Love in La La Land

by Lynn Forth

  All this was because of him…and this woman was carping about a mere change of title.

  Irritated, he said brusquely, ‘Look, lady, it had to have quite a few changes. OK? And I’m the guy who has made it work on the big screen. Without me, you wouldn’t have a film.’

  ‘Without me, you wouldn’t have a story,’ she countered angrily.

  Hank tried to hide his amusement as they squared up to each other.

  ‘OK, you two. Nice to know you are both so needed,’ he soothed, and grinned.

  ‘Oh Jack, on your way back, why don’t you drive Miss Jones round to the set? There’s a free buggy over there.’

  He turned to indicate the gleaming buggy baking in the sun, so didn’t see Jane’s look of dismay.

  But Jack did, and his frown deepened. This was getting too complicated. He didn’t want to nursemaid a Hollywood virgin on a film set. Especially one who would probably ‘tut’ scornfully during the scenes and find fault with everything he had written.

  But he had only himself to blame for being there with Hank in the first place. To escape the tedium of the studio, he had decided to pass on some script changes to Scott before he arrived for the day’s filming.

  Jack could have easily sent one of the all-too-many ‘gofers’ who hovered around him. They were pathetically willing to be sent on errands by the big players.

  So, if he hadn’t had itchy feet, he wouldn’t now be in this situation. Equally annoyed with himself, and Hank, he glared at the grinning guard.

  The initial surge of attraction to Jane had waned a little. Although he still felt the tug of her accent, the last thing he wanted right now was to engage with this fiercely contemptuous girl who was staring at him in such a hostile manner.

  ‘Hank, you know I’m waiting for Scott to show up. I want to give him these script amendments I’ve been working on, before he gets to the studio.’

  Jane caught her breath at the mention of Scott’s name. She turned away so they wouldn’t see her heightened colour and shiver of excitement as she listened intently to the exchange.

  Her agent had been trying all week for a studio pass, and on the last day of her stay had managed, at last, to find the ‘someone’ who knew the ‘someone’ who knew ‘someone else’ who had the influence with the right person to get the pass.

  She had been delighted at the prospect of just going onto the movie set of her book, but to find that Scott Flynn was actually expected on the set that day… It was more than she could hope for.

  She waited impatiently for Hank to tell her how to get to the designated studio. Scarcely breathing in her eagerness to get going, she scowled at the tall figure at her side. She certainly didn’t need to be driven there, especially by this conceited screenwriter.

  But she saw the stubborn set of Hank’s jaw, and realised he was having none of Jack’s excuses.

  ‘It’s OK, Jack, you can leave the script changes with me. I can give them to Scott with your advice that he look ‘em over. You know you can trust me to do that.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve beefed up his scene quite a bit, and the director doesn’t know yet,’ said Jack dubiously. ‘So, I want to make sure Scott approaches the whole thing tactfully. You know how sensitive these directors can be about changes, and Scott is hardly the most diplomatic person I know.’

  His reluctance to give her a lift was so plain to see that Jane bridled.

  ‘Don’t let me put you to any trouble, Mr…?’

  ‘Jack. Jack Clancy,’ he said stiffly. The name meant nothing to her.

  ‘Well, Mr Clancy, I can assure you I’m quite capable of finding my own way to the set, thank you very much.’

  She turned to Hank. ‘If you would be so good as to point the way, I can walk there.’

  ‘Well, Miss, I guess I could do that, but these studio lots are huge.’ Hank shook his head sceptically.

  ‘Thank you, but I think you’ll find I have a very good sense of direction.’

  ‘No doubt you have, Miss, but I was thinking of the sheer distance… It’s miles.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jack’s demeanour change from annoyance to amusement. His lips clearly twitched at her stubborn refusals of help, and Hank’s equal determination to get them together.

  Irritated, Jane glared at him. After all, he wasn’t a film star…not like Scott Flynn. And despite those devilish good looks, he was only a writer just like her. And a week in La La Land had left her in no doubts as to the lowly status of writers.

  Turning to the stout, uniformed guard, she redoubled her efforts to convince him that she didn’t need Jack’s help. ‘Back home in Yorkshire, I walk for miles most days and it’s all up and down hills,’ she added, knowing from her recent Hollywood experiences that no-one, but no-one, had any idea of where Yorkshire was or what it looked like.

  Hank was still shaking his head, obviously totally unconvinced of her walking abilities.

  Jane was nettled. This was ridiculous. How could she impress upon this guard that, although it was an unusual activity in California, walking was something she was more than proficient at?

  ‘Look, I can walk, you know. I know the usual stereotypical view of us round here is of soft, soppy, fragrant English roses. But Yorkshire is in the north of England. We are not southern softies,’ Exasperated, she exaggerated her accent for effect. ‘Ooop north, we are famed for our sturdiness, our grit, our hardiness in all weathers, our ability to walk for miles over t’ moors and…’ She tailed off, aware that Hank was not understanding a word she said, and that she was making no impression whatsoever on his scepticism.

  ‘And it’s mighty hot out there.’ Hank shook his head.

  She was right. He hadn’t understood her accent, and equally right that what she was saying hadn’t made a blind bit of difference to his disbelief and wonderment that anyone should walk anywhere.

  Jane, undefeated, pulled out a floppy sunhat from her large bag.

  ‘That’s no problem,’ she countered defiantly, poised to jam it on her head.

  ‘And in those shoes.’ Hank stared at her feet.

  Here she paused; her shoulders sagged. Her sandals had felt fine in the shop – sparkly, very high, and as this was Hollywood, they added a much-needed touch of glamour to her outfit. It wasn’t every day you got to visit the film set of your book. And, with luck, see Scott Flynn, the gorgeous, handsome, hunk of a man who was starring in it.

  What to wear had been the problem. The prospect of perhaps meeting Scott Flynn had thrown her into a frenzy of excitement and indecision. It was important to achieve the right mix of blasé insouciance with just a hint of glamour, so these shoes had been a very expensive impulse-buy yesterday afternoon. And yes, they were already pinching.

  Without giving her time to reply, Jack loped away to the waiting buggy. Defeated, Jane was forced to follow. She turned and smiled goodbye to a triumphant Hank, and hid her chagrin as much as possible. Her visit was also not going to plan.

  She had been so excited to think she might meet Scott Flynn that she had been concentrating all her thoughts on not making a fool of herself – no gushing, no stammering, and definitely no swooning when she looked into those famous cobalt-blue eyes.

  But somehow all her feelings of anticipation had been overturned by this tall, confident figure in front of her, who had distorted her story and seemed totally unrepentant about it.

  Inwardly, she seethed in annoyance, at herself…and at him.

  Jack could see she was torn between pride and aching feet. He was still amazed at his initial response to her soft English accent, which stirred suppressed feelings from his childhood. But it didn’t matter anyway. His feelings were well under control.

  Amused by her exchanges with Hank, he determined to get to know her better. So, in spite of her unwillingness – or perhaps because of it – he decided he would give her a lift to the studio. He relished the challenge she posed. It would be entertaining to turn her obvious dislike into…well, s
omething more favourable.

  ‘Look,’ he drawled with feigned reluctance, ‘I really don’t mind taking you to the set, Miss Jones. It won’t take long, and then I can come back and wait for Scott. He’s always late anyway.’

  This was not how he had planned his morning but he realised, for the first time in ages, he wasn’t bored and quite liked the new turn of events.

  Chapter Two

  Already limping slightly from her pinching sandals, an exasperated Jane tried to keep up with the tall, powerful figure in front of her. Was Jack deliberately lengthening his stride so she would struggle to keep pace? No. She suspected he always loped confidently ahead, disregarding those around him. His assurance outraged her. As had his triumphant smile when she had been forced to concede defeat and agree to a lift with him.

  She also fumed at the knowledge that he had been the one responsible for the absolute desecration of her book.

  Well, perhaps, she conceded to herself, ‘desecration’ was a bit overstated. But, she thought indignantly, he had certainly changed its title, location, and who knows what else, and had totally disregarded her objections.

  Jane was just about to clamber aboard the designated buggy when she realised she had automatically walked to the left-hand passenger side, which in America was the driver’s side. She flushed. How could she do that, just as she was trying to be so cool and aloof?

  Although clearly amused, Jack had refrained from comment and courteously extended a cool, tanned hand to guide her round the buggy into her seat. She pretended not to see the proffered hand, and swiftly ducked under the low canopy onto the hot, red bench seat. The fierce Californian sun burned her legs through her flimsy dress as she sat down, and she could feel her face glow with answering heat as she covertly watched Jack fold himself into the driving seat and clasp the steering wheel with his strong, capable hands.

  Despite her display of haughty indifference, she was very aware of the closeness of their bodies and the subtle lemony tang of his aftershave. If only he hadn’t made those disparaging remarks about her book and been so obviously disinclined to drive her to the set, she would probably have enjoyed this encounter with a fellow writer.

  She deliberately sat on the edge of the seat as far away from him as possible, her capacious bag clasped firmly on her knees, as the little golf buggy began to whirr busily between the huge hangars housing the various film sets.

  Although Jack was amused at her obvious reluctance to share this tiny space with him, he was also nettled. He, too, kept a determined space between their bodies.

  Many women would give their eye teeth to spend this much time in his company. And most novelists would likewise be begging him to adapt their books for the screen. Trust him to be in the company of the one writer who not only disdained his work on her book’s behalf, but positively bristled with dislike.

  This was an unusual situation, but also a challenge. From her resolute expression, he didn’t fancy his chances of winning her over.

  He smiled ruefully. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted her to appreciate just how lucky she was to have a Hollywood heavyweight like him working on the film script of her little romantic novel. It was well below the major work that normally engaged him. And he didn’t normally do romances.

  It had been a favour to his ‘Auntie’ Robyn. She had begged him to write a knock-out role for her beloved son, Scott Flynn. To refuse her would have been churlish. She was his godmother, and he owed her big time. He knew that without her, he would probably never have been born.

  But although he had been lured into the project, he had ended up being unexpectedly drawn to Arabella’s book. Writing the screenplay had been surprisingly stimulating, and he was pleased with the result.

  At least, he had been till now. Sitting next to this self-same author, he now grimaced and questioned whether it had all been worth it. To his surprise, she was not an exotic Arabella but a far from plain Jane, sitting primly by his side, and spectacularly unappreciative of the honour he was bestowing on her and her work.

  The author posed as big a challenge as her book. And, never one to forgo a challenge, he decided to win her over. So, he turned on the charm.

  ‘Having read your book, it’s really interesting to meet you at last, Miss Jones.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Clancy.’ She inclined her head in what looked suspiciously like a condescending manner.

  Jack hid a grin at the realisation that Jane seemed to think that scriptwriters really were a lower order of being. Should he bring her down a peg or two?

  ‘Oh, please call me Jack. In America, we like first name terms as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, I had noticed that,’ she said coolly.

  He noticed she didn’t offer her name in return. Right, he thought, here we go.

  ‘So, Miss Arabella—’ The goading worked, as he knew it would. Her reaction was instant.

  ‘No. Jane. Just Jane.’

  ‘But it says Arabella on the book cover,’ he persisted provokingly.

  Now she was facing him. ‘But I don’t want to be called Arabella,’ she flared back, blue eyes fierce with irritation.

  ‘Why ever not?’ After a reaction like that, Jack was definitely not going to let it drop. ‘I think Arabella is a lovely name.’

  ‘I hate it.’ Jane declared vehemently. ‘Can you imagine how I was teased at a no-nonsense northern school with a name like that? There were all sorts of versions, I was called…’ She paused, clearly thinking better of revealing that information, then clammed up.

  As her face betrayed her vexation, he wondered if there were deeper reasons for such an intense dislike of that particular name.

  After a pause, she said more calmly, ‘Well, anyway, now I tell everyone to call me by my second name, Jane.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why. Most novelists I know would love a name like that.’

  Teasing her was too easy. He had obviously hit a nerve and ought to feel guilty about prolonging a conversation she so obviously disliked.

  But he didn’t.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she groaned. ‘That’s what my publisher said, and he insisted I use it on my books.’

  ‘I actually like the name. It has a nice sound to it.’

  ‘Oh yes, the name itself is fine, but it just doesn’t suit the person that is me. I don’t feel like an Arabella. It’s too…’ she paused again, clearly trying to put into words her lack of ease with such a wonderful name. ‘It’s too theatrical, too exotic, and…’ she added quietly, almost to herself, ‘too beautiful for someone like me.’

  He was stunned. This was a totally unexpected answer. Didn’t she know how attractive she was? Was this mock modesty? She met his shocked gaze with candid eyes.

  No, she really didn’t. This was rare indeed, and perhaps peculiarly English. No-one in Tinseltown would ever admit to not feeling beautiful…not out loud, anyway. And not honestly, either. It was only ever used as a strategy to elicit fulsome praise and reassurances from the listener. And the resulting deluge of sycophantic flattery was always met with much preening and gushing.

  But that was clearly not the case here. Jane genuinely believed she was not worthy of a beautiful name like Arabella

  ‘So, you prefer the mousey Jane,’ he said with incredulity.

  She flared up instantly, although this time he hadn’t meant to goad her.

  ‘Not mousey. But it’s sort of unfussy…and down to earth and…honest.’

  Yes, he had to admit, looking at her, it suited her natural freshness.

  ‘OK, Jane it is,’ he said.

  Jane hadn’t expected the warm smile that accompanied this concession. And it totally wrong-footed her. And such a devastating smile; crinkling his eyes and transforming his face. It made her catch her breath. When he shed his look of mocking cynicism, he was stunningly handsome. Her eyes travelled from the tanned V of his chest, revealed by his open-neck shirt, to his strong jaw and his very sexy mouth. Unexpectedly, she felt a deep surge of attr
action that made the blood pulse in her veins. Swiftly, she turned away, flushing in annoyance at this sudden intensity of feeling. This man was insufferable and she mustn’t let him get under her skin.

  But her eyes strayed to those long, lean legs encased in faded denim. Surreptitiously, she took in the strong capable hands relaxed on the steering wheel and the taut, bronze forearms exposed by the rolled-back sleeves of his crisp, white linen shirt. Acutely aware of Jack’s physical presence, an inner heat crept over her limbs.

  She was horrified to discover she was licking her lips.

  This was ridiculous. What was she doing? This man must not think for one minute that she fancied him.

  Of course, it must be because her senses were on heightened alert in the hope of seeing her idol Scott, and she had stupidly worked herself up into a state of intensified excitement. As hunky as he undoubtedly was, Jack was merely there to whet her appetite before she encountered the sheer animal magnetism that was Scott Flynn.

  She must calm herself down. This wouldn’t do at all.

  To distract herself from this frenzy of anticipation, she turned her attention to their journey. The buggy was humming along between large hangar-like sheds shining brightly in the hot Hollywood sun. She had to admit to herself that Hank had been right; she could never have walked this far in the heat. She watched transfixed as Jack wove deftly in and out of a group of burly men carrying large painted frames. Others nearby, all safety geared-up, were manhandling large pieces of heavy metal equipment, and several slim-hipped youths were wheeling racks of glamorous, floaty, crimson costumes, presumably for extras to wear.

  Turning a corner, Jack slowed down as trundling in front of them was a red buggy pulling a large crate of menacing alien weapons poking skywards, followed by a low pallet of gleaming white helmets which gazed eerily back at them.