Going La La Page 22

  ‘When did you guys break up?’

  ‘Oh, about seven weeks, five days and –’ twirling round, she looked down at her watch – ‘coming up for ten hours.’ She smiled and took a gulp of whiskey, watching for Reilly’s reaction. ‘That was supposed to be a joke.’

  ‘I know.’ Reilly smiled. ‘I’m not that much of a dumb-ass American.’ Grinning sardonically, he twisted the end of the joint and lit it, watching the paper curl and burn into ashes. Putting it to his lips he took a long, satisfied drag. Blowing out the smoke, he held it out towards her. ‘Here, try some of Dorian’s finest.’

  It had been years since Frankie had smoked a joint, and she’d forgotten how much she used to enjoy it. Reilly put on a couple of CDs, American bands she’d never heard of before, and they lay around on the sofa, drinking whiskey, smoking, laughing, talking. Time played that sneaky game of pretending to stand still but, while their backs were turned, racing along at breakneck speed. Hour-long CDs started and finished in what felt like five minutes, joints were put out seconds after being lit up, and all the time she and Reilly never stopped talking. Never paused to think of something to say, or suffered the dreaded awkward silence. Frankie couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so comfortable with someone who wasn’t Hugh.

  ‘So, what do you think of my new trousers?’ Feeling stoned, she couldn’t resist flirting a little. Lifting up one of her legs from the sofa, she turned it from side to side to show them off.

  ‘You look great.’ He smiled, watching her waving her legs in the air. Frankie was very funny when she was stoned. ‘You always look great . . . Well, maybe not the day we met at the airport.’ He ducked as she threw a cushion at him.

  Laughing, she hugged her knees up to her chest, feeling the leather waistband digging into her stomach. ‘They were Rita’s idea,’ she explained, taking a puff of the joint that he passed her. ‘She said I needed to change my image, but I’m still not sure if it’s really me.’ Suddenly aware that she was beginning to gabble, she passed him back the joint. Now she knew why she’d missed so many lectures at university. Her head was beginning to spin.

  ‘What is you?’

  Frankie’s laughter petered out and she looked thoughtful. ‘God, I don’t know any more. For a long time I thought it was having a career, a nice flat, getting married to Hugh . . .’ Sighing, she leaned back on the sofa. Her head felt suddenly very heavy and she let it sink down into the cushion.

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ Hot ash fell on his T-shirt and he flicked it on to the floor before it burned a hole.

  ‘Hugh didn’t want to get married, not to me anyway.’ Curling a piece of hair around her finger, she let it slowly unravel. ‘He said he wanted space.’ She giggled. ‘Space. What a stupid thing to say.’ She paused, remembering the scene at her birthday, the way she’d felt that night, emotions that she’d thought would never, ever go away. Without warning, tears began to prickle her eyelashes. ‘Why didn’t he just tell me he didn’t love me any more?’ she murmured quietly.

  ‘Hey.’ Leaning over, Reilly stroked her hair away from her face as a tear fell down her cheek.

  Frankie sniffed, feeling embarrassed. ‘Sorry, just ignore me. I didn’t mean to get upset.’ She wiped her face, smearing her mascara down her cheeks. ‘It’s just the alcohol . . . and Dorian and the police and everything.’ A barely black tear trickled off the end of her nose. ‘God, you must think I’m an idiot . . .’

  Reilly looked at her small face, pinched and blotchy, and had a sudden urge to put his arms around her. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable. ‘C’mon, you’re gonna get upset sometimes. Breaking up is a shitty business. Someone always gets hurt. This time it happens to be you.’ He squeezed her hand, his fingers lacing between hers. ‘If it’s any consolation, I thought about Kelly for six months, maybe a year. Until one day I woke up and realised I was over her. In fact I’d been over her for a while, I just hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘But how do you know you’re over someone?’ She rubbed her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘You just do.’ Leaning forward, he filled their glasses. ‘One day you’ll hear that song you both liked on the radio and it won’t make you cry. You’ll wake up one morning and they won’t be the first thing you think about, or the last thing you think about when you’re falling asleep at night. Their face won’t be the one you see any more when you close your eyes, or in a crowd when you’re walking down a street. And when something makes you laugh, or cry, they won’t be the person you want to share it with.’ Taking the joint from her, he put it between his lips and sucked hard. But it had gone out. ‘You’ll forget their telephone number, maybe even their birthday and your anniversary, but you’ll never forget them.’ Lighting the joint, he inhaled, blowing out a spiral of bluish smoke. ‘Sorry, it’s the dope, it makes me do the whole therapist bit.’ He smiled self-consciously.

  Feeling tired, Frankie stretched out on the sofa. ‘So why did you and Kelly finish?’

  He shrugged. ‘It just didn’t work out. She wanted someone with a big career, ambition. I used to drive her crazy, messing around in my truck, hanging out, taking a few photos. I was just starting out back then.’ He broke off to squash the roach into the ashtray. ‘She said I needed to grow up, but her idea of growing up meant wearing a suit and working in an office.’ Smiling ruefully, he looked at Frankie. ‘In the end she left me for a guy at work. Some rich lawyer who drove a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes and played golf at the Bel Air golf club.’

  ‘Hugh plays golf.’ Frankie couldn’t resist interrupting.

  ‘Is he a lawyer?’

  ‘No, an estate agent.’ The thought suddenly seemed amusing and she smiled. ‘But he does wear a suit . . . and a tie.’

  Her mood swung from sadness to amusement, and she started giggling. Reilly watched her, her face creased with laughter, her hair fanned out across the cushion. Stretching out his hand, he pushed the dark curls away from her eyes, letting his fingers brush across her forehead. Her giggles wound down, like a mechanical toy, and, catching her breath, she lay still for a moment. Looking at him. Anticipating. Wondering what was going to happen next.

  ‘I need some water.’ Something inside made her break away and sit up. As if there was part of her still loyal to Hugh. Standing up unsteadily from the sofa, she padded towards the kitchen. But an object caught her eye, tucked away in the far corner near the window. It was a small upright piano.

  ‘Do you play?’ She walked over to it and, lifting up the lid, ran her fingers over the keys. They made a tinkling noise, reminding her of when she was a kid and her dad used to play for her.

  ‘A little. When I was a teenager I used to fancy myself as a bit of a songwriter.’

  ‘Will you play something?’

  ‘Oh, c’mon. It’s late.’ He stretched out across the cushions and lit up a cigarette.

  ‘Please.’ She stuck her bottom lip out, beseechingly.

  How could he refuse? Hauling himself up from the sofa, Reilly walked over to her, easing himself on to the small bench. Running his fingers through his hair, he placed them on the keys and started messing around, intros of old Beatles tracks, a few bars of a Bob Dylan number, a bit of Cat Stevens. She leaned against the piano, watching his hands. Listening.

  ‘No, come on, seriously.’ Leaning towards him, she removed the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘Play one of your songs.’

  He smiled, shaking his head.

  ‘For me.’

  He hesitated. ‘Are you sure about this?’ Despite being stoned, he felt nervous. He hadn’t played his own stuff in years. Not since the divorce.

  Frankie nodded, smiling. ‘I’m sure.’

  Pausing, he let his hands wander over the black and white keys. For a brief moment Frankie thought he was going to bottle out, before he leaned forward and pressed them down, letting them linger for a moment before his fingers found the next notes. And the next. The opening chords of the song, slowly and gently filled the room and then she h
eard his voice, low and soft, almost speaking the words.

  ‘There’s someplace far inside of me,

  Only you find,

  Feelings far inside of me,

  You left behind.’

  With each chord, any embarrassment or awkwardness melted away. She watched him in the glow of the lamplight, his broad shoulders hunched over the piano, his hair flopping over his face, and knew she couldn’t fight her feelings for him any longer. Denying them wasn’t going to make them go away. And looking at him right at this moment, she didn’t want them to. Putting her empty glass on the top of the piano, she sat down next to him.

  ‘Just close my eyes and you take me there,

  I just close my eyes and you take me there.’

  The last note faded. He raised his eyes to look at her. Her at him. Each blink, every breath, was loaded with What Happens Now? Frankie waited. She knew she was at the edge of some great chasm, balancing precariously, feeling her grip loosening, slipping through her fingers. But she didn’t try to fight it. She wanted to fall.

  Unable to stop herself, she moved forward and touched the side of his face. A light brush with her fingertips that was more intimate and thrilling than anything she’d experienced with Hugh during their two years together. She could hardly breathe as she touched the scar above his eyebrow, down the side of his face, over his stubble, which wasn’t prickly but soft, and down towards the corners of his mouth. And then, leaning slowly towards him, she did something she realised she’d been wanting to do for such a long time. She kissed him.

  For a second he hesitated, before letting himself fall with her, and, pulling her close, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her to him. Breathing her in. His lips against hers. Tongue against tongue. Eyes closed. Hearts thudding. Deep, long, hungry kisses born out of the lack of any feelings of self-consciousness or embarrassment. Just two people wanting each other. Holding each other. Kissing the life out of each other.

  It had been a long time coming.

  32

  At exactly eleven minutes past six in the morning, Frankie felt the earth move. But this time it didn’t have anything to do with Reilly. Looking at him, lying asleep next to her under the duvet, his naked body wrapped tightly around hers, she still couldn’t believe what had happened between them. What was happening between them.

  Hers was a jumbled blur of memories – his head nuzzling into her neck, running her hands over the soft skin of his bare shoulders, the clash of notes as he’d pushed her up against the piano, discovering the blue ink of a dragon tattoo partly hidden underneath the hair on his chest, feeling his tongue snaking a line across her stomach, down past her bellybutton. The journey to the bedroom upstairs was a blank, but she remembered tumbling on to the king-size bed, pulling at each other’s clothes – God knows how he’d ever managed to get her leather trousers off, but they’d sure as hell come off, along with his jeans and fiddly, awkward bits of underwear that had got tangled around limbs and ankles. And then they’d been naked. She’d been naked. In bed with a man who wasn’t Hugh.

  But instead of being racked with insecurities, feeling self-conscious and worrying about cellulite, wobbly bits, boobs that weren’t big enough, firm enough, up there enough, and a stomach that hadn’t come within an exercise mat of an abdominal crunch in God knows how long, she’d listened to Reilly telling her how gorgeous she was, how beautiful she was, how sexy she was. And believed him. She might not have shaved her legs in a fortnight, or found the courage to face hot wax and tackle a bikini line that had become more than a little fuzzy around the edges, but Reilly had made her feel all those things and a lot, lot more.

  Wonderful, horny, can’t-keep-my-hands-off-him Reilly. Everything about him gave her that toothpaste tingly feeling. She’d always promised herself she’d never sleep with a guy on the first date – not that you could even call this a first date – but some promises were meant to be broken. And this was one of them. Resisting Reilly would have been like resisting a cigarette when she was drunk, a four-finger KitKat the day before her period, Karen Millen when she’d just been paid. Even though being with Reilly felt strange – after all, she had shared a bed with Hugh for nearly two years – it was also bloody exciting. To put it bluntly: the sex had been fucking unbelievable. In fact she’d never known sex like that existed, except in carefully choreographed bedroom scenes in movies, or on the pages of bonkbusters written by middle-aged women with vivid imaginations. But this was the real thing. What she’d had with Hugh was good, but compared to what she’d experienced with Reilly, it seemed like a shoddy imitation. As if she’d suddenly been given a taste of Dom Perignon, after a lifetime of M&S Cava.

  There it was again. She was suddenly jolted out of her daydreams. No mistaking it. The earth was actually moving.

  Lifting her head from the pillow, she peered into the unfamiliar darkness of the bedroom. But she couldn’t see anything. Only feel it. A shuddering sensation similar to when she’d lived in a basement flat in Earls Court and the tube trains used to pass nearby, rattling the cups on the draining board and making the picture on the telly go squiggly. Except of course the District Line didn’t go as far as LA. Which could only mean one thing. An earthquake.

  Oh my God. Panic grabbed her by the throat as she felt the floor beginning to shake beneath her and out of the corner of her eye saw the 1930s-style wardrobe trembling on its walnut legs. She’d seen pictures of earthquakes on the news, houses being reduced to rubble, motorways collapsing, people being buried alive.

  ‘Reilly.’ She gasped his name.

  He didn’t stir.

  She daren’t move. Terror made her illogical and she was scared that the slightest movement would cause the room to shake even more.

  ‘Reilly.’ Louder this time.

  A glass fell off the trunk, smashing into splinters on the wooden floor and waking Reilly. He lazily opened his eyes, blinking like a cat basking in the sun. ‘What’s wrong?’

  His croaky whisper waved a magic wand. No sooner had he uttered those words than the earthquake rumbled to a halt, stopping just as quickly as it had started. The only evidence it left behind was the shards of glass scattered on the floor-boards and the distant sound of car alarms and neighbours’ dogs barking in the street below.

  Stretching out his broad arm, Reilly scooped her towards him. ‘It was just a tremor, nothing to worry about,’ he whispered, smiling at her naïvety and the frightened expression on her face.

  ‘But I was so scared. I thought . . .’

  ‘Ssshhhh, you’re OK. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.’ He started softly kissing her face, moving his lips across her eyelids. ‘Well, maybe not nothing.’ His hand ran stealthily along her inner thigh.

  Her body trembled, but this time she wasn’t scared. Closing her eyes, she let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. It was starting all over again. Repeats had never seemed so good.

  ‘Guess what . . .’

  The front door slammed and Frankie’s footsteps thudded down the hallway into the darkened living room. She stopped short when she caught sight of Rita, slumped sullenly on the sofa, picking her chipped nailpolish and watching E with the curtains drawn. It was three in the afternoon and she was still in her dressing gown.

  ‘What?’ muttered Rita, not even bothering to look up.

  Something told Frankie that now might not be the best time to share her news about Reilly. Doing a complete U-turn, she did what only a sensible British girl could do when caught in a tricky situation: she talked about the weather. Luckily, as with everything in LA, the weather was bigger, better and more outrageous than anywhere else, which meant there was a lot more to talk about than the UK’s uninspiring drizzle, drizzle or more drizzle. For a start, there were earthquakes.

  ‘Did you feel the earth move last night?’

  ‘Move? It didn’t even twitch,’ spat Rita bitterly. ‘Matt wasn’t interested.’

  Frankie was confused. ‘Matt? I’m talking about the earthquake. Didn’t you feel it?
’

  ‘What earthquake? What are you going on about?’

  Frankie gasped in exasperation. Rita was a heavy sleeper, but surely even she hadn’t managed to snore her way through a tremor measuring 3.5 on the Richter scale. Grabbing the remote from her, she flicked the TV on to CNN News and a big-haired, lip-glossed reporter who was doing an outside broadcast concerning structural damage to the freeways caused by the earthquake.

  ‘Oh.’ Showing about as much interest as if Frankie had just switched on the baseball results, Rita continued concentrating on her thumbnail, taking her bad mood out on her non-chip topcoat. ‘That earthquake.’

  Realising there was no point pushing Rita when she was in one of her moods, Frankie lay back against the cushions and, kicking off her slingbacks, closed her eyes. Her mind was still whirling from the events of the last twelve hours. First the party, then the drugs bust and Dorian being arrested, and finally Reilly. She smiled as she thought about him. Remembering how she’d woken to find he’d left for Mexico, and lain in his bed for hours, not wanting to move, as if leaving it would break the spell. Breathing in the pillow where he’d slept, she’d shifted on to his side of the bed, soaking up the warmth of his body that was still on the mattress, smiling to herself like a lovesick teenager. She’d just discovered something that she never thought existed. Life after Hugh.

  ‘Do you want an Oreo?’ Rita waved the packet in front of her like an olive branch. It was a sign that she wanted to talk.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Dragging herself away from her thoughts, Frankie shook her head. ‘So come on, what’s the matter? I thought you’d be all loved up.’

  ‘You mean fucked up.’ The muscle in the side of Rita’s jaw twitched angrily as she snatched an Oreo from the packet and snapped it in two. Something told Frankie the biscuit had taken on symbolic properties and represented something, or, more likely, someone.