The California Club (21 page)

'I didn't want you to know!' she wails, looking sheepish.

'But why?'

'I made such a big deal of the Hollywood high life I was headed for and this isn't exactly what I had in mind.'

I can see that.

'Why didn't you ring up to have a good bitch and moan? I would’ve done!'

'I didn't want to bring you down – you know, set you worrying that I was having a bad time.'

'And are you?' I ask softly.

'Smell my hair …'

'Cheeseburger with extra onions?' I hazard a guess.

'Tuna Melt and twisty fries,' she corrects.

'Oh Zoë!' I sympathize. She didn't deserve this. She only wanted to have some fun.

'Is this going to last all week?' I ask.

Zoë nods, visibly crumpling at the prospect. 'Apparently waitressing is the most common profession for a Hollywood wannabe so here I am.' Her shoulders slump further. 'And we thought Elise would be the first to bailout!'

'You wouldn't!'

Zoë shakes her head. 'No, of course not. No matter what.'

I didn't think so. She's a trouper, is our Zoë, she'll find a way to turn this around, I'm sure.

'Maybe they've got some auditions lined up and international superstardom is just a day or two away?' I suggest, groping for some hope.

'Maybe.' Zoë's not convinced.

I look down at the table. I don't know how to make this better. Hold on – I wonder if Sasha kept the number for that fleshy-lobed director guy from the Hotel Del. Maybe he could do something?

'Everything okay?' A chipper waiter with a face crying out to be plastered across a billboard stops by.

'Yes, sireee!' Zoë zaps herself back into perky waitress mode. 'This is my friend Lara.'

'Heyyy! I'm Todd.' He extends the hand not holding a chocolate malt shake. 'You coming out with us tonight? We're going to the Beauty Bar – $10 for a cocktail and a manicure!'

'I wish I could but I've got a flight at 7pm.'

'Oh no – I don't finish till ten,' Zoë sighs. 'We can't even have a proper chat.'

'Don't worry, I just wanted to say Hi!' I try and calm her. I'm beginning to regret dropping by – I only seem to be making things worse for her. 'Tell you what – I'll just spend the next two hours eating my way through the menu so you can keep coming back to my table,' I tell her, swiftly scanning the options. ‘The '57 Ford Omelet sounds good.'

'The Elvis Scramble is better,' Todd recommends, bowing out to deliver his shake.

'I can't even show you round my hood,' Zoë pouts.

'I'll be back in two days,' I say and give her hand a surreptitious squeeze.

'Hey!' Todd reappears still carrying the shake. 'I just thought – if you want I can cover your shift till seven?'

'What?' Zoë blinks.

'That way you can hang out and see your friend off at the airport.'

'Really?' Zoë's face lights up like a spotlight has picked her out.

'Sure, I could use the extra cash, I'm saving up to get new headshots.'

'He's an actor,' Zoë says proudly.

'Do you think it's allowed?' I lower my voice. 'You know, California Club regulations.'

I don't want to see her relegated to washing dishes.

'They'll never know!' Zoë starts untying her apron. 'Todd, you're an angel.'

'Don't I know it!' he winks. 'You girls have fun!’

We exit Mel's with linked arms and a spring in our step.

'At least it's sunny!' I rally.

'Yes it is,' Zoë smiles up at the palm-tipped skyline with newfound glee. 'Really, it's not so bad. Todd keeps my pecker up.'

'And vice versa?'

'No, he's gay,' she laughs, guiding me across the road. 'You know what he said to me the other day, about my hopes for instant fame?’

‘What?’

'He said I wanted the whole thing handed to me on a plate and here I am handing out plates myself! How ironic, is that?'

I smile back at her, amazed she’s managed to keep her sense of humor. 'Has it made you think any differently about your superstar ambitions?'

'Well, not so much the waitressing itself but the stories the other girls tell me.' She shakes her head. 'I mean, some of them have got their heads screwed on but they can't get a break, others are totally delusional and I reckon they're still going to be sloshing lemonade when they're sixty. You think I've got it bad, you want to hear some of them talk – they really believe that someone's going to run in one day and say, "Our leading lady has singed off the left side of her face with a pair of straightening irons and we need you on set now!"'

I'm fairly certain that scenario has played in Zoë's head a few times. I may have even dabbled in that daydream myself – some quirk of fate leads you to a kissing scene with some A-list hunk, who then realizes he’s been waiting his whole life for someone exactly like you.

'So how does all this make you feel?' I ask.

'Sad, I guess,' Zoë sighs. 'It does happen for some but I'm fairly certain it's not going to happen for any of the girls I'm working with. At first I listened to them and thought, "Yes but I'm different, it could happen to me!" but then I realized (a) they're
all
thinking that and (b) I've never even taken an acting lesson – what makes me think I can just swan into this town and be discovered? What is there to discover, anyway?'

It occurs to me that Zoë is already discovering a fair few things about herself, but for all her super-positivity she hates it when people get all deep and analytical on her so I say nothing.

'Anyway, enough about me!' Zoë changes tack. 'What's going on with you?'

'Well, as you know I'm just off to see Elliot in Yosemite—'

'I mean about the B&B. Talk about dropping a bomb!'

I find myself inadvertently coming to a halt. Apparently I can't walk and lie at the same time.

'I really think it's for the best—' I begin.

'No you don't.'

I sigh. I can't fool Zoë, she knows me too well, knows my heart inside out.

‘It's okay,' she soothes, not wanting to make me squirm further. 'I was just thinking the other day: imagine if the first time I walked through the door there, someone said to us, “In ten years time you two girls are going to be walking arm in arm down Hollywood Boulevard!"'

'We would never have believed them!' I finish her thought.

'How could we? How could we have seen this future for ourselves? Just like we can't see what's coming next. I mean, just cos it's looking a bit bleak now doesn't mean it's not going to get better, does it?'

'No,' I say simply.

'I know my life got so much better the day I met you,' Zoë says, hitting me straight in the heart.

'Oh Zoë!' I turn and give her a big sisterly hug, eyes spilling over in an instant. 'We're going to be fine!'

'Of course we are,' she sniffs, never one to wallow in excessive sentiment. 'So, d'you want to see some stars?' she twinkles, blinking back her tears, more than ready for some escapism.

'Of course!' I enthuse, squishing my puffed-up heart back down to normal size. 'Show me!'

Twenty minutes later we've trodden on some of the greatest names in movie history – Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, Meryl Streep – and some big surprises.

'Can you believe that David Hasselhoff has a star on Hollywood Boulevard?' Zoë gapes at the gold-trimmed pink granite.

'And look – Tony Danza! Remember him?'

'Excuse me, ma'am!' A tousled blond sidesteps Zoë.

'Oh my god! Was that Brad Pitt?' she yelps. 'It was! Freaking Nora! And look – Drew Barrymore!'

Before I have time to tell her to get a grip I find myself exclaiming, 'George Clooney!'

We clutch each other, getting whiplash as suddenly the tourists and hookers on Hollywood Boulevard find themselves outnumbered by celebrity A-listers.

'Where've they all come from?' I cry, dodging a petite Reece Witherspoon and bear-like John Travolta.

'Well, it is the Oscars in a few days,' Zoë manages to reason through her hyperventilation. 'Maybe they're having some kind of rehearsal dinner?'

She could have a point: the Kodak Theater where the awards are held is just across the street. All the same, I can't believe they're just milling around un-entouraged.

'Isn't that Audrey Hepburn?' I gasp, coveting her little black dress.

'Yes!' Zoë whoops.

'Hold on, she's dead!' I frown.

Calista Flockhart walks past. There's something not quite right about her … there's flesh on them there bones!

‘They all seem to be heading for the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel,' Zoë observes.

'Let's follow them!' I suggest, advancing hot on the heels of Denzel Washington.

The entire lobby is abuzz with celebs all doing what Sandra Bullock refers to as the cocktail laugh - throwing their head back and cackling open-mouthed.

'Julia Roberts!' Zoë and I cry in unison. We're pointing in different directions. We're both right.

It's at that point we're handed a brochure: 'The Reel Movie Awards. Hollywood's Premier Celebrity Lookalike Ceremony,' I read. 'Aha! That would explain why there are seven Marilyn Monroes over at the bar.'

'Some of them are really good but look at that Tom Cruise, he's got to be six foot, dead giveaway that it's not the real deal.'

'I think Hugh Grant's making a move on Meg Ryan,' I nudge Zoë. 'Actually they'd make a cute couple, wonder why they've never got together in real life?'

'Oooh, I want to play dress-up!' Zoë yearns. 'That's the best thing about being an actress – trying out all those looks.' Suddenly she jolts herself. 'La! I just remembered! Betty at work was telling me about this amazing fancy dress place near Vine, they make you over into a movie star and then they film you doing a five-minute scene from your favorite movie! Do you wanna go?'

'Do I have a choice?' I grin.

'I was saving it until you got here and now—'

'I'm here!' I hoot.

'Come on!' Zoë bundles me back out to the street sending an unconvincing Keanu Reeves flying. ‘He needs to work on his Matrix moves,’ she mutters as we scurry back to the car.

Cruising down Hollywood Boulevard, I try to imagine Los Angeles in its heyday with men in tweed knickerbockers and loud-hailers and women in satin gowns and clasp purses. Now it's all touristy shops selling tacky T-shirts and over-the-knee stiletto boots in glittering Perspex for that essential Prostitute Barbie look.

‘There are some real nutters round here,' Zoë confides. The further away you get from Mann's Chinese Theater the seedier it gets.'

'Sounds scary,' I worry.

‘They're more the type to jump out at you and talk gibberish than do you any real harm,' Zoë assures me.

'I hope you don't go walking round here at night.'

‘This is it!' Zoë points to the right. ‘There's a parking lot round the back.'

Once inside we're greeted with row upon row of bewigged Styrofoam heads from rainbow Afro to Marie Antoinette. There's a sign telling us to wait for an assistant before trying anything on but no one is around so I cover my own short black hair with a sleek waist-length wig in sheeny jet. Imagine taking ten seconds to get ready in the morning, I muse as I smooth it in place – no bad hair days, just good Cher days.

‘This tiara looks like a cathedral!' Zoë is dazzled by the heaps of fake ice in the jewelry case, then moves on to a parade of ornate Venetian masks and then -hello? – a case full of boobs and butts available in shiny plastic or squishy foam. I'm amused to note the price tag on the boobs – $12.99 a pair. Like you're just going to buy a single breast.

Sensing movement above me I look up and find a rail of stroke-me feather boas – just out of reach, all swirling in the air conditioning. When I look back, Zoë is gone.

'Where are you?' I call.

'Over here by the decorative barbed wire!' she replies from the depths of the all-year-round Halloween aisle.

'Oh that's nice,' I shudder, picking up a sword that bubbles with blood.

'I wish The California Club had placed me here,' Zoë sighs. 'Imagine getting to dress up as a different person every day.'

'This coconut bikini would be ideal for a Tuesday,' I decide. 'Real coconut shells, available in small, medium or large.'

'Look at this!' Zoë is distracted by a giant furry kangaroo costume with a pouch designed to accommodate a life-size baby. 'I am so getting that for when I'm a mum.'

For a moment I just stare at Zoë. There is no one like her on earth. Then I spot the booth where the filming takes place. Zoë can't see it because she's trying on a pair of 'Chop Suey Specs'. How very PC.

As I catch sight of my reflection in the ‘Mirror, Mirror on the Wal’l I'm forced to acknowledge that it's going to take a fair bit of work to turn me into a Hollywood starlet. 'How long have we got, Zo?' I worry.

'Let's see,' she says, setting down a genie lamp so she can study her watch. 'It's just after 3pm now, flight leaves at 7pm. We could have an hour here, an hour for an early dinner in case Elliot is planning on feeding you barbecued squirrel, an hour to get to the airport and one hour to check in. Plenty of time!'

'Hoorah!' I cheer, heading back to the wigs.

'Holy Mary!' Zoë hisses, stopping me in my tracks.

That's her nickname for pierced people, on account of all their holes/perforations. I discreetly turn and find a face peppered with metallic acne glowering at me from behind the counter. Even the girl's ears are tattooed and she has what looks like a corkscrew skewered through her bottom lip.

'Bet she's handy to have at parties!' Zoë notes.

'Wouldn't be any good at blowing up balloons, though,' I wince.

Heaving herself out of her deadbeat slump, Holy Mary introduces herself: 'I'm Vixen and I'll be your transformer today.'

Her delivery is pure morgue menace. She obviously wants to get the ordeal of transforming us over and done with as quick as possible and wastes no time assigning us a celebrity lookalike each: 'You I could do as the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,' she addresses me. 'And you' – she squints at Zoë – 'Beyonce in Goldmember.'

We exchange a dubious glance.

She sighs and tries again. 'Catherine Zeta-Jones and Jennifer Lopez?'