The California Club (2 page)

She gives me an understanding squeeze. 'Vile creature. I don't know why he had to bring her. Why can't it just be our gang like the good old days?'

'Like she was going to leave him alone with four women,' I huff.

'Yeah but he's known us for years, if he was going to get it on with any of us it would've happened by now. Oh!' Zoë clamps her hand over her mouth. 'Sorry Lara-'

'It's okay,' I mumble.

'Obviously he wouldn't you know with the rest of us. But you … you he could do it with any minute!' Zoë gives me an earnest smile.

'I'll be lucky if he can hold himself back!' I try to play along. 'We might have to do it right here on the suitcase scanner.'

Nervous laughter.

I wish I could convince the Belles that I'm over Elliot so they wouldn't have to constantly feel bad on my behalf, but it's tricky. First I'd have to convince myself.

'At least we can count on Helen to be single!' Zoë takes a different tack. 'Maybe she can hook us up with some naked chefs!’

I chuckle. She may well have some spare – Helen has always found men too disobedient and lax with their promises to take seriously. She once totted up how many hours her sister wasted waiting for the phone to ring or sobbing into her pillow over some guy and – other than the occasional accidental summer romance – decided she had more productive things to do with her time. Zoë's relationships rarely lasted either, but that's more down to her 'variety is the spice of life' motto.

As for Sasha, she gets more offers than all of us put together but never seems particularly keen on any of the poor love-struck fools. She only goes on dates to prove she isn't aloof and out of fear of seeming ungrateful. Whereas I long to inspire eternal devotion, she finds that infatuated puppy-dog look the biggest turn-off. She says it makes her want to give the guy a good ‘snap out of it’ slap a la Cher in
Moonstruck.
Well, if she acted on that impulse today she would have already assaulted half the men in Terminal 4 – as she sashays towards us they gawp after her slinky bod and swishy hair like she's hooked their noses with an invisible fishing line.

I look at my watch. 1pm on the dot. Sasha never did learn the diva ways of a supermodel despite nine years in the business and a cereal ad campaign that made her a household bottom. She's given it all up now and is currently between careers, though the first word that springs to mind when you see her will always be 'model'. (Fractionally ahead of 'vain cow' – not that she is, but you can't help wishing, can you?)

'Belles!' she breathes, gliding into our arms and staying there for a full minute.

'It's so good to see you!' I smile and inhale her Scandi-fresh scent.

'You too,' she sighs, still holding life-raft-tight. 'I'm sorry I've been such a recluse lately.'

Sasha's normally the best at keeping in touch but over the past few months she's been uncharacteristically 'absent'. I presumed she just wanted to take some time to de-program herself now that she's an ex-model – you know, let her cuticles grow ragged and maybe cultivate a baby pot belly – but it'll never work, she's beautiful to the core.

‘I've been thinking about you all so much.' She's misty with sentiment as her eyes flick between us. ‘We've had some good times, haven't we?' she adds with perfect death-bed delivery.

'We're about to have a whole lot more.' Zoë reminds her.

'Yes!' I grin to excess in the hope that it proves contagious, but all Sasha can manage is a slight 'let's hope so' smile. She never was exactly a raver but today her meek streak seems more apparent than ever.

'So, how are you?' I probe, feeling the first twitches of concern. 'How's life without the lens?'

'Fine,' she looks uncomfortable but quickly brightens. 'You know how the last time we spoke I said I wished I'd never gone into modeling in the first place?'

I nod. She had a point – there is a certain class to being that exquisite and not doing the obvious thing.

'Have you changed your mind?' I ask.

'Oh no! It just occurred to me that if I hadn't gone down that path we might never have met!’

Beautiful, languid Sasha slipped into the B&B one afternoon in July on a fashion shoot for
Marie Claire
magazine. I would have stared longer but the photographer distracted me with his rapturous tizzy on seeing my mother's décor: 'This is exactly the level of tackiness we were going for!' he cheered as I showed him our flouncy four-poster suite. 'I mean, it looked cheesy in your brochure but all these ornamental bells and cross-stitched pillows – it's perfect!'

I thanked him through gritted teeth and left them to it, but within twenty minutes the make-up artist came dinging on the reception bell asking me to call a doctor – Sasha was being violently ill. I thought she'd looked a bit pale on arrival but this was back in the days where all models were supposed to look eerily pallid so I hadn't taken much notice. Turns out she had gastroenteritis and couldn't move from the bathroom. Not even back to the luxury of The Grand Hotel where the rest of them were holed up for the night.

She ended up staying with us for a week, sweating and vomiting and writhing until 'just can't take any more’ tears slipped down her poreless face. No family swooped in to look after her – they live in Monaco – so Zoë and I took it in turns to watch over her. Then Helen became matron to our nurses and by the following Wednesday we were all having a Baileys slumber party in Sasha's four-poster, getting her to regale us with stories of who she'd modeled with and where, from Tyson Beckford to Tibet. Zoë was particularly entranced. 'You've got the perfect life!' she used to tell her. 'All pampering and pandering and champagne!'

Sasha told us repeatedly that it wasn't nearly as glamorous or as fun as it sounded but we didn't believe a word of it. Proof positive that Sasha led a charmed life came when she was well enough to eat again and we discovered she could indulge her profoundly sweet tooth with no repercussions, whereas Zoë in particular has to watch every Skittle. Not that Zoë begrudged Sasha her speedy metabolism, just like I don't begrudge her the fact that Elliot had a brief crush when they first met. Anyone would. Everyone does.

‘Maybe we should be feeling sorry for Elise,' Sasha takes a rather controversial stance as we scoot over to the telephone bay to avoid further clashes with the stream of harassed holidaymakers. 'Going away with three girls she hardly knows, to visit a fourth she's never met – she must be worrying about being the odd one out.'

Zoë and I give her a stern 'whose side are you on?’ look.

‘Sorry,' Sasha demurs.

'Here they come now!' Zoë sounds the alert.

'Oh god!' I take a breath.

'Don't worry, we know what to do,' Zoë reassures me.

In one hand I feel Sasha's long cool fingers interlacing with mine, the other becomes comfortingly indented with Zoë's chunky, nubby rings. I have every confidence in their support. The ability to decimate a love rival is one of the most crucial qualities in a best friend, and they do it so well. The first time Elliot arranged to introduce Elise to me, I begged them to come too and they were swift to oblige. We arrived early at the chosen bar and positioned ourselves strategically at the back, standing united as though Elliot was a hostage about to be marched towards us by his evil captor. Being irritatingly short-sighted, I was relying fully on their vision and bitching expertise to get me over this first hurdle.

‘She's orange!' Zoë got off to a good start. 'Badly applied St Tropez, probably didn't exfoliate before application.’

‘What's she wearing?' I asked, heart pounding.

'All black,' Sasha jumped in.

'Audrey classic or cop-out?' I needed specifics.

'Cop-out, and they're mismatched blacks: trousers washed-out cotton – you know when it gets that greenish undertone?'

I nodded fervently.

'Next to purplish-black acrylic cardi.'

'Figure?'

'Hmmm …' Zoë and Sasha seemed stumped for adjectives.

'Oh no, it's good, isn't it?'

'Hard to tell,' Sasha did the diplomatic thing.

'Hair!' I barked, moving on. They were getting closer and I needed to end on a negative.

'Looks like she's growing out highlights,' Sasha squinted.

'No, it's split ends,' Zoë whooped in triumph. 'Inch-long fray!'

I could hear Elliot's voice. My stomach gurned a response. 'Anything else?' I hurried them, just seconds to go.

‘Needs a pedicure,' was Zoë's last word on the subject.

Today Elise's trotters come encased in a pair of spike heeled boots, a long black coat shrouds what did indeed turn out to be an annoyingly good bod and her neck is entwined with a rash-inducing mohair scarf. Welcome to March in the UK.

'What's with the leather Gestapo gloves?' Zoë hisses.

'They must be new because she's constantly adjusting them,' Sasha deduces.

'They're giving me the creeps,' Zoë shudders. 'She looks like she's about to strangle someone.'

'Preferably herself,' I mutter before realizing that's not actually possible.

Come on, force out a smile, I encourage myself.

'Elise! So nice to see you!' I beam. It turns out my pleasure is entirely genuine – she's still bright orange.

I press my cheek against her Flash Bronzer but blow my kiss directly at Elliot.

'Lara!' he grins as our matching indigo eyes meet. 'Come here!' and he pulls me into a hug.

Every time. He gets me every time.

Though Elliot was the last to join our group, I'd known of him the longest. We were at the same university, but with little likelihood of overlapping, what with him head down in computer science, and me swanning round the Art Department in vintage Pucci. I actually caught my first glimpse of him at a gig, drumming for some hopeless student band. I only looked over to see what was making such an ear-tweaking noise but was instantly mesmerized. His tawny hair had a ‘just got out of bed' look that made me want to get right back in. (Of course now I know that when he does get out of bed his hair is flat to his head and he looks like an owl.)

While the rest of the band floundered round posturing and twanging inappropriate chords he kept a steady rhythm and just looked so laid back. From time to time he'd catch someone's eye, a grin would light up his face and these dimples would appear ones that made you smile just looking at them. I was smitten. From then on my day was incomplete if I didn't have a sighting of him. I used to loiter in the coffee bar watching him with his mates, wondering what his voice sounded like, what he was saying … I'd will him to look over and when he did I'd send him telepathic messages of love. Though he never sent any back, he would occasionally smile. And when he did you'd never seen anyone bound to Mrs Montgomery's art history class with such exuberance.

I thought of a million excuses to speak to him, but in a way I didn't want to. I wanted to keep this perfect state of adoration as it was.

Then one Saturday in mid-August he walked into the B&B. I was just on my way to meet Sasha at the station, but immediately darted behind the reception desk, joining my mother.

'Oh, hi!' he smiled recognition. 'You're …'

'From Brighton University. We both go there.' Thank you, Einstein.

‘That's right!' he smiled. 'I'm just here to pick up my parents, they checked in last night. Harvey?'

'Ah yes, Room 5, would you like me to call them for you?' My mother dealt with the business in hand.

'Thanks,' Elliot nodded.

'This is my mum,' I whispered while she was on the phone.

'And here's mine—' he motioned to a grey-haired lady coming down the stairs. She was at least twenty years older than my own mother. 'And my dad.'

He was older still, but both of them had transparently sweet dispositions.

'Pleased to meet you!' they twinkled at me, revealing strong Mancunian accents that had somehow eluded their son.

'This is …' Elliot went to introduce me but faltered, realizing he didn't know my name.

'Lara!' I leapt in.

'Pretty name, that!' the dad noted.

I flushed with delight and gave my mum's elbow a squeeze for making such an excellent choice.

‘Is this your first time in Brighton?' I asked, sounding ridiculously prim.

'Ooh, yes, dear and we're loving it!' Mama Harvey cooed.

'Elliot's taking us on the pier today.' Papa Harvey puffed up.

'You watch yourselves on that helter-skelter!' my mother teased.

They chuckled delightedly and tootled on their way.

I couldn't believe it. Elliot and I had gone from never having spoken to meeting each other's parents in a matter of minutes. (My mum is both parents to me, Dad being long gone.) This boded well.

'Do you want to do a bit of dusting while you're up there?' Mum said, nudging me when they'd gone.

I looked at her, still fizzing as if I had Alka-Seltzer swirling through my veins. 'What?' I squeaked.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling then winked. 'Let me know when you're ready to be scraped down!'

I grinned back at her then ran out the door, yelling, 'I've got to go and meet Sasha!’

I couldn't wait to tell her my news. Better yet, I got to relive it all again an hour later when we met up with Zoë. She seemed even more excited than me – if such a thing were possible – and she's been my number one Elliot 4 Lara cheerleader ever since.

Anyway, when Elliot came back to drop his parents off that evening, he left a message about a gig he was playing Sunday night and all four of us girls went along. He loved that, having his own personal harem, and over too many bottles of K cider we decided he could be the one Beau to our exclusive collection of Brighton Belles. His girlfriend of the time didn't approve so he finished with her. I was in heaven. Until he got another. And then another.

I soon learned that his girlfriends would come and go but his Belles could never be replaced. We'd claimed the best part of his heart, I used to tell myself. It was us he introduced to his parents, not any of these dippy two-month flings.