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 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.’