I Heart Hollywood

Chapter Three

Saturday came around altogether too quickly for me and not nearly quickly enough for Jenny. After calling in a few favours at work to get the week off, she had spent the entire week waxing, scrubbing and fake-tanning, in between sending increasingly indecent text messages to Joe at The Hollywood and throwing increasingly indecent bikinis into a tote bag. I took a more stressful approach to preparing for the trip.

After my not-so-fun phone call with Louisa, I’d headed back to bed to tell Alex I’d changed my mind about going LA. A sleepy smile and ‘cool, bring me back something carb-free’ wasn’t strictly the response I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t going to let my hot boyfriend paranoia ruin LA for me. Admittedly, not so secretly, I had been hoping he would hate the idea of me taking off to interview the gorgeous man with an appalling reputation in sunny sparkly Hollywood and beg to come with me but not so much. He’d barely even acknowledged it.

And to make matters worse, he’d been ‘working’ all week and I’d hardly seen him. The band had just started writing their new record, which meant hours locked away in his apartment and a couple of unannounced arrivals at my place at random times in the night, with fevered eyes and a new song to play. And, well, everything else that came along with a two a.m. drop-in. Which wasn’t so bad, but being with Alex all night and writing all day had not left me looking my best. By Friday evening, Jenny looked like a Playmate, all buffed, bronzed and big hair, while I looked more like an inmate, bedraggled, bloated and big bags under my eyes.

At eight in the bitter morning, Jenny stood impatiently on the corner of our street, huddled in her down-filled parka and even bigger sunglasses, while I lingered in my goodbye hug with Alex.

‘So let me know when you get there.’ He pulled at the slightly longer side of my bob, curling it around his finger. ‘Just text or something.’

I nodded. ‘If I’m not too busy bailing this one out for sexual harassment.’ Jenny was reading her text messages with a wicked smile. ‘Possibly literally bailing her out.’

‘Well, as long as you’re not sexually harassing anyone but me.’ He leaned in for a warm kiss, his fringe brushing against my frozen nose, making me sneeze. ‘How do you feel about phone sex?’

‘You must be freezing,’ I said, ignoring his question, ‘and Jenny’s about to get in a cab without me.’ Oh, and I love you by the way, I added silently. ‘Um, I’ll call you later?’

‘For the phone sex,’ Alex nodded with deadly seriousness. ‘Don’t forget you’re three hours behind me.’

‘Well, you’re always up three hours later than me anyway.’ I nodded at Jenny to wave down a passing cab.

‘This could be the perfect thing for us then.’ Alex passed me my battered leather weekend bag. It looked pitiful next to my (sigh, so pretty) Marc Jacobs handbag. Maybe it would find a new friend in LA. ‘We could be the first couple to ever make a long-distance relationship work.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ I tried to laugh. Trust a boy to say something stupid just before you got on a plane. God, I should just say it. ‘Alex?’

‘Angela?’

‘I…I…’ I paused, not really knowing what I was waiting for. Alex shivered expectantly, his breath fogging up between us, hands stuck deep into his jeans pockets. ‘I’ll be back next Monday. Don’t get too used to being on your own.’

Congratulations on wimping out. What a great example of a strong, modern woman I was turning out to be.

‘You’re only going away for a week. I think I’ll survive.’ Alex kissed my frozen nose and shut the door. ‘And again with the phone sex.’

‘Bye, Alex.’ I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

‘You’re not exactly down with the phone sex then?’ Jenny asked as we pulled away.

‘Shut up,’ I replied pleasantly, watching our building—and Alex—vanish out of sight.

From the second we stepped out of the airport, it was completely obvious that California was going to be very different to New York. As we headed out onto the freeway, I couldn’t quite believe we were in the same country. The city was wide open, cars streaming up and down the highways with their tops down, the skyscrapers of downtown sparkling in the distance rather than constantly pressing down on us and, bejesus, the sunshine.

Despite the bitching and moaning I’d done about the steamy New York summer at the time, one morning I had woken up and it had gone. The weather teased me with a couple of weeks of creamy, cardigan-appropriate autumn before dissolving into burns-your-nose-when-you-breathe winter. It wasn’t like New York didn’t try its best to win me over—the shops were soon full of cute jumpers, flattering opaque tights and massive quantities of delicious hot chocolate—but by Christmas, when I had been snowed in twice and lost a pair of suede shoe-boots to an unforeseen storm, I was dying for a little bit of sunshine. And here it was. Hiding away in LA all this time.

‘Oh my God,’ I blinked once. Twice.

‘I know,’ Jenny patted me reassuringly on the back.

‘But it’s sunny.’ I looked up at the clear blue sky.

‘I know,’ Jenny sighed.

‘In March?’

‘Can we please just shush?’

‘Jenny, look!’ I pressed my nose up against the cab window, watching billboards and fast-food restaurants whizz by. At least taxi drivers still drove like psychos—London, New York, LA, all the same. It was oddly reassuring.

‘Yeah,’ Jenny muttered, touching up her make-up. A little Touche Eclat, some bronzer, a dash of lip gloss and, ta-da, she looked perfect.

I was avoiding even catching my reflection in the cab window. Even though I had spent the flight cleansing, moisturizing and then moisturizing some more, I knew I looked like crap. My skin felt like sandpaper and my hair hung around my cheeks, limp and lifeless. What was more annoying was that Jenny had done nothing for three hours but slump against the window, watch half a series of America’s Next Top Model and drink as many free glasses of wine as they would give her, occasionally slapping away my attempts to moisturize her against her will. And bless the man in the seat next to us for only complaining once when one of my misdirected paws full of Beauty Flash Balm accidentally landed slap in the centre of his forehead.

‘Did you see that?’ I pointed at a strip-mall. ‘There’s a shop called Condomania? Wow. And IHOP! I’ve heard of IHOP!’

‘Angela, you’ve been living here for—like—nine months or something. Why are American stores and restaurants still a total revelation to you?’ Jenny pointed with a mascara wand for emphasis. ‘If this entire trip is going to be like the time you saw Twinkies in the corner store, then goddamn it, we are going home now.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, trying not to point out the Wal-Mart to our left, ‘but it’s exciting! You see this stuff on TV but then they don’t have it in New York—I’m just a bit giddy. I can’t believe I didn’t want to come. Maybe it’s the sun.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Jenny muttered. ‘You know you have to interview a celebrity tomorrow, right?’

‘It’s just an interview; he’s just a person, isn’t he?’ I wrinkled my nose at Jenny’s incredulous head-shake. ‘I mean, Alex is a bit famous, he’s in a band and that doesn’t bother me. They’re just people, aren’t they?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I said when I started at The Union,’ Jenny sighed. ‘Until Christian Bale checked in and I spent three days sneaking around his room and stealing his underwear.’

‘Please tell me you’re kidding.’ I tore my eyes away from a Taco Bell.

‘They’re under my bedside table,’ Jenny smiled happily. ‘Thank God he never complained. I’d only been there a week; they would have fired me for sure. You’re going to lose your mind when you actually see him.’

‘Jenny, really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying not to doubt myself. What if she was right? ‘He’s just a person. I’ve talked to people before.’

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Celebs aren’t like normal people; it’s impossible not to get fazed by them. They just have this, like, charisma.’

‘But you see celebrities every day,’ I argued. ‘And you do nothing but slag off Angelina Jolie for wanting a special kind of tea.’

‘Oh, yeah, I meant celeb boys,’ Jenny conceded. ‘I don’t give a shit about the girls. You’re going to lose it over James Jacobs, honey.’

I shook my head and smiled, turning to look back out the window. ‘I’ve never even seen one of his films. I thought it would be better not to get caught up in the movie-star thing and just concentrate on getting to know him.’

‘What’s to know? He’s super hot, he’s a movie star so he must be super rich, and he’s super talented. Jeff and I saw that one about the casino…’ She trailed off for a moment. The ‘J’ word. ‘He was pretty good.’

The rest of the cab ride was awkwardly silent but mercifully short. I was terrified of setting Jenny off with a mention of her ex: nine times out of ten it ended badly. Once I had tried to cheer her up after a shitty day at work (she’d mixed up Mischa Barton and Nicole Richie’s dry cleaning—all hell broke loose) with a surprise Ben & Jerry’s, only to get a weepy, slightly icky story about her, Jeff, the kitchen floor, a tub of Chunky Monkey and New Year’s Eve 2007. Another time when she thought she’d seen him on the subway, I’d tried to distract her with several bottles of wine, but the evening had ended at four a.m. with Jenny in her PJs in a drunken rage, railing against all men. And then throwing up out of our third-floor window. Happy memories.

Soon we were off the freeway and passing stores and coffee shop chains I recognized. An American Apparel, a Starbucks, the Gap, a Starbucks and, eventually, actual people walking up and down the streets. Clutching Starbucks.

‘We’re here,’ the driver barked, swerving sharply into a small circular driveway. ‘Seventy-five bucks.’

‘Seriously?’ I whispered to Jenny, as I pulled out my wallet and handed over my precious ‘expenses’ cash from The Look.

‘Cabs here are insane,’ Jenny said, hauling herself out onto the street. ‘Everyone in LA drives. Why do you think all the celebutards are always getting served with DUIs out here? No cabs.’

‘Can’t they walk if they know they’re going out to get trashed?’ I asked, crawling across the back seat after trying the door with no success. If it was possible, it was even sunnier at the hotel than at the airport.

Jenny looked at me as though I was completely backwards. ‘This is not New York, Angela. Don’t you know anything about LA?’

I didn’t know anything about LA.

If it was possible, the lobby of The Hollywood was even swankier than The Union. The dim lighting was just as flattering, the dozens of candles were just as chokingly scented, but there was an extra layer of gloss on everything, from the shining gold surfaces to the hair of the girls behind the concierge desk. The only thing missing were the packs of well-to-do tourists huddled around their suitcases, mummified inside North Face down jackets. In their place were what seemed to be half a dozen extras from 90210. Tall, gorgeous and half naked, they lounged against furniture—not quite sitting on it, just against it. While Jenny checked us in I tried to remain staring at the floor to avoid mirrored surfaces, but I could see myself reflected in their gaze quite clearly. And no amount of flattering lighting was going to help.

‘Come on Angie,’ Jenny squealed over by the lift. ‘We’re on the fourteenth floor, amazing views. And we have adjoining rooms! You’re just a door away from me.’

‘Does that door lock?’ I asked, trying to stop staring at the beautiful people in reception.

‘Why on earth would you want to lock the door on me?’ Jenny breezed into the lift and jabbed at the big round ‘14’ button. ‘Come on, the sooner we get unpacked, the sooner we can get in the pool.’

‘The pool?’ I dragged my wheeled case into the lift, while one of the girls in the world’s shortest shorts lowered her sunglasses and checked me out with a genuine look of horror on her face. I was certain that she was visualising the horror of me in a bikini. Just like I was.

‘Isn’t it amazing, Angie?’ Jenny squeezed my arm with slightly too much upper-body strength. ‘We’re in LA baby, woo!’

As the doors slid shut, the lift shot up and my stomach sank.

To make matters worse, I had not packed well. Or even vaguely appropriately. Standing by the bed, looking at my poor wardrobe choices in an American hotel room was familiar in the worst way. On top of the Egyptian cotton sheets were the entire contents of my weekend bag. Two pairs of Seven jeans, an assortment of American Apparel T-shirts (three-quarter-length sleeves), a couple of bargain cashmere cardigans I’d found at Century 21 and my long-sleeved, super-heavy Marc by Marc Jacobs shirt dress. Everyone had said it would be sunny in California, but it was still March, it couldn’t be that warm, could it? Of course it could. Bugger.

And to make matters weirder, The Hollywood was absolutely identical to The Union. Same room layouts, same bed linens, Rapture Spa toiletries, same eight-dollar condoms in the ‘intimacy kit’ by my bed. Even the curtains were the same. I rubbed the heavy drapes between my fingers and peered out of the window. Down on the sunny side of the street, I could see people. Lots and lots of people. And every single one of them was strutting around in tiny shorts and even tinier tops. Shit.

‘I’m coming in,’ Jenny announced as she sailed through the adjoining door by my bed. At first she had been quite insistent that we should share a room, but she was equally insistent that she was going to give Joe a good seeing-to at his earliest convenience so, as much as I loved that girl, I really didn’t want to have to sit in the bathroom with my headphones on while that happened. This was not the sixth-form trip to Belgium.

‘What, you’re not ready?’

Jenny’s week-long grooming had proved completely worthwhile. She glowed from her hot pink toenails to her long chocolate curls. Usually, her hair was tethered in a ponytail for work, or at least restrained by an industrial-strength Alice band. Seeing it freed, fluffing out around her face and bouncing way past her shoulders, reminded me why I had been so in awe of this glamazon when we first met.

‘Get your freaking ass into your swimsuit and get out this door,’ Jenny demanded, snatching off her sunglasses and staring me down. Which reminded me why I had loved her five minutes later.

‘Please don’t kill me…’ I slowly walked backwards to put a bed between us. I’d seen her motor in heels and so those flip-flops were not going to hold her back ‘But I didn’t actually bring a swimming costume. I didn’t have one and, well, I forgot to buy one.’

‘I knew this was going to happen. Didn’t I tell you, you were completely unprepared for this?’ She rummaged around in a giant metallic tote.

‘You told me I was an idiot to pass up a trip to LA; you told me you were going to shag Joe until you broke something; and you told me you’d been waxed to a terrifying degree—but I don’t remember you telling me I was underprepared.’ I pawed through all my clothes again—not that it would achieve anything, I knew for a fact I didn’t have a swimming costume. I hadn’t possessed a swimming costume since I was seventeen. They were bad things that hated women.

‘Yeah, I’ve definitely got it in there somewhere—but I’m pretty sure I didn’t say “shag”.’ Jenny pulled a basic black two-piece out from the depths of the bag. ‘What the hell are you going to do in that interview without me?’

Oh, she was so going to make me put that on.

Fifteen minutes and one very, very painful bikini-waxing incident later, involving an overenthusiastic Jenny, one pack of ‘at home’ waxing strips and a genuinely terrified me, backed into the corner of the bathroom, I finally found a difference between The Union and The Hollywood. The rooftop pool, the rooftop pool bar and the definitely-not-in-Manhattan view of the Hollywood sign, shouting out from the hills. I perched awkwardly on the edge of a sun lounger, frantically rubbing factor fifty into my English Rose-slash-pasty-pale skin, staring out at the bold white letters. But something didn’t feel right.

‘Mojitos.’ Jenny sat two enormous cocktails on the tiny table between the two of us. ‘Hooray for Hollywood, right?’

‘I thought the sign would be, I don’t know, bigger?’ I squinted through my sunglasses. ‘It just isn’t what I thought it was going to be.’

‘Hmm, I guess.’ Jenny was busy staring at the bar. ‘I suppose when you see it every day for a few months, you don’t really see it any more, you know?’

‘I guess,’ I nodded. ‘It’s weird, though. When I saw the Statue of Liberty I couldn’t believe it. It was amazing. This just feels weird.’

‘That’s because you’re a native New Yorker now, honey.’ Jenny passed me a mojito and clinked glasses. ‘LA is cool, but if you’re going to have fun, you’re going to have to get past your idea of what you think it’s going to be, because, honey, nothing ever really is.’

‘Reassuring.’ I pulled at the bandeau top of the bikini. I wondered if I had time for a quickie boob-job. ‘At least tell me the shops are good. We have to go shopping; I can’t fill this out like you.’

‘The stores are fine, we’ll get everything you need.’ Jenny peeked over the top of her sunglasses as a tall, dark-haired man appeared behind the bar. ‘Just as soon as I’ve got what I need.’

‘Ick,’ I shook my head and sipped my mojito. ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’

Watching Jenny slink around the pool in her swimsuit, I leaned back into the padded sun lounger and concentrated on the Hollywood sign. It seemed so unreal, even though here I was with the sun on my face and a drink in my hand. It wasn’t possible that just yesterday I’d been in snow boots and earmuffs just to go out and buy milk, the sun was too lovely. But I had a sneaking suspicion that it would have been even lovelier had Alex been lying beside me. God, I’d got so tragic so quickly.

Opening one eye, I peeked over to the bar. Jenny was already flipping her hair around and leaning backwards in her high-backed bar stool to give Joe a better look at her bikini. She wasn’t wrong: he was incredibly good looking. He’d shaved off the thick black hair that Jenny had been raving about all week, but instead of it making him look like a convict, it only served to reveal an amazing bone structure and gorgeous brown eyes. Yep, I thought, he probably is worth travelling halfway across the country for a quickie. His black shirt did nothing to diminish his tan and I was fairly sure that trousers that tight were not conducive to a comfortable night’s work. Huge tips, yes, but a fun night behind the bar? Not so much. Wouldn’t it make him need to pee all the time? And how would he ever father a child?

It was only when Joe waved that I realized I was staring and it was only the filthy look on Jenny’s face that alerted me to the fact that I was gazing in the general region of his crotch. I downed the remainder of the mojito, pulled a T-shirt over my borrowed bikini and padded over in Jenny’s spare flip-flops, praying that I didn’t have any mint in my teeth. A very sexy look.

‘Hey, English!’ Joe flashed a huge smile as I clambered onto the stool beside Jenny. They were too high for me to even attempt to be ladylike, not that I was fooling anyone. ‘Great to see you.’

‘Hi Joe.’ I tried to give Jenny a subtle look to communicate his undeniable hotness. This was not possible.

‘Joe was just tell me about all the cool places he’s going to take us,’ Jenny chimed, winding a straw through her fingers. ‘He knows all the cool places.’

‘Sounds fun,’ I said. ‘You like it out here then?’

‘Love it,’ Joe said, mixing a second round of drinks. ‘Sunshine, good living, hot girls, what’s not to love?’

‘Not as hot as New York though, right?’ Jenny gave him a mock innocent look. Even after six months out of the game, Jenny’s flirting was second to none.

‘Not nearly,’ Joe grinned, leaning across the bar to ruffle Jenny’s hair. ‘I already told you, you look good, Lopez.’

‘I can always stand to be told again,’ Jenny pouted. ‘A girl’s got to keep up her self-esteem. It isn’t easy walking around in a bikini, honey.’

I ducked my head and smiled. There was clearly nothing wrong with Jenny’s self-esteem.

‘I don’t know, you’re doing pretty well,’ Joe commented, passing over our drinks. ‘And girls walking around in bikinis is as good a reason as any to stay out in LA for ever. Just let me know when the girls start walking around Union Square in their lingerie in January and I’ll come running back, sugar.’

‘Well, it depends whether or not you think it’s worth the price of seeing all those people that really should never be wearing swimwear,’ Jenny said in a low voice.

‘Yeah, but they’re the best tippers,’ Joe countered.

For a horrifying split second, I wondered if they were talking about me. Was the bikini wax not good? But as I followed Jenny’s gaze around the pool, I understood. It was true that not everyone looked quite as stunning as Jenny. There were a couple of other girls in bikinis with gleaming long limbs, perfect hair and full make-up. Clearly not about to take a dip. They lay together in silence, only moving to take a sip of an elaborate-looking cocktail and turn over, one after the other, every fifteen minutes or so. But looking along the line-up of loungers, it became very clear that not all bathing beauties were created equal.

On closer inspection, some of the women sunbathing were a lot older than I had first thought and their skin was slightly leathery under their sparkly make-up. Others wore strategically draped sarongs, positioned to conceal flabby thighs and chubby tummies, whereas other proudly flaunted their curves in horrifying neon yellow thongs and triangle bikini tops. This was going to make for all kinds of fun blogging.

Alongside the leather ladies were several solo men, either a tad overweight and straining in their Speedos, or incredibly skinny and pale, but all tapping away at laptops or BlackBerrys while sipping Coronas. There was just one fine figure of manhood, dozing opposite me, and I was fairly certain he was gay. Defined muscles, immaculately groomed and definitely waxed; all the signs were there. I tried not to think about my own less-than-worked-out figure. Yes, I had managed to keep my weight in check with lots of walking and the odd burst of WeightWatchers but I was nowhere near as toned and bronzed as the girls taking part in the competitive tanning over by the pool. I suddenly felt very pale and porky. And this was neither the time nor the place to suffer a crisis of confidence.