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Authors: Lindsey Kelk

I Heart Hollywood (8 page)

BOOK: I Heart Hollywood
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But weirdly, no one was giving Daphne so much as a second glance. Instead, every single person in the restaurant was pretending not to look at a tiny little brunette, skulking in the corner and wearing a ridiculous number of layers for such a sunny day, who was sitting with an incredibly average-looking man in a business suit.

‘Who is that?’ I asked quietly, joining in the pretending-not-to-notice game. ‘I feel like I should know her.’

‘You should,’ Jenny said, sipping one of the gimlets Daphne had ordered for us. ‘It’s Tessa DiArmo, the singer? She stayed at The Union just before Christmas. Pain in my ass.’

‘Everyone’s a pain in your arse,’ I said, giving in to curiosity and turning around for a good look. The girl was genuinely minuscule, with masses of wavy light brown hair and glowing tanned skin. Whatever ‘it’ was that celebs had, Tessa apparently bathed in it every morning. Without batting so much as an eyelash, she had the attention of every single person in the restaurant. ‘I never saw her in The Union. She’s so pretty.’

‘Wouldn’t cut it with us, huh J?’ Daphne said, sipping the fresh cocktail that had been silently replaced. ‘You can’t shake what ain’t there.’

‘Shake?’ I tried to register the looks that were exchanging between the two girls, Jenny seeming slightly startled and Daphne smiling innocently into her drink.

‘Jenny told you how we met, right?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I turned to look at Jenny. ‘She actually didn’t.’

‘Daphne,’ Jenny let out a warning shot. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daphne wasn’t going to be hushed by a stern tone of voice.

‘Chill, J, it’s so not a big deal.’ She pressed her lips together, refreshing her pout. ‘We used to work together. When J lived here last time?’

‘When she was acting?’ I asked.

‘When she was dancing.’

I bit my lip and looked back at Jenny. Impossible. She was blushing.

‘Dancing? You danced?’ I really, really wanted Jenny to nod, smile and possibly demonstrate some tap moves.

‘Oh baby doll, I do not believe Miss J never told you about our act?’ Daphne pouted.

‘You had an act?’ This was too much.

‘Sure,’ Daphne said, as a waiter appeared with three giant salads. ‘A burlesque act.’

Jenny’s blush faded until her clear caramel skin paled to a sallow sea green. Even behind her giant sunglasses, I could see her eyes were as big as the huge salad plates in front of us. Simultaneously, we both reached for our gimlets and drained the glasses.

‘Well,’ I finally managed, ‘Jenny Lopez, you dark horse. I should have known.’

‘Excuse me?’ Jenny reached across the table and finished Daphne’s cocktail. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I just meant, you know, you carry yourself like a dancer,’ I protested. Just one cocktail in and I’d already had too much to drink to lie convincingly. Daphne sat cackling across the table and making ‘more drinks’ signs at our waiter.

‘And you’ve got good rhythm?’ There was no way to dig my way out of this. ‘No, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to fess up about this one. Burlesque dancing, Jenny Lopez?’

‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ She pushed her chair backwards, straight into the person behind her. ‘And when I get back, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Of course,’ I called as Jenny stormed across the patio, her massive tote bag bashing diners in the back of the head as she went. Waiting until she vanished inside the restaurant, I turned back to Daphne. ‘I reckon we’ve got about three minutes: go.’

‘OK.’ She cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Jenny and I met about seven years ago. She was out here waitressing, trying out at all these open auditions and shit, basically not getting anywhere. I was working in this vintage store on Melrose and, well, kind of stripping. But classy stripping, you know, not like “drunken bachelor parties” stripping.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I nodded, trying to think of an example of classy stripping. And failing.

‘So we were both at this club one night,’ Daphne went on, ‘and we got to talking, got to dancing, got to some serious fucking drinking, and so I tell her that there’s an open call for dancers on a new music show the next day. I kind of didn’t think she would show, but I turn up and there she is. The full
Flashdance
, seriously: legwarmers, one-shoulder sweater, the whole outfit.

‘But the problem is, Jenny can’t really dance. I mean, she can move, right? But she’s not a trained dancer. And look at me. I am so not what MTV are looking for. Anyways, we get up there, basically make asses out of ourselves, and just when we’re about to go get real drunk and laugh about the whole thing, this chick comes up to us and asks if we’ve ever thought about doing burlesque.’

‘And then what happened?’ The vision of Jenny dressed as an extra from
Fame
was almost enough for me, but I had to get the rest of the story.

‘What did I freaking say?’ A firm slap on the back of my head heralded Jenny’s return from the bathroom. ‘We’re so not talking about this.’

‘Oh, we so are,’ I pushed another gimlet at her. ‘Get this down you.’

‘Seriously,’ Jenny necked the drink, ‘we’re not. We’re also not going to be able to drive the Mustang back to the hotel. I’m wasted. I totally forgot how strong these were.’

‘I’ll drive, let’s just have one more,’ I said, tapping her hand. ‘Go on, Daphne.’

‘No, do not go on Daphne,’ Jenny shook her head. ‘And you cannot drive. Angie, honey, you’re tanked. Can we just eat now please?’

For the want of knowing what else to do, I picked at my salad, smiling, nodding and accepting more drinks as they appeared. Jenny stared across the table at Daphne, her face like thunder. Dessert was looking more and more necessary to save the day. Or at least another gimlet.

‘So where are we going next?’ Daphne asked after the waiter had taken away our plates. ‘You guys have a pool, right?’

‘We’re going to get the check and go back to the hotel,’ Jenny said, looking at her watch.’ Angie’s on standby for Mr Movie star and you still need to call Alex, right?’

‘I do need to call Alex,’ I slapped Jenny’s hand in agreement. Maybe I was a little bit tipsy. ‘Can you hear something?’

‘Angie, honey, it’s your phone.’ Jenny fished my BlackBerry out of my (divine) bag and held it up to my face. I leaned towards it, getting Jenny’s finger in my ear.

‘Yo,’ I slurred.

‘Hi, it’s Blake?’

‘Blake?’ Did I know a Blake?

‘James Jacobs’s assistant?’

‘Oh bollocks. I mean, oh yes, Blake, hi. How are y—’

‘James wants you to come to the Chateau now?’

Crap crap crap crap crap.

‘Now?’ All together too many questions in this conversation.

‘Call this number when you arrive?’

The phone chimed as Blake rang off.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, tossing the phone back in my bag. ‘Did he cancel the whole thing?’

‘Oh my God, I wish.’ I closed my eyes and willed myself to open them sober. ‘Try the opposite. Right now.’

‘They want to do the interview now?’ Jenny winced. ‘He’s here?’

‘He’s here. And I have to go and meet him now. God, Jenny, I’m wasted! I’m going to get sacked, I’ll lose my visa, I’ll have to go back—’

‘Jesus, overreact much?’ Daphne stood up, leaving a huge wad of bills on the table (how expensive were those gimlets?) and held out her hand. ‘Where’s he staying?’

‘Uh, at a chateau?’ That didn’t sound right even to me.

‘Chateau Marmont, it’s like, fifteen minutes from here. J, take her into the bathroom and, fuck, I don’t know, just do something with her. I’ll order a cab.’

Daphne was, thank God, all business. Once in the bathroom, it became horribly apparent that I was in fact very, very drunk. And just as Jenny was trying to shuffle me out of her T-shirt dress, which was covered in salad dressing from where a tomato had escaped my fork, and into the new emerald green Robert Rodriguez silk dress that had charmed its way onto my credit card in Bloomingdale’s, my BlackBerry began to chirp again.

‘Answer it: it could be that gorgeous douche-bag cancelling,’ Jenny puffed, fiddling with the black patent belt. ‘And if it is, give me the goddamn phone so I can kick his ass. And give him my cell.’

‘Can’t reach it,’ I said, trying to kick the phone out of my (poor) bag but only succeeded in booting it behind the loo.

Jenny looked up at me. ‘This might be a nice restaurant, honey, but I won’t forget crawling around on the floor of a public bathroom any time soon. You so owe me.’ She grabbed my phone from behind the toilet and passed it up to me. ‘Missed call from Alex.’

‘Shit.’ I pressed redial but it went straight to answer phone.

‘No time, Angie, call him from the cab.’ Jenny took my phone and my hand and led me through the packed tables out to the waiting cab that Daphne had summoned. ‘You got everything you need?’

‘I think so,’ I nodded, gripping my bag tightly, hoping it might help the ground stopping spinning underneath me. ‘Dictaphone, cash, room key. Call you when I’m on my way back?’

‘Screw it, I’m clearly gonna have to make sure you get there OK.’ Jenny pushed me into the back seat and hopped in after me. Daphne coughed loudly from the pavement, giving Jenny what I took to be her most apologetic pout. She leaned out the door and sighed. ‘Fine. Get your ass in here, Pussycat Doll, let’s go get a drink.’

Chateau Marmont was, as Daphne had promised, just fifteen minutes away, making it a straight thirty minutes between Blake’s hanging up on me and my standing in front of the door of bungalow two. The girls had made up in record time and cackled off into Bar Marmont, leaving me to face the long walk up to the hotel alone. As much as I was trying to concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the hotel was. Just how I imagined Old Hollywood to be. A beautiful turret sitting high up on the hillside, huge arched windows looking into lounges full of gorgeous high-backed chairs, palm trees, discreet but hot waiters everywhere. If it weren’t for the ever-present BlackBerries, MacBooks and Lindsay Lohans lounging by the pool, I could almost believe I was back in the Fifties.

What I couldn’t believe was how crap I felt. I couldn’t decide if it was hot-even-for-LA-heat, the chaotic cab ride over, or my quickly building fear of meeting James Jacobs, jetlagged, drunk and made up in a taxi, that was making me feel sick to my stomach. I paused for a second and dialled Alex one last time. Just talking to him for a minute, a second, would be enough, then I could go in and do whatever it was the magazine were expecting me to do. But he still wasn’t answering. As always in life, when my girlfriends were busy in the bar and I couldn’t rely on a boy, I turned to my two constants, my handbag and lip gloss. A quick slick of Mac lip gloss and I was as ready as I’d ever be.

One quick knock and the door opened.

‘Hi, I’m…’ I looked up with my biggest brightest smile and lost the ability to speak. James Jacobs opened the door.

‘Angela Clark?’ he finished for me with a smile that put mine in the shade. ‘Hi, I’m James.’

‘I…I…’ I reached out, grabbing something hard, spinning away from the door and puking into some very pretty bushes just before everything went very, very dark.

Waking up in a strange place to the sound of a strange man laughing was not something I was incredibly experienced at, and so, when I opened my eyes in a bedroom that was most definitely not my own, wearing something that was not my dress, I panicked slightly. In that I rolled off the bed, cracked my elbow on the bedside table and screamed. Before I could locate an open window and make an escape, a shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. Oh, I had seen
Misery
, I knew what was happening.

‘Hello? Can I help you?’ Since there was no time to escape from the scary stranger holding a blunt weapon and blocking my escape, why not be polite? My mother would be very proud.

‘Doubtful, at least not before you put your dress back on,’ A deep BBC British accent came out of the dark and then the curtains opened. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see a very tall, very handsome man holding out my beautiful new green dress and a huge glass of water. Ha, like I was about to drink his drug-laden cocktail. Unless it wasn’t a drug-laden cocktail and the very handsome man holding my dress was in fact James Jacobs. Oh, balls.

‘James…Jacobs?’ I pulled the hem of the T-shirt I found myself in down over my knees.

‘Angela Clark?’ He set down the glass and held out a hand to pull me up. ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’

‘Oh, erm, yes.’ This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. The six-foot-something Greek God standing in front of me holding out a freshly pressed dress with a gorgeously lopsided grin couldn’t possibly be James Jacobs. ‘I am so sorry. I just don’t know what happened.’

‘Food poisoning, I’m sure,’ he said smoothly, laying the dress out on the bed. ‘There’s a shower just through there and I had this cleaned so it’s puke free. When you’re done, I’ll be in the living room.’

‘Thank you?’ There was such a serious chance I was still dreaming that I just decided to go with it. ‘Was I sick on your shoes?’

‘Little bit,’ he said, luckily still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got more shoes knocking around here than a Footlocker. I’ll live.’

A quick shower, a long session with my Touche Eclat and I was dressed, ready to face my fate. Mary was going to go insane. It was one thing for me to blow the biggest chance of my career but, mid-shower, I realized it wasn’t just me: I’d blown the magazine’s shot at a major interview. They’d told me numerous times in the last week that James Jacobs hardly ever did press and I had just thrown up on his shoes, passed out in his hotel room and, oh my God, had he undressed me? This humungous Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt certainly wasn’t what I’d arrived in. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to go in the ticks or crosses column.

‘Hi.’ He stood as I sloped into the living room, all six gorgeous feet and four beautiful inches of him, clutching loose pages of something in his tanned hands.

‘Hi.’ I didn’t know where to look.

Seriously, my Alex was so incredibly sexy, just the thought of him made my stomach curl up and purr, but this giant chunk of man was something else. His curly dark brown hair was longer than it had been in any of the photos I’d seen online and his blue eyes were so dark they were almost black. Even in a slightly scuzzy T-shirt, I could see broad shoulders tapering into a slender waist and, oh my, his great big thighs were just itching to get out of those jeans and into a hot tub. With me. And a bottle of baby oil.

BOOK: I Heart Hollywood
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