Going La La Page 15

  ‘Hi, would you like to dance?’ Catching her by surprise, a good-looking guy blocked her path. Stocky and clean-shaven, he was wearing a very tight white T-shirt that showed off the three hours a day he spent in the gym. He was smiling ardently at her.

  ‘Erm . . .’ she hesitated. For a split second she considered his proposition – after all, he was very good-looking and it wasn’t every day she got asked to dance by a good-looking stranger – before deciding against it. ‘No, thanks, I’m pretty useless at dancing.’ For someone who had a ballroom-dancing champion as a mother, and had been taught how to dance by watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies when she was six years old, this wasn’t strictly true.

  He wasn’t to be put off. ‘Hey, that’s OK. I’m a pretty good teacher.’ He smiled even wider, not making any motion to move away. He held out his hand, flexing the diamond-studded Rolex strapped to his wrist. ‘I’m Jonathan.’

  Surrendering to the inevitable introductions, Frankie said hi and shook his hand, knowing that now they were on first-name terms it was going to be impossible to escape. She was right, especially when he discovered she was from London, which, in terms of getting male attention in Los Angeles, came a close second to silicone boobs.

  ‘You don’t say?’ Looking delighted he brushed back his thick blond hair, which fell neatly into a centre parting. ‘One of my businesses is based there!’

  She smiled lamely. It was obvious he wanted her to ask what kind of business he had, but she didn’t want to. She’d met Jonathan’s type before in bars. He was the sort of bloke who always appeared from nowhere when her mates had gone to the loo and she was by herself, the sort of bloke whose idea of chatting her up meant talking about himself until he ran out of breath. The sort of bloke she always ended up getting stuck with all night because she hadn’t got the heart to tell him to sod off. Luckily, or rather unfortunately, depending on whether you were Frankie or Jonathan, she didn’t have to ask him anything. Bashfulness wasn’t one of Jonathan’s character traits and, without any encouragement, he happily launched into a monologue about his wildly successful Internet shipping company.

  Jonathan, it turned out, was a dot.com millionaire – young, self-assured and boastful – and it wasn’t long before Frankie knew all about his house in Beverly Hills, the new three-storey apartment he’d just bought in Miami, how he was going to exchange his Mercedes Sports for the new Jaguar, and how much fun he had on board his speedboat that he moored at Marina Del Rey. But wealthy or not, she didn’t want to listen to Jonathan’s This is Your Life, she wanted to talk to Reilly. She waited for him to pause so she could butt in and make her excuses, but he didn’t. Instead he went on, and on, and on. Frankie could feel the minutes ticking away. If only she had the balls to tell Jonathan to shutthefuckup.dot.com.

  ‘So, perhaps you’d like to have dinner some time? I’ve got a wonderful table at the Mondrian.’ Despite being thirty, handsome and obviously rolling in it, Jonathan was unsurprisingly single.

  ‘Well, actually I’m a bit busy at the moment.’ She was turning down a millionaire. And a good-looking one at that. Her parents would never forgive her.

  ‘And I really can’t tempt you with that dance?’

  Did this guy never give up? ‘I’m a terrible dancer, honestly.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  The conversation was like a game of tennis. Words passing backwards and forwards. If only she could serve an ace.

  She felt an arm around her waist. ‘Wanna dance?’

  Reilly. Frankie felt her stomach hit the roof of her mouth. Looking up, she saw him studying her face intently, a smile playing in his eyes. She felt herself breaking into a grin and, oblivious of Jonathan, who stared, speechless for the first time in his life, heard a voice – her own voice: ‘I’d love to.’

  21

  ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything there.’

  ‘Thank God you did, otherwise I’d have been stuck there all night.’

  ‘Yeah, you did look as if you needed rescuing.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  Holding hands, Reilly and Frankie stood side by side on the edge of the dance floor, stepping backwards and forwards. For someone who could waltz with her eyes closed, she kept getting her feet muddled up.

  ‘Sorry, I’m crap at this.’ She groaned with embarrassment as she stood on his toes.

  ‘You’re doing great.’ He smiled down at her. ‘A natural.’

  She grinned awkwardly. God knows why she was so nervous. It was crazy, she felt like a teenager, not a twenty-nine-year-old. She stared at her feet, trying to concentrate on the beat of the music. It was very difficult when all she could hear was the beat of her heart.

  ‘Oops, sorry.’ Shit, she’d stood on his foot. Again.

  ‘Stop apologising,’ he said. ‘Just relax.’ Squeezing her hand, he pulled her towards him and twirled her around under his arm.

  His sudden closeness took her by surprise and she felt her cheeks flush. She desperately tried to think of something to say so that she’d appear normal, cool, nonchalant. The exact opposite of how she was feeling right at that moment. ‘Do you come here a lot?’ She cringed. What the hell did she say that for? It sounded like a chat-up line, and a bad one at that. ‘Sorry . . .’ She realised she was apologising again. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘You mean how come I’m such a great dancer?’ He smiled sardonically.

  She shared the joke, grateful he hadn’t dwelt on her moronic one-liner. ‘Yeah, that’s what I meant.’ Knowing that’s what she hadn’t meant at all.

  ‘My dad taught me. He used to take me to the rodeos when I was a kid and afterwards there was always dancing.’

  ‘You’re from Texas?’ So that explained the Stetson.

  ‘Born there. We moved to New York when I was thirteen. My family still live on the East Coast.’

  Absorbing this piece of information like a sponge, Frankie didn’t say anything. Instead she let the music carry her along, feeling her confidence beginning to return. Dancing forwards and backwards, each step made her more and more relaxed, until this time he didn’t need to lead, she did, and holding his hand she twirled herself around under his arm.

  ‘Hey, you’re getting the hang of this.’

  She laughed. It reminded her of when she was a kid, standing on her mum’s patent-leather shoes being waltzed around the living room. Excited. Carefree. Happy. She could feel thoughts of Hugh, her old job at Lifestyle, the flat in Fulham slowly fading into the background as Reilly tightly held her hand, guiding her around the dance floor. A rush of exhilaration overcame her and, not caring what anyone thought, she shook her hair free from her ponytail, feeling it fly out around her as she whirled backwards and forwards. She’d been miserable for such an awful long time, letting her hair down felt bloody wonderful.

  ‘How was the bull?’ Dorian stood by himself, nursing his bruised ego with his champagne.

  ‘A load of bull,’ wisecraked Rita grumpily. ‘They wouldn’t let me on it. Stupid height restrictions or something.’ Hoisting herself up on a bar stool, she peered into the ice bucket. ‘Mmmmm, is that champagne?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ Dorian had given up on Cindy. Surrounded by men, she hadn’t surfaced for the last twenty minutes. ‘There’s a whole magnum to get through.’

  Grabbing the heavy bottle, Rita poured herself a glass, overfilling it in drunken eagerness. A foam of bubbles fizzed over the side. ‘So come on, what’s up?’ She lapped up the froth trickling on to her fingers.

  ‘Nothing . . .’

  Rita twigged what was causing the sullenness. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve actually got the brush-off.’ She was amazed. She’d never known Dorian fail when it came to seducing a woman.

  Ignoring her, he took a swig of champagne.

  ‘Oh, come on, Dorian, it happens to the best of us. Look at me and Randy.’ She took another mouthful, feeling the bubbles explode against the roof of her mouth. ‘Drink some more of this, you’ll soon get over it.’ She tri
ed to suppress a hiccup. Why wasn’t ‘Get legless on champagne’ one of the ten easy steps in her self-help books? It was far more effective than all that yoga, meditation and deep-breathing exercises put together. In fact, she hadn’t felt this happy in ages.

  ‘I am over it,’ said Dorian, still bristling from Cindy’s cold shoulder. ‘I just thought she and I were going to have a little fun together.’

  ‘In other words you wanted to shag her.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ Rita smiled, shaking her head. ‘You’re bloody terrible, you are. When are you going to stop being a playboy and settle down?’

  ‘When you’ll have me.’

  Laughing, she pushed him playfully. ‘Can you imagine me and you together? We’d be a nightmare.’

  ‘Would we?’ The laughter died and he stared at her.

  ‘You’re pissed.’

  ‘So?’ He continued staring. ‘Aren’t you?’

  The question packed a punch. Rita didn’t answer. Instead she looked at Dorian, and for the first time saw someone other than just her next-door neighbour. A different bloke, not the outrageous, extravagant, mad-for-it ladies’ man she knew. But someone with big, gorgeous green eyes flecked with amber. And broad shoulders underneath his black Gucci shirt. She’d never thought of him as being good-looking before. Even fanciable, if you went for Richard E. Grant types. Aware that nobody was speaking, she was about to say something when he suddenly leaned towards her, as if to kiss her, and Rita suddenly came to her senses. What was she doing? She was drunk and wearing beer goggles. She couldn’t get it on with Dorian, for God’s sake. ‘Where are Frankie and Reilly?’ Very obviously changing the subject, she grabbed her glass and, taking a large gulp, finished off her champagne.

  Dorian didn’t answer. He didn’t have to read between the lines to realise he was getting the brush-off for the second time that night. Leaning back against the bar, he pointed his glass towards the dance floor.

  Rita looked to where he was pointing. ‘Bloody hell.’ She stared at the couple in the middle of the floor, laughing, twirling, holding hands. It was Frankie and Reilly. ‘They make a great couple, don’t they?’

  He nodded. ‘Shame he’s not interested in her.’ Bitter at being rejected – twice – he was determined to pour scorn on anybody else’s chances of romance.

  ‘How do you know?’ she snapped, feeling defensive for her friend.

  ‘He told me tonight.’

  ‘The cheeky bastard.’ From thinking Reilly was a nice guy, she’d suddenly gone right off him. ‘Well, it’s lucky for him she’s not interested either.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like that.’

  ‘Well, it’s true. She told me she wouldn’t care if she never saw him again.’

  Dorian finished off the last of his glass and reached to refill it. ‘Funny. That’s what he said.’

  They looked at each other, neither of them saying anything, before staring back at the dance floor.

  The song began to wind down and, as the pace slowed, Frankie glanced at Reilly. He looked such a mess. His hair was all over the place and he had to keep brushing away the strands that fell in his eyes. Her eyes travelled downwards, noticing the smears of oil on his once-white T-shirt, his Levi’s, frayed and torn from scraping against the floor because he didn’t wear a belt, boots that hadn’t been polished in God knows how long and were now so scuffed and sun-bleached they’d lost all trace of colour.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you want to sit down?’ Reilly caught her looking at him.

  ‘Me?’ He’d taken her by surprise. ‘No, unless you do.’

  ‘No way.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘Why would I want to sit down when I’ve got the most gorgeous woman here in my arms?’

  Frankie grinned. It was clichéd and she loved it.

  The band finished the song and started to play a slow dance. A few couples disappeared, others moved closer, wrapping their arms around each other. For a few seconds she wasn’t sure what to do, but before she’d had too much time to think about it Reilly pulled her towards him.

  For a moment she stiffened. Feeling awkward, unsure, as his arm curled tightly around her waist. His body against her body. This was the first man she’d been this near to since Hugh, and it was strange. Strange to feel another man’s arms around her, to feel him next to her with only their flimsy cotton T-shirts between them. To feel his face only inches away from hers. Tobethisclose.

  Gingerly she put her arm around his neck. He was much broader than Hugh, but not in a pumped-up muscular way. Just bigger, taller, heavier. The inside of her arm rubbed across the side of his chin, rough and bristly due to his stubble. She was so used to Hugh’s clean-shaven, moisturised skin it felt different, unfamiliar, but it was the way he smelled that she really noticed. There was no whiff of aftershave, hair gel, shower gel, mouthwash – Hugh’s concoction of artificial scents. Instead Reilly smelled of beer, tobacco, oil, himself.

  Barely moving around the dance floor, they looked at each other, but this time neither said a word. No polite questions. No small talk. No smiles. Feeling suddenly awkward, Frankie lowered her eyes, pretending to be concentrating on her feet, which were moving slowly, a complete contrast to her mind, which was racing. Reilly was the antithesis of Hugh. The way he looked, talked, smelled, dressed. He was so different. So alien. So Not Hugh. She was conscious of Reilly’s hand gently, confidently, protectively resting in the small of her back. So why did she have that funny feeling in the pit of her stomach when he put his arms around her? It wasn’t as if she fancied him. Not one bit. Not even a little. No way. She didn’t find him attractive at all . . .

  Or did she? Was she just trying to convince herself otherwise? Denying how she really felt because she didn’t want to face the truth? Clinging desperately on to her denial, which somehow only made it slip faster through her fingers? Go on, admit it, she thought to herself. Admit how you really feel.

  As the electric guitar twanged lazily through the chorus one last time, Reilly released his hand from hers and moved it slowly across her back.

  Admit that you can’t stop thinking about him. Thinking about the way he turns over a cigarette in a new packet for good luck and rubs his chin when he’s stressed. Thinking about how much you want to touch the scar above his eyebrow, or trace the wiggly vein that runs down his forearm to the underside of his wrist . . .

  Feeling intoxicated with booze and lust, she slid both arms around his neck and, closing her eyes, rested her head on his shoulder.

  Admit that you’ve watched the phone all week. Wishing he’d call, to hear his voice, to see him again . . .

  With the last few chords of the song fading away and Reilly holding her tightly, Frankie felt herself finally letting go. Surrendering. Succumbing. Call it whatever. Lifting her head off his shoulder, she looked into his face, his eyes, his mouth, oblivious of the other dancers clearing away from around them. She didn’t know whether it was too many margaritas, too much champagne, what the hell it was, but right now, right at this very moment, she didn’t care about being the only couple still left clinging to each other in the middle of the whole damn dance floor. She didn’t care if people were staring. All she could think about was Reilly. She fancied him. She fancied the bollocks off him. She fancied him so much she felt like she was going to go crazy. So crazy that, looking at him right now, at this moment, she wanted nothing more than for him to bend down, pull her towards him, hold her so tightly she could hardly breathe. And then, only then, to kiss the living daylights out of her.

  22

  Uncorking the bottle of red wine he’d just picked up from Oddbins, Hugh poured a little to taste. He was disappointed. It was OK, but he’d had better for a tenner. Pissed off with his choice – a recommendation from the Sunday Times Wine Club – he filled his glass and set about unwrapping a Thai takeaway, his fourth that week. He looked at his watch – eight p.m. – he’d just got back from the office and he was knackered. Too many people looking to
buy and not enough flats to sell. Not even when you included all those poky studios with no room to swing a cat, let alone a sofa bed, selling like hot cakes at two hundred and fifty grand.

  Emptying the contents of the silver-foil containers on to his plate, he slumped on to the sofa, loosening his tie and kicking off his brogues. Spearing a slimy chunk of lukewarm coconut chicken, he grabbed the remote control and, turning on the telly, flicked idly over the channels. There was nothing even vaguely interesting. BBC1: a documentary on the tsetse fly. BBC2: some wanker of a chef trying to be clever with couscous. ITV: a Coronation Street special. Channel 4: another bloody depressing soap. Channel 5: one of those crappy gardening programmes. He stared blankly at the screen, watching a gang of cheery presenters in matching orange T-shirts trying to turn a piece of scrubland into a Japanese garden with only a bit of gravel, a water feature and half an hour.

  Hugh turned off the TV in disgust. He was bored. It was a Friday night and he was sitting by himself on the sofa with a cold take-out and a shit bottle of wine. What happened to all the wild nights out he thought he’d be having as a newly single guy? All the parties? All the women? He chewed a mouthful of congealed Pad Thai noodles. There weren’t any, that’s what. OK, so he’d had a few one-night stands, but they’d petered out pretty quickly. Having a one-night stand wasn’t as much of a turn-on as he’d imagined. In fact, it was a bit of a turn-off. And anyway, most of the women he seemed to meet were after something a lot more serious than sex. They wanted a relationship. Which was the last thing he wanted, seeing as he’d only just come out of one. As for the parties, there’d been Adam and Jessica’s engagement bash a few weeks ago, but then nothing. November wasn’t exactly the best month for parties. It was too cold, too rainy, too dark and too bloody depressing. No wonder everybody seemed to have stopped being single all of a sudden. Everybody had found themselves a mate and had begun hibernating in their living rooms, snuggling up together on the sofa with a DVD and cups of tea. Just like he and Frankie used to.