‘I was?’ Rita grinned happily, feeling very pleased with herself. ‘So you think I was believable?’
‘No,’ smirked Frankie, ‘but isn’t that the whole point? You’re auditioning for an American daytime soap. And, from the ones I’ve seen back home on Channel 5, they’re not exactly what you’d call realistic, are they?’ Picking up the script, she flicked through the first few pages, running her eyes across the blurb at the top of each page. ‘I mean, your character, Kimberley Kartier, is supposed to be pregnant with twins and dying of a mystery illness, yet she’s still got time to murder her husband, have an affair with her best friend’s fiancé and run a successful fashion empire. Talk about busy. What’s she going to do next? Run for president?’
‘I dunno,’ shrugged Rita, topping up the water in their glasses. ‘Probably wake up in the shower and realise it was all a dream.’
There was a moment’s pause before they both burst out laughing, sending mouthfuls of water spraying all over the table.
They were sitting outside Hankerings Restaurant on Sunset Plaza, a pocket of desirable restaurants, trendy cafés and chic boutiques full of shoppers, diners and – unusual for LA – pedestrians that provided a bustling oasis in the middle of the traffic-laden, deserted-pavement, concrete wilderness of Sunset Boulevard. By sheer luck – and without knowing anyone in ‘the industry’ – they’d managed to bag one of the more desirable tables outside, where you could see and be seen.
And there was plenty to see. Hankerings was heaving with LA’s glamorama: directors and producers were talking big-budget movies across colossal Caesar salads; Beverly Hills wives, who’d been sliced more times than a Tesco’s loaf, were swapping surgeons’ cards over glasses of Pellegrino and peering into their gold Chanel compacts to check on last month’s facelift scars; young, gym-honed execs were sitting by themselves eating bowls of penne arrabbiata and cutting deals into their cellphone earpiece; while, in the far corner, trying to hide under a giant parasol and a baseball cap, one of Hollywood’s most famous actresses was picking at a plate of no-oil, no-salt, no-flavour fish and steamed vegetables. Desperate to shift that last seven pounds for her next million-dollar movie role, she was on the third week of her protein zone diet, which explained why she was staring jealously at the overflowing bowl of fries, glowing in all its unhealthy greasiness, which wafted past her to one of the other tables. The other table being, of course, Rita and Frankie’s. After all, who else would order fried food in LA?
Frankie had been in LA for a week, but instead of playing the tourist and exploring the city’s attractions, she’d stayed in the apartment, crying over Hugh. He’d never called back, even though she hadn’t left the apartment, holding the phone hostage, waiting and waiting for it to ring. She knew it was pathetic, and she knew she should try and get over him, but she couldn’t, it was impossible. She’d never thought she could miss someone so much. All she wanted to do was lie in bed and sob her heart out. Except finally Rita wouldn’t let her. She had other ideas about how to deal with heartbreak. Like French fries.
Leaning back in her chair, Frankie shielded her eyes from the bright Californian sunshine and looked around her. It was difficult to take it all in. Today was a Monday lunchtime, in the middle of October. Usually she’d be pushing through harassed shoppers on a rainy Oxford Street, trying to grab a quick coffee and a sandwich at Pret à Manger, before rushing back to the office. Instead she was in Los Angeles, sitting at some trendy, film-starry restaurant with her best mate, getting a suntan and playing ‘spot the celebrity’ and ‘I-Spy the surgery’. It was unreal.
She smiled to herself. Rita was right, she did feel better, but it was LA, not food, that was responsible for her change in mood. With so much going on around her, it was difficult to wallow in thoughts about Hugh, even though she wanted to. Squinting in the sunshine, she watched the people around her in fascination – and learned LA Rule Number One: Sunglasses must be worn at all times.
Whether they were tortoiseshell Persols, blacked-out Ray-Bans, gilt-edged Chanels or fashionistas Prada, Frankie noticed, everybody was wearing a pair. Everybody, that was, except her. She’d left hers in a drawer somewhere in Hugh’s flat. God knows where. She hadn’t worn them since their holiday in Spain, when Hugh had left her by the pool every day and gone off to play golf. In London it was umbrellas, not sunglasses, that were the order of the day. But here in LA, the only umbrellas she could see were blue and white striped ones, fixed to each and every table to provide shade from the glorious weather.
Lost in a sea of designer shades and feeling like the English tourist that she was, she closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. This was another world. As if she’d stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia, only to discover Hollywood was doing a sequel and had renamed it La La Land. Feeling the warmth on her face, she smiled contentedly. Maybe she could get used to this. Beginning to feel better, she made a mental note to buy some sunglasses.
‘Mmm, they look delicious,’ sighed Rita, salivating as the waiter plonked a huge portion of curly fries in the middle of the table. ‘Can I nick one?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Frankie, breaking from her daydreams and opening her eyes. ‘Didn’t you order any?’
‘No, I’m still on a diet,’ groaned Rita, dipping a corkscrew fry in a gloop of ketchup. ‘But just one won’t hurt, will it?’ It was a rhetorical question, she didn’t want to know the answer. She wolfed it down and licked her fingers. ‘Not as good as the chippy, but still delicious,’ she said, a look of divine rapture on her face. ‘They’d be even better with gravy.’
Frankie shook her head. Ever since she’d known her, Rita had been dieting, vowing each and every time that this was it, that in four weeks she was going to be able to get her bum into that pair of size 10 jeans she’d worn on her twenty-first birthday. Ten years, and hundreds of broken diets later, she still couldn’t get the aforementioned Levi’s past her knees. Nor did it help that she was allergic to any form of exercise unless, of course, it involved a bloke and took place in the bedroom . . . over the kitchen table . . . in the back of the car . . .
‘What did you order?’ Frankie nibbled a fry. Normally she tried to stick to a healthy low-fat diet – she was on first-name terms with the Marks & Spencer Count On Us range – but what the hell. A few fries wouldn’t kill her. And even if they did, so what? After last night’s phone call, death by calories might be a welcome escape from the alternative: life without Hugh.
‘Salad.’ Rita wrinkled up her nose as if there was a nasty smell. As if on cue, a giant-size bowl of lettuce appeared in front of her.
‘Is that it?’ Frankie peered at the bowl. There wasn’t a tomato, cucumber or stick of celery in sight. Just an unappetising mountain of iceberg lettuce.
‘Yep.’ Rita speared bravely with her fork. ‘It was supposed to be a Chinese chicken and noodle salad, but I asked for no chicken, no noodles and dressing on the side.’
‘Why?’ Frankie was still a newcomer to the LA school of thought.
‘Look around you.’ Rita waved a forkful of lettuce in the air. ‘Every woman in this town’s stick thin. And do you want to know why?’ Her voice started getting louder as she clambered on to her soap box. ‘Because they’re all actresses, models, singers. If they’re not, they want to be . . . and the camera adds ten pounds. Believe me, you’ve got to look like a bloody lollipop to get anywhere.’ She looked down at her skintight T-shirt and prodded her spare tyre. ‘I’m going to have to lose some weight.’ She shook her head decisively, jangling her dangly earrings. Munching like a rabbit, she eyed Frankie’s chips like a starving child. ‘Still, you don’t have to worry, do you? You’re tall and skinny. Lucky sod.’
Frankie pulled a face. ‘Big deal. It’s hardly a guarantee for success, is it? Look at me. My boyfriend’s dumped me, I’ve been sacked—’
‘Made redundant,’ corrected Rita.
‘OK, redundant, I’m living out of a suitcase—’
‘You’re living with m
e.’
Frankie ignored her. ‘Anyway, I’m hardly a walking advert for fortune and happiness, am I?’
Rita refused to be convinced. ‘You’re still 126 pounds. God, I’d give anything to be 126 pounds.’ She looked dreamily into the distance.
‘Being 126 pounds didn’t do me much good, did it? It didn’t make Hugh love me.’ Shit, there she went again. Thinking about Hugh. It was so difficult not to.
‘What? And being 140 pounds would?’
Frankie had to smile. It was impossible not to with Rita around. ‘Oh, well, never mind. At least there’s some consolation in making a complete fool of myself when I made that drunken phone call. It’s made me realise it really is over between us . . . for him anyway.’
Dipping a fry in ketchup, she drew a loveheart on her plate. ‘You’re right. I’m going to have to just get on with my life and try to forget about him.’
‘Exactly.’ Rita nodded. ‘You need to start dating.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
But Rita wasn’t going to be put off at the first hurdle. ‘What about that gorgeous bloke from the party?’ Raising her eyebrows, she gave Frankie one of her looks.
‘You must be joking. That scruffy American. He’s definitely not my type.’ Frankie suddenly realised she could protest too much. ‘And anyway, it’s miles too soon,’ she added hastily. Trying to imagine life without Hugh was hard enough, imagining life with someone else was bloody impossible.
‘Hmm, well, don’t leave it too long. Trying to find a decent bloke’s like trying to find a bargain in the sales. If you don’t get a move on, you’ll get left with all the crap that no one else wants.’ Ignoring her salad, Rita polished off a few more fries. She comforted herself with the thought that she was surrogate comfort-eating for Frankie. ‘LA’s full of fellas, but you’ve got to be careful. Believe me, there’s some funny types out there.’
‘Beepbebebeepbeep.’ The hooting of a car horn interrupted their conversation, heralding the arrival of Dorian’s Mercedes convertible, which swept along the pavement in front of the restaurant and pulled up behind a bright red Ferrari. ‘Beepbeep.’
Looking at Frankie, Rita raised her eyebrows. ‘See what I mean?’
14
‘Good afternoon, girls.’
Waving jovially, Dorian turned off the ignition, pulled down the sun visor and began rearranging his windswept hair, trying to cover his thinning patch. Cuddling up next to him in the passenger seat was a scantily clad bronzed brunette who was giggling loudly and trying to hold on to Elvis, Dorian’s shih-tzu, who was yapping impatiently and trying to wriggle free.
Frankie glanced at Rita. ‘Who’s that?’ she mouthed, motioning with her eyes towards the girl who was tickling Dorian’s neck as he fussed with his fringe.
‘God knows,’ Rita shrugged. She could never keep track of Dorian’s ever-changing assortment of women, none of whom appeared to have been chosen for their personality.
Intrigued, they watched as Dorian gathered together his collection of mobiles, sunglasses, silver attaché case and the aforementioned brunette. Clambering out of the car, he released Elvis’s extendable leash, letting him scamper across the pavement towards Rita and Frankie, wagging his tail. Dorian followed closely behind in his fur coat, his arm wrapped tightly around the leggy brunette’s exposed midriff. Even in LA, their unconventional appearance caused a ripple of glances.
‘Mind if we join you?’
Without waiting for an answer, Dorian pulled up a chair and, only when he was satisfied that enough people were looking at him, did he oh so casually press his car’s remote control. Frankie watched in fascination as the compartment at the back of the Mercedes electronically opened and out popped the black leather hood. It started to unfold like a bat’s wing and, pointing skywards, stretched across the roof of the car before silently clicking into place. It was posey, but impressive. And it sure as hell beat Hugh’s VW Golf GTI.
Dorian, meanwhile, pretended not to notice. Instead he hungrily grabbed a bread roll, ripped off a piece and scooped up a large dollop of the complimentary olive pâté. ‘Oh, by the way, this is Jamie. Jamie, meet Rita and Frankie, my neighbours.’
‘Hi,’ twanged Jamie, manically chewing gum and looking not the least bit interested.
Rita smiled thinly, while Frankie tried not to stare at her dishevelled hair, creased outfit and smudged make-up. She looked as if she’d been up all night. She had.
‘Jamie and I have just come straight from a party at the Playboy mansion,’ boasted Dorian, looking very pleased with himself. King of the social circuit, he reigned supreme. ‘What happened to you two lightweights? You were invited . . .’ Licking his lips, he wolfed down the rest of the herb and garlic focaccia.
‘I was tired,’ explained Frankie sheepishly, wishing she could sound all hip and trendy, and not like a twenty-nine-going on ninety-nine-year-old.
‘So, was it any good?’ quizzed Rita, eyeing the brunette with suspicion. She noted that her midriff was nut brown and ironing-board flat. Not a freckle or bulge in sight. It was sickening. She stopped stealing fries and had another attempt at tackling the lettuce mountain.
‘Well, if you call partying until dawn, playing strip poker and ending up in the jacuzzi with some of Hollywood’s most beautiful women good, then yes it was. Very good indeed. It’s a shame you weren’t there. The more the merrier.’ He squeezed Jamie’s thigh. ‘We had a fucking fabulous time time, didn’t we, Jamie?’
Jamie giggled jitteringly, pulling the gum from between her teeth with her long manicured talons and letting it snap back.
‘I think we had a lucky escape,’ mumbled Rita drily.
‘Believe me, you don’t know what you were missing.’ He winked suggestively.
Dorian had been trying to get Rita into bed for the last three months, but so far she’d resisted his charms. God knows how. It must be something about that English stiff upper lip. Not that he dwelled upon it. Dorian’s attention span rivalled that of a goldfish. He quickly glanced from Rita to the menu.
‘Now, what shall I eat? I’m ravenous.’ Rolling his r’s, he shook out a white linen napkin with a flourish, tucked it tightly into his collar and clicked his fingers for service.
Frankie stared. She’d never met anyone like him. He reminded her of one of those characters she’d seen on documentaries about Hollywood who are so OTT they don’t seem real. She’d always been convinced they were actors hired by the producer to make the viewers back in the UK shake their heads and say how wacky and wild everyone was in California. But Dorian wasn’t playing a part. He was for real. She looked at him, dressed like a polar bear and soaking up the sun like a solar panel, in amazement. Wasn’t he hot?
‘Don’t you want to take off your jacket?’ she suggested. It was 80 degrees and he was wearing a fur coat.
‘No, I’m fine,’ he lied. He was sweltering, but this was Los Angeles. Appearances were more important than comfort.
‘Hi, my name is Julie and I am your waitress.’ A strawberry blonde appeared by the table in white bobby socks, trainers and orthodontic braces. ‘Would you like to order anything from the menu, sir?’ She rattled off her spiel, smiling brightly, notepad at the ready.
Snapping upright like a spring, Dorian grinned at her. ‘I’d like a double helping of you, please, with no dressing.’ He flirted outrageously, regardless of the brunette, who’d slung herself around his shoulders. Not that she noticed. Coked up and spaced out, she was there in body, not in mind.
Julie the waitress was taken aback. ‘I’m afraid that’s not available, sir . . . but perhaps you would like to order something from the menu?’
As an out-of-work actress she’d learned her waitress lines off by heart, but nobody had warned her about the possibility of improvisation. By deviating from the usual ‘I’ll have . . .’ Dorian had thrown her well-rehearsed dialogue into disarray.
Frankie watched her grinning and blinking. She was like a robot malfunctioning.
r /> ‘Oh . . .’ Dorian pretended to look disappointed. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have to make do with my regular. Yvonne the maître d’ knows just how I like it.’ It was his best attempt at a double entendre, but it seemed lost on Julie, who beamed blankly. ‘And I’d like a plate of smoked salmon for Elvis.’ Bending down he tickled the dog, who was sweltering in the heat and trying to find shade under the table.
‘And for you, madam?’ Julie the waitress finished jotting her order down on her notepad and, not to be put off by the earlier misunderstanding, beamed eagerly at Jamie. She looked so happy to be serving customers, she was almost bursting with enthusiasm. As if nothing could satisfy her more than ordering coffee, bringing extra cutlery or filling up their glasses with iced water. Jamie shook her head. Despite her suntan, she’d suddenly gone as white as the tablecloth. What she wanted wasn’t on the menu either. Excusing herself, she set off unsteadily towards the loos, followed closely by Rita, who was determined to quiz her for diet tips – she had a sneaky feeling that midriff hadn’t been achieved by lettuce alone.
Julie the waitress wasn’t about to be deterred. ‘Anything else, sir?’
Dorian narrowed his eyes (he would have twiddled the ends of his moustache if he’d had one). ‘Don’t tempt me.’
The waitress scuttled away, ponytail swinging, bobby socks bobbing, leaving Dorian and Frankie by themselves. He flicked his attention to Frankie, who was staring into space, daydreaming about Hugh.
‘So tell me, why the long face?’
Frankie jumped, realising she’d been rumbled. ‘How much time do you have?’ Feeling awkward at being put on the spot, she looked down at her plate. It was empty. She decided not to eat for the rest of the day. The LA thin-bug was catching.
‘It can’t be that bad. You’re here in Los Angeles, what more do you want?’
His cheery dismissal of a situation about which he knew nothing annoyed her.