‘Well?’ chivvied Rita impatiently, interrupting Frankie’s thoughts.
‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ she sighed wearily, and looked at her empty glass. ‘Can we go home? I’m tired. Too much champagne.’ Her head felt heavy and fuzzy.
‘Oh . . . yeah, of course we can. We’ll get a cab. Dorian never leaves a party before lunchtime.’
Trying to hide her disappointment at the distinct lack of juicy details, Rita linked arms with Frankie and steered her back through the party, towards the entrance and the line of waiting taxis. There was no point trying to get anything out of Frankie when she was in one of her moods, she thought, beckoning a cabbie, but on the other hand when had that ever stopped her.
‘So what’s his name?’ Trying to sound blasé, she opened the door of the cab, gave the driver the address and clambered inside.
‘Who?’ asked Frankie, squeezing in next to her and slamming the door.
Fidgeting with her skirt, which had risen up to her waist, Rita huffed exasperatedly. Wasn’t it obvious? What was wrong with Frankie? Had being dumped made her blind to mankind – and she was talking grade A mankind. ‘That sexy bastard back there.’ She motioned behind them as the taxi pulled out of the driveway.
‘Him?’ Frankie thought for a brief moment as they pulled on to Sunset and realised that, although she’d now had two rows with the guy, on both sides of the Atlantic, she didn’t have a clue what his name was. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied lamely.
Rita groaned with frustration. ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s bloody gorgeous.’
Closing her eyes, Frankie leaned her throbbing head against the back of the seat and didn’t say anything. Bloody gorgeous? More like bloody-minded.
Back at the apartment, Frankie lay under the duvet. She couldn’t sleep. Spread-eagled next to her was Rita, wearing black satin eyepatches and industrial-strength earplugs, her face smeared with wrinkle-removing, skin-tightening, pore-reducing, look-eighteen-again-for-only-eighty-dollars night cream. She was snoring faintly. Frankie listened to the rhythmic drone. She was used to sharing a bed with quiet-as-a-mouse Hugh, who would lie in the foetal position all night without stirring. Unlike Rita, who alternated farmyard animal impressions with bursts of kick-boxing.
Nursing a bruised shin, Frankie stared miserably up at the ceiling. It had started to rotate like the drum of a washing machine. She closed her eyes, thinking this might help. It didn’t. It only made her more aware of the half-dozen glasses of champagne fizzing like battery acid in the pit of her stomach. Why the hell did she drink so much? At this rate her newly acquired status, single unemployed smoker, was fast turning into single unemployed alcoholic smoker. On second thoughts, single unemployed depressed alcoholic smoker was more like it. It was a sobering thought. But not as sobering as the parched, dry-as-a-bone thought that interrupted her self-pity by waving its arms in the air and gasping ‘Water’.
Seized by her boozy thirst, she wriggled out of the futon, trying not to dislodge Fred and Ginger, who were curled up in two tight balls of fluff at the bottom of the duvet, and stumbled blindly across the bedroom, tripping up over Rita’s discarded stilettos. Fuck, she cursed silently. Staggering upstairs to the kitchen, her arms outstretched in the darkness like a divining rod, she yanked open the door of the fridge.
It threw out bright light across the darkness of the open-plan kitchen and into the living room. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, she peered gingerly inside – Rita was not renowned for hygiene – but there was no sign of water, and she’d been told not to drink it from the tap (which ruled out clinging on to the sink, head upside down, hair trailing in the washing up as she clamped her mouth around the mixer tap). In fact the fridge was pretty much empty, apart from a mouldy old half-eaten Domino’s pizza cowering on the top shelf and a bottle of some kind of thick green revolting-looking protein and vegetable shake called Defense Up. Frankie’s stomach waved a white flag in horror, but dehydration and the threat of one hell of a hangover won the day. She took a tentative swig. It tasted like liquidised sprouts. Yeeuchh. She put it back. Defense Up was going to be thrown up if she drank any more.
Defeated, she retreated from the fridge and wandered across the living room to the sofa. Absent-mindedly she looked at her watch: midnight. Back in London it would be eight on a Monday morning. Hugh would still be asleep in bed. She closed her eyes, thinking about him. Any minute now his radio alarm would click on to Capital FM, and he’d lazily roll across the mattress, eyes still closed, and prop his head up against a pillow. And he’d lie there, not moving, until the news had finished, before opening his eyes, turning off the radio, climbing out of bed, stretching in front of the window, yawning twice, running his fingers through his flattened hair and sleepily rubbing his smooth chest. Then, clad only in a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts, he’d pad across the landing to the bathroom, check out his stomach in the mirror – full on, side view (relaxed and breathing in) – inspect for any nasal, ear or rogue eyebrow hair (removing any culprits quickly with his tweezers), before disappearing into the shower with the Aveda range for a good half an hour.
She sighed wistfully. His lengthy bathroom routine used to drive her mad, but now she missed it, as only a heartbroken ex-girlfriend could do. If she could just have him back, she swore she’d never get annoyed again. She’d never stand in her dressing gown, tugging at the shower curtain and moaning at him to get a move on, she’d never complain at all the little bits of dental floss she kept finding like wiggly white worms around the flat, she’d never tell him off for using the last of the moisturising conditioner – again. She missed him and she wanted him back.
Suffering both inside and out, she hugged her sofa-cushion boyfriend and stared vacantly at the debris on the coffee table. And that’s when, amidst the jumble of magazines, tissues and clutter that followed Rita wherever she went, her eye fell on something. The telephone.
The temptation was too much. Reaching over, she picked up the handset. It was like holding a loaded gun. For a moment she hesitated . . . Should she pull the trigger?
Of course the answer was no, no, no, no. Don’t Drink and Dial. But it was too late. There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a ringing tone. Her mouth went dry and she tried to swallow. She waited.
Suddenly there was a click and the sound of a voice. ‘Hello?’ It was Hugh.
Her heart raced. Her mouth seemed to seize up. The phone felt like a grenade in the palm of her hand.
‘Hello?’ His voice again. This time more impatient.
She had to speak. She wanted to speak . . . ‘Hugh, it’s me, Frankie,’ she blurted out, the desperation in her voice scotching any hopes she might have had of playing it cool.
‘Frankie?’ One word. Two syllables. From that she had to try and work out if he was pleased, pissed off, excited, concerned, sad, missing her. He didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Where are you?’
‘Los Angeles.’
‘What?’
She could hear him scrabbling about, and the radio providing the background music was switched off. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’m in LA.’ She tried to steady her quivering voice.
‘LA?’ His voice rose an octave. ‘What the hell are you doing there?’ (Was that concern, annoyance or jealousy? She wasn’t sure.)
‘I’m staying with Rita.’ Damn. Why hadn’t she said something witty, clever, funny? Why hadn’t she breezed, ‘I’m having the time of my life.’ Her eyes started to well up with tears. Probably because she was having the shittiest time of her life. ‘I miss you.’ Shit, shit, shit. What was she doing? She had to be strong – cool – collected. ‘I miss you so much.’ The words tumbled out as she started to cave in. And now she was crying. She could almost hear any points she might have gained by flouncing off to LA being scrubbed off, one by one, with each sniffle.
Hugh didn’t say anything. There was an awkward pause. She heard more fumbling in the background, the sound of a door closing. ‘Look, this isn’t a goo
d time to talk. I’m getting ready for work and I’m running late.’
Frankie looked at her watch. Five past eight UK time. Normally he’d be doing the stomach thing in the bathroom mirror.
‘I’ll call you back.’ He sounded so official. As if he was arranging a business meeting.
‘When?’ she stabbed, the alarm ringing loudly in her voice. By this point she was past trying to remain cool and aloof. She white-knuckled the handset.
‘Soon.’
She wanted to shriek, ‘What day? What time?’ so she could stay in the apartment glued to the phone. But of course she didn’t. Instead she gave him her number. Twice.
Then he said goodbye and put the phone down. Just like that.
Puffy-eyed, she stared dismally at the receiver. She knew Hugh was never going to ring back. Deep down she’d known that even when she was giving him her number, but she’d so desperately wanted to believe him. As desperately as she’d wanted him to say that he’d made a terrible mistake, that he loved her, wanted to marry her and spend the rest of his life with her. But Hugh hadn’t said any of those things. And she knew he wasn’t going to. This wasn’t one of those movies she used to watch with her mum, with their soft-focus, saccharine-sweet, girl-gets-boy happy endings. This was real life. Her life. No life.
Clutching the phone tightly to her chest, she curled into a ball, burrowed her head into the sofa and sobbed her bloody heart out.
12
‘Who was that?’
‘Oh, just a friend.’
Walking back into the bedroom, Hugh put the phone down and leaned across the crumpled duvet, brushing his hand across the pair of 34A breasts belonging to the young skinny blonde he’d met last night at Adam and Jessica’s engagement party. She was lying naked in his bed, her St Tropez tan smeared over his pillowcases and the twin peaks of her Wonderbra lying, like two black lacy yoghurt pots, on the carpet.
‘Why are they ringing so early?’ The blonde opened one smudged-mascara eye and peered at Hugh, who was engrossed with playing with her nipples, twiddling them backwards and forwards between finger and thumb as if he was trying to tune in a radio. Why did men always think that turned women on? She stifled a yawn. She had such a stinker of a hangover. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep.
‘Ummm, who knows?’ replied Hugh, putting one of her nipples in his mouth and sucking determinedly as if it was a boiled sweet.
Talk about bad timing. He’d woken up feeling horny and had just been in the middle of groping the blonde when the phone rang. At first he wasn’t going to answer it, but he’d had second thoughts. It could be work-related. It wasn’t. It was Frankie, crying down the phone and telling him how much she missed him. Which was the last thing he wanted to hear when he was trying to shag some girl he’d picked up at a party.
Not that the phone call had come as a surprise. He’d been expecting it ever since he’d come home to the flat and discovered she’d packed her bags and disappeared with those bloody cats. To be honest, that had been a surprise. He’d assumed she’d be waiting for him when he got home, wanting to talk for hours, trying to persuade him to change his mind. He never thought she’d just move out without saying a word. And not only that, but move to Los Angeles. He’d thought she’d stay at her parents’, or on somebody’s sofa, but never Los Angeles.
He couldn’t believe it. Frankie was normally so sensible. She never made a rash decision, was always so cautious about everything. This was totally so unlike her – and LA of all places, it just wasn’t her style, she’d hate it. In fact she’d probably be home in no time. She was obviously really upset, but what could he do? Like Adam said, he shouldn’t feel guilty about what had happened. OK, the timing could have been better, what with her losing her job and all that, but what else could he have done? They’d been going out for nearly two years and they’d had some really good times, but at the end of the day he was only thirty-two. He wasn’t ready to settle down and get married, and that’s what Frankie wanted. Apart from Adam, most of his mates were single and always going out on the piss, having a laugh, pulling women. He’d been missing out.
He squeezed the blonde’s breasts, as if they were a couple of ripe plums. Here he was, about to get his end away, and he was thinking about Frankie. What the hell was he doing? He shoved all thoughts of her and the phone call to the back of his mind. He’d think about it some other time. Right now he had more important matters to hand.
With the resurrection of his hard-on, his boxer shorts began to strain uncomfortably. He tried to casually wriggle out of them. It wasn’t easy. He managed to get them past his hips but then the elastic waistband wedged around his knees.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t your girlfriend?’
The blonde was suspicious. The flat was very tidy for a bachelor, and she had found a pair of eyebrow tweezers on the shelf in the bathroom.
Hugh was starting to feel frustrated. He’d now been single for over forty-eight hours and he was desperate to celebrate his new-found freedom. Last night the blonde had seemed up for it, flirting with him at the bar, letting him have a bit of a grope in the taxi, agreeing to come in for coffee. And then of course, when they’d got off with each other, he’d thought it was in the bag, right up until just before the grand finale, when she’d suddenly played the modesty card, saying they hardly knew each other, and he’d had to make do with a hand job. Now she wanted to lie in his bed and talk about Frankie. He hadn’t invited her back to talk, for God’s sake.
‘No, it was a friend, OK?’ he snapped impatiently.
Disgruntled, the blonde tutted sulkily and pulled the duvet tightly around her.
Realising that he wasn’t going to be celebrating anything if he wasn’t careful, Hugh quickly changed tack and kissed the end of her nose. ‘Come on, Carol. Don’t you like me?’ he whispered in his best baby-talk whine, kissing the side of her face, her neck, along her collarbone, nibbling at her ear lobe.
‘It’s Cheryl,’ pouted the blonde moodily, hanging resolutely on to the duvet.
‘I meant Cheryl,’ cooed Hugh between gritted teeth, edging himself further on top of her.
The blonde lay stiffly beneath him. Christ, this was hard work, thought Hugh, remembering the warm, easy, comfortable sex he’d enjoyed with Frankie. He stepped up his efforts. ‘Mmm, you’re just so gorgeous,’ he continued, kissing her neck, throwing in a few moans for good measure. ‘Mmmm . . . mmmm.’ Tireless in his pursuit of a shag, he was determined to hang on in there – he glanced at his watch – well, at least for another five minutes. After all, he didn’t want to be late for the office.
Luckily it didn’t take that long. Like a doctor trying to find signs of life, he suddenly felt her move ever so slightly beneath him, as if she was starting to respond to his valiant attempts at resuscitation. Feeling success at his fingertips, he increased the moans.
‘Aren’t you getting a little hot under there?’ he whispered, tugging at the duvet. She loosened her grip and, with a quick jerk as if he was a magician pulling away the tablecloth, he finally freed both the duvet and his boxer shorts and squashed his naked body triumphantly against hers.
‘I really like you, Cheryl,’ he murmured, moving in for the kill. ‘You’re just so different from other girls.’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she protested, but it was somewhat half-hearted.
‘No, it’s true, honestly. I think you’re amazing. And I’m not just saying that because I want to make love to you –’ that sounded so much better than shag – ‘because if you don’t want to make love, that’s OK.’ Just as long as you tell me now, so I can cut the crap and get ready for work.
‘Hmm, that’s what all blokes say,’ gasped the blonde as Hugh stealthily edged his fingers up her inner thighs. She was beginning to sound doubtful.
‘No, seriously, I’ve never felt like this before. It’s not as if I sleep around, you know. I’m the kind of guy that wants to be in a relationship.’
Christ, if Frankie cou
ld hear him now. There was a pause. The blonde was definitely weakening. It must have been the relationship bit that did it.
‘And I’d really like it if you and me could get to know each other better . . . a lot better.’ Lay it on with a trowel – thickly – quickly.
‘You do?’
He could almost hear the key in the lock turning. He was getting closer . . . and closer . . . Her legs were being eased apart.
‘In fact I think you’re the kind of girl I could fall in love with.’ It was his final, last-ditch effort. It worked.
‘Ooohhh.’
Like a champagne cork popping out of a bottle, the blonde let out an explosive shriek and grabbed firmly hold of his buttocks . . .
Bull’s-eye.
Hugh grinned triumphantly. She’d fallen for it. He’d cracked it. He was in.
13
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m three months pregnant,’ blurted Rita. She looked at Frankie, her bottom lip quivering.
‘Pregnant?’
Rita nodded tearfully. ‘And it’s twins.’
‘My God,’ whispered Frankie.
‘But there’s something else.’ Rita paused to wipe a tear that had rolled down her cheek. ‘The doctors have told me I’ve only six months to live.’
Silence. ‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Rita, flinging the script for Malibu Motel on top of the restaurant’s menu.
‘I think the part’s yours.’ Frankie smiled. ‘After tomorrow’s audition it’s going to be Goodbye, unemployed actress and Hello, soap star. You were great, honestly.’