I Heart Hollywood (20 page)

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 skin-tight, funnel-neck black leather mini-dress. 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.’

‘Maybe,’ I said doubtfully. Talking to the paparazzi just didn’t seem like a good idea. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you speak to Alex yet?’ Jenny asked. ‘What did he say?’

‘Not since yesterday,’ I admitted, carefully studying the dessert menu to avoid Jenny’s glare. ‘He isn’t answering his phone.’

‘Tell me you’re joking?’ She slapped the menu down onto the table. ‘He hasn’t called you?’

‘Don’t,’ I said. I really didn’t want to get into this again.

‘If that asshole doesn’t call you in the next ten seconds to say anything other than “I know everything I read online is bullshit and I’m so lucky to have a girlfriend like you”, I’m on the next flight back to New York to kick his ass.’ She stared me down.

‘Jenny, look at it from his point of view,’ I said, taking back the menu. If only because there was a tiramisu on there I desperately wanted to get involved with. ‘I’m away in Hollywood, interviewing this actor with a horrible reputation, and after two days there are pictures all over the internet of him carrying me into a limo and me hanging around his hotel room in a dressing gown.’

‘There weren’t any pictures of you in a dressing gown,’ Daphne raised a perfectly pencilled eyebrow, ‘were there?’

‘He’s just been so perfect since we got back together.’ I changed the subject quickly. ‘And then I get here and it all goes tits up. It’ll be fine when I get home.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ Daphne offered a saccharine smile, which did not help matters.

‘Or maybe he’s missing you so much, he can’t bear even to speak to you.’ Jenny clasped her hands to her heart. ‘Oh, Angie, it’s all too romantic. And bullshit. He’s being a dick. His boy genes have kicked in again.’

‘Thanks for making me feel so much better, both of you.’ I frowned. ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Whatever the problem was before I was branded an international super-slag by Perez Hilton, as far as he’s concerned, he’s got a solid-gold reason to be pissed off with me. And you know his ex cheated on him; he’s not the world’s most instantly trusting man. Once I’m back in New York, he’ll be fine. I’m sure.’

‘So what, you can’t leave the city without him freaking out that you’re cheating on him? Sounds like a dream relationship,’ Daphne said into her wine glass. ‘And if he’s going to give you shit for something you didn’t do, you may as well do it, is all I’m saying.’

‘You’re not being fair,’ I said, sinking half a glass of red wine. ‘And, God, I’m not entirely innocent, am I? I suppose I have sort of been…well, James has been…I can hardly say it…maybe we’ve been flirting a bit. And I haven’t done anything but I have to admit, I’ve seriously thought about it.’

‘Angela, first of all, I don’t care if you blew the entire cast of
Gossip Girl
. If you told Alex you didn’t, and he didn’t believe you, he’s getting his ass kicked when we get back.’ Jenny took my hand. ‘And second of all, you need to elaborate on “flirting”.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I tried to backtrack, quickly. ‘It’s just brushing my hair away from my face, holding my hand, saying stuff.’ Daphne was staring with wide-open eyes while Jenny toyed with her dessert spoon. ‘And after that thing at Teddy’s, he sort of suggested I stay at the hotel.’

‘And you didn’t?’ Daphne looked impressed. ‘Angela, you deserve some sort of award, not some asshole boyfriend who believes everything he reads.’

‘He probably just meant because of the paparazzi,’ I said, knowing full well that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. ‘I’m just reading too much into everything because the Alex thing is messing with my head. I’m completely rubbish at boys, I never know what they’re thinking.’

‘Not one girl on this planet does.’ Jenny shook her head at me. ‘But I still cannot believe you came home on Monday night. You had James Jacobs,
People
magazine’s fifth sexiest person in the world, and my personal third, throwing himself at you and you said no. Angela Clark, you are stronger than strong.’

‘Who’s first and second?’ I asked, filling up my glass from the bottle of red in the centre of the table.

‘Christian Bale at one, Jake Gyllenhaal at two. The ranking is fluid depending on whichever’s doing the tough guy movie at the time.’ Jenny opened up the menu. ‘You’re the one that likes guys skinnier than you. Which I’m guessing is the only reason you passed up James Jacobs. God, even after that whole scene in Teddy’s I would struggle to pass that up. And don’t try and change the subject on me again.’

I finished the wine by topping up Jenny’s glass. ‘What’s it going to take to shut you up?’

‘Come out after dinner,’ Jenny bargained. ‘Out out. Dancing, drinking out. And enjoy it.’

‘I refuse to commit to enjoying it,’ I shrugged. ‘But a drink wouldn’t hurt right now.’

‘Score.’ Jenny and Daphne high-fived. If people weren’t looking at us before, they certainly were now.

One hour, two desserts and three martinis later, our car was still sitting in the valet parking lot at Dominick’s and we were in a cab on our way to Bar Marmont. Everything in me (aside from the martinis) said it was a bad idea, but I was having so much fun with Jenny and Daphne, it was starting to seem silly to go back to the hotel just because some photographers might be out and they might recognize me. Besides, I was just about drunk enough to feel a dance coming on.

‘So, Jenny,’ I clung to the hanging strap in the back of the cab as we motored around an uneven corner, ‘where’s Joe this evening?’

‘Working.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘Obviously, he would be here with me if he weren’t.’

‘But you haven’t…?’ Surely I would have had every nasty detail if she’d finally done the deed.

‘No, we haven’t,’ she pouted and reapplied her lip gloss. ‘I think maybe he’s sick. But we will. He must be sick, right?”

‘You’ve only got four more days,’ I reminded her. ‘Better work fast, Lopez.’

‘Unless you stay longer,’ Daphne said quietly as we stopped suddenly.

‘Not now,’ Jenny said, pushing her out of the door.

I looked from Daphne to Jenny. What was that supposed to mean?

‘You’ve only got four more days,’ Daphne sang as we started up the stairs to the door of the bar. I wasn’t sure what to be more concerned about, the weird tension that had just shot up all around Jenny, the photographers lining the street below or the huge man with the clipboard staring at us. And, quite frankly, if I didn’t get to a toilet very soon, we were about to have a very embarrassing incident at the door. Just not the one that the man with the clipboard was expecting.

‘Good evening ladies.’ He looked us up and down and blocked the door. ‘We’re real busy tonight. You staying at the hotel?’

I panicked, the velvet rope was not my friend. Daphne, however, seemed very well acquainted with it.

‘We’re with James Jacobs,’ she said smoothly. ‘He’s staying here.’

‘You’re with James Jacobs?’ He didn’t even bother to raise an eyebrow.

‘Well, I’m not “with him”,’ Daphne said, stepping to one side. ‘But she is.’

The doorman looked at me, presumably not having noticed me hiding behind Jenny’s enormous hair, and a slight flicker of recognition passed over his face. But not in a particularly good way. I gave him my biggest please-let-me-in-so-I-can-pee smile, but it seemed to be lost in translation. Or possibly I just looked drunk.

‘Mr Jacobs is already inside, maybe I’ll go ask him if he’s expecting guests.’ He stared at me, then passed the clipboard to a lesser, slightly smaller door-boy behind him.

‘Please do,’ Daphne smiled, as sweet as sugar. I felt myself starting to sway a little, from the martinis, the beat I felt through the floor and the implausible height of the heels Jenny had made me trade with her in the cab. Apparently she was quite hot enough in flats but I needed the help. And about twenty coats of mascara and enough eyeliner to embarrass a raccoon. Before the bouncer could leave his post, a familiar face appeared at the door.

‘Angela!’ James yelled over the music that was pulsing inside. ‘What happened to your early night?’

‘Hello!’ I squeaked, pushing past the doorman (ha!) and letting James pull me into a very short hug before I squirmed free, scanning the place for the bathrooms. The relief was immense, we were in and I was moments away from being able to pee.

‘James, this is Daphne and you remember my friend, Jenny? Back in a minute.’ I waved behind me before pelting off down a narrow hallway to join a short queue of girls. As far as I could tell, girls only queued for two things in the US, sample sales and the bathroom, so unless someone was hawking Jimmy Choos in the back, this was where the toilets were.

For a fancy club, the toilets were not classy, I thought as I slammed the stiff door of the shabby cubicle closed behind me, but the bar was painfully hip. From the pretty butterfly wallpaper to the red-fringed lampshades, Bar Marmont reeked of understated glamour. And the crowds milling around the bar were hardly letting the side down. I wondered if we’d accidentally wandered into the auditions for
America’s Next Top Model
. If
America’s Next Top Model
started accepting male models. And not-so-model males with black Amex cards. But above all, it felt safe. And I didn’t just mean the bolt on the toilet door. The bar felt comfortably exclusive.