Going La La Read online

  ‘My ex-boyfriend, a job and some money,’ she snapped. She couldn’t help it. He reminded her of one of those builders who always shout, ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen’ when it already has.

  Dorian didn’t take offence. ‘Well, I can’t do much about your love life, but if money’s a problem . . .’ Pulling out a huge wad of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, he fanned through it like a pack of cards. ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Oh, God, no.’ Frankie put her hand on his. ‘Thanks, but I didn’t mean that.’ She felt embarrassed for being so grumpy when he was only trying to be nice. ‘No, I meant that I needed to earn some money. Get a job.’ It was the first time she’d really thought about it, but considering she only had forty quid – the grand total of what was in her bank account when she’d paid a visit to the NatWest cash machine at Heathrow – and Hugh wasn’t begging her to come home, she was going to be staying in LA for longer than she thought, in which case she needed a job.

  ‘Have you got a green card?’

  Frankie shook her head. Not unless he counted the Andie MacDowell DVD that was still probably wedged down the back of the sofa in London.

  ‘Hmm, tricky . . .’ He watched her face fall before adding, ‘But not impossible.’ Never one to say no to a female, Dorian flicked open his phone organiser and tapped away in earnest concentration – with his extensive range of electronic gizmos, he rather fancied himself as a Bond kind of figure – and made a call. ‘Good afternoon, it’s Dorian,’ he chirped into his silver cellphone. ‘Do you still need someone for tomorrow . . . You do? Excellent, I’ve got the perfect person. A wonderful girl. Beautiful, talented, intelligent . . .’

  Frankie cringed. Was he being serious?

  ‘No, this isn’t one of my jokes. Do you want her or not?’ Silence then he chortled knowingly. ‘And she’s cheap.’

  What the hell was he saying? She began to feel worried.

  ‘Fabulous . . .’ Wedging the phone in the crook of his neck, he scribbled something down on his notepad. ‘Perfect . . . Do you want to speak to her . . . Oh, OK.’ He snapped the handset shut and slapped it down on the table triumphantly.

  ‘Who was that?’ Rita reappeared from the loos, catching the end of the conversation. She sat down and stared inquisitively at Dorian. Years of being the office gossip had taken their toll. She hated to think something was going on that she didn’t know about.

  ‘A friend of a friend.’ Dorian was being deliberately vague, milking the intrigue.

  ‘And?’ She spoke for Frankie, who’d been struck dumb by the speed of the fait accompli.

  ‘He couldn’t talk, he was in the middle of a shoot.’ Dabbing remnants of olive pâté from his lips with the napkin, Dorian calmly tore the page from his pad and, deliberately bypassing an agitated Rita, rested it on top of Frankie’s empty plate. ‘The details are on there.’

  Frankie stared blankly at the page. She was taken aback. Talking about getting a job was one thing, but suddenly having one presented to her, quite literally on a plate, was another matter. It made being in Los Angeles suddenly more real. More definite. It meant she wasn’t a tourist any more. ‘What’s the job?’ she mumbled, suddenly finding her voice.

  ‘Photographer’s assistant. His regular one is sick, tonsillitis I think.’ Dorian pulled a face. ‘So how good are you at putting up a tripod?’

  Before she had time to answer, Julie the waitress reappeared, brandishing Dorian’s pasta carbonara as if it was a trophy. Looking very pleased with herself, she was just about to bring the plate into land when Dorian waved his arms in the air like air-traffic control and cooed apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m running late. I’ll have it to go.’

  Julie the waitress looked gutted. Her moment of glory had been stolen, her hopes of grinding the black pepper and sprinkling the Parmesan dashed.

  As she slunk back to the kitchen, Dorian glanced at his state-of-the-art digital watch. He never spent more than half an hour in one place and his time was up. He was ready to leave. Flashing a smile, he stood up, dropping a hundred bill on the table, as if it was nothing more than a bus ticket. ‘Please excuse me, girls, business calls.’ Gathering up his ensemble, he tucked Elvis under his arm and scanned the table as if he’d forgotten something.

  ‘Jamie,’ prompted Rita.

  As if on cue, she reappeared, sashaying and sniffling through the middle of the restaurant with a new lease of life, and planted a kiss on Dorian’s cheek. He puffed out his chest proudly and, linking arms, they swept out of the restaurant, wafting past Julie the waitress, who stood on the sidelines holding his take-out like one of those devoted groupies who offer drinks to marathon runners. They slid into his car and sped off in the direction of Melrose Avenue.

  ‘Well, at least something good’s happened. It looks like you’ve just got yourself a job.’

  Watching them disappear, Rita pushed the pile of lettuce to one side. Sod salad. After a trip to the loo, it appeared Jamie’s size 4 figure was a result of what she shoved up her nose, not in her mouth. Frankie nodded, looking worried. She didn’t know if she should be happy or not. Her, a photographer’s assistant? Her knowledge of photography consisted of two things: point the camera and push the button. She looked at the ripped-off piece of paper and read it out loud.

  ‘Enterprise Studios. Eight a.m. Reilly.’

  ‘Reilly,’ repeated Rita. ‘Unusual name. That must be the photographer, your new boss. I wonder what he’s like.’

  Frankie bit her lip as her stomach released a cage of butterflies. ‘God knows.’

  15

  Driving down Laurel Canyon at six thirty the next morning, Frankie was having a serious attack of second thoughts. In fact she was way past second and through third, fourth and fifth. What the hell was she thinking of, agreeing to be some photographer’s assistant? She hadn’t spent three years at university studying for an English degree, and eight years struggling to climb up the publishing ladder, to carry tripods and lug cameras around. She was a features writer. A professional person with a frizz-eased bob who wore smart trousersuits or, ever since she’d got her new job at Lifestyle, skirts and a lovely pair of Russell & Bromley knee-length boots. Correction: she used to be a features writer. Now she was an illegal alien, forced to work cash in hand, scrape her hair into an unflattering ponytail and wear scruffy jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of mouldy old trainers.

  The tune of Sting’s ‘English Man in New York’ came on the radio and, changing the words to ‘She’s an English girl in LA’ she sang them through gritted teeth as she anxiously gripped the steering wheel of the Thunderbird, on loan from Rita, and concentrated on weaving her way around bend after heart in the mouth bend, her foot glued to the brake pedal. Bloodyhellbloodyhellbloodyhell. She was in her best friend’s most prized possession – two tons of baby-blue and white fin-tailed metal which felt about thirty feet long and ten feet wide. It was not – repeat not – like driving Rita’s Mini.

  A set of traffic lights loomed ominously ahead. They were green. Silently she prayed they wouldn’t change so she could blindly follow the stream of traffic turning right. Her prayers went unanswered. Ssshhhiiittt. Stamping on the brakes, she skidded out on a limb to the front of the queue, feeling as if the whole world was staring at her. With her heart playing the bongos, she gingerly looked around her. Although it was early in the morning it was like being in the rush hour: two lanes of traffic to the right, four in front, two to the left. There was no way out, but forwards.

  ‘Stay on the right, stay on the right . . .’ She repeated Rita’s highway code advice like a mantra. Behind her a big four-wheel-drive with fuck-off tyres honked his horn menacingly. Oh, shit, Rita mentioned something about being able to turn right on a red light – didn’t she? She couldn’t remember. She hesitated. There was a fanfare of horns. Oh, sod it. Taking her life in her very sweaty hands, she put her foot down and lurched forwards. ‘Uninsured British driving coming through,’ she hissed under her breath, veering
right and accelerating down Sunset. Phew, she’d made it. One false move and she could find herself up someone’s exhaust, causing whiplash, being sued for millions . . . By the time she was pulling into the studios, her imagination had got carried away and she was being sentenced to ten years in prison for reckless driving.

  The car park was jammed. Huge silver lorries carrying lighting equipment, trailers full of props, a dozen different types of four-wheel-drive vehicles and lots of other American cars that she didn’t know the name of had taken every available space apart from a tiny one in the corner marked compact. Well, that ruled her out. She was driving a bloody cruiseliner. She circled the car park for five minutes on the lookout for somewhere to park, getting more and more desperate – and more and more dizzy. It was nearly eight o’clock and the last thing she wanted was to be late.

  Beginning to panic, she scanned the car park one last time for signs of life. Wait a minute . . . In her rear-view mirror she suddenly caught sight of a cream-coloured Honda Civic pulling out of a space at the far end. Hurrah! With a whoosh of relief, she grabbed the automatic gear stick, rammed the car into reverse and stamped on the accelerator. The engine whined as she shot backwards. Nearly there . . . nearly there . . .

  The sudden jolt, jerking her forward in her seat belt, was simultaneous with the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass. ‘What the . . .?’ She looked in her rear-view mirror. And couldn’t believe it. Rammed into the back of her was some bloody great big Bronco truck thingy. Fuck. Like knocking over the first domino, her emotions began toppling forward. Anger taking over first. What a stupid idiot! The driver had obviously been trying to nick her space and had crashed right into her. Hadn’t he seen her reversing? Hadn’t he been looking? It was obviously a man. She knew she was being sexist, but right now she didn’t give a monkey’s about being politically correct. Her car was a wreck. She was a nervous wreck. Her anger fell into horror – she’d crashed Rita’s pride and joy, Rita was going to kill her; and then panic – she wasn’t insured, what was she going to do?; and ended with fear – how the hell was she going to pay for the repairs?

  Putting her head in her hands, she leaned against the steering wheel, feeling the tears welling up – again. Just when she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse, this had to happen. She took a few deep breaths to try and calm her nerves, and heard the door of the Bronco slam shut. With a sense of impending doom, she listened to the footsteps stomping across the tarmac, growing closer . . .

  ‘You crazy fucking idiot,’ she heard a man’s voice shouting.

  She wanted to hide. She couldn’t.

  Knuckles rapped against her car window, making her jump. ‘What the hell were you doing? Didn’t you see me?’

  Filled with trepidation, Frankie lifted her head and looked sideways at the irate motorist. Even though she knew it wasn’t her fault, she felt as if she should apologise. But as their eyes locked through the glass she changed her mind. ‘You.’ Their voices were in stereo. Frankie stared in disbelief. It couldn’t be . . . It wasn’t . . . Yep, it was. Him again.

  Frankie was stunned. Of all the people in Los Angeles, she’d had to bump into that bloody American from the airport again, and literally. After a moment’s silence, she found her voice. ‘I should have known it was you. Do you make a habit of nicking things off other people?’ She’d definitely decided against apologising.

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t hear through the glass.

  She wound down the window. ‘My space.’ She motioned to the space that was now the scene of the accident. ‘You were trying to steal my space, weren’t you?’ She wasn’t going to let him say it was her fault, not after the last two times.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s not your space. And anyway, you should look where you’re going. If you can’t drive, you shouldn’t be at the wheel of that museum piece.’ He looked in disgust at Rita’s Thunderbird, which was now less fin-tailed and more hammer-tailed. Pieces of the car were lying on the ground. Flakes of paint were falling on to the tarmac like confetti.

  ‘This wasn’t my fault, you know. It was yours, you weren’t looking where you were going.’ She glared at him, trying to stand her ground when her legs were shaking. He was wearing that stupid hat again. No wonder he couldn’t see.

  He sneered. ‘Hey, I wasn’t the one who reversed into you.’

  ‘No, you were the one who drove into me.’

  They dead-eyed each other. They were having another row. Sighing in exasperation, he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his flattened hair. This was becoming a habit. A bad habit.

  ‘Look, I can’t stand around arguing, I’ve got a job to do.’

  ‘Me too,’ retorted Frankie. Shit. The job. She’d forgotten all about it.

  ‘So I guess we should swap names and numbers. For insurance purposes.’ He emphasised the words.

  Frankie felt her stomach flip. With her British accent, he obviously suspected that she wasn’t insured. She watched as he felt around in the back pocket of his faded Levi’s that hung on his hips, two sizes too big, and inside his battered leather jacket that was ripped down one arm, and decided to bluff it. Well, she wasn’t going to tell him the truth, was she? They were hardly on the best of terms. He’d probably take great delight in calling the cops and having her slung in jail. Her insides turned to ice. Perhaps her imagination hadn’t got carried away, perhaps it had been a premonition.

  Eventually he produced an old leaking biro that was chewed at the end. She stared at it. Trust him to have a pen like that. An image of Hugh’s Mont Blanc, which he kept clipped on his inside breast pocket, flashed through her mind.

  ‘OK, what’s your name?’

  ‘Frankie . . . Frankie Pickles.’ She reeled off Rita’s telephone number, feeling her cheeks burning with guilty fear.

  He scribbled it down on the inside of a packet of matches and then, tearing off the edge, wrote his. He poked it through the window. ‘Here’s mine.’

  Snatching the piece of cardboard from him with a shaky hand, she glanced at it. And that’s when she realised. In between the blobs of ink, in surprisingly neat handwriting, was his telephone number and underneath his name: Reilly. Her heart took a nosedive. She’d just met her new boss.

  Inside the studios there was a hive of activity. Beer-bellied ‘grips’ in heavy-metal T-shirts were clambering up twenty-foot-high scaffolding, while ‘sparkies’ with paisley bandannas and skull’n’crossbones tattoos rigged up hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of lights. Skeletal stylists in head-to-toe black were gliding around with rails of clothes, the art department was running about unloading props and panicking that they’d forgotten something, and in the far corner Make-up was fussing over sponges and foundation.

  Away from the mayhem sat the director, producer and clients. Perched like royalty on high canvas chairs, they surveyed the scene before them and discussed ‘concepts’ and ‘brand images’ over coffee, muffins and Krispy Kreme Donuts, provided specially by Shirlene, the busty Texan in charge of Craft Services, the catering department. Having worked before with this particular heavyweight East Coast director, Shirlene knew they were his favourite and had been up at dawn, loading her catering truck with fresh supplies from the Krispy Kreme Donut shop in Van Nuys.

  Today Pacific Productions were shooting a commercial for a new, ‘totally wild’ breakfast cereal which, for some reason, required a jungle set, a couple of real lions (who paced around their cages hungrily eyeing everybody up while the animal trainer, a balding man of about fifty, gingerly fed them white mice through the bars) and a bloke dressed up as Tarzan. Being new to all this, Frankie couldn’t understand the connection, but then she hadn’t been given a five-hundred-thousand-dollar budget to think of one. Instead she was being paid a hundred and fifty dollars to be laden down like a packhorse with two tripods, three reflectors, a camera bag, and a suitcase full of lights. In the world of photography, she’d discovered that assistant, translated, meant dogsbody.
r />   Feeling like the new girl in class, she hovered nervously at the edge of the studios, which stretched out before her like a giant aircraft hangar. Everything and everybody was so unfamiliar. Anxiously, she glanced around her at busy people. Confident people. Intimidating people.

  ‘Hi there!’ An LA Child Woman wearing Gap khakis (size O, long) and a knotted at her can’t-really-be-that-tiny waist white shirt motored towards her. She had the entire production uniform: clipboard, pager, walkie-talkie. And she only looked about nineteen. Frankie glanced briefly at her and immediately regretted her choice of walking-the-dog-on-a-Sunday outfit. Trust her to get the dressing-down idea all wrong. Instead of looking casual yet trendy and attractive like Ms Gap Khakis, she looked like an unfashionable, unattractive, shapeless frump.

  ‘I’m Tina from production.’ Tina’s job was to meet and greet. She blazed fake friendliness. A skill she’d learned as a Gap shop assistant. Which explained the khakis. ‘Are you Reilly’s assistant?’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ answered Frankie’s begrudgingly.

  Reilly’s assistant. The words left a bright-red slap mark on her ego. She was still smarting from having to confess to him – of all the photographers in Los Angeles – that she was his new assistant. It had nearly killed her. Especially when she’d had to stand there in the car park, not saying a word, as he’d piled her up like a sherpa. She knew he was doing it on purpose to get his own back, but what could she do? She’d wanted to tell him to stick his job where the sun didn’t shine, but she’d had to swallow her pride and just get on with it. She needed the money. Now, more than ever.

  Tina ran her square-cut fingernail down the list of names on her clipboard, reminding Frankie of the attractive girls who stand next to the doormen at hyped-up bars in Soho, smugly telling shivering punters desperate to hobnob with the likes of Take That, ‘If you’re not on the list, you’re not coming in.’ But Tina wasn’t British and bitchy. She was American and enthusiastic. ‘Ggggrrreeaattt,’ she cheered, using her highlighter pen to draw a wiggly line across her clipboard. ‘You’ve been allocated a location near the jungle stage, so—’ She was interrupted by her pager, which began vibrating and omitting a shrill beep. ‘Oh, man,’ she gasped, clutching her forehead and switching from joy to tragedy like the wannabe actress she was. ‘I’m needed in Wardrobe. Set up over there.’ She waved her clipboard dismissively towards the lion’s cage before dashing off across the studio, delegating loudly into her walkie-talkie and trying to strike the right balance of stressed-out-but-in-control.