by Lucy Vine
It’s a small, sparsely decorated apartment, and as she shows me round, Isy keeps shouting the words ‘rent control’ at me. I don’t know what it means, but my noughties telly brainwashing remembers it as the reason Monica had that really huge place in New York. I still don’t get how they were allowed a monkey though.
I have a whole entire room to myself, which is nice because I was expecting a sofabed at best. And there’s a handy little washbasin in there, that I plan to use as a tall bidet, don’t tell Isy.
‘OK!’ she says suddenly, clapping her hands. ‘Dump that bag in your room, change into something nicer and let’s go.’
Go? Oh God, we’re going out?
I nod enthusiastically, determined to be fun, even if it kills me. And it might? I got no sleep on the plane and it must be close to 5 a.m. in the UK by now. I briefly wonder how long it will be before I stop translating US time, and then I wonder if I should be bothered by that ‘change into something nicer’ comment. But Isy’s already moved on. My jet lag has me existing in a universe about a minute behind real time.
‘We’re hitting up Chateau Marmont,’ she says, already picking up her handbag.
‘Chateau Marmont!’ I say, as jovially as I can. ‘Wow, even I’ve heard of that place. A-list celebs love it, right?’ I pause. ‘Is that nearby then?’
‘Yep!’ she says cheerfully, then pulls a face. ‘Well, no, not technically. It’s about a half-hour drive from here, but it’s really glam and you’ll love it! Plus, it’s just where I have to be seen, y’know? For work?’
‘Gotcha,’ I say, even though I don’t gotch anything, and obediently go change.
‘Oh my God, be cool, but that’s Brad Pitt over there,’ Isy is saying an hour later, as we arrive at the glitzy restaurant-bar in Hollywood. She is barely containing her own un-coolness as she nods over my shoulder.
Fucking hell, Brad Pitt! On my first night in LA! I can’t believe this, it is so . . . nope, that’s not Brad Pitt. Not even close.
‘Isy,’ I sigh. ‘I may be jet-lagged to buggery, but I’m pretty sure that is in no way Brad Pitt.’
‘It definitely is,’ she insists, ‘and I would know because he auditioned for a movie in a room near me one time.’
I cock my head at her, waiting, and she adds quietly, ‘Not at the same time.’ She glances over again and this time she fully squeals.
Several super cool fellow patrons look over judgementally.
She leans in, trying to compose herself as she hisses, ‘And shitting hell, Alice, that is Jennifer Aniston with him. I’m not kidding, it’s Brad and Jen, back together at long last. The press is going to have a field day with this! They’re going to want to interview me! You can see the chemistry between them from over here. I’m totally calling TMZ.’
I turn around and squint at the pair in question properly. There is no doubt at all. It’s definitely not Brad and it’s definitely not Jen. It is, in fact, two men in their mid-thirties, who are sipping wine and having a quiet chat by the bar.
‘Isy,’ I say slowly, trying not to slap her in the face. ‘I am a thousand per cent sure it’s not either of them. There is zero chance, I swear.’
She tuts, then sighs dramatically. ‘Dammit, really? I knew my laser eye surgery was too cheap. OK, fine, maybe it’s not Jennifer Aniston, but it really looks like Brad, doesn’t it?!’
‘No.’
She ignores me. ‘We should go over there and say hi! Imagine if the paps made the same mistake I did! We could totally end up on E! Online as the “mysterious girls flirting with Brad Pitt in front of Jennifer Aniston”.’
‘We are women, not girls,’ I say robotically. ‘Stop infantalising our gender.’
‘Come on,’ she says, grit in her voice, ignoring me.
‘I really don’t think . . .’ I try, but it’s too late. She’s already aggressively flipped her hair over her shoulder and is striding towards the non-alike who, honestly, looks more like Goldie Hawn than Brad Pitt.
I follow after her, kind of intrigued as to where this is going.
‘Hey! Hey!’ Isy is trying to get not-Brad’s attention, her voice an octave higher than usual. Isn’t it weird how we get all reedy and sing-song when we’re flirting with men? Like we think sounding more like a kid is sexy?
Actually, maybe E! Online will mistake her for a ‘girl’ after all.
The men turn around, surprised.
‘Um, hi?’ the second not-Brad says, hesitantly.
Isy smiles coyly, ‘We’re British,’ she says, as if that’s all they need to hear. And apparently it is, because they turn fully towards us then, smiling widely now.
‘Brits, huh?’ the first says, delighted. ‘My sister visited London last year, she went to a bunch of pubs. She says they’re everywhere over there, you can’t throw a stone without hitting a Red Lion or a Royal Oak! You Brits are hilarious.’
Isy flips her hair again. ‘What can I say, we love a pint of beer over there,’ she says coquettishly, eyelashes fluttering, voice still paedo-friendly.
‘I’m Noah, he’s Ethan,’ the less annoying of the two says nicely, offering his hand to me.
‘Hello Noah and Ethan, how are you?’ I say, shaking Noah’s hand.
Ethan chuckles. ‘You Brits, with your weird sayings! I love it!’ he says, taking my hand, too, as I peer up at him.
‘Sayings?’ I repeat, confused. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m great babe, I’m great!’ he says, misunderstanding me. ‘Hey, do you know my pal John Windermere? He used to work with us and he’s from England, you must know him.’ Isy pretends to think about it and then exclaims, ‘Oh wow, you know what, I definitely think I do know John – British accent, right?’
The pair nod happily and the group suddenly feels more intimate. OK, I may not approve of her techniques but Isy is good at this.
Ethan takes a tiny step back, giving Isy the once-over.
‘You’re so hot! You must be an actress?’ he declares. ‘And you have great teeth.’ He pauses before adding a little unnecessarily, ‘For a Brit.’
He looks at me next, goes to say something and takes a polite sip of his drink instead.
Oh well.
‘I am an actor, yes!’ Isy says, beaming. ‘My name is Isabelle Moore.’ She flicks her hand at me without looking away from Ethan. ‘She’s Alice.’
He leans in. ‘Listen, we’re producers, and I gotta say, you really have something. You ever do commercials? You’d be great in something I have coming up.’
Isy makes a gargled noise. She can barely contain her excitement as she bounces up and down on the spot. ‘You bet I do!’ she says. I snort and she glances briefly at me with irritation before continuing. ‘Er, I mean, I’ve mainly done stage work up until now, but I really respect the process in adverts these days. There’s so much talent involved. All the big-name writers are doing commercials, right? It feels like really ethical and important work. You’re influencing a nation.’
Ethan chuckles again, ‘Sure babe, and there’s just so much cash in advertising. You gotta number I could call you on?’
She roots around in her bag, pulling out a crisp white business card, and hands it over, beaming.
‘How about you?’ says Noah nicely to me. ‘Are you an actor, too?’
‘Yeah, are you, like, a character actress?’ adds Ethan pointedly.
‘No, I’m not,’ I shake my head, directing my response to the much-nicer Noah. ‘I’m just over here for a few weeks for the fun and sunshine. Back home in London I wasn’t really anything . . .’ I trail off. ‘I mean, I worked, of course. But I was just a temp in an office with this English politician. I guess I was kind of a troubleshooter – his PR, almost. Whenever the tabloids called up about his latest sex addiction, or whatnot, I was the buffer – threatening to sue and persuading them it wasn’t in the public interest if Tony wa
nted to have a threesome with a former prime minister and a pig.’
Noah laughs, incredulous. ‘For real? That sure sounds like an intense job for a temp.’
‘Yeah, it was,’ I say, laughing too. ‘But I’d been there for over a year, so I guess he trusted me. I started out on reception doing a few days of holiday cover, and ended up behind the scenes, working alongside the boss. They offered me a full-time position, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do long term, so I just stayed on a rolling contract, battling for the forces of evil.’ I stop and look at my feet. ‘Actually, I quite enjoyed it and probably would’ve stayed on, but then I also sent my boss a text that talked about his bent penis on my thirtieth birthday.’
Noah nods, looking a little unsure about that last part. ‘So,’ he moves on. ‘What do you want to do long term? Or is that a boring question to ask right at the start of your vacation?’
I laugh and then I’m silent for a full ten seconds. ‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘That’s part of why I’m here. To figure things out. I’ve kind of always just . . . temped. It’s been quite fun over the years, going from office to office, meeting new people, challenging yourself with whatever madness gets thrown at you. But without worrying about any of the commitment. You don’t get sucked into the drama or dumb office politics. You don’t have to contribute to anyone’s leaving present, and every day is different. But I don’t know . . . maybe I’m ready for something more.’
An hour later and I am crashing hard. We’re still chatting to the producers, and it turns out Noah is really nice, in addition to the hotness. Ethan and Isy are full-on snogging in the middle of the bar, while Noah and I sit in a corner, people watching. We’ve laughed a lot and now we’re getting onto more serious subjects. Noah is telling me about his divorce and how he has to take on commercial work he doesn’t enjoy to pay for his ex-wife’s summer house. But he doesn’t seem too bitter about it – he’s not being horrible about her – he just sounds a bit sad. Life happens, doesn’t it? Everyone has baggage and everyone has their story. I feel bad for him.
‘It’s been a tough road,’ he says, in a low voice. ‘And of course it’s been a knock to my confidence. It’s hard to get out there and meet people.’
‘I get it,’ I say sadly, because it seems like the only answer.
There is a pause in the conversation and I squint at him. ‘You know, you do actually kinda look like Jennifer Aniston.’
‘Huh?’ he laughs.
‘Sorry, nothing,’ I clear my throat. ‘All I mean is, I think you’ll do fine on the dating scene.’
He laughs and sits up straighter.
‘Well, on that note, Alice,’ he says. ‘I’d love to see you again while you’re in LA.’ It’s not a question, it is a statement. He is confident. The men here seem very self-assured. It’s attractive, but a bit intimidating when you’re used to the English brand of flirting, which mainly revolves around hiding in a corner and avoiding eye contact. But this trip is all about fun and trying new things, right? And I have always had some confusingly sexual feelings for Jennifer Aniston, so . . . yeah, why not?
‘Sure,’ I say, smiling. ‘But I don’t have a business card, so I’ll have to just give you my number like this is still the noughties.’
He laughs, and I get a hint of butterflies.
Ooh. Imagine having sex with someone who isn’t TD. Imagine that.
4
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
23 April – 10.13 a.m.
Good morning, dream chasers,
I write this latest blog lying beside a crystal-blue, sparkling azure pool of deepest cerulean. The sun is beaming like a happy face down on this really nice place by this swimming pool. I am surrounded by natural stunning beauty everywhere I look. It is very calming and nice. I’ve had a lovely first few days in LA. I have already hung out at the renowned Chateau Marmont with a couple of very famous people I cannot possibly name, and that was really good. I have spent my mornings walking along the perfect beach on Venice Beach which is also nice. I have also been shopping along LA’s famous boutique road, Abbot Kinney, which I thought would have more of a church theme, but it’s mainly pop-up shops. They are all very very cool and hip and I can definitely afford all the clothes available. It’s really good and I am embracing the boho chic vibe while also making many new friends. My host, Isy, is so kind and generous, we are getting on beautifully and I don’t know how I will bear to leave her in a few days. But before then, we have many more adventures to go on, side by side.
Sending you good thoughts, followers,
Alice x
#NaturalBeauty #LAPools #AbbotKinneyHasNoAbbots #AListSpotsAtChateauMarmont #TravelBlogger #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog #OffTheBeatenTrack #BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser
7 Comments · 3 AWOLs · 6 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Karen Gill
| Have you had Botox yet though?
Eva Slate
| You’re awake! Can we Skype?
BLOG HOST PICK A USERNAME
Replying to Eva Slate
| YESSSS, will call you at half past.
Mark Edwards
| Alice, no one has said ‘boho chic vibe’ since 2005.
Hannah Edwards
Replying to Mark Edwards
| P*&”
Mark Edwards
Replying to Hannah Edwards
| The important thing is that you keep trying with AWOL, Han.
NaughtyLad678
| Get a life whoever u r
‘Yeah, it’s really fun!’ I’m shouting, as if the Skype connection will improve with volume. ‘I got super sunburned on day one, because I am hashtag-British, but I am still going down to the pool every day just to stare at all the hot people. All the tits are fake, which makes my wonky boobs feel a bit sad and jealous but that’s entertaining too. Also, is it just me or is chlorine a really sexy smell?’
Eva laughs on a delay but her reaction is a little downbeat. ‘Aww, I’m so jealous. I really miss you, Al. I’m feeling so fat and weird. My boobs hurt.’
‘They always hurt,’ I grin. ‘You’ve got to stop fiddling with them.’
She sighs. ‘I know.’ She looks sad.
‘Oh, Eva,’ I say, suddenly worried about her. ‘I miss you too. Are you OK though? Really? Is it super weird, being pregnant? Are you feeling ill and being, like, sick everywhere all the time?’
‘I’m mostly over that bit,’ she says, rubbing her nipples again and looking pained.
‘Stop it,’ I scold and she drops her hands.
‘Sorry.’ She pauses. ‘No, I’m not being sick any more, although I am exhausted all the time. I’ve never known anything like it. It’s like having a fuzzy blanket wrapped around my brain. I thought I was meant to get all glow-y and full of life, but this is more like having a tapeworm stealing all my nutrients and energy.’
It’s a great analogy.
She sighs, before going on. ‘It’s just such a super weird idea to get my head round. I can’t get over the fact that I have a person growing in here,’ she gestures to her stomach like it’s separate to the rest of her. ‘It also feels a little bit like Jeremy gets all the fun bits. He gets taken off for celebratory drinks and claps on the back, while I’m not allowed to get drunk or even look like I’m having too much fun. Strangers feel up my belly and tell me judgementally that I shouldn’t take any drugs or have any help during labour. And God forbid I have a sip of wine. Oh Alice, I really miss wine.’
I nudge an empty bottle on the desk beside me out of camera shot.
‘That does sound really tough,’ I say sympathetically, trying not to leap on the chance to slag Jeremy off. It’s interesting to hear Eva being the tiniest bit negative about him. They’ve always been so glossy and shiny as a couple.
They met last year on Tinder – yes, Tinder! They were literally the last people on earth to ever meet someone they really liked on Tinder – and Eva said she knew straight away that he was it for her. There were no games, she kept saying it like that was a good thing and not just boring. I mean, when did games get such a bad name? Games are great! Who doesn’t like Monopoly or charades, after all? Anyway they spent basically every day together after their first date. He might not be my cup of tea, but I suppose I have to give him credit for how thoughtful he always was with their dates. He always went that extra mile, cooking three-course meals for her and whisking her away on mini breaks. And he did make a pretty big effort with her weirdly huge family. There are about forty-five first cousins in the Slate dynasty, who are all so posh you can’t even understand what they’re saying. Eva said Jeremy spoke to each and every one of them at the bi-annual Slate family gathering – and that was only a few weeks after they first met.
But just because he’s nice to a bunch of braying cousins, doesn’t mean him and Eva are right for each other. Because they’re not.
She inhales deeply. ‘It’ll be worth it, I know. That’s what everyone keeps telling me anyway. Everyone keeps saying it’ll be worth it and how the love is magical, and then in the same breath telling me the most awful horror stories about labour.’
She pauses and we both picture something bad.
‘But never mind all that,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’m just feeling sorry for myself. It’s the hormones. Please cheer me up, Alice. Tell me about the cool things you’ve been doing since you arrived.’
And so I do. I tell her about the excess of food and the excess of drinks. I tell her about the sandy morning walks along Venice Beach, which are full of exhausted-looking Instagram husbands doing photo shoots for their partners, who insist on eight hundred versions of the same pose to perfectly capture that casual caught-unawares angle. I tell her about LA’s famous boutique road, Abbot Kinney, where I can only assume I couldn’t afford anything because there are no price tags. Not that it mattered either way because all the sizes go up as high as a whopping four.
