The California Club (23 page)

'You'll be too stressed. Just read the map,' Zoë insists.

'But—' I'm thrown. I've never seen Zoë take control before. And she's not messing – the engine is already revving.

'Get in!' she commands.

I leap into the passenger seat, twisting around to check the street name. 'Er, this is Vine so go left then down two blocks to Sunset.'

We screech into the street, only taking the wrong side of the road for a hair-raising thirty seconds.

'Yikes!' Zoë hoots, yanking us back over to the right.

I try to laugh along but only manage a petrified wheeze.

As we power down Western Avenue I steal a glance at Zoë. Were it not for the fact that she looks like some freaks how granny driver (hugging the wheel with her shoulders up to her ears, wig yanked back to her collar and a bank-robber stocking showing at the front of her head) I'd be impressed – she's driving like a rally driver.

'Blimey! Girl racer!' I brace myself on the dashboard as we surge ahead of the traffic.

Zoë smiles. 'My boss sent me on a defensive driving course last summer. He said I was such a bad driver I'd probably need to make a speedy getaway from an irate motorist at some point. Whoah!' She swerves to avoid an outrageously handsome man exiting a gas station in a silver convertible. I wait for Zoë's lecherous comment but it doesn't come. Her eyes are trained on the road ahead.

'How come you've never driven when we've been places before?' I'm suddenly curious.

'I don't know – it was always like you and Elliot were Mum and Dad and me and Sasha were the kids in the back,' she shrugs. 'I didn't think there was any point messing with the equilibrium.'

I smile. 'You're a good driver.'

Zoë floors it.

'A little bit fast …' I gulp as we gobble up the miles. 'Oh god!' I close my eyes as we swoop across three lanes in one go.

'Our exit!'

'Is it?' I look down at the map, desperately trying to locate us.

'It had a big airport sign, don't worry, we're going to do this.’

I make a silent pact - if I make this flight I'll take it as a sign that I have to tell Elliot how I really feel. What have I got to lose now?

'What airline is it?' Zoë asks, already approaching the first terminal.

'Skywest.'

'Okay, when we get there, I'll pull up right outside and you just run in.'

'What about the car? I'm supposed to drop it back at Enterprise.'

'I'll do it.'

'But how will you get back into town?'

'I'm sure one of these nice gentlemen will give me a ride,' she says eyeing a fleet of prowling black limos.

'Skywest! Pull in!' I blurt, suddenly spotting the overhead sign.

Zoë skims the curb and pops the trunk. The second my suitcase hits the pavement she hollers,
'Run!'

I obey but instead of an athlete's springing gait all I manage is a tic-tac shuffle.

'The dress!' I turn back in panic.

'I'll sort it with Boris!' she assures me.

‘Aren't you running low on sexual favors by now?' I hesitate, suddenly loath to leave her.

'Never!' she grins, waving me through the automatic door.

'Vegas?' the check-in girl enquires without looking up, seemingly unfazed to find her peripheral vision filled with sequins.

'Fresno,' I correct. 'I'm really late. Can I still get on?'

'Let's see what we can do.' Her fingernails do a frantic tap dance across the keyboard. My heart leaps as she nods for me to heave my suitcase on to the metal plate. There's hope!

'You can make it if you run but I can't guarantee your luggage will get on board.'

I roll my eyes. Surely it wouldn't happen twice?

'That's okay. I'll take my chances.'

She hands me my boarding pass like it's a relay race baton and says, 'Gate 17. You're gonna have to Flo-Jo it!'

There's only one thing for it, I hitch up my skirt, exposing my pink skin-socks for all the frequent flyers to see, and
charge
.

Heckles are surprisingly few. Far more common is: 'Hey look, Mom, they must be shooting a movie!' followed by gawping around the concourse for camera crews.

The departure lounge is deserted bar the ticket-taker cheering me on to the finishing line. I'm ready to cry with relief as I stumble jelly-legged down the prefab corridor and on to the plane but it's not quite over – as the last person on a full flight I have to play hide-and-seek with the one remaining seat. All eyes are on me as I slink my sequins down the aisle. You'd think someone would raise an arm and say, 'Coo-eee! There's a free one here!' but no – apparently my fellow passengers want me to suffer for delaying take-off. It's working: my already sweaty pink face now takes on the radioactive glow of embarrassment.

Naturally the one remaining space is a middle seat: a man with extra-long legs extending into the aisle has to unbuckle himself and step out in order to let the freak in the fancy dress in. Sliding past him with a salvo of ‘Sorry’s I get entwined in his headphones. It's an excruciating palaver and yet all of a sudden I don't care – frankly I'd sit on his lap and sing
Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend
if I had to-all I can think is: I made it! I'm on a flight that is taking me to Elliot and for the first time in years I'm going to be truly alone with him.

After this farrago, telling him that’s he’s my one true love is going to be easy.

My luggage decided not to join me on my journey to Yosemite. No surprises there. What has thrown me, however, is the dramatic change in the weather. I left LA in streaky pink sunshine and now I'm convinced that our one-hour hop up the coast involved a diversion to Lapland.

It began with a noticeable drop in temperature when I stepped on to the airport concourse, but there was no real hint that a whirling snowstorm lay ahead. (I'm sure I wouldn’t have been given a white rental car if they'd known I was about to become invisible on the roads.)

Initially I drove quite happily, watching Days Inn and Dairy Queens give way to quaint establishments like the Elk Lodge and The Ol' Kettle café where the big news was that 'Wild Hare is Back' on the menu. I also passed several outdoor outfitters but they were all closed. Who'd have thought I could look so covetously at a Puffa gilet? And what I wouldn't do for a pair of cashmere gloves! I can only endure occasional eyeball-drying blasts from the car heater – any longer and it gets too 'can't breathe' claustrophobic. As a result my frozen fingers are hooked around the steering wheel like eagle claws. An eagle with highly manicured nails, I muse, admiring my glossy red talons.

I first spied the snow when I passed through a place called Coarsegold – one racetrack curve in the road and the landscape made a startling switch from spring greens to winter wonderland. I guess I should have given more credence to the promise of Sleigh Rides ten miles back.

Now snowflakes are lightly tickling the windscreen and I can't help but smile – it doesn't seem real: every frisky pine tree branch is heaped with two inches of sparkling sugar, the surrounding hills have become mounds of desiccated coconut and the compacted ice on the roads is offering the perfect surface for serving vodka. Even though I'm alone I find myself sighing 'It's all so beautiful!' out loud, and wondering if this is what life would be like inside a snow-globe.

My pessimistic alter ego has a rather different take:
'We're going to die!'
she howls. She's got a point – the roads are becoming more randomly squiggly, the drops off to the side more sheer and the snowfall is now so vigorous and enlarged, it feels like the car is being pelted with flour bombs. I've been aware of a pick-up truck bearing down on me for some time and decide I'm going to have to pull over and let him pass. Again the shrill voice has other ideas: 'Are you crazy? We need to keep them behind us so when we skid into oblivion they'll see us go and be able to call for help!'

'Jesus!' I gasp as the truck passes me, swerving perilously close to the cliff edge. I wonder if the driver's loss of concentration had anything to do with the sight of my very un-wilderness-friendly ensemble? I must look like a lost drag queen in a Christmas special. Perhaps I should put on my hazard warning lights just to prepare people. Not that there's another car for miles … I shiver again. I'm freezing! I suppose I should be grateful I didn't end up in the skimpy slip from Cat on a Hot Roof. Although I wouldn't mind a Liz Taylor wig right now – that mat of synthetic fibers would at least keep my head warm. And a hot tin roof never sounded so appealing.

Wondering exactly when I should become hysterical with fear, I crawl onwards, blinking at the white eternity. I have no idea how much further it is to go and I daren't take my eyes off the road for a second to check the map. I'm going to have to stop. And I should probably call Elliot. I pass a sign (hoorah!) for Wawona and roll into the next available turnout. Okay. Let's see if I can find where I am. Moccasin, Bootjack, Cedar Crest, my finger traces the route – ah, here we are … Wawona. Nearly, anyway. The windows are all misting up so I switch off the engine. I'd say there's at least another 30 miles to go to the camp. At minus 2mph that should take … oh lawks, it doesn't bear thinking about. I reach for my phone and notice with alarm that the battery has died. Naturally the charger is in my suitcase. Aaaaghhh! There’s nothing else for it - I'm just going to have to keep going.

I turn on the ignition. Nothing. I try again. No response. My heart starts to pound. This is serious.

'No. No. Nooooooooooooo!' I wail, trying to push away thoughts of Elliot discovering my frozen corpse days from now – I can just see him trying to remove my rigid body from the car only to have my arm snap right off in his hand. Not a good look. Have to live.

My only hope is a passing Samaritan but it's not likely anyone is even going to notice me: the car is blending too well with the scenery. If only it was red.

Hang on. I'm red. Red and sparkly. A human flare. I'm going to have to try and flag someone – anyone – down. I fling open the car door and then slam it shut immediately. It's perishing out there! Okay. Think of a plan. I'll wait until a car comes in view and then leap out at it. But then I'll probably kill them as well as me. Oh god!

I try the ignition again. Dead.

Okay. Mind over matter. I'm eating soup. Spicy Thai Tom Ka soup. In a woolly jumper. Boiling! In one swift move I leap from the car and slam the door behind me, trying to let as little icy air sneak into the car as possible. Now what?

I pace. Not quite as fast as I would like as my train drags in the snow, holding me back. I decide I'll just have to jog on the spot – not easy in stilettos … So I flap my arms around. And then I break into the
We're Just Two Little Girls from Little Rock
routine. Twice. For a moment I'm not scared. This is fun. Surreal. Cold. But fun. I'm mid-way through the Jane Russell gym solo
Anyone Here for Love?
when a black jeep swings into the turnout behind my car. Savior in the house! I scuttle over to the tinted window, which duly lowers to reveal a broad-shouldered thirty-something male behind the wheel. I can't really see his face beneath the peak of his baseball cap but I think I may have found a Tony Curtis chin for Zoë.

'Everything okay?' he enquires.

I don't know what I expected him to say but surely, considering the circumstances, he could have done better than that?

'Miss?' he pursues.

The altitude must be affecting my attitude because I find myself cooing: 'Yeah everything's fine, I've just been booked by Park Services to entertain the motorists along this particularly monotonous stretch of road.'

After a millisecond's hesitation he shows me his Matt Damon dentistry courtesy of a dirty great grin. 'D'you do requests?'

'No but I have a few!' I shiver, partly from the cold, partly from the sexy curve of his mouth.

'I take it you need a ride?’

‘A ride. A floor-length faux-fur coat. A pair of yeti boots and something hot and delicious to eat,' I suggest.

'Grab your stuff and get in,' he manfully instructs me.

I don't need telling twice. As I go to dart off he calls after me: 'Do you need a hand with anything?'

'No, I'm going to leave the dead body in the trunk for now!' I holler back and then quickly check to make sure I haven't started an avalanche. Nope. All is well. I grab my handbag and the car keys and then hop up into the passenger seat of his jeep, trying in vain to keep the thigh-high split sealed at least to knee level.

'I'm Joel,' he says, offering me a warm hand.

'Lara,' I tell him, enjoying the thawing sensation I experience from his touch.

His car is toasty-warm without being an eyeball roaster and better still he reaches back behind the passenger seat and hands me an XL grey fleece.

'Here, you can put this on if you like,' he says taking the first corner a little swifter than I would have liked, especially with only one hand on the wheel.

‘Do you have anything in red?' I query.
'Eyes on the road!'
I screech as his withering look lingers too long on me. 'I was kidding, sheesh!’

I pull on the fleece, zipping it up to my nose and pulling the cuffs down over my mottled purple claws. Something about this stranger makes me feel curiously playful but I don't want to scare him – he has potentially saved my life, after all – so after I've explained where I'm going, I decide to sit quietly.

I can feel his eyes repeatedly flitting to me. Finally he sighs, 'I know I'm not going to get a straight answer but where've you come from?'

'LA,' I reply, keeping it simple.

'Figures. Is this what you starlet types are wearing to go hiking this season?'

'Yeah, these heels make great crampons,' I tell him.

He chuckles delightedly.

'Also implements of death,' I threaten, removing one so I can mock-skewer his head.

'Okay, I won't ask any more. You just sit there and be a nice little hitch-hiking, breakdown psycho or whatever you are.'

I smile contentedly – the plummet-to-your-death scenery looks a lot less threatening now I have a traveling companion.