Going La La (25 page)

Looking back, she could now see it had been a crazy idea to come to LA, a crazy idea to think running away could change things. To hope that six thousand miles would solve everything. What had she thought would happen? That LA could wave its magic wand and give her life a Hollywood movie ending? Staying in London had meant facing up to a future full of holes where Hugh, their flat in Fulham and her career should be. Exactly, she realised, the same future as she was facing right now. Being in LA hadn’t changed anything. The problems were the same, it was just different scenery. So why didn’t she admit defeat, pack her bags and take the first plane back to the UK? After all, what was there to keep her in LA?

Reilly
. Every time she asked herself that question, his name kept popping into her head. It was ridiculous, she hardly knew the bloke, but ever since that day in Malibu, ever since they’d had that awful, stilted conversation, he’d been on her mind. Things kept reminding her of him – seeing a commercial on TV, hearing a Country and Western track on the radio or going to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf for her morning cappuccino. One day when she was grocery shopping at Ralph’s Supermarket she thought she saw him near the deli counter, next to the fresh pasta, but when he turned round she discovered it wasn’t him at all. In fact, the bloke looked nothing like him – he had a goatee and was wearing black patent-leather slip-ons
with gold chains across the front
. Even driving along Sunset, she’d become aware that, without even realising it, her eyes were unconsciously picking out all the Broncos and taking a second look to see if he was behind the wheel. But he never was. He seemed to have disappeared. Vanished in a puff of cigarette smoke.

It crossed her mind to call him up just to say hi. After all, she could easily get his number from Dorian. But she decided against it. Despite what she’d told Rita, she and Reilly weren’t exactly friends – well, not the kind of friends who’d ring each other up just for a chat. What on earth would they chat about? His date with Chrissy? His ex-wife? Her ex-boyfriend? Somehow she couldn’t see it. Nope, she wasn’t going to ring him, just like she knew he wasn’t going to ring her. Which meant that her relationship/friendship/crush/God knows what with Reilly was over before it had even started.

‘Guess what?’ Rita hobbled into the living room on the heels of her feet, cotton wool wedged firmly between each toe. In one hand she was waving a bottle of VAMP nail varnish – fashion trends seemed to take a while to hit LA, where leggings, big hair and purple lip-liner were still very much in abundance – and in the other the phone’s handset.

‘What?’ Frankie lay flat out on the sofa watching a live police car-chase on TV and working her way through a packet of cheese nachos. Ever since Rita had met Matt they’d lain untouched on the top shelf, gathering dust. Not, Frankie mused, unlike herself.

‘That was Dorian on the phone . . . He’s invited us to our first Christmas party.’

‘Christmas party?’

‘Well, it is 10 December. Christmas is only two weeks away.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Frankie, not very religiously. Where had the year gone? She continued watching as the getaway car careered down the 405 with helicopters in pursuit, concentrating on digging the last remaining nachos crumbs from the corner of the bag. She wasn’t in Christmas party mood. More of a stuff-her-face-in-front-of-the-telly mood. But, thinking about it, that was pretty Christmassy, wasn’t it? Most people tended to celebrate the big day doing exactly the same thing. She was just getting into the festive spirit a little early this year.

‘And guess who’s having the party?’ Determined to get her friend’s interest, Rita hovered in front of the screen, blocking out the climax of the car-chase as the police swooped in to make an arrest.

Realising this was blackmail, Frankie had no choice but to play along. ‘Who?’

Taking a deep breath, as if she was about to blow up a balloon, Rita then exploded,
‘Carter Mansfield.’

‘Carter Mansfield?’ Like an echo, Frankie dropped the crumpled bag of Doritos and sat up, dislodging Ginger, who was curled up in a ball in the folds of her jumper.

Carter Mansfield was a movie legend. In the 1970s he’d been a leading man and housewife’s pin-up, famous for his hip-hugging bellbottom Levi’s and shirts unbuttoned to reveal his seriously hairy chest and obligatory gold medallion. In the 1980s and early 1990s it all went a bit pear-shaped – along with his waistline – but in the last six or seven years he’d got rid of the love-handles, relaunched his career and made a string of hugely successful movies, starring alongside some of Hollywood’s most glamorous leading ladies.

‘Is this party tonight?’

‘Yeah, Dorian’s picking us up at nine,’ gabbled Rita excitedly. ‘Just think, everyone’s going to be there . . . film stars, directors, producers, all the big names in Hollywood . . .’ Her voice tailed off. ‘Shit, what am I going to wear? That catsuit I bought last week’s still covered in bolognese sauce.’ She couldn’t resist a faint smile as she remembered how it got there, before snapping back to reality. Dropping the phone and nail varnish on the coffee table, she grabbed Frankie’s wrist to look at her watch. ‘Five o’clock. Thank God, there’s still time.’ Without letting go, she attempted to yank her up from the sofa. ‘Come on, move your arse.’ Unbelievably, this was the same mouth that could recite Shakespeare.

‘Where are we going?’ Frankie tried to resist. Her hair was a mess, she was wearing a pair of skanky old tracksuit bottoms and she’d just consumed the best part of fifteen hundred calories and seventy-five grams of fat. (If being in LA had taught her one thing, it was the calorie and fat-content value of everything.) The only place she wanted to go was the shower.

‘We’ve been invited to one of the biggest parties in Hollywood and I’ve got nothing to wear. Where do you think we’re going?’ Grabbing her wallet and car keys, Rita stuck her feet – complete with cotton-wool inserts – into a pair of Perspex mules. ‘Rodeo Drive.’

27

‘Hi, and how are you today?’

The grinning assistant swooped on Frankie the moment her mud-splattered Nikes hit the highly polished floor. It must have been a trigger mechanism.

‘Erm . . .’ she faltered, not sure whether or not to proceed. Being greeted at shop doorways by a member of staff wasn’t something that often happened in London. Mumbling a vague reply, she headed blindly to the back of the store and pretended to be really interested in a pair of seen-it-a-million-times-before beige linen trousers.

‘I love your jacket.’ Not about to give up that easily, the assistant followed her. ‘It’s so cute.’ Blonde, rosy-cheeked and wearing a Santa hat, she spoke in a singsong nursery-rhyme voice.

‘Er, thanks.’ Was she being sarcastic? Fingering her jacket, a scruffy old suede thing she’d had for years, Frankie didn’t know whether to take her seriously or not. In Bond Street, London’s equivalent to Rodeo, the shop assistants were the Shop Resistance, eyeing her with suspicion while flicking through the latest issue of
Harpers and Queen
, or experiencing a sudden loss of hearing when she asked for something in a different size. She wasn’t used to being complimented. On the contrary, she was used to feeling like something the cat had dragged in.

‘I’d love to buy one. Where did you get it?’

Her cosy friendliness (or was it fake enthusiasm?) was beginning to grate. ‘Portobello market,’ replied Frankie, trying to move away to another part of the store. But there was to be no escape. Everywhere she turned, the assistant was there behind her, like Banquo’s ghost.

‘Is that a store in Beverly Hills?’

‘No, London.’

‘Oh, you’re from London. I have relatives in London.’

She was about to start reciting her family tree when, luckily for Frankie, she was distracted by the sight of Rita, who’d discovered a table stacked with piles of neatly folded tops and was pulling them out one by one, flinging them all over the place and spinning around like a whirling-dervish.

‘Would you like me to find your size?’ Falling over herself with eagerness, the shop assistant forgot all about Frankie and rushed to Rita’s aid. Rummaging through the jumble, she piled herself up like a mule with the stack of clothes Rita had already selected and cheerily steered her towards the changing room, gushing, ‘If you need anything, I’ll be right outside.’

‘Do these trousers make me look fat?’

Twenty minutes and as many outfits later, Rita stood in front of the full-length mirror, which had been annoyingly positioned
outside
the changing rooms. She was wearing a flared white suit which the cooing shop assistant had tried to persuade her made her look like Bianca Jagger on her wedding day. She wasn’t convinced. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion she looked more like Elvis on a rhinestone, fried-banana-sandwich day. Needing the honest opinion that only a best friend could give, she turned to Frankie, who was flicking idly through a pile of glossies while flaked out on the leather sofa thoughtfully provided by the management to prevent bored husbands and boyfriends from wandering off – and taking their credit cards with them.

Rita pulled a face. ‘Elvis?’

Glancing up from
American Vogue
, Frankie nodded sympathetically. ‘Live in Las Vegas.’

Swearing, Rita barged past the still-smiling assistant and dived back inside the changing room. Pulling off the offending suit, she threw it on the heap of rejected items that was beginning to take on the proportions of the millennium dome. Everything she’d tried on was either the wrong colour, the wrong size, the wrong fit or the wrong style. It was a bloody nightmare. Whoever described shopping as retail therapy must have been in therapy. And after this shopping trip, so would she be.

‘What about the Gap?’ After leaving behind the store, and its members of staff folding and replumping every item of clothing Rita could fit into, they stood on the pavement waiting for the lights to change. Being unusually law-abiding, Rita was refusing to jaywalk in case she got another ticket, and instead was trying to see if there was anyone famous driving the shocking-pink Corvette which had pulled up alongside a red Ferrari Testarossa being revved by a man old and bald enough to know better.

‘Fruit-coloured twin sets and Capri pants?’ Rita pulled a face at Frankie’s suggestion. ‘We’re going to a party in Beverly Hills, not a knees-up down the local.’

For the first time in her life, she was willing to sacrifice her fondness for high-street fashion in favour of something a bit more upmarket. She had a feeling that this party was going to be an opportunity to ‘network’, a word she kept hearing being whispered on people’s lips as the secret of success in Hollywood. As yet, the only people she’d had the opportunity to network with were Matt’s surfing mates, valet parkers and the Mexican blokes who packed her groceries at Ralph’s, which probably explained why her only LA part to date was as a life-size furry chicken in a KFC commercial.

The lights changed and they crossed, swerving to avoid a crowd of Japanese tourists, weighed down with zoom-lens Nikons and billboard-size shopping bags bursting with Christmas presents, having their picture taken in front of the Regent Beverly Wilshire, home to Richard Gere’s penthouse in
Pretty Woman
.

‘The idea’s to walk in and knock ’em dead,’ she continued, watching a leopard-skin and diamond-clad blonde who’d had so many facelifts she looked as if she were permanently in a wind tunnel popping out of the pink Corvette with her Pekinese and into Cartier for yet more baubles. ‘What about that shop over there?’ She pointed further up the street to a huge, three-floor, glass-fronted monolith.

‘Versace?’ Frankie was amazed. What the hell had got into Rita? Since when had she worn designer clothes? She favoured Top Shop and New Look and anything skimpy for under twenty quid. ‘Isn’t that a bit out of our price range? Liz Hurley might be able to afford a wardrobe full of their dresses, but I don’t think she’s on the same budget as us.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ huffed Rita. At the mention of Liz Hurley, her mind was made up. ‘If it’s good enough for her, then it’s good enough for us.’ Unaware that she’d somehow managed to get that the wrong way round, she clattered determinedly ahead down the pavement, her ankles wobbling precariously on her needle-thin heels.

As the highly polished smoked-glass door was opened by an unsmiling Lurch character in a puce-coloured suit, Frankie knew she’d been lulled into a false sense of security about shopping in Beverly Hills. There was no meet and greet policy here. No hiyas, beaming smiles, candy-coloured uniforms and swinging jazz on the shop stereo, as in the Land of the Gap. Instead there was a deathly silence, broken only by the solemn chant of Benedictine monks on CD, and sour-faced Italian assistants dotted around like statues.

Oblivious of the drop in temperature, which hadn’t been caused by the airconditioning, Rita barged inside and began bustling around the store, unfolding sequined tops from their protective layers of tissue paper and yanking mirrored scraps of material masquerading as dresses off their hangers with wild abandon. ‘What about this?’ Pulling a slashed-to-the-thigh embroidered number from the rail, she held it up against herself. About four feet and a bit of it trailed on the ceramic tiled floor – obviously Donatella didn’t design for five-foot-nothings.

Frankie didn’t answer. This was not the place to dash around, mussing up neatly folded jumpers, picking up skirts and yelling, ‘Hey, look, this would be great with that new halter-neck from Zara.’ No. No. No. It was like being in a museum. A place to walk around whispering and pointing. Where customers were meant to look but not touch, unless of course they were loaded – or Liz Hurley herself. And she was neither.