17
Rita took the news of the car accident surprisingly well. ‘Oh, well, it’s only metal,’ she’d said, shrugging, standing in the driveway in her sheepskin slippers and Fred Flintstone nightie, shining the torch on the back wings of the Thunderbird, which had been clipped and had crumpled up like a concertina. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
But after three days of being marooned in the apartment while the car was being repaired, it began to feel like it. Three whole days of reading back copies of the National Enquirer and US magazine, listening to next-door-but-one’s gardener, who – instead of using an old-fashioned sweeping brush – seemed to spend all day blowing leaves around the path with an irritatingly loud whirring machine, eating take-outs from anywhere that did home delivery and watching E, ‘America’s number one entertainment show’, on a continuous back-to-back reel every night on the telly. It was groundhog day, with less excitement. But they had no alternative. This was the only kind of life available to poor souls living in Los Angeles without a car. Not that anybody would be foolish enough to live in LA without a car. Except Frankie and Rita.
By Saturday morning Rita had had enough. ‘That’s it, I can’t take any more Hollywood True Stories.’ She flicked the remote control on the TV and stared at Frankie, who was sat next to her on the sofa with Fred and Ginger, tickling their ears and reading the adverts for cosmetic surgery in the LA Weekly, a free listings newspaper. This week there seemed to be a sale, with two-for-the-price-of-one offers: ‘Have your breasts enlarged and get your thighs liposuctioned free’ or ‘Treat yourself to a facelift and enjoy a complimentary $2,000 rhinoplasty’. She was particularly intrigued by the special promotion on ‘penis enlargements’ and ‘vaginal rejuvenation’, whatever the hell that was. Obviously there was a lot more nipping and tucking in this town than met the eye.
‘I need to go out,’ wailed Rita, not getting the attention that she wanted. Stubbing out her cigarette, she hoisted herself up from the sofa and stared frustratedly out of the window, watching as one of her environmentally aware neighbours diligently emptied her rubbish into the recycling bins at the end of her driveway, before jumping into her gas-guzzling, energy-inefficient, air-polluting four-wheel-drive and roaring off down the street. Turning away, Rita took a sip from her cup of cold instant Nescafé, pulled a face and shoved it on the side with disgust. ‘And I need a decent cup of coffee.’
Frankie looked up. She was coping with the cabin fever better than Rita, having practically slept through the last few days, getting over stubborn jet lag and recovering from the day at the studios. ‘Why don’t we go out for a walk?’ she suggested brightly.
‘A walk?’ Rita flung the words back at her like a soggy dishcloth. ‘I’m bored, not barmy. Nobody walks in LA. Even the homeless have shopping trolleys . . .’ Wandering over to the kitchen, she leaned against the cupboards, grabbed an Oreo – her third within the hour – and bit into it sulkily. ‘Which might not seem much, but at least it’s a set of wheels. And that’s a lot more than we’ve got right now.’
Frankie was going to remind her of the diet, but thought better of it. ‘What about Dorian? Have you tried asking him if he’d lend us a car? After all, he’s got four in his driveway.’
Dorian bought cars like some people bought shoes: the four-wheel-drive Toyota Landcruiser was like a pair of boots, perfect for when it rained (which in LA was for a week, around about February); the open-topped Jeep a pair of open-toed sandals, cool and easy to slip into for summer; for going out he had something special – the silver Mercedes convertible with tinted windows – a pair of designer heels; and for around town he had the navy-blue BMW with leather seats and air-conditioning, as comfy and reliable as a pair of Nikes.
Rita shook her head. ‘I’ve already thought of that, but he hasn’t been home for days and he’s not answering any of his mobiles. Knowing Dorian he’s probably on a bender at a week-long party, or at some female’s apartment.’ Splitting the Oreo in half, she began scraping off the fondant filling with her teeth.
‘What about Randy?’ Frankie was still to meet the infamous Randy, who’d gone to New York on business the day before she’d arrived. ‘When’s he back?’
‘Not until Monday.’
They looked at each other. Both thinking the unthinkable. Another forty-eight hours.
The phone rang. ‘Saved by the bell,’ whooped Rita, diving on it. ‘With any luck it’s somebody who can come and rescue us.’ Picking up the handset she flicked the on/off button. ‘Hello?’
Frankie listened. Fingers crossed.
There was a moment’s pause as her face fell. ‘Yeah . . . Who’s calling?’ Grumpy with disappointment, she held the phone out towards Frankie. ‘Some bloke selling insurance, wants to speak to you.’
‘Me?’ Baffled, Frankie took the handset. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, would you be interested in car insurance?’
Frankie panicked. Was this something to do with the car accident? ‘Erm.’ She hesitated, not knowing what to say.
‘Because we have a special policy that covers reversing into Broncos . . .’
The penny dropped. Reilly. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She tried to sound annoyed but she couldn’t help smiling.
‘Who is it?’ hissed Rita loudly, her ears pricking up with interest.
Reilly, mouthed Frankie.
Rita went wide-eyed, her thousand-calorie mascara making her look spookily like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. ‘What’s he want?’ she stage-whispered. Not that it was very whispery. You could have heard her in the Valley.
Frankie shrugged and, feeling suddenly self-conscious, stuck her finger in her ear so she could concentrate on what he was saying, and not on Rita. Peeved, Rita sulkily turned her attention back to the fast-disappearing packet of Oreos.
‘I was going to call earlier . . .’
Frankie interrupted. ‘Look, if it’s about your car, I can pay for the damage . . .’
‘No, no, the car’s fine,’ he butted in quickly. ‘Well, nothing a hammer couldn’t sort out.’ He paused, and she could hear him lighting a cigarette. ‘No, I was calling about the money I owe you. A hundred and fifty bucks. You walked off before I could pay you . . .’
‘Oh . . .’ She felt guilty for jumping down his throat. Again.
‘So I was wondering if you were free to meet up . . . Sometime today maybe . . .’
‘Erm . . .’ His question threw her. It was totally out of the blue. Meet up with him? Where? What were they going to talk about? It wasn’t as if they were friends, was it? She hardly knew him. She could get to know him. Did she want to? Her mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. She applied the brakes. ‘I’m sorry I can’t, I don’t have a car.’
‘I can pick you up . . .’
‘No, that’s OK. I . . .’ She caught Rita’s eye. Mouthing Yes Yes Yes, she had her hands clasped together in prayer, begging for mercy and a set of car keys.
Frankie took the hint. ‘I mean, yeah, if it’s no bother.’ Not sure that she was doing the right thing, she gave him her address while looking across at Rita, who obviously didn’t share her reservations. Instead she was lit up like a light bulb. With her red curls and beaming grin, she looked like Orphan Annie about to break into ‘Tomorrow’.
‘Well?’
Frankie put the phone down. ‘Twenty minutes.’
Reilly was expecting to see Frankie, so he was rather taken aback when he knocked on her door and came face to face with a curvy redhead dolled up in a pair of hipsters and a cropped top from Rampage, LA’s equivalent of New Look. But not as taken aback as Rita. ‘You never told me it was him,’ she hissed to Frankie as they both squeezed themselves on to the front seat of his truck. Not expecting a third person, Reilly hadn’t refitted the back seat he’d removed a couple of weeks before. Frankie pretended she hadn’t heard Rita and concentrated instead on balancing between the edge of the seat and the door, while nearly suffocating in Rita’s liberal appliance of Bodyshop White
Musk. Which wasn’t a bad thing, seeing as Reilly’s Bronco stank like an old ashtray.
‘Are you OK?’ Trying to make more room, Reilly grabbed an armful of junk, intending to stuff it into the glove compartment, but that was already crammed full of rubbish. Unfazed, he chucked it in the back. ‘Don’t mind the mess.’ He smiled, turned on the ignition and reversed back down the drive.
Obviously he didn’t. An overflowing ashtray spilled on to a carpet of scrunched-up fag packets, sandwich wrappers and Coke cans, while pens and pencils, the remains of a tool kit, oily rags and back issues of Vanity Fair all fought for space on the dashboard. Frankie cringed. She was used to being in Hugh’s Golf, with its ‘No Smoking’ sticker and Christmas tree dangly air-freshener. A vehicle that Hugh had kept so immaculate it still had the plastic covers on the seats – and it was a P registration. Gingerly she put her feet on the floor. And felt them stick to something.
Five minutes later they pulled into a strip mall in Studio City to grab a much-needed coffee. Frankie looked out of the window. She still couldn’t get used to these concrete rows of single-storey shops which always seemed to include a Trisha’s Nails, a sushi restaurant, a Blockbusters and a Rite Aid drugstore. But LA seemed to love them. They were dotted around all over the place, like mini versions of British high streets but with plenty of space for parking. Except of course people in LA didn’t saunter up and down, indulging in the European pastime of window-shopping. Instead they parked, jumped out of their car, made a quick purchase in a store and jumped back in. Looking at the depressing 1970s-style prefab buildings, tired neon signs and ghost-town like desertedness, Frankie didn’t blame them.
But Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf was a different story. It was bustling with people breezing in and out, lounging around on the comfy wicker seats reading the free newspapers or making a mess near the sugar and milk section. There were even customers sitting outside at the few tables thrust bravely on to the empty pavements next to four lanes of traffic in an attempt to recreate a continental feel.
Pushing open the door, Rita put her nose in the air like the Bisto Kid, filling her lungs. ‘Just smell that coffee,’ she gasped, clattering over to the glass-fronted counter in her platforms and eyeing up the coffee crumble cakes and cheesecake slices that glistened temptingly under the lights.
The assistant behind the counter took one look at her outfit and eyed her back. And who could blame him? Rita looked more Friday night disco than Saturday morning cappuccino.
Frankie followed behind with Reilly. Standing in line, she watched as he pulled out a dog-eared wallet from his back pocket and flicked it open. As he did, she couldn’t help noticing a photo of a pretty blonde tucked inside the clear plastic pocket. Was that his girlfriend? The thought took her by surprise, although she didn’t know why. Why shouldn’t he have a girlfriend? She looked away before he caught her.
‘Before I forget . . .’ Pulling out some dollars, he gave them to her.
‘Oh, thanks.’ Glancing at the cash, she realised he’d given her fifty dollars more than agreed.
‘It was a long day. Call it overtime,’ he explained, before she’d even said anything. ‘And a bribe,’ he added, looking down at his boots self-consciously. ‘I wondered if you’d do any more shoots, though after Tuesday you probably won’t. My assistant’s still sick.’
She hesitated. The money would come in handy, but it meant seeing Reilly again. Did she want to? Looking at him waiting for her answer, she noticed his face bore the creases of his pillow and that his hair was still damp from the shower. He must have just woken up. She smiled. Obviously he didn’t set his alarm and have a forty-minute bathroom routine like Hugh. And, thinking about it, she realised she was glad he didn’t. ‘Yeah, OK.’ She nodded.
‘Great.’ He smiled back, visibly relaxing. ‘Coffee’s on me. What are you having?’
‘Erm . . .’ She looked at the board listing the mind-boggling number of different types of coffee. It was like one of those boards she’d seen at airports, but instead of saying Ibiza, Malaga and Corfu it had far more exotic countries: Cuba, Morocco, Mexico, India. Any minute now she expected the letters to twiddle round with an update. She studied it, not knowing what the hell to choose.
At the front of the queue a forty-something bloke in J Crew and loafers was placing his order: ‘I’ll have a non-fat, double choca, mocha, grande roomy, two-thirds decaf, one-third caffeinated American roast without the froth. Thanks.’
Blimey. Frankie hadn’t realised coffee could be so complicated. Normally at Pret she ordered a cappuccino, but seeing as the choice was limited to either that, a latte or a hot chocolate, it wasn’t that difficult. Still, she was a modern inner-city woman. She’d lived in London, for God’s sake, a metropolis crawling with any number of Seattle Coffee Companys, Starbuckses and Caffé Neros. She was hardly a coffee virgin. She looked at the board again. To be honest, she actually felt like a cup of Earl Grey.
‘Till open, no line waiting.’ A cheery soul with a peaked cap and a bad case of acne waved them over. It was time to order.
‘Well?’ Reilly looked at her expectantly.
She took the easy way out. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
Sipping their coffees, they went outside to get some fresh air. Not that the air was anything faintly resembling fresh. Dusty, smoggy, humid, yes; fresh, no. It was another sweltering day in LA, pushing 90 degrees, and in the Valley that meant 80 per cent humidity and 100 per cent smog. Still, it was either that or the icy air-conditioning inside, which was fast turning their cappuccinos into iced coffees before the froth had settled.
So, opting for smog, they sat down at one of the tables on the pavement. For a few moments nobody spoke as they drank their giant-size cups of caffeine and inhaled a mixture of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes. Feeling that she should start a conversation, Frankie tried to think of something to say. But she couldn’t. Thank God Rita was here. At least she’d break the ice.
Except Rita didn’t break it. She crushed it.
‘Are you married?’ Rita looked up from trying to stir in her sweetener, which was fizzing ominously and coagulating into aspartame lumps.
Frankie gulped her cappuccino, burning the roof of her mouth.
Taking a drag of his cigarette, Reilly started smiling. ‘Why?’ He seemed amused.
‘I just thought I’d ask. Every bloke I meet these days always turns out to be married and so I thought I’d start asking marital status along with name, age, job. At least then you know where you stand.’
‘Well, no, I’m not married.’ Flicking his ash on the pavement, he took a sip of his coffee as if he was weighing up how much to reveal. ‘I’m divorced.’
Frankie didn’t say anything, instead she struggled to appear uninterested. Divorced? Reilly had been married? It was strange to think of him being someone’s husband. He seemed too . . . Too what? She couldn’t put her finger on it. He just didn’t seem the marrying kind. She thought about the picture in his wallet. Maybe she was his ex-wife.
‘Why, are you married?’ He looked at Rita, who was now attacking a fat-free blueberry muffin with gusto.
‘Not yet.’ Speaking with her mouth full, she wiggled her empty wedding finger. ‘But I’m seeing someone. He’s in New York until Monday.’
Listening in silence, Frankie began to feel uncomfortable. Marriage was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Taking the cigarette that Rita had left burning in the ashtray, she took a drag.
Rita noticed and was surprised. Frankie was like a vampire when it came to smoking – the fags only ever came out after dark or when she was upset. And then she realised. ‘Oops, sorry, I didn’t think.’ She clamped her hand over her mouth, but it still didn’t stop her. ‘Trust me and my big mouth,’ she tutted, before turning to Reilly and hissing, ‘Frankie’s single.’
Frankie cringed. You’d think she had some terrible life-threatening disease.
Taking the last puff of his cigarette, Reilly threw it on the floor.
‘I’m sure she won’t be for long.’
Feeling him staring at her, Frankie began to feel very self-conscious. And she still couldn’t think of anything to say.
Luckily she didn’t have to. Instead, Rita came to the rescue by suddenly sitting up like a meerkat and declaring, ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ in an X-rated Victor Meldrew kind of way.
‘What?’ Frankie seized the bait, relieved that the subject had been changed and further embarrassment averted.
‘Over there . . .’
‘Where?’
‘There . . .’
Frankie looked over to where she was pointing and saw a man – dark, six foot, about thirty-five – walking across the road to an open-topped Isuzu Trooper. Climbing inside, he leaned over to a woman – fair, skinny, about twenty-five – who was in the passenger seat. He began kissing her. And it wasn’t on the cheek.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked, turning to Rita. And then wished she hadn’t. One look at her ashen face and she knew his name before Rita could gasp it.
‘Randy.’
18
‘Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.’
Chanting the word under her breath, Rita balanced precariously on one leg in the middle of a power yoga class in Beverly Hills. She was supposed to be doing a Salutation to the Sun, but while the rest of her classmates were ohmming and ahhing and praising distant planets, she was cursing not so distant sons-of-bitches called Randy who weren’t in New York on business but at home with their wife of four and a half years.
Changing position, she balanced on the other leg. It was one thing him cheating on her, but cheating on her with his own wife. It was the stuff Jerry Springer shows are made of. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply in and out, repeating, ‘Wanker. Wanker. Wanker.’ After a few minutes she began to feel much better. So this is what they meant by power yoga.
With a trembling leg sticking out behind her, Frankie struggled to hold herself in a position. It was seven on a Saturday night and she’d been dragged along to the Beverly Hills Life Center by Rita, who’d enrolled on a six-week yoga course as part of her voyage of self-discovery. A voyage that had begun as a result of the discovery of Randy with his wife outside the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.