The California Club: LoveTravel Series - USA

by Belinda Jones

  'No,' I say simply.

  'I know my life got so much better the day I met you,' Zoë says, hitting me straight in the heart.

  'Oh Zoë!' I turn and give her a big sisterly hug, eyes spilling over in an instant. 'We're going to be fine!'

  'Of course we are,' she sniffs, never one to wallow in excessive sentiment. 'So, d'you want to see some stars?' she twinkles, blinking back her tears, more than ready for some escapism.

  'Of course!' I enthuse, squishing my puffed-up heart back down to normal size. 'Show me!'

  Twenty minutes later we've trodden on some of the greatest names in movie history – Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, Meryl Streep – and some big surprises.

  'Can you believe that David Hasselhoff has a star on Hollywood Boulevard?' Zoë gapes at the gold-trimmed pink granite.

  'And look – Tony Danza! Remember him?'

  'Excuse me, ma'am!' A tousled blond sidesteps Zoë.

  'Oh my god! Was that Brad Pitt?' she yelps. 'It was! Freaking Nora! And look – Drew Barrymore!'

  Before I have time to tell her to get a grip I find myself exclaiming, 'George Clooney!'

  We clutch each other, getting whiplash as suddenly the tourists and hookers on Hollywood Boulevard find themselves outnumbered by celebrity A-listers.

  'Where've they all come from?' I cry, dodging a petite Reece Witherspoon and bear-like John Travolta.

  'Well, it is the Oscars in a few days,' Zoë manages to reason through her hyperventilation. 'Maybe they're having some kind of rehearsal dinner?'

  She could have a point: the Kodak Theater where the awards are held is just across the street. All the same, I can't believe they're just milling around un-entouraged.

  'Isn't that Audrey Hepburn?' I gasp, coveting her little black dress.

  'Yes!' Zoë whoops.

  'Hold on, she's dead!' I frown.

  Calista Flockhart walks past. There's something not quite right about her … there's flesh on them there bones!

  ‘They all seem to be heading for the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel,' Zoë observes.

  'Let's follow them!' I suggest, advancing hot on the heels of Denzel Washington.

  The entire lobby is abuzz with celebs all doing what Sandra Bullock refers to as the cocktail laugh - throwing their head back and cackling open-mouthed.

  'Julia Roberts!' Zoë and I cry in unison. We're pointing in different directions. We're both right.

  It's at that point we're handed a brochure: 'The Reel Movie Awards. Hollywood's Premier Celebrity Lookalike Ceremony,' I read. 'Aha! That would explain why there are seven Marilyn Monroes over at the bar.'

  'Some of them are really good but look at that Tom Cruise, he's got to be six foot, dead giveaway that it's not the real deal.'

  'I think Hugh Grant's making a move on Meg Ryan,' I nudge Zoë. 'Actually they'd make a cute couple, wonder why they've never got together in real life?'

  'Oooh, I want to play dress-up!' Zoë yearns. 'That's the best thing about being an actress – trying out all those looks.' Suddenly she jolts herself. 'La! I just remembered! Betty at work was telling me about this amazing fancy dress place near Vine, they make you over into a movie star and then they film you doing a five-minute scene from your favorite movie! Do you wanna go?'

  'Do I have a choice?' I grin.

  'I was saving it until you got here and now—'

  'I'm here!' I hoot.

  'Come on!' Zoë bundles me back out to the street sending an unconvincing Keanu Reeves flying. ‘He needs to work on his Matrix moves,’ she mutters as we scurry back to the car.

  Chapter 19

  Cruising down Hollywood Boulevard, I try to imagine Los Angeles in its heyday with men in tweed knickerbockers and loud-hailers and women in satin gowns and clasp purses. Now it's all touristy shops selling tacky T-shirts and over-the-knee stiletto boots in glittering Perspex for that essential Prostitute Barbie look.

  ‘There are some real nutters round here,' Zoë confides. The further away you get from Mann's Chinese Theater the seedier it gets.'

  'Sounds scary,' I worry.

  ‘They're more the type to jump out at you and talk gibberish than do you any real harm,' Zoë assures me.

  'I hope you don't go walking round here at night.'

  ‘This is it!' Zoë points to the right. ‘There's a parking lot round the back.'

  Once inside we're greeted with row upon row of bewigged Styrofoam heads from rainbow Afro to Marie Antoinette. There's a sign telling us to wait for an assistant before trying anything on but no one is around so I cover my own short black hair with a sleek waist-length wig in sheeny jet. Imagine taking ten seconds to get ready in the morning, I muse as I smooth it in place – no bad hair days, just good Cher days.

  ‘This tiara looks like a cathedral!' Zoë is dazzled by the heaps of fake ice in the jewelry case, then moves on to a parade of ornate Venetian masks and then -hello? – a case full of boobs and butts available in shiny plastic or squishy foam. I'm amused to note the price tag on the boobs – $12.99 a pair. Like you're just going to buy a single breast.

  Sensing movement above me I look up and find a rail of stroke-me feather boas – just out of reach, all swirling in the air conditioning. When I look back, Zoë is gone.

  'Where are you?' I call.

  'Over here by the decorative barbed wire!' she replies from the depths of the all-year-round Halloween aisle.

  'Oh that's nice,' I shudder, picking up a sword that bubbles with blood.

  'I wish The California Club had placed me here,' Zoë sighs. 'Imagine getting to dress up as a different person every day.'

  'This coconut bikini would be ideal for a Tuesday,' I decide. 'Real coconut shells, available in small, medium or large.'

  'Look at this!' Zoë is distracted by a giant furry kangaroo costume with a pouch designed to accommodate a life-size baby. 'I am so getting that for when I'm a mum.'

  For a moment I just stare at Zoë. There is no one like her on earth. Then I spot the booth where the filming takes place. Zoë can't see it because she's trying on a pair of 'Chop Suey Specs'. How very PC.

  As I catch sight of my reflection in the ‘Mirror, Mirror on the Wal’l I'm forced to acknowledge that it's going to take a fair bit of work to turn me into a Hollywood starlet. 'How long have we got, Zo?' I worry.

  'Let's see,' she says, setting down a genie lamp so she can study her watch. 'It's just after 3pm now, flight leaves at 7pm. We could have an hour here, an hour for an early dinner in case Elliot is planning on feeding you barbecued squirrel, an hour to get to the airport and one hour to check in. Plenty of time!'

  'Hoorah!' I cheer, heading back to the wigs.

  'Holy Mary!' Zoë hisses, stopping me in my tracks.

  That's her nickname for pierced people, on account of all their holes/perforations. I discreetly turn and find a face peppered with metallic acne glowering at me from behind the counter. Even the girl's ears are tattooed and she has what looks like a corkscrew skewered through her bottom lip.

  'Bet she's handy to have at parties!' Zoë notes.

  'Wouldn't be any good at blowing up balloons, though,' I wince.

  Heaving herself out of her deadbeat slump, Holy Mary introduces herself: 'I'm Vixen and I'll be your transformer today.'

  Her delivery is pure morgue menace. She obviously wants to get the ordeal of transforming us over and done with as quick as possible and wastes no time assigning us a celebrity lookalike each: 'You I could do as the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,' she addresses me. 'And you' – she squints at Zoë – 'Beyonce in Goldmember.'

  We exchange a dubious glance.

  She sighs and tries again. 'Catherine Zeta-Jones and Jennifer Lopez?'

  She's still not looking beyond our natural coloring. Hasn't she seen the wig changes in Charlie's Angels? Surely in Hollywood anything is possible.

  'I want to be Marilyn!' Zoë asserts.

  Vixen rotates her tongue stud and gives me a look as if to say: If you tell me you want to be Whoopi Goldb
erg I'm going to resign.

  I try the diplomatic approach. 'Your suggestions are great but we were thinking more of classic Hollywood stars.'

  'That's kinda old,' she sneers. 'But if that's what you want.' She thuds a hefty Book of Looks on to the counter and pushes it towards Zoë.

  'What about Carmen Miranda?'

  'Would you want a bowl of fruit on your head?' Zoë counters, not enjoying this girl's attitude.

  'I take these two beauties!' A heavy Russian accent announces. It belongs to a sixty-something man with a lush sweep of white hair and expertly shaped eyebrows. Sending Vixen to prepare the Harry Potter costumes for the dry cleaners, he introduces himself as the shop owner, Boris, and apologizes for his niece.

  'She's very skilled at the make-up but lacks charm,' he admits. 'Now! Let me see.' He studies our faces carefully. Something about his manner and the low rumble of his voice has us entranced. 'You want heyday movie stars, yes?'

  We nod, hypnotized by his violet-lensed eyes.

  'You would make wonderful Liz Taylor, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,' he strokes my jaw.

  I purr appreciatively, 'Oooh yes, that would be lovely.'

  'And you have Marilyn's curves, that is for sure.' He gives Zoë an appreciative once-over. 'You leave rest to me!'

  Zoë claps her hands together with delight as he flips the Book of Looks around to face her. 'Okay honey, which Marilyn you want to be?'

  First up is the iconic white flare-up dress from Seven Year Itch.

  'Too obvious?' Zoë voices her concern.

  'Little,' Boris acknowledges.

  Next, pink satin and diamonds.

  ‘Too Madonna, Material Girl,' Zoë frowns.

  'What about an outfit from Some Like It Hot?' I suggest, remembering the Hotel Del.

  'The nude beaded dress?' Boris's eyes light up. 'I think it will stretch.'

  'Oooh yes!' Zoë enthuses, envisioning herself sheathed and shimmering.

  'Maybe you want to do mini-movie scene together? I could make you good Tony Curtis,' he tells me, 'you have his clear eyes, black hair, we could do a little dimple here …'

  I bat his hand away as he goes to smudge brown eyeshadow on my chin.

  'I want to be a girl!' I protest.

  'Oh go on, La!' Zoë begs, taken with the idea. 'We could show Helen – how funny would that be? She could put a picture of us up at work!'

  'Can't you come back and do that with Todd?' I frown as Boris tries to set a captain's cap on my head.

  'No?' he looks plaintive.

  'No!' I pout. 'Isn't there something we could do together as two females?’

  We all pause for a moment and then Boris suddenly whoops, 'I've got it!'

  He swishes down the rails and then flourishes two floor-length red sequined gowns: 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!'

  'Of course!' Zoë cheers, grabbing my arm. 'You get to be Jane Russell!'

  'Gentlemen also love the ladies with the black hair,' Boris winks at me.

  'Sold!' I cheer.

  'We wouldn't even need a wig for you,' he says, sweeping my hair over to the side and flouncing it up, 'We set you just so.'

  'This is so exciting!' Zoë squeaks. 'What do we do first?'

  'Take off your clothes!' Boris announces.

  I knew there'd be a catch.

  'Or at least your tops.' I can't believe he's trying to negotiate a strip. Then he hands us robes and explains that he doesn't want to get any make-up on our nice outfits. Fair enough.

  ‘You want I play you the movie while we do the make-up?'

  'Oh yes! And can we sing, ‘We're Just Two Little Girls from Little Rock!' Zoë requests.

  ‘Of course,' Boris complies. ‘Whatever makes you happy.’

  As Boris pastes on a mask of foundation he tells us stories of Hollywood's first make-up artist – George Westmore – and how his six sons all followed his brushstrokes to create a dynasty of creative geniuses heading up the make-up departments at Paramount, Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox et al.

  ‘They were responsible for taking Rita Hayworth's natural black hair and make it strawberry blonde!' he begins in his stilted accent, continuing with revelations that Shirley Temple's ringlets were supplemented by hair bought from a local whorehouse and how Errol Flynn turned up drunk to every make-up seating for the swashbuckling flick Captain Blood and even resorted to injecting oranges with vodka when Perc Westmore confiscated his bottles of whiskey, disguised as hair tonic preparations!

  As Boris highlights our browbones he tells of how Marlene Dietrich taught Ern Westmore a nifty alternative to heavy black greasepaint – she held a lit match under the base of a china saucer until a smudge of pure carbon collected, then mixed in a little baby oil and used it as shadow around her eye!

  'I love all this stuff!’ Zoë enthuses as Boris applies what look like the wings of a blackbird to her lids. ‘Tell me more.’

  'Well, George Westmore was first to invent false lashes – he clipped tiny pieces of hair from a wig and pasted them on one strand at a time! That was back in 1917!'

  'This is so relaxing,' I sigh, eyes closed, as Boris turns his attention to my lashes. I’ve never been able to apply them to myself so I can’t wait to see how they look. Maybe I’ll keep them on to see Elliot and flutter him into submission. ‘Have you ever had anyone fall asleep in a make-up chair?’ I ask drowsily.

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘What about the Westmores?’ Zoe prompts.

  Boris chuckles as he tells us that Mont Westmore once went to Gloria Swanson's home to do make-up before filming and found her still in her bed… 'He was too afraid to wake her – she had such a dark temper – so he did the whole thing while she slept!’

  ‘So movie stars really do wake up with a full face of make-up!’ I laugh.

  'Still, please!' Boris instructs, now carefully lining my lips.

  ‘Wow, Lara you look stunning!'

  'No peeking please till I finish,' Boris scolds.

  Zoë leans back in her chair, waiting her turn.

  'Even in her eighties Ms Russell was a most striking woman,' Boris informs us. ‘Smart, bold…’

  ‘Who do you think was the most beautiful of them all?’ Zoe wants to know.

  Boris thinks for a moment.

  ‘For me? Bacall,’ he decides. ‘Lauren Bacall.’

  'That smoky voice!’ I just manage to squeeze out the words before Boris applies layer upon layer of lipstick so red and thick and luscious I suspect he's using strawberry Jam.

  Boris finishes Zoë's face and our respective hairdos with precision flair then announces: 'Now the dresses.’

  ‘They weigh a ton!' I gasp, confusing the plunging V-neckline with the high side-split on the leg.

  ‘They say Ginger Rogers's gowns were so heavily beaded that they made her feet bleed when she danced.'

  'Ouch!'

  'Sequins is okay, just a little rash!' he smiles, handing us our jewelry – two diamond bracelets on one arm, three for the other. 'Turn around, I put on necklace.'

  Again diamonds, surrounded by rubies. We pat the jewels flat.

  'Earrings …' he continues.

  I feel my lobes squish to the size of bottle tops from the metal clasp.

  'You'll get used to it,' Boris consoles, sensing my pain. Then he takes Zoë's hand and slides a ruby ring into place, looking for all the world like he's her adoring groom.

  'One final touch …'

  He hands us each a red sequined cap sprouting white feathers, securing them on our crowns with a pin.

  His eyes shine with pride. 'Ready for your close-up?'

  Zoë takes my hand and squeezes it tight before nodding. 'First close your eyes!' he instructs as he guides us to the full-length mirror. 'Now open!'

  I have a bit of difficulty as my false lashes have intertwined, lacing my lids closed but I can hear Zoë practically choking with delight. Boris rushes to my aid and carefully prises open my eyes. I get a rush of hysteria at the sight of the glittering vamp before me
and twist around to admire the sumptuous alien form that has invaded my body.

  'We look like real women!' Zoë giggles, hands traversing her ever more exaggerated curves.

  'Sirens!' Boris corrects. 'What man could resist you now?'

  He's got a point – the dresses seem to have a powerful sexual presence of their own, demanding a certain sassiness from the wearer. I find my shoulders hoiking back, a knee jutting forward and place a come-and-get-it-boys hand on my hip. How I wish Elliot could see me like this. In a whole new light…

  ‘Look at you blonde!' I exclaim, finally tearing my eyes away from my alter ego to gawp at a barely recognizable Zoë.

  'Look at you bouffant!' Zoë reels at my big hair.

  'I love it!' Gently I touch my roller-set. Amazingly it still feels like hair despite all the spray. 'We look properly glamorous!'

  ‘You’re a genius!' Zoë plants a perfect red cupid's bow lip-print on Boris’s cheek.

  He looks dotingly back at her. 'You are something special, lady.'

  'I know it says no photographs with your own camera but can we just take a quick one with you?' I plead.

  'How can I deny you anything?' He gives a little bow.

  I scrabble through my bag, emptying out the contents on the counter– map, scrumpled tissues, make-up, receipts, plane ticket, earring I've been missing for years, half-eaten Tootsie Roll and a spatula from an Immac kit (why?!).

  'It's in here somewhere … Here we go!'

  We lean in and grin as Boris instructs us to: 'Say sleaze!'

  As I shove the mess back into my bag, Zoë remains lost in wonder at her reflection.

  'This is what I wanted, Lara. To feel like a movie star, just once.'

  I stop what I'm doing to look at her, feeling my heart swell again and affection radiate from my eyes – there is something so rewarding about seeing your friends blissfully happy.

  'Camcorder ready!' Boris informs us.

  And now we're going to immortalize this wonderful moment on film!

  ‘Ms Russell?’

  ‘Yes,’ I raise a sassy brow.

  ‘You have something stuck to your heel!’ Boris peers closer. ‘It looks like an airline ticket?'