The California Club: LoveTravel Series - USA

by Belinda Jones

'How so?'

  'Well apart from the fact they were shrimpy queens and he's a big macho lug, she fancies him.'

  'And you're worried it's some kind of manifestation of her self-loathing, the fact that she's attracting abuse to her?'

  'Does everyone start talking like that when they move to California?'

  Helen laughs.

  I restate my case, Cali-style: 'I'm just concerned that, seeing how fragile she is at the moment, maybe this isn't the best environment for her.'

  'Please don't worry, Lara. It's going to be fine. This place has been carefully selected by The California Club. Besides, it's just five more nights. If she has any major problems she can always call you.'

  'But what if I'm in Yosemite? That's hundreds of miles from here.'

  'Zoë's just an hour away in LA. If she can't terrorize him into submission, no one can.'

  She's got a point.

  'Everything is going to turn out for the best, trust me.'

  'If you're sure …'

  'I am. Listen, I've got to go, my soufflé is about to collapse.'

  The line goes dead.

  I turn to Troy. He looks at me as if to say, If Helen says it's okay … then shakes his mane. I sigh and return to the house to get my next assignment.

  For the next few hours I busy myself painting fence posts, while Sasha gets her first lesson in animal environment hygiene. No prizes for guessing who assigned the tasks. Still, I reckon Ty is going soft in his old age because he's given her cages without tigers in to clean.

  It's now 1pm. I'm running out of time – just half an hour before I'm due to leave. I look over at Sasha. Whereas I'm already on my fifth fence post, she's made almost no progress clearing out the first cage. She keeps stopping, leaning heavily on the shovel and visibly fighting back the tears. If it wasn't for Ty's watchful and ever more belligerent eye on us I'd go over and comfort her. But I know that would only bring on another tirade.

  'How are you getting on?' Carrie appears by my side.

  'Fine, just two more to go. Did you get what you needed from the vet?'

  'Yup, just going to administer it now.' She looks over at Sasha. 'I guess she's not used to getting her hands dirty,' she says.

  'Really, she's not like that,' I insist.

  'Does she know that?'

  Good question.

  'To be honest, this is all quite new to her – she's only recently stopped modelling so the new non-model her, the real her, is still a work in progress,' I explain.

  'She's trying to find out who she is on the inside?' Carrie enquires.

  I nod.

  'Does she think all she's got is her looks?'

  'I'm afraid so.’

  ‘No wonder she's not ready to let go of them.'

  I look at poor Sasha. Warring with herself. I know part of her wants to throw down that shovel, climb head-first into her sleeping bag and weep until next Tuesday. I wonder if I should tell Carrie how depressed she is, perhaps ask her to ask Ty to lay down his arms. And legs and torso, for that matter. If he didn't speak he could really be quite attractive.

  'You know she's doing it the wrong way round, don't you?'

  'How d'you mean?' Is there some special technique to shoveling poo that I don't know about?

  'She can't find herself and then let go of her looks, she's got to take a leap of faith and let go of her looks first. '

  Easier said than done. Of course this would be as good a place as any to get hideously disfigured, which would be a start.

  'I don't think she's naturally vain,' Carrie muses. 'It's just been very deeply ingrained in her.'

  Sasha hoiks up the wheelbarrow to deposit the stuff she's cleared but hits a rock two paces along, the barrow flips on to its side and everything she's just cleared comes tumbling out.

  'Oh no!' I cry.

  'Maybe you should show her how it's done,' Carrie suggests.

  'Me?'

  Carrie raises an 'I dare you!' eyebrow.

  I grin back. 'Okay! Why not!'

  I set down my paintbrush and run over to Sasha. 'You seem to be having way too much fun, mind if I join you?' I say.

  'Oh Lara!'

  I hold up a hand, as if somehow this will freeze-frame her before she starts blubbing. Oddly it seems to work. 'Now I don't know what kind of warped individual you are, but according to The California Club this is your dream come true so I think it's about time you started embracing the poo!'

  Sasha blinks in disbelief. 'Embracing the poo?'

  'Come on now, you are in gorgeous sunny California ankle deep in tiger excrement, what more could you want? Think of all your poor model friends getting bunions in their Manolos, shaking from the diet pills-‘

  'Going barefoot at Pink Sands in Barbados, sipping bellinis in Milan,' Sasha cuts in.

  'Right!' I waver.

  For a moment I think Sasha's going to have a 360-degree revelation and decide she wants to go back to modeling until she's advertising anti-wrinkle creams but then her expression changes.

  'If they could see me now!' she hoots.

  'What would they say?' I grin, egging her on.

  She looks down at her muck-encrusted feet and then around at the ramshackle set-up and the hazy mountains beyond and a big smile erupts on her face. 'They'd say I was mad!'

  'Well, that's one piece of the puzzle in place!' I cheer.

  'Am I mad?'

  'Walking away from a life of privilege and luxury? Of course!'

  'Maybe I want more from life.'

  'Well, what would that say about you?' I probe.

  'That those things don't matter to me? That I tried them and they were nice for a while but they didn't float my yacht.'

  'So what would you call someone who followed their heart and threw it all away even though they didn't know what was coming next? Someone who was willing to take a chance on a new life, even though they didn't know what it was?'

  Sasha takes a deep breath then purses her lips.

  I wait.

  Then she says it.

  'Brave?'

  I nod.

  'I'm brave!' She tests out the sentence and likes how it fits. 'I'm brave!' she says, bolder now. 'Look at me!' she laughs, wielding the spade. 'Owwww!' She doubles up in pain.

  'What?' I run to her side.

  'Splinter!'

  'Let me see.' I take her hand in mine.

  Suddenly the sound of sarcasm fills the air.

  'Aw, did you break a nail? Let me go call the 24-hour manicurist – we have one on standby for just these kind of emergencies …' Ty camps it up as he passes.

  This time Sasha doesn't crumble. She just picks up a clod of dry poo and throws it at him.

  Unfortunately (or maybe extremely fortunately) she's a terrible shot, misses him by a mile and he walks on oblivious, though I very much doubt he could miss our hysterical laughter.

  'Well it makes a change,' I sigh, wiping my eyes.

  'What does?'

  'Having a man shun you for your looks instead of a woman.'

  I decide to take my leave while Sasha is riding high. After a quick farewell tour of the cats (it's a particular wrench to walk away from Ryan – something about the way he looks at me, so knowing …) I move on to the humans, and hug Carrie. No sign of Ty. Shame.

  As Sasha walks me to the car, it occurs to me that Carrie will be gone in a matter of hours (off to raise funds in San Fran), leaving Sasha alone with Ty at night.

  'Just keep in mind that it's his problem,' I advise her. 'He's obviously got some massive chip on his shoulder about something.'

  'I can handle him!' Sasha tells me, still thriving on her newly discovered bravery. 'You just concentrate on making the most of your time with Elliot. And give Zoë my love – let me know how she's getting on.'

  'Will do,' I smile.

  I give Sasha one final squeeze and then hit the accelerator – City of Angels here I come!

  Chapter 18

  I stand before the grand art deco building at the inters
ection of Hollywood and Highland. Wow! Zoë really is living the life. The granite has been sculpted to look like drapes of material slung between the tall pink columns and even the cement glints with embedded glitter. It looks more like a giant dressing table constructed with Carole Lombard in mind than an apartment block, and any minute now I expect Zoë to emerge in marabou-trimmed chiffon flicking ash from an elongated cigarette holder into some poor minion's bare hands.

  It's what she's always wanted – a life of unreal glitz to finally obliterate her grim and grimy past. Although I actually think she was already doing a pretty good job herself, creating a whole new life. She thought so too until she started buying into the media idea that your life isn't complete unless you have your own camera crew following you around 24-7. Before that she had a good balance of doing something worthwhile by day (her job at the Dyspraxia Foundation) and partying like a maniac at night. And she was happy. But lately that undue sense of entitlement that people have today has been rubbing off on her. She's come so far but it's still not far enough. She wants the dream – the Malibu beach-house, the Valentino dress, the convertible Mercedes – everything but the Vanity Fair cover husband. (She'd rather have a series of cover-boy lovers.) I wonder whether she's managed to secure a date with Josh Hartnett yet – presumably she's been given a little black book featuring every eligible movie star in town. Maybe she's with him right now…

  Stepping closer, I peer in the darkened windows. Hmmm. Unless she's squatting in the old Max Factor museum I've been given the wrong address. Hold on, this is 1660. I want 1650 … I check out the building next door and read the squiggle of pink neon in the window – Mel's 50s Style Diner.

  This can't be right. I step inside and ask the girl on the till if there are apartments above the diner. She tells me it's all offices so I try calling Helen on her mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. Oh well, I may as well suck up a quick root beer float while I await her call.

  The diner is huge with endless chrome-trimmed booths, giant blow-ups of black-and-white photos on the walls and ridged aluminum pipes snaking around the ceiling, lending a somewhat out-of-keeping warehouse-conversion feel to the place. Each table is set with regulation sugar-shaker, pourable mustard and a dainty china vase containing a spray that looks exactly like a wedding buttonhole – one pink carnation and a smattering of gypsophila. Perhaps I'm missing something and it's really a prom corsage.

  Mentally I slip on a pair of bobby socks and start flicking through the tunes on the mini-jukebox: Mr Sandman, Chantilly Lace, Runaround Sue …

  'Welcome to Mel's!' The waitress sets down a glass of iced water on my table. 'What can I get you?'

  'Actually I haven't had a chance to—' Hold on. There's something familiar in that voice. My eyes slant sideways… 'Zoë!' I screech, practically jumping out of my booth.

  'Lara!' she screams, sending a cluster of paper-covered straws flying in a fluster of mortification. 'What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for you!' I splutter, incredulous at the little white pointy napkin in her hair. She's even got a name badge, for goodness sake.

  'But-but …' Zoë flusters, looking so guilty you'd think she'd just been caught trying to run out the door with a stash of hamburger patties in her pockets.

  'I don't know why you're acting so surprised,' I cut in. 'You're the one wearing an apron!'

  Zoë cringes and covers her face. There I was expecting those hands to have been manicured to doll-like perfection when the reality is she's even managed to gnaw through her acrylic nails.

  'Why didn't you tell me you were working here?' I reel as my visions of her sprawling in the back of a limo with Channing Tatum et al, fizzle and fade.

  'I didn't want you to know!' she wails, looking sheepish.

  'But why?'

  'I made such a big deal of the Hollywood high life I was headed for and this isn't exactly what I had in mind.'

  I can see that.

  'Why didn't you ring up to have a good bitch and moan? I would’ve done!'

  'I didn't want to bring you down – you know, set you worrying that I was having a bad time.'

  'And are you?' I ask softly.

  'Smell my hair …'

  'Cheeseburger with extra onions?' I hazard a guess.

  'Tuna Melt and twisty fries,' she corrects.

  'Oh Zoë!' I sympathize. She didn't deserve this. She only wanted to have some fun.

  'Is this going to last all week?' I ask.

  Zoë nods, visibly crumpling at the prospect. 'Apparently waitressing is the most common profession for a Hollywood wannabe so here I am.' Her shoulders slump further. 'And we thought Elise would be the first to bailout!'

  'You wouldn't!'

  Zoë shakes her head. 'No, of course not. No matter what.'

  I didn't think so. She's a trouper, is our Zoë, she'll find a way to turn this around, I'm sure.

  'Maybe they've got some auditions lined up and international superstardom is just a day or two away?' I suggest, groping for some hope.

  'Maybe.' Zoë's not convinced.

  I look down at the table. I don't know how to make this better. Hold on – I wonder if Sasha kept the number for that fleshy-lobed director guy from the Hotel Del. Maybe he could do something?

  'Everything okay?' A chipper waiter with a face crying out to be plastered across a billboard stops by.

  'Yes, sireee!' Zoë zaps herself back into perky waitress mode. 'This is my friend Lara.'

  'Heyyy! I'm Todd.' He extends the hand not holding a chocolate malt shake. 'You coming out with us tonight? We're going to the Beauty Bar – $10 for a cocktail and a manicure!'

  'I wish I could but I've got a flight at 7pm.'

  'Oh no – I don't finish till ten,' Zoë sighs. 'We can't even have a proper chat.'

  'Don't worry, I just wanted to say Hi!' I try and calm her. I'm beginning to regret dropping by – I only seem to be making things worse for her. 'Tell you what – I'll just spend the next two hours eating my way through the menu so you can keep coming back to my table,' I tell her, swiftly scanning the options. ‘The '57 Ford Omelet sounds good.'

  'The Elvis Scramble is better,' Todd recommends, bowing out to deliver his shake.

  'I can't even show you round my hood,' Zoë pouts.

  'I'll be back in two days,' I say and give her hand a surreptitious squeeze.

  'Hey!' Todd reappears still carrying the shake. 'I just thought – if you want I can cover your shift till seven?'

  'What?' Zoë blinks.

  'That way you can hang out and see your friend off at the airport.'

  'Really?' Zoë's face lights up like a spotlight has picked her out.

  'Sure, I could use the extra cash, I'm saving up to get new headshots.'

  'He's an actor,' Zoë says proudly.

  'Do you think it's allowed?' I lower my voice. 'You know, California Club regulations.'

  I don't want to see her relegated to washing dishes.

  'They'll never know!' Zoë starts untying her apron. 'Todd, you're an angel.'

  'Don't I know it!' he winks. 'You girls have fun!’

  We exit Mel's with linked arms and a spring in our step.

  'At least it's sunny!' I rally.

  'Yes it is,' Zoë smiles up at the palm-tipped skyline with newfound glee. 'Really, it's not so bad. Todd keeps my pecker up.'

  'And vice versa?'

  'No, he's gay,' she laughs, guiding me across the road. 'You know what he said to me the other day, about my hopes for instant fame?’

  ‘What?’

  'He said I wanted the whole thing handed to me on a plate and here I am handing out plates myself! How ironic, is that?'

  I smile back at her, amazed she’s managed to keep her sense of humor. 'Has it made you think any differently about your superstar ambitions?'

  'Well, not so much the waitressing itself but the stories the other girls tell me.' She shakes her head. 'I mean, some of them have got their heads screwed on but they can't get a break
, others are totally delusional and I reckon they're still going to be sloshing lemonade when they're sixty. You think I've got it bad, you want to hear some of them talk – they really believe that someone's going to run in one day and say, "Our leading lady has singed off the left side of her face with a pair of straightening irons and we need you on set now!"'

  I'm fairly certain that scenario has played in Zoë's head a few times. I may have even dabbled in that daydream myself – some quirk of fate leads you to a kissing scene with some A-list hunk, who then realizes he’s been waiting his whole life for someone exactly like you.

  'So how does all this make you feel?' I ask.

  'Sad, I guess,' Zoë sighs. 'It does happen for some but I'm fairly certain it's not going to happen for any of the girls I'm working with. At first I listened to them and thought, "Yes but I'm different, it could happen to me!" but then I realized (a) they're all thinking that and (b) I've never even taken an acting lesson – what makes me think I can just swan into this town and be discovered? What is there to discover, anyway?'

  It occurs to me that Zoë is already discovering a fair few things about herself, but for all her super-positivity she hates it when people get all deep and analytical on her so I say nothing.

  'Anyway, enough about me!' Zoë changes tack. 'What's going on with you?'

  'Well, as you know I'm just off to see Elliot in Yosemite—'

  'I mean about the B&B. Talk about dropping a bomb!'

  I find myself inadvertently coming to a halt. Apparently I can't walk and lie at the same time.

  'I really think it's for the best—' I begin.

  'No you don't.'

  I sigh. I can't fool Zoë, she knows me too well, knows my heart inside out.

  ‘It's okay,' she soothes, not wanting to make me squirm further. 'I was just thinking the other day: imagine if the first time I walked through the door there, someone said to us, “In ten years time you two girls are going to be walking arm in arm down Hollywood Boulevard!"'

  'We would never have believed them!' I finish her thought.

  'How could we? How could we have seen this future for ourselves? Just like we can't see what's coming next. I mean, just cos it's looking a bit bleak now doesn't mean it's not going to get better, does it?'