Going La La (9 page)

A gaggle of uniformed valet parkers dived on the doors, ushering them out, and deftly whisked the car away, ready for the next arrival. Being unexpectedly thrust into the glare of the strobe lights, Frankie froze like a frightened rabbit, her mind going into overload at the lavish surroundings. A continuous stream of Rolls-Royces, Ferraris and stretch limos glided past, and as she watched them she noticed that the driveway really did sparkle. Made of tarmac mixed with glitter, like millions of miniature stars, it twinkled and shone in the bright spotlights. Only in LA could she have the stars at her feet.

At the entrance a crowd was gathering. Willowy girls in hipsters, big-haired femmes fatales in Gucci, square-jawed men with terracotta tans, all trying to get into the party. A bouncer the size of a portakabin was doing his all-action-hero impersonation, barring them with his arm and shouting into his microphone headset. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Mike Tyson. Perhaps it was Mike Tyson, mused Frankie.

Assuming they were going to have to wait with everybody else, Frankie tried to figure out where to stand. She didn’t want to look as if she was pushing in. ‘Excuse me, is this the back of the queue?’ she asked a blonde twenty-something next to her.

‘The queue?’ The blonde twenty-something, who looked exactly how a blonde twenty-something in Los Angeles should look, wrinkled her forehead as if she didn’t understand.

‘Yeah, the queue, to get in.’

The blonde looked puzzled. The pensioner on her arm helped her along. ‘She means line, sugar.’ It was like watching the lights being switched on. Giggling brightly, she turned back to Frankie. ‘Oh, sure, honey, this is the queue.’

She looked thrilled to bits with herself. As did the pensioner, who squeezed her eighteen-inch waist tightly. Grinning like a proud grandparent and not the lecherous cradle-snatching boyfriend that he was, he showed off fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of fluorescent veneered teeth. Frankie nodded dumbly, blinded by his dental work.

‘Yoohoo!’

It was that sound again. Frankie swivelled round and, standing on tiptoes, scanned the crowd. At the front of the queue she spotted Rita beckoning her madly, arms rotating wildly, like those of a parent trying to dance. Oh God, she cringed. Rita always did this. She always pushed to the front of any queue – be it in the post office, at the bus stop or at the bar – and Frankie would follow behind, dying with embarrassment and trying to duck the dirty looks being slung at them.

Feeling as if she was on the catwalk, she nervously tottered past the line of people, who looked her up and down, trying to work out which film they’d seen her in. Was it a Quentin Tarantino, or maybe a Spike Lee, or, surely not, a Spielberg? Unable to place her, they whispered among themselves. Naahhh, with those tits and teeth she was obviously British. Probably a Merchant Ivory or, even more likely, a Ken Russell. After all, she must have been in
something
– how else would she be on the guest list?

‘Come on, you silly sod. We’re with Dorian.’ As if she was rescuing her from drowning, Rita grabbed hold of Frankie and pulled her in through the entrance.

Frankie was nonplussed. ‘So?’

‘
So?
’ Rita pulled one of her faces. ‘So, we walk straight in.’

‘Why?’ She still didn’t get it.

‘Bloody hell, I don’t know,’ spluttered Rita, exasperated by Frankie’s inane questions. ‘Who the bloody hell cares? We’re in, aren’t we?’ She made it sound as if they were bank robbers who’d cracked the sophisticated alarm system installed at great expense to keep out Joe Public. ‘C’mon,’ she hissed and, without waiting for any further questions, clattered through the marbled lobby in her gold spangly boob tube and matching miniskirt. Frankie, meanwhile, was in funereal black: black dress, black tights, black shoes. Despite Rita’s earlier pep talk, she was still in mourning for Hugh.

They rushed past security on the lookout for Dorian, but he was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared through the lobby carrying a silver attaché case, his full-length fur coat sweeping the floor behind like ermine robes. Following in his wake, they hurried through the swathes of white muslin suspended from the ceiling and billowing out like the sails of a boat, on towards the sounds of chattering, music, laughter and the chinking of glasses.

And then suddenly they’d arrived.

Frankie faltered at the entrance. She’d never seen a party like it. It was being held in the hotel’s bar, the famous Cloudsbar, but it wasn’t like any bar she’d seen in a British hotel. There were no mock Victorian fireplaces, vases of dried flowers, chintzy armchairs and curtains with tasselled tiebacks. There wasn’t even a bar, oak-panelled, brass-plated or otherwise. Instead it was alfresco and there was an Olympic-size swimming pool that was being lit by dozens of real-flame torches held by Roman statues on marble columns. Around its sides was a mosaic-tiled floor strewn with hundreds of cushions – and not the kind found in primary colours from IKEA, but great big stonking cushions the size of futons, covered in a soft white pearlescent velvet and plumped full of goose feathers – on which lots of people were lounging around, elegantly sipping champagne.

It was like stepping into another world. Flames from the torches cast a flickering light across people’s faces, giving them a golden glow she’d only ever seen in Dutch old master paintings. It was a world of Kens and Barbies. Perfect, plastic people. But while the men looked vaguely recognisable, give or take an all-over tan and gym-honed pecs, the women were something else. Frankie felt as if she’d discovered another species: the LA Child Woman – females who went through puberty only from the waist upwards. While the bottom half had no sign of a bum, tum or – God forbid – hips, the top half sported a pair of Pamela Anderson specials. They were twelve-year-olds with double-D silicone chests and, to cap it all, legs as long as skyscrapers. Frankie stared up at them. Despite being five foot eight, she suddenly felt like the little guy in
Fantasy Island
who used to keep shouting, ‘The planes are coming, the planes are coming.’

Trying not to look intimidated – and it was difficult – she followed Rita, who appeared to have no such worries and was marching confidently across the floor to a vacant pair of cushions.

Flopping down on one, Rita readjusted her boob tube and began stretching her Lycra miniskirt over her thighs, like clingfilm over a pair of chicken drumsticks. ‘Blimey, I’m thirsty, aren’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer from Frankie, she beckoned one of the überbabe waitresses floating around in Buddhist-orange sarongs and bare feet, holding trays of champagne. Rita grabbed four glasses with her fingers and thumbs. ‘Well, you hardly get anything in these fiddly, little things,’ she tutted, sucking the Moët from her gold nail varnish and passing two to Frankie. ‘Bottoms up.’ She chinked glasses. ‘I bet you could do with a drink.’

Frankie sighed gloomily. ‘Since Hugh dumped me, I’ve done nothing
but
drink.’ She looked sadly into her glass.

Rita misunderstood. ‘That’s my girl.’ She grinned encouragingly, finishing off one glass and making an immediate start on the second. For a pint-sized person, she could outdrink almost anyone. She drained the dregs. ‘Won’t be a mo – just off to the loo.’ She hoisted herself off the cushion, displaying rather more flesh than she’d intended, and tottered off in search of the Ladies.

Alone on her giant cushion, Frankie felt like Thumbelina on her lily pad. Lost and insignificant. She toyed with the idea of going to find Dorian, but changed her mind when she caught sight of him in a far corner. Despite his flamboyance, which was often verging on camp, he was a raving heterosexual. Reclining on a cushion, he was surrounded by gorgeous, glossy women feeding him sushi and champagne, like a Roman emperor with his slaves. Frankie checked her watch. God, Rita had been gone for ages. For the second time that day she wished she’d hurry up.

Frankie finished off yet another glass of champagne. She felt self-conscious. She wasn’t used to being by herself at a party. Normally she had Hugh to talk to, or at least Hugh to watch, as he discussed house prices and interest rates in a corner with some random bloke. She was used to being part of a couple, and even if she wasn’t actually with him, it gave her a feeling of safety. Like having an airbag – you know it’s there if you need it. But she was single now, and that meant small talk, flirting and making an effort, despite having completely forgotten how to. And even if she hadn’t, she didn’t have the balls to launch herself into this terrifying scene. When Hugh told her it was over, he’d robbed her of her confidence, leaving plenty of room for a whole load of neuroses. Now, all she could think about was what was wrong with her. The size of her bum? Her boobs? The dreaded cellulite? Or was it because she was too boring? Or crap in bed? Or the fact she got pissed and sang Frank Sinatra songs? The list could go on and on. One minute she’d been part of a couple: happy, settled, confident. The next minute – wham, bam – she’d entered the Bridget Jones zone: a neurotic, nicotine-addicted singleton.

Plunged even further into gloom at this depressing thought, she caught sight of a crumpled sky-blue packet of American Spirit peeking out of the gold sequined handbag that Rita had left behind. She didn’t blame her, she wouldn’t be seen dead with the bloody thing either. She pulled out the packet and, trying to convince herself that no, she didn’t need the nicotine crutch, and she was really a non-smoker, she surreptitiously looked inside. There was one cigarette left. Oh, well, one teensy-weensy cigarette wasn’t going to do any harm, was it? She only wanted a drag. And Rita wouldn’t mind. After all, it was an emergency. Putting it in her mouth, she grabbed a box of matches from one of the handcarved-in-Bali-type bowls that had been painstakingly scattered around. She was just about to strike one when she heard, ‘I’m sorry, it’s no smoking.’ She looked up. Like a genie, a waitress had appeared.

Frankie was nonplussed. What did she mean, no smoking? She was in a bar. ‘Excuse me?’

The waitress repeated the sentence robotically. ‘I’m sorry, it’s no smoking.’

Frankie started to feel impatient. It wasn’t her hearing that was at fault. ‘You mean I can’t smoke anywhere?’ She looked in confusion at the abundance of matches around her, all emblazoned with the bar’s logo. What did people in LA do with them all if they didn’t smoke? Make matchstick models? Somehow she couldn’t imagine the likes of Madonna putting the finishing touches to a model of the
Mary Rose
.

The waitress shook her head. ‘Not in a public bar. It’s California state law.’ She sounded as if she was reading from an autocue. ‘You can always go outside.’

‘But I am outside,’ retorted Frankie, looking incredulously up at the dark, open sky above her.

Ignoring her, the waitress put her hands on her non-existent hips, her earlier smile now set in a grim line. ‘If you intend to smoke, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the bar area
and go outside
.’ She motioned to the patio doors at the far end of the swimming pool.

‘OK.’ Realising that there was no point trying to reason with Ms Personality, Frankie stood up. It was then she saw that she had an audience. Everybody was staring at her.
And nobody was smoking
. Feeling like a criminal, she took the fag out of her mouth and, as there was still no sign of Rita, bolted the full length of the pool and out through the doors.

Outside it was dark and felt cool after the warmth of the bar. Her head whirled – too much champagne. Taking a lungful of air, she looked around her. It was deserted. There was no noise but the faint hum of the party and the distant roar of the traffic. So this was the smoking section, she thought, thinking how different it was from London, where banished smokers always huddled together in jovial camaraderie, happily working their way through packets of B&H, drink in one hand, fag in the other.

Feeling a bit unsteady, she leaned against the stone balustrade that ran around the far side of the patio, lit her cigarette and, inhaling deeply, looked out at the streets below that made up a gridwork of lights. Her mind drifted back to thoughts of Hugh. He was miles away on a different continent, in a different time zone. Miles away from her. Maybe Rita was right, maybe he was arrogant, maybe she did run around after him in circles, but she still loved him. She missed him.

Her eyes filled up and she knew she was going to cry again. Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her and she sniffed vigorously instead. She turned round. After the lights of the traffic, it was difficult to see in the darkness, but she could make out the shape of a man – tall, broadish. She couldn’t see his face.

‘S’cuse me, have you got a light?’ His voice seemed loud against the faint hum of the background noise.

Nodding, she held out the matches and watched as he looked for a place to put his drink.

‘Here, I’ll do it.’

Ripping a match from its cardboard roots, she scraped it against the emery strip. The phosphorus flared and, moving forward, she held the match close to the end of his cigarette. Putting down his glass, he cupped his hands around hers as he sucked hard on the orange filter, the flame illuminating his face, exposing tanned skin, heavy stubble, a roughness around the mouth. He seemed familiar, as if she knew him from somewhere . . . For a brief moment she glanced into his eyes, before the dying flame burned her fingers and she snatched her hand away. The penny dropped at the same time as the match.
Jesus Christ, it was him
.