Chapter 14
Layla has written an open letter to Ted and Alice on Twitter.
‘We’re not upset with you because you have found “love”,’ she writes.
‘But as a fan, I do feel a sense of betrayal, and I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling this.
This is something happening in your life that was revealed by a media outlet, a third party, and not by you, to us.
You have made us believe that you are one type of person, and yet all this new evidence points to the fact that you are not in fact that person at all.
It’s been a rude awakening for us, your longstanding fans, to realize that you have probably been lying about who you really are at the heart of it all.
Authenticity is very important to those of us who you would count as genuine fans. ’
Layla has been retweeted on Twitter a number of times. ‘This stone-cold lunatic over here,’ someone has written underneath it. And another: ‘Leave the dude alone. He doesn’t need to explain himself to whack jobs like you.’
‘Wow,’ I write to her. ‘Fame at last, I guess. Do you think he has read it?’
‘I don’t care if he has, but I did need to get that off my chest,’ Layla writes. ‘He is such a bloody hypocrite.’
I can feel her hurt burning a small crater in the basement of her parents’ house in Arizona. ‘Are you OK?’
‘This isn’t even going to last!’ she texts back. ‘This bitch Alice goes through dick like some sort of bloody lawnmower. She will absolutely break his heart and, sorry, but I’m not having that. He needs to be protected. Hollywood is a bearpit.’
‘Good for you,’ I reply. I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced that Ted needs protecting from someone like Alice Andre, but Layla is absolutely off on one and I’m not inclined to get in the way of the helicopter blades over here.
Amid Layla’s anguish, I get a message from Violet.
‘Do you ever get to talk to Ted on Facebook?’ she wants to know.
This catches me by surprise. Do I tell her that I have tried to initiate contact, but he hasn’t replied, at least not yet? ‘Not really,’ I write. ‘I guess I’m more than happy to admire from a distance.’ If not a geographical one – that’s the bit I leave out.
‘He has completely forgotten who his original fans are.’ Layla really is on a roll.
‘The ones that gave him support and cheered him on when he was doing stand-up in front of twenty drunken college students. Because we know who he really is and what he’s all about.
What, he thinks that now Hollywood is coming he can put all of that past into a neat little box and pretend he is some kind of overnight success? It’s actually vile.’
Naomi has finally responded to my email and suggested catching up over a glass of wine in a bar in Leslieville.
This feels, weirdly, like it has the energy of a first date.
What sort of first impression do I want to make?
Do I want to be friend material? Do I want her to think I’m interesting enough to introduce to the people in her wider life?
I want it to look as though I am together, but not too together.
I decide to wear a dress with a leopard print Peter Pan collar, with a beehive copied straight from a YouTube tutorial.
Feminine, but playful, and hopefully attractive in a nice, non-threatening way.
Naomi arrives wearing a black DKNY dress and cape.
She uses a cane to walk, which she does slowly and with deliberation.
Her lower leg appears pinned in several places, and her legs streaked with scars and burns.
Does she not feel the November cold? Everything about her, from her auburn curls to her rounded cheeks, is soft and cuddly.
‘Hey, Mama,’ she coos gently as though I am as familiar to her already as a much-loved family member. The word and the warmth make me fall into her arms, sobbing. Being called ‘Mama’ is just too much. The name I wanted for myself but cannot have.
She smooths my hair over with shushes.
‘You’re here!’ she says, a little too loudly, a bit too excited. She shrugs off the cape as she adjusts herself on the barstool. ‘Sorry again about Edmonton last week. Just … couldn’t be helped.’
Naomi appears to know the waiter, although he isn’t what you’d call warm towards her. She orders Sémillon without even looking at the menu, or at him.
‘The whole bottle?’ the waiter asks, just to make sure, though he seems to know the answer already.
‘The whole bottle,’ Naomi affirms, sing-song. ‘And what are you having?’ she says, turning to me. ‘Just kidding.’
What must it be like to have your step-brother become famous?
To be adored and anointed by the Hollywood gods as some sort of deity?
Her demeanour tells me nothing. She certainly does not give off any kind of famous vibe, or even a famous-by-proxy vibe.
I have a thousand questions about him clawing at the back of my throat, but they’ll have to wait.
‘So! What brings you to Toronto?’ she asks.
‘Well, I’ve come for an extended holiday,’ I tell her. ‘Just taking a bit of time out of my regular life. Figuring out next moves, you know?’
Naomi nods. ‘I can’t imagine wanting to live my life anywhere else if I lived in London. It’s such an awesome town.’
‘That’s true, but everywhere in Stoke Newington just reminds me of … her,’ I say. This is only a half-lie.
‘I get it,’ Naomi notes, immediately softening. ‘I guess for the same reason I stay here. Because I can’t bear the idea of going anywhere else, really. The memories. They’re all over every part of the house, the neighbourhood …’
‘Your girls are so beautiful,’ I tell her, truthfully.
‘So beautiful,’ she affirms. She doesn’t think to ask how I know this.
‘They just … broke open parts of my heart that I never even knew were there, you know? I was just always in work mode, all about the hospital, and I thought that would be my life forever. The mom thing was a big surprise to me. But I was really, really good at it.’ Her voice wobbles, and she drowns it with a big mouthful of wine.
‘I know, but you know what, Naomi? You are still a mum,’ I say, giving her forearm an emphatic grab.
Even as I’m saying it, I half envisage her telling Ted about me later – this sage, emotionally intelligent beauty she’s just met.
‘In fact, you’re probably more of a mum than most regular parents.
They might not be here but you have probably parented them more powerfully and protectively, even if only for a short time.
Your babies aren’t in your arms, but in the purest sense of the term, you are still a mother.
All this sadness is just … love in another form. ’
I couldn’t even tell you where this stuff even came from in the moment, and as it escapes me, I falter a bit.
Bit much. Yet it turns out that ‘laying it on too thick’ amounts to ‘just about right’ in this particular set of circumstances.
Naomi gratefully puts her swollen fingers down on my hand that’s still resting on her arm.
I note more scars – scars all over, Jesus – and feel sympathy pains shoot down into my shins.
‘God, you’re so strong,’ I tell her.
‘You know something?’ Naomi says, sniffling. ‘I dream of the day when I never again have to hear someone tell me I am strong.’
She’s not being mean. Instead, she gives me an ‘if you know, you know’ smile.
‘I deliberately gave the girls the kind of names where they could pick what they wanted to call themselves when they were older,’ she continues, holding the wine glass so the wine cascades in one neat glide down her throat.
‘I always wondered if Elizabeth might become a Liz, or a Betty, or even a Beth. Same with Catherine. We called her Kitty, but she might have become a Katie or a Cathy or maybe stayed with Catherine.’ She lets out a deep sigh.
My chest is hammering.
‘What was your little one called?’ Naomi asks gently.
‘Luna,’ I tell her. My nose starts to burn up and I try and sniff it away.
Naomi takes my hand. ‘It’s tough, I know, I know.’
As we talk and drink from the bottle of wine, I notice that Naomi is a full glass of wine ahead of me. She’s drinking with huge gulps, almost breathing it in as much as drinking it.
‘You’re lucky though, you have a good family around you. I wish I had that,’ I tell her, hoping she’ll open up a bit more about all that. ‘Do you have any siblings in the area?’
‘Well, I do.’ She makes an eye-rolling face that doesn’t strike me as a good sign. ‘My mom is across town, and I do have one step-brother sort of living nearby but—’
The waiter returns and I have never wanted to stab a person in the eye with a fork up until this moment in life, but would gladly do it in the here and now.
‘If you want to order lunch, the kitchen will close in about ten minutes,’ he says. He sounds a bit stern.
‘I think just another one of these,’ Naomi says, waving the wine bottle in front of him. His reaction suggests that he is used to it.
‘Last time I was here, he and I had to have words,’ Naomi whispers, gesturing to the waiter. It was, I gather, not a good moment for either.
In a move that I will forever see as pure baller, Naomi then picks up my half-full wine glass, offers me a mock-admonishing face as though I should be drinking faster, and helps herself to half of it, sloshing it into her own glass.
Impressed at the hubris – this sort of thing is a hanging offence where I come from, after all – I have to laugh.
‘So, one step-brother living nearby,’ I sing-song, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. I’ve just given you half my wine, girl, you’d better start coughing up some details. Something. Anything.
‘One step-brother, one too many at that. He’s not really in town that often,’ she says, brow furrowed. ‘I think he’s in … Hawaii right now? But he’ll be back soon, as the MuchMusic Awards are happening next week and I think he’s going to those.’
‘Oh, is he a musician?’ I say, all innocent. ‘Maybe I’ll get to meet him while I’m here.’