates or catching someone’s eye, raised my hand as if in greeting to someone downstairs, put on a confident smile, and deliberately crinkled my eyes before turning to sweep them around the entrance hall behind me. So many people were surging in, but still no sign of him yet. Hang on. Was this him with an excuse? I delved into my bag to find and silence my ringing phone. No, it was my sister. Sadie. It was unusually late for her, but I couldn’t take it now. I pressed the red button. Not now.

‘Hey?’ I said as someone put their hands over my eyes from behind, I swivelled free and was pleased to see that it was an industry friend I’d known for years. A woman, older than me, but at ease in her worked-out body, barely covered by a glittering sheath, with fake blond and pink rows clipped into her own dark curls, hanging to her waist.

‘Leona. Hello gorgeous one,’ she said.

‘Angel! You look amazing…’

‘I know right. I’m so over-dressed. What on earth are we both doing here? Of course, I saw you’re nominated. Is it third time lucky?’

‘Unlikely,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure why we both turn up year in year out. Who are you here with?’

‘With Lenny. We’re on Wexler’s table,’ she said. ‘You?’

‘Wexler? But I’d heard that he was lying low after that actress…’

‘All true,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you the low-down later. Fancy a cocktail after?’

‘Not today. It’s my daughter’s birthday, and I’ll have to get back early to be Mom.’

‘Come on. It’s your lucky day.’

‘Unlikely.’ I said again. ‘Anyway, I promised Maudie I’d be back for dinner at six. Mother’s guilt.’

I felt my phone buzz against my hip, then I saw a handsome blond man near the entrance. Sunglasses still on, his phone to his ear.

‘At last. Here’s Carl Sloane, my walker, sorry, my co-worker.’ I said to Angel. ‘Catch you during the lunch darling.’

‘Come and say hi to me at the table,’ she said.

‘Maybe.’

I raised my hand in a wave until Carl spotted me, took off his glasses, winked and rolled his hips into a John Travolta-walk until he reached me, grasped my hand, and raised it to his lips,

‘Well look at you! Already a winner,’ he said.

I laughed at him.

‘Come on Carl. Don’t do that to me.’

‘I mean it. Balenciaga? Alaia? Prada?’

‘Zara.’

‘Genius Leona. You make it look too-designer. Now, link my arm so we can sweep down this staircase as if we were in Twelve Oakes…’

‘Where or what is that?’ I said.

‘Gone with the Wind lil’ darlin’’

‘Why Ashley, be a good boy, do you hear me…?’

***

Eventually we were all seated. Plates of food arrived, borne on the arms of faceless waiting staff, who later collected the plates largely untouched. Crystal glasses were filled and refilled. Wine for the few and water for those who were twelve-step, those who wouldn’t risk the empty calories, and those without drivers. In short, everyone. It was not exactly bacchanalian, not a Jack Nicholson event; nothing overtly naughty there, although the noise level didn’t betray this. Hyena screeches of laughter became almost competitive. Which table was having the very best time? Who had all the confidence to give into a wasted time-off afternoon? Who was the thinnest but living it largest?

My stomach felt jittery. If we won, this award would be a huge fillip for Lioness. We needed the boost it would bring and my belief in that made me feel self-aware. Could everyone tell that my neck and palms were sweating? I was relieved to be next to Carl, as he had always been my cheerleader and was reliably at my elbow with a ready fill-up and an attentive whisper in my ear when he suspected I had forgotten someone’s name. On my other side was a loudly dull man who talked me scene by scene through his lengthy career as I surreptitiously flicked through the awards program. Seeing our name in the brochure made me lose track of his latter Warner Brother years as I wondered who was on the jury that had judged my category.

Dull man had reached the more recent years in his blow-by-blow resume run-down and had finally turned to his companion to introduce us,

‘…which is where I met Georgia. My lifesaver.’

Georgia eye rolled. I wondered whether she was considering moving on to life-save the considerably better-looking Executive on her other side. I was thankful my neighbour had noticed Georgia’s attentiveness to the good-looking guy as it made him pull her back towards him to kiss her and assert his current ownership, which gave me an escape route.

‘Excuse me.’

I turned to my other side, but Carl was being waylaid by one of the waiters, an actor, no doubt. He stood and mouthed to me 'smokes', and left the table, following the waiter to the staff exit door. My turn. I stood and headed upstairs to the restrooms.

***

I sat on the pan in the end stall and stretched out the bones in my spine like I’d been taught. Lowers cortisol by expanding your central core. I dropped my buzzy head between my knees and let it hang down, allowing its weight to act like a pulley on my back. I listened to women come in and then leave. I could picture a speeded-up hidden camera image of them washing up and then preening and perfecting in front of the mirror. Rings off, hand cream on, fresh lipstick applied, blotted and repeat. Next one up. Like that couple who alternately go in and out of the old clock face, or the women that come and go.

I stayed there through several cycles of women, not thinking, allowing myself to breathe deeply, a pause before I went back out. Feeling sick, I wanted to run away. I could just leave, could miss the ceremony. I could head down Wilshire, back home to Maudie and Mikey. Stop this. I had my professional clothes on; time to refresh and blot my professional face and go back down to the pit.

I stood up when the flurry was over but then heard two new women come in and together go into the stall next to me. I could hear the telltale rustle, the shhh and giggle sounds, the deep sniffs while the pan was flushed and then flushed again as the other one drew the powder into her nose. They ruffled everything back into place, flushed once more, left the stall, and installed themselves in front of the long wash basin and mirror. I could hear them clearly.

‘Timed that right,’

‘How’s your table?’

‘Nasty. He’s here and I can’t bear to look at him.’

‘What, are you on his table?’

‘Yes. I had no idea.’

‘Are you going to report him?’

‘Who to? He’s the boss. Anyway, I didn’t get a kit, didn’t take any pictures. I have no proof. They’d say I was asking for it.’

‘I guess you’re not the first.’

‘Sure as shit won’t be the last. Come on.’

As they left, I could see them through the gap between the wall and the stall door. I thought I’d known that voice. I recognised one of them. She was a client of mine.

***

Back at the table, the ceremony had finally started with the aging presenter giving a more sweary version of his television stand-up that drifted on and on. I could see the PAs at the side of the stage giving him increasingly large winding-up motions with their arms. On and on. Twenty long minutes later, the awards properly got underway. As I’d seen in the brochure, there were nearly forty categories, with mine coming close to the end, sandwiched between Editing non-fiction and Music Original Score. At a rate of five minutes per category, oh goodness, this would drag on till midnight. I couldn’t be late tonight.

My palms were clammy. I felt myself smiling more, looking down more, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. Carl filled my water glass, grabbed my sweaty hand, and whispered,

‘I’ve got $100 on us losing.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better Carl?’

‘No one would take my bet on us winning as it’s such a dead cert.’

‘Dear me, no that’s the wrong tack,’ I said, ‘go with, it doesn’t even matter. These awards are second-rate anyway. Who wants to be in this club…you know?’

‘I get it,’ he said and announced to the table, ‘we are so hoping we don’t win as it all seems too self-congratulatory don’t you think? So last century...’

‘Not funny,’ I mouthed and touched his arm to close him down. ‘I wish they’d hurry up in any case. I need to get out of here.’

‘What, you’re not staying and playing?’

‘Not today. Maudie’s birthday. Got a booking at her favourite place. Don’t worry; you’ll have plenty of playmates,’ I said, glancing over his shoulder at the waiter who was still hovering around our table.

‘But it’s your day, win or lose, it’s an achievement to have been…’

‘Yadda, yadda.’

‘Have you heard who’s getting The Special this year?’

‘Oprah again?’

‘Not even. Look, there he is.’

I looked over at where he was pointing, but I couldn’t see who he meant.

***

The ceremony puttered along with the gracious recipients stumbling their way through the tables to go up onto the stage to be given a glass figurine and allowed ninety seconds to thank everyone involved. I counted them down. There were still twenty to go at 3.30 pm, which would mean I might be able to leave by 5 pm if it continued to run at the same speed. The sand timer in my stomach lurched over each time a new category was introduced. No, I shrieked inside, no, don’t linger, get onto that stage, thank the world, keep on going. You’ve had your allotted five minutes. Get on with it. I can’t be late.

I got distracted. She was fifteen today. We had been inseparable since she was born early by C-section; breech, awkward and untimely from her first breath. Maudie Bridie Leatham. One minute I was a pregnant woman, half paralysed, with an obstetrician rifling around inside me with gloved hands, and then the next minute, there she was, with a dark mass of red hair and huge navy eyes signing to me, I need you to look after me. Fifteen years ago. And I should be with her. Why was I always in the wrong place?

Just ten to go before mine, VFX Interstitials. I checked my watch. Cutting it fine but I should still make it home on time. My dull neighbour gestured to the waiter,

‘Bring champagne,’ he instructed and then announced to the table, ‘we all need to raise our glasses for this guy.’

Which guy? I looked at the running order again, weren’t we up to the hair and make-up categories? I’d skipped a page. It looked like an advertisement. On reading, I realised it was a double-page announcement and blurb about the Special Award. No, not now. They can’t delay surely? Not now. Stick it at the end why don’t they? That way I could leave beforehand. I looked back at my watch and did the mental math. If this one takes, say, ten minutes and then the others speed up. It would be possible. Not really possible. I fished my phone from my bag to send a holding text to Mikey. He would understand. He could warn Maudie. I saw the message from Sadie.

- Call me asap. -

Which I had to ignore. Inadvertently I deleted it and replaced it on screen with

- This is running late. Please change table to 7. Sorry! Lx -

Horrible, this is horrible. I felt light-headed and panicky as a new presenter waxed on about the recipient. I wasn’t concentrating on their words, just trying to quell my panic and go through my options. I couldn’t let her down. I couldn’t leave before my category. I might have to let her down; I might have to leave. What excuse could I muster? What was the right thing to do? I mumbled out some of my anxiety to Carl, but my words were inadequate and lightweight, and his reply gave me no respite,

‘Darl. This is our day and either way, we are in the big boy’s room. If you leave the room everyone will assume you’re past caring. We’re over. Lioness is over. Stay and suck it up, whether congratulations or commiserations. Time to be you. You’re always Mom. It’s time to be out there for us.’

The hubbub reached a new noise level. All around people were clapping and standing to applaud the Special Award recipient. The man of the year. The good guy, huge in the Network, the selfless donor to charities, the family man with two beautiful daughters. The mentor. The mensch.

I couldn’t see who it was, but people were looking past me to the person making his way through the tables from the back. A professional entrance, I thought, from way back in the room, which prolonged his walk through the crowd, building up the anticipation. Clever. He came into view. Suddenly. Swept back tawny hair, a $5000 suit, a smile that stopped at his lips. Just like when I first met him. Over twenty years ago and yet he hadn’t aged. Smooth expensive skin, smooth expensive manners as he touched people on their shoulders as he passed them and grasped elbows, kissed the air next to cheeks and entered centre stage into my vision. I wanted to look away, but before I knew it, he brushed my shoulder and kissed the hair next to my ear.

‘Well, if it isn’t Leona Leatham.’

‘Hello Kevin.’

He swept on. Carl was open-mouthed,

‘Kissed by God! How on earth do you know him?’

‘I was his au pair.’

‘What? Kevin McNally's? When?’

‘Back in the day. When I was straight off the boat from London.’

‘So, you literally know where he hides his dirty laundry.’

‘Ha. That’s not for now.’