Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (52 page)

‘It’s only four here, sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ I said. How true was that?

‘No, thinking hasn’t been your strong point since you moved away, love,’ Mum agreed. ‘What’s wrong now?’

She’d been awake for four minutes and she was already having a go at me. Why hadn’t I called her earlier?

‘Nothing really, I just wanted to call you about, well, some pictures,’ I tried to work out how to rephrase ‘the internet is crawling with suggestive photographs of your only child’ for my fifty-nine-year-old mother, but it just wouldn’t come out. Couldn’t think why. ‘I’m in some pictures.’

‘You’re in the pictures? Is that why you’re in LA; you’re going to be in a film?’

‘No, Mum, I’m interviewing someone, I’m not in a film.’ I closed my eyes. ‘It’s just someone took some photos of me and the person I’m interviewing, he’s an actor, and they’re saying that we’re … going out together.’

‘You’re going out with an actor?’ I heard running water and opening cupboards. If she was making tea, this could go on for a while. ‘I thought you were going out with that man with the guitar?’

‘I am going out with that man with the … oh, his name is Alex, Mum,’ I could actually really use a cup of tea. Or something stronger. ‘I’m not going out with the actor, I just wanted to let you know that the photos make it look like I am going out with him. But I’m not.’

‘Just a minute love, I’m making tea. I suppose all you drink is coffee now. Can’t beat a good cup of tea though, can you? Those Americans might make more sense if they all had a cup of tea for a change. Coffee gives me the jitters.’

‘Of course I still drink tea,’ I sighed. ‘And you can get tea here.’

‘Coffee gives your dad the runs, of course,’ she went on. ‘Now what’s all this about you going out with an actor?’

‘OK, let me start again.’ I sat up in bed. ‘I’m not going out with an actor but there are some photos on the internet that make it look like I am. And I don’t want you to get upset when you see them.’

‘Why would I get upset? And where on the internet, let me have a look,’ she slurped her tea. ‘Where are my glasses?’

‘You’ve got the internet?’ I crossed the room to my laptop. ‘When did you get a computer?’

‘Your dad’s been doing a course. I thought I’d be able to send you emails but I haven’t quite worked that out yet. Your dad’s been doing that Facebook thing though. All the pictures from Louisa’s weddings are up there, you know.’

‘Dad’s on Facebook?’ I asked, logging on and searching. Oh my, there he was. Not a good picture.

‘That’s the one. Now what’s the name of this website?’ she asked.

‘Mum, I don’t think you need to look at the pictures. I just wanted to let you—’

‘If I just Goggle you, will they come up?’ she interrupted.

‘If you what?’

‘Goggle, oh, it’s wonderful Angela, you just type in anything and it comes up,’ she went on. ‘I got this really lovely recipe for an apple crumble. It’s so much better than your Auntie Susan’s one. Oh, here you are, here’s your picture.’

‘No, that’ll be my blog, Mum.’ I was talking so quickly, I wasn’t sure what I was saying. I just could not cope with her seeing those pictures. ‘The pictures didn’t have my name on but I thought someone might see them and recognize me and tell—’

‘Well, it says it’s you,’ she carried on talking over me. ‘You and James Jacobs? I’m sure I’ve seen him in something; he’s very good looking, Angela.’

‘Wait, what website are you on?’ The photos had my name on them now? I typed my name into Google Images. And there I was. There we were.

‘They’re on lots of websites, Angela. Well, you do make a very good-looking couple.’ She sounded oddly proud. ‘When do we get to meet him?’

‘Mum, I’m not going out with James Jacobs,’ I repeated. ‘These photos aren’t real.’

‘That’s not you being carried into that big black car then?’

‘Well, yes, it is but not—’

‘And that’s not you coming out of the hotel?’

‘Yes but—’

‘That’s a lovely dress, Angela. If you’d dressed like that when you were living with Mark, he might never have left you for that tart from the tennis club. All those bloody jeans and sloppy jumpers …’

‘Mum!’ Really. Why did I call her?

‘Never mind, I dare say Mark will be feeling pretty silly when he sees that you’re going out with a film star, won’t he? Malcolm, what was that film we saw about the casino? Angela’s new boyfriend was in it,’ she shouted without taking the phone away from her mouth.

Suitably deafened, I turned my attention to the first website that came up.

Updated: We finally have confirmation on the identity of James Jacobs’s new lady love! She is none other than Angela Clark, fellow Brit, journo and, according to our sources, currently dating lead singer of New York rockers, Stills, Alex Reid. Way to trade up, journo girl. That said, we always thought Alex Reid was kind of a cutie; obviously no James Jacobs, but if he’s looking for someone to help him through the heartache, we are available …

There, beside a new shot of James carrying me out of Teddy’s, this one showcasing my pants fabulously, was a picture of Alex, all bundled up, heading into Bedford Avenue subway station. I didn’t know if it was new or if it was old, but he looked gutted. ‘Oh shit,’ I breathed.

‘Angela, language.’

‘Mum, I’m sorry for waking you up,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. No time for a nap now. ‘I’ve got to make some calls. I’ll give you a ring later.’

‘OK love. And I shouldn’t worry about those pictures. You know what they say, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping. Just try not to show your pants in the next ones. Speak to you soon.’

‘There had better not be any next ones,’ I muttered to myself, hanging up and redialling. I hated it when my mother was right.

‘Alex, it’s me …’ Seriously, would I never ever learn to think about what I was going to say on voicemail before I called? ‘I know you said not to call but I had to. Can you call me please? I just want to speak to you; these photos are just stupid. I spoke to my mum and, yeah, you don’t care that I spoke to my mum, do you? Anyway, please just call me back?’

Not my finest work but far from my worst. That accolade was firmly attached to the photo of my pants that was currently circulating the internet.

I spent the next couple of hours dutifully writing up my interview with James. As someone who had never ever interviewed an A-list celebrity before, it didn’t read half bad. If I hadn’t met him, this interview would totally make me fall in love with him. Unfortunately, I had met him and, as much as I was trying to pretend otherwise, my feelings definitely weren’t entirely professional. I would probably leave that out of the interview.

Just as I was considering ordering the entire room-service menu, my phone buzzed into life. I snatched it up, praying it would be Alex. My lovely boyfriend Alex, whom I would not be cheating on. Ever. Honest.

‘Yo, Angie, you still with James?’ Jenny yelled down the line.

‘Nope,’ I looked at the clock. Where had she been all day?

‘Whatever, we’re at The Grove, Daphne had to pick some pieces up from Nordstrom – she’s styling Rachel Bilson tomorrow, can you believe it? She’s so hot. Tiny but hot,’ Jenny carried on. ‘But I’ll be in the lobby in twenty minutes and then we’re going out for dinner. And then we’re going out. Daphne, where did you get a rez?’

The sound of honking horns drowned out the name of the restaurant. ‘Jenny, are you on the phone while you’re driving?’ I asked, holding my head in my hands.

‘Uh, no?’

‘Please just be careful,’ I said. Jenny wasn’t completely concerned with her personal safety at the best of times and the idea of her behind the wheel of a car terrified me. ‘I don’t know about going out for dinner. It was really weird out this morning, loads of people just kept staring.’

‘Yeah, but you were with James though, right? Well, tonight you’ll be with us. No one will look, I swear. Well, they will, but only because of our collective hotness. Just go get ready. Oh shit, we needed to turn there, right?’

Before I could argue, she hung up. Or at least I hoped she had hung up and not just caused a six-car pile-up.

Despite really not wanting to leave my hotel room, I really didn’t want to get into another row with Jenny. Instead of taking to my bed, I went to my wardrobe and pulled out my black Kerrigan silk dress. Jenny was probably right. Surely a real celebrity would have cocked up by now and taken my place on Perez’s front page? The dress was perfect: slouchy black silk with pink sash that loosely tied around my waist. It was pretty but certainly not sexy and if I teamed it with flats instead of the skyscraper heels that Jenny had bullied me into getting when I’d bought it, it was positively demure. I combed out my hair, added a big old sweep of blusher and a quick flick of mascara. Passably presentable but in no way attention-seeking.

Which I could not say about Jenny and Daphne. I wasn’t sure if it was them waiting for me in the lobby or if they were holding auditions for new Pussycat Dolls in the bar. Jenny’s hair was huge, either from overenthusiastic teasing or driving with the top down all day, and her gorgeous tan was accessorized with bright red lips, five-inch heels and a skintight, funnel-neck black leather minidress. And Daphne was hardly letting the side down. Her black hair was carefully curled and pinned (and lacquered within an inch of its life), her make-up flawless and Fifties. Seamed stockings, a ridiculously tight black pencil skirt and fitted white shirt with a red patent-leather belt wrapped around her teeny-tiny waist completed a look I could never even hope to replicate. It was all I could do to apply eyeliner without blinding myself – how did she walk around looking like that?

‘You both look nice,’ I choked, feeling as though I had turned up to a school disco in my pyjamas. ‘I didn’t realize we were doing dressy?’

‘Isn’t this awesome?’ Jenny span for me. ‘I knew you’d love it; it’s Marc Jacobs. Daphne borrowed it for her shoot tomorrow. You’re not wearing your Miu Mius?’

I shook my head, looking doubtfully at my battered ballet pumps.

‘Kerrigan dress?’ Daphne asked, looking me up and down. ‘Nice.’

I nodded, trying not to be totally in awe of Daphne. Again. Oh yes, I could throw up in front of a movie star and then straddle him on the beach, but put me in front of a proper grown-up girl and I lost it. I’d always wanted to be one of those girls who was completely put together, who glided through life in sky-high heels with nothing but a tiny clutch bag rather than the girl clumping around in biker boots, dropping her satchel on the subway and scattering tampons everywhere. It just wasn’t on the cards. And then I remembered that Daphne Did It With Boys For Money and I didn’t know where to look any more.

‘So where are we going?’ I asked, following the glamazons out to the car. ‘Should I go and get changed?’

‘We have heels in the car.’ Jenny took my hand and smiled.

‘A simple, “you look nice as you are” would have done,’ I frowned.

Dominick’s was a cool little restaurant on Beverly Boulevard, full of pretty people, but at least here they seemed to be actually eating their meals rather than pushing their food around their plates. I took that to be a good sign.

‘See,’ Jenny gestured around with a fork full of spaghetti carbonara. ‘No one is looking at you.’

‘No, but they are looking at you spilling sauce all down your borrowed dress,’ I said, passing her a napkin. Against all the odds, we were actually having a great night. I had got over my nerves, Jenny had got over her tantrum and, once I’d got over the urge to ask Daphne how much she charged for what, she turned out to be a fabulous source of Hollywood gossip. And since I’d served as that day’s tabloid fodder, I figured I was allowed to find out the dress sizes of the cast of Desperate Housewives. ‘So what are the plans for later?’

‘On a Tuesday night?’ Daphne pursed her perfectly lined lips. ‘LAX? Hyde? Bar Marmont would be OK but we were only there on Sunday.’

‘If Bar Marmont is anything to do with Chateau Marmont, I don’t think so.’ I scarfed a giant mouthful of steak. ‘Will Hyde be crawling with photographers too?’

‘Honey, it’s LA,’ Daphne shrugged. ‘Anywhere worth going to will be crawling with photographers.’

‘I could really get to hate LA,’ I said to my steak. ‘Honestly, how do you relax if you can’t just go out and get drunk with your friends?’

‘Don’t you take your problems out on LA,’ Daphne warned. ‘That’s my baby you’re bad-mouthing.’

‘Yeah, it’s not LA’s fault you’re having a shit time,’ Jenny chimed. ‘LA is beautiful. Awesome sunshine, shopping, beaches, clubs and hot, hot men. And that’s before we even get onto all that nature stuff, like hiking in the hills, because we would never go hiking in the hills if we’re honest. But you get my point, right?’

‘And aren’t you supposed to be writer girl?’ Daphne asked. ‘Everything here is a story, everyone. New York is so boring and practical. Everything here is cooler than in New York.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘Not even.’

‘She’s right, Angie,’ Jenny butted in. ‘If you would just try and have a good time, you might enjoy yourself out here.’

‘You, Jenny Lopez, are cheating on New York,’ I tutted, but maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t entirely the city’s fault that I was having a shitty time. But I would not be miserable if I was still in New York. ‘James took me to this place today, The Dresden? He said there are never any photographers there.’

‘And so it’s not worth going there,’ Jenny repeated slowly. ‘Don’t sweat it Angie, honey. But you know, if you really want this to go away, you should go out and get photographed.’

‘How do you work that out?’ I asked, trying not to be distracted by the stupidly good-looking waiter who was taking away our plates. I really was turning into a big ho. And why was everyone in LA gorgeous? It was incredibly off-putting.

‘You go out, the paparazzi recognize you and you get your chance to give them a quote. Looking awesome, of course,’ she winked. ‘And flanked by your hot girlfriends.’

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ Daphne agreed. ‘You can tell them you’re working together or just tell them you and James are old friends or something. Even if they don’t buy it, they’ll probably still publish it and that might get you off the hook with the magazine.’