The California Club (33 page)

Suddenly I'm hyper-animated and spinning her round. 'Where? How?'

'Just thank Joel,' she grins.

I wish I could, in person – a Hollywood première starring my favorite actor? The California Club could learn a trick or two from him!

We doll ourselves into oblivion and then hurtle to the movie theatre in a state of giddy anticipation but all the red carpet frenzy has subsided by the time we've found a parking spot – just the odd photographer loading his camera back into his bag and a few moping members of the foreign press dangling limp microphones complaining that they got elbowed out of the way at the crucial moment.

Having only just made it to our seats for the opening credits I spend the first ten minutes of the movie trying to regulate my breathing and bring my body temperature back down to an acceptable simmer. Even when that is achieved I can barely concentrate on the screen for wondering where in the auditorium Owen might be sitting. My eyes strain in the dark trying to make out his one-of-a-kind nose in the line of profiles in our row. No match. I settle down and try to focus on the film. Oooo-eee! That sleepy nasal drawl gets me every time. I can't believe we're going to meet him at the party afterwards.

At least we might have stood a chance if we'd got there within two hours of kick-off. I wonder if they decided to hold the party in a parking lot to deliberately trick us. Three times we went past the marquee and didn't twig, presuming we were missing the entrance to some fancy hotel ballroom.

When we do finally stagger up to a pair of bouncers, manfully resisting the urge to play skipping games with the red rope, an Amazonian blonde blocks our path.

'Oh no, now they're not letting any more people in – it must be rammed in there,' I wail.

'Lara?' she asks.

I nod, stunned by just how long and blonde she is.

'Joel said to look out for you. I'm Sunset. Welcome.'

Bit risky for her to be hanging so close to the Sunset Strip if you ask me, but then again she looks like that could well be her forte.

'Nice to meet you,' I smile.

I can only presume she's one of Joel's conquests but instead of feeling jealous and inferior I feel quite proud that I've played in her league.

'Is Owen still here?' I dare to ask.

'He just left,' she apologizes.

'Did he take half the party with him?' Zoë looks round the makeshift room lined with themed buffet and bar set-ups but lacking clientele.

This is when they really need to employ some extras – to fill out the première parties after 11pm!' Sunset concedes.

‘If this was Brighton everyone would be sucking up every last drop of alcohol. What's wrong with this town?' Zoë marvels.

'Hey! Isn't that Eddie "
Rock Me
" Powers?' I point across to an electric blue seating area.

It is indeed the former MOR legend and he's still working his trademark look of rock star leather trousers teamed with a working man's plaid shirt.

'He hasn't aged at all.' Zoë is impressed.
'
Still
Sexy 24/7
!' Zoë recalls one of his bigger hits.

It's then I remember her brief but all too hardcore crush on him. I tried reasoning with her at the time he was such a doofus – but she merely pointed out that I was in love with Howard from Take That and thus didn't have a leg to stand on.

'Zoë, no,' I tell her, but she's already looking at him that way. Not like an idol exactly, more like prey.

'He's got a song on the soundtrack,' Sunset explains.

'A new one?'

'Yeah, he's trying to make a comeback – he's dishing out promo T-shirts if you're interested …' She nods over to a young girl who seems to be having a problem shifting the goods.

‘Might do better if they didn't have his face on them,' I note.

'I want one!' Zoë enthuses.

'Why?' I frown.

'I don't know, it's free isn't it?'

'All right, Elise?' I tease.

'Don't say that!' Zoë shudders. 'I just think it'd be a fun memento, for old times' sake – shall we get one?'

I can never resist that mischievous look.

'As long as you promise me you'll never wear it. Not even in bed.'

'Promise.'

'Have fun, ladies,' Sunset waves us off. 'Just remember – if you're going to get in trouble he might as well be rich!'

'Blackberry vodka?' Zoë makes a quick pit-stop at the bar.

'Why not?' I accept a freshly pulped glass to drink to the absent Owen then attempt to grab Zoë out of the way as I spot a fast-moving entourage advancing. Too late. She gets roughly elbowed by a burly bodyguard and loses her footing.

‘Who was it?' She peers after them, hopping on her good foot, hoping for a sighting.

'I didn't see but I'm assuming there was a short celebrity buried in there somewhere. Oh Zoë!'

'What?' She looks down at her white top – it's covered in inky blackberry-flavored gloop.

'Oh no,' I mutter.

'It's my favorite top!' she gasps.

'Oh no!' I say again. My mind is already leaping to the next step. 'Do you want to go home?' I suggest quickly.

'Are you crazy? We've got to at least say hi to Eddie and there's probably still a few real celebs here – surely one of them must be an alcoholic, hanging on till the bitter end.'

'I'm sure that was the last one leaving and you can't walk around with a big purple stain on your top!'

'I could always—' Zoë looks over at T-shirt girl.

'No!' I yelp. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.

'But—'

'You promised,' I remind her.

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures…’

Five minutes later Zoë emerges from the Ladies with Eddie stretched across her ample bosom.

'You've given him some kind of fabric facelift,' I say, trying to tug him back to normality.

'Let's get another drink – this time we'll get ones that match our outfits!'

The girl behind the bar seems distracted as we make our order. Halfway through blending the pineapple she looks beyond us and calls, 'Goodnight, Mr Powers!' with underlying 'Take me with you!' pleading.

Zoë turns round for a final gawp, causing Eddie to do a major double-take as he passes.

'Hi! Wow, is that me?' He studies her chest. 'It's like looking in a funfair mirror!'

Zoë giggles.

'You know what I have to say next?'

'What?'

He leans in close. 'Your chest looks great with my face on it.’

Just when I think it can’t get any worse he adds, ‘Wanna try it for real?'

Zoë laughs. For real.

He takes another look at his super-sized smile. 'Shoot, I look like the Cheshire Cat!'

'She has that effect on men,' I mistakenly say out loud.

He looks her up and down. 'I bet she does.'

The girl behind the bar 'accidentally' spills Zoë's drink but this time she's too quick and jumps out of the way – into Eddie's waiting arms. He's just about to resume flirtation when a timid assistant approaches.

'Mr Powers, your car is outside.'

He nods acknowledgement then turns back to us. 'You girls wanna come for a nightcap? They've put me up at the Beverly Hills Hotel.'

Now he has my attention.

Zoë gives me a pleading look. Who am I to stand in the way of a C-list shag in a five star hotel?

'Alright!' we agree, ready to follow him to the car, but he stops us at the exit.

'I think we'd better arrive separately, there's sometimes press loitering in the foyer – we don't want to end up splashed across tomorrow's tabloids, do we?'

Actually that's always been one of Zoë's fantasies but I guess it's not going to be realized tonight.

'I'm in the Sunset Suite. Just come straight up when you get there,' he smarms. 'I'll be waiting.’

‘I'm not sleeping with him!' Zoë blurts as we cab it down Sunset Boulevard.

'No one's asking you to,' I reassure her. ‘Yet,’ I mutter to myself.

'I mean it. I know I used to want to when I was fifteen but now I just want to be able to say that we had a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel with someone famous. Is that wrong?'

I tell her it's perfectly acceptable – 'When in LA …'

'All the same, there's something about him, isn't there? Remember that poster I had of him standing shirtless in the rain? I used to kiss his bellybutton every night before I went to sleep …'

I sneak a look at Zoë. Maybe this is what she needs – to get skin on skin with a celebrity to see there really is no line dividing them and us.

'The Pink Palace!' the cab driver alerts us as we pull off the road and disappear into the lush greenery disguising the hotel driveway.

I get tingles looking up at the pink bell towers with their caps of oxidized copper and jaunty flag accessories.

'This place is so famous!' trills Zoë. 'I can't believe we're here.'

There's a Bentley ahead of us and a limo behind as we pull up under a concrete canopy striped ivy and white. I quickly pay the driver and together we emerge on to a red carpet. Zoë's normally thrusting chest caves after just one step.

'I can't go in wearing this T-shirt!' she exclaims.

Remarkably, I'd forgotten all about it.

She looks around, as if there might just be a spare Gucci top in the foliage.

'I haven't got a pashmina or anything I can lend you,' I apologize.

Despairing, Zoë pulls Ed's face by the nose and winches it round so his whole face twists into an unidentifiable blur.

'How does that look?'

'Like you've got a third nipple,' I have to confess.

'What if I put it on backwards?' Zoë suggests.

We're obviously equally drunk because this actually seems like a good idea to me – as if a woman trying to wriggle around beneath a tiny top is going to draw less attention than a T-shirt with some old has-been on it.

'Everything all right, ma'm?' the doorman tries not to look perturbed.

'Fine, if I could just get …' Zoë does one more thrust, flashing him in the process. 'There!' she triumphs. 'Okay?' She looks at me for approval.

'It's fine,' I tell her. 'A lot of the surfers at La Jolla had their tops tied at the back like that.'

This doesn't seem to be what Zoë wants to hear so I add: 'Just think, if there are casting agents here scouting for the long-awaited sequel to
Point Break
, you'll be first in line!'

'You're right!' Zoë nods, taking my arm as we stride into the lobby.

First thing we notice is the trademark banana-leaf wallpaper and the second is the dazzling chandelier, its gold leaf surround adding a luxuriant glow to the room. It feels like Lana Turner could walk by any moment.

‘Imagine if the press did find out!' Zoë scours the potted palms for a prying paparazzo lens. 'I might end up in heat as one of the "On or Off!" couples.'

They'd have to do a "Where are they now?" piece first,' I mutter as we try to locate the lifts.

'Well, he's obviously doing all right if he's staying here.'

'He's not paying, the movie company is,' I remind her.

'All the same …' Zoë shrugs, reaching for the elevator call button. Her finger stops an inch short, halted by the sound of expensive laughter and chinking glasses.

I follow her gaze to the Polo Lounge.

'Shall we take a peek, just for a second?'

California Suite
is playing on a TV screen above the bar. We stand in quiet awe remembering the last time we watched the Neil Simon comedy classic
-
four storylines all relating to this very hotel on Oscar night.

'Maggie Smith!' Zoë pips as she swirls on screen in a voluminous chiffon gown.

'This is the best bit,' I chortle predicting her line about her red carpet dress giving her a definite hump.

'It cost £500 and I look like Richard the Third!' she complains.

'I know the feeling.' Zoë catches the sight of her reflection in a glass door. And then she brightens, ‘Shall we have a glass of bubbly?’

‘Instead of Eddie’s nightcap?’ I’m ever-hopeful.

She gives me a rueful look. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer…’

Sunset Suite: a pair of black mesh boxers greets us at the door. They look extremely pleased to see us. We follow them into the plush lounge area, elbows sparring for a rib nudge as we take in the mirrored bar, team of velvety sofas and grand piano. (One of the ones it's compulsory to lie across in a slinky satin dress.) I try to direct Zoë's attention to the twelve-seater mahogany dining table groaning under a pyramid of exotic fruit, but she's still hypnotized by the array of booze on offer. But Eddie swiftly dispenses with any 'Can I get you ladies a drink?' pleasantries and heads straight for the bedroom.

Zoë and I hesitate, wondering what our next move should be.

'Come on through!' he calls.

Wading through the carpet, we bob our heads round the doorframe to find him scrambling onto the bed with a 'let's get started!' grin.

We shuffle awkwardly over to the end of the bed, dazed by his presumption. I have to admit he's in pretty good shape for his age – his biceps are robust and his torso is tanned and toned with a silky-smooth sheen to it. I wonder if it's his own.

'What do you think?' Zoë turns to me, acting as if she's put him on pause and he can't hear us.

I feel like an inept medical student trying to make a diagnosis. 'Oh I don't know, what do you think?' I bat the question back to her, swaying slightly as I do.

'I did love that
Kissing in the Rain
song of his,' she whispers. 'Remember I bought two copies in case I wore one out?'

'Er, ladies …?' Eddie gives us a quizzical look, clearly uncomfortable with being resistible for even a second.

'Why don't I give you two some time alone,' I suggest.

Best I rid him of any thoughts of a threesome scenario right now.

'Do you play the piano at all?' Zoë tries to make polite conversation as I grope for the exit but for him the talking is done – his arm encircles her like a lasso, pulling her on top of him. I hesitate to see if she needs rescuing but already she's responding willingly to his liquor-lubricated lips. The madam in me sighs, 'My work here is done!'