Laughing, Rita yanked the straining bra straps that were beginning to dig deep grooves into her shoulders. ‘Let’s just hope Matt’s a boob man.’
‘Well, you’ll certainly find out tonight in that outfit.’
Rita’s expression became serious. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad we haven’t slept together. This way it feels as if we’ve been able to have a proper courtship without the whole sex thing taking over.’
‘A courtship? It’s only been a few weeks.’
Rita pouted sulkily. ‘Don’t get all prudey with me, you slept with Hugh after three days . . .’ She broke off, regretting what she’d just said. Her and her big mouth.
Frankie pushed a curl of hair behind her ear and didn’t say anything. Instead she stood looking at herself in the mirror, remembering. After a moment she spoke. ‘I know, New Year’s Eve. God, it seems so long ago.’ Her voice was quiet.
‘Well, it was nearly two years ago. Things have changed, we’ve all changed.’ Rubbing her friend’s arm affectionately, Rita gave her a smile of reassurance. ‘Even you.’ Raising an eyebrow she stood back and looked Frankie up and down. ‘Just look at you! Hugh would hardly recognise you.’
Frankie hardly recognised herself. It was as if she was looking at a different person.
‘Well? Are you getting those or what?’ Pulling on her leggings and halter-neck top, Rita picked up the dress, ready to pay for it at the cash register. ‘Come on, you only live once. And it’s Christmas.’ The classic excuse for everything.
Staring at her reflection, something inside Frankie kick-started. For the first time in ages she liked what she saw, and it wasn’t just the clothes. For weeks she’d thought of herself as a failure, the helpless victim that things kept happening to. It had taken something as simple as a new outfit to make her see a different Frankie, a new Frankie, one who was going to start taking control again. Rita was right. And what better way to celebrate her one and only life than by buying a pair of three-hundred-dollar leather trousers? She smiled. ‘Yeah, why the hell not?’
28
The party was already in full swing by the time they arrived. Uniformed waiters were busy serving drinks and sushi to the hundreds of guests mingling outside on the stadium-sized terrace, while around the edges of the pink, heart-shaped swimming pool coked-up leggy blondes with silicone tits and gravity-defying bikinis were dancing to the live band’s blasting rendition of ‘Play That Funky Music, White Boy’. It was like walking into an MTV video.
‘I feel a bit overdressed,’ hissed Rita, pausing at the top of the mosaic-tiled steps leading down to the terrace. ‘Nobody said bring a bikini.’ She looked disappointed.
Frankie felt relieved. One look at the gyrating Barbie dolls and she shuddered at the thought of getting into her M&S two-piece, underwired cups or not. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,’ she said, trying to attract the attention of one of the waiters. The wine she’d brought suddenly seemed a mistake. This wasn’t the kind of house party where you bring a bottle, even if, at ten bucks, it was better than the plonk she usually bought from Oddbins. Catching the waiter’s eye she quickly hid the Chardonnay behind a marble statue and grabbed a couple of cocktails.
From the moment they’d been whisked through the huge electronic gates by security men with walkie-talkies and Frankie had caught her first glimpse of the huge White House-style mansion, she knew that, despite a face plastered with Clarins Beauty Flash Balm and Estée Lauder cosmetics, forty minutes spent with her curls clamped between Rita’s hair straighteners and a pair of leather trousers from Rodeo Drive, she was completely out of her depth. To date, her experience of house parties had been the ones she’d been to with Hugh in one-bedroom flats in west London where there’d been Chillout Ibiza wafting out of the stereo, a fold-out dining-room table full of M&S nibbles and Tesco’s readymade 95 per cent fat-free dips, and a choice of Penfolds white or red to drink in Habitat wine glasses, or chipped mugs for those arriving late from the pub. None of them had put on horse-drawn carriages to ferry the celebrity guests to the entrance, live bands together with a couple of famous pop stars as entertainment, or men in white uniforms bearing a striking resemblance to Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman and serving Bellinis and oysters on silver trays. It was intimidating stuff, but at least there was one consolation. She wasn’t there by herself. She had Rita.
‘Christ, have you seen all the free booze?’ whooped Rita, taking a swig from her crystal glass. ‘Makes a bit of a change from some of the parties I’ve been to. At most of them you’d be lucky to scrounge a warm can of Fosters.’ She licked the bubbles from her top lip. Still, it’s a bit of a shame I can’t take full advantage.’
‘Why not?’ Frankie had never known Rita pass up alcohol, especially when she wasn’t paying for it.
‘I don’t want to be drunk when Matt gets here, do I?’ Trying to fluff her hair, which she’d earlier sprayed rock solid with hairspray, she tutted. ‘I want to seduce him, and falling all over the place with my dress up to my armpits and mascara down to my chin isn’t exactly attractive.’
‘What time’s he arriving?’ Frankie fiddled self-consciously with the lace-trim on her top. She wasn’t used to showing so much cleavage. Even if most of it was Wonderbra.
‘In about half an hour. He’s coming straight from an audition.’ As she squinted down at the party below, a smile curled up the corners of Rita’s mouth. ‘Bloody hell, I wondered where Dorian had disappeared to.’
‘I thought he said he had some business to attend to.’ Frankie stopped fiddling and tried to see what was so amusing.
‘Well, he’s certainly attending to something.’ Rita pointed towards the swimming pool, where Dorian was rubbing himself up and down one of the pneumatic blondes in a zebra-print thong, bikini. ‘Isn’t that Pamela whatshername?’
‘Looks like her,’ agreed Frankie, ‘but then most of the women do.’ Sipping her drink, she watched him. He obviously didn’t feel out of his depth.
‘I’ll tell you who I haven’t seen, yet . . .’ Noticing that the plasters which she’d put on her toes to stop her new slingbacks from hurting were peeling off, Rita crouched down to restick them. ‘I haven’t seen Reilly.’
‘Reilly?’ Frankie attempted indifference. ‘You didn’t mention he was invited.’ Taking a large sip of her drink, she felt her hand tremble.
‘Sorry, I completely forgot. You know me, memory like a sieve.’ Satisfied that her plasters were now firmly in place, she stood back up and switched her attention to nicotine. ‘Dorian invited him and that blonde, I can’t remember her name, the one he was with in Malibu.’ She began hunting around in her handbag for her American Spirit.
‘Chrissy?’ Frankie hadn’t forgotten her name. It was stamped, like a cattle-brand, on her memory.
‘Yeah, that’s her.’ Finding her crumpled packet of fags, she offered it to Frankie.
There was only one left, and normally Frankie would have refused, but this time need overcame her manners. Taking it, she accepted a light and inhaled sharply. So Reilly was going out with Chrissy? She didn’t know why it should bother her so much, but it did.
Swallowing a mouthful of Cosmopolitan, she savoured the sharp taste of vodka, cranberry and sting of lime. The cigarettes and alcohol made her head spin and she took another drag. She’d promised herself that tonight she was going to forget about everything and enjoy herself, have a laugh, live a little. But what was stopping her? So what if Reilly was turning up with his new girlfriend? It didn’t have to spoil her evening. It didn’t have to stop her from having a good time. Did it? Draining the last mouthful of alcohol, she waved her empty glass. She felt like getting drunk. ‘Fancy another?’
‘Bloody hell, you’re certainly getting into the party spirit.’ Rita grinned approvingly.
‘Why not? After all, you’re the one who keeps telling me I’m young, free and single,’ responded Frankie, rescuing two more drinks from one of the attractive waiters and thrusti
ng one on Rita. ‘Come on, we can’t stand here all night.’ Taking a gulp of her drink, which threatened to slosh over the side of the cocktail glass, she knew there was nothing else for it but to dive in at the deep end. And so without waiting for Rita, who was lingering behind to swipe a couple of cucumber rolls – well, OK, three, but sushi was practically fat-free – Frankie summoned up every last scrap of courage she had, and set off down the steps to the party below.
A trayful of Kir Royals later, Frankie was feeling brave enough to circulate without Rita, who, now that Matt had arrived, was sitting astride him next to the seafood buffet, determinedly feeding him oysters and rubbing his crotch as if she was polishing her mother’s silver candlesticks.
For years Rita had been lecturing her on how confidence makes a person more attractive to the opposite sex, and finally Frankie was discovering she’d been right all along. Never before had she had so much male attention. And it wasn’t just the leather trousers, even though they definitely helped. What was it with men and leather trousers? Like bees round a honeypot, they couldn’t keep away. One after another, they came up to her, asking if they could run their hands up and down her thighs to check if they were ‘real’ (she presumed they were talking about her trousers, not her thighs). No wonder Hugh had been so dead set against her getting a pair.
Instead of blushing hotly with embarrassment and not knowing what to say, she laughed flirtily and, feeling wittier than Stephen Fry, happily engaged in conversation, eagerly telling stories that not long ago had seemed dull and rather boring, but now had suddenly turned into hilariously amusing and entertaining anecdotes. Tanned, confident and laughing, Frankie felt like a different person from the snivelling wreck who’d sat at Heathrow with holes in her forty-denier tights. And she loved it.
29
‘Frankie, darling, Frankie.’ Pink and perspiring in a ruffled Liberace shirt which he’d unbuttoned down to his hairy navel, Dorian emerged from the dance floor and, spotting her by herself – the first time that evening – breathlessly slid his arms around her waist. ‘Fuck, are you looking sexy tonight. Let me introduce you to one of the most charming men in LA.’ Pressing his hot, sticky cheek against hers, he swept her past a display of ice sculptures, towards a group of film people playing roulette at a table specially flown in from Las Vegas.
As they approached, one of the men, an oldish guy wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, stood up. ‘Dorian, good to see you’ve still got an eye for the ladies.’ Holding out his arms in a Godfather embrace, he slapped him on the back and let loose a tobacco-rich laugh.
Like a dutiful son, Dorian smiled respectfully. ‘This is Frankie, my wonderful new English neighbour.’ He squeezed her tightly. ‘And Frankie, I’d like you to meet Carter, your more than generous host.’
Carter? This was Carter Mansfield? Frankie couldn’t believe it. He looked nothing like he did in the movies. On celluloid he’d always seemed larger than life, an enigmatic leading man all the ladies, on and off screen, fell for. But here he was, barely five foot five, with thinning comb-over hair and a Palm Springs suntan. Not that he was unattractive. To be honest, for a fifty-six-year-old he didn’t look too bad. But then who hadn’t heard the rumours about a facelift a few years ago, and several operations to remove the fat that had collected under his chin, like water from a leaky tap?
‘Enchanted.’ Keeping one coloured-contact-lensed eye on Dorian, Carter Mansfield allowed the other to roam freely up and down Frankie, who evidently passed some sort of test. He held out his still-half-full glass towards Dorian. ‘I don’t suppose you could get me a refill?’ There was no suppose about it. This was Dorian’s cue to make himself scarce, and, having just had his attention caught by a miniskirted croupier, he was more than willing. Winking at Frankie, he took the glass and, blotting his forehead with his chiffon cuff, beat a hasty retreat, via the blackjack table.
‘So, Frankie, what do you think of the party?’ Speaking in a thick Dallas accent, he took her hand in his soft, manicured one and pressed it to his thin lips.
‘It’s great.’ She didn’t know what else to say. Carter Mansfield was kissing her hand. It was unreal. And very unnerving. She felt as if she’d just been offered up as some kind of human sacrifice.
He smiled, revealing a perfect set of porcelain veneers, oddly white against his orange, leathery skin. ‘Cute trousers.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you a model?’
She couldn’t help but smile. So even film stars resorted to using the oldest chat-up lines in the book. But instead of greeting his question with a snort of laughter and an incredulous, ‘Me? A model?’ she gave a flattered laugh. ‘No, I’m a writer . . .’ Something caught her eye, causing her to falter. Across the lawn, leaning against the railings at the top of the steps, was a figure. Reilly. Her legs suddenly went all shaky, like the time she’d once attempted the running machine at the gym.
‘A writer?’ Unaware, Carter continued. ‘You should give me your number. My production company is always on the lookout for talented writers.’
‘Erm, yeah, that sounds fantastic.’ Dragging her eyes away from the steps, she looked back at him. ‘Would I know anything you’ve produced?’ She was grappling around for conversation, but finding it almost impossible to concentrate.
Carter mistook her agitation for nervousness. It was understandable – after all, he was a movie star. He put his hand on her arm to reassure her. ‘I’m sure you will. I produce for both film and TV and currently one of the projects in production is a groundbreaking new daytime show . . .’
Not really listening, she glanced over his shoulder towards the steps. Reilly was still there. She watched as he turned his face towards her, his profile silhouetted against the light. He was smoking a cigarette. And he was by himself. Where was Chrissy?
‘. . . Malibu Motel.’
‘Did you say Malibu Motel?’ Recognising the name, she switched her attention back to Carter Mansfield. And noticed he had his hand around the top of her arm. ‘My flatmate auditioned for that. Twice.’ Feeling awkward, she moved sideways and, unable to resist, glanced back towards the staircase. Reilly was walking down it and he appeared to be looking for someone. Probably Chrissy, she thought, watching as he scanned the party until his gaze came to rest in her direction. She could tell, by the expression on his face, that he’d recognised her.
‘Well, if she’s anything as beautiful as you, get her to give me a call.’
She suddenly gave Carter Mansfield a full-on smile. But it was for Reilly’s benefit, not his. Aware that he was watching her, she wanted him to believe she was having a wonderful time with one of Hollywood’s most famous film stars, not being bored to death by an ageing cinema has-been’s attempts at flirtation.
Carter was rather surprised by her sudden warm reaction to his suggestion, and delighted. For a moment then, he thought he’d been losing his charm. ‘Here, take my number.’ He squeezed her arm, his tightening fingers reminiscent of one of those Velcro bandages her doctor used to take her blood pressure.
‘Thanks.’ Flicking her hair around for good measure, she took one of his cards – complete with autographed headshot – and squashed it into her snug backpocket. Feeling very pleased with herself, she sneaked a quick look at Reilly. The smile slid from her lips. He wasn’t there any more.
What the hell was Frankie doing flirting with that slimeball? Carter Mansfield was the biggest tart in town. Still, if that’s what made her happy, some rich old dude, what did he care? Reilly smarted as he saw her smiling at Carter, remembering how she’d looked when she’d smiled at him after they’d danced together at the Cowboy Palace. But there was no point thinking about that. Reilly bitterly took a drag of his cigarette. It was going to be awkward interrupting Frankie and her geriatric playboy, but he had no choice. And anyway, being brutally honest about it, he wanted nothing more than to break up the cosy scene.
‘Have you seen Dorian?’ Frankie swung round to see Reilly standing behind her. H
is face cold and hard.
‘I don’t know.’ If he was going to be unfriendly, then so was she.
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘Hey, is this guy bothering you?’ Carter Mansfield pushed out his grey hairy chest, thankfully hidden underneath his T-shirt, and tried to form a barrier between Reilly and Frankie. ‘You wanna watch it, pal, or else I’ll get security.’
Reilly ignored him. On screen Carter Mansfield had been a convincing bad guy. In real life he was comical. Reilly looked straight at Frankie. ‘It’s urgent.’ At that moment, a juddering sound above them made everyone look. A helicopter was swooping into view over the tops of the palm trees, its powerful beam of light starkly illuminating the party in a harsh white glare.
‘What the hell is that?’ Shielding his eyes, while trying to make sure his ten-thousand-dollar hairweave remained stuck to his scalp, Carter Mansfield stumbled slightly backwards, as panic began to spread through the party.
A megaphoned voice suddenly boomed above the noise, ‘This is the police,’ triggering off an outbreak of pandemonium among the partygoers, most of whom were high on drugs and alcohol after spending half the night playing pass-the-parcel in the toilets. An innocent enough game, except the parcel was no longer made of newspaper and sweets, but cellophane and white powder.
The deafening noise of the whirring blades and thudding engines, and the shrieking wail of police sirens intermingled with the DJ mix-master. The spiralling blasts of wind ripped through the lawns, causing people to scatter like marbles as they tried to run from the party. A couple of bigshot film directors and the twenty-something actresses they were having affairs with missed their footing and lost their balance, plunging into the swimming pool in their designer outfits. A few more, pissed out of their heads and flying high as kites, thought it was part of the entertainment and joined them, stripping off their clothes and jumping in stark naked. The party had turned into a a riot.