Still, staying in by himself didn’t bother him. In fact, he enjoyed it. Liked the space. Liked being able to do whatever he wanted. Getting up, he flicked on the central heating. The flat was freezing. Not surprising, seeing as it was about minus 20 outside. God knows what had happened to the autumn. London seemed to have bypassed it and plunged straight into an Arctic winter. He caught his reflection on the side of the stainless-steel fridge. Christ, he looked lousy. Pale grey skin with dark circles under his eyes. He could do with a holiday, some sunshine, a bit of a tan. Frankie would probably have a great tan after nearly a month in LA, lapping up all that Californian sunshine. She always went so brown in the sun, not like him. Even with SPF30, his skin was so fair he always burned and went bright red.
Feeling pissed off, he padded into the kitchen and, flicking the pedal bin, scraped his unappetising food into the bin-liner. Not that he missed Frankie. He had done the right thing by finishing with her. She’d become too sensible, too boring, too devoted. All she wanted out of life was to settle down, get married and spend every evening having a quiet night in. That’s why it could never have worked between them. He was the complete opposite.
Emptying his wine down the sink, he watched the blood-red liquid swirl down the plughole. And yawned. He looked at his watch. It was only half past eight, but he didn’t feel like going out. He was shattered. He was going to stay in and have a long soak in the bath. To be honest, he wouldn’t mind getting an early night.
23
‘I feel like shit.’ Gingerly lifting up her sunglasses in the bright midday sunshine, Rita looked in her rear-view mirror. A pair of bloodshot eyes stared back. ‘And I look like shit.’ Groaning, she lowered her Persols and sank back behind the wheel of her Thunderbird.
Frankie lay next to her in the passenger seat, which was reclined as far back as it would go, trying – and failing – to ignore her thumping headache. She half opened her eyes, allowing a sliver of UV light to hit her pupils, but it was too glary, even through her sunglasses. ‘Ditto,’ she croaked, snapping her eyes tightly shut again and pulling down the peak of her baseball cap until it covered her face.
It was the morning after the night before, and they were stuck in the middle of a traffic jam on Sunset, thanks to Rita, who’d had the bright idea of driving to Malibu. Two hours later, it didn’t seem so clever. They hadn’t reckoned on the all-day rush hour, which meant that instead of recovering on the beach listening to the crashing of the surf, breathing in lungfuls of sea air and topping up their tans, they were stuck at the lights, sweating alcohol in the convertible-turned-sauna, listening to the sound of car horns and breathing in exhaust fumes, their hangovers hanging over them like the Ancient Mariner’s albatross.
Frankie watched as the red needle on the pressure gauge dial edged ever higher towards boiling point. Any moment now the car would overheat, and in this 90-degree heat without air conditioning so would she. Opening a five-litre bottle of water meant for the car’s radiator, she glugged half of it down, trying to quench her thirst. She felt terrible. Too much alcohol and not enough sleep. God knows what time she got home last night. All she could remember was walking off the dance floor and seeing Rita passed out across the bar next to an ice bucket and an empty magnum of champagne, with half a dozen men circling around her like vultures, and deciding that she’d better take her home in a cab before somebody else did. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She could remember something – somebody – else. She remembered Reilly.
Floodgates of panic, guilt, embarrassment and excitement opened as a Polaroid image of them dancing together flashed into her mind. She couldn’t really remember what happened. Not properly anyway. All that tequila and champagne had taken its toll, fuzzing her mind, blurring time, blanking out conversations. Part of her was thankful. It was cringe-worthy enough, remembering how she’d been draped across him in the middle of the Cowboy Palace, without knowing the gory details. She’d woken up this morning with a jumble of images and a few snippets of what he’d said. Nothing too hard to handle. And felt relieved. But as the blanket of grogginess began to lift, she realised that last night had left her with two things: a killer of a hangover and some very mixed emotions.
It was all so bloody confusing. She didn’t know what the hell to think about last night. Had some unspoken thing happened between them? They hadn’t got it together, she could remember that at least, but at the same time she could also remember wanting to. And it was freaking her out. Did that mean she’d suddenly fallen for Reilly? Or was it just a classic case of drinking too much, missing Hugh and wanting affection? After all, it was so long since she’d kissed a bloke, never mind done the full Monty and had sex, who’d blame her for wanting a bit of a song? Even if it was with the wrong man. And Reilly was the wrong man for her. It was Hugh she wanted. Hugh’s arms around her. Hugh kissing her. Last night she’d been pissed. Lonely. Mixed up. She fancied Hugh, only Hugh, always Hugh. And she did not, absolutely, definitely, 100 per cent not, fancy Reilly.
The lights changed and the traffic started moving. Seeing a gap in the lane ahead, Rita put her foot down, overtaking a Range Rover with tinted windows – a favourite with the Hollywood celebpack, wanting to be seen but not seen. Leaving the shops and restaurants behind, they were soon cruising past the manicured lawns and colossal houses of Beverly Hills, sweeping through the palm-tree-lined roads, past the young Mexican boys with their familiar blue and yellow signs advertising $2 starmaps – an A–Z of out-of-date addresses for nosy tourists wanting to drive around in their rented Mustangs seeing where Julie Andrews had once lived – and the infamous salmon-pink Beverly Hills hotel, home to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton during their first marriage, or was it their second?
Lazily peering through her sunglasses, Frankie lay back in her seat and decided to ignore her hangover and enjoy the view. This was how LA was meant to be seen, through three layers, the first being the dark lenses of her sunglasses (horrified at her lack of eyewear, Dorian had loaned her a pair of last season’s tortoiseshell Versaces); the second being the car’s windscreen; and the third being, of course, the smog. Smog was the thick brown layer between the horizon and the perfect blue sky, and Frankie had seen it for the first time when she’d stepped off the plane at LAX. The funny thing was, nobody else seemed to notice it. Which was probably because everybody was too busy being obsessed by a different kind of pollution: cigarette smoke. Smoking was lethal, it polluted your lungs and was a danger to society. But smog. What smog?
After five weeks in LA she’d realised that, for Los Angelenos, smog was an optical illusion. It was always ‘over there’, rather like the end of the rainbow, except in this case it was less pot of gold and more carbon monoxide poisoning. But, as Rita said, in the movie capital of the world, a town built on the manufacture of illusions, being part of it meant believing in perfect, glorious blue, blue, sky . . . because that was the biggest illusion of all.
‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’ Rita gripped the steering wheel, swaying unsteadily.
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Frankie stirred from her semiconscious state.
‘Nope.’ She shook her head, inflating her cheeks.
‘Maybe you should pull over.’
‘What? And throw up on the pavement?’
‘Well, it’s better than throwing up over me.’ Pulling her favourite sarong tightly around her, Frankie edged further away to the side of car.
‘I can’t, we’re in the middle of Bel Air . . .’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘It makes a lot of difference. This place has more Hollywood film stars, directors and producers per square inch than anywhere else in the world.’ Rita leaned over, grabbing what was left of the radiator water and pouring it down her throat without swallowing, as if she was drinking Sangria through one of those ‘I’ve been to Benidorm’ bottles with a glass spout and a wicker handle. ‘When I said I wanted to make my mark in Hollywood, puking up at the end of Steven Spielberg’s
driveway wasn’t what I had in mind.’
Thankfully, after she had rehydrated, the colour started to return to her cheeks and they carried on without needing to make any emergency stops. They wound along Sunset, endlessly passing through shady suburbs until, finally, they drove over the brow of a hill and into the full glare of the sunlight. The view was glorious picture-postcard stuff, and for the first time in her life Frankie glimpsed the Pacific Ocean, a streak of navy blue on the horizon. It had been a long time coming. And as they headed down towards the coast, she watched it growing wider and wider, stretching back as far as the eye could see, until, like a movie expanding into widescreen, it filled the whole panorama.
Rita parked the car at the side of the Pacific Coast Highway, a busy, dusty stretch of road with six lanes of traffic which continued up towards San Francisco. Frankie felt a stab of disappointment. Where was the famous Malibu beach? Where were all the million-dollar houses? All she could see were ten-foot-high walls and electronic security gates.
‘Is this it?’ she said, climbing out of the car and following a very shaky Rita through a gate and down a corrugated-iron staircase so steep it made the backs of her legs ache. ‘I thought you said Malibu was glamorous.’
‘Stop moaning,’ puffed Rita, a fag in one hand, the other grasping the handrail for much-needed support. Reaching the bottom, she put her hands on her hips, trying to draw breath. Something told her she needed to do more exercise and stop smoking. Taking a drag of her cigarette, she stood up straight, pushing her sunglasses further up her nose. ‘Now what do you think? Bit better than Brighton, eh?’
Slipping off her knackered old flip-flops, Frankie sank her bare feet into the damp, yellow sand, feeling its softness between her wriggling toes. Stretching out before her was a beach deserted apart from a few joggers and a couple walking their dog. As with everything in America, it was big, appearing to go on for miles, past the rocky headlands in the distance, where she could see a group of surfers, probably all the way up to San Francisco. A few feet back from the breaking waves, a string of lavish beach-houses overlooked the ocean, each one completely different from the next. Rising out of the sand like a piece of modern art was a four-storey building made entirely of blue glass; another was a Disneyland castle, complete with turrets and gargoyles; while further along was a whitewashed Mexican-style hacienda, with sun decks on every level, and raspberry-pink bougainvillaea spilling down one side.
‘Just a bit,’ murmured Frankie, throwing down her beach towel. She flopped on to it, resting on her elbows, and gazed at the view around her. This was the Malibu she’d imagined. The Bo-Derek-running-along-the-beach-with-beads-in-her-hair Malibu. The glamorous-beach-parties-full-of-glamorous-women-with-glamorous-figures-in-glamorous-bikinis Malibu that she’d read about as a teenager in all those trashy Jackie Collins novels. For so long this place had been strictly fictional and now it was for real. And here she was, little old Frankie from Fulham. OK, so her bikini wasn’t that glamorous – it was a two-year-old gingham M&S number with underwired cups and total bottom coverage, not itsy bitsy triangles held on by pieces of string – and her figure was more beanpole than Bo Derek. But crikey, what the hell, she was sunbathing on Malibu beach. Taking a deep breath, she arched her back and lifted her face to the sky.
‘I love this beach,’ sighed Rita, collapsing on to the sand next to her. ‘It’s so much nicer than the crowded ones down at Venice and Santa Monica. They’re packed like sardines, full of Brits abroad . . .’ Missing the irony, she rummaged through her bag, pulling out suntan lotion, hair scrunchie, lip-salve, swimming goggles, cigarettes and her latest self-help manual, Give up Men and Get a Life. Rita was nothing if not prepared. ‘And anyway, the scenery’s a lot nicer.’ She motioned towards the group of surfers running in and out of the sea in the distance, riding the waves, their wetsuits clinging to their athletic bodies.
‘I thought you were off men.’
‘I am, but there’s no harm in looking.’ She smiled. ‘Or being looked at.’ Unfastening her bikini top, she began smearing herself in SPF 30, tutting at the extra bit of flesh on her stomach. ‘Can you do my back?’
Sitting up, Frankie squirted creamy squiggles all over Rita’s shoulders and began rubbing them in. Despite a lifetime of sunbeds, fake tan, holidays in Tenerife, and the past four months in California, Rita was still mozzarella white. Being ginger-haired, she never tanned, she freckled, burned and then peeled like a roasted red pepper.
‘There you go.’ Frankie gave her back the lotion. ‘You look as if you’re ready to swim the Channel.’ Rita was daubed in a thick layer of white gunge.
‘Just because you’ve got bloody olive skin,’ she tutted. ‘Thin with olive skin. Is there anything I’ve got that you haven’t?’
‘Tits.’ Frankie smiled, turning to lie on her stomach and wriggling like a fish to unclip her bikini top so she didn’t get a tan mark. Unlike Rita, she was too embarrassed to go topless. It wasn’t that she had a hang-up about the size of her boobs, 34B was plenty big enough thanks, and it wasn’t as if there was anybody around to gawp at them, apart from the surfers, and they had more than an eyeful with Rita’s generous pair. But she was too self-conscious. Hugh had always said she had ‘lovely breasts . . . a perfect handful’, and last year on their fortnight’s holiday in the South of France he’d persuaded her to go topless. But she’d only done it the once. She’d felt as if everybody was staring at her nipples. God knows why. In fact, the beach in Juan les Pins had been nipple city. Hugh had called her inhibited. Which was a bit rich, coming from a man who’d only wear shorts if they went past his knees.
Grabbing Rita’s self-help book, she flicked idly to the chapter entitled ‘Annoying Male Habits’. It was about sixty pages long.
‘How are you feeling?’ Rita slathered her ankles in cream.
‘Rough,’ mumbled Frankie, without looking up.
‘Me too. I never normally get hangovers. It must have been those bloody margaritas.’
‘And all the champagne,’ Frankie reminded her.
Groaning, Rita finished doing her legs and, snapping the lid shut on her suntan lotion, lay back, spread-eagled on her towel, which had ‘Club Ibiza Hotel’ embroidered in the corner. She giggled to herself. ‘I must have been plastered last night. I’ve just remembered I nearly snogged Dorian.’
‘You didn’t.’ Frankie stopped reading about ‘men’s unacceptable bathroom behavior’. This was far more interesting than Dr Bernstein’s professional opinion on the psychological damage inflicted on a female when her male partner did not put the toilet seat down.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Rita tutted indignantly. ‘Of course I didn’t. I was off my head, not out of it. Well, not completely anyway.’ She suddenly got a flashback of herself pulling up her skirt to show off the red devil tattoo on her bum. God, she must have been bollocksed. She didn’t have a tattoo – red devil or otherwise. ‘Anyway, like I said, I’m off blokes.’ Reaching over, she swapped her sunglasses for a pair of sunbed goggles. She didn’t want panda eyes. ‘You looked as if you were having a good time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Frankie felt suddenly defensive.
‘With Reilly on the dance floor. You looked happy.’
Reilly. She’d decided earlier that she wasn’t going to think about him any more. Any feelings she might have had last night had been a mistake. She loved Hugh, remember.
‘Do you think so?’ she still couldn’t resist asking.
‘I know so, I saw you both . . . just before I crashed out. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought something was going on between you two.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not saying I did think that . . .’ Rita knew she was treading on dodgy ground. Frankie could be so touchy. ‘I know you’re not interested in him . . .’ She flicked an ant off her bellybutton ring. ‘Which is just as well.’
‘Why?’
Realising she’d opened a can of worms, Rita tried to cover her tracks. ‘Well,
it’d be awful if you were really into the bloke, wouldn’t it?’
‘Would it?’ Somehow, somewhere, she’d suddenly swapped sides.
‘Christ, Frankie, anyone would think you did fancy him the way you’re going on.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ she snapped, picking up a shell and scraping off the sand. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. Why would it be so awful?’
‘Because he’s an arsehole.’
‘An arsehole? Since when?’ Frankie felt shocked. And surprisingly defensive. ‘You’ve changed your tune. I thought you really liked him.’
‘I did, until last night.’
‘Why, what happened last night?’ Her mind raced. ‘Did I miss something?’
Pushing up her goggles so the elastic hugged her hair like a headband, Rita sat up and began rubbing in zinc whitener stick on her cheekbones. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to tell you . . .’
Bullshit, Rita could never keep her mouth shut.
‘. . . but seeing as you’re not bothered about him anyway . . .’
Twisting her body round and holding her bikini top, Frankie looked up at her. ‘Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Look, it’s no big deal . . .’
‘Rita.’
Rita stopped zincing and sighed resignedly. ‘Well, apparently he told Dorian that he wasn’t interested . . . in you . . .’ She added it as an afterthought.
Frankie didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.
‘I mean, what a bighead. As if he’d stand a chance anyway.’ Rita tutted, grabbing a mirror and looking at her reflection. ‘He’s so not your type . . .’
Frankie felt as if she’d been hit by a bus. A double-decker. ‘When did he say this?’ Dazed, she stared at Rita, who was picking off a bit of leftover mascara from an eyelash.