Читать книгу I Heart Hollywood - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 8

Saturday came around altogether too quickly for me and not nearly quickly enough for Jenny. After calling in a few favours at work to get the week off, she had spent the entire week waxing, scrubbing and fake-tanning, in between sending increasingly indecent text messages to Joe at The Hollywood and throwing increasingly indecent bikinis into a tote bag. I took a more stressful approach to preparing for the trip.

After my not-so-fun phone call with Louisa, I’d headed back to bed to tell Alex I’d changed my mind about going LA. A sleepy smile and ‘cool, bring me back something carb-free’ wasn’t strictly the response I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t going to let my hot boyfriend paranoia ruin LA for me. Admittedly, not so secretly, I had been hoping he would hate the idea of me taking off to interview the gorgeous man with an appalling reputation in sunny sparkly Hollywood and beg to come with me but not so much. He’d barely even acknowledged it.

And to make matters worse, he’d been ‘working’ all week and I’d hardly seen him. The band had just started writing their new record, which meant hours locked away in his apartment and a couple of unannounced arrivals at my place at random times in the night, with fevered eyes and a new song to play. And, well, everything else that came along with a two a.m. drop-in. Which wasn’t so bad, but being with Alex all night and writing all day had not left me looking my best. By Friday evening, Jenny looked like a Playmate, all buffed, bronzed and big hair, while I looked more like an inmate, bedraggled, bloated and big bags under my eyes.

At eight in the bitter morning, Jenny stood impatiently on the corner of our street, huddled in her down-filled parka and even bigger sunglasses, while I lingered in my goodbye hug with Alex.

‘So let me know when you get there.’ He pulled at the slightly longer side of my bob, curling it around his finger. ‘Just text or something.’

I nodded. ‘If I’m not too busy bailing this one out for sexual harassment.’ Jenny was reading her text messages with a wicked smile. ‘Possibly literally bailing her out.’

‘Well, as long as you’re not sexually harassing anyone but me.’ He leaned in for a warm kiss, his fringe brushing against my frozen nose, making me sneeze. ‘How do you feel about phone sex?’

‘You must be freezing,’ I said, ignoring his question, ‘and Jenny’s about to get in a cab without me.’ Oh, and I love you by the way, I added silently. ‘Um, I’ll call you later?’

‘For the phone sex,’ Alex nodded with deadly seriousness. ‘Don’t forget you’re three hours behind me.’

‘Well, you’re always up three hours later than me anyway.’ I nodded at Jenny to wave down a passing cab.

‘This could be the perfect thing for us then.’ Alex passed me my battered leather weekend bag. It looked pitiful next to my (sigh, so pretty) Marc Jacobs handbag. Maybe it would find a new friend in LA. ‘We could be the first couple to ever make a long-distance relationship work.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ I tried to laugh. Trust a boy to say something stupid just before you got on a plane. God, I should just say it. ‘Alex?’

‘Angela?’

‘I…I…’ I paused, not really knowing what I was waiting for. Alex shivered expectantly, his breath fogging up between us, hands stuck deep into his jeans pockets. ‘I’ll be back next Monday. Don’t get too used to being on your own.’

Congratulations on wimping out. What a great example of a strong, modern woman I was turning out to be.

‘You’re only going away for a week. I think I’ll survive.’ Alex kissed my frozen nose and shut the door. ‘And again with the phone sex.’

‘Bye, Alex.’ I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

‘You’re not exactly down with the phone sex then?’ Jenny asked as we pulled away.

‘Shut up,’ I replied pleasantly, watching our building—and Alex—vanish out of sight.

From the second we stepped out of the airport, it was completely obvious that California was going to be very different to New York. As we headed out onto the freeway, I couldn’t quite believe we were in the same country. The city was wide open, cars streaming up and down the highways with their tops down, the skyscrapers of downtown sparkling in the distance rather than constantly pressing down on us and, bejesus, the sunshine.

Despite the bitching and moaning I’d done about the steamy New York summer at the time, one morning I had woken up and it had gone. The weather teased me with a couple of weeks of creamy, cardigan-appropriate autumn before dissolving into burns-your-nose-when-you-breathe winter. It wasn’t like New York didn’t try its best to win me over—the shops were soon full of cute jumpers, flattering opaque tights and massive quantities of delicious hot chocolate—but by Christmas, when I had been snowed in twice and lost a pair of suede shoe-boots to an unforeseen storm, I was dying for a little bit of sunshine. And here it was. Hiding away in LA all this time.

‘Oh my God,’ I blinked once. Twice.

‘I know,’ Jenny patted me reassuringly on the back.

‘But it’s sunny.’ I looked up at the clear blue sky.

‘I know,’ Jenny sighed.

‘In March?’

‘Can we please just shush?’

‘Jenny, look!’ I pressed my nose up against the cab window, watching billboards and fast-food restaurants whizz by. At least taxi drivers still drove like psychos—London, New York, LA, all the same. It was oddly reassuring.

‘Yeah,’ Jenny muttered, touching up her make-up. A little Touche Eclat, some bronzer, a dash of lip gloss and, ta-da, she looked perfect.

I was avoiding even catching my reflection in the cab window. Even though I had spent the flight cleansing, moisturizing and then moisturizing some more, I knew I looked like crap. My skin felt like sandpaper and my hair hung around my cheeks, limp and lifeless. What was more annoying was that Jenny had done nothing for three hours but slump against the window, watch half a series of America’s Next Top Model and drink as many free glasses of wine as they would give her, occasionally slapping away my attempts to moisturize her against her will. And bless the man in the seat next to us for only complaining once when one of my misdirected paws full of Beauty Flash Balm accidentally landed slap in the centre of his forehead.

‘Did you see that?’ I pointed at a strip-mall. ‘There’s a shop called Condomania? Wow. And IHOP! I’ve heard of IHOP!’

‘Angela, you’ve been living here for—like—nine months or something. Why are American stores and restaurants still a total revelation to you?’ Jenny pointed with a mascara wand for emphasis. ‘If this entire trip is going to be like the time you saw Twinkies in the corner store, then goddamn it, we are going home now.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, trying not to point out the Wal-Mart to our left, ‘but it’s exciting! You see this stuff on TV but then they don’t have it in New York—I’m just a bit giddy. I can’t believe I didn’t want to come. Maybe it’s the sun.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Jenny muttered. ‘You know you have to interview a celebrity tomorrow, right?’

‘It’s just an interview; he’s just a person, isn’t he?’ I wrinkled my nose at Jenny’s incredulous head-shake. ‘I mean, Alex is a bit famous, he’s in a band and that doesn’t bother me. They’re just people, aren’t they?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I said when I started at The Union,’ Jenny sighed. ‘Until Christian Bale checked in and I spent three days sneaking around his room and stealing his underwear.’

‘Please tell me you’re kidding.’ I tore my eyes away from a Taco Bell.

‘They’re under my bedside table,’ Jenny smiled happily. ‘Thank God he never complained. I’d only been there a week; they would have fired me for sure. You’re going to lose your mind when you actually see him.’

‘Jenny, really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying not to doubt myself. What if she was right? ‘He’s just a person. I’ve talked to people before.’

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Celebs aren’t like normal people; it’s impossible not to get fazed by them. They just have this, like, charisma.’

‘But you see celebrities every day,’ I argued. ‘And you do nothing but slag off Angelina Jolie for wanting a special kind of tea.’

‘Oh, yeah, I meant celeb boys,’ Jenny conceded. ‘I don’t give a shit about the girls. You’re going to lose it over James Jacobs, honey.’

I shook my head and smiled, turning to look back out the window. ‘I’ve never even seen one of his films. I thought it would be better not to get caught up in the movie-star thing and just concentrate on getting to know him.’

‘What’s to know? He’s super hot, he’s a movie star so he must be super rich, and he’s super talented. Jeff and I saw that one about the casino…’ She trailed off for a moment. The ‘J’ word. ‘He was pretty good.’

The rest of the cab ride was awkwardly silent but mercifully short. I was terrified of setting Jenny off with a mention of her ex: nine times out of ten it ended badly. Once I had tried to cheer her up after a shitty day at work (she’d mixed up Mischa Barton and Nicole Richie’s dry cleaning—all hell broke loose) with a surprise Ben & Jerry’s, only to get a weepy, slightly icky story about her, Jeff, the kitchen floor, a tub of Chunky Monkey and New Year’s Eve 2007. Another time when she thought she’d seen him on the subway, I’d tried to distract her with several bottles of wine, but the evening had ended at four a.m. with Jenny in her PJs in a drunken rage, railing against all men. And then throwing up out of our third-floor window. Happy memories.

Soon we were off the freeway and passing stores and coffee shop chains I recognized. An American Apparel, a Starbucks, the Gap, a Starbucks and, eventually, actual people walking up and down the streets. Clutching Starbucks.

‘We’re here,’ the driver barked, swerving sharply into a small circular driveway. ‘Seventy-five bucks.’

‘Seriously?’ I whispered to Jenny, as I pulled out my wallet and handed over my precious ‘expenses’ cash from The Look.

‘Cabs here are insane,’ Jenny said, hauling herself out onto the street. ‘Everyone in LA drives. Why do you think all the celebutards are always getting served with DUIs out here? No cabs.’

‘Can’t they walk if they know they’re going out to get trashed?’ I asked, crawling across the back seat after trying the door with no success. If it was possible, it was even sunnier at the hotel than at the airport.

Jenny looked at me as though I was completely backwards. ‘This is not New York, Angela. Don’t you know anything about LA?’

I didn’t know anything about LA.

If it was possible, the lobby of The Hollywood was even swankier than The Union. The dim lighting was just as flattering, the dozens of candles were just as chokingly scented, but there was an extra layer of gloss on everything, from the shining gold surfaces to the hair of the girls behind the concierge desk. The only thing missing were the packs of well-to-do tourists huddled around their suitcases, mummified inside North Face down jackets. In their place were what seemed to be half a dozen extras from 90210. Tall, gorgeous and half naked, they lounged against furniture—not quite sitting on it, just against it. While Jenny checked us in I tried to remain staring at the floor to avoid mirrored surfaces, but I could see myself reflected in their gaze quite clearly. And no amount of flattering lighting was going to help.

‘Come on Angie,’ Jenny squealed over by the lift. ‘We’re on the fourteenth floor, amazing views. And we have adjoining rooms! You’re just a door away from me.’

‘Does that door lock?’ I asked, trying to stop staring at the beautiful people in reception.

‘Why on earth would you want to lock the door on me?’ Jenny breezed into the lift and jabbed at the big round ‘14’ button. ‘Come on, the sooner we get unpacked, the sooner we can get in the pool.’

‘The pool?’ I dragged my wheeled case into the lift, while one of the girls in the world’s shortest shorts lowered her sunglasses and checked me out with a genuine look of horror on her face. I was certain that she was visualising the horror of me in a bikini. Just like I was.

‘Isn’t it amazing, Angie?’ Jenny squeezed my arm with slightly too much upper-body strength. ‘We’re in LA baby, woo!’

As the doors slid shut, the lift shot up and my stomach sank.

To make matters worse, I had not packed well. Or even vaguely appropriately. Standing by the bed, looking at my poor wardrobe choices in an American hotel room was familiar in the worst way. On top of the Egyptian cotton sheets were the entire contents of my weekend bag. Two pairs of Seven jeans, an assortment of American Apparel T-shirts (three-quarter-length sleeves), a couple of bargain cashmere cardigans I’d found at Century 21 and my long-sleeved, super-heavy Marc by Marc Jacobs shirt dress. Everyone had said it would be sunny in California, but it was still March, it couldn’t be that warm, could it? Of course it could. Bugger.

And to make matters weirder, The Hollywood was absolutely identical to The Union. Same room layouts, same bed linens, Rapture Spa toiletries, same eight-dollar condoms in the ‘intimacy kit’ by my bed. Even the curtains were the same. I rubbed the heavy drapes between my fingers and peered out of the window. Down on the sunny side of the street, I could see people. Lots and lots of people. And every single one of them was strutting around in tiny shorts and even tinier tops. Shit.

‘I’m coming in,’ Jenny announced as she sailed through the adjoining door by my bed. At first she had been quite insistent that we should share a room, but she was equally insistent that she was going to give Joe a good seeing-to at his earliest convenience so, as much as I loved that girl, I really didn’t want to have to sit in the bathroom with my headphones on while that happened. This was not the sixth-form trip to Belgium.

‘What, you’re not ready?’

Jenny’s week-long grooming had proved completely worthwhile. She glowed from her hot pink toenails to her long chocolate curls. Usually, her hair was tethered in a ponytail for work, or at least restrained by an industrial-strength Alice band. Seeing it freed, fluffing out around her face and bouncing way past her shoulders, reminded me why I had been so in awe of this glamazon when we first met.

‘Get your freaking ass into your swimsuit and get out this door,’ Jenny demanded, snatching off her sunglasses and staring me down. Which reminded me why I had loved her five minutes later.

‘Please don’t kill me…’ I slowly walked backwards to put a bed between us. I’d seen her motor in heels and so those flip-flops were not going to hold her back ‘But I didn’t actually bring a swimming costume. I didn’t have one and, well, I forgot to buy one.’

‘I knew this was going to happen. Didn’t I tell you, you were completely unprepared for this?’ She rummaged around in a giant metallic tote.

‘You told me I was an idiot to pass up a trip to LA; you told me you were going to shag Joe until you broke something; and you told me you’d been waxed to a terrifying degree—but I don’t remember you telling me I was underprepared.’ I pawed through all my clothes again—not that it would achieve anything, I knew for a fact I didn’t have a swimming costume. I hadn’t possessed a swimming costume since I was seventeen. They were bad things that hated women.

‘Yeah, I’ve definitely got it in there somewhere—but I’m pretty sure I didn’t say “shag”.’ Jenny pulled a basic black two-piece out from the depths of the bag. ‘What the hell are you going to do in that interview without me?’

Oh, she was so going to make me put that on.

Fifteen minutes and one very, very painful bikini-waxing incident later, involving an overenthusiastic Jenny, one pack of ‘at home’ waxing strips and a genuinely terrified me, backed into the corner of the bathroom, I finally found a difference between The Union and The Hollywood. The rooftop pool, the rooftop pool bar and the definitely-not-in-Manhattan view of the Hollywood sign, shouting out from the hills. I perched awkwardly on the edge of a sun lounger, frantically rubbing factor fifty into my English Rose-slash-pasty-pale skin, staring out at the bold white letters. But something didn’t feel right.

‘Mojitos.’ Jenny sat two enormous cocktails on the tiny table between the two of us. ‘Hooray for Hollywood, right?’

‘I thought the sign would be, I don’t know, bigger?’ I squinted through my sunglasses. ‘It just isn’t what I thought it was going to be.’

‘Hmm, I guess.’ Jenny was busy staring at the bar. ‘I suppose when you see it every day for a few months, you don’t really see it any more, you know?’

‘I guess,’ I nodded. ‘It’s weird, though. When I saw the Statue of Liberty I couldn’t believe it. It was amazing. This just feels weird.’

‘That’s because you’re a native New Yorker now, honey.’ Jenny passed me a mojito and clinked glasses. ‘LA is cool, but if you’re going to have fun, you’re going to have to get past your idea of what you think it’s going to be, because, honey, nothing ever really is.’

‘Reassuring.’ I pulled at the bandeau top of the bikini. I wondered if I had time for a quickie boob-job. ‘At least tell me the shops are good. We have to go shopping; I can’t fill this out like you.’

‘The stores are fine, we’ll get everything you need.’ Jenny peeked over the top of her sunglasses as a tall, dark-haired man appeared behind the bar. ‘Just as soon as I’ve got what I need.’

‘Ick,’ I shook my head and sipped my mojito. ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’

Watching Jenny slink around the pool in her swimsuit, I leaned back into the padded sun lounger and concentrated on the Hollywood sign. It seemed so unreal, even though here I was with the sun on my face and a drink in my hand. It wasn’t possible that just yesterday I’d been in snow boots and earmuffs just to go out and buy milk, the sun was too lovely. But I had a sneaking suspicion that it would have been even lovelier had Alex been lying beside me. God, I’d got so tragic so quickly.

Opening one eye, I peeked over to the bar. Jenny was already flipping her hair around and leaning backwards in her high-backed bar stool to give Joe a better look at her bikini. She wasn’t wrong: he was incredibly good looking. He’d shaved off the thick black hair that Jenny had been raving about all week, but instead of it making him look like a convict, it only served to reveal an amazing bone structure and gorgeous brown eyes. Yep, I thought, he probably is worth travelling halfway across the country for a quickie. His black shirt did nothing to diminish his tan and I was fairly sure that trousers that tight were not conducive to a comfortable night’s work. Huge tips, yes, but a fun night behind the bar? Not so much. Wouldn’t it make him need to pee all the time? And how would he ever father a child?

It was only when Joe waved that I realized I was staring and it was only the filthy look on Jenny’s face that alerted me to the fact that I was gazing in the general region of his crotch. I downed the remainder of the mojito, pulled a T-shirt over my borrowed bikini and padded over in Jenny’s spare flip-flops, praying that I didn’t have any mint in my teeth. A very sexy look.

‘Hey, English!’ Joe flashed a huge smile as I clambered onto the stool beside Jenny. They were too high for me to even attempt to be ladylike, not that I was fooling anyone. ‘Great to see you.’

‘Hi Joe.’ I tried to give Jenny a subtle look to communicate his undeniable hotness. This was not possible.

‘Joe was just tell me about all the cool places he’s going to take us,’ Jenny chimed, winding a straw through her fingers. ‘He knows all the cool places.’

‘Sounds fun,’ I said. ‘You like it out here then?’

‘Love it,’ Joe said, mixing a second round of drinks. ‘Sunshine, good living, hot girls, what’s not to love?’

‘Not as hot as New York though, right?’ Jenny gave him a mock innocent look. Even after six months out of the game, Jenny’s flirting was second to none.

‘Not nearly,’ Joe grinned, leaning across the bar to ruffle Jenny’s hair. ‘I already told you, you look good, Lopez.’

‘I can always stand to be told again,’ Jenny pouted. ‘A girl’s got to keep up her self-esteem. It isn’t easy walking around in a bikini, honey.’

I ducked my head and smiled. There was clearly nothing wrong with Jenny’s self-esteem.

‘I don’t know, you’re doing pretty well,’ Joe commented, passing over our drinks. ‘And girls walking around in bikinis is as good a reason as any to stay out in LA for ever. Just let me know when the girls start walking around Union Square in their lingerie in January and I’ll come running back, sugar.’

‘Well, it depends whether or not you think it’s worth the price of seeing all those people that really should never be wearing swimwear,’ Jenny said in a low voice.

‘Yeah, but they’re the best tippers,’ Joe countered.

For a horrifying split second, I wondered if they were talking about me. Was the bikini wax not good? But as I followed Jenny’s gaze around the pool, I understood. It was true that not everyone looked quite as stunning as Jenny. There were a couple of other girls in bikinis with gleaming long limbs, perfect hair and full make-up. Clearly not about to take a dip. They lay together in silence, only moving to take a sip of an elaborate-looking cocktail and turn over, one after the other, every fifteen minutes or so. But looking along the line-up of loungers, it became very clear that not all bathing beauties were created equal.

On closer inspection, some of the women sunbathing were a lot older than I had first thought and their skin was slightly leathery under their sparkly make-up. Others wore strategically draped sarongs, positioned to conceal flabby thighs and chubby tummies, whereas other proudly flaunted their curves in horrifying neon yellow thongs and triangle bikini tops. This was going to make for all kinds of fun blogging.

Alongside the leather ladies were several solo men, either a tad overweight and straining in their Speedos, or incredibly skinny and pale, but all tapping away at laptops or BlackBerrys while sipping Coronas. There was just one fine figure of manhood, dozing opposite me, and I was fairly certain he was gay. Defined muscles, immaculately groomed and definitely waxed; all the signs were there. I tried not to think about my own less-than-worked-out figure. Yes, I had managed to keep my weight in check with lots of walking and the odd burst of WeightWatchers but I was nowhere near as toned and bronzed as the girls taking part in the competitive tanning over by the pool. I suddenly felt very pale and porky. And this was neither the time nor the place to suffer a crisis of confidence.

‘I think I’m starting to burn,’ I said loudly, inspecting a marble white arm, as one of the bikini girls turned over to display a tiny little bottom, tanning nicely in a silver thong. ‘I’m going to head in. Remember, I have to be up to meet Mr Movie Star at eleven.’

‘You sure?’ Jenny asked, making no move to come with me. ‘You don’t want to go eat?’

‘We have a great restaurant,’ Joe bargained. ‘I can get you a table.’

‘No, really, I think I’m just going to get some sleep for tomorrow. And I have to blog, call Alex.’ I kissed Jenny on the cheek and hopped off her stool. ‘Big day.’

‘OK, tell Alex hi,’ Jenny called after me. ‘And call me as soon as you’re free tomorrow.’

I wandered along the corridor to the lift, slightly buzzed from the two mojitos. Tracing the pattern of the embossed wallpaper with my fingertips, I tried not to be weirded out by the fact that they were using the same air fresheners here as on the East Coast. It was like the hotel version of a Lush store. Different city, exactly the same overpowering smell.

Pausing in front of the huge wooden-framed mirror propped against the wall, I slipped the T-shirt up over my head, taking a deep breath before opening my eyes. Well, it wasn’t that bad. I was never going to be a sixfoot supermodel but I wasn’t looking awful. Yes I was pale, but I had only been in LA for a day. My light brown bob was probably in need of a trim, but at least New York’s miracle tap water kept it super soft. Leaving the hard water of London behind seemed to have cleared my skin up too, so that was OK and, joy of joys, working freelance meant No Early Mornings so my eyes, even though they might be suffering from some ‘late-night lovin’ bags, were super bright; even the fine lines I had pretended weren’t there for the last two years seemed to have retraced their tracks. Seriously, if there was ever a case for girls not having to get up before ten a.m., I was it. The bikini still didn’t exactly fill me with joy, but I would cope. At least nothing was technically hanging out or over, but I couldn’t strictly claim to have abs of any kind. Unless maybe I shaded them in. I did have an awful lot of bronzer with me…

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,’ I tutted at myself, scooping the T-shirt up off the floor and slipping it safely back over my head. I had never really been one that considered ‘mirror time’ time well spent, and I had a nagging feeling that LA wasn’t the place or moment to change that if I didn’t want to develop an eating disorder.

I pulled a tub chair, identical to the one that Jenny had hauled twenty blocks home from The Union, over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and collapsed into a warm and slightly tipsy heap. Hollywood Boulevard literally buzzed beneath me, dozens of tourists wandering up and down the star-lined pavement. I reached out to press my bare toes against the glass and stared out. I might only be able to see the tops of their baseball caps but I would have bet anything that they were all smiling. Why wouldn’t they be, they were on holiday in Hollywood. And above them, past the world’s biggest Gap ad on the opposite corner, were the famous Hollywood Hills. I wondered how many celebs were sitting in their own homes looking back out at me at that exact second. Which superstars were practically within touching distance? How many MTV reality shows could I feasibly get in the background of in the next seven years?

New York and London were both full of actors, musicians and writers, but it wasn’t the same. For some reason, the idea of A-list celebrity was strictly Hollywood.

My phone vibrated quietly, snapping me out of a quickly developing bumping-into-Brad-Pitt fantasy. It was Louisa.

‘Hey,’ I said, and utched the chair right up to the glass to get better reception. ‘Are you in New York? Are you OK?’

‘Yes and yes,’ she laughed down the line. ‘We got in a couple of hours ago. Tim just went out to meet some people at the bar.’

‘Some people? Right,’ I smiled. Bless her for not mentioning my scumbag ex’s name. It actually pained me that he dared step foot in my New York. ‘Where are you going now then?’

‘I made Tim book that Balthazar place you were raving about for dinner,’ she crackled down the line. ‘And then I think I’m just going to have an early night. What are you up to? Met Tom Cruise yet?’

‘Yeah, I’m having cocktails with him and Katie,’ I said, happy that we were back on good terms. I hated falling out with anyone, dickhead ex-boyfriends aside. I couldn’t help it, I was a Libra. And a wimp. ‘We haven’t been here very long, I’m actually in a bikini.’

‘No way,’ I could hear her laughing all the way across the country. ‘I haven’t seen you in a bikini since we were about six.’

‘And you won’t see it again. There will be no photographic evidence, believe me.’

‘I’d give anything to be in a bikini,’ Louisa moaned. ‘It’s bloody freezing here.’

‘I did tell you,’ I replied, thankful for the sun still shining through the window. The unseasonal warmth made me feel slightly less shitty for not being in New York with Louisa. I was not going to win World’s Best Friend this year. ‘But you’ll be fine. Just stay in the shops and get lots of cabs. Seriously, cane Tim’s expense account as much as humanly possible.’

‘What expenses? He can’t spend a penny these days. We’re staying in a Hilton, for God’s sake,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I should be relieved he still has a job. Anyway, I’ve got to have a shower, I’m disgusting.’

‘Never.’ Louisa was never anything other than perfect, eight-hour plane journey or otherwise. ‘But I do need to get some work done. Call me later.’

I ended the call, relieved at the lack of Mark-talk. There’s no way I would have avoided it in person. It was the first law of break-ups—the first time you saw someone, post-dumping, no matter how long ago it was or what had happened in the meantime, they wanted to rehash the whole event all over again. If I didn’t ask about him, I would know they were thinking that I really wanted to but was still too upset about the whole thing. And if they didn’t ask me about the break-up, I would know they were dying to tell me something, some fact or titbit to make me feel ‘a bit better’ and I really didn’t want to know. But I would have to ask, complete girl that I was. And for ‘girl’, read ‘masochist’.

I picked up my phone to dial Alex. It rang a few times before clicking off to his answer phone suggesting you not even bother to leave a message because he was pretty crappy at checking his voice-mail but that he hoped you’d call back soon. I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. So he wasn’t answering, I’d call back later. Just had to keep myself busy for an hour or so. Busy and awake. Glancing over at my laptop, I resigned myself to actually doing some work, crazy idea that it was. It wouldn’t hurt to show Mary how serious I was about this, given how ridiculously ungrateful I’d been when she first told me about the interview. Logging on to my TheLook.com account, my fingers hovered above the keyboard for just a second.

The Adventures of Angela: Hooray for Hollywood

So here I am in LA. Can you believe it? I’m such a jet-setter.

Albeit a jet-setter hiding in her hotel room full of two mojitos and no dinner. Not a good idea, just in case you were wondering. But, happier news, I’m staying in a gorgeous hotel, full of gorgeous people with gorgeous sunshine beaming down on me for the first time in what feels like for ever and I can’t recommend it enough. I’m not recommending putting on a bikini for the first time in what feels like for ever, though—what a cruel and unusual punishment. It does seem to be curbing my appetite though…

Well, I hope you’re having a fun weekend. I just wanted to check in and let you know that I have a super-exciting project while I’m out here in LA. Obviously I would never just hotfoot it to Hollywood to enjoy myself; everything thing I do is a massive sacrifice, as you know, but I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow. For now I’ll just turn up the A/C, roll into my giant hotel bed and get an early night before my big day.

Me? Smug? Never…

I pressed send and then rolled onto the bed. Even hinting at the interview made it feel all the more real. Picking up the remote, I decided to do a little research on James Jacobs. There was a chance I’d been taking the whole ‘go in with no preconceptions’ approach too far. What if he was a total diva and refused to talk to me because I hadn’t even seen one of his movies? Couldn’t hurt to watch one film, could it? I grabbed a ten-dollar bag of M&Ms and mixed a twenty-three-dollar vodka and Coke. Couldn’t hurt to have one more drink, could it?

‘Super-hot and super-talented James Jacobs…’ I said to my reflection in the giant mirror, launching backwards onto the ridiculously comfortable pillow-top bed with the same deliciously soft bed linen I enjoyed, only ever so slightly illegally, every night. Flicking through the movies-on-demand menu, I eventually found the casino movie Jenny had mentioned. At least, if I fell asleep halfway through, she would be able to fill me in on the bits I’d missed.

But I didn’t fall asleep. I sat up, staring at the screen, one hand clutching the comforter around me, the other systematically popping M&Ms into my mouth for two whole hours. I wasn’t sure if it was that last vodka, Alex not answering his phone, or all the flesh on display at the pool, but by the end of the film I had a very serious, very unhealthy crush on James Jacobs.

Leaning on the triple pillars of journalistic integrity—IMDb, E! online and Perez Hilton, I learned everything there was to know, drama school, RADA, bit parts in various soaps and then the big Hollywood break. And then there were the hobbies: talented painter, keen hiker and, oh yes, he liked the ladies. Lots of them. A Google image search provided dozens upon dozens of pictures of a ridiculously beautiful young man in various states of drunkenness or undress from the last three years. Falling out of a club with Lindsay, lunching with Scarlett, frolicking on the beach with Paris and even attending the opera with Natalie. I clicked on a red carpet pic and enlarged it. Wow, he certainly knew how to work a tux. And a bra strap from the look of it.

‘Angie?’

A dramatically loud hiss through the adjoining door made me jump.

‘Angie, are you awake?’

‘Yes, Jenny,’ I said, dragging myself off the bed and over to the door that separated our rooms. I opened it up and watched Jenny fall through onto my feet. ‘Fun evening?’

‘I forgot to leave the air-con on in my room, can I sleep in with you?’ she asked, crawling over to the bed and clambering in.

‘Yes?’ I rubbed my face and sighed, smiling. ‘Just get off my side.’ I pushed her bikini-clad body over to the other side of the bed but she was already asleep. ‘So much for my good night’s sleep.’

I’d had every intention of waking up for an early swim and a spot of tiny-dog watching before setting out to meet Mr Jacobs, but that was before Jenny decided to crash in my room and take up my entire bed. After rolling her back across to her side of the bed seventeen times in two hours, I’d climbed out of bed and made a den on the chaise longue and watched clips of James Jacobs on YouTube, transfixed by his pretty, pretty face. And after falling asleep at around three a.m., I woke up with the pillow glued to my face at ten. One hour before I was supposed to meet James Jacobs. The James Jacobs. Crap.

After a second’s panic, I shook Jenny awake to enlist her services as my personal stylist. I scrambled around in the bathroom while she rolled out of bed, irritatingly hangover free, and disappeared into her wardrobe. Somehow I managed to be out of the hotel inside thirty minutes, wearing Jenny’s jade green Velvet T-shirt dress, some pretty brown leather sandals and a matching wide leather belt. Three squirts of dry shampoo into my roots and approval for me to do my make-up in the cab; truly I had come a long way from when she wouldn’t let me walk out of our apartment without a full makeover.

‘Good luck, honey,’ Jenny said, opening the cab door and kissing my cheek. ‘I’m gonna pick up the rental car so call me when you’re through. And yes, I promise I’ll get a nice safe car. I thought maybe we could meet my friend Daphne for dinner?’

‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I said, raking through my handbag. Did I have everything? Did I have anything? ‘And really, I’m not kidding. Don’t come back with something ridiculous. We don’t need a Mustang. And I wanted to ask last night, what happened with Joe?’

‘He’s making me work for it,’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘Did I get fat?’

‘I don’t even have time to answer that ridiculous question,’ I yelled out of the car as we pulled away. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

‘Tell that to James Jacobs,’ she shouted back, causing everyone and their mother on the sidewalk to turn and look. But I didn’t mind. Safe and sound in the back of the taxi, I was on my way to meet James Jacobs.

Without my Dictaphone.

I was so going to be late.

After the fantastically professional start to my morning, I made it to Toast with some dubiously applied blusher, a smudge of mascara and about three minutes to spare. According to my itinerary from the delightful Cici, Toast was a ‘very LA brunch spot full of very cool people.’ The implication of course being that I was very much not one of those people. And she was right. Fragile-looking waif girls dressed in skinny jeans, Ugg boots and The World’s Biggest Sunglasses were stacked seven deep around a relatively ordinary looking café at the side of a relatively ordinary looking road. Maybe even slightly skanky road. It certainly wasn’t the glamorous LA I was expecting. For the want of an approved outfit and a size zero figure, I stuck on my sunglasses and strode past the tables full of girls pushing food around their plates.

‘Hi there, welcome to Toast. Do you have a reservation?’

There was a girl on the door with a clipboard. Of a café. On a Sunday morning.

‘Hi, erm, yes, I do.’ I scrabbled around in my beautiful handbag (at least that looked as if it belonged, even if I didn’t) for the bit of paper that I’d rammed back in there during my scramble out of the cab. ‘I’m a little bit early…’

‘We’re very busy, if you don’t have a reservation…’ Door Girl looked me up and down in a not particularly flattering fashion.

‘No, I do, it’s under someone else’s name—James Jacobs, maybe? I’m meeting James Jacobs. It might be under The Look, as in the magazine?’ I tried my most charming smile. It did not help.

‘Sure, honey. James Jacobs,’ she said. I really didn’t like the extra-long pause between the words ‘James’ and ‘Jacobs’. I waited until she took a grudging look at her list, then raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow so high that it was practically lost in her highlights. ‘Oh. You’re Angela Clark?’

I nodded and smiled again, trying not to look like a smug cow. Bwah ha ha ha.

‘OK then, if you’d like to follow me? We’ve saved James’s favourite table. He’s not here yet but can I get you some coffee?’ Scary Door Girl transformed into Lovely-Door-Girl-slash-helpful-waitress and I wondered if I hadn’t just been a little bit paranoid. Maybe, just maybe, she was human after all.

‘That would be great. Cream and sugar please,’ I said, sitting down at James’s favourite table, which was thankfully hidden away in a corner at the back of the café, inside and away from the crowds.

Door Girl frowned. ‘Cream and sugar? Sure…’

Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Surely as the only person there that couldn’t possibly be a relation of the Olsen twins, they ought to be welcoming me and my ability to ‘do dairy’ with open arms? Jesus, no one else sitting in that place had eaten in a month.

Everything on the menu looked delicious but my appetite had vanished. In just minutes, I’d be meeting James Jacobs. The James Jacobs. Who needed cinnamon pancakes and sliced bananas when you had six foot four of sex god coming to see you for breakfast? That was if he turned up. I had been three minutes early; he was now seven minutes late. I took out my newly acquired BlackBerry, playing the ‘I’m waiting for someone’ game for everyone to see. Scrolling through the messages, I looked for something from Alex. He hadn’t called me back. And what was it, two in the afternoon in New York? That was so not on. Shouldn’t he be pining for me by now? I tapped out a text message, deleted it, tapped out another, deleted it before settling on the perfect breezy ‘missing you’ message.

‘Hey you, having brunch at Toast, yummy. Miss you A x’

I frowned at the sent message icon. Truly, I was a writer for a reason. Words were my tools. Tools that I wouldn’t need to be using if my celeb didn’t arrive soon. Nibbling on a piece of bread that the increasingly suspicious-looking Door Girl had set down in front of me, I weathered another forty minutes of sympathetic glances, not-so-subtle whispering and three cups of coffee before my phone rang.

‘Hello?’ I answered the unfamiliar mobile number in a heartbeat.

‘Hello, Angela? This is Blake, James Jacobs’s assistant?’

‘Oh hi, I’m at Toast, am I in the wrong—’ I started.

‘Yeah, James isn’t coming? His flight was delayed and he can’t make it?’ Blake continued.

‘I—are you asking me or telling me?’ I was a little confused by the way all of Blake’s sentences ended in a question.

‘He’s totally sorry and we’ll call you later with a new meet-up address? Bye.’ And he hung up.

Door Girl was on me like a hawk. ‘James isn’t coming?’

‘Ah, he can’t make it.’ I waved my hand airily, as though I was stood up by movie stars so often that it barely registered on my radar.

‘So just the check?’ The piece of paper was already in her hand and I could see she was itching to slap it down and fill my table with some Lauren Conrad-alike lettuce nibbler.

‘Just the check,’ I nodded. Bloody movie stars. I should have had the pancakes.