Going La La (38 page)

‘Have you been smoking?’ Hugh wrinkled up his nose.

‘No,’ said Frankie guiltily. She felt like a kid caught nicking sweets.

‘Mmmm.’ Sounding disbelieving, he hugged her closer. ‘Are you coming to bed?’

This was Hugh’s way of saying he wanted to make love. Ten years as a boarder at an all-boys public school hadn’t made it easy for him to talk about sex, and instead he’d say things such as ‘Are you tired?’ or ‘Shall we have an early night?’

She hesitated. This was the moment they were supposed to melt into each other’s arms, tumble into bed and shag each other’s brains out. The moment she’d dreamed about for months, imagining what she’d say, how she’d react. But in all that time she’d never imagined she’d feel like this. Nervous, awkward, unsure,
guilty
. It hit her without warning. The realisation that sleeping with Hugh would make her feel she was being unfaithful to Reilly. It was the weirdest notion. What was she thinking about? This was crazy. She was being ridiculous. She was marrying Hugh. She loved Hugh. Didn’t she?

Smiling, she squeezed his hand affectionately. ‘In a minute.’

Watching Hugh disappear inside the room, she leaned against the iron railings, trying to clear her head. Everything that had happened over the last forty-eight hours was making her totally confused. She’d probably feel a whole lot better after she’d had a proper night’s sleep. Give herself time to let things sink in. Unclasping her hand, she took another brief look at the ring, before stuffing it firmly back into her pocket. She wished she had lost it. The bloody thing was nothing but trouble.

The bedside lamps cast a dim light across the room, throwing shadows over a vase that was now full of flowers Hugh had bought for her in one of the gas stations. She glanced at Hugh. He was already in bed, his body turned away from her. She noticed his clothes folded neatly on a chair, not strewn all over the floor like Reilly’s would have been.

‘Hugh.’ He didn’t answer. Unzipping her fleece, she dropped it on to the floor. Well, there had to be some mess for the cleaners. ‘Hugh?’ She stretched out her hand to touch his shoulder and then she heard his breathing. Deep and heavy. He was asleep. A mixture of jet lag and two bottles of Chilean Chardonnay. She smiled to herself and then stopped. Why did she feel so relieved?

40

‘Bloody hell, it’s the runaway bride.’ As Frankie tentatively opened the door of the apartment, she was greeted by Rita, who appeared from the bedroom, hastily tying her satin dressing gown around her waist.

Dropping her suitcase on to the floor, Frankie smiled guiltily. ‘I can explain everything.’

‘Fine,’ breezed Rita. Padding into the kitchen she calmly clicked on the kettle, before leaning against the fridge, arms folded, and fixing Frankie with an accusing stare. ‘But this better be good.’

They sat outside on the balcony, mopping up the warmth from the weak January sun, and over three cups of Tetley’s tea and half a pack of cigarettes Frankie told Rita everything – about Hugh’s sudden appearance on New Year’s Eve, his proposal and her reaction, and how, in those few seconds, she’d been forced to choose. It was a relief to talk to someone finally, to unburden the weight of all the thoughts and emotions that had been whirling around in her head over the last forty-eight hours. And as best friend and confidante, Rita listened patiently, stewing tea bags, finding matches, nodding sympathetically.

‘But I know I made the right decision to marry Hugh,’ Frankie murmured, stroking Fred, who was sprawled across her lap like a sheepskin rug. ‘You know how devastated I was when we broke up, don’t you?’ She glanced across at Rita. ‘I never thought we’d get back together. I thought our relationship was over for good. That’s why, when I met Reilly . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she played with Fred’s velvety ears. ‘Well, anyway, I’m really happy.’

Rita wasn’t entirely convinced. For someone who was supposed to be happy and in love, Frankie looked completely miserable. But for once she was going to keep her opinions to herself. She’d never liked Hugh, but now wasn’t the time to start slagging him off. Frankie needed her to do the supportive friend bit. And that meant keeping her gob well and truly shut.

Forcing a smile, she shoved her thoughts to one side and squeezed Frankie’s hand reassuringly. ‘What time’s your flight?’ She made an attempt at chirpiness.

‘Five-thirty tonight.’

‘And what about these two?’ Rita shifted Ginger, who was taking up most of the sun-lounger, to one side.

‘That’s the hardest bit,’ sighed Frankie, rubbing her finger underneath Fred’s chin, initiating a rasping purr as he stretched out his chin indulgently. ‘They’re both getting on, Fred’s got arthritis in his paws and Ginger’s prone to chest infections. I hate to think of them both having to spend six months in quarantine . . . being stuck in a cage . . .’ Her voice tailed off. She didn’t want to admit that Hugh had actually suggested putting them to sleep, saying it was ‘for the best and nothing whatsoever to do with his allergies’.

‘Of course they can stay here with me.’ Rita pre-empted Frankie’s question. ‘I think the LA lifestyle suits them a lot more than being stuck in that cramped flat in Fulham anyway.’ She looked at them both, stretched out and purring in the sun. ‘This can be their retirement home,’ she said, laughing and running a chipped fingernail across Ginger’s paws. ‘Which isn’t bad, considering my gran ended up in a prefab bungalow in Scarborough.’

Frankie knew she was right, but she couldn’t help feeling gutted. Leaving Fred and Ginger behind would be a wrench. ‘Thanks . . .’ She smiled gratefully. ‘For everything.’ Brushing her T-shirt free of tortoiseshell hairs, she looked at her watch. ‘Shit, is that the time already? I better get a move on and start packing my stuff.’ Standing up, she went back inside the apartment.

‘Hang on a minute.’

Rita sprang up from her sun-lounger, but it was too late. Frankie had already pushed open the bedroom door, and got the shock of her life. So had Dorian, who’d been left gagged and handcuffed to the futon wearing nothing but Rita’s Victoria’s Secret underwear for over half an hour. Not knowing whether to laugh or scream, Frankie clamped her hand over her mouth as, only seconds later, Rita appeared and made up a threesome. Blushing the colour of her roots, she took one look at Frankie’s expression and gasped, ‘I can explain everything.’

It didn’t take long to pack. It was strange how in just a few months most of her clothes had begun to look old and frumpy. Christ, did I really wear this? she thought, digging out a hideous A-line skirt with side pleats. It might have been in last year’s
Vogue
, but it was going to be in this year’s charity shop. Chucking it into a binliner, she consoled herself with the thought that cleaning out her wardrobe would give her a good excuse to go shopping when she got back to London – although she didn’t know what with. Her credit cards had long since been maxed-up to the limit and she still owed Rita a thousand dollars.

Trying not to think about the appalling state of her finances, she emptied two drawers of toiletries and stuffed the rest of her clothes and her books into two suitcases. She’d pay Rita back just as soon as she got a job. She looked at her luggage. It bulged uncomfortably and she had to sit on the suitcases to make them close, stretching the tattered beige vinyl until she could fasten the zips. She felt a lump in her throat. Now it was coming to the crunch, it was hard to go. Looking around the bedroom and out into the rest of the apartment, she realised how attached she had become. How, without even realising it, she’d come to think of the place as home.

‘Well, that’s about it.’ Trying to sound all bright and breezy, she dragged her luggage into the hallway. Why was it that clothes became three times as heavy as soon as you packed them? Shoving them in the corner, she caught her breath.

‘You’re not going already, are you? I’ve just made you some liquorice tea.’ After being rumbled in the bedroom, Dorian, dressed rather aptly in a ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’ T-shirt, was in the kitchen, fussing over refreshments in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. Proud of his reputation of being good in bed, and of his flirting and sexual innuendo, being caught by a flatmate in a push-up bra and lace suspenders was a blow to his manhood. Of which Frankie had got a good eyeful.

‘What have I told you about making that stuff in here? It stinks the bloody place out,’ grumbled Rita, swiping him good-naturedly with a teatowel.

Frankie smiled. Rita had told her it was just sex – she’d been gagging for it and Dorian was better than a vibrator – but watching them together, laughing and joking around, she could tell there was a lot more between them than simultaneous orgasms. They were like an old married couple.

‘I better go. Hugh’s been waiting for me outside in the car all this time. We’re going to drive straight to the airport.’ She glanced at Rita. ‘He said it was probably best if he didn’t come in.’

‘Fucking hell, woman, ask him in. I’d like to meet your husband-to be.’ Dorian grinned, trying to show there were no hard feelings about what had happened in Vegas. Until he caught Rita’s expression and changed his mind. ‘Though maybe you’re right. The traffic can be a bitch on the 405.’ Grabbing Frankie by the waist, he squeezed her tightly and gave her a lingering kiss. ‘Goodbye, gorgeous. Remember to look after yourself.’ He suddenly felt rather emotional.

Frankie smiled weakly. She was going to miss Dorian. There was no one quite like him in Fulham.

‘Well, I suppose this is it.’ Standing on the driveway in her dressing gown, Rita bit her lip. She was trying to put a brave face on things, but she’d never been one for saying goodbyes. Any minute now she was going to start bawling her eyes out.

Frankie nodded and forced a smile. There was just one more thing. She hadn’t spoken about Reilly. She’d been too frightened of what Rita might say. But now she knew she couldn’t leave without asking.

Except she didn’t have to. Rita read her mind. ‘I told him you were coming over today to get your things. That you were leaving this afternoon.’ She glanced up at Frankie, almost afraid to meet her eye. ‘He didn’t want to see you.’ She gave a small apologetic smile. ‘But he wanted me to give you this. He said to wait until you’d packed everything. I think he wanted it to be your last reminder of LA.’ She pulled a photograph out of her pocket and handed it to Frankie. It was a black and white picture he’d taken of her on Malibu beach. A wave had soaked her jeans and she was running out of the surf, laughing. Normally she hated having her picture taken, she always felt so stiff and awkward, but that day Reilly had made her feel at ease in front of the camera, relaxed and natural. Remembering, Frankie gazed at the image. She’d never seen herself look so happy.

‘I was wrong,’ Rita broke her thoughts.

‘What?’ She glanced up from the photograph.

‘It wasn’t just a fling . . . not for him anyway.’

They both looked at each other, neither of them speaking.

‘Frankie, can you hurry it up? We’re going to be late,’ Hugh bellowed from the car, honking on his horn.

‘Yeah . . . coming.’

Trying to swallow the huge lump in her throat, Frankie hugged Rita, who’d put on her sunglasses ready to hide her tears, and with a small wave walked towards Hugh, who was now waiting to load her luggage into the boot. She didn’t look back.

41

‘Qantas, Virgin, Delta, Air Malaysia . . .’ Hugh recited the list as he scoured the check-in desks for the familiar red, white and blue motif of British Airways. At LAX it was business as usual and the airport bustled with people milling around with luggage and badly wrapped souvenirs, relatives and friends saying their farewells, uniformed security guards with their walkie-talkies and the Vietnam War veterans rattling buckets of coins for charity. Following Hugh, who’d commandeered a trolley, Frankie walked through the terminal, air-conditioned cool after the humidity outside, weaving in and out of queues of passengers, clutching passports and tickets, waiting to check in.

‘Aaah, here it is,’ announced Hugh brightly, and then groaned. ‘Bloody typical. It’s always got to be the longest one.’ A line of people and their belongings zigzagged backwards and forwards between white barrier tapes. Begrudgingly he joined the back of the queue. ‘Are you OK, darling? You’ve been very quiet.’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Frankie half-heartedly forced a smile. But she wasn’t fine. All the way on the drive to the airport she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Rita’s last words. ‘
It wasn’t just a fling . . . not for him anyway
.’ They threw her judgement into doubt. For so long she’d been trying to convince herself that Reilly had been just a holiday romance – and she nearly had – but now she felt as if she’d been hiding from the truth.

That first night she’d spent with Reilly, after the party, he’d said something to her that she’d never forgotten. That she’d know when she was over someone when she didn’t think about them before she fell asleep at night or when she woke up in the morning. Their face wouldn’t be the one she saw when she closed her eyes. And last night when she’d lain in bed next to Hugh, trying to fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing, it hadn’t been Hugh her mind had wandered to in that drowsy state between awake and sleeping, and it hadn’t been his face she’d seen when she turned out the light. It had been Reilly’s.

The queue moved forward. In front of them was a couple in their late twenties. He had his arm around her, she was leaning her head on his shoulder. They seemed so comfortable together. Frankie couldn’t help watching as they kissed tenderly. And at the way he looked at her. It was exactly how Reilly used to look at her. Trying to ignore the tug of sadness she felt, she turned away and glanced across at Hugh.