Love in La La Land

by Lynn Forth

  She hoped a day’s treatments would make her presentable enough for the party tonight. But she was certainly curious about what strange rituals were associated with presenting a beautiful image in Hollywood.

  Mid-morning, her beauty team disgorged themselves from a bright pink sedan and swept up to her in a flurry of gushings and cooings. Instantly overwhelmed by them, she knew that any resistance was futile, and squirmed as they circled her, eyeing her body with cool, appraising eyes. Embarrassed, she tried to cover herself by folding her arms across her bosom, then felt faintly prudish. Seeing their grimaces, she realised with a sinking heart how much she fell short of their ideal. It looked like she’d have to accept their ministrations and hand them total control of her body.

  ‘Hi there, gorgeous girl, I’m Tarquin,’ said a tall, gleamingly shaven-headed man, as he twirled her around, scrutinising her from head to toe through half-closed, critical eyes.

  Tarquin! Jane squealed inside. What a name. She just had to use him in a book.

  ‘But you, darling girl,’ continued this vision in the tight, red silk shirt, and even tighter turquoise trousers, ‘can call me Tarka. Everyone does.’

  Tarka…like the otter. Surely not, Jane thought, suppressing a nervous giggle.

  But there was indeed something otter-like in this sleek, tanned man slipping and sliding around her, mesmerising her with his sinuous brown frame.

  ‘I’m your head stylist, here to enhance your gorgeousness and groom you to perfection. Darling, you won’t know yourself when we have finished with you.’

  Jane wasn’t sure she liked the idea of being groomed. It reminded her of a poodle parlour.

  ‘And this is Leonardo…Leo, your hairdresser,’ he said, indicating a slim-hipped, Hispanic youth with a mane of dark, blond-streaked hair, artfully tousled around his beautiful face.

  ‘Finally, Tamara, your beautician.’ Cool almond eyes, above sharp Slavic cheekbones, surveyed Jane’s hands, her nails, her un-waxed legs, and crinkled slightly. Was that scorn, or disgust?

  Jane immediately hid her hands behind her body and wished she could do the same with her legs.

  There was a pause as all three primpers exchanged slightly horrified glances.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry—’ Jane began.

  ‘Oh, you’re English,’ exclaimed Tarka, as if that explained everything. It certainly seemed to.

  ‘Well, we certainly have a lot of work to do.’

  For an awful moment, Jane thought he was going to call for reinforcements. But no, he clapped his hands as if calling his troops to order…and they were off.

  Throughout that long day of tear-inducing waxing and plucking, mist-enveloping tanning and spraying, and teasing, twining hair enhancement, Jane listened fascinated as her little team gossiped.

  Hollywood gossip. It really was La La Land.

  ‘A little bird told me that R. D. J. was full of naughty juice last night. That’s three times this week. They’ll just have to get him into rehab again.’

  ‘Yes, they have just got to dry him out before he starts shooting on Monday. S. V. was simply livid and has warned him, star or not, he will cancel his contract if it happens again.’

  ‘But let’s face it, darling, we’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘Talking of which, did you hear B. J. has been caught again, with you-know-who?’

  ‘You’d have thought she really would have learnt her lesson after last time.’

  ‘Like a candle to a flame, darling. She won’t stop till she’s been totally burned.’

  ‘I know. And talking of burning. What about her hair! Did you see it? Pure frizz. I can’t believe Tobias would let her out looking like that. Gives his salon an awful name. I know D. K. has cancelled already and gone to…’

  Jane noticed they rarely mentioned actual names. But by initials, and usually by innuendo and gestures, they easily conveyed to each other who was the object of the latest scandal and intrigue. When they occasionally did let a name drop, they looked at Jane in mock horror at their indiscretion. But as she had never heard of the people, she couldn’t react with the shock they seemed to expect of her.

  So, the talk became more salacious, and Jane eventually drifted away into a world of her own, inventing stories about these unknown individuals based on such wonderful snippets of conversation.

  At one point, she ventured a few questions about Bruno’s party that evening, hoping she might recognise some of the big names who might be there. But the names they reeled off meant nothing to her. No mention of Brad or Angelina, George, Nicole or Leonardo.

  She did learn, however, that several influential producers and directors would be there, so her hopes rose that there might be a chance to mention her book to them.

  ‘Bruno always throws the best of parties,’ Tarka informed her as he watched Leo expertly flick her hair this way and that to achieve just the right ‘look’.

  ‘Have you been to any?’ asked Jane, gazing in wonderment at her emerging image.

  He looked taken aback. ‘Not my world, darling,’ he said tartly. ‘But lots of my clients have been, and say they are amazing.’

  His reply provided a quick peek into the Hollywood hierarchy; these primpers were the Cinderellas who never went to the ball.

  But she was.

  ‘OK, darling. Let me see.’ Tarka swirled his arms, indicating that Jane should twirl around.

  Clad in her skimpiest underwear, Jane duly obliged. She had long since lost her inhibitions with this trio.

  Surely there was nothing else on earth left to do to her.

  ‘Umm.’ Tarka nodded slowly. ‘OK, honey. Now let’s see what you are going to wear tonight.’

  Jane dutifully trotted off and returned with her Mimi dress. She had been looking forward to wearing this lovely soft eau-de-nil dress ever since she had tried it on in the shop.

  But Tarka’s face fell as soon as he saw it.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything else? Something glittery?’

  ‘Well…um…no. I have got my blue silk, I suppose. ‘

  ‘Show me.’

  Within minutes, Tarka had disdainfully picked over her whole meagre wardrobe and dismissed everything.

  ‘This is a major Hollywood party, darling. Most people will be in designer outfits. You need something glamorous, something glitzy.’ He threw his hands into the air and stroked his gleaming, shaven head in dramatic despair. ‘Oh, this is hopeless. What’s the point of all our hard work if you are going to turn up in this old tat?’

  Jane began to protest, but he just strode out of her room and began punching numbers into his phone.

  A short while later, Jane heard Scott’s car scrunch up the drive. To her primpers’ surprise, she leapt up and rapidly pulled on the big towelling dressing gown and tied it tightly around her.

  She saw, and ignored, the raised eyebrows.

  ‘Hi, little lady,’ Scott called up the stairs cheerily, as he entered the hallway.

  Jane sighed. Why could he never remember her name?

  ‘I’ve got a little something for my best girl. Come and see.’

  As three pairs of eyes swivelled to look at Jane’s reaction, she slapped on what she hoped was a look of excited anticipation and went to greet a beaming Scott.

  The animated grooming trio followed her and noisily greeted Scott from the stairs. Under their keen-eyed surveillance, Jane felt she had no option but to submit to Scott’s prolonged embrace and passionate kiss.

  He gazed approvingly at the new Jane.

  ‘Little lady, you look amazing. Tarka, my man, you’ve done a wonderful job.’

  Then, to Jane’s mortification, he began high-fiving the team as if they had just won a really challenging race.

  ‘OK, Mr Flynn, we are sooo glad you are pleased with the transformation.’ The glowing team, flushed with success, whooped their triumph.

  Something in Jane’s face must have conveyed her annoyance at the word ‘transformation’, and they fell into an awkward si
lence.

  Scott was the first to recover. ‘OK, little lady, I just happen to have a few rather special things here which will really complete your look.’

  He strode to the hall table, on which lay several ornately-wrapped boxes. He selected the large pink one and, like an old-fashioned conjuror, undid an elaborate purple bow. With a flourish, he delved into the piles of rustly pink tissue, and pulled out a glittering, silver mesh garment. A very small, silver mesh garment.

  ‘Oooh my,’ cooed Tarka reverently. ‘Is that a Donatella?’

  ‘It sure is, my man.’ Scott smiled proudly.

  ‘And looky here.’ He grinned, opening a smaller, similarly beribboned box, and brandishing a pair of very high, silver-heeled sandals.

  ‘Oh, Jimmy’s, real Jimmy Choos,’ drooled Leo.

  ‘Yes, siree. Nothing’s too good for my little lady.’ Scott was loving the whole theatrical unveiling of his purchases.

  ‘And what about these beauties?’ He pounced on an expensive gold casket, and slowly opened it to reveal a sparkly necklace and matching earrings and bracelet.

  All eyes turned to Jane for her reaction to this final amazing gift.

  She summoned up a wide-eyed, ‘Wow!’

  Clearly that wasn’t enough.

  She tried really hard, and managed, ‘A-maz-ing.’

  Nope, still not nearly enough. Four incredulous and disappointed faces greeted her.

  ‘I suppose she is English,’ whispered Leo.

  ‘Come along, darling,’ Tarka suddenly barked briskly, clearly trying to shake off his disappointment with his protégée. ‘Let’s try these beauties on.’ And he shooed Jane upstairs.

  Before following her, he stopped briefly at Scott’s side.

  ‘Mr Flynn, may I commend you on your most amazing taste. You have an excellent eye. I couldn’t have chosen better myself. I’m sure Miss Jane will look stunning.’

  His tone implied that, as a connoisseur of impeccable taste, he knew the true excellence of all those magnificent items. But everyone realised that it was more likely Scott hadn’t chosen any of them, and had simply left the decisions to Ursula, his elegant and very savvy PA.

  Upstairs, Jane surveyed herself in the mirror. The dress was short; very short. The neckline was low; very low. The heels were high; very high.

  The make-up, the hair, the tanned, waxed body, all looked perfect. Perhaps a little too brown, perhaps a little too shiny, but perfect.

  She didn’t look like Jane at all.

  But she did look beautiful.

  Yes, she really did.

  If only her Nonna could see her now.

  Tarka caught her look of stunned amazement and whispered, ‘Yes, it really is you, honey. And yes, you do look beautiful.’

  She blushed to think he could read her thoughts so clearly.

  Scott appeared in the doorway. He, too, looked stunned by this new Jane.

  A sudden rush of gratitude overwhelmed her and she rushed and hugged him.

  ‘Thank you, Scott. Thank you so much.’

  Finally, Tarka nodded his approval. And Scott beamed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Scott was stroking her hand. Sitting anxiously in the back of the car on the way to the party, Jane was glad of its reassurance. She knew she looked good, but she was still anxious. Parties where she didn’t know anybody, always made her nervous, but a proper Hollywood party, full of glamorous, important strangers… She gulped back the panic rising in her throat.

  As if aware of her tension, Scott was solicitously caressing her hand and trying to calm her nerves.

  ‘Just stay close to me…um…little…’

  ‘Look, Scott.’ Jane turned and almost snapped. ‘You can call me Arabella. After all, it is my author name and, as we are going to promote my books tonight, I ought to use it.’

  Scott’s eyes beamed with relief. For some unfathomable reason, the name Jane just hadn’t stuck with him. Perhaps it was too plain. She hoped he’d be better at remembering exotic names.

  ‘Arabella, Arabella,’ he murmured to himself, and nodded.

  Suddenly, Jane felt like an Arabella – a beautiful creature – and ceased to be daunted by the party. She sat up straight and lifted her chin in determination. She was going to enjoy her first taste of the real glamour of Hollywood.

  On first impressions, glamorous it certainly was. She took in the bright lights, beautiful girls in skimpy, shiny dresses, and tanned good-looking men in dark tuxedos.

  Scott was certainly looking at his most handsome, and she happily allowed him to slip his arm round her waist as they walked up the canopied walkway. Who could ever have imagined she would be making an entrance on the arm of such a Hollywood heartthrob? No matter what she thought of him, this was a moment to savour.

  A posse of photographers flanked the red carpet, and light bulbs flashed, momentarily blinding her.

  Scott waved and pulled her somewhat roughly into a pose, muttering instructions to her through his fixed smile.

  ‘Bend your leg. Drop your hip. Sideways on. Lean in to me. Smile more.’

  Somehow, she managed some semblance of a film star stance, although she could see from the look in his eyes that her companion was far from impressed.

  Then they were actually in the party.

  All eyes turned to them. Clearly, Scott could attract attention anywhere, but she was a little disconcerted to see that she also seemed to be an object of much curiosity. She could feel eyes raking her up and down, coolly appraising her. Both men and women. Then they turned and muttered to each other, clearly talking about her.

  Jane shifted uncomfortably and was glad of the make-up to hide the flush she could feel spreading down from her face to her too-low neckline.

  Unsettled, she leaned into the comfort of Scott’s protective arm as he steered her into the glittering throng.

  So, this was a Hollywood party! Jane stared around, drinking in the atmosphere, the people, the sounds. On a raised platform under a dark awning pierced by twinkling star-lights, a sophisticated jazz trio was playing classic movie themes, whilst a glamorous black singer with an amazing voice crooned along. Jane recognised the theme tune from Casablanca, and thought how appropriate…she really would remember this.

  Huge, glistening ice sculptures of sinuous girls in scantily draped, semi-classical poses dripped and sparkled in the warm humid air. One, of a dolphin being ridden by an ecstatic, pert-breasted mermaid, dominated the centre of the pool. Looking around, Jane was immediately aware of the amount of bare, young flesh on display, in both real as well as ice form. Bikini-clad girls lounged provocatively around the pool’s perimeter while others floated aimlessly in the floodlit, artificially blue water, their tanned limbs silhouetted darkly against its iridescent depths.

  All the men were in white or black DJ’s, with cummerbunds and bow-ties in matching vibrant colours; purple seemed to be a favourite. Thin women in skin-tight dresses and large statement jewellery sparkled by their side. She realised with relief that, although her silver dress still felt too short and skimpy, Tarquin had been right: her soft, floaty, eau de nil Mimi number would have been totally wrong. In this somehow hard-edged world, glitter was definitely king.

  She noticed that the guests seemed to group in little clusters around a central figure – usually an older male, who seemed to hold sway. There were tinkles of what sounded to Jane like sycophantic laughter. Were these males the powerful directors, the Hollywood movers and shakers that her beauty team had told her about?

  She tried to take it all in, but Scott was hustling her along. No doubt this was all very familiar to him, but Jane longed to study this fantasy world – La-La-Land, as she knew it was called.

  A preening, bare-chested waiter offered her a glass of sparkling cold champagne from his laden tray. Another, equally six-packed one, flourished a silver salver of exotic-looking canapés. But before she could choose one, Scott was heartily greeting a circle of people.

  She was pleased to hear him
introduce her as Arabella. Some of the names in the group struck a chord in Jane’s memory. If only she had listened more intently to this afternoon’s gossip.

  Was this short, balding, paunchy man, who looked like a penguin in his black and white tuxedo, the one on his fourth wife who had just taken up with a nineteen-year-old mistress? Or was he the sad closet-gay who daren’t come out, and was having an affair with his gorgeous young pool man?

  She smiled at each person, shook hands, and said politely, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Each utterance was greeted by gushings over her ‘cute’ English accent.

  Scott was clearly delighted by the impression she was making and squeezed her more tightly. Jane held her breath, hoping he was going to mention she was the writer behind his latest film, and give her an opportunity to lead into her other book. But no. He just prattled on about people she didn’t know.

  An older, petite blonde, dressed in shocking pink, squeezed into their circle and observed her quizzically.

  When Scott turned and saw the woman, a spontaneous grin lit up his face and he rushed to give her a huge hug.

  Jane had never seen Scott look so boyish, so endearingly vulnerable, so real.

  ‘Oh, Arabella, I’d like you to meet a very special person. This is my gorgeous mother.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Flynn? I’m delighted to meet you.’

  And she was. Scott clearly adored his mother, and this encounter had shown another side to Scott – one she would like to know better. For a brief moment, he seemed just a tousle-haired boy, open and naturally engaging.

  Scott’s mother gave her a warm smile, and extended her hand. ‘Likewise, Arabella, and do call me Robyn.’

  The name suited the older woman’s bright, sharp eyes, and Jane could see the family resemblance – the blonde hair, the blue eyes. Yet there was a shrewdness and humour in Robyn’s face, which was lacking in Scott’s. Jane instantly warmed to her and leant forward to chat, but before she could engage in conversation, Scott gave his mother a swift peck on the cheek.

  ‘Got to go and circulate, Mom. You know how it is.’ And he whisked Jane away to meet yet more people.

  And so it went on. After a while, and countless introductions, it seemed to Jane that Scott was deliberately parading her around without giving her a chance to actually talk to anyone.