The California Club (3 page)

Mr and Mrs Harvey became regulars after their first successful visit and I'd grill Elliot to find out all the little treats they were into at the time, then plant them in their room so that they'd coo, 'Oh, Lara, you do spoil us!'

I loved it. They felt like the grandparents I'd never had. So it was utterly devastating when Elliot's dad passed away, aged eighty-three, just two years ago. I don't ever remember feeling that sad before. Convinced his mother would die of a broken heart, Elliot moved back to Manchester to be closer to her. But within a year she was gone too.

At first I spoke to him every day and went up to stay whenever I could but pretty soon Elise was dominating the scene. I didn't feel I could put my arms around him in front of her. I never felt comfortable when she was in the room – she always seemed to be watching me, willing me to leave, I could feel it. Elliot was withdrawn at the time anyway, and with her blocking my every move I couldn't really reach him. What could I do? She was there in Manchester, I wasn't. So I stepped back and ached for his pain from the sidelines.

We've been speaking a little more since this trip was confirmed but it's not the same. I wonder if it ever will be again…

‘Are we waiting for something?' Elise queries.

We look blankly at each other. Someone to take charge, apparently.

'God, isn't it weird not having Helen here to organize us?’ Sasha shakes her head.

'Elliot, you'll have to be Dad!' Zoë nominates him.

'You're joking!' Elise titters. 'He hasn't even changed up his money yet and we missed out on an Apex train fare because he forgot to book a week in advance – hopeless!’

I hate it when couples make sideswipes at each other in public. It’s so ungracious and unnecessary. Not to mention the fact that the one doing the complaining really only make themselves look bad.

'This way, troops!' Elliot deliberately points away from the ticket desks.

We laugh and drag him into position in the cordoned-off line.

It's funny, most of the people around us are also about to go on the trip of a lifetime and yet they couldn't look more wretched if they tried. It's the waiting in line that does it – knocks the vacation spirit right out of you.

Whereas the rest of us shuffle forward in an absentminded fashion, Elise appears to be one of life's tailgaters, nudging Elliot every time he lets more than an inch elapse between him and the man in front.

'And you won't like the bacon out there.’ I hear her tutting. ‘It's just the streaky bit – all dark and crispy. But the good thing is that if you order a Coke or Sprite they'll keep topping it up for free. And sometimes you won't have to order a drink at all because they bring iced water to your table automatically. Mostly I just drink that.'

'Have you been to America before?' I find myself asking, even though she wasn't talking to me.

Elise nods in a smug fashion.

Great. That's all we need: someone to go, 'I know!' every time we pip with excitement at a new discovery.

'Yeah, I lived out in California for a while,' she breezes.

'Really?' I try not to look too impressed. I didn't know that. But then I know very little about this woman. Probably because I never asked – I didn't want the precious space in my head filled with details about her.

'How come?' Zoë's now joined the conversation.

'How come what?' Elise plays hard to get.

'How come you lived in California?’

She opens her mouth and then closes it. It seems there's no simple answer to that.

'Oh, it was just something I wanted to try. Elliot!’ she prods him impatiently. ‘We're moving again!'

She steps forward, deliberately turning her back on us. Subject closed apparently.

The girls and I exchange a suspicious glance. We so should have hired a private detective when she first came on the scene. All we'd have to do now is flick through her dossier and we'd know exactly what she'd got up to.

'Next!'

That's us. We scuttle forward to the desk.

'Hi, I'm Brendan!' The pupils of the chap behind the counter dilate wildly at the sight of The Model. 'We do have some space available in first …' he addresses (or should that be undresses?) Sasha, mentally booking her on a flight to Temptation Island.

'I'm with my friends – there's five of us altogether,' Sasha informs him.

His face falls.

'Unless you can upgrade us all, I'd rather just stick with economy,' she says, simply.

Brendan is clearly crushed that she won't now be beholden to him.

'Well, if you're sure. Let's see if we can at least get you by the exit – that way you'll be able to stretch out those lovely long legs of yours.'

'Can I get the seat next to her?' Zoë pips. 'I have unusually large boobs.'

Brendan looks up with a start.

‘It's like wearing an airbag,' Zoë continues. 'Nobody can get by me if I'm in a normal row. I mean, these seats have 32-inch leg room but I've got 36D boobs. You try getting your tray table down—'

'Yes, yes, madam,’ Brendan scrabbles to regain his composure. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘We don't mind where we sit, as long as we're together,' Elise morphs into her girlie-whirlie alter ego, snaking her arm around Elliot's.

Urgh, get a toilet cubicle, I cringe, silently praying I'm not seated next to the Es. I don't think I could take eleven hours of passive nuzzling.

Brendan looks up from his clicking. 'We have a band of four with the extra leg room and I can seat one of you in the row directly behind.'

'You don't mind, do you, Lara?' Elise gives me a look, equal parts patronizing and dismissive.

'Oh, can't she sit with us?' Zoë wheedles, craning to peer at Brendan's screen.

'It's a very busy flight!' he snaps, shooing her away.

'It's fine,' I mumble, nudging Zoë. 'If you recline your seat back you'll practically be in my lap anyway.'

'Are you sure?' Sasha checks.

‘Honestly. I'll be watching the movies most of the time.' As I squeeze a smile I get a horrible sinking feeling that it's going to be me that's the odd-one-out.

Ding-ding! Round One to Elise.

Brendan hands us our boarding passes.

'Okay, all set and that's two vegetarians: Sasha Williams and Zoë Harriott.'

'I didn't realize you'd gone veggie, Zo,' Elliot queries.

'I haven't. I'm not lacto-intolerant, kosher or vegan either, but those people always get their food served first so I thought, for a change …' Zoë shrugs.

'Did you know there are more vegetarians in Brighton than any other place in Europe?' I announce.

'Really?' Sasha coos. We love a fascinating fact.

But Elise has no interest in our smalltalk. 'Shall we meet up again at the gate in an hour?' she cries.

Unbelievable – she's trying to get rid of us already!

'What's everyone doing?' Elliot takes the more sociable approach.

'Well, you'll make a beeline for Dixons,' Zoë makes the obvious prediction for The Gadget King. 'Sasha will be in W.H. Smith, looking for a book for the flight.'

I know, a model who reads: shocking isn't it?

'And Lara and I will be in Duty Free!' she cheers, then remembers she's got a letter to send before we get airside.

'It's actually a job application,' Zoë confides as we two go off in search of a mailbox. 'The closing date is while we're away.'

'I didn't realize you wanted to leave the Dyspraxia Foundation.' I frown.

'I don't, but with this new job there's a chance I could go on to become a celebrity PA!'

It's ironic really, Zoë has by far the most worthy job of all of us and yet she's the one who deep down always yearned to be a finger-clicking, hair-swishing diva. Lately she's modified this wish to fit the current celebrity-ravaging climate, deciding that working alongside a star would mean a good deal of the perks without any of the wild accusations in gossip magazines that she's losing her hair/man/mind etc. Not a bad plan in theory, but I've a feeling the reality would be a nasty wake up call, and then what dreams would she be left with?

‘Do you know where you’d be based, if you got the new job?' I ask, hoping there’s a chance she could move back to Brighton.

'West London, so at least I'd be more in the swing of things,' she notes. 'Of course it's irrelevant, really …'

'Why's that?'

'Well, seeing as I'm about to get discovered by Hollywood!' She does a little twirl and I giggle back at her.

Zoë stops short of the line at Passport Control and turns to face me.

'It could happen, couldn't it?' There's genuine hankering in her voice.

I look into her maxi-lashed eyes and smile. 'Why not?'

Why is it so hot in airports? I can't believe Elise stayed wrapped up the whole time we were in line – I guess it's not just her eyes that are made of flint. I juggle my bags and coat and bottle of water as we approach the security check.

'You go first, Zo,' I nod ahead, still in a tangle.

Zoë steps forward through the archway, instantly setting off the bleeper.

'Bugger!’

Retreating, she clunks her charm bracelet and fake Gucci watch into the plastic tray then tries again.

It bleeps again.

'Do you think it's my belt buckle?' She rattles her midriff.

'Worth a try,' I shrug.

She tugs her belt through the loops of her Earl jeans and coils it into the tray.

Still she bleeps.

The security man beckons her over and, starting at her heels, strokes her aura with his bleeper-wand, mentally eliminating possible causes as he goes – no steel toecaps, ankle chains, pins holding her knees in place following a serious netball injury, no bellybutton ornamentation and definitely no nipple rings – he lingers a while to make absolutely sure and moves on with visible disappointment. As soon as the wand reaches ear level it bleats frantically.

Zoë raises her hand to her scalp in confusion, then blanches and looks back to me with an, 'Oh god!' expression.

I frown back a 'What?'

She's already removed her earrings and unless she's had a ton of rapper-style gold caps since I saw her last I can't imagine what it could be.

She leans forward and whispers to the security man. Behind me the line gets impatient. The security man shakes his head and sends her back through to my side of the arch.

'I can't believe it!' Zoë hisses. 'Is he looking?'

'Who?'

'The stud.'

I turn back to check on the one good-looking guy in the line. Everyone's looking.

'No,' I lie. 'What's wrong?'

'I got these new hair extensions, you just clip them in place at your roots …' Discreetly she lifts a flap of hair and reveals one of the troublesome metal grips.

'He's not making you take them out?' I gasp.

She nods again.

'No!' I cry, giving the security man a stern look but he remains resolute.

As the next person in line is summoned, I help Zoë molt.

'Just bend the clips back on themselves and they'll pop open,' she instructs me.

Poor Zoë. She's no stranger to striptease but this is humiliating in the extreme.

I sneak a peek at the stud. He's making no attempt to disguise his disgust. I give him a withering look and wish him halitosis and a lifetime of uncomfortable shoes. As he reaches for a dish to offload his pocketful of coins, one of the grips catches on his sleeve. I go to grab it back but he's too quick for me and strides on through the arch.

Beep-beep-beep!

The security man points to the cause and the stud freaks, batting it off like a hairy caterpillar and stamping it into the carpet. Then, instead of doing the decent thing and picking it up and returning it to Zoë, he simply grabs his rucksack off the conveyor belt and heads straight for Costa Coffee.

Zoë looks crushed.

'I thought you were saving yourself for Will Smith,' I remind her.

Zoë brightens. 'He'd laugh at this, wouldn't he?'

I nod. 'He'd just give you a big grin and say, "You'd make bald look good!",

'Yeah!' she high-fives me.

‘That's the last one.' I hand Zoë a scarlet streak last seen on the Little Mermaid.

She fluffs her remaining hair, now shrunk up to her jaw, and sighs. 'I feel like one of those dolls with hair that grows, only in reverse.'

I take her arm and whisper, 'You still look discoverable!'

'Thanks!' she smiles, bravely.

For someone who dresses so audaciously, Zoë can be surprisingly insecure about her looks. A couple of times we've tried to convince her to tone down the pantomime make-up and poke-your-eye-out outfits and let her natural beauty shine through but she's still convinced that her sex appeal needs to be flagged up with bright colors. One day she'll realize that she could be wearing a muumuu and still get an X-rating.

'Bureau de Change,' Zoë alerts me.

We're just pooling our money so as not to incur a double exchange fee when Zoë flinches. 'It's that guy again!'

The stud is just one person ahead of us, taking his turn at the counter.

'Let's go to Thomas Cook,' Zoë pleads, turning to leave.

'No, wait – have you got a spare extension?'

'Why?'

I make a just-hand-it-over motion.

'This one is too blonde for me really …' She pulls a flaxen wisp from her bag.

I take it, pretend to be leaning forward to check the exchange rates – 'Would you look at that – 14 South African Rand to the pound!' – and gently clip it to the end of his jumper.

Zoë's eyes widen.

'Pin the tale on the donkey!' I snicker.

Zoë muffles a guffaw. 'Pin the tale on the honky, more like!'

We grip each other, convulsed with mirth as he walks off counting his Euros, oblivious to the peroxide tail swishing from his bum.

'What an ass!' I shake my head as we head for Duty Free.

While Zoë stocks up on kiwi-flavored vodka, I give myself a surreptitious squirt with Elliot's aftershave: Happy for Men by Clinique.

The smell alone makes my heart and stomach entwine.

'We have the female version …' The assistant swoops.

'I'm fine!' I blush, backing off.