Taking the ticket from the waistcoated valet parker, Rita tucked it into the fake Chanel handbag that she’d just bought from a stall on Venice Beach and, linking arms with Frankie, steered her towards the entrance to the restaurant, a doorway strewn with multicoloured Christmas tree lights.
‘This place does the best margaritas in town,’ she announced as the doorman held open the door for them and they walked inside, the sound of the Gypsy Kings and the smell of refried beans floating towards them.
‘What’s it called?’ asked Frankie, trying to keep up with Rita, who, desperate for a drink, was propelling her down the small terracotta-tiled lobby that led into the main restaurant.
She paused for a moment at the entrance to adjust her miniskirt. ‘El Fiesta.’
Reilly saw Frankie before she saw him. There she was, standing in the doorway with her redheaded flatmate, towering above her in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He watched her chatting to her friend, before looking over and catching his eye. At first she looked surprised, but then she smiled. He smiled back, suddenly feeling nervous. What was the matter with him? He was thirty-four years old and he felt like a teenager.
‘Oh, my God, Reilly’s here,’ hissed Frankie, her heart suddenly speeding up to keep time to the Flamenco beat of the Gypsy Kings. ‘Don’t look.’
It was the wrong thing to say to Rita.
‘Where?’ shouted Rita over the top of the music, standing on tiptoe. She spotted them in the corner. ‘Oh, over there, with Dorian.’ She waved brightly. ‘Come on, we’ll join them.’ She set off, pushing through the crowds of people. Frankie had never needed a margarita more than she did right at that moment.
‘Bloody hell, there’s no escaping you, is there?’ whooped Rita, throwing her arms around a delighted Dorian and giving him a kiss on each cheek.
Frankie hung back, looking embarrassed. So did Reilly, who finally said, ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ She smiled awkwardly.
‘Hey, look, I’m sorry I didn’t call this week, but work’s been pretty quiet.’
‘Oh, it’s fine.’ She tried to look as if she didn’t care, when really she was already dissecting the sentence in her head. I didn’t call this week, but work’s been pretty quiet. At least that meant he hadn’t been deliberately avoiding her. But on the other hand, it also meant that as far as he was concerned, their relationship was strictly work-related. She didn’t know why that should bother her. After all, that’s how she’d described it to Rita. But she was bothered. ‘I’ve been pretty busy anyway,’ she added breezily. So what if that was a white lie. She had been busy, if you could call doing yoga, sunbathing on the balcony, having lunch and flicking through Rita’s self-help books busy.
‘Great.’ He looked relieved. ‘To be honest, I felt a bit guilty, not getting in touch. Especially when I asked you to work.’
‘It’s OK, honestly.’ She fiddled self-consciously with her hair, wishing she’d done something with it and not just given it a quick blast from the hairdryer. She could feel it shrinking into curls as she stood there. A big curly halo around her head. Lovely.
Dorian interrupted. ‘So what are you two gorgeous babes drinking?’ He looked at Frankie and Rita.
‘What do you think?’ replied Rita, pushing him playfully. ‘And I want two. I’m gagging.’
Letting out the dirtiest laugh, Dorian squeezed her round the waist. ‘Me too,’ he leered.
Empty stomachs and pint jugs of margaritas determined the kind of evening it was going to be. The party spirit was helped along by Dorian – who else? – who started flirting with a bunch of twenty-first-birthday-partygoers, a bevy of silicone blondes from the Valley, and invited them to join their table. Which meant everybody ended up squashing in next to each other as they shuffled along the benches. Not that anyone seemed to mind. Rita happily tucked herself next to Reilly and the bowl of guacamole and tortilla chips, while Dorian sat next to Cindy, the birthday girl, but kept swapping places so he could take turns in wedging himself up against each of her friends.
Frankie, however, found herself pushed into the corner away from Reilly, Rita and Dorian, and stuck next to one of the blondes, a six-foot stunning Gwyneth Paltrow kind of blonde with flawless honey-coloured skin Frankie had previously thought could only be achieved by airbrushing. Gwyneth turned out to be called Sandy, a girl who appeared to have been born without the modesty gene. Striking up a conversation, Frankie found herself hearing all about her ‘totally cute’ boyfriend, a basketball player called Ben (nicknamed Big Ben), her ‘totally divine’ new Mustang and her ‘totally amazing’ modelling career.
An hour finding out all there was to know about Sandy’s totally awesome life left Frankie totally sickened and, making her excuses, she escaped to the loo. Locking the door behind her, she leaned against the washbasin. For some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about Reilly. All night she’d wanted to talk to him, but he’d been sat at the other end of the table. She’d watched him out of the corner of her eye, joking with Rita and talking to Cindy, the birthday blonde. A couple of times he’d caught her eye before she’d had the chance to turn away and smiled.
Despite the drinks inside her, she still felt jittery about seeing him. God knows why. Splashing some cold water on her face, she looked in the mirror. A piggy-eyed, ratty-haired person stared back. Christ, no wonder he’d been looking at her in such a funny way earlier. She looked bloody awful. Digging out her make-up bag, she daubed on a bit of eyeliner, plenty of concealer, a few coats of mascara. She even rubbed on some hot-pink lip gloss that had come free with some magazine or other and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Staring at her reflection, a thought struck her. Why was she doing this? Who was she trying to impress? Don’t be ridiculous. She wasn’t trying to impress anybody. What was wrong with putting on a bit of make-up? She was doing it for herself, to make herself feel a bit more presentable, especially having to sit next to Sandy, Ms Totally Perfect. And it wasn’t as if anybody was going to notice anyway.
‘Whoooh, who’s dolled herself up then?’ foghorned Rita as Frankie sat back down at the table, luckily managing to avoid Sandy, who was now being chatted up by Dorian. She felt herself blush salsa red and threw her a desperate ‘Shut up’ look. Rita didn’t notice. Normally she could drink anyone under the table, but tonight she was nearly sliding underneath it. Completely bollocksed, she’d entered the stage of drinking called ‘not knowing where the hell I am’. A stage she’d reeled into thanks to the two rounds of tequila slammers she’d downed while Frankie was in the loo.
Noticing Frankie’s reaction, Reilly smiled at her encouragingly. ‘You look great,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘But you should keep your hair down, it suits you when you wear it loose.’ It was the first time he’d spoken to her all evening.
‘I have to tie it up, otherwise I get too hot,’ she lied, wishing she’d left it alone.
‘Who fancies hitching a ride with these fabulous girls?’ asked Dorian, breaking off from Sandy, having just discovered the existence of Big Ben, the basketball-playing boyfriend.
‘Yeeeaaahhhhhh,’ cheered Rita, polishing off the bowl of guacamole and stale tortillas. She burped unceremoniously. ‘Ooops, sorry.’ She giggled, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m feeling a bit pissed.’
‘Where to?’ asked Frankie.
‘The Cowboy Palace,’ piped up Sandy, shaking back her honey-blonde mane. ‘Cindy wants to ride the bull.’ She looked at Cindy, who flushed and started laughing, and then at Frankie, who stared at her nonplussed. ‘Come along, guys. It’s totally wild.’
‘Yeeehhhhaaaa,’ whooped Rita, stumbling to her feet and knocking over a few glasses. Swaying dangerously, she clung on to Dorian, who was leading the girls out of the restaurant like the Pied Piper.
The birthday blondes had hired a white stretch limo for the evening and, as they clustered outside the restaurant, it rose out of the car park. A big, fuck-off, flashy thing with a satellite aerial on the back, blacked-out windows and a str
ip of white lights down the side. It pulled up next to them.
Everyone piled in. Frankie hung back. Reilly was missing. Where was he? Had he gone without saying goodbye? She felt surprised. But more by how disappointed she felt than by his disappearance.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ hollered Dorian, poking his head out of the door as the limo began creeping its way along the kerb.
Frankie hesitated. She didn’t know what to do. Everybody was smashed and ready to have a good time. She was drunk, but not drunk enough for the Cowboy Palace to seem appealing. She thought about catching a cab home. Alone.
Reilly suddenly appeared by her elbow. ‘Sorry, I just went for a smoke.’ He smiled apologetically.
Frankie felt relieved. And taken aback by how pleased she was to see him.
Grinding the cigarette butt under his boot, he glanced across at the limo and grinned wryly. ‘I’ll go if you go.’
For a moment she looked at him, and then back at Dorian. It was an easy decision to make. She grinned, before yelling at the top of her voice, ‘Wait.’
20
Frankie had never been in a stretch limo before. She’d seen a couple at Piccadilly Circus in the Friday night rush hour, squeezing their way through four lanes of black cabs and double-decker buses, but they hadn’t looked as glamorous as when she’d seen them on TV gliding up to the Oscars. It probably had something to do with the fact they’d been in London, not LA, and the leather seats hadn’t been brimming with film stars and their Academy Awards, but hen parties who kept popping their permed heads out of the sun roof, cigarettes in one hand, glasses of something boozy and bubbly in the other. Yet everybody rushing for the tube still stared, it was impossible not to. Love them or hate them, limos guzzled attention. Hugh said they were tacky and he’d never be seen dead in one, but she’d always secretly fancied a ride in one. The passengers always looked as if they were having such a laugh. Who cared if the nearest they were going to get to Hollywood was Planet Hollywood?
Sinking into the black leather seats, she ran her fingers over the burled wood that ran along the sides of the doors, smooth and lacquered like polished glass. It was just as she’d imagined. Big. Flashy. And very LA. Sitting opposite the drinks cabinet, complete with decanter and crystal cut glasses, she watched as Sandy began pouring out champagne that had been chilling in a bucket of ice, spilling most of it on her seven-hundred-dollar beige suede trousers from Fred Segals. Without batting a false eyelash, she passed them round.
‘Here’s to the totally gorgeous Cindy. A girlfriend who’s kind, loyal, generous, loving . . . The best person you could ever hope to meet . . .’ In true Gwyneth Paltrow Oscar-winning-speech style, she wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Happy birthday, sweetie.’
Laughing, Cindy clashed glasses with everyone. ‘Thanks, guys, this is so cool,’ she gushed, giggling as Dorian squeezed her thigh and whispered something in her ear. It wasn’t ‘Happy Birthday’.
They drove along, drinking and fiddling with all the gadgets. There was a TV which was playing MTV with the sound turned down, a car phone which Dorian immediately pounced on, a remote-control glass screen that went up and down between them and the driver, a mini-disc player complete with a dodgy collection of CDs, lots of concealed ashtrays and drinks holders and, of course, an electric sun roof.
Spotting the sun roof, Rita lurched up from her seat. ‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ she cried drunkenly. Wobbling dangerously on her six-inch snake-skin stilettos, she stood up, her head disappearing out of the roof, and could be heard yelling gustily ‘Yeeeaaahhhhh, I love LA,’ before reappearing moments later, windswept and watery-eyed. Bending down she grabbed Frankie. ‘C’mon,’ she urged, dragging her up from the heated leather seats. ‘It’s fucking brilliant.’
Frankie tried to resist. Nobody else was putting their heads out of the sun roof and shouting at passers-by. All the blondes were playing it cool, sipping champagne and redoing their make-up. Dorian was flirting with Cindy and showing off by using the car phone to get them on the guest list for an exclusive members-only club later on. Even Reilly was chilled out, lying back in the leather seats, smoking a cigarette and sharing a joke with the driver on the intercom. She couldn’t suddenly stand up. She’d feel like an idiot. And anyway, she never did things like this, preferring instead to sit back and watch other people be outrageous and make fools of themselves. She hesitated . . . Oh, what the hell.
A blast of cool night air hit her, catching her hair and blowing it around like a mass of whirling chestnut ribbons. Bracing herself against the wind, she took a deep lungful of air and watched as the wide boulevards rushed past, streams of white headlights, gas stations, liquor stores, restaurants, strip malls. She didn’t feel like an idiot, quite the opposite. She felt fantastic. It reminded her of that famous Titanic scene and she had a sudden urge to shout ‘King of the World’. She grinned to herself. She wasn’t going to, but even if she did it wouldn’t matter. She was in Hollywood, wasn’t she? And this was the nearest she was ever going to get to feeling as if she was in the movies.
Rita reappeared and passed her a cigarette. What would Hugh think if he saw her now, champagne in one hand, fag in the other? Probably have a fit, knowing him. She took a long, satisfying drag. Not that she cared. Rita was absolutely right. It was fucking brilliant.
It took less than fifteen blocks to drive from Mexico to Texas. LA’s version of Texas being the Cowboy Palace, a huge wooden ranch decked out with strings of white light bulbs, wagon wheels and saddles. A hugely popular theme bar, it stood out on Sunset Boulevard like a gaudy Disneyland attraction plonked in the middle of exclusive hotels, showbiz bars and multi-million-dollar homes.
Pulling up outside, the uniformed chauffeur got out and held open the doors for them. They all stepped out, except for Rita, who was still so drunk she fell out. Luckily Dorian managed to catch her before her knees grazed the tarmac and, scooping her up under her armpits, half carried her towards the main entrance.
‘You’re so lovely . . . thank you . . . I think you’re really lovely . . . I really do . . .’ slurred Rita as he helped her up the stairs.
Dorian smiled. Tightly. All night he’d been working on chatting up Cindy, the birthday girl – with any luck she was going to mark her twenty-first birthday by becoming his twenty-first girlfriend – and now all the headway he’d made in the limo was lost. Running ahead with Frankie and Reilly and her friends, she’d left him trailing behind with Rita, who, despite being only five foot, was like a deadweight in his arms.
Pushing open the Western-style swing doors, Frankie realised why Cindy and her pals had been so keen to come to the Cowboy Palace. The place was wall-to-wall men. From gangs of fresh-faced high-school jocks with fake IDs to balding middle-aged husbands with roving eyes, the huge barn was less of a cowboy palace and more of a cattle market. You could almost smell the testosterone – which made a change from the usual cigarettes. The no-smoking policy meant that even the die-hard wannabe ranchers in Stetsons and cowboy boots weren’t smoking. So many would-be Marlboro Men and not a Marlboro in sight.
Tonight was a special line-dancing night and there was a live band, the Silver Spurs, whose female lead singer was wearing a ra-ra skirt, shaggy perm and one of those suede jackets with fringing and silver buckles. She looked like Shania Twain’s mum. Belting out Country and Western tracks, she jigged around on stage while everybody else jigged around on the dance floor. The couples dancing were a mixed bunch. Some didn’t have a clue how to line-dance and were trying desperately to learn, others were just doing it for a laugh and kept bursting into hysterics, and a few in Stetsons, bootlace ties and spurs had been doing it for years and were taking it all very seriously, two-stepping with intense concentration.
Walking past the restaurant area – vegetarianism hadn’t hit the Cowboy Palace and trestle tables were packed with customers tucking into huge racks of barbecued spare ribs and sixteen-ounce steaks – Cindy and Co. sashayed their way through the crowds to the bar that ra
n along one side of the wooden dance floor. As expected, the sight of four statuesque blondes caused quite a stir, and they were immediately swooped on by an eager crowd of men, who gathered round them, buying drinks and throwing compliments around with their dollar bills. Dorian didn’t stand a chance. Pushed out of the picture by the time he’d arrived at the bar and ordered, no one was interested in him or his champagne.
‘Oh, my God, look, there’s the bull,’ yelled Rita, clutching Frankie’s arm in excitement.
Railed off in the corner was a large, padded ring and in the middle was a mechanical bull around which people were queuing up to take their turns to ride rodeo style. Arms flailing, backs arched, men were eagerly trying to show off their prowess in front of girls who clustered round in their tight tops and miniskirts chanting, ‘Ride the bull. Ride the bull.’
‘That looks great,’ gasped Rita. ‘I want to have a go.’ Having been nearly unconscious five minutes earlier, Rita had miraculously risen from the dead and found her second wind.
‘In that skirt?’ said Frankie. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Yeah.’ Rita grinned. She was drunk and determined. ‘Coming?’
Frankie shook her head.
‘Spoilsport,’ Rita said, laughing, and set off, tottering unsteadily across the sawdust floor to join the back of the queue.
Leaving her to it, Frankie looked across at Reilly. He was standing next to Dorian, taking swigs from his Michelob beer and half-heartedly watching the dancing. Now was her chance. After not being able to talk to him all night, this was the perfect opportunity. She faltered, wondering what she was going to say, trying to plan how she was going to start the conversation. She caught herself. What was the big deal? Just be casual, she thought to herself, plucking up her courage to walk over there. Just be friendly.