Lovestruck in Los Angeles (6 page)

I could tell from her face that she wouldn’t be able to resist for long. She finally agreed, clapping her hands happily. “Thanks, Lizzie!”

“Don’t thank me,” I said drily. “I really am scared to drive around here.”

It was true; traffic in L.A. was nothing like anything else I’d ever experienced. I’d never seen so many lanes on a highway, or so many cars trying to navigate those lanes. I’d grown up in a car family, my dad and two brothers working for Ford, and had learned to drive in a parking lot when I was only fourteen. I thought I’d be comfortable driving anywhere. That was before I’d come to L.A.

Thomas and I were renting two cars here against my original objections. The studio sent him a car every morning to take him to work, meaning I would have access to the car while he was gone even if we only had one. When he wasn’t working, we were mostly together. In my opinion, that meant we should have saved the money and stuck with one car.

Thomas had argued with me, however. “You don’t like to drive a stick, Lizzie,” he’d reminded me.

“So we’ll get an automatic. What’s the big deal?”

He had been quiet for almost a full moment before he finally blurted out his reason. “The cars I like are manual.”

It hit me, suddenly, what he was trying to tell me. “You have something picked out already, don’t you?”

He faced me, sheepish. “There’s an Audi a5 Cabriolet at the dealership. Lizzie, I’ve always wanted to drive an Audi. And to drive it around California? In the sunshine, with the top down? Please, Lizzie, I want it. I promise I’ll save money other ways, yeah?”

I had dropped it immediately. Despite making what I knew was a healthy salary from the
Darkness
films from the age of seventeen, Thomas had never been ostentatious in any way. He was very humble and careful with his money, rarely splashing out on anything. If he wanted to drive a flash car in California, I wasn’t going to argue.

When we got to the garage, I fumbled for the switch. “Ooh,” Imogen said, once the lights came on. “Can we drive
that
?”

She was pointing, of course, at Thomas’s sleek silver Audi. I had to admit, it was a pretty cool car.

I pulled my keys from my purse. “Only if you know how to drive a stick.”

She made a face. “No thanks. I’m still not used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”

I laughed and pointed the key fob at the more practical Ford Escape Thomas had rented for me. “Then the Ford it is.”

Imogen forgot her disappointment the moment we backed out onto the Pacific Coast Highway. “Ooh, I just love this neighborhood.”

“Me too. The view heading up this way towards Santa Monica is my favorite. It will probably be even better with sunshine.”

We did complete the tasks on the list, but we didn’t necessarily do them in the most efficient manner. There was probably a place much closer to pick up the office supplies, but Imogen hadn’t seen Santa Monica yet, so I figured we might as well search out a supply store in that direction. And if we happened to stop at the Santa Monica pier while we were out there…well, we had to eat lunch somewhere, didn’t we?

“This is great,” Imogen said as we strolled down the pier. “Look at all the people!”

“Imogen, didn’t you grow up in Brighton? There’s a pier there, you know.”

She waved her hands dismissively. “Whatever. This is nothing like Brighton. There are palm trees here, Lizzie.”

We walked the length of the pier, reveling in the sunshine and the happy buzz of tourists around us. I convinced Imogen there was no way Heidi would find out if we rode the roller coaster, and we screamed and laughed the entire ride. It wasn’t the biggest roller coaster I had ever been on, but there was definitely something to be said for zipping around directly over the ocean. Once we disembarked, I wanted to celebrate our bravery with cotton candy, but Imogen convinced me to save my appetite for lunch, which we enjoyed at a Mexican restaurant at the end of the pier.

We shared a basket of chips and guacamole, which was made to order right at our table. Imogen ordered a large salad and gave me a wide-eyed look when I asked for the carne asada. “What?” I asked, after the waiter had left.

“Can you eat like that?” she asked. “Without gaining a million pounds, I mean. I always have to be so careful, or it goes straight to my hips.”

I raised my eyebrows. I had a hard time believing that—Imogen had hips like a baby bird. “I don’t pay much attention to my weight, to be honest,” I said. “I just eat what I like and try not to overdo it.”

She shook her head, but she looked impressed. “You’re so confident, Lizzie. I wish I could be like you.”

I snorted at the idea that someone would consider me confident. As the youngest of six, I had spent the majority of my formative years being bossed around and out-shouted at every turn. “I really am not. You should have seen me try to work up the courage to tell my parents I wanted to study abroad.”

“Yeah,” she said, pointing at me with her fork. “But you did it anyway, didn’t you? Being brave doesn’t mean never being afraid of something, you know. It means you do it anyhow.”

I spread guacamole on a tortilla. I gave her a grateful smile. “I guess you’re right.”

“What’s your verdict?” she asked, gesturing around. “Is this place authentic?”

I managed not to roll my eyes. People were always asking me that question, like my heritage made me some expert in Mexican cuisine. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone when I told them I’d never actually been to Mexico and my dad preferred Tex-Mex to anything else. “I don’t know about authentic, but it’s really good.”

It was really nice, sitting outside enjoying good food, an unending view of the ocean in one direction, the beach filled with sun worshippers in the other. “I could get used to this,” Imogen said, closing her eyes and tilting her head back toward the sun.

“Me too. We don’t get many days like this in London.”

“Weather aside, how are you enjoying L.A. so far?”

I added some more steak to a tortilla, thinking that over. “I like it.” Even in my own ears my voice didn’t sound terribly convincing. Imogen raised her eyebrows. “It’s different,” I said after a moment. “A little lonely.”

She made a face. “I hear that.”

I felt bad, complaining. Imogen was just as far away from her home as I was—at least I was lucky enough to have Thomas with me. And the Malibu house was, of course, completely amazing. Imogen was staying in a little apartment a few miles inland. She didn’t even have the sounds of the waves to brighten her days.

“How are you and Thomas doing?” she asked, her expression taking on the familiar wide-eyed look I had long come to associate with conversations about my boyfriend.

Imogen’s star worshipping had taken a strange turn when it came to me and Thomas; she seemed to have this idea that we were the perfect famous couple, a concept so preposterous I had laughed out loud the first time she confessed it to me, over our second bottle of wine back in my flat in London on one of our occasional girls’ nights.

“No, really, Lizzie,” she had said earnestly, her glass of cab threatening to spill on Charlie’s breakfast bar as she leaned toward me. “He’s this over-night success story—”

“I would hardly call nearly ten years as a working actor an over-night success,” I muttered, but she plowed on without listening.

“And now, all of a sudden, he’s one of the most famous men in London. The paparazzi and the fans hounding him all the time. His picture always in the paper. And the way you stuck by him through it all.” She sighed happily, a dreamy look on her face. “It’s so romantic.”

“Imogen,” I had said, slightly alarmed. “You know that Thomas is a real person, right? Not some tabloid-created fairytale?”

I think once she sobered up she was slightly embarrassed by her admission, but I still caught that same dreamy look coming over her face whenever the conversation turned to my relationship. Like it had now.

“Thomas and I are fine.”

“It must be so nice for you, living together after all that time on opposite ends of the city back home.”

“It is.” I paused. “But he works so much here. So far this week it hasn’t felt much different than being in separate flats, honestly. I haven’t seen him much.”

“But you guys have had so many events already!” she argued. “I should know, I scheduled them. That party at the Getty Center—wasn’t that romantic? And the dinner the other night with Jenner Collins.” She sighed again. “God, I would give anything to have dinner with Jenner Collins.”

“I’ll make sure to have him over sometime and invite you.” But honestly, Imogen, stuff like that isn’t nearly as much fun as you would think. Thomas has to network with all these people I don’t know, and I spend half the time sitting there with a blank smile on my face.”

She looked horrified. “Thomas just leaves you sitting there?”

“No, no, of course not. He’s wonderful. He introduces me to everyone and would never leave me on my own. But I…” I shrugged. “I never really know what they’re talking about, you know? The ins and outs of movies aren’t really my thing. And you know how terrible I am with celebrities. I’ll hear them say the same name over and over again, and it always takes me about ten minutes to figure out that they’re talking about that one amazing director everyone knows and wants to work with.” I shrugged again. “I should probably, like, study the industry so that I don’t feel so clueless.”

Imogen giggled. “Maybe Thomas’s next movie should be a book adaptation. Then you’d finally have something to contribute.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to suggest that.”

“Well, what about when he’s not working? Are you guys spending time together then?”

“He hasn’t really had any free nights since we’ve been here.” I realized that I had pretty much spent the last five minutes complaining about things so terrible as having to attend glitzy parties in Hollywood. Imogen must have thought I was a giant brat. “Sorry, Immy. I’m done complaining now, I promise.”

“You’re fine. God knows I can whinge with the best of them when I get going.” She smiled at me. “Look, it’s natural that there will be an adjustment, right? You’ve just moved to a new place, neither of you knows anyone around here, and your schedules are totally different. Give it time.”

I nodded. “You’re totally right.”

“And when you do have time to spend together, make sure you take advantage of it. Go out and explore the city together—I bet that will help you feel more connected to the place.”

“You’re pretty good at this relationship stuff, Imogen,” I said as she happily slurped the rest of her margarita. “You could have a career as a very specific kind of celebrity relationship therapist.”

“Ooh, do you think so?”

I laughed at the eager expression on her face. “Well, I was joking, but sure, why not? I’m sure there’s a demand for that out here.”

After we’d split the bill for our lunch, we headed back up the pier. “I wish we could go down to the beach,” she murmured, looking longingly down at the people enjoying the afternoon sun.

“I have a better idea. Why don’t we head over to the Grauman’s Chinese Theater and do a little homework?”

Her face lit up. “Isn’t that where all the movie stars leave their handprints?”

I nodded. “You could help me learn some of their names. I’m sure Heidi would think that was an appropriate use of our time. Even if I didn’t have to meet people with Thomas, it wouldn’t reflect very well on her agency if some major star called and I didn’t even know who it was.”

Imogen laughed. “That would be a total disaster.”

“So are you in? Should we begin my celebrity education?”

She flung an arm over my shoulder. “You’re in good hands, little grasshopper. When I’m done with you, you’ll finally know the difference between Ryan Gossling and Ryan Reynolds.”

I sighed. “I can hardly wait.”

Chapter Five

“What is this?” Thomas asked, pausing in the act of backing the car out of the garage to scrunch up his nose in apparent distaste at the music I’d selected.

I smacked his arm across the center console of the Audi. “Watch the face, buddy. This is the music of my people.”

He visibly rearranged his face into something more pleasant. “I mean, it’s nice. Really nice.”

I laughed and tapped my fingers on the armrest as Thomas maneuvered the car out into traffic. “It is a little loud,” I said, leaning forward in my seat to turn the volume down. “Better?”

“Sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to diss your music. But it’s hard when I can’t understand what they’re saying.”

“That’s because they were singing in Spanish.”

“Yeah, that much I gathered.”

“It’s actually one of the things I like best about being here, to be honest.”

“Spanish music?”

“No. I mean, kind of. It’s just nice to turn on the radio and hear something so familiar. They play it on, like, a dozen channels. It’s the kind of stuff my parents always listened to. I miss it.”

He smiled over at me. “But I bet you totally rebelled against it when you were younger, didn’t you?”

“Oh, God, yes. We couldn’t imagine anything more embarrassing when we were kids. The worst was when they’d play it while we had friends over.” I smiled. “There was this one time Maria brought a boy home. My mom had said they could watch movies in the den so long as the door was open. Well, my dad thought she was way too young to be dating. She was, what, fifteen at the time? So he decided to blast Mariachi music from the garage for the entire afternoon.” I laughed. “You could hear it all up and down the street. Maria was so mad, you should have seen her face. And my dad just kept saying, ‘What?’ like he had no idea why it would bother her.”

My laughter trailed off as the memory hit me like a punch to the gut. My dad’s face, so casually innocent. Maria red with fury.

Thomas reached over the dash and took my hand. “They’ll come around, Lizzie.”

“Whatever.” I turned away from him, not wanting him to see the wetness in my eyes. “So. Griffith Park. What’s so great about it?”

I could feel his eyes on me, like he wasn’t sure we should change the subject, but eventually he went on, in his brightest voice, “Well, it’s supposed to be really cool. There’s all kind of stuff to do there, apparently. Picnicking and hiking. There’s even a swimming pool in the summer.”