Going La La Read online

  As if on cue, there came sounds from underneath the vinyl cover and the object Frankie was holding shook violently.

  Rita’s glasses slid off her nose and on to the dashboard. ‘What the hell is that?’

  She couldn’t put it off any longer. Frankie nervously removed the cover to reveal a white plastic cage. Two pairs of disgruntled eyes blinked in the bright sunlight. ‘It’s Fred and Ginger.’

  Driving along the 405 Freeway, Frankie told Rita everything. Discovering the Tiffany’s receipt, losing her job, being dumped at the bowling alley on her birthday . . . everything . . . even the bit about Fred and Ginger and how, when she’d made her sudden decision to come to LA, she’d been determined they were going to come with her. At first it had seemed impossible. Even though they’d already had all the necessary vaccinations – Frankie was like a protective mother when it came to her beloved cats – the brusque official she’d spoken to on the phone had insisted that the airline needed twenty-four hours’ notice to complete the paperwork. Full stop. End of story. But Frankie hadn’t been going to give up that easily and so, using both her own powers of persuasion – in other words, bursting into hysterical tears – and that of her Visa card – she’d managed to melt the red-tape wrapped around the BA official’s heart and get Fred and Ginger on her flight.

  ‘I couldn’t leave them with Hugh. He’d probably swing them by their tails and use them as golf clubs . . . He’s always hated cats . . .’

  Rita listened, puffing on a cigarette and hooting her horn at various cars, as Frankie wrung out every last detail, lurching from tears, to anger and back to tears. It took over an hour, and when she’d finished she slumped down in her leather seat, knackered after her emotional spring clean.

  ‘Look, I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but if you ask me – and I know you’re not but I’m going to tell you anyway – you’re better off without the bastard.’ Never one to mince words, Rita went straight for the jugular. ‘Hugh might be good-looking, but he’s an arrogant son of a bitch, and he’s so flaming bossy. He has you running around in circles after him.’ She flicked her ash into the ashtray, not seeming to notice that it was instantly whipped away by the wind and scattered around them. ‘To be honest, I always thought there was something dodgy about him.’ She turned to Frankie, who, propelled out of her self-pity by Rita’s rally-driving techniques, was gripping the edges of her seat as they raced hell for leather along the freeway. ‘I mean, how can you ever trust a bloke who tweezes his eyebrows, for God’s sake?’

  Shaking her head in exasperation, she was about to continue with her snipe-by-snipe destruction of Hugh when she saw Frankie’s expression. She was close to tears again.

  ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with a man plucking his eyebrows, of course . . .’ Rita changed tack, suddenly remembering the sacred rule: never slag off your mate’s boyfriend, however much of a bastard he’s been, they’ll only end up hating you, not him. ‘I mean, you don’t want him to end up looking like Noel Gallagher or anything, do you?’ She smiled brightly, but it was no good, her attempts at salvaging the situation were just digging her a deeper and deeper hole.

  Frankie wiped away a tear. ‘But I love him. I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. He’s my soulmate.’ Sniffing, she wiped her nose on a tissue that had seen better days. ‘What am I going to do without him?’ Her face screwed up as she started crying all over again.

  Rita took her eyes off the freeway and looked across at her. ‘Oh, c’mon, cheer up, Frankie . . . please,’ she begged, reminding herself never to offer her services to the Samaritans. ‘I know it’s going to be hard, but you’ve got to try and forget about him now and get on with your own life.’ She leaned across and squeezed Frankie’s fingers. ‘You’re going to love LA, and don’t worry, you can stay with me as long as you like. It’ll be just like old times – you and me . . .’ She glanced in her rear-view mirror at Fred and Ginger’s cage trembling on the back seat . . . ‘and the two scaredy cats.’ She grinned and, without indicating, careered across three lanes of traffic, before slamming on the brakes and ducking behind a cop-car. ‘Now just chill out.’

  As they raced along the freeway the classic track ‘Hotel California’ came on the radio and, turning up the volume, Rita lit another fag from the dying embers of hers and offered it to Frankie. She hesitated. The last time she’d cadged a fag to satisfy a drunken nicotine craving, Hugh had gone berserk and made her put it out. He absolutely hated her smoking. The memory made up her mind. Well, tough shit. Rita was right. She had to try and forget about Hugh and get on with her own life, a new life that didn’t involve him. Relishing the feeling of empowerment and the blasts of humid wind whipping through her hair, she accepted the cigarette, defiantly pressed it to her lips, and took a long, indulgent drag. It was hedonistically satisfying.

  Rita gave her a go-for-it-girl grin and began singing along to the Eagles at the top of her voice. Slamming her foot down on the accelerator, she began overtaking an articulated lorry that was belching out noise and fumes. The driver honked his horn and swerved, but Rita merely waved a freckled arm in the air, the bright orange sparks from her cigarette trailing behind them as they pulled away. Frankie closed her eyes and, feeling the nicotine rush into her bloodstream, put her stockinged feet up against the dashboard and relinquished herself to the head rush.

  9

  Half a packet of cigarettes later they were negotiating their way round the zigzag bends in the road leading up into Laurel Canyon. Rita’s decision to give Frankie a guided tour of LA on the way back from the airport meant it was getting late as they finally headed back to her apartment. Darkness had descended and high in the Hollywood Hills there was no light apart from the two beams projecting from the Thunderbird’s headlights. Tired and disorientated, Frankie was almost falling asleep when Rita turned into Pacific View Drive, pulled into a driveway and turned off the engine. The headlights died, as did the stereo. Silence. After the roar of the freeway and the constant rumble of the engine, it was unexpectedly still, the only noise being the rhythmic chirping of a lonesome cricket.

  ‘Well, this is it.’ Cranking on the handbrake, Rita climbed out of the car and clattered down the small concrete path that ran alongside the garage and led to her apartment. Following closely behind with Fred and Ginger, Frankie heard her rummaging furiously around in the bottom of her handbag. ‘Shit, I’ve forgotten my key,’ she muttered, before tutting loudly. ‘Oh, well, don’t worry. My neighbour will be in.’

  She was about to knock on the right-hand door when it suddenly flew open and a torch was shone in their faces. ‘Hold it right there, I’ve got a gun.’

  ‘What?’ Frankie stumbled backwards, blinded by the sudden brightness of the light in her eyes.

  ‘I’m armed and I’m ready.’ The voice was deep and gruff.

  ‘Christ Almighty, what are you doing?’ Rita gasped impatiently. Frankie was stunned to hear that she sounded ratty, rather than scared for her life.

  There was lots of scuffling and the sound of a dog yapping as the torch was switched off and the hallway light came on. Frankie’s pupils took a second to adjust, but as they came into focus she saw a very strange sight. Standing before them, clad in a full-length leopard-print bathrobe was a tall, slightly receding, thirty-something male. In one hand he was holding what looked like a gun; a shih-tzu dog was tucked under his other arm. It was shaking violently – as was its owner.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I nearly had a fucking heart attack. How was I supposed to know it was you? I thought I had intruders or something . . .’ His voice rose an octave, switching from a deep ghetto growl to a high squawk. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths.

  Frankie stood and stared, not knowing what to do. Luckily Rita took control. ‘Bloody hell, Dorian, you frightened the life out of me, you idiot.’ She slapped his chest, as if she was swatting a mosquito. ‘And you probably frightened Frankie to death as well. It’s hardly the kind of welcome to
give to my new flatmate, and your new neighbour.’

  Dorian opened his eyes, seemingly aware for the first time of Frankie’s presence. ‘Fucking hell, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ Promptly dropping the dog, which squeezed itself through Rita’s legs and scampered outside, he put down the gun and grabbed Frankie’s hand in his. ‘I’m Dorian, it’s wonderful to meet you.’ With his sense of vanity returned, he turned on the charm, flashing a perfect set of even teeth. ‘Rita’s told me so much about you, but she never said how gorgeous you were . . . Did you, Rita?’

  As Rita rolled her eyes and Frankie smiled self-consciously, Dorian finally let go of her hand and, tugging on his belt to tighten his robe, stepped to one side. ‘Well, come in, come in . . . Don’t stand on the doorstep all night, it’s fucking freezing.’ And puffing out his chest, he waved them both inside. ‘Get your gorgeous little bottoms inside, immediately!’

  Dorian’s apartment was a higgledy-piggledy assortment of hi-fi equipment, televisions, shelves full of knick-knacks and fairy lights running around the fireplace that switched off and on automatically in differing rhythms. Pride of place was held by a large 1980s leather sofa, chrome and black smoked-glass coffee table littered with dollar bills and an overflowing ashtray shaped like a pair of double-D breasts. Frankie was taken aback. It was like being in an adult Santa’s Grotto – a fussy, kitsch, eclectic den that was a far cry from Hugh’s minimalist beige and cream – cushions on their ends, DVDs arranged in alphabetical order – flat, and she loved it.

  But all this was overshadowed by the spectacular view. Perched on stilts above the valley, the apartment had one wall entirely constructed from glass, with sliding patio doors that led on to a small deck hung with a hammock and littered with bongo drums, Indian embroidered cushions, plants, snow-boards and a didgeridoo. Overawed by the scene before her, Frankie was incapable of taking it all in. Standing on the deck, the inky valley receded, giving way to a carpet of flickering golden fairy lights that was downtown LA. For the first time in days, her mind completely cleared as she looked across to the horizon. The City of Angels in all its magical, inviting, anything-can-happen-out-there glory. It blew her away.

  While Frankie was admiring the view, Rita lugged her stuff from the car into her apartment and released Fred and Ginger from their mobile home. Relieved to stretch their paws, they padded inquisitively around her bedroom carpet, checking out piles of dirty laundry, cupboard doors left ajar, waste-paper baskets brimming with empty chocolate-bar wrappers, before gobbling up the remains of a smoked salmon bagel.

  Dorian was meanwhile flitting around his apartment, pacing up and down the open-plan living room’s wooden floor, sipping liquorice tea and answering one mobile after another. He appeared to have several dozen in fact, and they rang, vibrated, beeped and played ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ at various intervals, creating an orchestral symphony of ringing tones. One after another, he snatched brief conversations, like a well-practised telephone operator, and proceeded to make frantic notes in a pad. Finally, after a rush of callers, he collapsed into the wicker chair that hung from the ceiling.

  Rita came back inside from next door and flopped on the sofa. ‘So you like the view, then?’ Her voice broke Frankie away from her thoughts.

  ‘It’s amazing.’ Frankie smiled as she came back inside. ‘Do you get the same one from your apartment?’

  ‘Not quite. Dorian’s got the more expensive view. We’ll go next door in a minute and you can have a look.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d love to. Better get Fred and Ginger as well, the poor things must be starving.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve just fed them. They’re already asleep on my duvet.’

  ‘God, thanks.’ Frankie smiled appreciatively. ‘They must be as knackered as I am.’

  ‘Knackered. Knackered!’ Dorian mimicked her like a mynah bird. ‘You can’t be knackered, you’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I know, but I think I’ve got jet lag,’ Frankie tried feebly to protest. She didn’t want to come across as a boring old fart in front of someone she’d just met, but quite frankly she felt like putting on her pyjamas, having a cup of tea and going to bed. Even if it was only early.

  Dorian was having none of it. Beaming brightly, he rubbed his hands together as if he was trying to light a fire. ‘In that case I’ve got just the thing to perk you up.’

  ‘Not that bloody awful liquorice tea,’ interrupted Rita, fanning herself with a copy of the National Enquirer.

  Dorian tutted. ‘Have you no faith, woman?’ Standing up, he put his hands on his hips, legs akimbo, and declared dramatically, ‘What I have is a party.’

  A party? Frankie widened her eyes in horror and mouthed the words to Rita. It was the last thing she felt like. Unfortunately, Rita didn’t appear to share her misgivings.

  ‘A party, whose?’ She gripped the edge of the sofa excitedly.

  ‘Aha.’ Dorian smiled smugly, satisfied with the response. ‘I’m not telling, but I do know there’s going to be dozens of celebrities, fountains of champagne and –’ he paused and winked mischievously – ‘even though I know you won’t want to look at another man with me by your side, I’ve heard rumours that there’s going to be lots of prime rump for ladies such as yourselves.’

  He beamed at Frankie, who smiled weakly. First he’d waved a gun in her face, now he was offering her prime rump.

  ‘Great!’ enthused Rita. ‘Randy’s away on business, so I’m footloose and fancy free.’ She caught Frankie’s forlorn expression. ‘Come on, Frankie, it’ll do you good. A party’s just what you need.’ Sitting on the edge of the sofa, she squeezed Frankie’s hand comfortingly.

  ‘Yep, I know.’ Frankie nodded, trying to look enthusiastic but fooling no one.

  Dorian wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Pouring out three tequila shots, he passed them round. ‘This will help get you in the mood.’

  He knocked his back eagerly, as did Rita. Frankie was less enthusiastic, screwing up her face as the liquid scorched the back of her throat. Refilling his glass, Dorian picked up one of his remote controls and flicked on his stereo. Suddenly Flamenco music was beating down from the overhead speakers.

  ‘Come on, you’d think we were going to a funeral,’ he hollered, slamming his shot and picking up a pair of castanets. He rattled them at Frankie, who was still coughing from the tequila fumes. ‘I guarantee you’ll have a fabulous time.’ He gripped her around the waist and, before she had time to stop him, began twirling her around the sofa, his leopard-print bathrobe flapping around his ankles. ‘You’re with me –’ suddenly tipping her backwards, he pressed his mouth to her ear and growled – ‘and I’m a party animal.’

  10

  Sunset Strip was chock-a-block with traffic and they sat bumper to bumper with white stretch limos, watching the overhead traffic lights change from red to green to amber and back to red. Frankie pressed her nose against the tinted windows of Dorian’s silver Mercedes convertible, staring at the adverts that loomed above her on colossal billboards.

  Why, oh why, had she agreed to go to the party? Why hadn’t she gone next door to Rita’s apartment and curled up in her pyjamas next to Fred and Ginger? Instead of sitting here, all dolled up in her trusty black dress and heels, her blotchy, tear-stained complexion hidden under a generous helping of Body Shop bronzer and Rita’s thousand-calorie mascara. She looked at Rita and Dorian in the front seats – Rita was smoking a cigarette, while Dorian was chatting into his hands-free mobile and putting gel in what was left of his hair. It was eight o’clock on a Sunday night. Back in London it would be four the next morning and Hugh would be asleep in bed. However hard she tried, she couldn’t help wishing she was snuggled up next to him . . .

  ‘Thank fuck, we’re finally moving.’

  Dorian put his foot down and, taking advantage of the lights, switched lanes. Ahead, the road was a mass of white headlights and red tail-lights, a sharp contrast to the ghost-like emptiness of the pavements. Frankie scan
ned them for signs of life, but she couldn’t see a single pedestrian. Probably because there weren’t any. The entire population of Los Angeles was on wheels. Everyone was going somewhere – either literally or metaphorically, up or down – everyone was on the move.

  Instead she saw a couple of neon-lit bars, three liquor stores, the derailed carriage of a train that was now a diner and a huge cutout of the Marlboro Man. Frankie glowered at this abrupt reminder of the arrogant arsehole at the airport, and was about to start stewing over the whole thing again when she was distracted by the sight of an impressive-looking hotel, lit up by swirling violet-blue strobes. It loomed ahead and, as they got closer, Dorian took a sharp right and they swept up a glittering driveway lined with colossal palm trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze.

  A gaggle of uniformed valet parkers dived on the doors, ushering them out, and deftly whisked the car away, ready for the next arrival. Being unexpectedly thrust into the glare of the strobe lights, Frankie froze like a frightened rabbit, her mind going into overload at the lavish surroundings. A continuous stream of Rolls-Royces, Ferraris and stretch limos glided past, and as she watched them she noticed that the driveway really did sparkle. Made of tarmac mixed with glitter, like millions of miniature stars, it twinkled and shone in the bright spotlights. Only in LA could she have the stars at her feet.

  At the entrance a crowd was gathering. Willowy girls in hipsters, big-haired femmes fatales in Gucci, square-jawed men with terracotta tans, all trying to get into the party. A bouncer the size of a portakabin was doing his all-action-hero impersonation, barring them with his arm and shouting into his microphone headset. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Mike Tyson. Perhaps it was Mike Tyson, mused Frankie.

  Assuming they were going to have to wait with everybody else, Frankie tried to figure out where to stand. She didn’t want to look as if she was pushing in. ‘Excuse me, is this the back of the queue?’ she asked a blonde twenty-something next to her.