‘So?’
‘Well, where are we?’ I pushed up my sunglasses to take a look around in the dark. Rows and rows and rows of cars. I suppose it was Sunday, it made sense for people to be at their church. ‘Wouldn’t it have been faster to walk?’
‘Jesus Christ, they ought to throw you out of the city.’ Jenny squinted in the low light and swung the car recklessly across two empty spaces. ‘What did I tell you about people never walking in LA?’
‘And this is it? A shopping centre?’ I just could not believe it.
‘The Beverly Center, honey.’ She scrabbled around in the glove compartment. ‘This is the mall in LA.’
We could have been in Milton Keynes. ‘A shopping centre?’
‘Hey, did I rock up to LA with like, two T-shirts and a ski suit?’ she asked me. ‘No. But you did, so you need to do some shopping. So hush up and get your ass into Bloomingdale’s.’
Once I’d got over the disappointment that was ‘the mall’ and had drunk my body weight in Jamba Juice, I started to focus on the task at hand.
‘So tell me everything that happened with Joe,’ I mumbled through the silk BCBG paisley maxi-dress that Jenny was trying to pull over my head in the Bloomingdale’s changing rooms. I already had an olive green Roberto Rodriguez number, a yellow Phillip Lim 5.1 shift, black Kerrigan silk dress and half a dozen T-shirt dresses from Ella Moss, Splendid and James Perse hanging from the wall that Jenny had decreed were ‘keepers’. So far I’d managed to distract her from the swimwear section.
‘Nothing to tell,’ she said, standing back, head cocked to one side, trying to work out what was wrong with the dress. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘The dress is about a foot too long, Jenny,’ I explained, hoping to get that look off her face. She looked so disappointed in me. But that could be because she had already clocked my non-matching underwear, something Jenny and my mother felt very strongly about. ‘And what do you mean “nothing”? He didn’t make any sort of move?’
‘Nothing, nada, zip,’ Jenny pouted. ‘I don’t know, he just wasn’t taking the hint. And the dress isn’t too long, it’s BCBG—you’re too short. Try this. How’s the phone sex going? I bet Brooklyn is really good at the dirty talk, right?’
‘Shut up.’ I blushed inside the column of silk that was being yanked up over my head. ‘I actually haven’t heard from him yet.’
‘Really?’ Jenny didn’t even try to cover up the surprise in her voice as she zipped me into a very tight, very blue French Connection strapless mini-dress. ‘But didn’t you call him last night? You know, when you ditched me.’
‘I didn’t ditch you,’ I squeaked—the dress was tight around the old rack. ‘And no, I couldn’t get through to him. It’s fine, we’ve only been here for—what—a day? And he’s working all hours on the new record. The record company are pushing them to get it out at the end of the year or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ she replied, slipping on the BCBG dress and looking like a goddess. Bitch. ‘I just wish he wasn’t so keen to talk to you every single time you’re out and I’m in the tub.’
‘Hmm,’ I was officially not thinking about it. So far, my star-studded Hollywood adventure had been nothing but a disappointment, and wondering what Alex was doing two and a half thousand miles away was not going to help me have any more fun.
‘Jenny, if I wanted to go somewhere really glam, where would you take me?’
‘Seriously, would you get over it? I know this is a mall but it has the most stores, it’s where everyone shops,’ she said distractedly, holding out a Nanette Lepore petal pink number and a navy Theory shift. ‘I mean, we’ll totally hit Melrose, maybe The Grove before we go, but The Beverly Center has everything…I saw Britney here once. Before the whole head-shaving thing, when she was allowed out alone. And you can’t afford Rodeo Drive, I know what you make.’
‘No, I mean something really Hollywood?’ I tried not to pull a face at the pink dress. ‘A real, genuine LA experience.’
‘Uh, maybe lunch at The Ivy? Drinks at La Deux?’ she held up the pink for my approval. ‘I guess maybe LAX or Hyde or somewhere if you wanted a club. I’m kinda out of the loop on where’s hot.’
‘Lunch actually sounds really good.’ I held up a deep red Elizabeth & James number, Jenny nodded in agreement and stuck the pink dress back on the end of a random rail. If we had to discuss every shopping decision out loud, we would have no time to cover the other, almost equally important subjects in life. ‘Is The Ivy nice?’
‘Uh, I guess?’ Jenny draped the red silk across herself, slipping her head between the hanger and the dress before heaving a pile of dresses into my arms. ‘You should get these. Joe could probably get us a reservation. I’ll get Daphne to meet us there.’
I clapped happily as Jenny wandered off to get better reception on her mobile, the red silk still swishing around her neck. So what if I’d been stood up by my movie star? What man could compare with Jenny Lopez, shopping and a super-swank restaurant for lunch?
‘Can I set up a changing room for you?’
A helpful shop assistant appeared at my elbow and held her arms out to take the masses of silk and jersey that I was cradling. I paused for a second and thought of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel. And then of my credit card limit. And then of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel.
‘Actually, could you just take them to the counter?’ I asked. She nodded gleefully and literally ran across the shop floor. Sneaking a peek in my bag, I checked my mobile. Well, certainly not Alex, still nothing. I sighed and swung my bag around my back. I was going to need dessert.
It turned out that my interpretation of the real Hollywood and Jenny’s interpretation of the real Hollywood were very different. I couldn’t argue with the fact that The Ivy was exclusive and swanky, but unlike genuine A-list haunts in New York, there was no quiet dark entrance, designed to keep the undesirables away through sheer intimidation. Instead, it was slap-bang in the middle of a main road, nestled in between a row of shops and smothered by tourists and star-spotters. McDonald’s on Oxford Street was less conspicuous.
Flashbulbs clicked and buzzed all around us as we pushed our way up the little footpath leading from the street into a pretty little country cottage. I paused on the patio and turned back towards the sidewalk—paparazzi waving, shouting and screaming. Blinking back towards the restaurant, I followed Jenny through the calm, quiet and unwaveringly beautiful diners, none of whom appeared to actually be eating; instead they were concentrating very hard on pretending that they weren’t a living breathing version of the ‘Spotted’ page in Heat magazine. Trying to navigate a safe route through the wrought-iron tables and chairs and dozens of stiff cardboard carrier bags, I saw a hand shoot up at the back of the patio and wave us over.
‘Jesus, why on earth did you want to meet here, J doll?’ The hand belonged to Jenny’s friend Daphne, who introduced herself and greeted us both with extravagant kisses. ‘It’s such a circus.’
‘Angie wanted a real LA experience.’ Jenny peered over the top of her sunglasses at me. ‘And she got it.’
‘This isn’t really what I was expecting,’ I said, switching my attention from the heaving crowds back on the pavement to Daphne. ‘I was thinking, well, I don’t know. Glamorous? Swanky? LA is weird.’
‘Yeah, get used to it,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I ordered. I’m fucking starving.’
Given that the majority of The Ivy’s clientele appeared to be the exact same group of blondes I’d seen at Toast that morning, who had just about had time to go home and get changed into little sundresses and rich old men instead of Ugg boots and gym boys, Daphne stood out a mile. Just like everyone else here, she was undeniably beautiful but, unlike anyone else, she was a vision of retro beauty. Her black shiny hair was coiffed into a Betty Paige bob and her porcelain skin made my English-rose-slash-pasty-Brit complexion look as though I’d been in the Bahamas for six weeks. Teamed with the most precise eyeliner and perfect rub
y red lips I’d ever had the privilege to behold, Daphne was an arresting sight. Jenny had told me she was an artist and a stylist, but I hadn’t figured that her talent with a paintbrush would run to her eyeliner. Next to her polished perfection, I felt as if I’d turned up in my decorating clothes.
But weirdly, no one was giving Daphne so much as a second glance. Instead, every single person in the restaurant was pretending not to look at a tiny little brunette, skulking in the corner and wearing a ridiculous number of layers for such a sunny day, who was sitting with an incredibly average-looking man in a business suit.
‘Who is that?’ I asked quietly, joining in the pretending-not-to-notice game. ‘I feel like I should know her.’
‘You should,’ Jenny said, sipping one of the gimlets Daphne had ordered for us. ‘It’s Tessa DiArmo, the singer? She stayed at The Union just before Christmas. Pain in my ass.’
‘Everyone’s a pain in your arse,’ I said, giving in to curiosity and turning around for a good look. The girl was genuinely minuscule, with masses of wavy light brown hair and glowing tanned skin. Whatever ‘it’ was that celebs had, Tessa apparently bathed in it every morning. Without batting so much as an eyelash, she had the attention of every single person in the restaurant. ‘I never saw her in The Union. She’s so pretty.’
‘Wouldn’t cut it with us, huh J?’ Daphne said, sipping the fresh cocktail that had been silently replaced. ‘You can’t shake what ain’t there.’
‘Shake?’ I tried to register the looks that were exchanging between the two girls, Jenny seeming slightly startled and Daphne smiling innocently into her drink.
‘Jenny told you how we met, right?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I turned to look at Jenny. ‘She actually didn’t.’
‘Daphne,’ Jenny let out a warning shot. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daphne wasn’t going to be hushed by a stern tone of voice.
‘Chill, J, it’s so not a big deal.’ She pressed her lips together, refreshing her pout. ‘We used to work together. When J lived here last time?’
‘When she was acting?’ I asked.
‘When she was dancing.’
I bit my lip and looked back at Jenny. Impossible. She was blushing.
‘Dancing? You danced?’ I really, really wanted Jenny to nod, smile and possibly demonstrate some tap moves.
‘Oh baby doll, I do not believe Miss J never told you about our act?’ Daphne pouted.
‘You had an act?’ This was too much.
‘Sure,’ Daphne said, as a waiter appeared with three giant salads. ‘A burlesque act.’
Jenny’s blush faded until her clear caramel skin paled to a sallow sea green. Even behind her giant sunglasses, I could see her eyes were as big as the huge salad plates in front of us. Simultaneously, we both reached for our gimlets and drained the glasses.
‘Well,’ I finally managed, ‘Jenny Lopez, you dark horse. I should have known.’
‘Excuse me?’ Jenny reached across the table and finished Daphne’s cocktail. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘I just meant, you know, you carry yourself like a dancer,’ I protested. Just one cocktail in and I’d already had too much to drink to lie convincingly. Daphne sat cackling across the table and making ‘more drinks’ signs at our waiter.
‘And you’ve got good rhythm?’ There was no way to dig my way out of this. ‘No, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to fess up about this one. Burlesque dancing, Jenny Lopez?’
‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ She pushed her chair backwards, straight into the person behind her. ‘And when I get back, I really don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Of course,’ I called as Jenny stormed across the patio, her massive tote bag bashing diners in the back of the head as she went. Waiting until she vanished inside the restaurant, I turned back to Daphne. ‘I reckon we’ve got about three minutes: go.’
‘OK.’ She cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Jenny and I met about seven years ago. She was out here waitressing, trying out at all these open auditions and shit, basically not getting anywhere. I was working in this vintage store on Melrose and, well, kind of stripping. But classy stripping, you know, not like “drunken bachelor parties” stripping.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I nodded, trying to think of an example of classy stripping. And failing.
‘So we were both at this club one night,’ Daphne went on, ‘and we got to talking, got to dancing, got to some serious fucking drinking, and so I tell her that there’s an open call for dancers on a new music show the next day. I kind of didn’t think she would show, but I turn up and there she is. The full Flashdance, seriously: legwarmers, one-shoulder sweater, the whole outfit.
‘But the problem is, Jenny can’t really dance. I mean, she can move, right? But she’s not a trained dancer. And look at me. I am so not what MTV are looking for. Anyways, we get up there, basically make asses out of ourselves, and just when we’re about to go get real drunk and laugh about the whole thing, this chick comes up to us and asks if we’ve ever thought about doing burlesque.’
‘And then what happened?’ The vision of Jenny dressed as an extra from Fame was almost enough for me, but I had to get the rest of the story.
‘What did I freaking say?’ A firm slap on the back of my head heralded Jenny’s return from the bathroom. ‘We’re so not talking about this.’
‘Oh, we so are,’ I pushed another gimlet at her. ‘Get this down you.’
‘Seriously,’ Jenny necked the drink, ‘we’re not. We’re also not going to be able to drive the Mustang back to the hotel. I’m wasted. I totally forgot how strong these were.’
‘I’ll drive, let’s just have one more,’ I said, tapping her hand. ‘Go on, Daphne.’
‘No, do not go on Daphne,’ Jenny shook her head. ‘And you cannot drive. Angie, honey, you’re tanked. Can we just eat now please?’
For the want of knowing what else to do, I picked at my salad, smiling, nodding and accepting more drinks as they appeared. Jenny stared across the table at Daphne, her face like thunder. Dessert was looking more and more necessary to save the day. Or at least another gimlet.
‘So where are we going next?’ Daphne asked after the waiter had taken away our plates. ‘You guys have a pool, right?’
‘We’re going to get the check and go back to the hotel,’ Jenny said, looking at her watch.’ Angie’s on standby for Mr Movie star and you still need to call Alex, right?’
‘I do need to call Alex,’ I slapped Jenny’s hand in agreement. Maybe I was a little bit tipsy. ‘Can you hear something?’
‘Angie, honey, it’s your phone.’ Jenny fished my BlackBerry out of my (divine) bag and held it up to my face. I leaned towards it, getting Jenny’s finger in my ear.
‘Yo,’ I slurred.
‘Hi, it’s Blake?’
‘Blake?’ Did I know a Blake?
‘James Jacobs’s assistant?’
‘Oh bollocks. I mean, oh yes, Blake, hi. How are y—’
‘James wants you to come to the Chateau now?’
Crap crap crap crap crap.
‘Now?’ All together too many questions in this conversation.
‘Call this number when you arrive?’
The phone chimed as Blake rang off.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, tossing the phone back in my bag. ‘Did he cancel the whole thing?’
‘Oh my God, I wish.’ I closed my eyes and willed myself to open them sober. ‘Try the opposite. Right now.’
‘They want to do the interview now?’ Jenny winced. ‘He’s here?’
‘He’s here. And I have to go and meet him now. God, Jenny, I’m wasted! I’m going to get sacked, I’ll lose my visa, I’ll have to go back—’
‘Jesus, overreact much?’ Daphne stood up, leaving a huge wad of bills on the table (how expensive were those gimlets?) and held out her hand. ‘Where’s he staying?’
‘Uh, at a chateau?’ That didn’t sound right even to me.
‘Chateau Mar
mont, it’s like, fifteen minutes from here. J, take her into the bathroom and, fuck, I don’t know, just do something with her. I’ll order a cab.’
Daphne was, thank God, all business. Once in the bathroom, it became horribly apparent that I was in fact very, very drunk. And just as Jenny was trying to shuffle me out of her T-shirt dress, which was covered in salad dressing from where a tomato had escaped my fork, and into the new emerald green Robert Rodriguez silk dress that had charmed its way onto my credit card in Bloomingdale’s, my BlackBerry began to chirp again.
‘Answer it: it could be that gorgeous douche-bag cancelling,’ Jenny puffed, fiddling with the black patent belt. ‘And if it is, give me the goddamn phone so I can kick his ass. And give him my cell.’
‘Can’t reach it,’ I said, trying to kick the phone out of my (poor) bag but only succeeded in booting it behind the loo.
Jenny looked up at me. ‘This might be a nice restaurant, honey, but I won’t forget crawling around on the floor of a public bathroom any time soon. You so owe me.’ She grabbed my phone from behind the toilet and passed it up to me. ‘Missed call from Alex.’
‘Shit.’ I pressed redial but it went straight to answer phone.
‘No time, Angie, call him from the cab.’ Jenny took my phone and my hand and led me through the packed tables out to the waiting cab that Daphne had summoned. ‘You got everything you need?’
‘I think so,’ I nodded, gripping my bag tightly, hoping it might help the ground stopping spinning underneath me. ‘Dictaphone, cash, room key. Call you when I’m on my way back?’
‘Screw it, I’m clearly gonna have to make sure you get there OK.’ Jenny pushed me into the back seat and hopped in after me. Daphne coughed loudly from the pavement, giving Jenny what I took to be her most apologetic pout. She leaned out the door and sighed. ‘Fine. Get your ass in here, Pussycat Doll, let’s go get a drink.’
Chateau Marmont was, as Daphne had promised, just fifteen minutes away, making it a straight thirty minutes between Blake’s hanging up on me and my standing in front of the door of bungalow two. The girls had made up in record time and cackled off into Bar Marmont, leaving me to face the long walk up to the hotel alone. As much as I was trying to concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the hotel was. Just how I imagined Old Hollywood to be. A beautiful turret sitting high up on the hillside, huge arched windows looking into lounges full of gorgeous high-backed chairs, palm trees, discreet but hot waiters everywhere. If it weren’t for the ever-present BlackBerries, MacBooks and Lindsay Lohans lounging by the pool, I could almost believe I was back in the Fifties.