The California Club (20 page)

‘They eat the bones,' Carrie tells me, having snuck up while I was engrossed in leopard table manners. 'It's a great source of calcium for them – good for their teeth and bones.'

‘They were so ferocious just now,' I marvel.

Carrie nods. 'You've got to remember these animals are essentially wild.'

Same goes double for Ty, I think to myself as I watch him press a handful of raw McNuggets through the cage for a less pushy member of the pack. The leopard chomps them down then licks Ty's palm to make sure she hasn't missed any delicious gristle.

'I'm just going to get some supplies from the vet, I'll be back in an hour or two.' Carrie pats me on the back.

'Okay.' I nod, instantly drawn back to the leopards. Having enjoyed their starter they return to the barrow buffet for seconds and thirds. I wonder if they ever tire of chicken. Maybe, just maybe, one of them is craving a little braised tofu.

'Where's your friend?' Ty shouts over.

'She's just thrown up,' I say, as pointedly as possible.

No reaction.

'Doesn't that bother you?' I narrow my eyes at him.

'She's a model isn't she? I'm sure she's had plenty of practice.’

I want to scream, What the hell is your problem? but he's coming straight at me with the wheelbarrow. I leap back to avoid a clash. He glowers at me as he passes. I take an indignant breath. What's that smell? It's not the raw chicken or animal droppings. Something more fumey. Not gas. Turpentine? I do have a painting chore this afternoon. Then I twig. Whiskey. It's fading now but it was coming from Ty's mouth.

Is he Mr Angry because he's an alcoholic? Perhaps I should take Martha's advice and gather a bit more information before I confront him. As I wander through the pens I stop beside an unfamiliar furry face.

'What's your name?' I ask, searching for a plaque.

He makes a sound akin to a weight-lifter's grunt but I can't translate.

'Here it is!' I pick up the wooden sign and hook it back on to the fencing. ‘Troy.'

Something clicks in my head – 'Troy! Of course, Helen! She'll know what to do.'

I dial her number, praying I'm not disturbing a crucial spurt of icing.

'Hello?'

'Helen! It's Lara. I think we may have a problem.

I bring her swiftly up to speed on Ty's unacceptable behavior but Helen is dismissive.

'Sasha'll be fine, she's dealt with enough designer histrionics in her time.'

'But this is different,' I contend.

'How so?'

'Well apart from the fact they were shrimpy queens and he's a big macho lug, she fancies him.'

'And you're worried it's some kind of manifestation of her self-loathing, the fact that she's attracting abuse to her?'

'Does everyone start talking like that when they move to California?'

Helen laughs.

I restate my case, Cali-style: 'I'm just concerned that, seeing how fragile she is at the moment, maybe this isn't the best environment for her.'

'Please don't worry, Lara. It's going to be fine. This place has been carefully selected by The California Club. Besides, it's just five more nights. If she has any major problems she can always call you.'

'But what if I'm in Yosemite? That's hundreds of miles from here.'

'Zoë's just an hour away in LA. If she can't terrorize him into submission, no one can.'

She's got a point.

'Everything is going to turn out for the best, trust me.'

'If you're sure …'

'I am. Listen, I've got to go, my soufflé is about to collapse.'

The line goes dead.

I turn to Troy. He looks at me as if to say, If Helen says it's okay … then shakes his mane. I sigh and return to the house to get my next assignment.

For the next few hours I busy myself painting fence posts, while Sasha gets her first lesson in animal environment hygiene. No prizes for guessing who assigned the tasks. Still, I reckon Ty is going soft in his old age because he's given her cages without tigers in to clean.

It's now 1pm. I'm running out of time – just half an hour before I'm due to leave. I look over at Sasha. Whereas I'm already on my fifth fence post, she's made almost no progress clearing out the first cage. She keeps stopping, leaning heavily on the shovel and visibly fighting back the tears. If it wasn't for Ty's watchful and ever more belligerent eye on us I'd go over and comfort her. But I know that would only bring on another tirade.

'How are you getting on?' Carrie appears by my side.

'Fine, just two more to go. Did you get what you needed from the vet?'

'Yup, just going to administer it now.' She looks over at Sasha. 'I guess she's not used to getting her hands dirty,' she says.

'Really, she's not like that,' I insist.

'Does she know that?'

Good question.

'To be honest, this is all quite new to her – she's only recently stopped modelling so the new non-model her, the real her, is still a work in progress,' I explain.

'She's trying to find out who she is on the inside?' Carrie enquires.

I nod.

'Does she think all she's got is her looks?'

'I'm afraid so.’

‘No wonder she's not ready to let go of them.'

I look at poor Sasha. Warring with herself. I know part of her wants to throw down that shovel, climb head-first into her sleeping bag and weep until next Tuesday. I wonder if I should tell Carrie how depressed she is, perhaps ask her to ask Ty to lay down his arms. And legs and torso, for that matter. If he didn't speak he could really be quite attractive.

'You know she's doing it the wrong way round, don't you?'

'How d'you mean?' Is there some special technique to shoveling poo that I don't know about?

'She can't find herself and then let go of her looks, she's got to take a leap of faith and let go of her looks first. '

Easier said than done. Of course this would be as good a place as any to get hideously disfigured, which would be a start.

'I don't think she's naturally vain,' Carrie muses. 'It's just been very deeply ingrained in her.'

Sasha hoiks up the wheelbarrow to deposit the stuff she's cleared but hits a rock two paces along, the barrow flips on to its side and everything she's just cleared comes tumbling out.

'Oh no!' I cry.

'Maybe you should show her how it's done,' Carrie suggests.

'Me?'

Carrie raises an 'I dare you!' eyebrow.

I grin back. 'Okay! Why not!'

I set down my paintbrush and run over to Sasha. 'You seem to be having way too much fun, mind if I join you?' I say.

'Oh Lara!'

I hold up a hand, as if somehow this will freeze-frame her before she starts blubbing. Oddly it seems to work. 'Now I don't know what kind of warped individual you are, but according to The California Club this is your dream come true so I think it's about time you started embracing the poo!'

Sasha blinks in disbelief. 'Embracing the poo?'

'Come on now, you are in gorgeous sunny California ankle deep in tiger excrement, what more could you want? Think of all your poor model friends getting bunions in their Manolos, shaking from the diet pills-‘

'Going barefoot at Pink Sands in Barbados, sipping bellinis in Milan,' Sasha cuts in.

'Right!' I waver.

For a moment I think Sasha's going to have a 360-degree revelation and decide she wants to go back to modeling until she's advertising anti-wrinkle creams but then her expression changes.

'If they could see me now!' she hoots.

'What would they say?' I grin, egging her on.

She looks down at her muck-encrusted feet and then around at the ramshackle set-up and the hazy mountains beyond and a big smile erupts on her face. 'They'd say I was mad!'

'Well, that's one piece of the puzzle in place!' I cheer.

'Am I mad?'

'Walking away from a life of privilege and luxury? Of course!'

'Maybe I want more from life.'

'Well, what would that say about you?' I probe.

'That those things don't matter to me? That I tried them and they were nice for a while but they didn't float my yacht.'

'So what would you call someone who followed their heart and threw it all away even though they didn't know what was coming next? Someone who was willing to take a chance on a new life, even though they didn't know what it was?'

Sasha takes a deep breath then purses her lips.

I wait.

Then she says it.

'Brave?'

I nod.

'I'm brave!' She tests out the sentence and likes how it fits. 'I'm brave!' she says, bolder now. 'Look at me!' she laughs, wielding the spade. 'Owwww!' She doubles up in pain.

'What?' I run to her side.

'Splinter!'

'Let me see.' I take her hand in mine.

Suddenly the sound of sarcasm fills the air.

'Aw, did you break a nail? Let me go call the 24-hour manicurist – we have one on standby for just these kind of emergencies …' Ty camps it up as he passes.

This time Sasha doesn't crumble. She just picks up a clod of dry poo and throws it at him.

Unfortunately (or maybe extremely fortunately) she's a terrible shot, misses him by a mile and he walks on oblivious, though I very much doubt he could miss our hysterical laughter.

'Well it makes a change,' I sigh, wiping my eyes.

'What does?'

'Having a man shun you for your looks instead of a woman.'

I decide to take my leave while Sasha is riding high. After a quick farewell tour of the cats (it's a particular wrench to walk away from Ryan – something about the way he looks at me, so knowing …) I move on to the humans, and hug Carrie. No sign of Ty. Shame.

As Sasha walks me to the car, it occurs to me that Carrie will be gone in a matter of hours (off to raise funds in San Fran), leaving Sasha alone with Ty at night.

'Just keep in mind that it's his problem,' I advise her. 'He's obviously got some massive chip on his shoulder about something.'

'I can handle him!' Sasha tells me, still thriving on her newly discovered bravery. 'You just concentrate on making the most of your time with Elliot. And give Zoë my love – let me know how she's getting on.'

'Will do,' I smile.

I give Sasha one final squeeze and then hit the accelerator – City of Angels here I come!

I stand before the grand art deco building at the intersection of Hollywood and Highland. Wow! Zoë really is living the life. The granite has been sculpted to look like drapes of material slung between the tall pink columns and even the cement glints with embedded glitter. It looks more like a giant dressing table constructed with Carole Lombard in mind than an apartment block, and any minute now I expect Zoë to emerge in marabou-trimmed chiffon flicking ash from an elongated cigarette holder into some poor minion's bare hands.

It's what she's always wanted – a life of unreal glitz to finally obliterate her grim and grimy past. Although I actually think she was already doing a pretty good job herself, creating a whole new life. She thought so too until she started buying into the media idea that your life isn't complete unless you have your own camera crew following you around 24-7. Before that she had a good balance of doing something worthwhile by day (her job at the Dyspraxia Foundation) and partying like a maniac at night. And she was happy. But lately that undue sense of entitlement that people have today has been rubbing off on her. She's come so far but it's still not far enough. She wants the dream – the Malibu beach-house, the Valentino dress, the convertible Mercedes – everything but the
Vanity Fair
cover husband. (She'd rather have a series of cover-boy lovers.) I wonder whether she's managed to secure a date with Josh Hartnett yet – presumably she's been given a little black book featuring every eligible movie star in town. Maybe she's with him right now…

Stepping closer, I peer in the darkened windows. Hmmm. Unless she's squatting in the old Max Factor museum I've been given the wrong address. Hold on, this is 1660. I want 1650 … I check out the building next door and read the squiggle of pink neon in the window – Mel's 50s Style Diner.

This can't be right. I step inside and ask the girl on the till if there are apartments above the diner. She tells me it's all offices so I try calling Helen on her mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. Oh well, I may as well suck up a quick root beer float while I await her call.

The diner is huge with endless chrome-trimmed booths, giant blow-ups of black-and-white photos on the walls and ridged aluminum pipes snaking around the ceiling, lending a somewhat out-of-keeping warehouse-conversion feel to the place. Each table is set with regulation sugar-shaker, pourable mustard and a dainty china vase containing a spray that looks exactly like a wedding buttonhole – one pink carnation and a smattering of gypsophila. Perhaps I'm missing something and it's really a prom corsage.

Mentally I slip on a pair of bobby socks and start flicking through the tunes on the mini-jukebox:
Mr Sandman, Chantilly Lace, Runaround Sue …

'Welcome to Mel's!' The waitress sets down a glass of iced water on my table. 'What can I get you?'

'Actually I haven't had a chance to—' Hold on. There's something familiar in that voice. My eyes slant sideways… 'Zoë!' I screech, practically jumping out of my booth.

'Lara!' she screams, sending a cluster of paper-covered straws flying in a fluster of mortification. 'What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you!' I splutter, incredulous at the little white pointy napkin in her hair. She's even got a name badge, for goodness sake.

'But-but …' Zoë flusters, looking so guilty you'd think she'd just been caught trying to run out the door with a stash of hamburger patties in her pockets.

'I don't know why you're acting so surprised,' I cut in. 'You're the one wearing an apron!'

Zoë cringes and covers her face. There I was expecting those hands to have been manicured to doll-like perfection when the reality is she's even managed to gnaw through her acrylic nails.

'Why didn't you tell me you were working here?' I reel as my visions of her sprawling in the back of a limo with Channing Tatum et al, fizzle and fade.