Читать книгу Lindsey Kelk 8-Book ‘I Heart’ Collection - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 48

‘I can’t believe that asshole didn’t show,’ Jenny said as we tore down West Third Street in the ridiculous red Mustang convertible that I had told her not to rent but now sort of secretly loved. What I most definitely did not love was Jenny’s driving. She had chosen to confess that she hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car since her last LA excursion years ago, and it showed. As if driving in LA wasn’t scary enough.

‘I called Mary and apparently it’s not a big deal,’ I said, clutching my seatbelt tightly. ‘Apparently celebrity schedules are “fluid”. I’ll catch up with him later.’

‘I can’t believe James Jacobs is so unprofessional. I’m kind of heartbroken.’ Jenny whirled around a corner and through a red light. No matter how many times she told me you could legally turn on a red signal, I still closed my eyes. ‘I think you’re in need of retail therapy, honey, and I am the Dr Laura of retail therapy. I’m taking you to the best shopping in LA.’

‘I’m sure he had his reasons, but since you’re offering,’ I said, envisioning a Pretty Woman-style storm of Rodeo Drive, laden with stiff cardboard bags. ‘Let’s do some shopping. Show me some swank, Jenny Lopez.’

‘OK, here we are,’ she whooped, pulling into an underground car park.

‘But we just left the café.’ I was puzzled. We couldn’t have been driving for more than two minutes.

‘So?’

‘Well, where are we?’ I pushed up my sunglasses to take a look around in the dark. Rows and rows and rows of cars. I suppose it was Sunday, it made sense for people to be at their church. ‘Wouldn’t it have been faster to walk?’

‘Jesus Christ, they ought to throw you out of the city.’ Jenny squinted in the low light and swung the car recklessly across two empty spaces. ‘What did I tell you about people never walking in LA?’

‘And this is it? A shopping centre?’ I just could not believe it.

‘The Beverly Center, honey.’ She scrabbled around in the glove compartment. ‘This is the mall in LA.’

We could have been in Milton Keynes. ‘A shopping centre?’

‘Hey, did I rock up to LA with like, two T-shirts and a ski suit?’ she asked me. ‘No. But you did, so you need to do some shopping. So hush up and get your ass into Bloomingdale’s.’

Once I’d got over the disappointment that was ‘the mall’ and had drunk my body weight in Jamba Juice, I started to focus on the task at hand.

‘So tell me everything that happened with Joe,’ I mumbled through the silk BCBG paisley maxi-dress that Jenny was trying to pull over my head in the Bloomingdale’s changing rooms. I already had an olive green Roberto Rodriguez number, a yellow Phillip Lim 5.1 shift, black Kerrigan silk dress and half a dozen T-shirt dresses from Ella Moss, Splendid and James Perse hanging from the wall that Jenny had decreed were ‘keepers’. So far I’d managed to distract her from the swimwear section.

‘Nothing to tell,’ she said, standing back, head cocked to one side, trying to work out what was wrong with the dress. ‘Nothing happened.’

‘The dress is about a foot too long, Jenny,’ I explained, hoping to get that look off her face. She looked so disappointed in me. But that could be because she had already clocked my non-matching underwear, something Jenny and my mother felt very strongly about. ‘And what do you mean “nothing”? He didn’t make any sort of move?’

‘Nothing, nada, zip,’ Jenny pouted. ‘I don’t know, he just wasn’t taking the hint. And the dress isn’t too long, it’s BCBG – you’re too short. Try this. How’s the phone sex going? I bet Brooklyn is really good at the dirty talk, right?’

‘Shut up.’ I blushed inside the column of silk that was being yanked up over my head. ‘I actually haven’t heard from him yet.’

‘Really?’ Jenny didn’t even try to cover up the surprise in her voice as she zipped me into a very tight, very blue French Connection strapless mini-dress. ‘But didn’t you call him last night? You know, when you ditched me.’

‘I didn’t ditch you,’ I squeaked – the dress was tight around the old rack. ‘And no, I couldn’t get through to him. It’s fine, we’ve only been here for –?what – a day? And he’s working all hours on the new record. The record company are pushing them to get it out at the end of the year or something.’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ she replied, slipping on the BCBG dress and looking like a goddess. Bitch. ‘I just wish he wasn’t so keen to talk to you every single time you’re out and I’m in the tub.’

‘Hmm,’ I was officially not thinking about it. So far, my star-studded Hollywood adventure had been nothing but a disappointment, and wondering what Alex was doing two and a half thousand miles away was not going to help me have any more fun.

‘Jenny, if I wanted to go somewhere really glam, where would you take me?’

‘Seriously, would you get over it? I know this is a mall but it has the most stores, it’s where everyone shops,’ she said distractedly, holding out a Nanette Lepore petal pink number and a navy Theory shift. ‘I mean, we’ll totally hit Melrose, maybe The Grove before we go, but The Beverly Center has everything … I saw Britney here once. Before the whole head-shaving thing, when she was allowed out alone. And you can’t afford Rodeo Drive, I know what you make.’

‘No, I mean something really Hollywood?’ I tried not to pull a face at the pink dress. ‘A real, genuine LA experience.’

‘Uh, maybe lunch at The Ivy? Drinks at La Deux?’ she held up the pink for my approval. ‘I guess maybe LAX or Hyde or somewhere if you wanted a club. I’m kinda out of the loop on where’s hot.’

‘Lunch actually sounds really good.’ I held up a deep red Elizabeth & James number, Jenny nodded in agreement and stuck the pink dress back on the end of a random rail. If we had to discuss every shopping decision out loud, we would have no time to cover the other, almost equally important subjects in life. ‘Is The Ivy nice?’

‘Uh, I guess?’ Jenny draped the red silk across herself, slipping her head between the hanger and the dress before heaving a pile of dresses into my arms. ‘You should get these. Joe could probably get us a reservation. I’ll get Daphne to meet us there.’

I clapped happily as Jenny wandered off to get better reception on her mobile, the red silk still swishing around her neck. So what if I’d been stood up by my movie star? What man could compare with Jenny Lopez, shopping and a super-swank restaurant for lunch?

‘Can I set up a changing room for you?’

A helpful shop assistant appeared at my elbow and held her arms out to take the masses of silk and jersey that I was cradling. I paused for a second and thought of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel. And then of my credit card limit. And then of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel.

‘Actually, could you just take them to the counter?’ I asked. She nodded gleefully and literally ran across the shop floor. Sneaking a peek in my bag, I checked my mobile. Well, certainly not Alex, still nothing. I sighed and swung my bag around my back. I was going to need dessert.

It turned out that my interpretation of the real Hollywood and Jenny’s interpretation of the real Hollywood were very different. I couldn’t argue with the fact that The Ivy was exclusive and swanky, but unlike genuine A-list haunts in New York, there was no quiet dark entrance, designed to keep the undesirables away through sheer intimidation. Instead, it was slap-bang in the middle of a main road, nestled in between a row of shops and smothered by tourists and star-spotters. McDonald’s on Oxford Street was less conspicuous.

Flashbulbs clicked and buzzed all around us as we pushed our way up the little footpath leading from the street into a pretty little country cottage. I paused on the patio and turned back towards the sidewalk – paparazzi waving, shouting and screaming. Blinking back towards the restaurant, I followed Jenny through the calm, quiet and unwaveringly beautiful diners, none of whom appeared to actually be eating; instead they were concentrating very hard on pretending that they weren’t a living breathing version of the ‘Spotted’ page in Heat magazine. Trying to navigate a safe route through the wrought-iron tables and chairs and dozens of stiff cardboard carrier bags, I saw a hand shoot up at the back of the patio and wave us over.

‘Jesus, why on earth did you want to meet here, J doll?’ The hand belonged to Jenny’s friend Daphne, who introduced herself and greeted us both with extravagant kisses. ‘It’s such a circus.’

‘Angie wanted a real LA experience.’ Jenny peered over the top of her sunglasses at me. ‘And she got it.’

‘This isn’t really what I was expecting,’ I said, switching my attention from the heaving crowds back on the pavement to Daphne. ‘I was thinking, well, I don’t know. Glamorous? Swanky? LA is weird.’

‘Yeah, get used to it,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I ordered. I’m fucking starving.’

Given that the majority of The Ivy’s clientele appeared to be the exact same group of blondes I’d seen at Toast that morning, who had just about had time to go home and get changed into little sundresses and rich old men instead of Ugg boots and gym boys, Daphne stood out a mile. Just like everyone else here, she was undeniably beautiful but, unlike anyone else, she was a vision of retro beauty. Her black shiny hair was coiffed into a Betty Paige bob and her porcelain skin made my English-rose-slash-pasty-Brit complexion look as though I’d been in the Bahamas for six weeks. Teamed with the most precise eyeliner and perfect ruby red lips I’d ever had the privilege to behold, Daphne was an arresting sight. Jenny had told me she was an artist and a stylist, but I hadn’t figured that her talent with a paintbrush would run to her eyeliner. Next to her polished perfection, I felt as if I’d turned up in my decorating clothes.

But weirdly, no one was giving Daphne so much as a second glance. Instead, every single person in the restaurant was pretending not to look at a tiny little brunette, skulking in the corner and wearing a ridiculous number of layers for such a sunny day, who was sitting with an incredibly average-looking man in a business suit.

‘Who is that?’ I asked quietly, joining in the pretending-not-to-notice game. ‘I feel like I should know her.’

‘You should,’ Jenny said, sipping one of the gimlets Daphne had ordered for us. ‘It’s Tessa DiArmo, the singer? She stayed at The Union just before Christmas. Pain in my ass.’

‘Everyone’s a pain in your arse,’ I said, giving in to curiosity and turning around for a good look. The girl was genuinely minuscule, with masses of wavy light brown hair and glowing tanned skin. Whatever ‘it’ was that celebs had, Tessa apparently bathed in it every morning. Without batting so much as an eyelash, she had the attention of every single person in the restaurant. ‘I never saw her in The Union. She’s so pretty.’

‘Wouldn’t cut it with us, huh J?’ Daphne said, sipping the fresh cocktail that had been silently replaced. ‘You can’t shake what ain’t there.’

‘Shake?’ I tried to register the looks that were exchanging between the two girls, Jenny seeming slightly startled and Daphne smiling innocently into her drink.

‘Jenny told you how we met, right?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I turned to look at Jenny. ‘She actually didn’t.’

‘Daphne,’ Jenny let out a warning shot. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daphne wasn’t going to be hushed by a stern tone of voice.

‘Chill, J, it’s so not a big deal.’ She pressed her lips together, refreshing her pout. ‘We used to work together. When J lived here last time?’

‘When she was acting?’ I asked.

‘When she was dancing.’

I bit my lip and looked back at Jenny. Impossible. She was blushing.

‘Dancing? You danced?’ I really, really wanted Jenny to nod, smile and possibly demonstrate some tap moves.

‘Oh baby doll, I do not believe Miss J never told you about our act?’ Daphne pouted.

‘You had an act?’ This was too much.

‘Sure,’ Daphne said, as a waiter appeared with three giant salads. ‘A burlesque act.’

Jenny’s blush faded until her clear caramel skin paled to a sallow sea green. Even behind her giant sunglasses, I could see her eyes were as big as the huge salad plates in front of us. Simultaneously, we both reached for our gimlets and drained the glasses.

‘Well,’ I finally managed, ‘Jenny Lopez, you dark horse. I should have known.’

‘Excuse me?’ Jenny reached across the table and finished Daphne’s cocktail. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I just meant, you know, you carry yourself like a dancer,’ I protested. Just one cocktail in and I’d already had too much to drink to lie convincingly. Daphne sat cackling across the table and making ‘more drinks’ signs at our waiter.

‘And you’ve got good rhythm?’ There was no way to dig my way out of this. ‘No, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to fess up about this one. Burlesque dancing, Jenny Lopez?’

‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ She pushed her chair backwards, straight into the person behind her. ‘And when I get back, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Of course,’ I called as Jenny stormed across the patio, her massive tote bag bashing diners in the back of the head as she went. Waiting until she vanished inside the restaurant, I turned back to Daphne. ‘I reckon we’ve got about three minutes: go.’

‘OK.’ She cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Jenny and I met about seven years ago. She was out here waitressing, trying out at all these open auditions and shit, basically not getting anywhere. I was working in this vintage store on Melrose and, well, kind of stripping. But classy stripping, you know, not like “drunken bachelor parties” stripping.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I nodded, trying to think of an example of classy stripping. And failing.

‘So we were both at this club one night,’ Daphne went on, ‘and we got to talking, got to dancing, got to some serious fucking drinking, and so I tell her that there’s an open call for dancers on a new music show the next day. I kind of didn’t think she would show, but I turn up and there she is. The full Flashdance, seriously: legwarmers, one-shoulder sweater, the whole outfit.

‘But the problem is, Jenny can’t really dance. I mean, she can move, right? But she’s not a trained dancer. And look at me. I am so not what MTV are looking for. Anyways, we get up there, basically make asses out of ourselves, and just when we’re about to go get real drunk and laugh about the whole thing, this chick comes up to us and asks if we’ve ever thought about doing burlesque.’

‘And then what happened?’ The vision of Jenny dressed as an extra from Fame was almost enough for me, but I had to get the rest of the story.

‘What did I freaking say?’ A firm slap on the back of my head heralded Jenny’s return from the bathroom. ‘We’re so not talking about this.’

‘Oh, we so are,’ I pushed another gimlet at her. ‘Get this down you.’

‘Seriously,’ Jenny necked the drink, ‘we’re not. We’re also not going to be able to drive the Mustang back to the hotel. I’m wasted. I totally forgot how strong these were.’

‘I’ll drive, let’s just have one more,’ I said, tapping her hand. ‘Go on, Daphne.’

‘No, do not go on Daphne,’ Jenny shook her head. ‘And you cannot drive. Angie, honey, you’re tanked. Can we just eat now please?’

For the want of knowing what else to do, I picked at my salad, smiling, nodding and accepting more drinks as they appeared. Jenny stared across the table at Daphne, her face like thunder. Dessert was looking more and more necessary to save the day. Or at least another gimlet.

‘So where are we going next?’ Daphne asked after the waiter had taken away our plates. ‘You guys have a pool, right?’

‘We’re going to get the check and go back to the hotel,’ Jenny said, looking at her watch.’ Angie’s on standby for Mr Movie star and you still need to call Alex, right?’

‘I do need to call Alex,’ I slapped Jenny’s hand in agreement. Maybe I was a little bit tipsy. ‘Can you hear something?’

‘Angie, honey, it’s your phone.’ Jenny fished my BlackBerry out of my (divine) bag and held it up to my face. I leaned towards it, getting Jenny’s finger in my ear.

‘Yo,’ I slurred.

‘Hi, it’s Blake?’

‘Blake?’ Did I know a Blake?

‘James Jacobs’s assistant?’

‘Oh bollocks. I mean, oh yes, Blake, hi. How are y—’

‘James wants you to come to the Chateau now?’

Crap crap crap crap crap.

‘Now?’ All together too many questions in this conversation.

‘Call this number when you arrive?’

The phone chimed as Blake rang off.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, tossing the phone back in my bag. ‘Did he cancel the whole thing?’

‘Oh my God, I wish.’ I closed my eyes and willed myself to open them sober. ‘Try the opposite. Right now.’

‘They want to do the interview now?’ Jenny winced. ‘He’s here?’

‘He’s here. And I have to go and meet him now. God, Jenny, I’m wasted! I’m going to get sacked, I’ll lose my visa, I’ll have to go back—’

‘Jesus, overreact much?’ Daphne stood up, leaving a huge wad of bills on the table (how expensive were those gimlets?) and held out her hand. ‘Where’s he staying?’

‘Uh, at a chateau?’ That didn’t sound right even to me.

‘Chateau Marmont, it’s like, fifteen minutes from here. J, take her into the bathroom and, fuck, I don’t know, just do something with her. I’ll order a cab.’

Daphne was, thank God, all business. Once in the bathroom, it became horribly apparent that I was in fact very, very drunk. And just as Jenny was trying to shuffle me out of her T-shirt dress, which was covered in salad dressing from where a tomato had escaped my fork, and into the new emerald green Robert Rodriguez silk dress that had charmed its way onto my credit card in Bloomingdale’s, my BlackBerry began to chirp again.

‘Answer it: it could be that gorgeous douche-bag cancelling,’ Jenny puffed, fiddling with the black patent belt. ‘And if it is, give me the goddamn phone so I can kick his ass. And give him my cell.’

‘Can’t reach it,’ I said, trying to kick the phone out of my (poor) bag but only succeeded in booting it behind the loo.

Jenny looked up at me. ‘This might be a nice restaurant, honey, but I won’t forget crawling around on the floor of a public bathroom any time soon. You so owe me.’ She grabbed my phone from behind the toilet and passed it up to me. ‘Missed call from Alex.’

‘Shit.’ I pressed redial but it went straight to answer phone.

‘No time, Angie, call him from the cab.’ Jenny took my phone and my hand and led me through the packed tables out to the waiting cab that Daphne had summoned. ‘You got everything you need?’

‘I think so,’ I nodded, gripping my bag tightly, hoping it might help the ground stopping spinning underneath me. ‘Dictaphone, cash, room key. Call you when I’m on my way back?’

‘Screw it, I’m clearly gonna have to make sure you get there OK.’ Jenny pushed me into the back seat and hopped in after me. Daphne coughed loudly from the pavement, giving Jenny what I took to be her most apologetic pout. She leaned out the door and sighed. ‘Fine. Get your ass in here, Pussycat Doll, let’s go get a drink.’

Chateau Marmont was, as Daphne had promised, just fifteen minutes away, making it a straight thirty minutes between Blake’s hanging up on me and my standing in front of the door of bungalow two. The girls had made up in record time and cackled off into Bar Marmont, leaving me to face the long walk up to the hotel alone. As much as I was trying to concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the hotel was. Just how I imagined Old Hollywood to be. A beautiful turret sitting high up on the hillside, huge arched windows looking into lounges full of gorgeous high-backed chairs, palm trees, discreet but hot waiters everywhere. If it weren’t for the ever-present BlackBerries, MacBooks and Lindsay Lohans lounging by the pool, I could almost believe I was back in the Fifties.

What I couldn’t believe was how crap I felt. I couldn’t decide if it was hot-even-for-LA-heat, the chaotic cab ride over, or my quickly building fear of meeting James Jacobs, jetlagged, drunk and made up in a taxi, that was making me feel sick to my stomach. I paused for a second and dialled Alex one last time. Just talking to him for a minute, a second, would be enough, then I could go in and do whatever it was the magazine were expecting me to do. But he still wasn’t answering. As always in life, when my girlfriends were busy in the bar and I couldn’t rely on a boy, I turned to my two constants, my handbag and lip gloss. A quick slick of Mac lip gloss and I was as ready as I’d ever be.

One quick knock and the door opened.

‘Hi, I’m …’ I looked up with my biggest brightest smile and lost the ability to speak. James Jacobs opened the door.

‘Angela Clark?’ he finished for me with a smile that put mine in the shade. ‘Hi, I’m James.’

‘I … I …’ I reached out, grabbing something hard, spinning away from the door and puking into some very pretty bushes just before everything went very, very dark.

Waking up in a strange place to the sound of a strange man laughing was not something I was incredibly experienced at, and so, when I opened my eyes in a bedroom that was most definitely not my own, wearing something that was not my dress, I panicked slightly. In that I rolled off the bed, cracked my elbow on the bedside table and screamed. Before I could locate an open window and make an escape, a shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. Oh, I had seen Misery, I knew what was happening.

‘Hello? Can I help you?’ Since there was no time to escape from the scary stranger holding a blunt weapon and blocking my escape, why not be polite? My mother would be very proud.

‘Doubtful, at least not before you put your dress back on,’ A deep BBC British accent came out of the dark and then the curtains opened. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see a very tall, very handsome man holding out my beautiful new green dress and a huge glass of water. Ha, like I was about to drink his drug-laden cocktail. Unless it wasn’t a drug-laden cocktail and the very handsome man holding my dress was in fact James Jacobs. Oh, balls.

‘James … Jacobs?’ I pulled the hem of the T-shirt I found myself in down over my knees.

‘Angela Clark?’ He set down the glass and held out a hand to pull me up. ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’

‘Oh, erm, yes.’ This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. The six-foot-something Greek God standing in front of me holding out a freshly pressed dress with a gorgeously lopsided grin couldn’t possibly be James Jacobs. ‘I am so sorry. I just don’t know what happened.’

‘Food poisoning, I’m sure,’ he said smoothly, laying the dress out on the bed. ‘There’s a shower just through there and I had this cleaned so it’s puke free. When you’re done, I’ll be in the living room.’

‘Thank you?’ There was such a serious chance I was still dreaming that I just decided to go with it. ‘Was I sick on your shoes?’

‘Little bit,’ he said, luckily still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got more shoes knocking around here than a Footlocker. I’ll live.’

A quick shower, a long session with my Touche Eclat and I was dressed, ready to face my fate. Mary was going to go insane. It was one thing for me to blow the biggest chance of my career but, mid-shower, I realized it wasn’t just me: I’d blown the magazine’s shot at a major interview. They’d told me numerous times in the last week that James Jacobs hardly ever did press and I had just thrown up on his shoes, passed out in his hotel room and, oh my God, had he undressed me? This humungous Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt certainly wasn’t what I’d arrived in. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to go in the ticks or crosses column.

‘Hi.’ He stood as I sloped into the living room, all six gorgeous feet and four beautiful inches of him, clutching loose pages of something in his tanned hands.

‘Hi.’ I didn’t know where to look.

Seriously, my Alex was so incredibly sexy, just the thought of him made my stomach curl up and purr, but this giant chunk of man was something else. His curly dark brown hair was longer than it had been in any of the photos I’d seen online and his blue eyes were so dark they were almost black. Even in a slightly scuzzy T-shirt, I could see broad shoulders tapering into a slender waist and, oh my, his great big thighs were just itching to get out of those jeans and into a hot tub. With me. And a bottle of baby oil.

Bad Angela: time to be professional. Plus, even if I was interested, I had a feeling that James Jacobs didn’t go for girls that introduced themselves by vomming on his shoes. Perhaps I could give ‘friends’ a go.

‘You’re feeling better? I can give my assistant a ring and ask him to get us some coffee or something if you want,’ he said, gesturing for me to take a seat on the sofa. ‘I thought you were out for the count, to be honest.’

‘How long was I passed – asleep?’ I asked, looking around the bungalow. Anything to avoid looking directly at The Hottest Man Ever. It was all very cool, very LA Confidential, the total opposite of The Ivy.

‘Couple of hours. I didn’t know if there was someone I should call or anything, so I thought it was better to just let you sleep it off.’ James folded himself back into the easy chair as I took the sofa. His legs were so long. Long enough to wrap themselves around a girl with a good shin to spare. Hypothetically speaking.

‘The only thing is, I’m actually going to have to get off quite soon – I’ve got a meeting with a director this evening.’

Fantastic. I had actually blown it. How lovely of him to give me a couple of seconds to check him out before dropping the bomb. ‘Oh, of course. I’m really sorry about, well, everything. It has been great to meet you. I’ll let the magazine know what happened. Sorry.’

‘Really? I can’t imagine they’d find it as funny as I did, to be honest. Wouldn’t you rather just crack on tomorrow and pretend this never happened?’ James put down the pages of the script he was holding and held out his hand. ‘I love your writing. Really bloody funny. Can’t wait to see how the interview is going to work out.’

Which was when I realized it wasn’t a script that he’d been holding, they were printouts of my blog. Pages and pages from ‘The Adventures of Angela’, photocopies of articles I’d written for the US and UK editions of the The Look scattered all over the coffee table. Wow. Beautiful and prepared.

‘Thank you, but well, it’s difficult to take a compliment when you’ve just been sick on someone’s shoes,’ I said, eyes firmly on his bare feet. He even had sexy feet. Eyes on the carpet. ‘So you still want to do the interview?’

‘Absolutely,’ the voice attached to the beautiful man replied. ‘Stop stressing about it. It’ll be a great story to tell the grandkids.’

I snorted a tiny bit of water through my nose. ‘Won’t it?’ I managed eventually. ‘Anyway, if you have a meeting, I should let you get on. What time do you want to start tomorrow?’

‘Ten?’ He stood up again to get the door. ‘I’ll get Blake to send a car for you. Where are you staying?’

‘I’m at The Hollywood,’ I said, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. ‘Uh, my friend works at The Union in New York, so we’re staying there.’

‘I love The Union. I haven’t stayed there yet but I, uh, visited a friend when she was staying there last year.’ James pulled out the big guns, a little shy smile with the big blue eyes peering out from behind his hair. ‘I’ll have to come and see you at The Hollywood. See if it’s as swish.’

‘Swish,’ I echoed. Then I actually giggled. ‘So tomorrow at ten.’

‘Tomorrow at ten.’ He kissed me on the cheek as I stumbled backwards out through the door. ‘Bye then.’

As the door closed, my sanity began to trickle back. I needed a cab. I needed to call Jenny. I needed to call Alex. God, that man was good looking.

As the cab travelled along Hollywood Boulevard, taking me further away from James Jacobs geographically, the further away I felt from reality. Surely none of that had just happened. The only thing that was certain was that Jenny did not appreciate my turning in early again.

‘This is the second night in a row you’ve ditched me, Angie,’ she yelled over the row of the bar. ‘Seriously, come on. You’ve already thrown up, you may as well get back on it.’

‘Jenny, I really wish I could,’ I lied through my back teeth. All I wanted was my bed. ‘I have to meet James tomorrow morning and I just need to call Alex and get some sleep.’

‘Call Alex?’

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

‘You’re going to go back to the hotel and call Alex instead of coming to meet me?’ Jenny wasn’t amused. ‘You get your ass out here and tell me every single thing that happened with James Jacobs.’

‘She’s blowing you out for a guy?’ I heard Daphne crow over her shoulder. ‘What an asshole.’

‘No, I … Jenny, I just need to sleep,’ I sighed. ‘Seriously. We’ll go out tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ she hiccuped. ‘Until you decide you have to stay in and wait around for a boy to call. Just don’t bother calling me in the day when Mr Movie Star stands you up again. I have plans.’

‘Doing what?’ I asked but she’d already hung up. Jenny was so much fun when she was drunk and grumpy. Why did I have a feeling Daphne was not going to be a good influence?

Back at the hotel, I stripped off my new dress and pulled on the ancient Blondie T-shirt I had ‘borrowed’ from Alex before I left. It must have been washed a thousand times but it still smelt of Alex’s apartment, of home. I dialled his number again.

‘Hello?’

‘Alex? It’s me.’ I had never been so happy to hear his voice.

‘I tried to call you earlier.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ OK, so we weren’t starting with ‘I love you, I miss you, I’m going mad without you’. ‘It’s been such a ridiculous day.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been busy too. We were in the studio until –?like – three this morning,’ Alex replied through a yawn. ‘Shouldn’t you be interviewing your movie star?’

‘That all got off to a bit of a dodgy start but it’ll be all right, I think. James is really, really nice,’ I said, smiling at the thought of Alex with his black hair all ruffled on the pillow, my head resting against his chest as he fell asleep, his fingers curled around my wrist. ‘You sound sleepy. Are you OK?’

‘I guess I was asleep,’ he yawned again. ‘And just how nice is this James? Should I be worried?’

‘No,’ I slipped into bed and set my alarm for eight a.m. ‘I think you’ll be OK. Especially since I …’

‘Since you?’

‘Since I just babbled like an idiot. I’m sure he thinks I’m the worst interviewer he’s ever met.’ I decided not to share the shoe puking until I got back to New York. It felt more like an ‘in-person’ story. ‘You should go back to bed. I don’t want to be the reason the world has to go without a new Stills album this year.’

‘You’re the reason there’s going to be another album at all,’ Alex said softly. I curled up against the pillows and smiled. No six-foot sex god could compete with that. ‘So, about that phone sex we talked about?’

I was sure what he really meant to say was ‘I love you and I can’t live with you.’ But he didn’t.

‘Goodnight, Alex. Get some sleep.’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘Goodnight, Alex.’ I hung up and flicked off the lights.

Boys.