‘I work on a boat.’
‘Grace wants to be a writer too,’ said Gabriel, sliding his arm around her shoulder in an almost paternal way. ‘I’m putting her in front of my agent as soon as we get back to New York.’
Grace looked up at him sharply. New York? ‘We’? He hadn’t mentioned this to her; in fact he had never spoken about them as a plural or of them having any future together, now she thought about it.
The future. What would that be? A cold sterile room? A nurse with rubber gloves and a tray of steel instruments? How much would it hurt? How late could she leave it? She’d wished she’d paid more attention to those stories in the women’s magazines, but back then, she’d thought it would never happen to her.
‘Write a role in there for me, won’t you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘A role. For me,’ smiled David. ‘When you sell the movie rights for your first book, I want to take the leading role. Make him sexy too, OK?’
He was smiling his megawatt smile, but already the star was looking over her shoulder, eager to move on.
‘Well, I think you’re the first person to ever resist the David Robb charm offensive.’ Gabe chuckled.
‘Not my type,’ she said, forcing a smile.
Gabriel caught the look and frowned slightly. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, touching her on the arm.
‘Of course,’ she said breezily. ‘This is my first Hollywood party. I’m a bit overawed.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Well I’m a bit out of my depth myself. Writers’ parties are nothing like this, let me tell you.’
A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne and Grace automatically reached for one, desperate to calm her nerves, but then instantly recoiled as she remembered her condition.
‘I was just telling Gabriel how he should come to LA for six months or so,’ said a man in a cap. Gabriel introduced him as Neil Berry, the film’s director.
‘What do you think, Grace? We need storytellers like him out there and he’s sure as shit gonna make more than writing those fruity little books of his. I was on the phone to Joe Eszterhas this morning. The buzz on Basic Instinct is good, and if it does great box office, he can charge three million a script.’
Grace nodded and smiled thinly. She was beginning to feel dizzy now. She needed fresh air.
‘Sorry, could you excuse me? I’m just going outside.’
‘You OK?’ asked Gabe.
‘Fine.’
She walked into the grounds and sat on the terrace overlooking the party. Sitting in the dark, her hand on her quite flat belly, she felt vulnerable and alone, so far away from home. She was twenty-two; it wasn’t too young to have a baby. But am I ready?
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Grace could see Gabriel inside, effortlessly gliding from person to person – actors, producers, studio heads, all the top people at the party. Writers might be bottom of the totem pole in Hollywood, but not this writer. They all wanted to talk to him, his very presence made them feel more intelligent. Was this man ready to be a father? With her? The reality was she just didn’t know, because she barely knew Gabriel. He would certainly be against an abortion. H
is family were staunchly Catholic, and while Gabriel was more relaxed, his faith was still important to him; his novels were laced with religious symbolism, and every Sunday he went to the local Catholic church for mass. Grace dearly wished she had such strong spiritual principles; at least it would make the decision easier. One thing she was sure of though: she had to be responsible for her own actions. She’d learnt the hard way that you had to make the right decisions, not the easy ones.
Finally Gabriel bounced up the steps towards her holding two flutes of champagne aloft.
‘Refreshments.’ He smiled, sitting down next to her. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I don’t have to go back to New York immediately.’
‘Is Hollywood calling?’
‘Actually I was thinking of staying here,’ he said quietly, taking hold of her fingers. He turned to look at her and she felt a rush of emotion so strong she was glad she was sitting down.
Was this love? she asked herself. Proper grown-up love, complete with responsibilities and difficulties. For a split second she vaguely thought of Alex Doyle, but she could barely recall his face.
‘I’m behind on the new novel and there are too many distractions in New York, so I’m postponing my flight home. For a few weeks at least.’
‘So I’m not a distraction?’ she chided.