In Hollywood, every pavement star tells a story. Not all of them shine.
Wannabe actor Kyle Macdonald is down on his luck. Working as a supply teacher in an inner-city Birmingham school, he's single again at 28, and sleeping in his childhood bedroom beneath a 'Hard Candy' Madonna poster.
He gets a call claiming he drunkenly married top Hollywood director Aaron Biedermeier in Vegas six years ago. Rather than panic, he sees a golden ticket to fame and the life he's always fantasised about.
But the glamorous veneer of Los Angeles - non-stop sunshine, celebrity actors and exclusive hotel suites - starts to crack, revealing a darker, corrupt underbelly to La-La Land. Kyle digs deeper into his so-called husband's past, unearthing disturbing allegations of abuse and underage sex parties. With the help of Biedermeier's fiancé, actor Noah Winters, he embarks on a cross-country race to unravel the mystery and expose the truth - finding love along the way.
In Hollywood, every pavement star tells a story. Not all of them shine.
Wannabe actor Kyle Macdonald is down on his luck. Working as a supply teacher in an inner-city Birmingham school, he's single again at 28, and sleeping in his childhood bedroom beneath a 'Hard Candy' Madonna poster.
He gets a call claiming he drunkenly married top Hollywood director Aaron Biedermeier in Vegas six years ago. Rather than panic, he sees a golden ticket to fame and the life he's always fantasised about.
But the glamorous veneer of Los Angeles - non-stop sunshine, celebrity actors and exclusive hotel suites - starts to crack, revealing a darker, corrupt underbelly to La-La Land. Kyle digs deeper into his so-called husband's past, unearthing disturbing allegations of abuse and underage sex parties. With the help of Biedermeier's fiancé, actor Noah Winters, he embarks on a cross-country race to unravel the mystery and expose the truth - finding love along the way.
4.42 a.m. April 10, 2016 - Las Vegas, USA
Fried chicken grease stains my wrinkled white shirt, and undone buttons reveal my pale skin. The world spins as I lean on a pillar in the fancy hotel lobby. My date slips a matt black card into the lift, gesturing for another couple to wait.
As we ride to the penthouse level, he pushes me against the mirrored wall and kisses me hard with lips that taste of whisky.
In the penthouse suite, translucent curtains flutter at windows overlooking garish casino signs lining the strip below.
A bartender with piercing blue eyes pours champagne.
My date is handsome in a craggy, daddy-bear way. Not that I buy into the whole gay men as woodland critters thing. Every online hook-up describes themselves as a bear, an otter or a pup, and I’ve yet to find the animal that chimes with what my Spotlight Casting Directory profile calls ‘an average build, Hugh Grant type’.
He lifts his glass in a toast. “Should we hyphenate our last names, or are you taking mine?”
Shit!
I didn’t imagine it. There was a wedding chapel, dingy and worn, with stained beige carpeting and rows of plastic chairs. And some campy older guy dressed as Elvis crooning, ‘Love me tender’. Cheesy organ music played on a loop, and we gave money to a woman who promised our marriage certificate tomorrow. I made jokes about getting it framed to hang in the loo.
“We’re not married, though, right?”
He winks. “I’ll call and explain it was a mistake.”
Stressed whispers carry from the other room. I steady myself against the wall as the floor lurches—time to leave. Stop being so polite and so British. Be direct. Tell him to order you a taxi.
“Do you have company?” I say, in the sort of voice my mother might use when asking if the local branch of Waitrose stocks oven chips.
“Just friends.”
The room spins, and my mouth waters. My head is banging, but his hands are on me.
“Shame to waste our honeymoon.” He kisses my neck. “The bedroom is through there.”
“Yeah, great, but I need the bathroom.”
A door opens at the end of a low-lit hallway, and a guy stands staring. Young. Handsome with a tiny scar below one eye. Bare-chested. Bold. But mostly young. The floor lurches, and I reach for a wall to steady myself.
His fingers brush my cheek. “Stay, baby. I’ll get you home safe.”
I pull back. “Call them. Tell them we made a mistake.”
With a grin, he pulls out his phone and pushes a button.
“Siri, remind me to annul the marriage.”
If I were hard pressed to find a comparison for Husbands, I would have to reach across mediums, a mix of both a movie and a show. Part While You Were Sleeping because of both the obvious similarity in a pseudo-husband being in a coma while other relationships blossom, but also because the bright moments are so heartfelt they feel like they belong in a Sandra Bullock movie. The other part would be Baby Reindeer. The dark part of comedy is prevalent as well as what lengths some people will go to or endure in the pursuit of fame.
Reality provides a mirror to Husbands as well. The fictional director central to the plot can best be described by a reference the novel uses more than once: Har-Gay Weinstein. Not only does it showcase some of the wonderfully irreverent humor throughout, it's a warning for some of the plot elements present. The reader will be exposed to some of the seedier sides of Hollywood and all the extortion present there, both monetarily and sexually. The echoing trauma from being a part of that machine also contributes heavily to the plot.
While the characterizations are near perfect, none of the actual characters are. The flaws and vices, even of the two main characters, aren't hidden and are actually relevant to the story itself. From getting drunk married in Vegas to an attempted road trip in a foreign country without his passport, the point of view character has plenty of external obstacles. Yet, despite having to wrangle with himself too, there's a stubborn sense of optimism that makes it hard not to cheer for.
A practically flawless novel on the technical front too (only a handful of punctuation issues), I can't recommend Husbands enough for those who enjoy heavier elements mixed in with their humor.