‘You’re telling me that’s a swimming pool? You can actually swim in there?’
‘Can, did and do. Everyone who was anyone in the fifties and sixties skinny-dipped in there. A few nobodies as well, but the less said about them, the better.’
I’d never seen anything like it. A series of three long, narrow pools, each with its own dancing fountain, beckoned us down the sprawling estate and into what looked like a not insignificant manmade lake. The water was a deep, unreal blue and it was surrounded by enough foliage to make the whole thing feel completely private and secluded, despite the fact we were only a five-minute drive from the closest 7-Eleven.
‘The estate agent might be a vulture but he’s not wrong about this,’ I admitted, flapping the fabric of my dress around my legs. It was a hot day and the water looked so inviting, part of me was dying to tear off my frock and hurl myself in.
‘Wally hated the modern ones,’ Myrna said, starting down the paved footpath towards the lake. ‘He wanted something that looked like it had been here all along. These were my idea.’ She tapped the edge of one of the narrow pools with the tip of her cane. ‘They have the same thing at the Hearst Estate in Beverly Hills. We were visiting one day and I thought, why shouldn’t I have that?’
I could not relate. Imagine popping into the home of one of the richest men in the world and thinking, I quite fancy that for myself. It was like going to visit Jeff Bezos and buying yourself a spaceship on the way home.
‘Why not me?’ Myrna said, pleased as punch. ‘Good words to live by.’
Why not me? I could think of a million reasons.
I turned and looked back at her house, her palace as it glowed softly in the afternoon sun, and it hit me all at once. I was very, very far from home.
‘And what about you, Phoebe Chapman?’ she said. ‘All I know about you is you’re visiting your sister even though she’s out of town, and you have far too much free time on your hands. What’s your story?’
‘Me?’ I quickly shook my head. ‘I don’t have a story.’
‘That’s a lie. Everyone has a story.’
‘Then let’s just say, compared to yours,’ I replied, ‘it’s very dull. No one has ever even suspected me of pushing my husband downstairs.’
Myrna placed her cane in front of her, resting both hands on top of it. ‘You’re still young by today’s standards, there’s plenty of time for that. Lana was in her late thirties when her daughter “allegedly” finished off her lover, but from what I heard at the time, he had it coming.’
And there was something else for me to google when I got home.
We walked back to the house; Myrna settled in a large rattan chair outside the French doors and silently invited me to take the one next to it. She knocked her stick against the side of her chair, the rhythmic tapping making my heart rate spike.
‘You said something before,’ she said, cutting into me with laser-guided precision, ‘about people forgetting you. That sounds like a story.’
‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’ I leaned forward and picked at a loose thread on the cuff of Suzanne’s dress, ignoring Myrna, whose blue eyes were twinkling with victory. ‘It really isn’t very interesting. No one’s invested in my life, other than my sister and the good people at Netflix who like to check in on me every five hours or so, bless them.’
‘What you mean is you don’t want to tell me,’ she replied. ‘That’s too bad, darling, because the price of entry to the Myrna Moore museum is a pound of flesh and I’m afraid I will extract it one way or another. Besides, I’m a marvellous person to confide in – who am I going to tell? My godawful stepchildren? The woman who comes to do my nails? I’m the perfect person to hear your sins; no one cares what I have to say and, even if they did, I’m so old, I’m practically dust.’
‘You could tweet about it?’ I suggested.
She gave me the filthiest possible look. ‘The internet is the reason civilization is crumbling all around us. Name one good thing that ever came of it?’
I opened my mouth to answer but it was more difficult than I expected it to be. It really was pretty bad when you thought about it.
‘Oh, I know,’ I said eagerly. ‘Ryan Reynolds. He’s an international treasure. King of the internet, love his Instagram.’
‘The sweet Canadian boy who did a picture with Sandy Bullock?’ She was appeased. ‘He used to have a home around here, over on Nottingham Avenue, I believe.He came to visit once, big fan of my films, he said. Didn’t much care for the wife, sour-faced thing. I heard they got divorced and I was glad.’
She smiled at a memory I would have given anything to share.
‘Well, if you spent more time on the internet, you’d know he’s remarried and has a load of kids and his new wife is truly perfect,’ I informed her, taking out my phone and searching for photographic evidence. Myrna leaned forward and squinted at the screen, eventually nodding her approval.
‘Fabulous, now, tell me why everyone has forgotten you.’
In a different life, she would have made a fantastic detective.
‘There’s really nothing to talk about,’ I said one more time, on the off-chance she might give up, but the inquisitive spark behind her eyes was going nowhere. ‘Fine. I used to have a boyfriend and we broke up and all of my friends were really his friends so now we don’t see each other. That’s about it.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she decided. ‘Tell me about the boyfriend.’
