Perceptions (18) ‘And you thought life was difficult on the other side?’ Sonia grinned. ‘Did that make sense?’ ‘Nothing makes sense, not any more.’ Sonia regarded me with some sympathy. ‘What are you going to do now? I sense unrest in you.’ I looked deep into her young, attractive eyes. ‘I’ve made my mind up. I want my life back, though I don’t know how I’m going to do that. What?’ Sonia stepped away from me with a frown. ‘I’d say you’ve already started your journey back.’ Irene had just joined us, and both women surveyed me with interest. ‘You’re beginning to dematerialise, Mark. Look at your body.’ I did, firstly at my mortal self in the bed, and then down at my shimmering spiritual form. A light had begun to emanate. It encapsulated my physical being and sent out searching, spiralling tentacles, exactly as it had for Lara before I was drawn into her body. ‘I think it’s time we left the vicinity, Sonia,’ Irene suggested. ‘While we still can.’ ‘Absolutely. Mark, it’s been nice knowing you, and good luck with your life.’ She started to back away. ‘Make the most of it,’ Irene said, doing the same. ‘You may not remember a thing, but we won’t forget you. We’ll tell the others that you’ve gone. Good bye, Mark.’ ‘See you next time,’ Sonia chipped in, and then I was alone in the ward as both of them departed through the wall. I felt the warm touch of the light and the powerful influence of will drawing me to the bed. This time I knew what was happening and I didn’t want to fight it. I was going back to Lizzie. Back to the woman I loved. When I opened my eyes and gazed at a white ceiling discoloured by subdued lighting, I expected to feel a certain amount of pain. It therefore came as no surprise that my head was buzzing as I gingerly tried to raise it from my pillow. Instinctively, my right arm shot to my forehead, and that did surprise me. Where were all the wires to the monitors? Why was there no beeping sound coming from them? I sniffed the air. There was an odd scent about it, a kind of mixture of body odour, perfume and smoke. But not the smoke associated with nicotine; and as for the perfume, I failed to recognise it. Driven by curiosity, I decided to risk a little discomfort to find some answers. Hesitantly, I forced my body, amidst some groans, to obey my desire to rise, wincing as a spasm twitched, frowning as my ribs agreed to the demands of my brain, and blinking at the early sight of quality curtains drawn across a much larger window and much further from the bed than I was expecting. The shuffle of a body next to me caused me to turn my head far too quickly, and a brief interlude of stars delayed my clarity of vision. Stiff and now dizzy, I checked my movement temporarily, allowing the moment to pass, and I closed my eyes for a second. When I next opened them I was sitting in an upright position facing forward at a range of plush bedroom furniture and those curtains framing the window. ‘What the hell -?’ I glanced down at the object to my left, and I had to close and re-open my eyes again before I would believe what I was seeing. A woman lay next to me, on her side and with her bare back to me. Thick strands of wavy dark hair partially shielded her face and she was asleep but clearly responding to my erratic shifting. ‘Lizzie?’ I murmured. My whisper was audible enough to lure her from slumber. Her head turning slowly, she gave me a drowsy smile. But it wasn’t Lizzie. Stunned, I watched as this strange woman rose to stagger sluggishly out of bed. She was naked, though not abashed about it as she lurched towards a closed door without looking back at me. Managing to avoid bumping into it, she closed it behind her. Shortly I heard the faint sound of trickling water, followed by the whoosh of what must have been a flushing toilet. I rubbed my face and my eyes desperately trying to wake up, my mind bursting with questions. The door opened and the woman, a very young one, aged about 20 or 21 and very beautiful, dozily returned to bed, curled up next to me and resumed her sleep. Shit! Where’s Lizzie? Who’s the girl? Where the hell am I? No answers were to be gained lying here in bed. Anxiety-filled, I tossed back the single sheet that covered me only to find that I was also stark naked. Shocked, my eyes darted around the room for a gown or a bathrobe. Finding none, I thought to hell with it! since the only other person in the room was fast asleep, and launched my feet out of the bed, swaying uneasily as I rose to stand. I touched my throbbing temple with the tips of my right hand. Something didn’t feel right. Was it drugs or sleep, or -? The en-suite became my sanctuary. Locking the door quietly behind me, I glanced around the dim interior, and spotting a washbasin, I made it to the taps with a minimum of curses. The cold water was incredibly invigorating, but I was then rocked by a lightning-quick set of flashbacks that startled and confused me. I found myself falling backward, and hastily I latched onto the side of the basin for security. ‘What the fuck was that?’ I breathed out loud in fear, searching for some light-switches, locating them and stabbing some of them in disarrayed panic. The subtle lighting found me staring into a commanding mirror - straight into the face of a complete stranger. A howl of surprise jumped from my throat, and I whirled round to look behind me, realising in horror that the face I’d seen was my own. It was the blunt instrument I needed to smack some sense into me, the very thing that suddenly cleared the murky fog in my brain, and recognition stole into my mind. I was younger than I last remembered, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with good teeth - and bloody good-looking, too. Slightly stubbly, but the film-star look was definitely there. I glared at myself in the mirror, forcing the truth to be accepted. This was me. But who was I? Where was I? Whose house was this, and whose wife or girlfriend was I sharing a bed with? ‘This is not good, not good,’ I told myself. ‘Got to find my clothes and get a grip.’ I washed my face again and dried it with a nearby hanging towel, feeling a little fresher now, and steadier on my feet. I glanced around the en-suite, it’s marble floor, full-wall tiling, the swish décor - the beautiful sunken bath - marvelling at the size and splendour of it all, while fighting the growing belief that none of this was real and that I was actually strapped comatose to a hospital bed in Intensive Care. A black silky bathrobe hung outside the glass-enclosed shower cubicle. I put it on. It had ‘Lover boy’ written in large Chinese writing on the front. Lover Boy? How did I know that? Shaking my head with bewilderment, I tied the slip around my waist. Gradually, as the gnawing pain in my head decreased, I began to think, to realise, that I couldn’t remain locked in here forever. I had to go outside, maybe wake and interrogate the girl, and find out what was going on. Unlocking the door, I opened it and stepped forward into the haziness of the huge bedroom. The girl remained unmoved, and I decided to surge on past her and take a look beyond. The hall was massive, with marble floors and to-the-ceiling Greek-styled columns, softened by tall pot-plants with outstretched leaves that would have dwarfed my entrance hall at home. Yet something told me I was already at home. I wandered into a huge living room, where I stopped and gasped. It wasn’t the size or the chic décor, but the semi-naked bodies of young men and women that lay in many of the chairs and couches. At first I thought they were all dead, until I heard a few of them stirred by my presence. A hand reached out to me, grasping my fingers gently, inducing me to look down into the chair next me. A blonde young girl with honey skin and glazed eyes was smiling at me. ‘Great party, Wes,’ she said, while pushing her left breast back into her skimpy bra. ‘Yeah,’ I replied, taken aback. ‘Wasn’t it?’ Before I could engage in a conversation I was going to regret, I heard a door open and slam shut; a big door: the front door. I turned to greet the new arrival, hoping it wasn’t the owner about to discover the human litter and blow his top, or the young girl’s boyfriend hoping to catch her lover. Lover Boy. Whatever the case, I wasn’t ready for it. I stood my ground in order to wait. A well-groomed man aged somewhere in his mid-thirties, and wearing a sharp suit, strode into the living and braked at the sight of me. ‘Wes!’ he cried, raising his arms in the air. He didn’t seem very happy to see me. ‘You look like shit! You’re not even dressed and - oh, what the fuck is all this?’ He had an American accent and he seemed to know who I was; which wasn’t entirely a good thing, at the moment. He’d just seen the group of slobs to my rear. ‘Another of your famous parties? When the fuck are you going to learn, Wes? Christ sakes. Get these people outta here! And where’s Myra? You told her to take the day off again, didn’t you? Fuck! Come on, people. Up and atom!’ He stormed around the living room clapping his hands in the manner reserved for herding goats. ‘Wake up, you drugged out hippies! Hit the road!’ ‘Hey! Hey, take it easy, Roy,’ I heard myself say. He turned on me. ‘Have you forgotten the Paris interview this lunchtime, Wes? What’s the matter with you?’ He shook his head in contained anger. ‘Why do I bother, huh? Who needs a playboy superstar to look after?’ ‘You do,’ someone said. I turned to view my defender, a young, good-looking guy with a toned upper body. He yanked on his shirt as Roy waded into him with a scorching expression. ‘He pays your salary, pal. Don’t let ‘im tear you off, Wes.’ ‘Nobody asked you - sonny,’ Roy growled, rather lamely, pointing a finger.’ Get dressed and beat it.’ ‘You can’t talk to me like that.’ ‘I just did. While I’m his manager, what I say goes.’ My mind drifted from the conflict as the name Roy Branca began to sift through my hazy recollections. I knew him; I should know him. He was my manager, he’d said. Manager of what? ‘All of you,’ I caught Roy say in a raised voice: ‘I want you outta here in 10 minutes, or I’m calling the cops to throw you out. I don’t want to see any of you when I come back into this room.’ One girl, who was staggering around on one high heel, wailed: ‘But Wes invited us.’ ‘Well, I’m un-inviting you. You’ve all had your fun, your … whatever, so get off on that, and scram.’ All of them began to assemble their belongings as I stood by and watched, feeling rather embarrassed and certainly out of touch. Roy was about to bring me back into the real world. He headed toward a door at the far centre of the living room and stood by it. ‘Wes, come with me. I’m making you a coffee. A strong one. You need it, pal.’ The kitchen was also massive, something out of a Hollywood mansion, and Roy seemed to know his way around; cups, coffee, milk and sugar - no problem. He tossed a number of croissants into the oven while he was at it. I sat at a large breakfast table in the middle of the room, from where I could see through a pair of French windows towards - was that the sea? ‘Here,’ Roy said, planting a steaming mug in front of me on the table. ‘Drink. The croissants’ll be ready in a second.’ ‘I take milk,’ I complained. ‘This morning you take it black.’ ‘Nazi.’ He poured a coffee for himself and took a sip, then stood there watching me. ‘What? You’re afraid I’ll give it to a plant when you’re not looking?’ ‘I’m trying to figure out which direction you’ll keel over in.’ ‘I don’t feel that bad.’ ‘Well, you look it.’ ‘Thanks.’ The oven timer chimed, and Roy placed his coffee mug on the table and went to remove the croissants. He even took the trouble to slice them and fill them with butter and marmalade. He brought them over to me on a plate. There were three of them, hot and delicious-looking. ‘Thanks, mum.’ Roy grinned. ‘Eat up. It’ll do you good.’ I tucked in, taking generous gulps of coffee in between. It gave my mind the boost it needed, but it also helped to settle my anxiety. The period of silence also gave my thoughts a chance to re-assemble themselves. John Wesley Lyle. That was my name; is my name, with the preference to Wes. Then why did Mark Draper keep bugging me? ‘I had the strangest dreams last night,’ I opened up, finally, after a lengthy break. ‘I dreamt I was in a car accident, in a coma, and I almost died … and I was going through a nightmare world of confused emotions. For some reason my name was Mark Draper … and I had a wife called Lizzie.’ ‘Jesus.’ Roy almost dropped his mug. ‘What the fuck were you guys on last night? Your brain must resemble marsh mellow. For Christ sake, why do you do it to yourself? You’re one of the hottest young prospects in town - why’re you trying to kill yourself?’ Red-faced suddenly, I glared at him. An actor? ‘You really hit the shit big-time, didn’t you? Huh?’ Roy breathed in deeply, and slammed his empty mug on the table. ‘You just described your last movie, Wes, you fucking -’ he was angry with me again. ‘Don’t you remember anything? Do you even know who you are? Do you really want to die, and give me a heart attack into the bargain? Do you? I should just call the fucking cops right now and tell them to come and take you away; throw you in the slammer for a few months. It might save your fucking life!’ Mark Draper and Lizzie were characters in my last movie? And Sonia and Lara, too? None of it was real? The whole scene with the ghosts and everything . . . was just the sweet illusion of a dream? ‘What’s it gonna take, eh, Wes?’ Roy went on. ‘What? Do you want to end up in a box going back to London? ‘Cos that’s what’s going to happen, you know!’ ‘Okay, okay,’ I yelled, rising sharply from the table and grating the chair across the tiled floor. ‘Don’t keep harping on! I’m getting the message, all right? Slowly - these things take time.’ Hands in the air, I walked out of the kitchen ‘Where are you going?’ ‘For a shower!’ I yelled back, heading for the bedroom. My bedroom. ‘If it’s okay with you, mum?’ I shoved opened the door to the en-suite, my temper cooling now, my dream world coming back to me in the process. I just couldn’t believe that all of it had been drug-induced fantasy in one night. The sound of a running shower sidetracked my train of thought. I frowned as I hung up my bathrobe, and stared through the glazed shower cubicle, just barely able to make out the shape of a body. What did you expect, Sherlock? I berated myself. A ghost? Naked, I cautiously slid open the door, and the steam smothered my face. ‘Hi, Wes,’ I heard. It was the girl in my bed this morning. Heather, that was her name. I stood there watching her, all wet and glistening, and clean, and - ‘Join me,’ she purred. Why not? I didn’t have a wife to concern myself about, and I was 28 years old. I was Wes Lyle, the actor, superstar, and every heterosexual woman in Hollywood wanted a piece of my flesh, particularly the throbbing piece now sticking up between my legs. I stepped inside and got wet with Heather. She added gel to the sponge she was holding, placed it on my hairless chest, and started rubbing it up and down in small circles that served to fuel me in the male gender department. ‘You don’t mind if I use your shower before I get dressed and leave, do you?’ She’d obviously evaded the Roy Branca assassination squad. ‘Leave?’ I asked, charming her with a typical Wesley Lyle smile as water cascaded over my head. ‘Why leave? Ever.’ I leaned into her and kissed her. In my arms she capitulated, one of her legs rising to encircle my buttocks at the same time as an arm swung round to the back of my head that drew me into a passionate embrace. One kiss; long time. Last night’s action began to scramble out from under the mound of my crazy dreams and Heather’s carnal appetite, pre-drug wipe-out, began to re-surface. Mark and Lizzie Draper began to fade, along with Teri Linden and all the rest. This was the real world, the land of the living. The sky was a brilliant blue and already it was hot. I was dressed lightly, in view of the weather, and casually in a lemon T-shirt and stone-coloured chinos, ignoring the condescending frowns of my manager, who’d probably have preferred me in something more formal although he didn’t challenge me on the subject. He was the businessman, while I was the star. Having aired his view about my parties, Roy was curiously quiet during the journey, and once or twice I glimpsed him giving me the once over, unsure whether he was judging my condition or my choice of clothes. Together, we sat in the back of my air-conditioned Aston Martin, chauffeured by Carlos, my personal driver. Perhaps with the intent of keeping a close and beady eye on me, Roy accompanied me into town for the arranged interview with Paris Celebrity Magazine. Roy knew I loved Italian food and he also knew my favourite haunt, so he’d arranged the meeting at Bella Nova’s in West Sunset Boulevard who made, in my humble opinion, the best pizzas on the planet. Of course, I was good business for them, too, so they always treated me like royalty. Stepping out of the car outside the restaurant, diners seated in the small street-front forecourt turned and greeted me, some of them like old friends; fans I didn’t even know I had. "Hi, Wes," came from various directions and I afforded some of them my autograph on request. Roy was patient. This was part of being a star. Inside the restaurant, the owner, Paulo, greeted me. His usual effervescence on seeing me made sure that everyone else in the vicinity knew who I was. ‘Ciao, Wes!’ he cried, a huge beam lighting his face. ‘Come sta?’ ‘Molto bene, Paulo. Bene. E tu?’ ‘Si, si, si. Always when I see you, bello. You bring in the customers, eh?’
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