Love in La La Land

by Lynn Forth

  In his den/cinema room, she found a huge collection of what she called ‘boys’ films’. There was a whole wall full of ‘blow-‘em–up’ action films; another contained shelves of sci–fi, cowboy, adventure, war, cops, detectives, and space movies; and hundreds of sports films. Jane searched and searched, but there wasn’t one she wanted to watch.

  Itching to write about her experiences so far, she looked in the study for some paper, but no luck… Not even a pen.

  Why had she emptied her bag before going to the studio? Her cavernous bag was normally crammed with stuff: her iPad; a notebook for jottings; several pens; her Kindle; a back-up, dog-eared paperback for reading in snatches whenever she had a moment; and countless items that somehow accumulated in there just in case they were needed. But all the paraphernalia made the bag heavy and bulging, and she had been keen to project an air of cool, but simple, sophistication when she visited the studio, so had removed all but the essential items. A decision she now regretted.

  Glancing round the study again for a book to read, she caught sight of a neat pile of film magazines. They would do. She began to flick through them, keeping an eye out for any Scott-related articles, of which there were plenty. She also searched to see if there were any about Jack Clancy. But there was nothing.

  What she couldn’t help noticing was all the gossip about a supposed affair between Scott and his co-star, Savannah Shaw. They were pictured together holding hands and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. But to Jane’s jaundiced eye, it wasn’t clear whether these were taken from real-life, or just stills from the film. She knew that it was an old publicity stunt to hint of a relationship between co-stars, as it increased media coverage and helped to hype the film. So, she flicked cynically through the lurid articles, taking all the glowing prose with a pinch of salt. After all, if Scott really was in love with Savannah, he would hardly be inviting another woman into his home, would he?

  In fact, if there really was a relationship between the two stars, surely they would be living together. Jane had no trouble dismissing the rumours as the work of the film PR department. Nothing in Scott’s behaviour towards her indicated he was anything other than footloose and fancy free. And all the photos of him with a wide variety of gorgeous females reinforced that impression.

  With the throbbing in her head becoming more insistent, Jane traipsed upstairs to the guest bedroom. Her room, she thought with a shiver of excitement. It was gorgeous. Large, white, and elegant, it was dominated by a huge, beautifully draped, cream linen bed, which was artfully scattered with huge, flamboyantly-shaped cushions in muted shades of mocha and taupe.

  Suppressing a squeal of awe, she stepped into the spacious en-suite pale oyster marble bathroom. In fact, the two rooms contained so many shades of what Jane would normally have called ‘beige’ that she quickly realised she was going to have to increase her off-white vocabulary if she were to even begin to describe it to her sisters.

  So inviting was the fluffiness of the huge pile of caramel-coloured towels, that Jane couldn’t resist a quick fondle. There was a walk-in shower with so many nozzles pointing in so many different directions it looked almost pornographic. And a huge (two person?) jacuzzi bath, once again with a plethora of protruding nozzles. What was it with all these gushing water orifices? Very Freudian, Jane thought, hotly.

  Leading off from the en-suite was a whole room just to dress in, with so many wardrobes and shelves that Jane could never imagine anyone having enough clothes to fill them.

  Thinking of clothes, Jane suddenly realised with a shock that all she possessed were the clothes she stood up in. All her stuff was still in her hotel room. Her iPad, her phone charger, her underwear, her non-hurting shoes.

  The battery on her phone was already getting low, so she daren’t use it for any internet use or any unnecessary calls. She would love to phone home again, as she was pretty sure her mother had failed to convey the full import of her adventures. But she contented herself with texting a mysterious message to Milly: You’ll never guess where I am. She hugged herself smugly as she imagined Milly’s squeals when she finally learned the answer.

  At the back of her mind was the knowledge that Jack’s number was lurking in her phone, but she fought the urge to call him. It would look far too forward. And what reason could she give?

  She had instinctively known she could rely on him to do what he said he would, but nevertheless she had contacted her hotel and they confirmed they had received a message from Mr Clancy on her behalf and would of course extend the reservation on her room.

  Could she phone to thank him for that? It was the courteous thing to do. So, what was holding her back?

  He was probably busy, and how mortifying to try to chat when he was engrossed in his work. And, anyway, once she’d thanked him, what else was there to say? She had a horrible feeling that once she heard his reassuring voice, she would immediately unload all her thoughts and uncertainties about her current situation, and burble on embarrassingly.

  She hardly knew the man, she told herself sternly. When they’d first met, she had thoroughly disparaged him and his work. The embarrassment of that memory caused her to flush in mortification.

  Glowing even more, she pictured Jack standing protectively over her in the hospital – so caring, so thoughtful, and so very fanciable. Had they really almost kissed? Or was that a false memory brought on by wishful thinking?

  Rubbing the still tender wound on the back of her head, she wished she could remember the events in the hospital more clearly. Certainly, any frisson between them had been extinguished by the entrance of the nurse, and Jack had been coolly efficient after that, leaving soon after with barely a backward glance.

  She gazed at Jack’s number again, wracked by indecision. To call or not to call…that was the question.

  In the end, she just didn’t trust herself to speak, so settled on sending him a carefully composed text.

  Hi Jack. Thank you so much for all your kind help yesterday. I appreciate all you did for me at the studio, in the hospital, and in contacting my hotel…

  Long pause. Should she mention she was sorry she had given him such a hard time…or would it be foolish to remind him? After all, he might have forgotten.

  No, leave the message at that. Remember the KISS principle, Keep It Simple, Stupid.

  Just thinking of the KISS principle reminded her again of Jack leaning over her and that nearly-moment at the hospital. Why did that linger in her mind more than Scott’s actual, if brief, kiss?

  Oh, and talking of kisses, how should she end her text? Oh no. Kisses, even only one, felt too presumptuous, too soon, far too intimate. Despite the over-air-conditioned room, Jane’s cheeks burned.

  She couldn’t use Regards, it was too cold, too formal. And just Jane was too abrupt. She groaned. Best wishes? Too prissy.

  Come on, girl, call yourself a writer. Think. Think.

  Her head throbbed. Was it her wound, was it this silly dilemma, or the brightness of the white room in the fierce sunlight?

  After deep thought, she eventually settled for:

  Sorry to be such a pain and thank you once again, Jane

  It felt lame, and she hated all the rhymes, but if she agonised any longer she knew she would just delete it…and regret it.

  So, she pressed ‘send’ and, feeling a rush of relief that she had done the right thing, put her phone back in her bag.

  It pinged.

  Astonished, Jane saw it was reply from Jack.

  Hi Jane. Not a pain at all. Glad to be of help. How are you?

  She gazed at the message. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that he would reply.

  No kisses or regards or anything, but a nice tone.

  Gulping, her fingers flew to reply…

  Hi Jack, Fine.

  Should she mention she was now at Scott’s? No, best not. He had definitely not looked pleased at Scott’s offer. In fact, he had looked downright angry. But she had to say more. Fine was not enough.


  Feeling much better. In fact, a bit embarrassed that I caused all that fuss. Hope you can forgive me for all the disruption I caused. I’m not usually such a drama queen.

  A long pause for thought again, wondering how to end, then: Thank you for asking, Jane. Hit send.

  Another ping.

  Hi Jane. This is Hollywood. Trust me, you’d have to try a lot harder than that to even begin to be a drama queen.

  She grinned and shot back immediately…

  Hi Jack, But I’m from Yorkshire, and believe me that incident would register at the top of the Richter scale for drama.

  At the other end, Jack also grinned.

  Then he realised people were waiting for his response to a question. Jane’s text had been a welcome diversion in the middle of a fractious script meeting. Reluctantly, he turned to concentrate on the matter in hand.

  But not before firing off a quick response:

  Glad you R OK. Gotta go, Jane. A bit busy.

  Jane replied: OK, I understand.

  She smiled and hugged herself. Just that quick exchange had brought the powerful figure of Jack back into the foreground of her thoughts. If only it were Jack returning tonight, instead of Scott.

  She sat bolt upright with guilt at this forbidden thought. How could she even think like that after all Scott had done for her? He was, after all, THE Scott Flynn. Wasn’t she the luckiest girl in the world to be actually staying in his house?

  Of course, she was, she told herself sternly, and looked again in disbelief at her surroundings.

  No, she really, really was looking forward to seeing Scott again this evening.

  But in the meantime, she knew the only answer to her throbbing headache, was to lie down on those big squashy pillows and close her eyes for a while.

  Maria woke her for a meal at sundown. It was full of spicy Mexican flavours and Jane was fulsome in her praise to the shyly, blushing woman. But once again, Jane ate alone at that giant table. Normally, solitary dining wouldn’t be problem as she would also be reading, or writing, or wrestling with a crossword. But tonight, gazing around the artfully floodlit garden, she was just bored.

  So, by the time she heard the crunch of the tyres on the gravel announcing Scott’s return home, she was desperate for company. She started eagerly up from the sofa ready to welcome him. Then, as his steps approached, to her amazed annoyance she went all weak-kneed and flustered with nerves.

  This was it. Scott Flynn…up close and personal.

  Chapter Five

  Entering the room, Scott seemed to pause in the doorway so Jane could take in his wonderful torso, his slim hips, his wide boyish grin, and those blue, blue eyes.

  Yes, she felt herself sighing, definitely a gorgeous, gorgeous hunk…though just a bit shorter than she remembered.

  This vision of fit, groomed stardom was enough to dispel any remaining composure. Infuriatingly tongue-tied, Jane just about stammered out her thanks for his hospitality and complimented him on his lovely home, and then…just stopped. To her chagrin, she – a fluent writer and usually a great conversationalist – couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Clearly used to provoking this sort of blubbering reaction in females, Scott just advanced, beaming his best Hollywood smile, and silently took her hand to lead her into a small lounge area. Signalling somewhat imperiously to a waiting Maria to bring in drinks, he plonked onto a small leather couch and pulled Jane down to sit beside him.

  So, there she was – Jane Jones from Yorkshire, alone, hand-in-hand with screen heartthrob Scott Flynn from Hollywood, almost touching legs, on his small black sofa.

  Jane had never felt so overawed, so shy, and so gauche.

  But with practised ease, Scott charmingly complimented her on how gorgeous she looked, not seeming to notice it was the same dress she had worn on the day of the accident. And seemingly unaware that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up.

  He sat very close to her on the sofa, and she got a good look at Scott Flynn, the real Scott Flynn, as he gazed into her eyes and talked to her about… Well, at first Jane hardly listened, too spellbound by his presence and too uncomfortably aware of his thigh-touching proximity. She discreetly moved away a little but, to her consternation, he soon edged close again.

  Maria brought a tray of drinks and placed them on a small glass table within reach. Jane accepted a glass of cold, slightly too-sweet, white wine, and Scott poured himself a stiff bourbon over ice.

  Gradually she regained her composure and began to think that perhaps she really ought to say something beyond the odd ‘yes’ and ‘oooh’ and ‘oh’. But she found entering the conversation remarkably difficult as she didn’t know any of the people he wanted to chat about. So eventually, and thankfully, Scott settled on the one thing she did know something about – her film, or rather the film of her book. But even here Jane had difficulty engaging in the chat. The discussion of the story was all from Scott’s perspective, which was a version that Jane didn’t recognise. Was this really the character from her book?

  She politely bit her tongue at Scott’s loud avowal of the centrality of his role. In fact, in her mind, the film was all about Kate. She found herself at odds with Scott’s unsubtle delineation of her character’s personality and motivations. At one point, she was almost shocked into contradicting him over his version of the storyline.

  But she didn’t. She sat stiffly and silently, and listened to Scott talking.

  She gazed at him reflectively as he refilled his glass and, despite her refusal, grinningly topped up hers as well. She definitely didn’t want to get drunk; she had a feeling she was going to need all her wits about her. But in spite of her resolve, her nerves got the better of her and she found herself compulsively sipping the icy, sweet liquid to give herself something to do with her hands. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy this one-to-one with her film star crush?

  It gradually dawned on her. Scott in the flesh wasn’t quite the same as Scott on the silver screen. He wasn’t as tall as she had expected, for one thing. And somehow more – dare she whisper it to herself? – ordinary.

  Yes, he still had those fabulous blue eyes and a lovely white-toothed smile, but not quite the charisma she had expected. His voice droned on a bit, or was it that she wasn’t really interested in what he was saying?

  For a telling moment, Jane thought disloyally of Jack. When Jack smiled, his brown eyes lit up with warmth. And that first time she saw him, she had noticed how his tall, powerful frame filled the doorway of the security booth. He had a chiselled masculinity, a low deep voice, and such a sexy mouth. She remembered again that moment in the hospital where she’d thought he might be leaning towards her, about to kiss her. She blushed at the thought.

  Scott seemed to notice this blush and began to edge closer.

  Uneasy at Scott’s almost claustrophobic proximity, Jane gulped her wine and tried to concentrate on what he was talking about. She must say something soon, not just sit there nodding. But each time she tried to contribute in just a small way to the conversation, Scott just smiled dismissively and talked over her.

  Jane began to realise that Scott was more used to talking than listening.

  So, she listened.

  ‘You probably wouldn’t have caught some of my earlier roles in some popular TV series…everyone does ‘em these days just to learn your craft…that’s how Clooney started…but I told my agent I needed to make it in the movies…but you have to serve your time…he was waiting till the right role came along…’

  On it went. She heard all about his big break, his earlier bit parts, his auditions. But his current favourite subject loomed large, as he returned once more to the topic of his interpretation of his current starring role in his film. Once again, she wanted to demur at Scott’s simplistic interpretation of the character she had written. Her hero had subtle contradictions and all-too-human flaws and was, of course, secondary to the main thrust of the plot about Kate, her female protagonist. But by now Jane had
resolved, out of courtesy and caution, to refrain from pointing this out.

  She also knew it would be futile.

  As Scott refilled his glass and – despite more protests – hers, he suddenly leant in even closer.

  ‘So… um… er…’ He paused, as if trying to remember her name.

  At last, Jane thought, he’s going to start asking about me. She perked up and smiled encouragingly.

  ‘So, little lady.’ Yup, he’s definitely forgotten my name, Jane thought despairingly. And ‘little lady’, how cheesy is that? ‘What did you think of me in Arkansas Cowboy?’

  Jane swiftly disguised her groan of dismay into a moan of delight.

  In all honesty, he had been good in that breakthrough role, so Jane was suitably, and sincerely, flattering about it. After all, that’s when he had succeeded in sprinkling stardust into her eyes.

  Scott on the screen was everything a girl could want. Scott in the flesh was somehow…not.

  However, something about Jane’s fulsome eulogy still fell short of Scott’s expectations, and he was forced to take over and inform her quite definitively just how awesomely good he had been.

  ‘You see…er…’ A mild panic surfaced in those slightly-glazed cobalt blue eyes as he once again searched in vain for her name.

  Unable to bear yet another ‘little lady’, Jane resignedly stage-whispered her name.

  ‘Yes. Jane, ah…Jane. OK.’ Relief flooded Scott’s face, but completely drove out his train of thought. ‘Um, what was I saying… Jane?’

  By now, his speech was quite slurred and his eyes were slightly askew as they tried to focus on Jane’s face.

  ‘We were talking about the film.’ Jane was so tempted to say ‘my’ film, but knew instinctively this would be met by either incomprehension or outrage.

  ‘Ah yes…Jane. I prepared for my part by sinking deep into the motivation of a man like that. I worked out what his back-story would be, obviously a troubled childhood…’ And on and on he droned.