Love in La La Land

by Lynn Forth

  Jane pivoted her head from side to side, hoping to glimpse someone famous. In fact, who was that slight, hunched, bearded man talking into his mobile phone and jabbing his hands back and forth to illustrate a point he was making? He definitely looked familiar. And surely that was someone famous striding along surrounded by a coterie of admirers? But she could only see the top of his blond head and hear the ripples of sycophantic laughter.

  They passed a boisterous knot of men playing cards on boxes, no doubt waiting for something to finish on the set before they could do their bit. Further on, two teams of fit, bare-chested men were playing a hot and noisy game of basketball round a ring fixed into the side of a studio wall. Hovering near wedged-open doors stood small, guilty lines of smokers, furtively cupping cigarettes in their palms between secret puffs.

  So, this was Hollywood. Real Hollywood. Jane sighed.

  Jack hardly noticed all this, but heard the sigh. He saw her staring wide-eyed, starstruck. A long, long time ago, had he felt the same?

  On impulse, he decided to take a long, convoluted route to the studio, to give him a little more time with her. Perhaps it would be a pleasant diversion to try to break down her prim exterior. It was a while since he had bothered to make any sort of effort with a woman, and it would be interesting to discover what made Jane tick.

  ‘About your novel…’ he began.

  Jane flared instantly. ‘Which you obviously thought was rubbish so you systematically destroyed everything in it.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack coolly, glancing at her impassioned face.’ I just changed it to make it suitable for filming.’

  ‘But you didn’t have to change it so much.’ Jane’s cry was clearly heartfelt. ‘You’ve ruined it. Not France, but San Francisco. How can my heroine find herself if she doesn’t go abroad? She needs to go into a totally new environment where she’s a fish out of water so she has to befriend someone and—’

  Jack cut her off briskly. ‘Have you ever been to San Francisco?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Thought not. Believe me, for America, ‘Frisco is different. It’s almost a foreign country.’

  She had got under his skin again. He had been pleased when he had alighted on the idea of changing France for San Francisco. ‘Frisco, with its beat culture, its famous China Town, and a long tradition of being a vibrant, hippy city, was a world away from most mid-west towns. Here the homespun heroine could go to discover herself, and leave her simple, rural, backwater roots.

  San Francisco was the perfect substitute for France, if only this pig-headed woman would realise it.

  He had to get her to see he knew his job. He was the best book adaptor in the business, and it rankled that she was the only one who wasn’t aware of it.

  In trying to convert her book, he had tried very hard to retain its wit and subtlety. He had been charmed by the delicate quality of what, in other hands, would have been a somewhat trite, rites-of-passage love story. Her dialogue and insights had a freshness and vibrancy he had tried to capture.

  And, although he wouldn’t tell her this, he would have preferred to keep the French locations; that way, much more of the flavour could have been retained.

  But it was not to be. Once Merle McQueen had expressed an interest in playing the overbearing mother, she had attracted more money and sponsors. So, anything she wanted, she got. Merle wouldn’t leave her family to spend six weeks in Europe, hence the change of location. And, of course, her part had to be expanded, so consequently he had to excise some others. All of which had skewed the plot somewhat.

  The book’s dialogue had also needed to be made more accessible to an American audience. Jane’s characters’ expressions were littered with English idioms unknown to a mainstream American audience, and he had struggled to retain their idiosyncratic essence.

  Jack had been forced to juggle all of these elements, as well as the thousand more small considerations that were thrown into his path in the adaptation process.

  Yet this was his job. And, despite all these difficulties, he had delivered, on time, a funny, workable script that he was secretly pleased with.

  How much easier it was for these novelists who just started with a blank page and their own imagination.

  He looked at Jane’s face and felt a fresh surge of annoyance that she didn’t appreciate all his efforts to preserve the essential nature of her book, in spite of all the obstacles thrown in his way.

  ‘Anyway, what do you care what happens to your book?’ Jack asked curtly. ‘You are still getting the money, and your name will still be on the credits. Your book will sell more as a result of the film. You’re in a win-win situation.’

  Jane was outraged.

  ‘But, of course I care…I love my characters, my story.’

  ‘You’re not going to say, “it’s my baby”, are you?’ he taunted. He had heard that cliché once too often.

  To his surprise, Jane laughed.

  ‘Believe me, that’s the last thing I would say… But I did write it with…’ She paused, looking keenly at his face. Was she going to say ‘love’, then thought better of it? ‘Well, I obviously pondered every single word I wrote. Also, as Jane Austen said about novels…’

  ‘Look. Don’t take the literary high ground with me.’ Jack frowned, annoyed at her bookish pretension. ‘Surely you realise that a film script is always going to be different.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do accept that. But leaving out one of my main characters, and moving the location from France to San Francisco, is more than just a stylistic change, it alters—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Jack impatiently brushed aside her remarks. ‘But the fact is that Merle didn’t want to go to Europe and leave her family. And even you will agree she is a big star and we are lucky to have her, and—’

  ‘Oh yes, and I think it’s terrific that she’s in it…but it’s not really about her. It’s about Kate, my heroine, and the relationship with her bloke. The whole point is that she goes abroad to find herself, and when she realises—’

  ‘Yes, and of course he comes running after her…cue big romantic revelation that he needs her more than he thinks he does, and she’s no longer a doormat.’

  Jane gasped. ‘How dare you! She was never a doormat.’

  ‘Yeah, she was. And as a result of her adventures, she becomes a feisty, independent woman…yadda, yadda, ya—’

  ‘How dare you cheapen my characters to stock cardboard cut-outs? I suppose you would reduce Romeo and Juliet in a similar cynical way.’ The blaze from her eyes would have melted an iceberg.

  He was momentarily quelled by her intensity. What passion there was inside that seemingly self-contained exterior. What fire! No-one had stood up to him like this for ages.

  He felt amused…and slightly guilty.

  Yes, he was being cynical. He had heard too many Hollywood pitches for stories that reduced things to their barest essentials and thus lost the quintessential differences that made a good story good, and the same story with a different script, bad.

  ‘OK, OK, that was a bit unfair,’ he conceded with a shrug. ‘In fact, I like your book.’

  She looked at him as if trying to gauge whether she could believe him or not. Jack skilfully dodged a large crane lumbering across their path as he continued, ‘But as good as it is, trust me, without the right script your book would die on the screen.’

  She opened her mouth to protest but he persisted, ‘Yes, your dialogue is good. In fact, I’ve kept a lot of it, but I had to change some of it because your English idioms would be incomprehensible to many Americans.’

  Slowly and reluctantly, she nodded. ‘Yes, I thought after watching countless American shows and films, I would understand everything in Hollywood. But in fact, I’ve heard quite a few unusual expressions I’ve had to think about.’

  Then she turned to him as if a thought just struck her.

  ‘But did you understand all the English bits?’

  ‘Yeah, mostly. It’s my job.’ He shrug
ged.

  For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to reveal exactly why he understood her colloquialisms so well. But no. Why on earth would he tell a complete stranger about that? He never let his guard down about that period in his life. Why had he even contemplated it? What was it about her that was getting under his skin? Was it her accent and the memories it evoked, undermining his defences?

  ‘I’ve made your story interesting and dramatic to a worldwide audience. That’s what I do.’

  Jane gave him a puzzled glanced and was silent. Had he convinced her?

  They drove on, and once again he was the one to break the silence. The desire to hear her accent tugged at him.

  ‘So, you’ve never been to ‘Frisco?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘This is my first trip to America…ever.’

  ‘You came all this way just for a day on a movie set?’

  ‘Oh no. I’ve been here a week, but this is…well, this just fitted in to my schedule.’

  Jane hoped her air of nonchalance wouldn’t betray just what a big deal this was.

  She couldn’t possibly reveal to this world-weary man that the main attraction of a day on the set was the thought that she might meet Scott Flynn. Ever since seeing him in that fleeting scene in his first film, in those tight jeans with that expanse of toned, tanned torso exuding such hot sex appeal, she had had a foolish schoolgirl crush on him. What a hunk! What a heartthrob! She had already impressed everyone she knew by saying he was starring in her film. And to actually meet him…in the flesh. Gaze into those bluer-than-blue eyes, perhaps glimpse that honed six-pack. She burned at the thought. She knew this was not the behaviour of a grown woman, but as they drove on, she still couldn’t suppress her rising excitement.

  If only she dare ask Jack what scene they were filming today. Perhaps it was one of the bedroom scenes. Her pulse quickened in anticipation. Jack obviously knew Scott, and she wondered if she could ask him to introduce her. But glancing at Jack’s strong profile, she decided not to risk any more censure. He had already dismissed her beloved novel, and would almost certainly deride her romantic crush on Scott as mere foolishness. Somehow, it mattered what he thought.

  Several times during their buggy conversation he had wrong-footed her. Just as she had been convinced he was a shallow, supercilious, sneering swine, another very likeable and sincere man had peeped through. He unsettled her, and she didn’t like it.

  Jack was asking her something.

  He spoke again. ‘I said, I’m not going to ask you what you think of America so far, that’s too trite, but can you pick one thing that’s stuck out?’

  Jane laughed. ‘Oh yes, that’s easy, if a bit silly. It was the yellow school bus.’

  Jack swivelled his head in surprise.

  ‘I was so excited when I saw one. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But I had a wooden puzzle of a yellow bus as a child, and suddenly there was a real one.’ She giggled, embarrassed.

  Jack shook his head, momentarily lost for words. So far, their whole conversation had been unexpected. He found he was even secretly enjoying their disagreements. He had to enquire further, hoping for more surprises.

  ‘So, what other bits of America have you seen?’

  ‘Oh, as I said, we were only here for a week so we’ve only done odd bits of Hollywood.’

  To his shock, the word ‘we’ struck him hard. Just because she was a Miss, why had he assumed she had no-one in her life? He had instinctively taken in that she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring, but there was obviously someone important in her life.

  He had to find out more, so swerved the buggy back along an alley they had already traversed, hoping Jane wouldn’t notice quite how long this journey was taking.

  Why did he care so much?

  Involuntarily, he asked, ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, my agent and me. He thought that as my first book had been taken up so quickly for a film, perhaps someone might like my second book as well.’

  At first, Jane hadn’t been too keen on this idea, especially after all the changes that seemed to be happening to her precious first novel. But then her disastrous affair with Darren had plunged her into so much debt that she had grabbed at her agent’s idea to try for another film deal on her second book.

  Her first book – an unexpected bestseller – had brought in enough from book sales alone to pay off all her accumulated student loans. And she had proudly been able to give a large sum to her long-suffering parents as back-rent for when she had returned home to a proverbial attic room while she was writing it. At long last, she had been able to emerge debt-free from all her student and writing years.

  But the Hollywood deal on her book had been an unexpected windfall and enabled her to be properly independent for the first time in her life. She had daringly managed to move down south and bought a small flat of her own in buzzing, metropolitan London.

  There, she loved the new experience of feeling urban, sophisticated, and cool. Thrilled by her own desk and space to write, she had revelled in being free from the hurly-burly of her parents’ home, with all those people tumbling in and out; her noisy sisters…and all their boisterous babies.

  Having hooked up again with some of her old university friends, she had begun to enjoy an exciting social life.

  Looking back, it was hard to pinpoint exactly when it had all started going wrong. Somehow, she had gradually been drawn into a fast set of people, even though it was not her world. The parties had been rowdier than she liked; to boost her confidence, she drank more than she should.

  Then Darren entered her life. With his smooth good looks and even smoother talk, she had fallen – hard. But never again. Oh boy, had she learned a lesson. Never, ever again would she fall for a handsome face and a glib, persuasive line of talk.

  She glared at the handsome man by her side. To be fair, Jack was much more rugged than Darren and he definitely wasn’t a smooth-talker. And he certainly hadn’t tried to ingratiate himself into her good books. Just the opposite. But, nevertheless, her guard was up.

  After all, it was thanks to the depredations of the dastardly Darren that she was there at all. She desperately needed money, and peddling another book to Hollywood would be the only way to clear all the debts he had left behind.

  Her financial worries were interrupted by the return of a cynical sneer to Jack’s face.

  He said curtly, ‘So, you hate what Hollywood has done to your book, but that doesn’t stop you coming over here to flog your next one.’

  She blushed bright red.

  ‘Yes, but I really need the money. Um… It was my agent’s idea,’ she stammered.

  But it was too late.

  Jack turned away, looking thoroughly disillusioned. No doubt, he thought she was just like many others – money before principles.

  This time it was Jane who tried to think of something to say, all too aware of what he must be thinking of her empty protests about the integrity of her work.

  She sneaked a look at his taught, firm jaw and could see how angry he was. And she knew he was right. Embarrassed, she was unable to think of anything that would excuse her seemingly hypocritical behaviour.

  There was no way she was going to reveal her financial problems to a stranger. To her shame, she was so desperate that she was more than prepared to sell her book, without quibble, for a purse full of gold. But why did it matter so much that this stranger should think well of her?

  ‘We’re here,’ he said brusquely, as he drew the buggy up beside a small door in a gleaming metal wall.

  Strangely disappointed that this time he didn’t proffer a hand to help her out of the buggy, Jane followed him meekly as he strode ahead into a large hangar-like structure.

  It was wonderfully cool and dark after the hot brightness outside. Momentarily fazed by the contrast in light, Jane paused, trying to get her bearings. And there, in the centre of the space under a battery of lights, was the set.

  Oh, a be
droom, she noticed with glee. I hope it’s the sex scene.

  The three-sided set was surrounded by all sorts of reflectors, equipment, and cameras. Microphones, attached to booms, loomed over it and huge snakelike wires coiled around it. The whole space was a hive of activity and noise. A kind of organised chaos.

  Eagerly, she rushed towards the brightly-lit centre of the hangar, but Jack’s strong hand suddenly grabbed her arm.

  ‘Careful. Never rush around a film set. There’s all sorts of cabling and equipment and hazards.’

  Pointing to her feet, he indicated a swathe of black rubber trunking that she had almost tripped over.

  ‘Oh, crikey, thank you,’ Jane said gratefully. ‘How embarrassing to go a right purler in front of everyone.’

  Unaware of Jack’s involuntary grin at her English expression, she suddenly stood rooted to the spot. She had spotted something heart-stopping. A canvas-backed chair with Scott Flynn’s name on it. Breathless with fervent anticipation, she peered frantically around.

  But no sign of Scott.

  Heart beating wildly, she carefully picked her way towards the named chair whilst scrutinising the busy set for a glimpse of this heartthrob icon.

  Totally engrossed in her search, she was barely aware of someone behind her talking to Jack.

  ‘So, you’re Jane, are you?’ a voice said. She twirled around and found she was gazing into Scott’s legendary blue eyes. It was like a punch in her solar plexus. An excited scan swiftly took in the tousled shock of sun-bleached hair, the dirty, flirty smile, the bare, honed, tanned torso ready for his sex scene.

  Totally overcome, she staggered back and…wham.

  Something hit her on the back of her head with stunning force, and she felt herself falling. Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. Weakly, she put her hand to her head, and felt blood oozing from a wound before she lost consciousness.

  Chapter Three

  Jane was aware of a throbbing in her head, a tightness on her scalp, and a strange pinging noise like you hear on TV when someone is in hospital.