The California Club (10 page)

'What would you like?' The waiter has his pen poised.

Elise jumps straight in: 'I'll have a chocolate mocha, he'll have a latte. Shall we split the crab and avocado omelet with chive crème fraîche and get a stack of cranberry cassis pancakes?'

I don’t know anyone that could say no to that.

Though I'm not invited to their plate-swapping picnic I order the ginger pancakes with homemade apple butter and defy them not to want a forkful.

As the parade of food begins I wonder out loud if Helen might be joining us.

‘She won't be here till noon,' Elise announces. 'Says we're to meet her in the lobby at exactly twelve.'

'When did she call?' Elliot queries.

'Just after you left to knock up the girls.' Elise frowns at her choice of phrasing then continues: 'Apparently she's got a surprise for us – maybe she's going to reveal where we'll be staying after tonight.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘I’m not sure I like all this "Wait and see!" stuff. If I wanted suspense I'd have gone on a Murder Mystery Weekend.'

If only. Though it's not too late to arrange a little strychnine in her mocha chocolata ya-ya.

'I think it's fun,' Elliot rallies. 'Anything could happen!'

'I just hope there's not going to be loads of packing and unpacking. I hate that.'

'Count yourself lucky you've got a suitcase to unpack,' I mutter.

'Still no sign of it?' Elliot sighs.

'Express is just across the street, it's similar to Next,' Elise informs me. 'We could come with you and pick something out, if you like?'

I see this supposed kindness for what it is: a ploy to get Elliot to buy something for her.

'Thanks but I think I'll wait till Helen gets here to see what occasion I'm dressing for.’

'Suit yourself.'

We fall into an awkward silence. I feel so self-conscious in front of Elise, almost as if I'm acting. I can't be my normal self because that would mean gabbling away to Elliot and she gets all huffy if the conversation doesn't revolve around her so all that's left is innocuous nonsense.

'Did you know Pearl Jam once stayed here?' I make a conversational bid. 'And Barbra Streisand. Imagine them doing a duet!'

Nothing.

'You know where I'd like to stay?' I try a new tack. 'The Madonna Inn!'

'Oh god!' Elise rolls her eyes.

'It's nothing to do with Madonna herself,' I hasten to explain. 'It's actually the surname of the owner – Mr Alex Madonna. He built it himself.'

'I think I remember you mentioning this before.' Elliot furrows his brow. 'Didn't his wife decorate the rooms with all these crazy themes?’

I nod delightedly. 'Cowboys and cupids and cavemen!'

‘It sounds so tacky,' Elise sneers.

'I think the word you're searching for is kitsch,' I try a little banter.

'Kitsch, retro, camp – they're all just euphemisms for bad taste. You of all people should know better. I thought you were supposed to have an eye for style.'

Could she sound any more patronizing? As it happens, you can't get too kitsch for my tastes. It's blandness and faux pine and pastels that push me over the edge. I guess it's in my blood, but my environment really affects me. As do the people in it, I think, eyes narrowing at Elise.

'I think I'll take a few bits to Sasha,' I say, scraping the fruit salad garnish on to a side plate along with a rogue muffin. 'See if she's hungry.'

'See you at high noon,' Elliot says as he waves me off.

Elise doesn't even bother to look up. Charming!

Walking away from Elise I get an instant sense of relief. I find her presence so tainting, especially when the others aren't around to dilute it. But I refuse to let her spoil my time in this genteel paradise. I mean, look at this place! I marvel as I step out onto the terrace. From here I can see the pool and its parade of sunloungers and parasols. Beyond that, the green park, glorious ocean and palm-studded sky. There are already a few early sunbathers in contented ‘bake me’ mode and one lone figure with the cowed body language of a condemned woman. It's such a beautiful day, how could anyone be anything other than elated?

And then she turns my way and I see the face beneath the sunhat.

The sleeping angel has gone, leaving a miserable mortal in her place. I suppose it was too much to hope that eight hours' kip could cure her woes. Woes which I'm starting to take seriously. The self-help books seemed harmless enough and the episode in the Hotel Del restroom was entirely understandable, but then last night as I sloughed off my crystallized make-up in the bathroom I caught her glaring at her reflection as if she was in a staring contest with her darkest enemy. Seeing as I'd be clambering up on to the marble sink top to kiss the mirror if I was her, I couldn't understand the dirty look.

I was about to dismiss it as mis-squirted skin freshener when it got more bizarre – she slathered thick cream over her face then dragged her fingertips down, creating streaks of white so that for a strange moment it looked like she was staring out from behind prison bars. I thought about trying to peel off her face and swapping it for mine to see if that would cheer her up, or at least make her appreciate what she'd got, but instead I simply said, 'You all right?'

She took a second to rejoin the world, sluiced her face with icy water, then said: 'The thing we wrote at the beach – the wish?'

'Yes?' I encouraged her, handing her a towel.

'I went back to the looks thing again. You know, people not seeing the real me, just what I look like?'

I nodded as she dabbed her flawless skin dry. Always hard to sympathize when I'm standing beside her in front of a mirror to full compare & contrast effect.

'I don't even know if that's the real issue any more,' she fretted. 'I'm just so afraid that they're right. What if I am just a pretty face?'

I'd never seen Sasha look so scared. I set down my toothbrush to give her my full attention.

'I say I want people to get to know the real me, but who is that? I don't know. I don't even know if she's worth getting to know.

‘Oh Sasha, don't be crazy!' I rallied her.

‘I know I piss you off, going on about this—'

'No, you don't,' I assured her. 'I just get frustrated that you can't see all your other qualities. All the reasons we love you.'

'I just feel like I don't fit in anywhere,' she quavered.

'You just haven't found your groove, that's all.'

'What if I haven't got one?'

'Everybody's got one. Everybody's got something that they were born to do.'

Not everyone gets to find it of course, but I don't want to labor that point. Instead I said, 'Some people find theirs later in life.'

And straight away I thought: Other people take theirs for granted. Look at me – years of practicing my home-styling skills in anticipation of transforming the B&B and now the groove I thought I was gradually growing into is gone. Was I wrong? Is there something else for me out there? I was so sure.

'Maybe I should have just stuck with modeling.' Sasha sounded defeated as she pulled on her stripy pyjama bottoms.

'You hated it,' I reminded her.

‘I know, but at least I was good at it.'

'If you hated it, it wasn't your groove,' I confirmed. 'It was just a red herring – something you needed to get out of your system.'

Sasha shrugged then suddenly changed the subject. 'Have you seen the shutters above the bath? They open out on to the ocean…'

I knew she wasn't really done but I didn't want to push it. It wasn't a conversation that could lead to an easy resolution and at that point I thought a good night's sleep would probably serve her better than a pep talk from me. I guess now it's time for Plan B.

As I get closer to her I see a tear trickle from her eye, so I slow down and then casually slide on to the seat beside her and stare deliberately out to sea, trying to give the sun a chance to dry the streak so I don't have to comment on it and thus put her on the spot. But when I finally turn to offer her a slice of breakfast pineapple, her face is flooded.

'Sasha, what is it?' I'm shocked and put my arms around her, ready to catch her if she falls.

'I'm so lost, Lara,' she wails. 'I wonder if I should just go home.’

‘What?' I gasp. 'We haven't even been here twenty-four hours!'

'I just don't think I can do it.'

'Do what?' What on earth is going on in her head?

'Have fun. Jape around. I mean, where does Zoë get the energy to go to Mexico of an evening?'

'I don't know,' I marvel. I'm still fighting visions of her dancing on a table, a small Mexican man between her teeth.

Sasha sniffs. 'When I was at home thinking about this trip I imagined myself laughing in the sunshine, but now I'm here I feel just as bad as I did then. Worse even, because I look at you all having fun and I feel such a killjoy and I hate myself for not being able to loosen up and join in.'

I'd hardly say I've been a barrel of laughs since we arrived but it never crossed my mind to turn around and go back home.

'It's early days, Sasha, you said yourself jet lag can be a downer for some people.'

'I know but—'

I'm not done. 'If you went home, how would that make you feel?' I turn her to face me.

Her eyes remain downcast.

'Miserable … defeated … a failure …' She sinks lower. 'But that's okay – you're supposed to be miserable living in London. Everyone is. I can blame the tubes and strikes and the weather, but here – it's blue skies and golden sands and swaying palms and I can't stand it!' Sasha covers her face with her hands. 'I mean, if I can't be happy here there's no hope for me. I might as well—' she halts herself with a choking sob.

I blink, stunned. She's even worse than I thought. As I try and think what to say next, Sasha uncovers her eyes and takes in the look on my face.

'You see? This is exactly why I have to go. I'm just going to ruin it for everyone else.'

'You wouldn't … you couldn't …' I begin.

'I just …' Her eyes flick around searching for the words, something to make sense. Then in a small voice, she says, 'I don't like being me any more. I don't know if I ever did.'

'I'll swap!' I suggest with a faint smile.

'Do you want to feel like this?' Sasha looks me in the eye.

I shake my head. Because I already have.

'Maybe this is the worst bit,' I suggest. 'If you've been really depressed then you're not going to get happy overnight, there'll be some resistance. Your body is probably addicted to all these negative pheromones or whatever they are, and at first it's going to reject any happy beans, but soon you'll be addicted to them instead.' I'm sure there must have been a better way to phrase that.

'But I don't even want to try. How lame is that?'

My heart goes out to her. That's just how I felt when I first heard about the B&B. It scared me too much to care so I opted for apathy. But that only provides a temporary numbing, as I am beginning to find out.

I take Sasha's hand and try and be tactful. 'It's not like we're expecting you to be the life and soul of the party.'

'Why would you? I never have been, have I? What exactly do I bring to the party?'

'You bring Sasha!' I cry, exasperated.

Before I can list her lovely calming qualities she says, 'Admit it. It would be easier if I wasn't here.'

'I don't know why you'd say that,' I frown, peeling back the strands of hair that have become stuck to her face with tears. 'You haven't done anything to bring us down. Of course we all want you along.'

‘Not like this.'

'Whatever state you come in, we want you here,' I insist. 'If you want to slump in the back of the car while we're driving round, or build sandcastles on the beach and fill the moat with your own tears, that's fine. If you want to go to bed early, or not get up at all, that's fine. If you want to wander off and have some alone time fine – you don't have to be what you think we want you to be. You don't have to be fake cheerful. You're entitled to your feelings. We'll be more than happy to have a laugh with you when you feel like joining in, and if you don't that's okay too. If this is your hour of need, do you think we're going to turn away?'

My eyes well up with emotion. I mustn't cry. If we both lose the plot, who'll save us? I take a breath and wait for the tightening in my throat to subside. Gradually the furrows in Sasha's brow soften and for a moment she seems to take comfort, but still she hesitates:

‘I don’t want to be a downer for everyone.'

I take her hand. 'It would only be a strain if we spent all our time trying to cheer you up. If you say it's okay that we just let you be, it'll work out fine.' I try and sound matter-of-fact, as if there's simply no way I'm letting her go. I'm holding tight. I can do this.

‘Anyway, we don't even know where we're going to be tomorrow, let alone how we're going to feel,' I remind her. 'Aren't you at least curious to find out what Helen has planned?'

'I suppose,' Sasha concedes.

'Oh come on, it must be good or she wouldn't keep us in suspense all this time. She's on to something, you can tell by looking at her. Do you really want to miss out on a chance of experiencing the kind of joy she's brimming with?'

Sasha shakes her head.

'I know I don't!' I answer my own question. 'I want to know her secret.'

I think it's working. Sasha's juddering breaths are beginning to even out.

'Is that papaya?' She eyes the mini fruit platter.

I smile. She's back in the game. 'It's all yours,' I tell her. Then I look at my watch. 'And you've got exactly sixty seconds to eat it.’

‘Is it time?’ Sasha looks up, mid-mouthful, eyes wide.

My heart pounds as I nod a yes. 'Come on, let's go!' – and together we race up to the lobby. Two dented spirits in search of some hope.

‘Your party awaits you in La Sala,' The receptionist seems to know exactly who we are and why we're here. 'Please come through.'

She guides us down a tier of terracotta tiles into a lounge softened with ornately-woven rugs in hues of coral and sea green. A trio of black wrought-iron chandeliers bear down on us from above as we pass through a series of arched beams, hand-painted with Moroccan-inspired patterns in rich rusts and golds.