Before she knew what had happened Val arrived in London. She went straight to the flat in Bayswater and found Sydney there. He was nice enough, but she had to let him know immediately that she wasn’t interested in any off-the-set activities.
When she went for hair and makeup consultations the following day, she met Kenny. Through him she found the in spots, and the rock-and-rollers to hang out with. Hairdressers in every town always seemed to know all that shit. Kenny copped some great hash for her. He preferred coke and dropped a lot of acid, and much to her delight, her favorite druggy-poo Quaaludes, were easy to get.
She hadn’t realized she was starring in a horror film until they started shooting. The genre had become popular once more. Audiences couldn’t get enough blood and gore. As long as she was being paid well, she honestly didn’t give a shit what the movie was about. She didn’t remember much about making the film except for one hideous scene that took three days to shoot. The director insisted on having live white mice run all over her as she lay at the bottom of an enormous staircase in the ruins of a cold, damp castle doing her death scene. She later referred to the whole experience, as “a funny disaster, with a sadistic fucker of a director, who got his money’s worth!” All she knew was she had to wear the same sheer negligee throughout the entire film and nearly froze to death most of the time.
She’d quickly found a new beau in London—a drummer for one of the hottest bands around who liked to get high as much as she did. When he didn’t have a gig, they hit every dance palace and private club that made up the London scene, usually ending up with a crowd crashing at her pad. In the morning, or whenever they came to, her fun thing was doing a body count and being introduced to this little dolly, or that gorgeous creature who hadn’t been able to make it out of the bathroom and had ended up sleeping in the tub.
This lifestyle went on for the nine months of shooting. The nights actually helped her get through the days with “Terry the terrorist,” another of her pet names for the director. She was using so many drugs, “A Foggy Day” wasn’t the name of a song anymore, it was the haze that encompassed her whole world. Surprisingly enough she still looked fabulous, and her picture still made all the trades and fan magazines.
Her whole entourage was at Mirabelle’s one night, as guests of some Lord or other, when someone came up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder, and whispered, “hello,” in her ear. She turned and came face-to-face with Nicky. She put her arms around his neck and started to kiss him. She felt him stiffen up and try to pull away. She hung onto him, more for support than anything else.
“Val. You look great. How long have you been here in London? Say hello to Fletcher. God, it’s a small world. Wow, you look great.”
His stream of dialogue stopped for a moment. The silence was awkward. Val pulled herself together as best she could. She tried to focus on the million words that had just passed through her head. It was too much for her to comprehend. Instead, she turned to the people at her table.
“Look everyone, it’s Nicky. My Nicky Venuti!”
She turned back to him.
“What the fuck are you doing here? You in London. Fancy that.”
“I’m working on a theater piece. I’m directing now.”
“Fancy that.”
That was all she could think of to say. He seemed so sure of himself, not like the Nicky she had fallen in love with a zillion years ago.
“I just wanted to say hi. This is our bon voyage party.”
He put his arm around Fletcher.
“We’re leaving for New York in a couple of days. My play is going to be off Broadway.”
Val finally found her tongue and it was laced with poison. “We is it? Who’s the we? Or is that the queen’s royal we?”
Nicky ignored her sarcasm. “Me and Fletcher.”
Val looked at Fletcher for the first time and started to laugh. “He looks like me!”
It was true. He was a taller version of her. His hair was long and blond. He had fine features like her and the same enormous, deep blue eyes. They were even wearing similar pantsuits, both looking like they had just come from Carnaby Street.
“Well, you always had good taste, Mr. Venuti. Tell me, what does Fletcher do? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I bet whatever it is he does, he does it very well.”
Nicky surprised her by laughing and looked adoringly at Fletcher.
“So far, no complaints.”
Val looked at the people at her table. They were hanging on to every word, waiting for something to happen…something to make their evening memorable…some new cocktail chat for their next soirée. A couple of them giggled. She hated them all at that instant. Why was she with them and not Nicky? She knew he wanted to leave. No way! She wasn’t going to let him walk away, just like that.
“Come on. Who’s going to dance with me?”
No one answered.
“Come on. We’re supposed to be having fun. I’m having fun.”
She went over to Fletcher and bowed.
“Fletcher, would you do me the honor of joining me for what I believe is a dance called the Frug?”
He looked her in the eye, bowed, took her arm, and escorted her out onto the dance floor. Val caught a glimpse of them both in a full-length mirror that covered a column nearby. How strange a sight it was to see the two of them together. He was nearly a mirror image of her, just taller; that was the only significant difference.
They both danced extremely well. Each picked up on what the other was about to do. It was one of those absolutely brilliant, once-in-a-lifetime moments when you wished someone had been there with a movie camera to capture it. They were dancing to The Temps’ “Papa Was A Rolling Stone.” It was like watching a matador with a bull. They spoke to each other with every move. They loved, then hated, they attacked and surrendered, they seduced and teased. They understood each other. They didn’t know what they understood, they only knew they did. So many feelings Val had bottled up for so long became a step, or a lunge, or a stretch, or a jump. When the song ended, they walked back to their table amid cheers and bravos. Fletcher stood in front of her, took her hand, kissed it, tossed his long blond hair, and smiled.
“Ciou, bella.”
That’s all he said before he disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor.
She was left there with nothing but an uneasy silence coming from her friends. All eyes were on her. She picked up the bottle of champagne and drained it. The people at her table cheered, and Lord whoever-he-was ordered more champagne immediately.
Val’s stomach was in knots. Nicky had left with him and hadn’t even said good night. At that moment it felt like the worst, most embarrassing thing he’d ever done to her. She hated him for that! She remembered how she’d stood up for him when her mother called him a hooligan. How dare he! One thing was for sure, she would never forgive him. If only he’d said good night. But he hadn’t.
She washed down a lude with some fresh bubbly and went back on the dance floor, determined to show the world she was having fun. Her friends quickly joined her, all making a little too much noise, all trying a little too hard.
It didn’t work.