Emma hearts LA (5 page)

‘Wow!’ Bex says again. She walks alongside us, but I can tell she just wants to run ahead and, knowing her, jump straight into the water.

I realise Oscar and I have actually started to speed up too and the image of us all just running into the ocean makes me grin. We emerge onto a promenade separated from the beach by a strip of grass. Oscar stops and holds one finger up as if he’s about to make an announcement. Bex and I stare at him, dutifully.

‘Now this is Ocean Front Walk,’ he says. ‘Very important. It’s where I work, but apart from that there are shops and cafés and it’s where you’ll find the Venice Art Crawl. Basically, a lot of stuff happens here.’

Bex and I nod and then I say, ‘Can we go on the beach now?’

He grins and bends down to take off his shoes. Bex squees – really, she actually says ‘Squee!’ – and runs off across the sand.

‘They grow up so fast,’ Oscar jokes, smiling after her.

I kick off my flip-flops and am surprised to find that, despite the sun, the sand is actually quite cool. We follow Bex down towards the water.

I walk in till the freezing water’s up to my knees and let it swirl around me, as a group of large birds – pelicans, I think – fly past, skimming the sparkling surf.

‘I can’t believe we live here!’ Bex shouts.

I was just thinking the same thing.

We walk a little way along the beach in front of a huge sand dune that Oscar tells us is man-made – some little kids are trying to slide down it on plastic bin lids, but they’re not having much success – and then Oscar says he’s going to show us where he works. Apparently he’s got two jobs, but he won’t tell us what they are yet.

He tells us that Ocean Front Walk is known as ‘the Boardwalk’ along this stretch. It’s an outrageous place – I’ve never been anywhere quite like it. Stalls selling T-shirts, friendship bracelets and other tourist tat stand opposite shops offering tattoos, ‘medical marijuana’, oxygen facials or ‘Botox on the Beach’. We can smell the weed, along with incense, fried onions and coffee.

We pass the famous Muscle Beach, which I’d always thought was just a bit of the beach where people worked out, but it’s actually a sort of concrete outdoor gym. Disappointingly, there’s only one guy working out there: he has enormous muscles and an equally enormous afro. In front of the ‘Freak Show’ a man tells a small crowd, ‘We’ve got a dog in there, but it’s got five legs. Sorry, kids!’

When Bex and I aren’t looking at the buildings – loads of which feature bright murals – we’re looking at the people. The dazed-looking tourists are outnumbered by skateboarders, buskers, guys selling CDs of their own music, which Oscar tells us they will insist on signing with your name therefore ensuring you buy one, and homeless people with cardboard signs reading things like
HONESTLY HUNGRY
.

There’s so much to look at, and it’s so different from home, that it’s hard to take it all in. I take loads of photos on my phone before realising that we live here now and I really don’t need to fill up my memory card with stuff I can see every day.

After walking for maybe ten minutes – some of it on the Boardwalk and some back on the beach, which Bex just can’t resist – we come to a small, brown wooden building designed to look like a boat.

Oscar stops and says, ‘Ta-da.’

It’s a noodle bar. Called Wok the Boat.

‘Wok the Boat?’ I say, grinning. ‘Seriously?’

‘I know,’ Oscar says. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’

I pull a face and he laughs and ushers me and Bex inside. As we walk in, a shout of ‘Oscar!’ goes up from staff and, I think, customers.

‘So they know you here?’ I joke.

He grins at me. ‘Home from home.’

Inside it’s also designed to look like a boat, with panelled walls, portholes, rigging hanging from the ceiling. I can even hear seagulls and ocean sounds, which I assume are recorded, but could possibly be real (we’re on the beach, after all).

Oscar introduces us to the girl behind the counter (the front of which is covered with embedded shells and pebbles). Her name is Tabby and she looks about the same age as me, maybe a bit older, with dark, bobbed hair, bright blue eyes, and a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth. She looks like a silent-movie star.

‘So you’re the famous Emma,’ she says. It could be my imagination, but I think she sneers a little. She’s got a stack of cardboard in front of her and she folds a sheet into those little takeaway boxes I’ve only ever seen on American TV and films as she talks. She does it so quickly, I can’t even tell what she’s doing until it’s done.

‘Famous for what?’ I ask.

‘Oscar’s been telling us all about you,’ she says, and I notice she’s got a gap between her two front teeth. ‘He’s been real excited about having a friend from home.’

She stops folding long enough to reach over and ruffle Oscar’s hair. He pulls away, but he’s laughing.

‘I haven’t talked about you that much,’ he tells me.

‘Really?’ Tabby says, and raises one eyebrow. ‘How much has Oscar talked about Emma?’ she says.

I don’t see who she’s talking to, but I hear a male voice say, ‘Emma? Emma from England? Emma he’s known since he was a child? Emma who went to New York? Emma who he went to see
Gladiator
with, even though they were too young, and she fell asleep? That Emma? Or a different one?’

‘Shut up,’ says Oscar. He’s grinning, but his cheeks are patchy and red.

The owner of the voice appears – it’s a really tall black guy, who also reaches over and ruffles Oscar’s hair.

‘Hi,’ he says to me. ‘I’m Sam. And you are?’ He grins.

I reach over and shake his hand. ‘And this is Bex,’ I tell him, pulling my sister alongside me.

Sam says, ‘Oh, don’t worry! We’ve heard about you too.’

Bex almost preens, which makes me laugh.

‘You hungry?’ Oscar asks me and Bex. We both nod. ‘Should I order for you?’ he asks and we nod again.

He says something that sounds like, ‘Three two-one-sixes and a robot on the side’ and then looks at us for approval. Since I have no idea what he asked for and nor, presumably, does Bex, we both just nod again. We’re starting to look like those little nodding dogs you sometimes see on the back shelves of cars.

Sam heads over to the massive stove – the kitchen is open to the rest of the place – and starts throwing things in an enormous wok. And then he starts singing. It takes me a second to work out what it is, but then I realise it’s ‘Firework’ by Katy Perry. I grin.

‘He’s a big pop fan,’ Tabby says, without even looking up from her box-folding. ‘It’s charming at first…’

‘You want to sit outside?’ Oscar asks and, rather than nodding, Bex and I just turn towards the door.

Sam is still singing and Tabby’s still folding as the door swings shut behind us.

We sit down at a tiny table right on the sand and I find myself staring out over the water again. The sun is glittering off the waves and it’s just so lovely to be sitting outside and be warm. Even though it’s summer, it was raining when we left Manchester, and if the past few years have been anything to go by, it probably would have continued that way until November, when the snow arrived.

‘How long have you worked here?’ Bex asks Oscar, as I’m still looking out to sea and daydreaming.

‘A while now,’ Oscar says. ‘I worked at a Taco Bell first and I hated that, but then Tabby left to come here and she recruited me. We have a really good laugh together and the owner leaves us to our own devices most of the time, so it’s much more flexible and relaxed. Are you going to be looking for a job?’ he asks me. ‘Because we’re always looking for staff.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it yet. I probably will, yeah, but…’ I don’t want to say ‘I don’t want to work in a restaurant’ so I just let the sentence drift off.

Sam comes out with little takeaway boxes and puts them down on the table along with a jug of water (with lemon slices) and three glasses. ‘Enjoy!’ he says, and goes back inside almost before we can say thank you.

‘I’ve always wanted to eat out of one of these boxes,’ I say to no one in particular, as I open the lid and the steam practically fogs my eyeballs.

‘Careful,’ Oscar says. ‘It’s hot.’

My snort of laughter blows some steam away and reveals that the box contains noodles and chopped peanuts.

‘What is this?’ I ask him.

‘Pad thai. Just wait and then taste it. It’s amazing.’

‘Have you got the same?’

He nods as he opens the box Sam put in the middle. ‘And these are spring rolls. But amazing spring rolls. Just wait—’

I reach into the box and then yank my hand out.

‘—until they cool down,’ Oscar says.

I poke at my noodles, but they’re too hot as well.

‘Does this place do well?’ I ask Oscar, glancing back at the facade. I notice since 1988 on the sign.

Oscar nods. ‘They’re talking about opening another one. Guess the name.’

‘We Will Wok You?’ I try.

‘That’s terrible!’ Bex says.

‘And Wok the Boat isn’t?’

‘Wok ’n’ Roll,’ Bex says.

‘Oh!’ Oscar says, almost leaping out of his seat. ‘It could be a bowling alley theme!’

Bex and I both squint at him and I say, ‘Oh dear.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, grinning. ‘Sorry about that.’

Bex wrinkles her nose. ‘Wok-a-bye-baby? It could have a crèche…’

‘The Wok Ness Monster,’ Oscar says. ‘Scottish themed.’

‘Wok DJ!’ I almost shout.

‘That one might actually work,’ Oscar says, grinning. ‘Here’s a hint: it’s open twenty-four hours…’

‘Wok the Night?’ I try.

‘Wok
All
Night!’ Bex says.

‘Wok Around the Clock,’ Oscar says. ‘Brilliant, no?’

I laugh and then dig in to my noodles. They’re still slightly too hot – they make me gasp out little puffs of steam – but they taste amazing. Soft and crunchy and sweet and sour all at the same time.

Once we’ve finished the fabulous noodles and eaten the best spring rolls in the world,
ever
(Oscar was right about that), we go inside to say bye to Tabby and Sam and then walk towards Santa Monica Pier, which we’ve been able to see in the distance since we first set off from Venice.

In New York last summer, Jessie and I kept finding it disorientating seeing places that were incredibly familiar from films. It’s the same here. Walking towards Santa Monica Pier, looking back at the houses along the oceanfront, gives me a ridiculous sense of déjà vu.

‘What film would I have seen this in?’ I ask Oscar.

‘I was just thinking that,’ Bex says. ‘It’s so familiar.’

‘Did you ever watch
The OC
?’ Oscar asks. ‘They filmed here a bit, I think. Loads of films and TV shows have filmed here. Music videos too. I can’t think…’ He scrunches up his face, trying to remember.

‘Oh!’ Bex says, suddenly. ‘
The Hannah Montana Movie
!’

Oscar and I burst out laughing and Bex goes a bit red. ‘I know…’

‘I can’t believe it took you even that long to remember that,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you used to watch it every day?’

‘Not
every
day,’ she says, smiling.

‘You did,’ I say. ‘Actually, Dad once heard a noise in the middle of the night, thought we were being burgled, went downstairs and found Bex watching
Hannah Montana
!’

‘Don’t worry, Bex,’ Oscar says. ‘We all love Miley Cyrus.’

Bex laughs. ‘I don’t watch it any more.’

‘I bet you really want to now though, don’t you?’ Oscar says.

‘I do actually…’ Bex grins.

‘Emma said you’ve got an audition lined up?’ Oscar asks Bex.

‘No, not an audition, just a meeting, but if it goes well I’ll be going to some castings. I hope.’

We climb some steps off the main promenade, up to the actual pier. A group of tourists are taking it in turns to have their picture taken under the blue
WORLD FAMOUS SANTA MONICA PIER
sign.

As we walk through the car park, Bex tells Oscar about Starmakers and all the productions she’s been involved in. Then she breaks off to say, ‘It smells like the seaside here!’

And she’s right, it does. Like salt and sun cream, popcorn and candyfloss. It reminds me of the resorts we used to go to as kids, like Blackpool, Southport and Lytham St Annes. Once, Mum and Dad picked us up from school and took us straight to St Annes as a surprise. It was a really hot day and we sang along with the radio in the car and stopped for fish and chips at the pier, then we sat on the sand dunes and watched the sun set. Mum, Bex and I all fell asleep on the way home. Dad complained, but he didn’t really mind.

I feel my eyes start to prickle so I squeeze them closed and, when I open them, we’re passing a man wearing an eye-patch and carrying a parrot on his shoulder. I blink.

‘He’s here every single time I come,’ Oscar tells us once we’re out of the man’s earshot. ‘He’s had that parrot for fifty years, he told me once.’