Going La La Read online

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Frankie smiled, trying to look cheerful, when inside she felt anything but.

  The day before Reilly had called her from God knows where in Mexico. The line was appalling, but just as the pips ran out she managed to hear what he was saying: ‘There’s been a pretty bad storm . . . a few days to get to Mexico City . . . I’m really sorry . . .’ She didn’t need to fill in the gaps to realise he wasn’t going to be back in LA for Christmas. She’d pretended it was no big deal, but the disappointment was crushing her.

  For the past two weeks, she’d been like the space shuttle on countdown. A mixture of nerves, anticipation and excitement at the thought of seeing him again. Looking forward to being able to hold him and unwrap him as if he were her very own Christmas present. Ever since he’d left for Mexico she’d been mentally ticking off the days, hours, minutes until he got back. And now she had no idea how long that would be.

  ‘Frankie’s fed up,’ announced Rita bluntly, blowing her friend’s brave face. ‘Reilly’s marooned God knows where in Mexico.’ Plonking herself down on the hammock, she swung towards the pile of luxury mince pies that were stacked, in an ice-sugary mountain, in the middle of the rattan coffee table. ‘I’ve told her to cheer up, but you know what it’s like . . .’ Her voice was muffled as she licked her fingers between mouthfuls of pastry . . . ‘You can’t help it when you’re young and in love.’

  Frankie cringed. She didn’t want everybody to know how she felt about Reilly. Especially not Dorian. But it was too late.

  ‘Yes, a little birdie did tell me you two were more than just good friends,’ Dorian exchanged looks with Rita that revealed they’d obviously been gossiping. ‘Silly boy. Fancy leaving you home alone.’ Tutting, he finished adding the Angostura bitters and tomato juice to his silver cocktail shaker and began rattling it around his head as if he was about to break into Aaa-gaaa-do-do-do. After a couple of seconds he poured out the spicy contents into three glasses. ‘If you ever get too lonely, remember I’m only next door.’ Passing Frankie her drink, he winked roguishly.

  ‘How could I forget?’ she deadpanned, shaking her head. But she couldn’t help smiling. It was impossible to remain annoyed with Dorian.

  ‘I propose a toast. Here’s to absent friends.’ He raised his Bloody Mary.

  Frankie knew he was referring to Reilly, but she was suddenly reminded of Hugh back in England. Six thousand miles away. She banished the thought as quickly as it had appeared. He was a ghost of Christmas past. She needed to concentrate on the present. Standing here, in the Californian sunshine with her friends on Christmas Day. Feeling happier and luckier than she could ever have imagined just a few months ago.

  Smiling, she took a deep breath and clinked her glass. ‘To absent friends.’

  Hugh pulled up outside his parents’ house in Tunbridge Wells and turned the key in the ignition. The engine died and he sat motionless in his Golf for a moment, watching the snowflakes fall on his windscreen. Thick, floury lumps that piled up in the corners and coated the glass like white confetti. For some reason he was suddenly reminded of Frankie, of last year when they’d driven to his parents, both nursing the after-effects of a Christmas Eve party. How she’d huddled next to him in the passenger seat as they’d raced down the M25 wearing a fluffy hat with flaps that pulled down over her ears and a bloody awful jumper that his mum had bought her as a birthday present. Even now, he could still remember taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her. And thinking that, despite her hangover, she looked beautiful.

  Glancing at the empty seat next to him, he caught himself. Christmas was turning him into a sentimental idiot. Opening the door, he climbed out of the car and its snug warmth, and into the bitter December weather. Icy blasts of wind whirled around his ankles, up underneath the layers of his cashmere jumper and Ralph Lauren shirt. Tightly wrapping his overcoat around him, he leaned into the car, gathering together the presents that lay sprawled on the back seat, trying not to drop them into a snowdrift as he fiddled with his keys. Finally, after pressing his alarm several times, the car responded by beeping and flashing its side lights. ‘Bloody weather,’ he swore, as he slipped, almost falling on the pavement, before steadying himself and walking up the path to his parents’ front door.

  He wasn’t looking forward to spending the day with his relatives. Last year he’d been with Frankie and together they’d laughed at his dad’s attempts at charades, made polite conversation with his boring brother-in-law, Jerry, played with his sister’s brattish four-year-twins, and endured twelve hours of boring telly. But today it was just him, by himself. Sighing, he put his key in the latch. He would have to face The Sound of Music alone.

  ‘. . . and then I told him, “If you’re not going to fuck me, you can fuck off.” ’ Rita helped herself to another slice of spicy salami pizza.

  Frankie sipped her glass of champagne and smiled absent-mindedly. She wasn’t really listening to Rita’s explanation of how she’d let Matt down lightly. Instead she was thinking about how surreal it was to be sitting on Dorian’s balcony on Christmas Day, eating take-out pizza, getting a bit of a tan and gazing at the view of LA’s skyline. It sure as hell beat being back in London.

  ‘I mean, for God’s sake, I’m not the Virgin Mary, am I?’ Rita waved her pizza slice at Frankie, strings of melted cheese trailing from her lips.

  ‘Hardly,’ quipped Dorian, who was playing waiter and ladling out dollops of stuffing. He was determined they could still eat it as a side dish, despite having had to abort his valiant attempt at roast turkey a few hours before.

  It had been all that weight-to-cooking-time ratio stuff that had done it. Dorian had never been much of a mathematician and he’d got mixed up and divided when he should have multiplied. Which, at Frankie’s rough estimate, meant that even with the gas full on, his prize-winning bird wouldn’t be ready until Boxing Day. So, after deciding to let it rest in peace in its oven grave, spread-eagled on the middle shelf among the shrivelled-up carrots and raw potatoes, Dorian had got out his hoard of hundreds of take-away pamphlets – he’d always known they would come in useful one day – and dialled Domino’s Pizza. It was the first time Frankie’s Christmas dinner had come with two extra toppings and a free litre of diet Coke. But hey, this was LA. What did she expect? Something conventional?

  ‘But I’m not going to get upset about it. To be honest, I knew from the beginning that we weren’t right for each other anyway,’ continued Rita, ignoring Dorian and lying through her teeth and a forkful of Paxo’s sage and onion. ‘It wasn’t as if I was in love with him, like you were with Hugh.’

  Frankie flinched at the mention of Hugh’s name. Over the past couple of weeks she hadn’t thought about him, but for some reason today she kept being reminded of him. Even her parents, who were spending the holidays on a cruiseliner, ballroom-dancing round the Grand Canaries, had asked her if she’d spoken to Hugh when they’d called to wish her happy Christmas. Her mum had always had a soft spot for Hugh and his perfectly ironed shirts, and she hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment when Frankie had said no.

  ‘Anyone for a glass of bubbly?’ interrupted Dorian, reappearing from the kitchen with another bottle of champagne and a bag of fortune cookies.

  Whooping tipsily, Rita held out her glass for a refill. ‘I tell you what. I bet he’s having a crap Christmas without you.’

  Frankie didn’t say anything. Instead she glanced at her watch – it would be evening in London. ‘I’m sure Hugh’s fine,’ she murmured, waiting for Dorian to finish pouring before taking a large gulp of champagne. ‘He’s probably watching The Sound of Music as we speak.’

  She looked at Rita for a second before they both burst out laughing, clutching their stomachs in drunken giggles and leaving a bemused Dorian wondering what the hell could be so funny about a film starring Julie Andrews?

  Doe a deer, a female deer,

  Ray, a drop of golden sun.

  Wedged in between his grandmother and Great-aunt
Prudence on the button-back leather sofa, Hugh sighed frustratedly. He didn’t think he could stand any more. He’d just sat through a two-hour Christmas special of Only Fools and Horses and now this. He fidgeted uncomfortably. The telly was blaring out, as was the central heating, and he felt too hot and too full. Grumpily he ran his eye around the room. His dad had nodded off in the armchair and his party hat, which had slipped down across his face, was fluttering like a purple paper flag with each snore; despite second helpings of trifle, his heavily pregnant sister, Belinda, was concentrating on working her way through a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, while his brother-in-law, Jerry, who voted Green and wore corduroy jackets with patches on the sleeves, was on his hands and knees on the floor playing trains with the twins from hell.

  ‘Anyone for more tea?’ trilled his mother, popping her head round the side of the sliding panelled doors.

  ‘What?’ boomed Great-aunt Prudence, who was as deaf as a post but refused to admit it. Jolting upright on the sofa, she cupped her hand to her ear. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Tea,’ bellowed his mother, waggling a teacup for added emphasis.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ she tutted impatiently. ‘But I want it brewed properly. In a teapot.’

  ‘Do we have any of that super Christmas cake left that Granny made?’ cooed Belinda, finishing off the last chocolate segment. She wasn’t eating for two, she was eating for the Third World. Her request for cake went unanswered as a piercing scream arose from Crispin, who’d just had a piece of plastic rail track jammed up his nose by his sister, Jemima.

  ‘Any chance of putting the Thomas the Tank Engine video on?’ asked Jerry brightly. It was a rhetorical question. ‘Crispin loves Thomas the tank engine, don’t you, Crispy-wispy.’

  Crispy-wispy suddenly stopped crying and, clutching his bleeding nose, nodded vigorously.

  Hugh scowled. He couldn’t bear it any longer. As if this wasn’t bad enough, there was the family New Year get-together to get through next week. His heart sank. It was too awful to even contemplate.

  ‘Whatever happened to that nice young woman of yours?’ asked his gran, suddenly coming to life as Julie Andrews disappeared over the hills and Thomas the tank engine puffed on to the screen. ‘She bought me a lovely pair of sheepskin slippers last year.’

  Hugh sighed. He’d deliberately not told his older relatives about the split with Frankie as they were constantly nagging him to get married and ‘provide us with more grandchildren’.

  ‘She’s in America.’

  ‘America,’ barked Prudence, showing a miraculous flash of hearing. ‘What on earth is she doing there?’

  ‘Having a good time, I suppose,’ sighed Hugh enviously.

  ‘But America’s an awfully long way away,’ continued his grandmother, peering at him through the inch-thick magnifying lenses of her reading glasses. ‘I simply can’t understand young people today. During the war we had to be apart from our loved ones . . . I didn’t see your grandfather for nearly eighteen months.’ At the mention of her long-dead husband her voice wavered and she gently touched her wedding ring, a worn band of gold that nestled against her paper-thin skin, before continuing, ‘but now there’s simply no need for it. And especially not at this time of year. Don’t you love her?’

  The question silenced Hugh. Frankie had been on his mind a lot lately, but he’d just assumed that was because of the time of year. A time to look back over what had happened during the last twelve months and make resolutions for the next. But now, staring his grandmother’s question in the face, he realised he was fooling himself. It had got nothing to do with the time of year. He was thinking about Frankie because he missed her. The grass hadn’t been greener being single. It had been a desert. A lonely, miserable few months of meaningless one-night stands, eating take-outs, waking up alone on Sunday mornings. There’d been no one to cuddle up to on the sofa and watch DVDs with, no one to cook dinner for – OK, so he’d only cooked dinner twice in two years, but still – no one to eat croissants and drink coffee with on Sunday morning in that little French café around the corner where they read all the papers – him the sport section in The Times, her the Mail on Sunday’s YOU magazine. Finally he had to admit to himself that he’d got it wrong. He didn’t want all this space. He wanted Frankie to fill it. He wanted her back.

  Looking up into the watery-blue eyes of his grandmother, he nodded. ‘I suppose I must do.’

  ‘Well, then, go to her. Otherwise you’ll lose her.’ She poked him with a bony finger.

  ‘I think I already have,’ he muttered, suddenly feeling a chink in his confidence.

  ‘What? What did he say?’ boomed Prudence, leaning forwards. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘I said I’ve lost her . . . I’ve lost Frankie.’ Used to having it all, he found this difficult to admit.

  ‘Utter rot,’ she spat, shaking her head and making her dentures rattle. ‘Call yourself a man? If you love her, go out there and get her.’ Clenching her fist, she suddenly felt rather empowered. ‘Because if you don’t, somebody else will.’

  It was later and the fairy lights twinkled in the chilly darkness. Rita, Frankie and Dorian had managed to work their way through four king-size pizzas and most of the drinks cabinet and were lying on the balcony – three beached whales wrapped in Mexican blankets, smoking cigarettes, eating chocolates and playing strip poker while Sister Sledge wafted out from the foot-high speakers.

  ‘I’m bored of this,’ moaned Dorian, who’d only suggested the game so he could see Rita naked. Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t known that her six older brothers were all gamblers and that Rita had spent her childhood playing with cards instead of with dolls. As a result, she remained fully clothed, he was now starkers under his scratchy Mexican blanket. ‘Why don’t we do fortune cookies instead?’

  ‘OK,’ smirked Rita, collecting up the cards. ‘I’ll go first.’ Grabbing the bag, she stuck in her hand as if it was a lucky dip and, pulling out a cookie, bit it in half, revealing a white ribbon of paper. ‘ “Listen and heed signs, and you will find success.” ’ She smiled jubilantly as she read out her fortune. ‘Yep, that’s me. A successful actress.’ She threw the bag across to Dorian. ‘What does yours say?’

  ‘Erm . . .’ Lying on the hammock, he tried unpeeling the piece of paper while clinging on to the blanket covering his bare chest. It was times like these that he wished he’d actually worked out at the gym, and not just hung out by the swimming pool chatting up Lycra-clad women. ‘ “Sex is on the cards with a redhead from across the Atlantic.” ’

  Rita chucked a strawberry cream at him, as they all burst out laughing.

  ‘And what about yours, Frankie?’

  Taking the bag from Dorian, Frankie delved inside. ‘Well, here goes.’ She smiled wryly, breaking open the cookie. ‘It says, “A surprise is just around the corner.” ’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah right. What surprise?’

  ‘If you knew that, it wouldn’t be one.’

  Frankie jumped. It was a voice. A man’s voice. A familiar voice.

  She turned round to see where it was coming from. And there in the shadows, standing at the entrance of the balcony, was Reilly.

  ‘You didn’t hear me knocking the music was so loud, so I let myself in.’ Running his fingers through his hair, he smiled nervously. ‘I managed to get a flight back from Veracruz. Better late than never, hey?’ His voice was apologetic and he looked nervously at Frankie, who’d stood up and was staring at him in disbelief. Smears of dirt and mud coated his jeans and T-shirt and his skin was scorched a deep tan. Chunks of sun-bleached hair fell on to his face, while his stubble had grown into a thick, dark beard coating his chin and throat. He looked more dishevelled and messier than ever, but it didn’t stop her stomach flipping over like an Olympic gymnast.

  She hesitated, not knowing what to say or do. Her heart was telling her one thing, but her head was telling her another. It was Reilly who made the first move. Bending down, he scooped her up and, holding her
tight, buried his head in her hair. ‘Boy, did I miss you.’ It was the Christmas present Frankie had been waiting for.

  Hugh knew he couldn’t wait any longer. His gran and Great-aunt Prudence were absolutely right. Why hadn’t he realised it before? It was as if he’d spent the last couple of months struggling through a difficult exam and now two old-age pensioners had just shown him all the answers. Shown him what he had to do.

  ‘Thanks,’ he whispered, kissing his gran and Great-aunt Pru on their powdery, lavender-scented cheeks before jumping up from the sofa, stepping over Belinda and Jerry, who were singing along to Thomas with a twin in each lap.

  ‘Mum, I’m going.’ Grabbing his mother as she reappeared from the kitchen with half a Christmas cake and her antique bone-china cups, he gave her a quick hug.

  ‘What?’ Her pearls bobbed up and down round her neck as she watched him disappearing down the hallway. ‘But I’ve just made more tea and Daddy wanted us to play Who Wants to be a Millionaire? later. Why have you got to leave so early? Where are you going?’

  Without missing a beat, Hugh opened the front door, letting in a blast of icy wind. ‘Los Angeles.’

  35

  Frankie couldn’t remember whose idea it had been to go to Las Vegas for the millennium. It was probably Dorian’s. But then it could have been Rita’s. To be honest, after Reilly’s appearance, the rest of Christmas Day had become a bit of a blur.

  Nevertheless, here she was at three p.m. on New Year’s Eve, cuddled up next to Reilly on the back seat of Dorian’s brand-new Ford Expedition – a Christmas present to himself – gazing out of the tinted windows as they pulled off Highway 15. Rising before her out of the dusty desert was a neon-flashing strip of glittering hotels and their larger-than-life casinos. Huge self-contained fantasy lands where the religion was gambling, the language was money and time was measured by the revolutions of a roulette wheel. Frankie felt a flutter of excitement. So this was Las Vegas.