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Jenny was nowhere to be found back at the hotel, which left me free for the world’s longest nap. But after an hour of staring at the ceiling, I was forced to accept that sleep wasn’t coming. There was just too much on my mind and, to be honest, the vodka I’d necked at The Dresden hadn’t helped me clear it up.

If I could just sort out one of the dramas in my mind, maybe I’d be able to get half an hour’s sleep. OK, first, Alex. Staring at my phone, I tried to replay our conversation but it all sounded so much worse in my head. If he would just call, if he would just tell me it was all right. If he would just bloody say that he loved me. But that wasn’t about to happen any time soon. And hello? How sad was I that I needed my boyfriend to tell me he loved me to make me feel better? OK, very, but it didn’t stop it being true.

I added another pillow to the stack already behind my head and grabbed my BlackBerry from the night-stand. No missed calls, no new emails. Nothing from Mary about the blog entry I’d sent over that morning. No matter what James said, my job was still on the line. Once the interview was over, he wouldn’t have any pull at the magazine and if Mary thought I was going to shag every person I worked with, there wouldn’t be any more work. Plus Jenny was still in such a strange mood, she wasn’t exactly helping me out.

And if that wasn’t enough, I had the most unexpected problem of them all to deal with. James was definitely flirting with me. Definitely. What was I supposed to do? My job was hanging by a thread, my boyfriend wasn’t talking to me, my best friend was one missed call away from kicking my arse and here was this insanely beautiful man – not even a man, a movie star – telling me I’m amazing, stroking my hair and asking me to stay the night. It wasn’t fair. I was only human, unlike him. Stupid Greek God of a man, how dare he try it on with me? Seriously, what was a girl supposed to do?

It had taken me six months to sort my life out after arriving in New York, amazing friends, wonderful boyfriend, the perfect job. And it had only taken me four days in LA to screw it all up. Wow, that must be some sort of record. Really, there was only one thing to do.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Dad, it’s Angela.’

‘Angela, love, it’s midnight, what’s wrong?’ Dad yawned. At least they clearly hadn’t seen the photos.

‘Sorry, I hadn’t thought about the time difference,’ I apologized, looking at the blinking clock on my night-stand. ‘Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to have a quick word with Mum, is she up?’

‘She is now,’ he muttered.

‘What’s wrong? Angela, are you coming home?’ The classic motherly panic. ‘What’s happened?’

‘No, Mum,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to have a bit of a chat. I’m working in LA this week, aren’t I?’

‘I never know where you are from one day to the next,’ she sighed. ‘And you haven’t wanted a bit of a chat for months, let alone at midnight. So what’s wrong?’

‘It’s only four here, sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ I said. How true was that?

‘No, thinking hasn’t been your strong point since you moved away, love,’ Mum agreed. ‘What’s wrong now?’

She’d been awake for four minutes and she was already having a go at me. Why hadn’t I called her earlier?

‘Nothing really, I just wanted to call you about, well, some pictures,’ I tried to work out how to rephrase ‘the internet is crawling with suggestive photographs of your only child’ for my fifty-nine-year-old mother, but it just wouldn’t come out. Couldn’t think why. ‘I’m in some pictures.’

‘You’re in the pictures? Is that why you’re in LA; you’re going to be in a film?’

‘No, Mum, I’m interviewing someone, I’m not in a film.’ I closed my eyes. ‘It’s just someone took some photos of me and the person I’m interviewing, he’s an actor, and they’re saying that we’re … going out together.’

‘You’re going out with an actor?’ I heard running water and opening cupboards. If she was making tea, this could go on for a while. ‘I thought you were going out with that man with the guitar?’

‘I am going out with that man with the … oh, his name is Alex, Mum,’ I could actually really use a cup of tea. Or something stronger. ‘I’m not going out with the actor, I just wanted to let you know that the photos make it look like I am going out with him. But I’m not.’

‘Just a minute love, I’m making tea. I suppose all you drink is coffee now. Can’t beat a good cup of tea though, can you? Those Americans might make more sense if they all had a cup of tea for a change. Coffee gives me the jitters.’

‘Of course I still drink tea,’ I sighed. ‘And you can get tea here.’

‘Coffee gives your dad the runs, of course,’ she went on. ‘Now what’s all this about you going out with an actor?’

‘OK, let me start again.’ I sat up in bed. ‘I’m not going out with an actor but there are some photos on the internet that make it look like I am. And I don’t want you to get upset when you see them.’

‘Why would I get upset? And where on the internet, let me have a look,’ she slurped her tea. ‘Where are my glasses?’

‘You’ve got the internet?’ I crossed the room to my laptop. ‘When did you get a computer?’

‘Your dad’s been doing a course. I thought I’d be able to send you emails but I haven’t quite worked that out yet. Your dad’s been doing that Facebook thing though. All the pictures from Louisa’s weddings are up there, you know.’

‘Dad’s on Facebook?’ I asked, logging on and searching. Oh my, there he was. Not a good picture.

‘That’s the one. Now what’s the name of this website?’ she asked.

‘Mum, I don’t think you need to look at the pictures. I just wanted to let you—’

‘If I just Goggle you, will they come up?’ she interrupted.

‘If you what?’

‘Goggle, oh, it’s wonderful Angela, you just type in anything and it comes up,’ she went on. ‘I got this really lovely recipe for an apple crumble. It’s so much better than your Auntie Susan’s one. Oh, here you are, here’s your picture.’

‘No, that’ll be my blog, Mum.’ I was talking so quickly, I wasn’t sure what I was saying. I just could not cope with her seeing those pictures. ‘The pictures didn’t have my name on but I thought someone might see them and recognize me and tell—’

‘Well, it says it’s you,’ she carried on talking over me. ‘You and James Jacobs? I’m sure I’ve seen him in something; he’s very good looking, Angela.’

‘Wait, what website are you on?’ The photos had my name on them now? I typed my name into Google Images. And there I was. There we were.

‘They’re on lots of websites, Angela. Well, you do make a very good-looking couple.’ She sounded oddly proud. ‘When do we get to meet him?’

‘Mum, I’m not going out with James Jacobs,’ I repeated. ‘These photos aren’t real.’

‘That’s not you being carried into that big black car then?’

‘Well, yes, it is but not—’

‘And that’s not you coming out of the hotel?’

‘Yes but—’

‘That’s a lovely dress, Angela. If you’d dressed like that when you were living with Mark, he might never have left you for that tart from the tennis club. All those bloody jeans and sloppy jumpers …’

‘Mum!’ Really. Why did I call her?

‘Never mind, I dare say Mark will be feeling pretty silly when he sees that you’re going out with a film star, won’t he? Malcolm, what was that film we saw about the casino? Angela’s new boyfriend was in it,’ she shouted without taking the phone away from her mouth.

Suitably deafened, I turned my attention to the first website that came up.

Updated: We finally have confirmation on the identity of James Jacobs’s new lady love! She is none other than Angela Clark, fellow Brit, journo and, according to our sources, currently dating lead singer of New York rockers, Stills, Alex Reid. Way to trade up, journo girl. That said, we always thought Alex Reid was kind of a cutie; obviously no James Jacobs, but if he’s looking for someone to help him through the heartache, we are available …

There, beside a new shot of James carrying me out of Teddy’s, this one showcasing my pants fabulously, was a picture of Alex, all bundled up, heading into Bedford Avenue subway station. I didn’t know if it was new or if it was old, but he looked gutted. ‘Oh shit,’ I breathed.

‘Angela, language.’

‘Mum, I’m sorry for waking you up,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. No time for a nap now. ‘I’ve got to make some calls. I’ll give you a ring later.’

‘OK love. And I shouldn’t worry about those pictures. You know what they say, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping. Just try not to show your pants in the next ones. Speak to you soon.’

‘There had better not be any next ones,’ I muttered to myself, hanging up and redialling. I hated it when my mother was right.

‘Alex, it’s me …’ Seriously, would I never ever learn to think about what I was going to say on voicemail before I called? ‘I know you said not to call but I had to. Can you call me please? I just want to speak to you; these photos are just stupid. I spoke to my mum and, yeah, you don’t care that I spoke to my mum, do you? Anyway, please just call me back?’

Not my finest work but far from my worst. That accolade was firmly attached to the photo of my pants that was currently circulating the internet.

I spent the next couple of hours dutifully writing up my interview with James. As someone who had never ever interviewed an A-list celebrity before, it didn’t read half bad. If I hadn’t met him, this interview would totally make me fall in love with him. Unfortunately, I had met him and, as much as I was trying to pretend otherwise, my feelings definitely weren’t entirely professional. I would probably leave that out of the interview.

Just as I was considering ordering the entire room-service menu, my phone buzzed into life. I snatched it up, praying it would be Alex. My lovely boyfriend Alex, whom I would not be cheating on. Ever. Honest.

‘Yo, Angie, you still with James?’ Jenny yelled down the line.

‘Nope,’ I looked at the clock. Where had she been all day?

‘Whatever, we’re at The Grove, Daphne had to pick some pieces up from Nordstrom – she’s styling Rachel Bilson tomorrow, can you believe it? She’s so hot. Tiny but hot,’ Jenny carried on. ‘But I’ll be in the lobby in twenty minutes and then we’re going out for dinner. And then we’re going out. Daphne, where did you get a rez?’

The sound of honking horns drowned out the name of the restaurant. ‘Jenny, are you on the phone while you’re driving?’ I asked, holding my head in my hands.

‘Uh, no?’

‘Please just be careful,’ I said. Jenny wasn’t completely concerned with her personal safety at the best of times and the idea of her behind the wheel of a car terrified me. ‘I don’t know about going out for dinner. It was really weird out this morning, loads of people just kept staring.’

‘Yeah, but you were with James though, right? Well, tonight you’ll be with us. No one will look, I swear. Well, they will, but only because of our collective hotness. Just go get ready. Oh shit, we needed to turn there, right?’

Before I could argue, she hung up. Or at least I hoped she had hung up and not just caused a six-car pile-up.

Despite really not wanting to leave my hotel room, I really didn’t want to get into another row with Jenny. Instead of taking to my bed, I went to my wardrobe and pulled out my black Kerrigan silk dress. Jenny was probably right. Surely a real celebrity would have cocked up by now and taken my place on Perez’s front page? The dress was perfect: slouchy black silk with pink sash that loosely tied around my waist. It was pretty but certainly not sexy and if I teamed it with flats instead of the skyscraper heels that Jenny had bullied me into getting when I’d bought it, it was positively demure. I combed out my hair, added a big old sweep of blusher and a quick flick of mascara. Passably presentable but in no way attention-seeking.

Which I could not say about Jenny and Daphne. I wasn’t sure if it was them waiting for me in the lobby or if they were holding auditions for new Pussycat Dolls in the bar. Jenny’s hair was huge, either from overenthusiastic teasing or driving with the top down all day, and her gorgeous tan was accessorized with bright red lips, five-inch heels and a skin-tight, funnel-neck black leather mini-dress. And Daphne was hardly letting the side down. Her black hair was carefully curled and pinned (and lacquered within an inch of its life), her make-up flawless and Fifties. Seamed stockings, a ridiculously tight black pencil skirt and fitted white shirt with a red patent-leather belt wrapped around her teeny-tiny waist completed a look I could never even hope to replicate. It was all I could do to apply eyeliner without blinding myself – how did she walk around looking like that?

‘You both look nice,’ I choked, feeling as though I had turned up to a school disco in my pyjamas. ‘I didn’t realize we were doing dressy?’

‘Isn’t this awesome?’ Jenny span for me. ‘I knew you’d love it; it’s Marc Jacobs. Daphne borrowed it for her shoot tomorrow. You’re not wearing your Miu Mius?’

I shook my head, looking doubtfully at my battered ballet pumps.

‘Kerrigan dress?’ Daphne asked, looking me up and down. ‘Nice.’

I nodded, trying not to be totally in awe of Daphne. Again. Oh yes, I could throw up in front of a movie star and then straddle him on the beach, but put me in front of a proper grown-up girl and I lost it. I’d always wanted to be one of those girls who was completely put together, who glided through life in sky-high heels with nothing but a tiny clutch bag rather than the girl clumping around in biker boots, dropping her satchel on the subway and scattering tampons everywhere. It just wasn’t on the cards. And then I remembered that Daphne Did It With Boys For Money and I didn’t know where to look any more.

‘So where are we going?’ I asked, following the glamazons out to the car. ‘Should I go and get changed?’

‘We have heels in the car.’ Jenny took my hand and smiled.

‘A simple, “you look nice as you are” would have done,’ I frowned.

Dominick’s was a cool little restaurant on Beverly Boulevard, full of pretty people, but at least here they seemed to be actually eating their meals rather than pushing their food around their plates. I took that to be a good sign.

‘See,’ Jenny gestured around with a fork full of spaghetti carbonara. ‘No one is looking at you.’

‘No, but they are looking at you spilling sauce all down your borrowed dress,’ I said, passing her a napkin. Against all the odds, we were actually having a great night. I had got over my nerves, Jenny had got over her tantrum and, once I’d got over the urge to ask Daphne how much she charged for what, she turned out to be a fabulous source of Hollywood gossip. And since I’d served as that day’s tabloid fodder, I figured I was allowed to find out the dress sizes of the cast of Desperate Housewives. ‘So what are the plans for later?’

‘On a Tuesday night?’ Daphne pursed her perfectly lined lips. ‘LAX? Hyde? Bar Marmont would be OK but we were only there on Sunday.’

‘If Bar Marmont is anything to do with Chateau Marmont, I don’t think so.’ I scarfed a giant mouthful of steak. ‘Will Hyde be crawling with photographers too?’

‘Honey, it’s LA,’ Daphne shrugged. ‘Anywhere worth going to will be crawling with photographers.’

‘I could really get to hate LA,’ I said to my steak. ‘Honestly, how do you relax if you can’t just go out and get drunk with your friends?’

‘Don’t you take your problems out on LA,’ Daphne warned. ‘That’s my baby you’re bad-mouthing.’

‘Yeah, it’s not LA’s fault you’re having a shit time,’ Jenny chimed. ‘LA is beautiful. Awesome sunshine, shopping, beaches, clubs and hot, hot men. And that’s before we even get onto all that nature stuff, like hiking in the hills, because we would never go hiking in the hills if we’re honest. But you get my point, right?’

‘And aren’t you supposed to be writer girl?’ Daphne asked. ‘Everything here is a story, everyone. New York is so boring and practical. Everything here is cooler than in New York.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘Not even.’

‘She’s right, Angie,’ Jenny butted in. ‘If you would just try and have a good time, you might enjoy yourself out here.’

‘You, Jenny Lopez, are cheating on New York,’ I tutted, but maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t entirely the city’s fault that I was having a shitty time. But I would not be miserable if I was still in New York. ‘James took me to this place today, The Dresden? He said there are never any photographers there.’

‘And so it’s not worth going there,’ Jenny repeated slowly. ‘Don’t sweat it Angie, honey. But you know, if you really want this to go away, you should go out and get photographed.’

‘How do you work that out?’ I asked, trying not to be distracted by the stupidly good-looking waiter who was taking away our plates. I really was turning into a big ho. And why was everyone in LA gorgeous? It was incredibly off-putting.

‘You go out, the paparazzi recognize you and you get your chance to give them a quote. Looking awesome, of course,’ she winked. ‘And flanked by your hot girlfriends.’

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ Daphne agreed. ‘You can tell them you’re working together or just tell them you and James are old friends or something. Even if they don’t buy it, they’ll probably still publish it and that might get you off the hook with the magazine.’

‘Maybe,’ I said doubtfully. Talking to the paparazzi just didn’t seem like a good idea. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you speak to Alex yet?’ Jenny asked. ‘What did he say?’

‘Not since yesterday,’ I admitted, carefully studying the dessert menu to avoid Jenny’s glare. ‘He isn’t answering his phone.’

‘Tell me you’re joking?’ She slapped the menu down onto the table. ‘He hasn’t called you?’

‘Don’t,’ I said. I really didn’t want to get into this again.

‘If that asshole doesn’t call you in the next ten seconds to say anything other than “I know everything I read online is bullshit and I’m so lucky to have a girlfriend like you”, I’m on the next flight back to New York to kick his ass.’ She stared me down.

‘Jenny, look at it from his point of view,’ I said, taking back the menu. If only because there was a tiramisu on there I desperately wanted to get involved with. ‘I’m away in Hollywood, interviewing this actor with a horrible reputation, and after two days there are pictures all over the internet of him carrying me into a limo and me hanging around his hotel room in a dressing gown.’

‘There weren’t any pictures of you in a dressing gown,’ Daphne raised a perfectly pencilled eyebrow, ‘were there?’

‘He’s just been so perfect since we got back together.’ I changed the subject quickly. ‘And then I get here and it all goes tits up. It’ll be fine when I get home.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ Daphne offered a saccharine smile, which did not help matters.

‘Or maybe he’s missing you so much, he can’t bear even to speak to you.’ Jenny clasped her hands to her heart. ‘Oh, Angie, it’s all too romantic. And bullshit. He’s being a dick. His boy genes have kicked in again.’

‘Thanks for making me feel so much better, both of you.’ I frowned. ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Whatever the problem was before I was branded an international super-slag by Perez Hilton, as far as he’s concerned, he’s got a solid-gold reason to be pissed off with me. And you know his ex cheated on him; he’s not the world’s most instantly trusting man. Once I’m back in New York, he’ll be fine. I’m sure.’

‘So what, you can’t leave the city without him freaking out that you’re cheating on him? Sounds like a dream relationship,’ Daphne said into her wine glass. ‘And if he’s going to give you shit for something you didn’t do, you may as well do it, is all I’m saying.’

‘You’re not being fair,’ I said, sinking half a glass of red wine. ‘And, God, I’m not entirely innocent, am I? I suppose I have sort of been … well, James has been … I can hardly say it … maybe we’ve been flirting a bit. And I haven’t done anything but I have to admit, I’ve seriously thought about it.’

‘Angela, first of all, I don’t care if you blew the entire cast of Gossip Girl. If you told Alex you didn’t, and he didn’t believe you, he’s getting his ass kicked when we get back.’ Jenny took my hand. ‘And second of all, you need to elaborate on “flirting”.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I tried to backtrack, quickly. ‘It’s just brushing my hair away from my face, holding my hand, saying stuff.’ Daphne was staring with wide-open eyes while Jenny toyed with her dessert spoon. ‘And after that thing at Teddy’s, he sort of suggested I stay at the hotel.’

‘And you didn’t?’ Daphne looked impressed. ‘Angela, you deserve some sort of award, not some asshole boyfriend who believes everything he reads.’

‘He probably just meant because of the paparazzi,’ I said, knowing full well that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. ‘I’m just reading too much into everything because the Alex thing is messing with my head. I’m completely rubbish at boys, I never know what they’re thinking.’

‘Not one girl on this planet does.’ Jenny shook her head at me. ‘But I still cannot believe you came home on Monday night. You had James Jacobs, People magazine’s fifth sexiest person in the world, and my personal third, throwing himself at you and you said no. Angela Clark, you are stronger than strong.’

‘Who’s first and second?’ I asked, filling up my glass from the bottle of red in the centre of the table.

‘Christian Bale at one, Jake Gyllenhaal at two. The ranking is fluid depending on whichever’s doing the tough guy movie at the time.’ Jenny opened up the menu. ‘You’re the one that likes guys skinnier than you. Which I’m guessing is the only reason you passed up James Jacobs. God, even after that whole scene in Teddy’s I would struggle to pass that up. And don’t try and change the subject on me again.’

I finished the wine by topping up Jenny’s glass. ‘What’s it going to take to shut you up?’

‘Come out after dinner,’ Jenny bargained. ‘Out out. Dancing, drinking out. And enjoy it.’

‘I refuse to commit to enjoying it,’ I shrugged. ‘But a drink wouldn’t hurt right now.’

‘Score.’ Jenny and Daphne high-fived. If people weren’t looking at us before, they certainly were now.

One hour, two desserts and three martinis later, our car was still sitting in the valet parking lot at Dominick’s and we were in a cab on our way to Bar Marmont. Everything in me (aside from the martinis) said it was a bad idea, but I was having so much fun with Jenny and Daphne, it was starting to seem silly to go back to the hotel just because some photographers might be out and they might recognize me. Besides, I was just about drunk enough to feel a dance coming on.

‘So, Jenny,’ I clung to the hanging strap in the back of the cab as we motored around an uneven corner, ‘where’s Joe this evening?’

‘Working.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘Obviously, he would be here with me if he weren’t.’

‘But you haven’t …?’ Surely I would have had every nasty detail if she’d finally done the deed.

‘No, we haven’t,’ she pouted and reapplied her lip gloss. ‘I think maybe he’s sick. But we will. He must be sick, right?’’

‘You’ve only got four more days,’ I reminded her. ‘Better work fast, Lopez.’

‘Unless you stay longer,’ Daphne said quietly as we stopped suddenly.

‘Not now,’ Jenny said, pushing her out of the door.

I looked from Daphne to Jenny. What was that supposed to mean?

‘You’ve only got four more days,’ Daphne sang as we started up the stairs to the door of the bar. I wasn’t sure what to be more concerned about, the weird tension that had just shot up all around Jenny, the photographers lining the street below or the huge man with the clipboard staring at us. And, quite frankly, if I didn’t get to a toilet very soon, we were about to have a very embarrassing incident at the door. Just not the one that the man with the clipboard was expecting.

‘Good evening ladies.’ He looked us up and down and blocked the door. ‘We’re real busy tonight. You staying at the hotel?’

I panicked, the velvet rope was not my friend. Daphne, however, seemed very well acquainted with it.

‘We’re with James Jacobs,’ she said smoothly. ‘He’s staying here.’

‘You’re with James Jacobs?’ He didn’t even bother to raise an eyebrow.

‘Well, I’m not “with him”,’ Daphne said, stepping to one side. ‘But she is.’

The doorman looked at me, presumably not having noticed me hiding behind Jenny’s enormous hair, and a slight flicker of recognition passed over his face. But not in a particularly good way. I gave him my biggest please-let-me-in-so-I-can-pee smile, but it seemed to be lost in translation. Or possibly I just looked drunk.

‘Mr Jacobs is already inside, maybe I’ll go ask him if he’s expecting guests.’ He stared at me, then passed the clipboard to a lesser, slightly smaller door-boy behind him.

‘Please do,’ Daphne smiled, as sweet as sugar. I felt myself starting to sway a little, from the martinis, the beat I felt through the floor and the implausible height of the heels Jenny had made me trade with her in the cab. Apparently she was quite hot enough in flats but I needed the help. And about twenty coats of mascara and enough eyeliner to embarrass a raccoon. Before the bouncer could leave his post, a familiar face appeared at the door.

‘Angela!’ James yelled over the music that was pulsing inside. ‘What happened to your early night?’

‘Hello!’ I squeaked, pushing past the doorman (ha!) and letting James pull me into a very short hug before I squirmed free, scanning the place for the bathrooms. The relief was immense, we were in and I was moments away from being able to pee.

‘James, this is Daphne and you remember my friend, Jenny? Back in a minute.’ I waved behind me before pelting off down a narrow hallway to join a short queue of girls. As far as I could tell, girls only queued for two things in the US, sample sales and the bathroom, so unless someone was hawking Jimmy Choos in the back, this was where the toilets were.

For a fancy club, the toilets were not classy, I thought as I slammed the stiff door of the shabby cubicle closed behind me, but the bar was painfully hip. From the pretty butterfly wallpaper to the red-fringed lampshades, Bar Marmont reeked of understated glamour. And the crowds milling around the bar were hardly letting the side down. I wondered if we’d accidentally wandered into the auditions for America’s Next Top Model. If America’s Next Top Model started accepting male models. And not-so-model males with black Amex cards. But above all, it felt safe. And I didn’t just mean the bolt on the toilet door. The bar felt comfortably exclusive.

Maybe James was right; maybe the Chateau and its shabby chic bar were safe. Safe enough for me to drink myself into not thinking about Alex for a couple of hours at least. Except there he was, in the corner of my mind, smiling, brushing my hair out of my eyes while his fell across his cheek. I could smell his deodorant, his sweaty post-gig T-shirt, and I could hear his soft lullabies in my ear over the buzzing bass of the bar. Maybe I should just send a text. Just to remind him I was still here. My oversized clutch seemed like the Tardis. Where was my phone? I washed my hands then leaned against the wall, frantically searching through my bag and spilling lip gloss after lip gloss on to the floor as the cubicle started to spin slightly. Who needed so many lip glosses? Was I even wearing lip gloss? Ah-ha, there was my phone, hiding under the reams of toilet roll I’d stuck in my bag in case there wasn’t any left later. Before I could second-guess myself, I tapped out a quick message.

‘I know you’re angry but it’s all bollocks. Miss you. A x’

I stared at the screen as the send icon blinked a couple of times. Sending. Sending. Sent. Another couple of seconds to see if he was going to text back. And a couple more.

‘Come on, I’m dying out here,’ a not very ladylike voice yelled from outside. The lock on the toilet door wouldn’t hold up to more than one good kick, and if she felt anything like I had two minutes ago, she would do that in about thirteen seconds. I tossed the phone back into the bottom of my bag. There was only one thing for it. More drinks. It was going to take a couple more mojitos to get me into a dancing mood now, but I was quite committed to making sure that happened.

I shuffled back through the bar without getting so much as a second glance from the gorgeous people all around me. Which was oddly nice. Jenny and Daphne had already set up shop with James, Blake and a small crowd of hangers-on, but even they didn’t turn to wave as I walked over. I was invisible. I had thought that the only way to become anonymous in LA would be to adopt the uniform – blonde hair, big boobs and a super-tanned, size zero stick figure – but apparently I could just hang out in a very cool bar full of beautiful, beautiful women and then no one would even bat an eyelid. Might still be worth getting the boob job, though.

No one in the entire place even batted a heavily made-up eyelid as I sat down, except for James who immediately pushed Blake up from the seat next to him to make room for me. Either he really wanted to sit next to me or he thought my arse was too big to fit in the tiny space between him and Jenny. He would have been right, of course. I squeezed in and raised my hand to everyone around the table. Jenny gave me a blinding smile over the rim of her martini glass and Daphne winked over the shoulder of a tall, skinny guy with the most impressive afro I had ever seen. And glowering in the corner was my old friend Blake, offering me his welcoming grimace.

‘Good evening, madam.’ James sported his usual uniform of indecently tight jeans, fitted black shirt and matinee idol eyes. ‘Jenny tells me she lured you out against your will.’

‘Hmm.’ I eyed Jenny to my left. She raised her glass in return, before turning back to the beautiful Joe-a-like sitting opposite her. ‘There was some coercion involved.’

‘And some martinis?’

‘She mentioned that, did she?’

‘Well, I didn’t know what you wanted to drink.’ James passed me a very full martini glass. ‘And I don’t know what you like.’

‘Thanks,’ I smiled and sipped.

‘Apart from me, of course,’ he added.

I frowned and chugged.

‘So did you get hold of that boyfriend of yours or what?’ James asked, leaning in close so I could hear him over the music.

‘Nope.’ I finished my drink, and carefully placed the empty glass on the table in front of us. ‘But it’s fine.’

‘If he’s still being a knob about the photos, I could call him,’ James offered. ‘Although I’m guessing I’m the last person he’d want to speak to.’

‘If I thought he’d answer the phone, I would love you to call him.’ I closed my eyes and found James’s arm draped casually across my back instead of the wooden frame of the booth. A hot hand curled around my shoulder in a half-hug.

‘Well, if I’m honest, I’m not sure anything I have to say to him would make him feel better,’ James said into my hair. ‘I’m really glad you came here tonight.’

I turned too quickly to look at James but his face was altogether too close and I bumped my nose against his. He brushed his lips over mine, almost too gently to even feel.

‘Don’t,’ I coloured up. ‘I mean, I’m sorry, but no.’

James gave me a half-smile and pushed up off the booth, striding down the bar. The beautiful people instinctively cleared a path and stared after him. It was funny how they recognized one of their own.

Watching his denim-clad backside vanish in the crowd as they melded back together, I desperately tried to clear my mind. Daphne was knocking back shots of vodka straight from the bottle, and I wondered how she was going to manage her Rachel Bilson shoot tomorrow. And how Jenny was hoping to get all the different stains out of that leather dress. And just when was Blake going to actually get up out of his seat and kick the living crap out of me rather than just stare at me. Oh, about now.

‘What exactly do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded, throwing himself across the table and almost pushing Jenny out of her seat at the side of me.

‘Hi, Blake.’ I hoped that if I refused to argue, surely he’d give up eventually. ‘So sorry about this morning. James thought—’

‘That’s the problem, James doesn’t think,’ Blake said. He might have been quiet but he was clearly furious. ‘I think. That’s my job. He acts, I think, you ask questions and then you go home.’

Apparently he would argue regardless.

‘And while you might not care about your job, your boyfriend and all that other crap, it is also my job to ensure that James keeps the things that important to him.’ He paused. ‘Don’t make it my job to ensure that you lose the things that are important to you.’

Meep. ‘Blake I—’

‘No,’ he went on. ‘I said from the beginning that this was a bad idea, and if Monday night wasn’t bad enough, here you are again with your slutty friends, all over James. It’s pathetic.’

OK, now I was annoyed. ‘Firstly, it was never my intention to end up splashed all over the internet with my knickers on show, you know; and secondly, please don’t call my friends slutty. You don’t know them, how dare you call them slutty?’

Blake leaned his head to the left to look around me and laughed.

I span around. Jenny was safely positioned within an inch of the Joe-a-like’s lips and Daphne was dancing with her man. Well, she was dancing; he was sitting. She was dancing in his lap. Oh my God, she was giving him a lap dance.

‘No, not slutty at all. You’ve been here, what? Twenty minutes?’ Blake curled his lip. ‘Yeah, I know you. I know all of you. Do you think you’re the first nobody to ever make a play for James?’

‘Blake, this is really boring. I’m getting very tired of repeating myself.’ I turned my back on my slutty friends. Couldn’t really fight him on that front. ‘No one is making a play for James.’

Trying not to wobble in my five-inch heels, I stood up quickly. ‘Jenny,’ I barked, not taking my eyes off Blake’s smug face. He wasn’t quite so handsome in the middle of a row. ‘Jenny, can I please have a word?’

She looked up, eyebrows knitted together in a silent plea to stay where she was.

‘Jenny. Bar. Now.’ I turned and marched. Perhaps it was a bit slow and, well, very uneven, but it was still a march.

‘Angie, honey, what are you doing to me?’ Jenny groaned, straightening her hemline as I dragged her through the crowd. For some reason, it didn’t magically part for us.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, wrestling for an inch of the bar. ‘I’m there having a screaming row with Blake, he’s calling us a bunch of slags and I turn around and you’re practically at it with a stranger. And Daphne actually is.’

‘Damn,’ Jenny whistled, looking back at Daphne. A small crowd was forming around her, obscuring my view. Thank God. ‘She’s so sexy. It’s such a shame she didn’t keep up the burlesque.’

‘Jenny, pay attention, that is not the point I was getting at,’ I said, ordering a Diet Coke but knowing full well I was past the ability to sober up with the help of one soft drink. ‘I’m going to find James and say goodbye, then I’m leaving. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment with Blake actively trying to ruin my life.’

‘Angie, I’m really sorry but I’m gonna have to go Oprah on your ass.’ Jenny pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

I stared, a little bit shocked. ‘What’s wrong with me? I’m not the one getting off with a stranger in the middle of a bar—’

‘And I am, so what’s the problem?’ she asked, hands on hips. ‘And that’s not where I’m going so shut up and listen. Yeah, I get that those photos of you and James were hard to see but they weren’t real and everyone will get that. Your magazine, your mom, Alex. And I will not get into an argument about this, but if he doesn’t get it, if he never speaks to you again, then he is not worth getting this upset about, honey. Fact.’

‘But—’

‘No, I’m not done,’ she grabbed my Diet Coke and took a swig.’I have two more very important points to make. Firstly, what the hell has happened to my Angie? Why are you walking around whining and snivelling because your boyfriend is being an ass and a hot movie star is trying to get in your pants? Where’s the girl who broke a guy’s hand when she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her? Who got on a plane to New York without even giving it a second thought?’

‘Don’t know.’ I always had been very eloquent.

‘And secondly – and it is very, very important that you think about what I’m about to say.’ Jenny grasped my shoulders a little too tightly. ‘Your mom lives a long way away so she’s not here to explain one of life’s fundamental lessons to you. When a real-life hunk of a man makes a move on you, you let him. You know I like Alex, when he’s not being an asshole at least, but Angie, this is a genuine movie star. A drop-dead-gorgeous, prime specimen of a man. And he obviously wants you. What is wrong with you?’

‘Jenny …’ I protested feebly.

‘Has Alex called you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘And have you called him since I last asked you?’

‘No,’ I sipped the Diet Coke innocently.

‘Have you texted him?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted to the floor.

‘Then you have no excuses. You have to do this for me.’ She looked as though she meant it. I couldn’t think of a time I’d seen her look so committed to a cause. ‘OK, so you don’t have to sleep with him, but where’s the harm in dancing with him? Maybe making out a little? Alex will never find out. And besides, you’re in the middle of an argument, you’re practically on a break.’

‘Jenny, if I learned anything from Friends, and I did, it’s that being on a break doesn’t mean anything.’ I pulled my left foot out of my ridiculously high shoe and rested it on the cold floor for a moment. Ahh, sweet relief. ‘And besides, I told you, I’m going home. I have had far too much to drink tonight.’

‘Just dance with the man and let me watch,’ she pleaded. ‘If you’re going to guilt-trip me about making out with that guy back at the table, at least let me live vicariously through you.’

‘If you can tell me the name of that man, I will book you the honeymoon suite at The Hollywood.’ I gave her a moment.

‘John?’ she shrugged.

‘Not even close.’

‘Whatever, Angie.’ Jenny pointed to James as he wandered through the bar, looking for us back at the table. Looking for me. ‘Just one dance. And then you can leave. I’ll even take you home myself.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem though,’ I said, feeling a familiar tickle in my stomach. ‘If I dance with him, I don’t know if I’ll be able to go home.’

‘Awesome,’ Jenny grinned, pushing me away from the bar and pulling me back over to the table; in these heels, I was in no position to try and stop her.

Either the music was getting louder in the bar or I was getting steadily drunker, Diet Coke be damned. The bass pounded through the floor and up the slender stems of my heels. I really wanted to dance with James. Or go home to bed and conduct the rest of my interview with James over the phone. Or dance with James. Which was how I knew it was definitely time to go home. But Jenny dragged me onwards, back to Blake, ‘John’ and some random tiny brunette sat awfully close to my James. Not my James. Just James.

‘Angela,’ James held out a hand and pulled me down into the seat next to him with a bump. Jenny sashayed past Blake and set herself down, returning his filthy look with her own killer stare. I loved that girl. ‘Angela, Jenny, this is my friend, Tessa.’

The new girl, clad in denim hot pants, big boots and a baggy white T-shirt held out her hand, but it was so tiny, I hardly dared to take it. I felt like Jabba the Hut shaking hands with Tinker Bell.

‘Hi,’ she said, shaking hands with Jenny. ‘Have we met?’

‘Yeah, it’s Tessa DiArmo, right?’ Jenny shook her hand smoothly. ‘We met at The Union last year.’

I watched Jenny schmooze Tessa like a pro, in complete awe. She really ought to be the one interviewing celebrities, no one fazed her. And no wonder I didn’t remember Tessa; everything about The Ivy was a bit of a blur, except for the toilet floor. Living in London with Mark, I’d barely been able to open a bottle of wine on my own, but since I’d moved out to New York, I could get a cork out with a pair of eyelash curlers in under a minute if needs be. The privileges and perils of being freelance.

‘Right, The Union. I don’t stay anywhere else in New York. Except The Grammercy. And maybe The Bowery. Or The Hotel on Rivington.’ Tessa nodded thoughtfully, clearly not registering that Jenny actually worked at The Union. ‘I should go back soon – it’s been like, weeks. Maybe the Soho Grand. We should hang out. I love your outfits. I so need a new stylist. Your dress is awesome.’

I realized Tessa’s wide-eyed stare was aimed at me.

‘Well, no one styles me except for Jenny,’ I joked, looking down at my black dress. Well, she had picked it. ‘She’s a miracle worker.’

‘Yeah? Maybe you could help me out. I have this awards thing tomorrow night,’ Tessa went on, oblivious. ‘And I don’t know, nothing anyone brings me is like, interesting?’

I started to laugh but a sharp elbow to the ribs from Jenny turned my giggle into a cough. Then a squeeze from James’s hand turned the cough into a squeak. And then a hiccup. I was getting more drunk by the second.

‘Well, why don’t we go shopping tomorrow?’ Jenny suggested carefully in her I’m-so-casual-about-this-it-hurts voice. ‘I could pull a few things together for you, I’m sure.’

‘Sure,’ Tessa beamed. Apparently she’d been to the same charm school as James. Her grin practically knocked me back against the chair. ‘Where?’

‘Melrose maybe? I would love to see you in some Betsey Johnson,’ Jenny started, grasping Tessa’s hands in hers. ‘Something short, flirty, maybe a puffball?’

‘Wow, that’s totally not me,’ Tessa looked at Jenny with a mixture of awe and fear. ‘You don’t think that’s going too far?’

‘Honey, I’m so over the Uggs.’ Jenny patted her hand. ‘Trust me. I never get it wrong. So, for shoes, I’m thinking maybe Choos? Something metallic?’

‘As fascinating as this is,’ James whispered into my ear, snapping my trance, ‘How about a dance?’

On the other side of the table, Blake and the former object of Jenny’s affections looked equally pissed off. It seemed that Jenny’s man was not amused at having lost his conquest to a discussion about designer shoes, and Blake was just burning up, watching James lead me across the room. I looked back at Jenny and Tessa, both waving their arms around, enthusiastically debating the merits of Giuseppe Zanotti heeled glads over Roger Vivier platform peep-toes. They wouldn’t miss me for a moment. And I really did want to dance, however bad a feeling I had about dancing with James. A distinctly inappropriate warm, tingly feeling. Sod it, I thought, letting myself be pulled along. One dance wouldn’t hurt anyone. Well, it might hurt Blake and, right now, that was actually a total plus.

The music seemed to get just a tiny bit louder, a tiny bit faster, as James pulled me in towards him and began moving with the beat. He pressed his hands palm to palm against mine for a second, then pushed his fingers through mine, entwining our hands and pulling me closer. Happily, he was a great dancer, moving with ease and taking me with him, constantly swaying, spinning, not giving me a second to think. My head rested against his chest at heart height, my warm cheek against his shirt. As we settled into our rhythm, James span me around, pressing my back up against him, and wrapped his arms tightly around my waist. Which was just as well or I would have fallen over. Five-inch heels were not conducive to speedy dance moves or speedy getaways. He slid his hands down across my stomach, leaving a trail of butterflies in their wake, and then twirled me around, pulling my arms up above my head.

I’d been in LA for such a short time, but it felt like I’d already forgotten how to have fun. And wasn’t that what LA should be? Fun? I’d been so busy worrying about the interview, panicking about things Alex, freaking out over those stupid photos. I’d got so stressed so quickly. But I was fairly certain that this was what fun felt like. Being with people that weren’t judging me or kicking my arse for something that hadn’t even happened. This was what it felt like to be with someone who wanted to be with me. I stretched my hands high above my head, then let them run through my hair, tipping my head upwards to look back at James. His eyes were closed and he was singing along to the music. And good God he looked amazing.

I turned back around in his hands and reached my arms around his neck, my fingertips tracing his collar. James’s eyes opened and he looked down at me, pausing for a moment and then suddenly dipping me low, almost to the ground. I felt like Baby, and nobody puts Baby in a corner. There were only two things I could possibly do, totally off balance, completely helpless in his arms, his face barely inches from mine. Laugh out loud or kiss him.

So I laughed.

Then he kissed me.