Love in La La Land

by Lynn Forth

  Love in La La Land

  Lynn Forth

  Copyright © 2017 by Lynn Forth

  Cover Design: Adobe Stock © triocean

  Editor: Christine McPherson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Crooked Love Cats Edition, Crooked Cat Books, 2017

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  Love in La La Land

  To David, Stephen and Andrew,

  Rosie and Fiona

  Ben and Barney, Molly and George

  I love you all

  Acknowledgements

  Where do I start in acknowledging all those who have helped me along the writing path? I feel that getting published is a little like winning an Oscar and, as my book is set in Hollywood, I suppose I should think of these acknowledgments as my emotional podium speech to thank the team of people who got me here. And it has taken a team to achieve this dream.

  As a life-long avid reader and scribbler of stories, I naively thought that once I had seriously sat down and written my first full-length novel, magically, someone, somewhere would publish it. I can hear the hollow laughs of experienced novelists.

  In fact, until the summer of 2014, I had never actually met a real life novelist, so, it was with some trepidation, I went to a talk in a Shropshire library and there met, for the first time, a dynamic group of RNA authors who couldn’t have been more supportive and helpful. Especially lovely was Katie Fforde who, once she knew my surname was Forth, wrote me a dedication saying ‘To Lynn, a fellow writer, who will be next to me in a book shop.’ This inspired me, and is a comment I will always treasure.

  Further guidance along the publication path was provided by a wonderful group of local authors, the ADC’s, led by Morton S Gray who gave me a writing masterclass in Marks and Spencer’s cafe. I didn’t know how much I didn’t know, but she did, and proceeded to enlighten me. I am deeply indebted to her and to her vibrant little group of writers, especially Janice Preston, Alison May and Georgia Hill.

  Likewise, the lively Birmingham Chapter of writers, too many to mention by name, who amidst the fun and the friendship, offered so many snippets of advice.

  Even more thanks must go to the Romantic Novelists’ Association and its amazing New Writers’ Scheme and especially my reader and guru, Jules Wake, who believed in my book, even in its raw state. Without her no-nonsense, detailed suggestions and rigorous eye, it would still be mouldering on the shelf.

  Heartfelt thanks to my publishers, Laurence and Stephanie Patterson at Crooked Cat who snapped up my book within a week of its submission, then held my hand through my first, at times, bewildering publishing process. The warm sense of community they foster in their writers is exceptional.

  My gratitude also to my editor, Christine McPherson, who took time out from her Portugal holiday to tighten up my text and sort out my ellipses.

  To all my friends who believed in me …thank you.

  Finally, as in all good Oscar speeches, I must thank my family …and yes, must really apologise for all the daydreaming years as I worked out stories in my head. Lastly, and mostly, my long-suffering husband David, who has patiently read and re-read all my books, adding in much-needed commas and offering total and utter support.

  It’s been a wonderful experience.

  About the Author

  Lynn went to live in Accrington when she was 11 and still has the accent to prove it. She now lives in Worcestershire where it doesn’t rain as much.

  Like most authors, she wrote stories from an early age and continued this fascination with words and people, by studying English and Psychology at University. Later, as a lecturer at the local College, she enjoyed teaching and transmitting this love of words to students of all ages. Perhaps she succeeded a little as, in 2007, she was presented with a national award as an Outstanding Teaching and Learning Practitioner at a glittering Star Awards ceremony in London. A very proud moment.

  However, this demanding career, together with bringing up two sons, left little time for her to write down all the ideas whirling in her head. In 2015 she joined the wonderful RNA and now writes in a room with a view.

  Running two book groups satisfies her need to read and discuss a wide range of novels with fellow enthusiasts. She enjoys films and travelling, especially to France. Although never a big exercise fan, she has always liked dancing and music, so combines the two in energetic sessions of Zumba, singing along, inventing her own words where necessary. Gardening is another activity that gets her away from the computer and she nurtures a disorderly riot of flowers whilst her husband tends neat serried rows of vegetables. They meet at the bottom of the garden amidst the roses.

  Chapter One

  ‘Wardrobe mistress?’

  ‘Nope. Heck, think about it, Jack.’ Hank sighed in mock exasperation. ‘You’ve been around the studios long enough to know that everyone working in wardrobe always seems to wear every damn thing they can. They would be all hidden from head to foot in layers and flounces. Now, look at her…’

  The two men gazed speculatively from inside the darkened windows of Hank’s security booth at the advancing slender figure.

  ‘Lovely simple dress, nice and clingy in all the right places.’ Hank sucked on his teeth in admiration as the approaching silhouette shimmered in the glaring Californian sun. ‘And that’s too good a figure to hide.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Jack conceded with a grin.

  ‘You’re darned right I’m right,’ the burly guard insisted in his unmistakeable Texas drawl. ‘I’ve been watching folks arrive at my gate for well-nigh thirty years. I can spot a wardrobe mistress at half a mile, and that gal’s too durned pretty to be wardrobe.’

  Jack tried again. ‘Could she be a director or an assistant producer or—’

  Hank cut him off with a withering glance.

  ‘Jack…that girl is walking, I mean walking up to the gate, so she must have got a taxi, or even a bus to get here. If she was anybody important, the studio would have sent a car.’

  He was right. Jack knew nobody walked in Hollywood.

  Hank looked baffled. ‘No, that girl isn’t anybody, although she certainly should be with looks like that.’

  Similarly puzzled, Jack now fully engaged himself with the problem. In spite of Hank’s seasoned expertise, he was resolved not to be beaten by him. His competitive spirit fired up, and he was determined to win the ten dollars they’d bet on correctly guessing her occupation.

  He ran through all the jobs available on set in a film studio.

  ‘Continuity girl?’

  Hank laughed. ‘Nope, they always wear white blouse and dark trousers, look like secretaries…very organised. So, unlike that little lady there, they would have had their ID all ready for inspection.’

  The girl in question, totally unaware of this scrutiny from behind the darkened windows of the security booth, had stopped to ransack her capacious leather bag for her ID, giving the watching men much-needed time to continue racking their brains for any other occupations she might have around the studios.

  Hank had been a security guard at Bellewood Studios since taking the job temporarily to pay the rent until his acting talents were discovered. Over thirty years ago.

  By now he had
perfected the art of guessing the profession of everyone who walked up to the barrier, before they announced themselves at his gate.

  Over the past few years, walkers had grown few and far between. Everybody came by car, or perhaps one or two ‘ecologicals’ – as he called them – came by bike. But nowadays, walkers were rare, which is why he was particularly enjoying speculating on the current object of fascination.

  He knew that Jack, too, was enjoying the game, and relishing watching this girl, knowing she was completely oblivious to their presence behind the dark glass.

  ‘Make-up girl?’ ventured Jack.

  ‘Nope, wrong again. As far as I can see, she’s not wearing any and she ain’t sprayed in fake tan.’

  Jack could only nod in agreement.

  ‘No, this one looks nice and kinda fresh,’ Hank mused. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, those are new sandals…and they are killing her.’ Hank’s experience of teenage daughters in an all-female household had taught him a lot about women’s shoes.

  Jack smiled. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’ He ducked his head in mock deference.

  Hank laughed. ‘You know my Dolores. What I don’t know about women and fashion and such…’

  Jack nodded fondly. Although Dolores’s fiery nature was legendary in studio circles, he had experienced nothing but kindness from her.

  But his attention was drawn back to the girl, who was still fumbling anxiously in her bag as a sudden breeze rumpled her hair and blew stray locks across her face. No stiff, elegant coiffure for her, as she unconsciously pushed the strands away.

  Still unaware of their scrutiny, security pass now safely clutched in her hand, the girl hesitated for a moment. They saw her smooth down her simple blue dress with quick nervous hands then take a deep breath, and step decisively up to the closed, dark window of the security booth.

  Jack was still staring in fascination at this enigmatic girl, when he was startled by Hank’s sudden exclamation,

  ‘Look at the hands…the nails…neat, real, tidy, and unvarnished. That kid’s the real deal…definitely not La La Land.’

  There was a pause. Jack watched his friend as he computed this further information into his brain. Then Hank gave one of his distinctive deep-throated chortles.

  ‘I think I’ve got it. We’ll just see, shall we?’ And he threw open the door to the booth just as the girl stepped up to his window. A fierce blast of dusty Californian heat came in to meet them. The figure was framed for a moment in a halo of bright light.

  The girl laughed. ‘Oh, you made me jump. I didn’t expect you to open the door.’

  Jack caught his breath. The voice was unexpected…an English accent, an unmistakable soft northern burr…and a warm expressive voice. For a wonderful moment, he was transported back to soft green hills and country lanes, far removed from the harsh brashness of the world he now inhabited.

  Suddenly Hank broke into a wide smile, and he took his pen from behind his ear to write one word on the corner of his booking-in pad. Then he carefully folded it over, so Jack couldn’t see it.

  Clearly delighted, Hank turned his bulky frame towards to the waiting visitor.

  ‘Sorry to startle you, Miss, but we have to have a good look at any of our visitors,’ he drawled. Jack smiled as he knew this wasn’t true any more; most visitors now swept up in their chauffeur-driven cars and barely glanced out of the window. No, this was a delaying ruse so Jack could have a bit more time to guess her occupation.

  ‘Have you got your pass, Miss?’ Hank peered over his sunglasses.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She laughed a little nervously as she handed it over. ‘I put it in such a safe place I couldn’t find it,’

  ‘Ah, Miss Arabella—’ Hank began to read from the pass.

  ‘No, not Arabella,’ the girl protested quickly.

  ‘That’s what it says here, Miss.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know, but I use my second name, Jane. Just Jane. Like in the Tarzan film.’ She looked embarrassed.

  ‘Whatever you say, Miss. Is this your first visit to Hollywood, by any chance?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘So,’ he said, clearly reading aloud for Jack’s benefit, ‘we have Miss Jane Jones coming to visit the set of Frisco Frolics.’

  Jack frowned. His movie.

  ‘Frisco Frolics?’ he said, emerging from the shadows and looking down curiously at her.

  He saw her look of surprise as she took off her dark glasses to scrutinise him. A pair of electric blue eyes looked up at him, and Jack felt the shock of their open candour as their eyes met. This close, he could see the intelligence in her penetrating gaze. She had to be someone important.

  So, Hank had to be wrong about her lowly status. Was she a major player who preferred to walk?

  He gazed at her for a long, puzzled moment.

  Jane was also puzzled as she looked up at this tall, ruggedly handsome man filling the doorway of the security booth. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze and a long slim scar above one eye showed white against his tanned forehead. Unexpectedly, her heart gave a quick flip at his broad-shouldered assurance and the half-smile curling at the edges of his mouth. With an effect on her as powerful as this, he had to be a movie star. Feeling slightly breathless, she tried to place him in the panoply of Hollywood actors that she knew.

  She flushed with discomfiture as she frantically wracked her brain, whilst his deep brown eyes subjected her to an intense scrutiny.

  Smiling, Hank seemed to sense the chemistry between them. You saw it in the movies all the time, but not often in real life.

  He coughed officiously. ‘So, Miss Jones, can I ask the purpose of your visit to the set of Frisco Frolics?’

  Jane turned away from the speculative gaze of the bronzed figure leaning in the doorway, annoyed to feel her colour rising. She prided herself on her cool restraint where men were concerned. How annoying to be in such a flutter. With that cool charisma, he had to be a movie star. But she still couldn’t place him, which piqued her…as did the name of the film.

  ‘It shouldn’t really be called that, you know…um…Frisco Frolics, I mean.’

  ‘Really? And why is that?’ the man asked. He towered over her, clearly annoyed yet curious, as if he had a vested interest in knowing why she was so dismissive of the film’s name.

  ‘Oh well, I suppose the film should be called that.’ Jane wilted a little under his fierce gaze. ‘It’s just that originally it was called Cannes Capers.’

  ‘I know, but I changed it.’

  ‘You changed it?’

  ‘Yes. Why not? Especially as we have changed the location to San Francisco, so the word “Cannes” – suggesting it was set in France – could have been a tad misleading.’

  Jane’s anger rose at the sarcasm in his tone. ‘I know, and it will spoil the whole story,’ she said crossly.

  ‘Oh really, and what makes you think that?’ His tone betrayed his dislike at having his work so summarily disparaged.

  ‘I wrote the book the film is based on,’ she said proudly. ‘The original Cannes Capers.’

  Jack’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  Of course. The name Arabella Jones should have rung a bell. He had seen it on the cover of her book. But her refusal to answer to that name, and insisting on Jane, had diverted his attention.

  He saw Hank’s beam of triumph as he turned over the corner of his booking page to reveal the word, ‘Writer’.

  With a rueful smile, Jack acknowledged that Hank hadn’t lost his knack, or his bet. The experienced guard knew if she was walking it had to be a pretty lowly occupation…and you couldn’t get much lower in the Hollywood pecking order than original book writer.

  Jack silently admitted defeat, and with a grin dug in his pocket and handed Hank his ten dollar winnings.

  Jane watched the transaction curiously. Was she the subject of a wager between these two men? With increasing antagonism, she eyed the tall figure before her.

  She had gathered that he was
not a film star then. But he did have something to do with her film. Was he a producer or a director? Surely a producer or anyone important wouldn’t be lounging about in a security booth making trivial wagers?

  They should be busy on set. On the set of her film.

  Irritated, she regarded him coolly.

  ‘If you are the one who changed the title, what precisely is it that you do?’

  The man’s head jerked up at the acidity in her tone.

  ‘Are you some sort of PR person?’ she asked scornfully. After all, this was her book, her year of writing till the early hours of the morning, her characters, her imagination, and her dialogue the characters in the film would be speaking. This indignation gave her the courage to glare back at this imperious man. No matter how good-looking, he had no right to change the title of her book.

  Her tone took Jack by surprise. Who did she think she was talking to?

  Then he checked himself. But of course, she hadn’t been introduced so she obviously couldn’t know who she was treating in such an offhand manner.

  He saw Hank conceal a smile at this newcomer who had no idea who he was and what he did.

  Stung, he shrugged and answered coolly, ‘I just happen to be the screenwriter who turned the book into a marketable film.’

  Obviously unimpressed, Jane’s eyes flamed with fury at the implication that her book was not successful.

  ‘The book was already marketable, thank you very much. Has, in fact, sold very well indeed. Which is why the studio bought it. As a bestseller, it hardly needed that much changing.’

  He sighed. All authors thought like that. If only it were true. But then again, if it were, he’d be out of a job.

  And he was good at what he did, adapting books into films. One of his screenplays had even won an Oscar. Did she not appreciate how lucky she was to have him on board as a screenwriter in this low-budget film? How pleased she should be with his stroke of genius in pitching it to Merle McQueen? A big star like her playing the cameo role of the mother had considerably increased the profile of the film in the Hollywood firmament.

  It had also resulted in a lot of excited buzz around the leading actor, the up-and-coming heartthrob, Scott Flynn, and his co-star and current love interest, Savannah Shaw. The press couldn’t get enough of this good-looking pair, who were featuring in all the gossip mags and were giving the film publicity to die for. Overnight, this little film had blossomed into a major feature and was now being earmarked for a major release and big budget première.