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