Going La La (17 page)

‘Why, are you married?’ He looked at Rita, who was now attacking a fat-free blueberry muffin with gusto.

‘Not yet.’ Speaking with her mouth full, she wiggled her empty wedding finger. ‘But I’m seeing someone. He’s in New York until Monday.’

Listening in silence, Frankie began to feel uncomfortable. Marriage was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Taking the cigarette that Rita had left burning in the ashtray, she took a drag.

Rita noticed and was surprised. Frankie was like a vampire when it came to smoking – the fags only ever came out after dark or when she was upset. And then she realised. ‘Oops, sorry, I didn’t think.’ She clamped her hand over her mouth, but it still didn’t stop her. ‘Trust me and my big mouth,’ she tutted, before turning to Reilly and hissing, ‘Frankie’s single.’

Frankie cringed. You’d think she had some terrible life-threatening disease.

Taking the last puff of his cigarette, Reilly threw it on the floor. ‘I’m sure she won’t be for long.’

Feeling him staring at her, Frankie began to feel very self-conscious. And she still couldn’t think of anything to say.

Luckily she didn’t have to. Instead, Rita came to the rescue by suddenly sitting up like a meerkat and declaring, ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ in an X-rated Victor Meldrew kind of way.

‘What?’ Frankie seized the bait, relieved that the subject had been changed and further embarrassment averted.

‘Over there . . .’

‘Where?’

‘There . . .’

Frankie looked over to where she was pointing and saw a man – dark, six foot, about thirty-five – walking across the road to an open-topped Isuzu Trooper. Climbing inside, he leaned over to a woman – fair, skinny, about twenty-five – who was in the passenger seat. He began kissing her. And it wasn’t on the cheek.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, turning to Rita. And then wished she hadn’t. One look at her ashen face and she knew his name before Rita could gasp it.

‘
Randy
.’

18

‘Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.’

Chanting the word under her breath, Rita balanced precariously on one leg in the middle of a power yoga class in Beverly Hills. She was supposed to be doing a Salutation to the Sun, but while the rest of her classmates were ohmming and ahhing and praising distant planets, she was cursing not so distant sons-of-bitches called Randy who weren’t in New York on business but at home with
their wife of four and a half years
.

Changing position, she balanced on the other leg. It was one thing him cheating on her,
but cheating on her with his own wife
. It was the stuff Jerry Springer shows are made of. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply in and out, repeating, ‘Wanker. Wanker. Wanker.’ After a few minutes she began to feel much better. So this is what they meant by power yoga.

With a trembling leg sticking out behind her, Frankie struggled to hold herself in a position. It was seven on a Saturday night and she’d been dragged along to the Beverly Hills Life Center by Rita, who’d enrolled on a six-week yoga course as part of her voyage of self-discovery. A voyage that had begun as a result of the discovery of Randy with his wife outside the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

Only a week ago Frankie had watched through her fingers as Rita had jaywalked over to the Isuzu Trooper, waited patiently until Randy had come up for air from his passionate clinch and then given him a different kind of smacker. Coming from a family of featherweights – her dad, Seamus, had been the County Cork champion five years in a row back in the 1950s – Rita was always rather proud of her left hook. Needless to say, it then all got rather ugly. The woman packed a different punch by announcing she was Randy’s wife and quickly followed it with a few jabs of her own by calling Rita a whore and threatening to sue for damages, while Randy cowered like a mute next to her, nursing his bruised chin and checking for chipped teeth. It wasn’t until Frankie had intervened and bundled the by then sobbing Rita into Reilly’s getaway truck that the nightmare had ended.

Except it hadn’t. Over the next couple of days Rita, who normally sedated the pain of a cheating boyfriend with cheap white wine and Marlboro Lights, found that this time it still hurt, no matter how many bottles of Trader Joe’s $3.99 Chardonnay and cartons of American Spirit she got through. To make matters worse, the next day she’d had her audition for
Malibu Motel
, which she’d thought was going OK until the casting director, a forbidding forty-something female in Donna Karan, had cut her off mid-sentence with a ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you, honey’. Suffice to say they hadn’t.

Rita was totally pissed off. This time she didn’t feel like saying ‘Fuck it’, slapping on some make-up and going out on the pull. This was LA, not London. Staggering around in her heels with a Bacardi and Coke in one hand and a fag in the other wasn’t so much fun when it meant being fined for smoking and probably carted off to AA by concerned bar staff.

So she decided to take a different approach. In LA that meant two choices. The first was going to see a therapist, but the thought of paying a complete stranger a hundred bucks an hour to listen to her moaning about her problems made her feel even more depressed, especially when she could moan to Frankie for free. So she plumped for the second choice, a much cheaper and far more popular option: self-help books.

After three days of lying in bed, Rita had worked her way through the whole range of Ben and Jerry’s and
Surviving Change, Wave Goodbye to Rejection
and
Women are Normal, Men are from Another Planet
. And she’d re-emerged full of hope and self-help. It all seemed pretty straightforward. Being calm, fulfilled, happy and successful was easy, all she needed to do was to follow ten easy steps (which when added together from every chapter made about three hundred not-so-easy-to-remember ones). According to the learned authors of such literature – bespectacled men and women who’d survived rejection, divorce, life-threatening illnesses and traumatic birthing experiences with their toothpaste-ad smiles intact – she also needed a few props. After all, these self-help books were a multi-million-dollar-spinning enterprise. They weren’t going to help her for free, were they?

So, biting her cynical tongue, Rita decided to pay another visit to the Flowering Tree bookshop, filled with incense and windchimes and feathery bits of leather that were supposed to catch your dreams, and under the guidance of Melissa, the chilled-out shop assistant who lived in Topanga Canyon and had henna tattoos, wore charm bracelets, silver rings from India on every finger and jingle-jangled wherever she walked, she bought life-giving crystals, stress-relieving aromatherapy oils, a miniature Zen garden and book on Feng Shui. Delighted with her purchases, she then drove to Beverly Hills, enrolled on a yoga course and popped into Mrs Gooch’s, the organic supermarket and celebrity hang-out, to buy lots of fruit, seeds and sprouting things. By the time she’d got home she’d spent over a thousand dollars. Helping yourself was a bloody expensive business.

‘Breathe in, and . . . do the Dolphin.’ The gym-honed instructor fired out commands over his earpiece like a sergeant-major to a bunch of squaddies, except these squaddies were beautiful, eternally young types with limbs so tanned and muscle-ridged they looked like human pretzels. ‘Change position, hold, faster, squeeze, push, stretch, sweat.’ His punishing drill was relentless. On and on and on. There was no let-up in the rigour of power yoga. Just the smell of burning calories, a whopping fifteen hundred an hour, if the strapline across the flyers advertising the class was to be believed.

Frankie believed it. She could barely keep up, let alone contort herself into the kind of positions she’d only ever seen in the
Kamasutra
. This wasn’t the kind of yoga she’d imagined when she’d been roped into it by Rita. Where was the hippy teacher in a pair of Birkenstock sandals? Where were the incense and relaxation tapes? Where were the rosy-cheeked middle-aged women with pepper-flecked hair and black leotards always pictured on the back of those soothing yoga videos? Probably at home with their feet up, eating chocolate and watching telly, she thought, trying to wrap her legs round the back of her elbows. Which is exactly where she wanted to be.

‘I feel so much better. Don’t you?’ As the class finished, a glowing Rita skipped towards her, towel draped across her shoulders, looking very pleased with herself.

Frankie could barely speak, she was too busy trying to catch her breath. ‘You’ve got to be joking. I’m knackered. And I’m sure I tore something in my calf when I tried to touch my toes.’ Limping out of the mirrored studio, she pushed open the swing doors into the communal changing rooms.

‘Serves you right for having such long legs,’ Rita replied unsympathetically.

Frankie ignored her and, wiping the droplets of sweat off her forehead, slumped against the lockers.

Rita sat next to her. ‘It’s certainly got Randy out of my system.’ Grabbing one of the fluffy complimentary towels, she wrapped it round her waist and began peeling off her gym kit underneath. For somebody who loved revealing flesh in figure-hugging clothes, Rita was surprisingly coy when it came to getting undressed in a room full of strangers.

‘I wish I could say the same about Hugh,’ sighed Frankie. Pulling off her Nikes, she threw them miserably into her locker. ‘But I think it’s going to take more than a few Sun Salutations, Trees and Dolphins.’

‘You’re still really cut up about him, aren’t you?’

Frankie nodded. ‘I can’t help it. Nobody comes close to Hugh.’ She began peeling off her leggings, which felt as if they were vacuumed-packed to her calves. ‘It sounds corny, but if there is such a thing as a soulmate, mine’s Hugh.’ Standing back up, she twisted her body sideways, checking out her bum in the full-length mirrors. She pulled a face. ‘I know you think I should be going on dates with other blokes, and I know you’re right, but when it comes down to it I can’t. Just thinking about being with someone else, and not Hugh, makes me feel even worse.’

Rita untied her hair. ‘I don’t blame you. After what’s happened with me and Randy, I’ve come round to your way of thinking. You’re absolutely right about fellas. I think we both need a break from them.’

‘You?’ Frankie couldn’t hide her disbelief. A celibate Rita. It was a bizarre concept.

‘Yep. It’s girl power from now on. I can’t be bothered to waste any more energy on men.’ Leaning close to the mirror, she checked out her complexion and began squeezing a few blackheads on her chin. ‘All that chasing, flirting, playing hard to get . . . and I don’t even play that hard to get. When I think about how much time I’ve spent worrying about men, thinking about men, wondering if they’re going to call, wondering why they haven’t called, working out exactly what they meant when they did call . . . Christ, it’s a full-time job. If I’d put as much effort into acting as I have into boyfriends I’d be up for the Oscars by now.’ Tutting at the angry red mark that had appeared on her chin, Rita tore herself from the mirror. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve met anyone who’s worth falling off the celibacy bandwagon for.’ She spoke about it as if she’d been on it for years, not just a week. ‘Though that Reilly was nice.’ Rummaging around in the bottom of her bag, she pulled out a body scrub, a loofah and a new tube of Clarins anti-cellulite, skin-firming cream that promised dimple-free thighs in eight weeks. ‘If I hadn’t given up blokes, I’d go for him.’

Frankie felt herself stiffen. For some reason she felt self-conscious at the mention of Reilly’s name.

‘Though of course you get first refusal – if you’re interested, that is.’

‘Me? Don’t be stupid. I’m not interested in him.’ Slamming her locker door firmly shut, she turned the key.

‘You don’t have to be so touchy,’ complained Rita. ‘I know you haven’t got over Hugh, but Reilly seems like a really nice guy. I thought he might start to grow on you. Especially now you two are going to be working together.’

Frankie looked apologetic. She hadn’t meant to snap. ‘I’m working
for
him, Rita. It’s not the same as working with him. And anyway I’m doing it for the money. No other reason. If I never saw him again I wouldn’t give it another thought.’

Grabbing her shampoo and conditioner, she pushed open the doors to the showers and pulled back the shower curtain. Turning the dial to hot, she stood underneath as the spray of water blasted on to her body and thought about what she’d just said. Actually, it wasn’t strictly true. She had given Reilly another thought. Quite a few thoughts, if she was honest.

Pouring a pool of shampoo into the palm of her hand, she began lathering her hair. For the past few days she had found herself thinking about Reilly, but so what? It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t as if she fancied him, for God’s sake. She fancied Hugh, and Reilly was his complete opposite. Untidy, scruffy and unshaven, Reilly chain-smoked, drank beer from the bottle and, judging from the food wrappers in his Bronco, lived on a diet of burgers and fries. Even if she wasn’t still in love with Hugh, which of course she was, she’d never be interested in Reilly. Not like that anyway. He wasn’t her type. Closing her eyes, she bent her head under the shower and began rinsing out the shampoo. But she still couldn’t help thinking about him.

Squeezing the water from her hair, she rubbed in conditioner. She put it down to the fact he’d been so patient and concerned when Rita had been bawling her eyes out over Randy. Hugh wouldn’t have got involved. He hated any kind of public emotion, it always made him really embarrassed, as if for some reason he felt it reflected badly on him. The fact that it was Rita wouldn’t have helped either. They’d never exactly been the best of friends. Knowing Hugh, he’d probably have just left her there on the pavement. But Reilly didn’t. He came to the rescue. Not exactly the knight in shining armour on a white charger, more the bloke in a scruffy leather jacket in a beaten-up truck, but it was still nice of him. After all, he hardly knew either of them.