The Disappearing Act(30)
14
Stars
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 12
Souki’s ready and waiting when I pull up outside the sad-looking Hollywood Star Tours building, a bundle of energy, her doll-like features framed by a bush of wild blond hair, her petite frame snuggled into a cashmere tracksuit, headphones slung casually around her neck.
After a flurry of hugging and effusive greetings, Souki roots out our tickets and we join the queue forming beside the safari truck. Inside the truck is bench seating that can comfortably carry the seven of us currently queuing. It’s an eclectic group with Souki and me, three chatty southern soccer moms, two cheerful Indian gentlemen, and one Korean student.
Our tour guide arrives full of energy, sporting a Hollywood Star Tours shirt and a microphone headset, shaking each of our hands individually as we board the truck and take our seats. Souki flashes me a grin.
“This is everything,” she whispers. “I love that we are doing this!” I stifle a giggle as she pulls me in to another tight rugby-tackle hug.
“So, Mi…I have questions,” she says after releasing me. “(A) Why has it been so long, (b) are you going completely mad out here too? and (c), in the interests of full disclosure, I’ve heard about what happened with George.”
Everybody knows what happened with George.
“Okay, well to answer (a): Sorry it’s been so long. Work, I guess. And (b) yes, I definitely think I am going a little bit mad out here.” I run through her questions as lightly as I can. “And do you mind if we do (c) a little later? Bit of a downer.” I make a joke of it but I really don’t want to lose my good mood yet and rehashing the breakup is guaranteed to do that.
She nods understandingly. “Sure, later. But yeah, I know what you mean about going loopy. I’ve been in LA for three weeks now, and I swear to God I’m starting to forget how to be a normal human being. It’s a bio-dome of bullshit out here.”
“You’ve done three weeks already? Are you going home soon?” I ask, suddenly terrified to lose the one person I’ve actually felt comfortable being around for days.
“Yes, thank God! My flight home is on Sunday morning.” Souki stuffs her headphones away in her rucksack and slips on some sunglasses. “I cannot wait to get back to London. I just want people to be a bit rude to me again, you know? I don’t know how many more times I can believably say ‘Have a great day’ to complete strangers without cracking up.”
I let out a laugh just as the tour guide flicks on his sound system and a high-pitched wail of feedback fills the air. Hands fly to ears and faces pucker. Here we go…I mouth over the noise and Souki snorts with laughter.
“Sorry, folks, technical difficulties!” the tour guide booms as the driver starts the engine. “Okay, gang. Welcome to the Hollywood Star Tours, rated the number one Hollywood stars’ home tour for the third year running by Tripadvisor.” Souki nudges me grinning and gives a silent double thumbs-up. And I can’t help but feel a little thrill of genuine excitement as he continues. “My name is Phil and I’m your guide today, so if you enjoy the tour then feel free to post a review, good or bad—I’m joking of course!” A spatter of chuckles from the group as we cast off from our moorings and join the flow of traffic, sailing westward, toward the hills, the warm sun on our faces.
I hear the low hum of Phil’s voice, the soft cluck of camera shutters, and the honeyed drawl of American passengers’ voices. When I look up, the palm trees of Sunset Boulevard are gliding by above us, backlit by blue, and with the sun on my skin and the breeze on my face, Hollywood rolls past.
We stop at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, littered with buskers in worn-out costumes, cut-rate Spider-Men and plastic Darth Vaders, out-of-work actors in sweaty Halloween suits. But somehow the glamour of Hollywood holds, as, undeterred, Phil tells us sparkling tales of golden-age magic. Stories of Oscar-night starlets stepping from gleaming limousines. Unbelievably, the refracting shimmer he weaves with words begins to settle over the tourist-packed piazza before us. We disembark to try to fit our feet and palms into the hand-and footprints of long-extinguished stars.
The tour continues, we head north, stopping periodically on the manicured edges of lush palm-obscured mansions. We peer through custom-designed gates at questionably appointed design projects and pipe dreams: castles in the sky, Swiss mountain lodges transported to the California sunshine, whitewashed Mexican villas, glass infinity houses teetering on craggy cliffsides. We catch glimpses of lives only, but Phil fills the gaps as we rumble up higher into the hills.
Between the houses of the stars, I tell Souki about George. The whole Fantastic Movers extended version. Though I edit out the tears, and self-recrimination, and Instagram sadness. She shakes her head at it all but has the good grace not to try to cheer me up with platitudes. Instead conversation moves on to auditions, we discuss Bee Miller, we talk about how strange it is to be so far from home. An ocean between you and your real life.
At the Hollywood sign we pull up to a dusty layby and disembark. Whether you buy in to the magic of Hollywood or not, this close up, the sign is something. Each letter the height of a five-story building. As I look up at the giant letters soaring above us I find myself thinking of the story Miguel told me on my first day, the story of the actress who jumped.
The tour guide apologizes for the mess around the sign, some kind of city workers’ strike, and my concentration falters. I catch myself gazing down into the sunless ravine beneath us as he talks, thinking about how long that actress’s cold body lay there, broken and undiscovered.