Going La La (19 page)

Noticing Frankie’s reaction, Reilly smiled at her encouragingly. ‘You look great,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘But you should keep your hair down, it suits you when you wear it loose.’ It was the first time he’d spoken to her all evening.

‘I have to tie it up, otherwise I get too hot,’ she lied, wishing she’d left it alone.

‘Who fancies hitching a ride with these fabulous girls?’ asked Dorian, breaking off from Sandy, having just discovered the existence of Big Ben, the basketball-playing boyfriend.

‘Yeeeaaahhhhhh,’ cheered Rita, polishing off the bowl of guacamole and stale tortillas. She burped unceremoniously. ‘Ooops, sorry.’ She giggled, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m feeling a bit pissed.’

‘Where to?’ asked Frankie.

‘The Cowboy Palace,’ piped up Sandy, shaking back her honey-blonde mane. ‘Cindy wants to ride the bull.’ She looked at Cindy, who flushed and started laughing, and then at Frankie, who stared at her nonplussed. ‘Come along, guys. It’s totally wild.’

‘Yeeehhhhaaaa,’ whooped Rita, stumbling to her feet and knocking over a few glasses. Swaying dangerously, she clung on to Dorian, who was leading the girls out of the restaurant like the Pied Piper.

The birthday blondes had hired a white stretch limo for the evening and, as they clustered outside the restaurant, it rose out of the car park. A big, fuck-off, flashy thing with a satellite aerial on the back, blacked-out windows and a strip of white lights down the side. It pulled up next to them.

Everyone piled in. Frankie hung back. Reilly was missing. Where was he? Had he gone without saying goodbye? She felt surprised. But more by how disappointed she felt than by his disappearance.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ hollered Dorian, poking his head out of the door as the limo began creeping its way along the kerb.

Frankie hesitated. She didn’t know what to do. Everybody was smashed and ready to have a good time. She was drunk, but not drunk enough for the Cowboy Palace to seem appealing. She thought about catching a cab home. Alone.

Reilly suddenly appeared by her elbow. ‘Sorry, I just went for a smoke.’ He smiled apologetically.

Frankie felt relieved. And taken aback by how pleased she was to see him.

Grinding the cigarette butt under his boot, he glanced across at the limo and grinned wryly. ‘I’ll go if you go.’

For a moment she looked at him, and then back at Dorian. It was an easy decision to make. She grinned, before yelling at the top of her voice, ‘Wait.’

20

Frankie had never been in a stretch limo before. She’d seen a couple at Piccadilly Circus in the Friday night rush hour, squeezing their way through four lanes of black cabs and double-decker buses, but they hadn’t looked as glamorous as when she’d seen them on TV gliding up to the Oscars. It probably had something to do with the fact they’d been in London, not LA, and the leather seats hadn’t been brimming with film stars and their Academy Awards, but hen parties who kept popping their permed heads out of the sun roof, cigarettes in one hand, glasses of something boozy and bubbly in the other. Yet everybody rushing for the tube still stared, it was impossible not to. Love them or hate them, limos guzzled attention. Hugh said they were tacky and he’d never be seen dead in one, but she’d always secretly fancied a ride in one. The passengers always looked as if they were having such a laugh. Who cared if the nearest they were going to get to Hollywood was Planet Hollywood?

Sinking into the black leather seats, she ran her fingers over the burled wood that ran along the sides of the doors, smooth and lacquered like polished glass. It was just as she’d imagined. Big. Flashy. And very LA. Sitting opposite the drinks cabinet, complete with decanter and crystal cut glasses, she watched as Sandy began pouring out champagne that had been chilling in a bucket of ice, spilling most of it on her seven-hundred-dollar beige suede trousers from Fred Segals. Without batting a false eyelash, she passed them round.

‘Here’s to the totally gorgeous Cindy. A girlfriend who’s kind, loyal, generous, loving . . . The best person you could ever hope to meet . . .’ In true Gwyneth Paltrow Oscar-winning-speech style, she wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Happy birthday, sweetie.’

Laughing, Cindy clashed glasses with everyone. ‘Thanks, guys, this is so cool,’ she gushed, giggling as Dorian squeezed her thigh and whispered something in her ear. It wasn’t ‘Happy Birthday’.

They drove along, drinking and fiddling with all the gadgets. There was a TV which was playing MTV with the sound turned down, a car phone which Dorian immediately pounced on, a remote-control glass screen that went up and down between them and the driver, a mini-disc player complete with a dodgy collection of CDs, lots of concealed ashtrays and drinks holders and, of course, an electric sun roof.

Spotting the sun roof, Rita lurched up from her seat. ‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ she cried drunkenly. Wobbling dangerously on her six-inch snake-skin stilettos, she stood up, her head disappearing out of the roof, and could be heard yelling gustily ‘Yeeeaaahhhhh, I love LA,’ before reappearing moments later, windswept and watery-eyed. Bending down she grabbed Frankie. ‘C’mon,’ she urged, dragging her up from the heated leather seats. ‘It’s fucking brilliant.’

Frankie tried to resist. Nobody else was putting their heads out of the sun roof and shouting at passers-by. All the blondes were playing it cool, sipping champagne and redoing their make-up. Dorian was flirting with Cindy and showing off by using the car phone to get them on the guest list for an exclusive members-only club later on. Even Reilly was chilled out, lying back in the leather seats, smoking a cigarette and sharing a joke with the driver on the intercom. She couldn’t suddenly stand up. She’d feel like an idiot. And anyway, she never did things like this, preferring instead to sit back and watch other people be outrageous and make fools of themselves. She hesitated . . . Oh, what the hell.

A blast of cool night air hit her, catching her hair and blowing it around like a mass of whirling chestnut ribbons. Bracing herself against the wind, she took a deep lungful of air and watched as the wide boulevards rushed past, streams of white headlights, gas stations, liquor stores, restaurants, strip malls. She didn’t feel like an idiot, quite the opposite. She felt fantastic. It reminded her of that famous
Titanic
scene and she had a sudden urge to shout ‘King of the World’. She grinned to herself. She wasn’t going to, but even if she did it wouldn’t matter. She was in Hollywood, wasn’t she? And this was the nearest she was ever going to get to feeling as if she was in the movies.

Rita reappeared and passed her a cigarette. What would Hugh think if he saw her now, champagne in one hand, fag in the other? Probably have a fit, knowing him. She took a long, satisfying drag. Not that she cared. Rita was absolutely right. It was fucking brilliant.

It took less than fifteen blocks to drive from Mexico to Texas. LA’s version of Texas being the Cowboy Palace, a huge wooden ranch decked out with strings of white light bulbs, wagon wheels and saddles. A hugely popular theme bar, it stood out on Sunset Boulevard like a gaudy Disneyland attraction plonked in the middle of exclusive hotels, showbiz bars and multi-million-dollar homes.

Pulling up outside, the uniformed chauffeur got out and held open the doors for them. They all stepped out, except for Rita, who was still so drunk she fell out. Luckily Dorian managed to catch her before her knees grazed the tarmac and, scooping her up under her armpits, half carried her towards the main entrance.

‘You’re so lovely . . . thank you . . . I think you’re really lovely . . . I really do . . .’ slurred Rita as he helped her up the stairs.

Dorian smiled. Tightly. All night he’d been working on chatting up Cindy, the birthday girl – with any luck she was going to mark her twenty-first birthday by becoming his twenty-first girlfriend – and now all the headway he’d made in the limo was lost. Running ahead with Frankie and Reilly and her friends, she’d left him trailing behind with Rita, who, despite being only five foot, was like a deadweight in his arms.

Pushing open the Western-style swing doors, Frankie realised why Cindy and her pals had been so keen to come to the Cowboy Palace. The place was wall-to-wall men. From gangs of fresh-faced high-school jocks with fake IDs to balding middle-aged husbands with roving eyes, the huge barn was less of a cowboy palace and more of a cattle market. You could almost smell the testosterone – which made a change from the usual cigarettes. The no-smoking policy meant that even the die-hard wannabe ranchers in Stetsons and cowboy boots weren’t smoking. So many would-be Marlboro Men and not a Marlboro in sight.

Tonight was a special line-dancing night and there was a live band, the Silver Spurs, whose female lead singer was wearing a ra-ra skirt, shaggy perm and one of those suede jackets with fringing and silver buckles. She looked like Shania Twain’s mum. Belting out Country and Western tracks, she jigged around on stage while everybody else jigged around on the dance floor. The couples dancing were a mixed bunch. Some didn’t have a clue how to line-dance and were trying desperately to learn, others were just doing it for a laugh and kept bursting into hysterics, and a few in Stetsons, bootlace ties and spurs had been doing it for years and were taking it all very seriously, two-stepping with intense concentration.

Walking past the restaurant area – vegetarianism hadn’t hit the Cowboy Palace and trestle tables were packed with customers tucking into huge racks of barbecued spare ribs and sixteen-ounce steaks – Cindy and Co. sashayed their way through the crowds to the bar that ran along one side of the wooden dance floor. As expected, the sight of four statuesque blondes caused quite a stir, and they were immediately swooped on by an eager crowd of men, who gathered round them, buying drinks and throwing compliments around with their dollar bills. Dorian didn’t stand a chance. Pushed out of the picture by the time he’d arrived at the bar and ordered, no one was interested in him or his champagne.

‘Oh, my God, look, there’s the bull,’ yelled Rita, clutching Frankie’s arm in excitement.

Railed off in the corner was a large, padded ring and in the middle was a mechanical bull around which people were queuing up to take their turns to ride rodeo style. Arms flailing, backs arched, men were eagerly trying to show off their prowess in front of girls who clustered round in their tight tops and miniskirts chanting, ‘Ride the bull. Ride the bull.’

‘That looks great,’ gasped Rita. ‘I want to have a go.’ Having been nearly unconscious five minutes earlier, Rita had miraculously risen from the dead and found her second wind.

‘In that skirt?’ said Frankie. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Yeah.’ Rita grinned. She was drunk and determined. ‘Coming?’

Frankie shook her head.

‘Spoilsport,’ Rita said, laughing, and set off, tottering unsteadily across the sawdust floor to join the back of the queue.

Leaving her to it, Frankie looked across at Reilly. He was standing next to Dorian, taking swigs from his Michelob beer and half-heartedly watching the dancing. Now was her chance. After not being able to talk to him all night, this was the perfect opportunity. She faltered, wondering what she was going to say, trying to plan how she was going to start the conversation. She caught herself. What was the big deal? Just be casual, she thought to herself, plucking up her courage to walk over there. Just be friendly.

‘Hi, would you like to dance?’ Catching her by surprise, a good-looking guy blocked her path. Stocky and clean-shaven, he was wearing a very tight white T-shirt that showed off the three hours a day he spent in the gym. He was smiling ardently at her.

‘Erm . . .’ she hesitated. For a split second she considered his proposition – after all, he was very good-looking and it wasn’t every day she got asked to dance by a good-looking stranger – before deciding against it. ‘No, thanks, I’m pretty useless at dancing.’ For someone who had a ballroom-dancing champion as a mother, and had been taught how to dance by watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies when she was six years old, this wasn’t strictly true.

He wasn’t to be put off. ‘Hey, that’s OK. I’m a pretty good teacher.’ He smiled even wider, not making any motion to move away. He held out his hand, flexing the diamond-studded Rolex strapped to his wrist. ‘I’m Jonathan.’

Surrendering to the inevitable introductions, Frankie said hi and shook his hand, knowing that now they were on first-name terms it was going to be impossible to escape. She was right, especially when he discovered she was from London, which, in terms of getting male attention in Los Angeles, came a close second to silicone boobs.

‘You don’t say?’ Looking delighted he brushed back his thick blond hair, which fell neatly into a centre parting. ‘One of my businesses is based there!’

She smiled lamely. It was obvious he wanted her to ask what kind of business he had, but she didn’t want to. She’d met Jonathan’s type before in bars. He was the sort of bloke who always appeared from nowhere when her mates had gone to the loo and she was by herself, the sort of bloke whose idea of chatting her up meant talking about himself until he ran out of breath. The sort of bloke she always ended up getting stuck with all night because she hadn’t got the heart to tell him to sod off. Luckily, or rather unfortunately, depending on whether you were Frankie or Jonathan, she didn’t have to ask him anything. Bashfulness wasn’t one of Jonathan’s character traits and, without any encouragement, he happily launched into a monologue about his wildly successful Internet shipping company.