Going La La

  ‘Well, that’s about it.’ Trying to sound all bright and breezy, she dragged her luggage into the hallway. Why was it that clothes became three times as heavy as soon as you packed them? Shoving them in the corner, she caught her breath.

  ‘You’re not going already, are you? I’ve just made you some liquorice tea.’ After being rumbled in the bedroom, Dorian, dressed rather aptly in a ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’ T-shirt, was in the kitchen, fussing over refreshments in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. Proud of his reputation of being good in bed, and of his flirting and sexual innuendo, being caught by a flatmate in a push-up bra and lace suspenders was a blow to his manhood. Of which Frankie had got a good eyeful.

  ‘What have I told you about making that stuff in here? It stinks the bloody place out,’ grumbled Rita, swiping him good-naturedly with a teatowel.

  Frankie smiled. Rita had told her it was just sex – she’d been gagging for it and Dorian was better than a vibrator – but watching them together, laughing and joking around, she could tell there was a lot more between them than simultaneous orgasms. They were like an old married couple.

  ‘I better go. Hugh’s been waiting for me outside in the car all this time. We’re going to drive straight to the airport.’ She glanced at Rita. ‘He said it was probably best if he didn’t come in.’

  ‘Fucking hell, woman, ask him in. I’d like to meet your husband-to be.’ Dorian grinned, trying to show there were no hard feelings about what had happened in Vegas. Until he caught Rita’s expression and changed his mind. ‘Though maybe you’re right. The traffic can be a bitch on the 405.’ Grabbing Frankie by the waist, he squeezed her tightly and gave her a lingering kiss. ‘Goodbye, gorgeous. Remember to look after yourself.’ He suddenly felt rather emotional.

  Frankie smiled weakly. She was going to miss Dorian. There was no one quite like him in Fulham.

  ‘Well, I suppose this is it.’ Standing on the driveway in her dressing gown, Rita bit her lip. She was trying to put a brave face on things, but she’d never been one for saying goodbyes. Any minute now she was going to start bawling her eyes out.

  Frankie nodded and forced a smile. There was just one more thing. She hadn’t spoken about Reilly. She’d been too frightened of what Rita might say. But now she knew she couldn’t leave without asking.

  Except she didn’t have to. Rita read her mind. ‘I told him you were coming over today to get your things. That you were leaving this afternoon.’ She glanced up at Frankie, almost afraid to meet her eye. ‘He didn’t want to see you.’ She gave a small apologetic smile. ‘But he wanted me to give you this. He said to wait until you’d packed everything. I think he wanted it to be your last reminder of LA.’ She pulled a photograph out of her pocket and handed it to Frankie. It was a black and white picture he’d taken of her on Malibu beach. A wave had soaked her jeans and she was running out of the surf, laughing. Normally she hated having her picture taken, she always felt so stiff and awkward, but that day Reilly had made her feel at ease in front of the camera, relaxed and natural. Remembering, Frankie gazed at the image. She’d never seen herself look so happy.

  ‘I was wrong,’ Rita broke her thoughts.

  ‘What?’ She glanced up from the photograph.

  ‘It wasn’t just a fling . . . not for him anyway.’

  They both looked at each other, neither of them speaking.

  ‘Frankie, can you hurry it up? We’re going to be late,’ Hugh bellowed from the car, honking on his horn.

  ‘Yeah . . . coming.’

  Trying to swallow the huge lump in her throat, Frankie hugged Rita, who’d put on her sunglasses ready to hide her tears, and with a small wave walked towards Hugh, who was now waiting to load her luggage into the boot. She didn’t look back.

  41

  ‘Qantas, Virgin, Delta, Air Malaysia . . .’ Hugh recited the list as he scoured the check-in desks for the familiar red, white and blue motif of British Airways. At LAX it was business as usual and the airport bustled with people milling around with luggage and badly wrapped souvenirs, relatives and friends saying their farewells, uniformed security guards with their walkie-talkies and the Vietnam War veterans rattling buckets of coins for charity. Following Hugh, who’d commandeered a trolley, Frankie walked through the terminal, air-conditioned cool after the humidity outside, weaving in and out of queues of passengers, clutching passports and tickets, waiting to check in.

  ‘Aaah, here it is,’ announced Hugh brightly, and then groaned. ‘Bloody typical. It’s always got to be the longest one.’ A line of people and their belongings zigzagged backwards and forwards between white barrier tapes. Begrudgingly he joined the back of the queue. ‘Are you OK, darling? You’ve been very quiet.’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Frankie half-heartedly forced a smile. But she wasn’t fine. All the way on the drive to the airport she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Rita’s last words. ‘It wasn’t just a fling . . . not for him anyway.’ They threw her judgement into doubt. For so long she’d been trying to convince herself that Reilly had been just a holiday romance – and she nearly had – but now she felt as if she’d been hiding from the truth.

  That first night she’d spent with Reilly, after the party, he’d said something to her that she’d never forgotten. That she’d know when she was over someone when she didn’t think about them before she fell asleep at night or when she woke up in the morning. Their face wouldn’t be the one she saw when she closed her eyes. And last night when she’d lain in bed next to Hugh, trying to fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing, it hadn’t been Hugh her mind had wandered to in that drowsy state between awake and sleeping, and it hadn’t been his face she’d seen when she turned out the light. It had been Reilly’s.

  The queue moved forward. In front of them was a couple in their late twenties. He had his arm around her, she was leaning her head on his shoulder. They seemed so comfortable together. Frankie couldn’t help watching as they kissed tenderly. And at the way he looked at her. It was exactly how Reilly used to look at her. Trying to ignore the tug of sadness she felt, she turned away and glanced across at Hugh.

  Busy filling in baggage tags, he was paying no attention to her. He was always like this at airports, always intent on taking control. She watched as he painstakingly attached them with their elastic fasteners to her suitcases, which were fraying at the edges from years of going on package holidays. A stark contrast to his expensive matching set of ergonomically shaped luggage on wheels from Samsonite.

  ‘Next please.’ The British Airways attendant behind the desk waved them forward.

  ‘Blimey, that’s us,’ hissed Hugh, dropping his biro as he rushed to manoeuvre their trolley forwards. Always competitive, he raced towards the desk as if he was crossing the finishing line.

  Frankie wasn’t in such a hurry. In fact she felt rooted to the spot.

  ‘How many pieces of luggage?’

  ‘Six, I’m afraid. My fiancée doesn’t like to travel light.’ Hugh gave a false laugh in an attempt to charm the stewardess into letting them off a charge for excess baggage, and maybe even upgrading them into business. ‘Do you, darling?’ He put his arm round her waist, but it felt awkward and stiff. A Public Display of Affection for the benefit of the uniform behind the counter.

  Frankie didn’t answer. She couldn’t say anything, but inside she was being deafened by a voice yelling, ‘Stop, I’ve made a mistake.’ Because she had. She’d made one hell of a mistake. Hugh might not have changed but she had. She was a different person from the girl who’d propped up the bar at Heathrow, knocking back vodkas in an attempt to block out the pain, and who’d arrived in LA nursing a hangover and a broken heart.

  And by finally admitting it to herself, she knew there was no way she could go back to her life with Hugh. Their relationship was past its sell-by date. Hugh had asked her to marry him, but never once had he told her he loved her. And she hadn’t told him. Because she wasn’t in love with Hugh any more. Her heart started beati
ng like a jackhammer as she finally admitted it. She was in love with Reilly.

  ‘Would you prefer a window seat or an aisle?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘What?’ The stewardess and Hugh spoke in unison.

  ‘I’m not going with you.’ Her pulse was racing so fast she could hardly get the words out. But as she did she felt a huge wave of release. There was no doubt in her mind that she was doing the right thing. In fact, for the first time in weeks she felt sure. She loved Reilly. OK, so she’d probably blown it for ever, but maybe, just maybe, there was a chance, and if she didn’t try she’d never know. Rita was right. She had to follow her heart. It wasn’t a gamble. She’d got nothing to lose.

  She looked at Hugh. For the first time ever he seemed flustered.

  ‘Have you forgotten something? If you’ve left something behind we can always ship it over,’ he jabbered, his voice rising higher. He pulled at his collar, which was beginning to feel tight and uncomfortable.

  Frankie shook her head. ‘I haven’t forgotten anything.’ She was unshakeable. Now she’d started she couldn’t stop. ‘It’s not the same between us any more, Hugh. When you finished the relationship I was devastated, I never thought I was going to get over it. You broke my heart, you know . . .’ She looked at him for a moment. Suddenly she felt rather sorry for him. ‘I suppose a lot of it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said yes when you asked me to marry you. But when you turned up in Vegas, all those old feelings came flooding back. Except now I know that’s exactly what they are. Old feelings.’ She swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘I’m not in love with you any more.’

  It was a slap in the face. Hugh looked incredulous. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Look, I know it’s going to take a bit of time to get used to each other again,’ he said, clearing his throat self-consciously. ‘And if you’re trying to tell me you’ve slept with someone else that’s fine. Obviously I don’t want to know the details, but I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit to a couple of liaisons.’ He blushed. ‘I mean, I haven’t exactly been celibate these past few months either.’

  Despite his confession, Frankie remained steadfast. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me sleeping with someone else.’

  ‘You mean you have?’ He was aghast.

  Becoming impatient, passengers were beginning to stare, craning their necks to see what was holding them up at the front of the queue. Feeling their eyes upon him, Hugh began to shuffle uncomfortably. He didn’t like being the centre of attention, unless he was on the golf course. What were all the bloody Americans staring at? What did they think he was? An animal in a zoo?

  Clearing his throat again, he ran his fingers through his hair exasperatedly and, leaning closer, hissed, ‘Look, is this some kind of way of paying me back? I know you were upset about us breaking up on your birthday, but I’ve said I’m sorry.’ He glared at a woman eating popcorn who was straying over the painted line so that she could hear better and relay information back along the line to the other passengers.

  ‘I’m not trying to pay you back.’

  ‘If you want me to grovel, I’m not going to.’ Irritated by his unwelcome audience, Hugh threw the crowd his filthiest look. At this rate he might as well start selling tickets.

  But they ignored him and continued watching. This was better than the movies.

  ‘I don’t want you to.’ Frankie sighed and, wriggling her finger, she took off the ring and held it out to him. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh.’

  The buzz of anticipation quietened as the passengers strained to hear the cliffhanger. As did the stewardesses, who’d been watching the scenario unfold with bated breath.

  In disbelief, Hugh stared at the ring. ‘What are you saying?’

  She couldn’t resist using his line. ‘I’m saying it’s over.’

  There was the sound of a few handclaps as, gathering together her luggage, Frankie turned and left Hugh stunned at the check-in. She knew he wouldn’t follow her, his pride wouldn’t let him. And she was glad. She didn’t want him to. Feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she dragged her luggage through the crowds of passengers, who stared at her as if she was some kind of minor celebrity, across the airport towards the sliding doors. God knows what happened now. What she was going to do in LA with no money or job. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. But one thing was certain – this time she’d made the right decision.

  She didn’t stop walking until she was outside. Until the handles of her suitcases were cutting into her fingers and, unable to carry them any further, she had to drop them on the pavement. Taking a deep breath of hot, dusty, polluted Californian air, she leaned wearily against the wall, idly watching the stream of cars dropping off at departures, coming and going.

  Wasn’t this the part in the movie when the guy the heroine’s in love with turns up out of the blue and tells her he loves her? She smiled to herself glumly. This might be LA, but she was under no illusion. Her earlier optimism was just wishful thinking. She’d blown it with Reilly. Well and truly fucked up. He was never going to forgive her, and who could blame him? She’d left him standing at the altar on New Year’s Eve.

  Crouching down on the floor, she fumbled in her bag and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Rita had given them to her ‘in case of emergencies’. She smiled to herself. She should really call Rita, but she couldn’t face it just yet. She needed a few minutes by herself, to try and get her head straight. She’d phone her after she’d had this cigarette. Now, if she could just find a light . . . Bloody typical, she had everything but matches – Tampax, chewing gum, a couple of leaky biros.

  Her fingers brushed against her wallet and underneath, half hidden, she saw Reilly’s ring. She’d been going to throw it away but something had stopped her – sentimentality, stupidness, hope . . . call it what you want but she hadn’t been able to. She slipped it on her finger. She was being stupid. She and Reilly were over, and the sooner she accepted that and got on with the rest of her life the better. She sniffed. Now where were those bloody matches?

  ‘Do you need a light?’

  Hearing a voice behind her, she looked up.

  Reilly.

  For a moment she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She’d rehearsed what to say if she ever saw him again, she’d got it all worked out. But now, staring at him as he stood in front of her, wearing his knackered old jeans and a scruffy T-shirt he refused to throw away, unshaven, with his hair all over the place and those bloody big blue eyes she could drown in, her prepared speech went out the window.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He held her gaze, his face breaking into a long, lazy smile. ‘Did you really think I was going to let a pain-in-the-ass English chick get away that easily?’

  It wasn’t exactly the romantic answer she’d been hoping for. ‘Are you saying I’m a pain in the arse?’

  ‘Well, you did jilt me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that exactly . . .’

  She broke off as Reilly pulled her towards him. ‘Shut up, Frankie.’

  And before she could argue, he leaned down and kissed her.

  Who said it only ever happened in the movies?

  ALEXANDRA POTTER

  You’re the One That I Don’t Want

  How do you know he’s The One?

  Are you getting butterflies just thinking about him?

  Have you dreamt of marrying him?

  Do you just know?

  When Lucy meets Nate in Venice, aged 18, she knows instantly he’s The One. And, caught up in the whirlwind of first love, they kiss under the Bridge of Sighs at sunset. Which – according to legend – will tie them together forever.

  But ten years later, they’ve completely lost contact. That is, until Lucy moves to New York and the legend brings them back together. Again. And again. And again.

  But what if Nate isn’t The One? How is she going to get rid of him? Because forever could be a very long time . . .


  A funny, magical romantic comedy about how finding The One doesn’t always have to mean happily ever after.

  ALEXANDRA POTTER

  What’s New, Pussycat?

  What would you do if your boyfriend proposed?

  – Say yes and throw your arms around him

  – Text everyone with your good news

  – Take out a subscription to Brides magazine

  Delilah does none of the above. Instead she packs her bags and heads to London in search of a new life, and a new man. Only she meets two. Charlie, the sexy media mogul and Sam, best friend and confidante.

  Everything seems perfect. Thrown into a whirlwind of glamorous parties, five-star restaurants and designer penthouses, Delilah couldn’t be happier. After all, it’s a million miles away from her old life. And her old self. Which is exactly what she wanted.

  Isn’t it?

  ALEXANDRA POTTER

  Me and Mr Darcy

  He’s every woman’s fantasy . . .

  After a string of nightmare relationships, Emily Albright has decided she’s had it with modern-day men. She’d rather pour herself a glass of wine, curl up with Pride and Prejudice and step into a time where men were dashing, devoted and honourable, strode across fields in breeches, their damp shirts clinging to their chests, and weren’t into internet porn.