The California Club: LoveTravel Series - USA

by Belinda Jones

  She ended up staying with us for a week, sweating and vomiting and writhing until 'just can't take any more’ tears slipped down her poreless face. No family swooped in to look after her – they live in Monaco – so Zoë and I took it in turns to watch over her. Then Helen became matron to our nurses and by the following Wednesday we were all having a Baileys slumber party in Sasha's four-poster, getting her to regale us with stories of who she'd modeled with and where, from Tyson Beckford to Tibet. Zoë was particularly entranced. 'You've got the perfect life!' she used to tell her. 'All pampering and pandering and champagne!'

  Sasha told us repeatedly that it wasn't nearly as glamorous or as fun as it sounded but we didn't believe a word of it. Proof positive that Sasha led a charmed life came when she was well enough to eat again and we discovered she could indulge her profoundly sweet tooth with no repercussions, whereas Zoë in particular has to watch every Skittle. Not that Zoë begrudged Sasha her speedy metabolism, just like I don't begrudge her the fact that Elliot had a brief crush when they first met. Anyone would. Everyone does.

  ‘Maybe we should be feeling sorry for Elise,' Sasha takes a rather controversial stance as we scoot over to the telephone bay to avoid further clashes with the stream of harassed holidaymakers. 'Going away with three girls she hardly knows, to visit a fourth she's never met – she must be worrying about being the odd one out.'

  Zoë and I give her a stern 'whose side are you on?’ look.

  ‘Sorry,' Sasha demurs.

  'Here they come now!' Zoë sounds the alert.

  'Oh god!' I take a breath.

  'Don't worry, we know what to do,' Zoë reassures me.

  In one hand I feel Sasha's long cool fingers interlacing with mine, the other becomes comfortingly indented with Zoë's chunky, nubby rings. I have every confidence in their support. The ability to decimate a love rival is one of the most crucial qualities in a best friend, and they do it so well. The first time Elliot arranged to introduce Elise to me, I begged them to come too and they were swift to oblige. We arrived early at the chosen bar and positioned ourselves strategically at the back, standing united as though Elliot was a hostage about to be marched towards us by his evil captor. Being irritatingly short-sighted, I was relying fully on their vision and bitching expertise to get me over this first hurdle.

  ‘She's orange!' Zoë got off to a good start. 'Badly applied St Tropez, probably didn't exfoliate before application.’

  ‘What's she wearing?' I asked, heart pounding.

  'All black,' Sasha jumped in.

  'Audrey classic or cop-out?' I needed specifics.

  'Cop-out, and they're mismatched blacks: trousers washed-out cotton – you know when it gets that greenish undertone?'

  I nodded fervently.

  'Next to purplish-black acrylic cardi.'

  'Figure?'

  'Hmmm …' Zoë and Sasha seemed stumped for adjectives.

  'Oh no, it's good, isn't it?'

  'Hard to tell,' Sasha did the diplomatic thing.

  'Hair!' I barked, moving on. They were getting closer and I needed to end on a negative.

  'Looks like she's growing out highlights,' Sasha squinted.

  'No, it's split ends,' Zoë whooped in triumph. 'Inch-long fray!'

  I could hear Elliot's voice. My stomach gurned a response. 'Anything else?' I hurried them, just seconds to go.

  ‘Needs a pedicure,' was Zoë's last word on the subject.

  Today Elise's trotters come encased in a pair of spike heeled boots, a long black coat shrouds what did indeed turn out to be an annoyingly good bod and her neck is entwined with a rash-inducing mohair scarf. Welcome to March in the UK.

  'What's with the leather Gestapo gloves?' Zoë hisses.

  'They must be new because she's constantly adjusting them,' Sasha deduces.

  'They're giving me the creeps,' Zoë shudders. 'She looks like she's about to strangle someone.'

  'Preferably herself,' I mutter before realizing that's not actually possible.

  Come on, force out a smile, I encourage myself.

  'Elise! So nice to see you!' I beam. It turns out my pleasure is entirely genuine – she's still bright orange.

  I press my cheek against her Flash Bronzer but blow my kiss directly at Elliot.

  'Lara!' he grins as our matching indigo eyes meet. 'Come here!' and he pulls me into a hug.

  Every time. He gets me every time.

  Chapter 2

  Though Elliot was the last to join our group, I'd known of him the longest. We were at the same university, but with little likelihood of overlapping, what with him head down in computer science, and me swanning round the Art Department in vintage Pucci. I actually caught my first glimpse of him at a gig, drumming for some hopeless student band. I only looked over to see what was making such an ear-tweaking noise but was instantly mesmerized. His tawny hair had a ‘just got out of bed' look that made me want to get right back in. (Of course now I know that when he does get out of bed his hair is flat to his head and he looks like an owl.)

  While the rest of the band floundered round posturing and twanging inappropriate chords he kept a steady rhythm and just looked so laid back. From time to time he'd catch someone's eye, a grin would light up his face and these dimples would appear ones that made you smile just looking at them. I was smitten. From then on my day was incomplete if I didn't have a sighting of him. I used to loiter in the coffee bar watching him with his mates, wondering what his voice sounded like, what he was saying … I'd will him to look over and when he did I'd send him telepathic messages of love. Though he never sent any back, he would occasionally smile. And when he did you'd never seen anyone bound to Mrs Montgomery's art history class with such exuberance.

  I thought of a million excuses to speak to him, but in a way I didn't want to. I wanted to keep this perfect state of adoration as it was.

  Then one Saturday in mid-August he walked into the B&B. I was just on my way to meet Sasha at the station, but immediately darted behind the reception desk, joining my mother.

  'Oh, hi!' he smiled recognition. 'You're …'

  'From Brighton University. We both go there.' Thank you, Einstein.

  ‘That's right!' he smiled. 'I'm just here to pick up my parents, they checked in last night. Harvey?'

  'Ah yes, Room 5, would you like me to call them for you?' My mother dealt with the business in hand.

  'Thanks,' Elliot nodded.

  'This is my mum,' I whispered while she was on the phone.

  'And here's mine—' he motioned to a grey-haired lady coming down the stairs. She was at least twenty years older than my own mother. 'And my dad.'

  He was older still, but both of them had transparently sweet dispositions.

  'Pleased to meet you!' they twinkled at me, revealing strong Mancunian accents that had somehow eluded their son.

  'This is …' Elliot went to introduce me but faltered, realizing he didn't know my name.

  'Lara!' I leapt in.

  'Pretty name, that!' the dad noted.

  I flushed with delight and gave my mum's elbow a squeeze for making such an excellent choice.

  ‘Is this your first time in Brighton?' I asked, sounding ridiculously prim.

  'Ooh, yes, dear and we're loving it!' Mama Harvey cooed.

  'Elliot's taking us on the pier today.' Papa Harvey puffed up.

  'You watch yourselves on that helter-skelter!' my mother teased.

  They chuckled delightedly and tootled on their way.

  I couldn't believe it. Elliot and I had gone from never having spoken to meeting each other's parents in a matter of minutes. (My mum is both parents to me, Dad being long gone.) This boded well.

  'Do you want to do a bit of dusting while you're up there?' Mum said, nudging me when they'd gone.

  I looked at her, still fizzing as if I had Alka-Seltzer swirling through my veins. 'What?' I squeaked.

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling then winked. 'Let me know when you're ready to be scraped down!
'

  I grinned back at her then ran out the door, yelling, 'I've got to go and meet Sasha!’

  I couldn't wait to tell her my news. Better yet, I got to relive it all again an hour later when we met up with Zoë. She seemed even more excited than me – if such a thing were possible – and she's been my number one Elliot 4 Lara cheerleader ever since.

  Anyway, when Elliot came back to drop his parents off that evening, he left a message about a gig he was playing Sunday night and all four of us girls went along. He loved that, having his own personal harem, and over too many bottles of K cider we decided he could be the one Beau to our exclusive collection of Brighton Belles. His girlfriend of the time didn't approve so he finished with her. I was in heaven. Until he got another. And then another.

  I soon learned that his girlfriends would come and go but his Belles could never be replaced. We'd claimed the best part of his heart, I used to tell myself. It was us he introduced to his parents, not any of these dippy two-month flings.

  Mr and Mrs Harvey became regulars after their first successful visit and I'd grill Elliot to find out all the little treats they were into at the time, then plant them in their room so that they'd coo, 'Oh, Lara, you do spoil us!'

  I loved it. They felt like the grandparents I'd never had. So it was utterly devastating when Elliot's dad passed away, aged eighty-three, just two years ago. I don't ever remember feeling that sad before. Convinced his mother would die of a broken heart, Elliot moved back to Manchester to be closer to her. But within a year she was gone too.

  At first I spoke to him every day and went up to stay whenever I could but pretty soon Elise was dominating the scene. I didn't feel I could put my arms around him in front of her. I never felt comfortable when she was in the room – she always seemed to be watching me, willing me to leave, I could feel it. Elliot was withdrawn at the time anyway, and with her blocking my every move I couldn't really reach him. What could I do? She was there in Manchester, I wasn't. So I stepped back and ached for his pain from the sidelines.

  We've been speaking a little more since this trip was confirmed but it's not the same. I wonder if it ever will be again…

  ‘Are we waiting for something?' Elise queries.

  We look blankly at each other. Someone to take charge, apparently.

  'God, isn't it weird not having Helen here to organize us?’ Sasha shakes her head.

  'Elliot, you'll have to be Dad!' Zoë nominates him.

  'You're joking!' Elise titters. 'He hasn't even changed up his money yet and we missed out on an Apex train fare because he forgot to book a week in advance – hopeless!’

  I hate it when couples make sideswipes at each other in public. It’s so ungracious and unnecessary. Not to mention the fact that the one doing the complaining really only make themselves look bad.

  'This way, troops!' Elliot deliberately points away from the ticket desks.

  We laugh and drag him into position in the cordoned-off line.

  It's funny, most of the people around us are also about to go on the trip of a lifetime and yet they couldn't look more wretched if they tried. It's the waiting in line that does it – knocks the vacation spirit right out of you.

  Whereas the rest of us shuffle forward in an absentminded fashion, Elise appears to be one of life's tailgaters, nudging Elliot every time he lets more than an inch elapse between him and the man in front.

  'And you won't like the bacon out there.’ I hear her tutting. ‘It's just the streaky bit – all dark and crispy. But the good thing is that if you order a Coke or Sprite they'll keep topping it up for free. And sometimes you won't have to order a drink at all because they bring iced water to your table automatically. Mostly I just drink that.'

  'Have you been to America before?' I find myself asking, even though she wasn't talking to me.

  Elise nods in a smug fashion.

  Great. That's all we need: someone to go, 'I know!' every time we pip with excitement at a new discovery.

  'Yeah, I lived out in California for a while,' she breezes.

  'Really?' I try not to look too impressed. I didn't know that. But then I know very little about this woman. Probably because I never asked – I didn't want the precious space in my head filled with details about her.

  'How come?' Zoë's now joined the conversation.

  'How come what?' Elise plays hard to get.

  'How come you lived in California?’

  She opens her mouth and then closes it. It seems there's no simple answer to that.

  'Oh, it was just something I wanted to try. Elliot!’ she prods him impatiently. ‘We're moving again!'

  She steps forward, deliberately turning her back on us. Subject closed apparently.

  The girls and I exchange a suspicious glance. We so should have hired a private detective when she first came on the scene. All we'd have to do now is flick through her dossier and we'd know exactly what she'd got up to.

  'Next!'

  That's us. We scuttle forward to the desk.

  'Hi, I'm Brendan!' The pupils of the chap behind the counter dilate wildly at the sight of The Model. 'We do have some space available in first …' he addresses (or should that be undresses?) Sasha, mentally booking her on a flight to Temptation Island.

  'I'm with my friends – there's five of us altogether,' Sasha informs him.

  His face falls.

  'Unless you can upgrade us all, I'd rather just stick with economy,' she says, simply.

  Brendan is clearly crushed that she won't now be beholden to him.

  'Well, if you're sure. Let's see if we can at least get you by the exit – that way you'll be able to stretch out those lovely long legs of yours.'

  'Can I get the seat next to her?' Zoë pips. 'I have unusually large boobs.'

  Brendan looks up with a start.

  ‘It's like wearing an airbag,' Zoë continues. 'Nobody can get by me if I'm in a normal row. I mean, these seats have 32-inch leg room but I've got 36D boobs. You try getting your tray table down—'

  'Yes, yes, madam,’ Brendan scrabbles to regain his composure. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

  ‘We don't mind where we sit, as long as we're together,' Elise morphs into her girlie-whirlie alter ego, snaking her arm around Elliot's.

  Urgh, get a toilet cubicle, I cringe, silently praying I'm not seated next to the Es. I don't think I could take eleven hours of passive nuzzling.

  Brendan looks up from his clicking. 'We have a band of four with the extra leg room and I can seat one of you in the row directly behind.'

  'You don't mind, do you, Lara?' Elise gives me a look, equal parts patronizing and dismissive.

  'Oh, can't she sit with us?' Zoë wheedles, craning to peer at Brendan's screen.

  'It's a very busy flight!' he snaps, shooing her away.

  'It's fine,' I mumble, nudging Zoë. 'If you recline your seat back you'll practically be in my lap anyway.'

  'Are you sure?' Sasha checks.

  ‘Honestly. I'll be watching the movies most of the time.' As I squeeze a smile I get a horrible sinking feeling that it's going to be me that's the odd-one-out.

  Ding-ding! Round One to Elise.

  Brendan hands us our boarding passes.

  'Okay, all set and that's two vegetarians: Sasha Williams and Zoë Harriott.'

  'I didn't realize you'd gone veggie, Zo,' Elliot queries.

  'I haven't. I'm not lacto-intolerant, kosher or vegan either, but those people always get their food served first so I thought, for a change …' Zoë shrugs.

  'Did you know there are more vegetarians in Brighton than any other place in Europe?' I announce.

  'Really?' Sasha coos. We love a fascinating fact.

  But Elise has no interest in our smalltalk. 'Shall we meet up again at the gate in an hour?' she cries.

  Unbelievable – she's trying to get rid of us already!

  'What's everyone doing?' Elliot takes the more sociable approach.

  'Well, you'll make a beeline for Dixons,' Zo
ë makes the obvious prediction for The Gadget King. 'Sasha will be in W.H. Smith, looking for a book for the flight.'

  I know, a model who reads: shocking isn't it?

  'And Lara and I will be in Duty Free!' she cheers, then remembers she's got a letter to send before we get airside.

  'It's actually a job application,' Zoë confides as we two go off in search of a mailbox. 'The closing date is while we're away.'

  'I didn't realize you wanted to leave the Dyspraxia Foundation.' I frown.

  'I don't, but with this new job there's a chance I could go on to become a celebrity PA!'

  It's ironic really, Zoë has by far the most worthy job of all of us and yet she's the one who deep down always yearned to be a finger-clicking, hair-swishing diva. Lately she's modified this wish to fit the current celebrity-ravaging climate, deciding that working alongside a star would mean a good deal of the perks without any of the wild accusations in gossip magazines that she's losing her hair/man/mind etc. Not a bad plan in theory, but I've a feeling the reality would be a nasty wake up call, and then what dreams would she be left with?

  ‘Do you know where you’d be based, if you got the new job?' I ask, hoping there’s a chance she could move back to Brighton.

  'West London, so at least I'd be more in the swing of things,' she notes. 'Of course it's irrelevant, really …'

  'Why's that?'

  'Well, seeing as I'm about to get discovered by Hollywood!' She does a little twirl and I giggle back at her.

  Zoë stops short of the line at Passport Control and turns to face me.

  'It could happen, couldn't it?' There's genuine hankering in her voice.

  I look into her maxi-lashed eyes and smile. 'Why not?'

  Why is it so hot in airports? I can't believe Elise stayed wrapped up the whole time we were in line – I guess it's not just her eyes that are made of flint. I juggle my bags and coat and bottle of water as we approach the security check.