I Heart Hollywood (18 page)

‘Jenny? Not amused with me in the slightest,’ I admitted, ‘but she was more or less calmed down by the shopping. Thank you, by the way. That was, well, madness. You really didn’t have to do that.’

‘Don’t even mention it,’ James waved away my thanks. ‘And what about your other friend, Joe?’

‘I haven’t seen him. I’m so sorry, he was totally out of order.’ I still couldn’t quite believe how pathetic Joe’s behaviour had been. ‘And, like I said the other night, he’s really not my friend.’

‘Yeah, he was a bit…’ James paused. ‘Well, never mind. There’s nothing in life that can’t be solved by frozen yoghurt.’

‘Oh my God, you’re such a woman,’ I said. ‘I’d like to hear you say that in Sheffield.’

“Shut up and get your wallet out,’ he said, as we pulled up at the side of the road. ‘You’re buying.’

‘Frozen yoghurt?’ I climbed out of the limo after him. ‘That sounds like a fair exchange for everything we bought yesterday.’

‘Yeah, but I won’t have to pay for that stuff; this is pricey frozen yoghurt.’

‘You have forgotten where you’ve come from, Jim Jacobs,’ I tutted.

It turned out that Pinkberry frozen yoghurt was ever so slightly magical. As James loaded his with pineapple and strawberries, I packed mine with Coco Pebbles cereal and chocolate chips. And I got change out of ten dollars. Just.

‘This is amazing,’ I raved through a mouthful of yoghurty goodness. ‘Shouldn’t this be all tasteless and healthy?’

‘It is healthy, or it was until you shovelled all that crap on to it,’ James teased. The street outside was packed with tanned, good-looking men in workout gear and more of the ever-present Ugg girls.

‘So I thought we’d crack on with your tour of my favourite bits of LA,’ James carried on, striding down the road, past all the girls that stared and all the men that pretended not to. The only difference today was they were staring at me as much as him. ‘So how about The Grove, do some more shopping? What do you think? That should cheer you up.’

‘Sorry, James,’ I hugged myself tightly. Why was everywhere in LA so open? What I wouldn’t give for a shadowy side street or a subway station. ‘I know you don’t want to do the usual sit-down thing, but could we maybe go somewhere slightly less, I don’t know, somewhere less open?’

‘Maybe The Beverly Center?’ James finished up his yogurt and dropped it in the rubbish bin. ‘Or Melrose? There will probably be paps on Melrose though.’

‘Are there going to be photographers everywhere you go?’ I asked, actively ignoring two girls clutching tiny dogs and huge coffees, staring at us from across the road.

‘Maybe,’ James shrugged. ‘Seriously, I told you, it’s not a problem.’

‘It is a problem,’ I said, spotting a group of pre-teens, head to toe in Juicy Couture, blatantly comparing the real-life James Jacobs and ‘mystery girl’ to the images on their Sidekicks. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s going to be a problem for me.’

‘Not at all.’ James threw his arm around my shoulders. I could practically hear everyone in the street breathe in. ‘If it’s a problem for you then it’s a problem for me. If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?’

‘New York?’

James smiled. ‘Well, I can’t get you across the country in half and hour but I can do the next best thing.’

Back in the limo, we drove out of Beverly Hills, through Hollywood, and kept going until James tapped on the glass partition to stop Jack, his driver. As soon as we stepped outside, I felt as though I was home. Gone were the tans, the big boots and the teeny-tiny shorts and in their place were beards, battered Converses and vintage plaid shirts. Starbucks were replaced by corner cafes run by slacker hipsters, Urban Outfitters taken over by vintage stores and the huge cineplexes swapped for a tiny art-house cinema. And while I couldn’t see the ocean, the beautiful blue sky was framed by the hills and mountains that surrounded us.

‘You like?’ James asked, leaning against the ridiculously conspicuous limo. I couldn’t believe we were only ten minutes out of Hollywood.

‘I like,’ I nodded, slipping my (beloved) bag over my head and across my body. ‘Where are we?’

‘Los Feliz,’ he said. ‘It’s as close as I can get you to home without using the jet.’

‘I bet the pizza isn’t as good as in Brooklyn,’ I said, looking around. Not one single person was looking at us. ‘So let’s get down to business. Where are we doing the interview?’

‘In here,’ he pointed to a small dark doorway behind me. ‘After you.’

James opened the door from the sunny street into a small, dark bar. I passed through a beaded curtain, blinking. Like Teddy’s the night before, it was lined with red booths, but they were cracked vinyl instead of velvet. The high-gloss sheen of bought-in Old Hollywood glamour, accessorized by Jessica Simpson, was completely blown out of the water by actual, genuine old-school class, accessorized by the slightly stale smell of a couple of decades of debauched nights. The tiny stage in the centre of the room was set up with a drum kit, several guitars and an upright piano.

‘Hey, James,’ came a voice from behind the bar that lined the back wall, lit by vintage-looking lampshades. Except I had a feeling they weren’t vintage-looking so much as so genuinely old that they might fall apart if I touched them. The girl talking to James had gorgeous flame-red hair and winged black eyeliner. ‘Just get whatever you need, I’ll be out back.’

‘Thanks, Marina,’ James sat down behind the piano. ‘Welcome to The Dresden. It’s my favourite club in all of LA. No paps.’

‘You play?’ I asked, sitting down beside him.

‘I do.’ James lifted the lid and played a few soft chords. In the darkened room, watching James play the piano, I felt a million miles away from all of it. From the pictures on the website, from Alex, from Mary. I placed my fingers on the cool piano keys and stared at the keyboard.

‘You play?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t even play the recorder.’

‘You sing?’ he asked.

I looked up into his dark blue eyes and laughed out loud. ‘No, I can’t sing,’ I spluttered. ‘Oh my God, stop it. Didn’t we come here to do an interview?’

‘Yes.’ He closed the piano lid. ‘I just feel a bit of a fraud doing the whole “ac-tor” interview thing with you. It’s the journos that create the persona, you know. It’s their questions that bring on the whole “I love the smell of the ocean at midnight” bollocks.’

‘Can I quote you on that?’ I asked. ‘Because I don’t have any questions about the smell of the ocean at any time and that sounded pretty good to me.’

‘OK, let’s do it this way,’ James said. ‘You ask me a question and then I’ll ask you a question. That should take the pressure off?’

‘And give me some ideas for more questions,’ I agreed, rummaging in the bottom of my (full of rubbish but never a pen when you needed it) bag. ‘Since you threw my Dictaphone in the Pacific Ocean, I have been reduced to shorthand, so go slow.’

‘I’ll go however fast or slow you want me to go.’

I refused to blush. Refused.

‘So, old Jim Jacobs,’ I cleared my throat and put on my most professional face. ‘
Desert Island Discs
time. Your three favourite albums?’

‘Easy and, I’m sorry to say it, not that original.’ James gave me a mock yawn. ‘The Smiths,
The Smiths
, Nirvana,
Nevermind
and Pulp,
Different Class
. Because I know you’re going to make a big deal of me being from Sheffield.’

‘You could have gone for Def Leppard,’ I replied, scribbling down his answers and wondering whether or not they would actually be on his ‘most played’ list if I checked out his iPod. Like they would be on mine.

‘My turn,’ James stretched his arms out above his head, stretching out his moment. ‘Angela Clark, why are you so bothered about what other people think?’

‘You could just ask me my three favourite films,’ I stalled.

‘Answer, please.’

‘Easy and, I’m sorry to say, not that original,’ I mirrored his stretch and pulled my hair back into a ponytail before letting it fall back down. ‘I’m not bothered. My turn.’

‘I don’t think so.’ James shook his head. ‘Do you think I didn’t notice you freaking out when those girls were looking at us outside the yoghurt place? And even though I’ve told you about a million times that your job is safe, you’re still worrying about the interview, about the magazine. So don’t tell me you’re not bothered.’

‘You didn’t tell me I had to be honest.’ I pulled a stray strand of hair out of my lip gloss. I would never be a lady. ‘You just said I had to answer your question and I answered.’

‘OK then. Your turn.’

‘Right,’ I said, surprised. I hadn’t really expected to get off that lightly but I wasn’t about to push my luck. ‘Three things you can’t be without when you’re travelling.’

‘A small donkey, Michael Caine and toenail clippers.’ James stared back at me, completely serious. ‘My turn.’

‘You’re not funny.’

‘The fifty million people that saw my last movie would disagree with you.’

‘I’m writing that down if you don’t give me a serious answer.’

‘You give me one then.’

I sighed. ‘Fine. I am a little bit bothered.’

‘Thank you. Now tell me why?’

‘Why? It would be easier for you to tell me why you
aren’t
more bothered. How does the whole thing not faze you? Even if this happens to you every single day, twice a day even, I don’t understand how you can just laugh it all off and expect everyone else to do the same.’

James leaned over, brushing my hair behind my ear.

‘Because it’s not real,’ he said quietly. ‘I know those photos aren’t real, the people I love know they’re not real; it’s all just another character. Even this interview, as much fun as it is and as much as I’m loving hanging out with you, what goes in the magazine will end up being an interview with a character we create. The questions you ask me aren’t supposed to find out about the real me, not the cold, hard facts. They’re supposed to find out things your readers want to know, about the James Jacobs they’ve seen in all those stupid romcoms I’ve done.’

I didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t wrong.

‘Angela, it doesn’t matter if everyone outside this club thinks we’re at it like rabbits in here, we know we’re not and that’s what matters. And no one with half a brain believes what they see on celebrity websites.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too.’ I chewed on the end of my pen, looking back at the bar. ‘Can we get a drink?’

‘Someone thinks the photos are real.’

Despite the fact it would mortify my mother, I clambered underneath the bar and poured myself a drink. ‘Yeah.’

‘Is it your mum?’

Oh my God, I hadn’t even thought about that. I doubled the shot. ‘Not yet.’

‘The boyfriend?’

‘The boyfriend.’ I poured a Diet Coke on top of the vodka but there was only room for a third of the bottle.

‘I can’t believe he called you a liar.’ James followed me over to the bar.

‘What?’ I mixed my drink without a straw. ‘He didn’t say that.’

‘He thinks the photos are real,’ he said. ‘And you said they weren’t, so I’m fairly sure that means he called you a liar.’

‘Not exactly.’ I took a long swig, pulled a face and added some more Coke. ‘He was just a bit—well, not very happy about it. Which is completely understandable.’

‘But you told him nothing was happening and he didn’t believe you?’ James pressed on, settling on a bar stool. ‘Beer for me, please.’

‘Great, now I’m a barmaid,’ I muttered, grabbing a Corona from the fridge. ‘I told him they weren’t what they looked like. That doesn’t mean he didn’t believe me. He was just a bit annoyed. His ex cheated on him so, you know, it’s hard for him to trust people sometimes.’

‘But you’re not his ex,’ James squeezed a chunk of lime into his beer. ‘And you haven’t cheated on him.’

‘No but, well, I was dating someone else when we met, but no I haven’t cheated on him. On anyone. Ever.’ I slipped a napkin under his bottle. At least I’d have experience in bar work for when I lost my job at
The Look
. ‘I would never cheat on Alex.’ I looked up confidently. ‘I would never cheat on him.’

‘Then he’s got no right to make you feel bad about some paparazzi shots,’ James reasoned. ‘He should just take your word for it and think himself lucky that he has such an amazing girlfriend.’

‘I wouldn’t go so far as amazing.’ I sipped my drink. ‘Just common or garden perfect would do it.’

‘Do you always make jokes about yourself?’ James set his bottle back on the bar. ‘Because you are amazing, you know. And your boyfriend should never make you doubt that.’

‘I don’t make jokes about myself and I’m not amazing.’ The bar was so quiet, I could hear my heart thudding. This didn’t feel as though it was essential to the interview. ‘Really. Anyway, I have more questions for you.’

‘You’re cute, you’re clever, you’re funny, you clearly love this idiot even though he doesn’t deserve it,’ James carried on, pushing the lime right down the neck of the bottle. ‘If you were my girlfriend, I would never let you be miserable. Ever.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, examining my fingernails. ‘I don’t think anyone can make me feel better about the fact that I’ll never be
America’s Next Top Model
.’

‘Yeah, you don’t ever make jokes about yourself,’ James replied.

The longer we sat in silence, the more awkward it became.

‘Has he ever cheated on you?’ he asked. ‘The boyfriend?’

‘No. Of course not,’ I said quickly. ‘He wouldn’t.’

James studied me silently while he drank his beer.

‘Can we get back to the interview?’ I asked, my stomach dropping.

‘Because if you were my girlfriend—’ James started again.

‘The interview?’ I interrupted. Too much. This was just too much.

‘My video iPod, running shoes and a copy of
The Great Gatsby
.’ He knocked back the rest of his beer.

I looked up.

‘The three things I can’t be without when I’m travelling,’ he shrugged. ‘What else have you got?’

We passed another hour discussing James’s favourite designers, his favourite holiday spots, his favourite restaurants, and everything else a
Look
reader could feasibly want to know about her favourite actor, until my hand was cramping and my pad was full.