Going La La (3 page)

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she promptly removed her mangy old sheepskin hat. It was one of those that had flaps you could pull down over your ears – the type that always makes models in
Vogue
look seductive in a lip-glossed Russian-spy kind of way but makes anybody without Kate Moss cheekbones look like a chubby five-year-old in a furry bonnet. Frankie fell into the second category.

‘Er, yes, I’m looking to rent a two-bedroomed flat,’ she answered, fiddling with her hair, which had been squashed against her forehead in a highly unattractive side parting.

Mr Good-looking straightened up in his chair, nonchalantly loosened his tie and undid the top button on his collar. ‘So is there anything you’re particularly interested in?’

Yes,
you
, thought Frankie, watching his Adam’s apple bobbing seductively up and down against the pale clean-shaven skin of his throat and wishing she was one of those confident, mouthy types like Rita who wouldn’t think twice about chatting a guy up. ‘Erm, not really,’ she mumbled awkwardly. Stick her with a bunch of girlie mates and she could talk the hind leg off a donkey – hell, she’d even been a member of the debating society at university (albeit she’d only gone once after discovering it consisted of blokes in corduroy jackets with elbow patches spouting a load of old twaddle) – but unexpectedly coming face to face with the best-looking bloke she’d seen all year had turned her into someone with the vocabulary of David Beckham.

Mr Good-looking continued staring at her, waiting expectantly.

She tried again. ‘But I’m willing to consider anything. You see, I’ve got less than two weeks to find a new flat.’

‘Why, what happens in two weeks?’ His brow furrowed with concern. It made him look even more handsome.

Frankie bit her lip. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on her housing problem and not on the estate agent. ‘Our landlord kicks us out.’

‘Us?’ He picked up a Mont Blanc pen from his desk and began twirling it between his fingers like a propeller.

‘My flatmate Rita and I. Luckily she’s OK for a couple of months because she’s away in a panto.’

‘She’s an actress?’

‘You could say that . . .’ A smile played on Frankie’s lips as she tried not to laugh at the thought of Rita trotting around on stage in her black and white Friesian costume.

Sharing her smile, he rested his chin on his elbows and leaned across the desk towards her. ‘You do realise that with it being nearly Christmas, it could take a little longer than two weeks to find you a rental property—’

Frankie interrupted. ‘It can’t. I’ve got to find somewhere.’ She thought about Figgins the landlord, with his nicotine-stained fingers and revolting habit of wiping his constantly running nose on the back of his cardigan sleeve while he spoke to her chest. She wasn’t going to ask him for any favours.

‘There’s nobody who could put you up for a couple of weeks?’

She shook her head.

‘A boyfriend perhaps?’ He lowered his voice against the steady hum of the office.

‘Nope.’ She smiled, feeling surprised and slightly embarrassed. Anybody would think he was chatting her up.

He was. Breaking into a broad grin, he gave the bezel on the face of his very expensive-looking Rolex a satisfied twirl. ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something . . .’ He nodded, swinging his legs from behind his desk. Easing himself up from his black leather chair, he strode past one of his portly pinstriped colleagues and over to the filing cabinet. ‘But first I’ll need to take a few details.’ Yanking open the top drawer, he grabbed a photocopied piece of paper, slammed the drawer shut, strode back across the room and handed it to her. ‘By the way, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Hugh. Hugh Hamilton.’ He held out his hand.

Standing up, Frankie hurriedly pulled off her pink woolly mitten. ‘I’m Frankie. Pleased to meet you.’ She shook his hand, trying not to blush as his fingers wrapped warmly around hers. Was she imagining it or was he holding on to her hand for just a little too long? Nope, this was definitely longer than normal. A gust of excitement fluttered in her stomach, and she couldn’t help hoping there might be more on the market than she’d bargained for after all.

Over the next week Frankie met Hugh many more times. Unfortunately, it was only on a strictly professional basis, and after looking round a dozen dodgy flats with second bedrooms that could have been mistaken for closets, hideous 1970s avocado bathroom suites with shag-pile toilet seat covers and enough mould in the kitchen cupboards to make a year’s worth of penicillin, any hopes she’d harboured of finding a flat, or getting a date with Hugh, were fading fast.

Which is why she was taken by surprise in flat number thirteen on the twenty-seventh floor of a council high-rise in Acton. Fully fitted with rising damp and an infestation of cockroaches, she was ready to admit defeat and give up when Hugh cornered her by the fridge freezer and confessed his undying love. Well, not exactly – but he did admit to giving her a guided tour of the worst flats in west London, just so he could carry on seeing her. Flattered – and somewhat relieved that she wasn’t going to have to live in a squat after all – she agreed to a date. Seventy-two hours later and she was celebrating New Year’s Eve drinking champagne and singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in her lovely new flat with her lovely new boyfriend.
Correction
: by half past ten she’d finished off the Moët and, unable to remember any of the words to ‘Auld Lang Syne’, was being drunk and disorderly with Hugh under the duvet. It was the perfect ending to 1997.

Now it was 1999 and they were living together. Not that they’d planned to or anything, but three months before Rita had legged it to Los Angeles, leaving Frankie with the problem of trying to find someone new to share the rent with. It hadn’t been easy, and after meeting several would-be flatmates images from
Single White Female
began to spring to mind. Just as she’d resigned herself to sharing her Earl Grey teabags with a potential murderer, Hugh had said she could move in to his bachelor pad in Fulham. It was the result she’d been hoping for.

Not that their cohabiting hadn’t led to a few teething problems. Hugh’s suggestion that she move in hadn’t allowed for the sheer tonnage of Frankie’s belongings. Minimalist Hugh, with his Habitat two-seater and concealed cupboards, was less than impressed with Frankie’s collection of clutter. Never one to travel light, she’d crammed his VW Golf GTI with five binliners of clothes, her cheese plant which she’d had since university and was now a straggling six-footer held together by pieces of Sellotape and string, her collection of old movies, a cardboard box full of hair-straightening products, a roof rack full of her grandad’s old gardening books, and then, of course, Fred and Ginger.

Found abandoned round the back of Tesco, Fred was a twelve-year-old tabby and Ginger was his much younger red-haired feline friend. Frankie adored them both. Unfortunately Hugh didn’t. Not being an animal lover, cats were only acceptable in an Andrew Lloyd Webber way. Matters weren’t helped by Fred and Ginger immediately sensing Hugh’s dislike and behaving accordingly – sharpening their claws on his brand-new sisal matting and pissing all over his golf clubs. It hadn’t exactly been the kind of house-warming Hugh had had in mind . . .

Frankie was suddenly brought back to her Monday morning by the sound of the breakfast- TV theme music. Glancing across the open-plan living room, she realised it was the closing titles. Christ, she was late. If she didn’t hurry up and get a move on, she’d have her boss breathing down her neck. Which, considering that the woman had chronic halitosis, was hardly a pleasant thought. Frankie sighed and prised herself off the pedal bin. If she ran to Earls Court tube station, she could probably make the office by ten. Grabbing Hugh’s coat, she took one last lingering look at the receipt, before scrunching it up for authenticity and replacing it in his pocket. Her birthday was on Friday, so all she had to do was sit tight until then. After all, she could hardly spoil his surprise, could she?

Pulling on her jacket, she glanced at her reflection in the large gilt-edged mirror which hung in the hall. She looked the same as she always did first thing in the morning: no make-up, hair all over the place, another spot on her chin. But today she had something different. There was a warm Ready Brek glow around her, and it had nothing to do with the central heating. It was the thought that in four days she’d be engaged.
Engaged!
God it sounded so grown up. She felt as if she was that chubby four-year-old again playing at being a bride in her mum’s grubby old veil and winkle-picker shoes. Except she wasn’t. She was nearly twenty-nine and this time it wasn’t a game.

Closing the front door behind her, she clattered down the steps and turned right into the street. It was a dull, grey wintry morning and she hurried towards the station, weaving her way through the last straggles of commuters. Everybody looked so grumpy, dowdy and fed up, but she couldn’t help the huge grin plastered on her face. She must look deranged, like one of those people you see wearing newspaper shoes and talking to themselves. But she didn’t care. She’d found the fella she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and he wanted to spend it with her. It was like scooping the lottery jackpot. The odds were a million to one, but she had the winning ticket – and it was crumpled up inside the pocket of Hugh’s overcoat.

3

‘And where the bloody hell have you been?’

With a moustache of cappuccino froth, Audrey, her editor, collared Frankie as soon as the lift doors slid open and she entered the lobby of
Lifestyle
, a magazine for thirty-something, scented-candle-buying, career-climbing women who wanted to read about how to have the perfect orgasm/dinner party/relationship/thighs – all for just £2.60 a month.

‘Sorry. I was running late . . .’ gasped Frankie, out of breath from doing the four-hundred-metre sprint from the tube station. ‘I’m really sorry . . . I had to go to the cashpoint, and then the Central Line was playing up and we got stuck in a tunnel, and then—’

‘Stop!’ Audrey held up her huge meaty palm as if she was a lollipop lady. ‘I’m not interested in excuses.’ With an air of managerial superiority, she fixed Frankie with a beady Cyclops eye, magnified several times due to her inch-thick glasses. ‘You’ve been with us for six weeks and I thought you’d have realised by now that at
Lifestyle
we’re interested in results . . .’ Struggling to fold her arms over her ample bosom, she paused, determined to milk this moment as much as she could for dramatic effect. ‘And members of staff who can manage to get their backsides out of bed and in the office.
On time
.’

Frankie nodded dutifully, trying to look repentant. ‘Look, I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again, promise.’

‘Hmm.’ Audrey raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘By the way, I need you to write a feature before lunch . . .’

‘OK.’ Squeezing herself between the fire extinguisher and Audrey’s fuchsia bottom – despite fashion tips that dark shades and vertical stripes were slimming, Audrey had plumped for an entire wardrobe of primary colours and patterns – Frankie legged it down the corridor and pushed open the fire doors.

‘Ten Easy Steps to Feng Shui Your Relationship . . .’

Audrey’s bark was drowned out as she let the doors swing loudly behind her.

You have one new message.

Frankie’s mailbox flashed up on her computer screen. She double-clicked on her intray and saw that it was Rita. Frankie smiled. Because of the eight-hour time difference between London and Los Angeles, she often e-mailed Frankie in the middle of the night.

Happy birthday! I know it’s not until Friday, but I thought I’d get the congratulations in early. Hope everything’s OK – still loved-up with Hugh and the new job. Guess what? I think I’ve fallen in love with my acting coach. Before you say it, I know what you’re thinking. What happened to Kurt, the valet parker? Turns out he was married. What is it with me and married men? Anyway, Randy’s much nicer. And he definitely lives up to his name!!!!! As for my name, it’s still not in lights, but I’ve got an audition next week. Fingers crossed. Meanwhile I’m ‘resting’ – actress speak for only working on my tan. Would you believe it’s October and it’s 80 degrees! You don’t know what you’re missing. Randy’s taking me to the opening of some new bar on Sunset tonight. I can’t wait, you know how much I love star-spotting! Oh, blimey, that’s him at the door now. Better go. Haven’t finished putting the slap on yet. Love yer lots and lots and lots and wish you were here . . .

Frankie grinned to herself. Despite being complete opposites – Frankie had a steady job, a steady boyfriend and a wardrobe full of Next suits and Jigsaw jumpers; Rita juggled temping with acting auditions, had flings with married men and an overflowing wardrobe of multicoloured Lycra and Top Shop accessories – for six fun-filled, vodka and cranberry-drinking,
EastEnders
-watching years they’d been best mates and flatmates. But when a number 27 bus smashed into Rita’s Mini, causing a broken wrist, whiplash and a ‘disfiguring’ i.e. barely noticeable gash on her forehead, she received a substantial insurance payout from Westminster Council – and everything changed.

Giving it a lot of careful consideration – an evening spent chatting to Frankie over a bottle of white wine and a packet of Benson & Hedges at the Prince Bonaparte – Rita made the decision about what to do with her unexpected windfall. At thirty-one she realised a career at Manpower, a few panto roles, a sanitary towel commercial and a walk-on part in
The Bill
were never going to make her rich or famous. So, ignoring the advice of Frankie, who did the sensible-friend bit and suggested a savings account with the high-street building society, she packed in her day job, packed up her belongings and, with a dream in her heart and fifteen grand in her wallet, bought a ticket to LA and moved, lock, stock and two bursting suitcases, to Hollywood. Rita had never been one to do things by halves.