Going La La Read online

  The lion’s cage? Frankie hesitated. This was the moment of truth. This was when she had to look as if she knew what she was doing. Although she didn’t have a clue. Nervously, she eyed the king of the jungle, who licked his lips and watched her hungrily. What was that saying about being thrown to the lions?

  16

  After ten minutes crouching down in the corner on her hands and knees, unzipping the bags, unloading the suitcase and trying to put up the tripods, Frankie’s worst fears were confirmed. This was bloody impossible. If only she’d listened to her second, third, fourth and fifth thoughts, done a U-turn at Sunset and gone back to bed. She grappled with a tripod. Surely you didn’t have to have a brain like Carol Vordeman to work this out, she thought, fighting with legs that kept shooting out at varying lengths and kicking her. How could something with only three legs be so complicated? She took that back. Look at men. They only had two and nobody could ever work them out.

  From the corner of her eye she could see Reilly, who’d just walked in and was giving high-fives to the rest of the crew. Laughing and chatting, he took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair and, sauntering across to Catering, poured himself a coffee. Frankie was jealous. She could murder a coffee. Having had to get up at such an unearthly hour, she’d slept through the alarm and hadn’t had time to make one. She watched as he shared a joke with Shirlene, who was plying him with doughnuts. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had time for breakfast either.

  Leaning up against a wall, Reilly dunked the edge of his doughnut into the polystyrene cup full of blisteringly hot coffee and bit into it, enjoying the rush of sugar and caffeine. Boy, did he need that. He looked across at Frankie. Would you believe it? Of all the women in LA, his new assistant had to be her, that stuck-up, pain-in-the-ass Brit. He was gonna kill Dorian. When he’d called yesterday and said a girlfriend of his needed a job, he’d assumed he was talking about one of those sexy airhead babes he hung around with. He should have said no, in fact he was going to, but then his dick had overruled his head. What man could refuse the opportunity to spend the day with a good-looking female? He’d probably have some fun, a little flirt. The coffee burned his tongue. Flirt? What a joke.

  Frankie saw Reilly looking over and toyed with the idea of waving the white flag and asking for his help. But something made her decide against it. That something being Tina, Shirlene and one of the stylists, who, one by one, were edging closer towards him until they were circling round like a hungry pack. Laughing and joking, they hung on his every word. Tina was tossing her hair like a salon advert; the stony-faced French stylist, who looked as if she was in the Resistance and who ‘took ’erself and ’er work very zerious’, was giggling like a drunkard, cheeks flushed, eyes racoon-wide; while Shirlene had put the diamanté collars up on her stonewashed denim jacket and was flirting like a trooper.

  Christ, no wonder he had such a big ego. Frankie felt peeved. There he was, being a babe magnet, and she was stuck by herself in the corner as if she didn’t exist. Clenching her teeth, she ignored him and carried on unpacking. Well, someone had to do it, didn’t they?

  ‘Hey, do you need any help?’

  Frankie looked up, about to fire a curt ‘No, I’m fine thanks’ to Reilly. Except it wasn’t him. It was the fake-tanned Tarzan in his loincloth. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hey, it’s cool. I don’t bite.’ He held out his honey-brown hand. ‘I’m Matt.’

  Matt was a blond brawny surfer dude from Malibu who was trying to break in to acting. ‘This is my first gig, so I’m kinda nervous,’ he explained, fiddling with his shoulder-length hair, striped with chunky yellow-white highlights from the sea’n’surf. He didn’t seem to mind that he was practically naked apart from a scrap of leopard-print material sewn on to a jockstrap, courtesy of the French stylist, and a pair of fraying Converse. Frankie didn’t mind either. Who would with a body like that? It looked like something from Baywatch, and she wasn’t talking David Hasslehoff.

  She smiled. ‘I’m Frankie.’

  ‘Are you Australian?’

  ‘No, English.’

  ‘Way out, man!’ He grinned, clutching fistfuls of hair distractedly. ‘I’ve got a friend in England. You might know him, his name’s Stephen.’ Matt spoke slowly, like a vinyl seven-inch on 33 rpm.

  She shook her head. ‘ ’Fraid not.’

  Not to be deterred, he continued, ‘He’s got dark hair, about my height.’

  Frankie smiled apologetically. How big did he think England was? The size of a postage stamp? ‘No, sorry.’ She felt guilty. He was so earnest, so eager that she should know his friend. Maybe she should have lied.

  ‘Oh, well . . .’ Like a large Labrador puppy, he bounced back. ‘I was just hanging around . . . Hey, hanging around . . .’ he laughed at his joke. ‘Me, Tarzan, you know, on the vines . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She nodded to show she’d got the joke – the first time.

  ‘. . . and I thought, Hey, man, that chick looks like she could do with a hand.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled gratefully. After her solitary confinement in the corner, it was a relief to talk to someone. Even if it was like speaking to Bill and Ted’s younger brother. ‘This is my first gig too,’ she confessed, lowering her voice and adopting his lingo.

  Matt jumped back, wide-eyed at this amazing coincidence. ‘Hey, man, that’s totally weird!’ He grinned, bending down, grabbing a tripod and wedging it under his arm like a surfboard. His muscles rippled down his flanks like a keyboard. ‘But pretty cool.’

  Unfortunately Matt’s dazzling conversation and handyman skills were cut short by Cedric from Make-up, who dashed across the set in a flurry, wielding a plastic spray bottle. Panting like a prank caller, he began spritzing Matt with baby oil and rubbing in more fake tan. ‘Quickly, quickly, you’re needed on set,’ he chastised, lustfully slapping Matt’s bare buttocks.

  Matt looked apologetic. ‘Well, this is it.’ He shrugged, grinning sleepily. ‘Stay cool, Frankie.’ And giving the peace sign, he loped off, practising his Tarzan strut, while Cedric chased behind, spraying him as if he were a cheese plant.

  Reilly watched the muscular guy playing Tarzan speaking to Frankie. What were they talking about for so long? What was he doing helping her with the camera gear? Why was she smiling so much? Feeling a bit put out that she only ever seemed to scowl when he was around, he made his excuses to the people he was talking to – female friends he’d worked with on past shoots – and, grabbing another cup of coffee, walked over to her. He found her on her hands and knees surrounded by a spaghetti junction of sync leads, wires, battery packs, tripods.

  ‘Finished?’ he asked, unable to resist winding her up.

  Frankie scowled and didn’t look up. She continued battling with the tripod.

  ‘Maybe you should try screwing that bolt, it keeps the legs in place.’

  Maybe you should do it your bloody self, thought Frankie, bristling at how he was standing above her, giving instructions. Biting her tongue, she did as she was told and stood the tripod upright. It stayed upright. She was both peeved and relieved.

  ‘Easy when you know how,’ he drawled, slurping his coffee.

  God, that noise. Slurp. Slurp. It set her teeth on edge. He sounded like a dog drinking out of a bowl. Clambering off the floor, she brushed the dirt from her knees and wiped her hands on her sweatshirt. Curly clumps of hair had escaped from her ponytail. Pulling out her scrunchie, she shook her hair, which had begun to ping out all over the place, and tried to retie it.

  Reilly watched her, trying to stuff her curls back into her ponytail. She had nice hair. Dark chestnut brown.

  ‘Here, I brought you some coffee. Thought you could do with some.’

  Frankie eyed him suspiciously, but her pride gave way to her caffeine craving. She took it from him, resentfully.

  Sighing, Reilly rubbed his stubble. He always found it difficult to stay pissed off – it was too much effort – and anyhow, he could feel his annoyance beginning to wan
e. Instead, he was starting to feel guilty. OK, so even if she was the stubborn, awkward, bad-tempered bitch who’d stolen his cart, told him to get lost at the party and now smashed up his car, he was fed up of fighting with her.

  ‘Look, I know things got off to a bad start, but we’ve got to work together today. The job’s not that difficult. I’ve just got to take some stills for the ad agency and a few publicity shots . . . but it’ll be a damn sight easier if we’re not arguing the whole day. Can we call a truce?’ He held out his hand, his freckled fingers still sugary from the doughnut. ‘I’m not such a bastard, you know.’

  Frankie wasn’t sure about that, but for once she had to agree with him. She was sick of fighting too. She held out her hand. ‘Truce.’

  They shook hands. His palm felt like sandpaper, strong and coarse and sticky with icing. A long lazy grin spread across his face, crinkling up the corners of his eyes like sweet wrappers. It was like a yawn. Frankie couldn’t help smiling back.

  Finally they’d called a ceasefire. For now, anyway.

  The commercial took for ever. All day long the jungle beat on the stereo was accompanied by the sound of the clapperboard slow-clapping its way through the endless takes and retakes: loincloths had to be changed, a blow-up banana had to be located and one very grumpy lion had to be persuaded to roar for the camera. Thankfully, Shirlene solved the problem by giving him a rack of spare ribs and he roared with approval. As did the animal trainer, who was standing on the sidelines armed with tranquillisers – for both himself and the lion. It was all an eye-opener to Frankie, who’d never realised how much time and effort went into advertising breakfast cereal. Never again would she nip out and make a cup of tea when the commercials were on.

  Reilly was on set as the stills photographer, but in the breaks between filming he set up various publicity pictures with Tarzan and the lions. Hunching his broad frame over his camera, the frayed sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up, hair flopping over his forehead, he peered down the lens, screwing up his eyes as he focused. Click, click, click. The shutter rattled off, one frame after another. Frankie watched him, surprised at how different he was behind the camera. Before he’d seemed cocky and arrogant, the kind of bloke she’d avoid at the pub. But with a camera in his hand he changed.

  And for the better. OK, the most important job on set was reserved for the director, but when he took a break and disappeared for more coffee and doughnuts, Reilly had five or ten minutes when he was in charge, when he had the full attention of the actors and the rest of the crew. And Frankie watched as his cockiness turned into confidence, his arrogance into professionalism. People on the set listened to his instructions, did what he asked, trusted his opinions. She hated to say it, but she was impressed at the way he handled people, the situation, the stress of having only a few minutes to get a photo right. The way that he didn’t get ruffled, but kept laughing, cracking jokes. Before, at the airport, on the balcony, in the car park, his self-assurance had annoyed the hell out of her, but now, watching him put people at ease, making them relax in front of the camera, it became attractive. And, although she hated to admit it, so did he.

  If only the same could be said for herself. Instead, she felt her most unattractive ever, sweating like a horse under the hot studio lights, passing camera equipment and holding reflectors – three-foot-wide circles of silver material – above her head until her arms ached. She felt like one of those contestants in the Japanese endurance competitions. How could this be a job? Jobs involved sitting in comfy chairs in central-heated offices, taking trips to the loo to redo her make-up, chatting near the photocopier, making personal phone calls to her mates, surfing the Net for lastminute.com holiday bargains when she was supposed to be researching features. She thought about her job at Lifestyle. Her old job. She mourned it like she mourned Hugh.

  ‘I need the reflector higher.’ Her thoughts were broken by Reilly, who was crouched behind his tripod. His voice set off a Chinese whisper that rippled through the studio like a Mexican wave.

  ‘Reflector on set higher,’ repeated someone in the far corner. ‘Raise the reflector . . .’ a voice from the floor. ‘Reflector please.’ Tina with her walkie-talkie.

  Frankie groaned. So this was Hollywood. Exhausted, she raised her arms, straining on tiptoes. Whoever said it was glamorous?

  Filming resumed and finally it was the last shot. The cameramen zoomed in. Tarzan set off swinging across the jungle set on his plastic vine, beating his baby-oiled chest. He had one line. One vowel. ‘OoooOooOoooOoooOooo.’ How hard could it be?

  Hard enough. Half an hour later and the baseball-capped director was still unhappy, stomping up and down and working his way through the second batch of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. ‘Cut!’ he barked through his megaphone for the zillionth time and gathered ‘his people’ together. As if they were in a rugby scrum, they clustered around the clients to talk Ooos. The rumour on the floor was that the clients didn’t think there was enough Oomph in the Ooos.

  After a few minutes he re-emerged. ‘OK, we’ll take it from the top. Tarzan, we need less Bee Gees and more Pacido Domingo.’ Mopping his sweaty brow, he readjusted his cap and bit into another doughnut. ‘I want you to play this serious.’

  Frankie watched from the sidelines. How anybody could play a cartoon character who made chimpanzee noises and spent all day swinging around in trees serious was beyond her, but she was past caring. With jet lag making her feel like the living dead, it was all she could do to stop herself nodding off.

  ‘OK, take nineteen, aaaannnnddddd . . . Action.’

  Tarzan flew across the stage, beating his chest, giving an Academy Award-winning performance of OoooOooOoo OoooOooo.

  The director loved it. It was in the can.

  ‘OK, it’s a wrap,’ yelled Tina, who’d been waiting to say that all day.

  There was a lot of clapping and whooping. The shoot was finished. It was over.

  Feeling a huge sense of relief, Frankie crawled over to Reilly. It was gone nine and they’d been so busy they’d hardly spoken since the morning.

  ‘So, you managed to survive?’ He looked up from dismantling his camera equipment.

  ‘Just,’ she groaned, flopping on to one of the fold-up chairs.

  She waited for him to tell her to get up and give him a hand. But he didn’t. Instead he lit up a cigarette and, taking a long drag, passed it to her. ‘Don’t let anyone see you smoking. The fire officers will freak out.’ Sitting down on the floor opposite her, he leaned his head against the wall.

  ‘Thanks.’ Frankie took it and, closing her eyes, inhaled.

  He watched her, sprawled like a spider in that God awful sweatshirt, her long limbs hanging over the edge of the chair, trying to figure her out. ‘So, what are you doing in LA?’

  Frankie shrugged her shoulders, passing him the cigarette. ‘I don’t know, I’m still asking myself that question . . .’ She hesitated. Who was she trying to kid? She knew exactly why she was in LA. ‘I had to leave London.’

  ‘Why?’ He looked directly at her.

  She glanced away, feeling uncomfortable. His questions were too close for comfort.

  ‘Some guy?’

  ‘No . . .’ she answered quickly. Too quickly. She wasn’t going to talk about what had happened with Hugh. Not to him of all people.

  Reilly regretted what he’d said. He shouldn’t have pushed it. She had been beginning to open up and now she’d snapped shut like a Venus Flycatcher. ‘Hey, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry . . .’

  Frankie looked up. He did seem genuinely concerned. Maybe she was wrong about him. ‘Well, OK, yeah, if you must know, there was a guy . . . my boyfriend, Hugh . . . and a job. I lost them both in the same week.’ There, she’d said it.

  ‘Unlucky.’ Reilly shrugged, grinding the Marlboro out under his boot.

  Unlucky? Frankie bit her lip. Losing a fiver was unlucky. Being caught in the rain without an umbrella was unlucky. But what had happened to her? How could he trivialise th
at in the same way? He obviously didn’t have a clue how it felt, or what she was talking about. How stupid of her to think that he might. Annoyed and upset, she stood up, her hands on her hips. ‘Have you ever had someone who you really love, a job that you really love, a home that you really love? And then had them all taken away from you? Have you any idea how that feels?’

  Her reaction took him by surprise. Jeez, he’d touched a nerve. ‘Hey, look, I was only saying . . .’

  ‘Well, don’t. You obviously haven’t a clue.’ Turning around, she began walking off across the studio.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’ A part of her just wanted to get the hell out of there. But a part of her wanted him to call her back again. Ask her to stay. She turned. ‘Why?’

  ‘What about all this gear, it needs packing up.’ Wrong answer.

  Frankie looked at him square in the face. ‘I’ve lost one job, what’s another?’ She glared at him before flouncing back round and marching off.

  Leaning back against the wall, he watched her. ‘Frankie,’ he muttered under his breath, but it was no good. She was gone.

  Taking a lighter out of his jeans pocket, he lit up another cigarette. But after only one drag he stubbed it out. And sighed. That girl was doing his head in.