Mile High Guy (20 page)

I say nothing. First of all, I know she’s kidding herself. If I told Debbie right now what Donald has been up to, she would never speak to him again, never mind want him as a friend. It’s easy to say we should all be friends, blah, blah, blah, but it’s
just wishful thinking. In an ideal world we’d all be friends, but we don’t live in such a an amicable world. And human beings do not, to my knowledge, stay friends
with people who have hurt them.

The sun is beaming down forcing me to head for
the small pool. I lower myself into it thinking that there’s something quite wonderful about being able to swim outdoors in winter. I think of Tim walking around Dublin in his Parka jacket trying to keep warm and I secretly hope it’s lashing rain back in Ireland.

I’m on my second lap of the pool when a thought strikes me like a slap in the face. God, it’s so bloody obvious. Tim must be dating somebody else. He
must
be. Of
course
. That’s the reason for his bizarre behaviour. Why else would he have got rid of me like that? I know Tim’s not the type of man to give something up unless he has something better lined up. I feel nauseous. The idea of Tim calling to some other girl’s house with a plant for her delighted mother makes me feel ill. I’ll never forgive him for treating me like this.

After my swim I feel marginally better and lie down to dry off in the sun. After a while Debbie says she’s sick of the pool. She suggests heading to Venice Beach instead. I like the idea. Sitting by a small pool all day can become monotonous and Venice Beach is always so full of crazies, it’s bound
to cheer me up.

Half an hour later I wait for her in the hotel lobby. It doesn’t take us long to reach Venice Beach with all it’s weird and wonderful patrons and sidewalk
vendors. Body builders literally work out on the prom, roller-bladers with enormous rigid breasts zoom past and a zillion fortune-tellers wait to tell passer bys about their future. We stroll along looking out at the Pacific. It looks deceptively inviting but given the time of year, the water’s probably freezing.

We head to a little café and order black coffees and salads with no dressing because after a walk on wacky Venice Beach, one is not exactly inclined to stuff one’s face. LA is a very strange place.
Everyone seems to be either very thin or very fat. There’s no in between really. Also, nobody really seems to belong either. They come from all over the world to search for something here. Something, which I’m sure, most never find. I don’t know if I
could live here full time but God, it’s a incredibly interesting place to visit.

The girl who serves is us a stunning brunette with a flawless face and a foreign accent. Russian maybe. She’s so thin she looks like she might break. She completely understands when we refuse the dressing. I’m sure the only dressing she ever does, is for auditions.

Of course, I’m sure she’s not really a waitress. She’s probably just one of thousands of gorgeous-looking women standing on their feet in this town. Feeding and watering ordinary people like myself and Debbie. I’m sure she could tell you about the
stars who’ve popped in here. Maybe Nicole Kidman has also enjoyed a dressing-free salad in here too. Or somebody who looks like her. Or wants to be her. The possibilities are endless . . .

I’m so glad I never just arrived out here armed with my script and a prayer. I wonder what drives people to come out? What makes them stay and why are they so afraid to go home? Maybe they never go home and just hide out on Venice Beach forever withering their skin under the relentless sun. Maybe all the street performers who hang out there once had dreams of making it big.

Thankfully I never wanted to be an actress. At least not since I was a child. After auditioning for
Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz
and ending up being one of the munchkins, I hung up my acting hat. I often think it must be one of the hardest professions. I suppose that’s why I admire Adam so much. Imagine putting yourself up for rejection after rejection day after day. Adam must have gone through all the hell before he hit the big time. And he’s still going through it in a way. He doesn’t find TV challenging enough
apparently. He wants to be a big movie star.

The Russian waitress arrives with two glasses of iced water and I can tell by her eyes that she’s on the verge of giving up. If she landed a two-bit role in a TV series or a commercial, she might just hold out a bit longer. Turning up for auditions has to be the hardest work ever. And it’s unpaid.

‘You know, most of the actors living here, work for free to get experience,’ says Debbie, obviously reading my thoughts.

‘I know,’ I nod.

‘The film companies get away with it because there are so many wannabes just desperate to put anything on their CVs. Have you seen all the ads in the acting magazines?

‘Mmm. That’s just what I was thinking. I was flicking through a magazine for actors and the only jobs offered were unpaid.’

‘Yeah, it’s a disgrace.’

‘Or you can sell your eggs I suppose.’

‘What?’ I throw Debbie a surprised look.

‘Oh you know, those magazines are full of ads looking for women to sell their eggs. I suppose they’re aimed at wannabe actors living on the breadline.’

I shudder. Once again I’m just so glad I abandoned any acting ambitions when
Fame
came to an end. But still, I would really, really love to have my script accepted.

And have other people act out the parts I’ve created.

Debbie wants to visit the mall in Santa Monica so we head there after lunch. She hits the clothes shops while I stop off at the bookshop to browse. I always treat myself when in LA by buying a screenplay or two. I’ll browse through them later in bed
with a nice glass of wine.

Not much happens in LA at night around the
Marina Del Ray area. Everybody’s in bed by ten. At least that’s how it feels. If New York is the city that never sleeps, LA is the city that seems to shut down at sunset.

An hour later I meet Debbie, laden with bags. I show her the books I’ve bought and she rolls her eyes to heaven. She thinks the whole scriptwriting dream is daft. As do most people.

Debbie doesn’t want to carry her bags home so we get a taxi. When I get to my hotel room, the little red light is flashing on my answer phone.
My heart gives a little leap. Could it be . . . oh could it be that Adam has found out my hotel room number and left a little love message? My excitement is short-lived however. I’ve three messages but they’re all from the same person. Wendy, one of the air hostesses, is wondering what I’m doing for dinner later on. Dinner? God help
us, but how is anybody expected to lose weight around here? I ring her back and ask what the plan is. She suggests The Cheesecake Factory, which I have to admit is the most fab restaurant around here. They serve over forty types of cheesecake,
so how can I resist? Forget the diet – there’s always tomorrow.

Wendy, Debbie and myself head over to The Cheesecake Factory at around seven. Both girls have made a huge effort to dress up and look pretty glam. Debbie always makes an effort anyway, even if it’s only to run down to the hotel gym. But Wendy
looks like a young Claudia Schiffer in her figure-hugging black trousers and delicate white backless top. I wish I’d made more of an effort.

The restaurant is jammed and there’s a terrific buzz about the place. Heavenly aromas waft from the kitchen area. My mouth is watering. My tummy is grumbling. Out of the side of my eye I catch sight of the display of desserts. The cheesecakes are out of this world. I’m going to die deciding which one to go for.

We sit down and scan the menus. There’s so much
to choose from that it’s almost impossible to make a decision. Determined to be good, I opt for a salad. This time I pour a delicious, calorie-ridden dressing over it. I don’t care. I’ve been dumped. Adam hasn’t called and I deserve a treat. We order a bottle
of house wine and Debbie is asked to produce ID, much to the chagrin of Wendy and myself. Why the hell didn’t he ask us? Not to worry though, the waiter looks like a film star so I’ll forgive him just this once.

After dinner, my jeans are fit to bust but still I order a chocolate and raspberry cheesecake. It’s so sinfully delicious and large I just eat a sliver and ask for the rest to be put in a bag. I’ll have it later, I tell the waiter. He doesn’t bat an eyelid. People do this kind of thing all the time in the States.

I wouldn’t mind hitting a bar now, any bar, but the others are yawning and Debbie wants to go back to the hotel and call Donald. I don’t think it’s a great idea.

‘But he’s my boyfriend,’ Debbie answers crossly as we split the bill and I try to figure out how much of a tip to leave.

‘Who rings who the most?’ I suddenly question her. What I’m really trying to do is point out the obvious. I just feel she’s doing all the chasing. And I’m afraid she’ll get hurt.

‘Well . . . it’s about fifty fifty,’ she answers back. ‘Why?’

‘He should be ringing you more than you ring him,’ I tell her.

‘Says who?’

‘They were the rules the last time I checked.’

We walk back to the hotel in silence. Debbie seems clearly annoyed with me for pointing out the obvious. Deep down though, she must know Donald is playing games. I wish I could come straight out and tell her about himself and Amy but I can’t bring myself to. I’m just hoping she’ll find out soon. If there’s one thing I can’t bear to see a
man getting away with, it’s infidelity. It’s just unforgivable.

I’d hate to think of Adam physically being with anybody else besides me. He’s probably so busy filming he wouldn’t have time anyway. But I’d hate him, you know, to even think about being with another woman. I don’t sound obsessed, do I? After all I don’t think I’ve fallen for him completely. And I know we’ve only been on one date. But I can’t stop thinking about him.

Back in the hotel Wendy asks me to join her for a drink in the hotel bar. Unsurprisingly Debbie has gone to her room to ring Donald. I’m amazed
Wendy wants to stay up drinking. The girl has hardly said two words all night. Maybe she’s one of those people who miraculously comes to life after a couple of drinks though. I’m pleased to oblige however. I’ll have a drink with basically anyone.
No need to twist my arm or anything. Besides I don’t want to be alone in my hotel room. Being alone gives me time to think and I don’t particularly want to think right now. About anything.

‘Debbie seems mad about that guy,’ Wendy observes once our drinks have been ordered.

Her big chocolate-brown eyes look full of concern for poor Debbie and I can’t help thinking what a nice girl she is.

‘Well, you don’t have to be a genius to figure that one out,’ I say.

We’re sitting in the magnificent white hotel lobby admiring the enormous silver and white Christmas
tree. Yes, I know it’s only November and we’re in LA but the Christmas tree is up and it feels funny because we’ve been sunbathing all day. I don’t feel Christmassy. In fact I’m not really looking forward to Christmas this year because once again I have nothing organised. Every year I swear I’m going to be one of those people who do their Christmas shopping in the January sales. But every January the thought of me heading into town battling for bargains is just too much to bear so I avoid town. Of course the fear of my credit card being declined in front of a long queue of sneering
women doesn’t encourage me either.

Anyway I’m not even going to think about
Christmas. Because it seems to come around earlier and earlier every year now.

‘It’s a lovely tree isn’t it?’ Wendy suddenly comments.

‘Fabulous, but you know I feel silly thinking about the festive season so early,’ I explain.

‘Are you spending it with your family?’ she asks regardless.

‘I suppose so,’ I mutter, secretly swearing to myself that if my Dad insists on hammering
Silent Night
on the piano again this year, he can forget me joining in. I used to sing it to please my grandparents but I’m much too old for all that kind of
carry on now.

I wonder if my sister, Ruth, will join us this Christmas. She threatens not to turn up every year and leaves me to peel all the Brussels sprouts, untangle the Christmas lights, and hoover the entire house. By the time she usually arrives in there’s no
more work to be done, I’m barely speaking to my folks and she swans in looking a million dollars while my mother nearly falls over with gratitude over the fact that she has honoured us with her presence. Then she sits for the meal like the bloody
guest of honour, guzzles the champagne and then heads off before the piano playing kicks off and the washing up needs to be done.

God, this Christmas I think I’ll go on strike. I really do. If I were rich I would book a month in a five star luxury hotel in Barbados and escape it all. The way things are, however, I couldn’t even
afford a night in a Mullingar B&B.

‘What are you getting this year?’ Wendy wants to know.

Jesus, does this girl not want to talk about anything besides bloody Christmas? I don’t mean to be mean but her life must be pretty boring if she’s already planning her Christmas stocking. ‘I’m hoping for some socks and bubble bath.’