Going La La

  ‘Sorry, darling, it’s the ridiculous signs they have here.’ He smiled sheepishly, reaching across and clasping her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Frankie nodded, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes.

  They’d spent the rest of last night in a haze – leaving Vegas in the early hours, driving through the dawn, drinking weak coffee in Seven-11s, snatching a few hours’ kip in the car – and now, in the glare of the midday sun, they were both feeling knackered. And they still had another hundred miles to go. With any luck they’d get there before dark. And still in one piece.

  After spending a further four hours getting lost, doing U-turns, asking in gas stations, drugstores and yet more Seven-11s, they eventually began driving up the winding path that led to the rim of the Grand Canyon. By the time they arrived at the Southside Lodge, it was almost four o’clock and getting dark. While Hugh checked in, Frankie made a couple of phone calls from the coin-box in the lobby.

  Last night she’d packed her things and left a note at reception. She couldn’t go and find Rita, pissed as a fart in the back of the stretch limo that was wrapped up in a white satin ribbon. How would she have explained that to Hugh? What would she have said? ‘Sorry, could you wait for a few minutes while I just have a quick word with my bridesmaid?’ That would have meant confessing to him that she was about to marry another man. She flinched at the thought. Sometimes honesty was not the best policy.

  Dialling the number, she listened to the ringing tone, waiting for Rita to pick up. Except she didn’t, it was the answering machine. ‘Happy Fucking New Year. We’ve gone to win millions in Vegas. Leave us a message,’ Rita’s voice singsonged.

  The beep sounded and Frankie left a brief message, saying she was safe and well with Hugh, but that she’d explain everything when she came back to LA. She knew Rita would understand. Best friends always did when it came to men.

  Replacing the receiver, she stared out of the window, watching the last streak of sunset disappear into dusk. For a moment she thought about calling Reilly and then changed her mind. What the hell would she say? Sorry? Elton John was right when he said it was the hardest word. She caught herself. Christ, she must be knackered. She was quoting Elton John.

  ‘A bottle of the Chardonnay. And could you make sure it’s chilled?’ Closing the wine list, Hugh waved it at the waiter. He looked at Frankie and smiled. ‘Oh, sorry, darling, would you have preferred champagne? To celebrate?’

  ‘Oh, God, no. Wine’s fine . . . honestly,’ Frankie reassured him hastily. After last night she never wanted to drink champagne again. Her stomach still hadn’t recovered from having its lining dissolved by half a dozen bottles of the stuff.

  They were having dinner at the Lodge’s rather upmarket restaurant, a snug dining room with an open fire and wood-panelled walls. It was one of those restaurants where the waiters hovered at your elbow and everyone – even Americans – talked in hushed voices. Frankie sat opposite Hugh, who seemed miles away across a large linen tablecloth with lots of different-sized spotlessly clean glasses and a whole trayful of cutlery.

  Leaning across the table, Hugh reached out and held her hand. ‘You look beautiful tonight.’ At his suggestion she was wearing one of his favourite outfits, the beige trousersuit, and had clipped up her hair. ‘Just like the old you again.’

  Frankie smiled at the compliment. Being together at the restaurant, it was as if the last few months had never happened. Hugh hadn’t changed at all. He still looked as handsome as ever. And her memory hadn’t exaggerated how long he took to get ready – he still took ages. Tonight she’d waited for half an hour, listening to the squirts of various aerosols, until eventually he’d emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, as if he was an XFactor contestant appearing from the swirling fog of dry ice.

  ‘What do you think about Valentine’s Day?’

  ‘What?’ She broke away from her thoughts, dropping the bread roll she’d been absent-mindedly demolishing into a pile of crumbs.

  Hugh paused as the waiter reappeared with the wine. Watching him put his arm behind his back and pour a little in Hugh’s glass, Frankie couldn’t help feeling rankled. Why did waiters always do that? Why was it always the man who tasted the wine? Hugh sniffed it before taking a sip and made a point of rolling it around on his tongue for a while – well, he was a member of the Sunday Times Wine Club. Except he didn’t spit, he swallowed and nodded his approval.

  ‘For the wedding.’ Having answered Frankie’s question, Hugh laughed at her surprised expression. ‘I know what you’re thinking, it’s cheesy – I thought so too at first. But thinking about it, it’s actually rather kitsch. Love hearts and all that. It could be rather fun.’ He fiddled with one of his silver cufflinks shaped like golf clubs. ‘OK, I confess. Adam and Jessica suggested it.’

  ‘Adam and Jessica?’

  ‘Well, I told them I was coming here to propose. They gave me a lift to the airport. Did I tell you Adam’s bought himself one of those new Jags?’

  Frankie wasn’t listening. It had suddenly dawned on her that Hugh had never doubted she’d accept his proposal. Always knew that she’d forgive him and take him back. Even before he’d apologised or said he’d made a mistake, he’d known she’d say yes. And he was right, wasn’t he? She had forgiven him, she had said yes.

  So why did it bother her? She didn’t know. But what bothered her even more was the thought that her wedding was being planned by some dickhead in a Hawaiian shirt and his stick-thin girlfriend who thought cool was celebrating a birthday in a bloody bowling alley.

  She bit her lip. All those times she’d missed Hugh and her life back in London, she’d forgotten about people like Adam and Jessica. It was strange how selective the memory could be, remembering the good bits but conveniently editing out all the others.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a good idea.’ She nodded, trying to look enthusiastic. After all, it didn’t matter about Adam and Jessica. What mattered was that Hugh was finally talking about their relationship. After two years, he wasn’t discussing interest rates, the housing market or how Tiger Woods was doing in the American Open. He was talking about weddings. Their wedding.

  ‘And afterwards I think Adam can swing it for us to have the reception at Soho House.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Sounds bloody awful, she cringed, trying to smile and at the same time not think about all the pretentious wankers who were members – such as Adam.

  Eventually the food arrived. Salmon en croûte for Hugh, pasta for Frankie. Not that she ate much, she wasn’t hungry. Instead she picked at her food and drank more than a little too much wine as they chatted their way through the courses. Both of them had decided not to speak about the last few months. Hugh had said it was probably best they kept that to themselves. A clean start. Why talk about the past when they had their whole future to talk about? She’d agreed. Talking about the past would have meant talking about Reilly.

  Instead they continued their conversation about their forthcoming nuptials, or rather Hugh talked and Frankie listened. To his views on wedding guests: ‘I can’t stand my boss, Graeme, or Sandra, his wife, but I don’t want to jeopardise my chances of promotion. What do you think about just inviting them to the evening do?’ The church: ‘Do you really want a church wedding? I was actually thinking Chelsea Register Office.’ The honeymoon: ‘I know you like lying on the beach, darling, but I rather fancied Nepal.’

  How ironic, thought Frankie. For so long she’d wanted to talk about weddings but now, after just one evening, she realised how dull planning a wedding actually was. As Hugh moved on to the subject of his stag party – Adam had suggested he and a few chaps spent a weekend away paint-balling – she gazed distractedly at her engagement ring, shiny and sparkling, sitting upright on her finger like the new kid in class. A solitaire diamond thrust upwards in 22-carat gold clasps. Touching it, she was suddenly reminded of the ring Reilly had made for her, a twisted piece of gold tinf
oil from the champagne bottle. She didn’t know where it was, probably lost in the rush to leave Las Vegas. Remembering it gave her a twinge of sadness. She was being silly. Hugh’s engagement ring was beautiful, why was she thinking about Reilly’s?

  Finishing off their coffees and those orange circles of chocolate that came with them, they made their way back to the room. After a couple of glasses of wine she was dying for a cigarette but remembering how much Hugh hated her smoking, she waited until he went into the bathroom. No doubt he’d be in there for ages brushing, flossing, mouthwashing – plenty of time to have a quick fag.

  Wrapping her old fleece around her shoulders, she slid open the doors leading on to the small decked terrace and, sitting on one of the wrought-iron patio chairs, lit up one of Rita’s American Spirits. She took a drag, watching the embers glow orange against the chilly darkness, and feeling the cold metal of the chair seep through her trousers. It was so quiet and still out here. No faint roar of traffic, noise from the television, hum of people talking. The lodge was perched right on the edge of the canyon. When it was light there was a wonderful view from here, according to the hotel’s colour brochure, but tonight all she could see was velvety blackness dotted with the faint glow of lights from neighbouring inns.

  After a few minutes she began to notice the cold. Shivering, she wriggled her arms into the sleeves of her fleece, sticking up the collar and pulling it tighter. As she did she saw something fall out of one of the pockets. A flash of something, before it disappeared between the cracks in the wooden decking. For a moment she ignored it, finishing off her cigarette, until her curiosity overcame her and she bent down, running her fingers along the edge of the planks until she felt something. Small and fragile. She picked it up. It was Reilly’s ring. All bent out of shape from being squashed in a pocket. She must have put it there last night when she was packing in a rush and forgotten all about it. Resting it in the palm of her hand, she stared at it. Seeing it again conjured up so many memories. So many mixed emotions.

  ‘What are you doing out there?’ Hugh appeared.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she answered breezily, her fingers snapping shut around the ring like a Venus Flycatcher. ‘Just getting some fresh air.’

  Hugh smiled affectionately and, putting his arms around her, leaned towards her to kiss her. Not a passionate tongues’n’saliva snog, but a firm kiss on the lips. It was their first kiss since he’d proposed and Frankie was surprised to realise how awkward she felt. Where were the fireworks? The racing pulse? The breathlessness? She dismissed the thought. She was a stupid romantic. Fireworks were for the movies.

  ‘Have you been smoking?’ Hugh wrinkled up his nose.

  ‘No,’ said Frankie guiltily. She felt like a kid caught nicking sweets.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Sounding disbelieving, he hugged her closer. ‘Are you coming to bed?’

  This was Hugh’s way of saying he wanted to make love. Ten years as a boarder at an all-boys public school hadn’t made it easy for him to talk about sex, and instead he’d say things such as ‘Are you tired?’ or ‘Shall we have an early night?’

  She hesitated. This was the moment they were supposed to melt into each other’s arms, tumble into bed and shag each other’s brains out. The moment she’d dreamed about for months, imagining what she’d say, how she’d react. But in all that time she’d never imagined she’d feel like this. Nervous, awkward, unsure, guilty. It hit her without warning. The realisation that sleeping with Hugh would make her feel she was being unfaithful to Reilly. It was the weirdest notion. What was she thinking about? This was crazy. She was being ridiculous. She was marrying Hugh. She loved Hugh. Didn’t she?

  Smiling, she squeezed his hand affectionately. ‘In a minute.’

  Watching Hugh disappear inside the room, she leaned against the iron railings, trying to clear her head. Everything that had happened over the last forty-eight hours was making her totally confused. She’d probably feel a whole lot better after she’d had a proper night’s sleep. Give herself time to let things sink in. Unclasping her hand, she took another brief look at the ring, before stuffing it firmly back into her pocket. She wished she had lost it. The bloody thing was nothing but trouble.

  The bedside lamps cast a dim light across the room, throwing shadows over a vase that was now full of flowers Hugh had bought for her in one of the gas stations. She glanced at Hugh. He was already in bed, his body turned away from her. She noticed his clothes folded neatly on a chair, not strewn all over the floor like Reilly’s would have been.

  ‘Hugh.’ He didn’t answer. Unzipping her fleece, she dropped it on to the floor. Well, there had to be some mess for the cleaners. ‘Hugh?’ She stretched out her hand to touch his shoulder and then she heard his breathing. Deep and heavy. He was asleep. A mixture of jet lag and two bottles of Chilean Chardonnay. She smiled to herself and then stopped. Why did she feel so relieved?

  40

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s the runaway bride.’ As Frankie tentatively opened the door of the apartment, she was greeted by Rita, who appeared from the bedroom, hastily tying her satin dressing gown around her waist.

  Dropping her suitcase on to the floor, Frankie smiled guiltily. ‘I can explain everything.’

  ‘Fine,’ breezed Rita. Padding into the kitchen she calmly clicked on the kettle, before leaning against the fridge, arms folded, and fixing Frankie with an accusing stare. ‘But this better be good.’

  They sat outside on the balcony, mopping up the warmth from the weak January sun, and over three cups of Tetley’s tea and half a pack of cigarettes Frankie told Rita everything – about Hugh’s sudden appearance on New Year’s Eve, his proposal and her reaction, and how, in those few seconds, she’d been forced to choose. It was a relief to talk to someone finally, to unburden the weight of all the thoughts and emotions that had been whirling around in her head over the last forty-eight hours. And as best friend and confidante, Rita listened patiently, stewing tea bags, finding matches, nodding sympathetically.

  ‘But I know I made the right decision to marry Hugh,’ Frankie murmured, stroking Fred, who was sprawled across her lap like a sheepskin rug. ‘You know how devastated I was when we broke up, don’t you?’ She glanced across at Rita. ‘I never thought we’d get back together. I thought our relationship was over for good. That’s why, when I met Reilly . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she played with Fred’s velvety ears. ‘Well, anyway, I’m really happy.’

  Rita wasn’t entirely convinced. For someone who was supposed to be happy and in love, Frankie looked completely miserable. But for once she was going to keep her opinions to herself. She’d never liked Hugh, but now wasn’t the time to start slagging him off. Frankie needed her to do the supportive friend bit. And that meant keeping her gob well and truly shut.

  Forcing a smile, she shoved her thoughts to one side and squeezed Frankie’s hand reassuringly. ‘What time’s your flight?’ She made an attempt at chirpiness.

  ‘Five-thirty tonight.’

  ‘And what about these two?’ Rita shifted Ginger, who was taking up most of the sun-lounger, to one side.

  ‘That’s the hardest bit,’ sighed Frankie, rubbing her finger underneath Fred’s chin, initiating a rasping purr as he stretched out his chin indulgently. ‘They’re both getting on, Fred’s got arthritis in his paws and Ginger’s prone to chest infections. I hate to think of them both having to spend six months in quarantine . . . being stuck in a cage . . .’ Her voice tailed off. She didn’t want to admit that Hugh had actually suggested putting them to sleep, saying it was ‘for the best and nothing whatsoever to do with his allergies’.

  ‘Of course they can stay here with me.’ Rita pre-empted Frankie’s question. ‘I think the LA lifestyle suits them a lot more than being stuck in that cramped flat in Fulham anyway.’ She looked at them both, stretched out and purring in the sun. ‘This can be their retirement home,’ she said, laughing and running a chipped fingernail across Ginger’s paws. ‘Which isn’t bad, considering my gran ended
up in a prefab bungalow in Scarborough.’

  Frankie knew she was right, but she couldn’t help feeling gutted. Leaving Fred and Ginger behind would be a wrench. ‘Thanks . . .’ She smiled gratefully. ‘For everything.’ Brushing her T-shirt free of tortoiseshell hairs, she looked at her watch. ‘Shit, is that the time already? I better get a move on and start packing my stuff.’ Standing up, she went back inside the apartment.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  Rita sprang up from her sun-lounger, but it was too late. Frankie had already pushed open the bedroom door, and got the shock of her life. So had Dorian, who’d been left gagged and handcuffed to the futon wearing nothing but Rita’s Victoria’s Secret underwear for over half an hour. Not knowing whether to laugh or scream, Frankie clamped her hand over her mouth as, only seconds later, Rita appeared and made up a threesome. Blushing the colour of her roots, she took one look at Frankie’s expression and gasped, ‘I can explain everything.’

  It didn’t take long to pack. It was strange how in just a few months most of her clothes had begun to look old and frumpy. Christ, did I really wear this? she thought, digging out a hideous A-line skirt with side pleats. It might have been in last year’s Vogue, but it was going to be in this year’s charity shop. Chucking it into a binliner, she consoled herself with the thought that cleaning out her wardrobe would give her a good excuse to go shopping when she got back to London – although she didn’t know what with. Her credit cards had long since been maxed-up to the limit and she still owed Rita a thousand dollars.

  Trying not to think about the appalling state of her finances, she emptied two drawers of toiletries and stuffed the rest of her clothes and her books into two suitcases. She’d pay Rita back just as soon as she got a job. She looked at her luggage. It bulged uncomfortably and she had to sit on the suitcases to make them close, stretching the tattered beige vinyl until she could fasten the zips. She felt a lump in her throat. Now it was coming to the crunch, it was hard to go. Looking around the bedroom and out into the rest of the apartment, she realised how attached she had become. How, without even realising it, she’d come to think of the place as home.