The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

‘Who’s the man?’

  ‘His name’s Simon.’

  ‘Is he a brute?’ he asked dramatically.

  ‘No,’ I chuckled. ‘He’s lovely.’

  I grabbed my digital camera and showed him a photo of Simon. It was the one with the banana as that was the least explicit. Brian was rightly impressed.

  ‘Well, then. The problem?’

  I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to say it but I did.

  ‘I found a photo in his Filofax.’

  Brian nodded in a lovely concerned way. I took another deep breath before I continued.

  ‘It was of his ex-girlfriend.’ I paused and tried to keep calm. ‘She was doing a downward dog.’

  I think Brian was trying to suppress a smile. I noticed he had to suck his cheeks in before he spoke.

  ‘What’s a downward dog?’

  I wouldn’t normally demonstrate yoga moves on a plane after a heavy dinner but Brian’s candid lack of sympathy forced me to do so. I checked my neighbours. Erin was fast asleep and Leo Clement was reclined in his seat wearing his eye mask. He looked like a bat (if you were kind) or a twat (if you were not). I lowered myself onto the gangway floor. I placed my hands out in front of me and then I stuck my bum in the air.

  ‘Ouch, bollocks,’ I muttered, unused to intense Indian postures. ‘Ah, ah, fuck me!’

  ‘Darling, you’re not my type,’ said Brian, like Julian Clary. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.’ His tone quickly switched to peerless professional. ‘I was just giving Sarah here some stretches to do. Very good to stretch on a long-haul flight. Would you like me to show you how?’

  I peeked in between my legs and saw one of the over-weight businessmen shake his head and quickly turn around to find an alternative route back to his seat.

  ‘So, what was she wearing in the photo?’

  ‘Pants and a bra,’ I spat.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Exactly! It’s yoga porn.’

  I collapsed on the floor and looked up at Brian, who was standing over me and shaking his head.

  ‘What did he say about the photo?’

  ‘He said it was a beautiful picture and that’s why he kept it.’

  ‘Was it a beautiful picture?’

  ‘Well, there is a sunset behind her and stuff,’ I said, thinking for a moment. ‘But it’s still a picture of HER with her bloody arse in the air!’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He said I was being . . .’ I huffed. It was so ridiculous that he should have said it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jealous,’ I said with a venomous laugh.

  I noticed Brian was doing that thing with his cheeks again. I chose to ignore it.

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll take a photo of you doing a downward dog. Get it developed and put it in his Filofax. He’ll think it’s sweet and funny.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, handing him the camera. ‘Oh, and here, take one on my phone as well, would you?’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said proudly when I was back on the floor with my bottom in the air. ‘See, this is much healthier than taking the photo and burning it on top of her hair.’

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘I feel like I’ve known you for a billion years.’

  ‘Strange that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘You know that second option with the hair burning?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘I liked the sound of that too.’

  twelve

  So I landed in Los Angeles Airport, or LAX as the Americans call it. A ludicrous nickname. There was absolutely nothing lax about it, as I found out when I was led through the airport by a member of Airport Police.

  ‘S’cuse me, but could you loosen your grip on my arm, please?’ I cried, because the security guard had a grip like a crab.

  ‘I’m under orders to escort you out of LAX, ma’am,’ he responded, not very warmly.

  ‘I was only taking a photo.’

  ‘We don’t allow photos to be taken in the airport, ma’am.’

  I didn’t like being called ‘ma’am’ as I’m not the bloody Queen.

  ‘I didn’t see any signs,’ I mumbled.

  All I did was take a photo of Erin going through immigration control. It was very arty. I got her little face with its ‘I’ve just escaped from a cult’ expression and the back of the immigration man’s head and you could see her passport. It was the sort of photo you’d see in those magazines you get in trendy hairdressers. Anyway, the sight of my digital camera got everyone acting official. It just went to show that the camera was evil. Still, it was a quick way to exit the airport.

  We walked through the exit sign and the first person I saw was Rachel Bird, Eamonn Nigels’s girlfriend, who had come to pick me up. I went to the same school as Rachel, although we didn’t really know each other because she was two years above me. We bumped into each other again last year and it was I who inadvertently introduced her to Eamonn. (In a S&M club. Another long story.)

  She was at LAX waiting for me, wearing the shortest pair of shorts that I had ever seen. I’d seen more fabric on a pair of Marks & Spencer’s mini briefs. She must have waxed her bikini line in order to wear them. She looked sensational. The cow. Long tanned legs, frayed non-existent shorts and a white vest over a floral bikini top over a very good boob job.

  The security guard tightened his grip on me and he pulled in his burger belly when he saw her.

  ‘Sarah,’ Rachel Bird gasped, looking at me.

  ‘Oh, I had a load of dr . . .’ I was about to say ‘drugs up my fanny,’ but I stopped myself. Thankfully. I don’t think that LAX would have left anything to chance and I would have ended up with an intimate examination and a charge for wasting police time.

  ‘Is that your friend, ma’am?’

  ‘Yep. The one who forgot to put her shorts on.’

  The security guard checked his breath on his hand. Unbelievable.

  ‘Sarah! What’s going on?’

  Rachel was really concerned. Everyone was looking. I so wanted to say that thing about the drugs up my fanny. The man’s grip on me loosened as we reached Rachel.

  ‘Please may I have my camera back?’

  ‘I just need to check what you’ve got on there.’

  He turned my camera on and flicked through my photos. When he got to the one that made my legs look thin he turned the camera upside down very slowly and said, ‘Mamma mia.’ Eventually he got to the end, deleted the last one and handed it back to me with a wink. Rachel and I started to walk towards the exit.

  ‘Sarah, you’ve just been led through LAX by security and you’re wearing pyjamas.’

  ‘Yes, I was aware, Rachel. How are you, by the way?’

  ‘Good, yeah.’

  We stepped out of the airport and there it was. That thing you forget that the rest of the world has on a daily basis. The sun. The glorious sun. It was midday and there it was, shining proudly in the cloudless sky. I opened my arms wide, closed my eyes and basked for a moment.

  ‘Sarah. Get in the car. You look like a wino.’

  ‘Oh, Rachel, listen, Erin Schneider was on the plane. She’s in the film as well. Shouldn’t we offer her a lift?’

  ‘There’s no way I’m taking that Christian imp anywhere,’ she spat, and quickened her step. Then she unlocked the door to a cream convertible the likes of which I had only ever seen in hip-hop videos.

  ‘Living the dream! I’m living the dream,’ I muttered as I stroked the bodywork.

  I’d barely got in the car before Rachel was in fourth gear and overtaking someone using the hard shoulder.

  ‘Fucking shitbags! Rachel!’ I shrieked, head stapled to the headrest.

  ‘I love this car!’ she yelled, smiling back.

  ‘I love my life!’ I whimpered next to her. I wanted to take in my first glimpse of LA but so far all I was seeing was tangled hair in my face
. We pulled up at some traffic lights.

  ‘Did we win?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Grand Prix.’

  Rachel smiled.

  ‘It’s slow from here in. Traffic.’

  ‘Phew. How do you know Erin then?’

  ‘Urgh.’ Rachel shuddered.

  ‘Tell me, Rachel.’

  ‘It was in my previous life.’

  ‘Oooh, goodie. The rampant convent-girl past life?’

  ‘That’s the one. Her dad’s a vicar, pastor, whatever they call them over here. In New York. And he caught me having sex in his church.’

  ‘I can’t believe you did that,’ I whispered, shocked. Rachel and I didn’t go to normal school. We went to convent school. We were taught by nuns. I definitely don’t remember them saying anything about nooky in sacred places.

  ‘I was seeing this bloke who lived there. We were bored. Erin’s dad is like this celebrity preacher and we thought it might be fun to have a quickie in his church.’

  ‘R-i-i-i-ght.’

  ‘Generally the best time of day to have sex in a church is dinner time. Clergy love eating so you normally get time for more than just a quickie.’

  ‘Good life tip.’

  ‘Not Erin’s dad. Erin’s dad sensed that some souls needed saving in his church. He came out, made us get dressed and insisted we had dinner with him. So we sit there having a family dinner like the Brady Bunch.’

  ‘But the vicar had seen your bits!’ I choked.

  ‘Hmmm. Then Erin looks at me and smiles this “you’re going to rot in hell” smile and says, “It’s not too late to find God, you know, he’s always listening.” Or something like that. Anyway, I said back, “We were just trying to find my G-spot.” But it wasn’t a great answer to give a vicar’s fifteen-year-old daughter at dinner. So they asked us to leave. You know, they insist we have dinner against our will and then tell us to leave. We weren’t even hungry. We’d been snorting coke all day.’

  ‘I thought she seemed quite sweet.’

  ‘That’s good, because you’re sharing a hotel with her.’

  ‘Will it not be a bit weird when you see her again?’

  ‘I doubt she’ll recognize me. I had a black French bob that summer. I, on the other hand, will know exactly who she is.’

  ‘So, tell me how it’s going with Eamonn.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, terrible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I never see him. He works all day.’

  ‘He is here to direct a movie, Rachel!’

  ‘Yes, yes, but we had so much time together in London. It was heaven. Now I just get tired Eamonn flopping into bed next to me at night.’

  ‘Oh well, it’s not for ever.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she agreed sadly.

  We were silent for a while. I thought about Simon and that hideous photo.

  ‘What’s the secret?’

  ‘It’s a self-help book.’

  ‘No! The secret of a good relationship.’

  ‘Dunno.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Oh, Eamonn quite likes it when I touch the bit between his balls an . . .’

  ‘Rach! That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Well, what did you mean?’

  ‘I, um, I don’t actually know, but I don’t think the answer lies in a sex act.’

  Rachel raised an eyebrow at me. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  We had turned onto a busy dual carriageway coast road. I was in Baywatch, Beverly Hills 90210, and The Lost Boys. I felt as though I knew the place, but it was just because I’d seen it so many times on the telly. The most dazzling aspect of LA was not the sun or the ocean but the fact that everyone looked like Rachel Bird. There wasn’t a minger in sight. No one would have got less than eight out of ten if they were marked for attractiveness. The women were all even tans and long slim legs, wandering along carrying yoga mats or, wait for it, it’s very cool, surfboards. And the men. The men! They were either cycling topless or wandering along in half-pulled-up wetsuits. Everyone was shiny and bronzed and looked unimaginably healthy. It was nothing like Britain. I wondered how I’d ever fit in.

  Rachel suddenly did an emergency stop outside a beautiful white building.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said, jumping out of the car and striding towards the boot. I just sat there, mesmerized, all open mouth and bulging eyes. The big white building was my hotel. It was on the beach. Literally walk out of hotel door, walk across golden sand, dive into the Pacific Ocean. I exited the car and Rachel handed me my cases.

  ‘Living the dream! Living the dream,’ I sang.

  ‘Calm down, Sarah,’ she reminded me flatly.

  Then she gave me a surprisingly heartfelt hug.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Now I’m going to head off for a yoga class. You’re welcome to come. No? No. I take it by your face you’re not a yoga fan. Now, right, very important. Try not to sleep or the jet lag will do you. Stay awake as long as you can. I’ll see you tomorrow at the welcome party.’

  ‘Thanks for the lift, Rachel,’ I said, standing on the pavement to wave her off.

  ‘Sarah, get in bloody side. Have you seen the state of you?’ she hissed.

  ‘I think LA needs a bit of mank,’ I told her, because clearly it did. I wiggled my hips as I said it.

  Rachel responded with a look that said, ‘You are deranged and there are very few places I shall feel comfortable being in public with you.’ But I didn’t care.

  ‘Oooh, Rach, what was it? The bit between the balls and the . . .?’

  But she was already revving the poor engine and couldn’t hear me. I watched her do nought to seventy in under half a second as she drove away. ‘Hi, I’m Sarah Sargeant, I’m doing a movie in LA, I’m staying in a hotel on the beach,’ I said to myself in a sophisticated voice.

  Under my pyjamas I was wearing a pair of big black knickers and a small vest top with boob support. It was my most comfortable underwear. I didn’t want wires and thong wedgies on an eleven-hour flight. My comfortable underwear could also be used as a bikini without any embarrassment at all. I decided to go for a paddle, or even a small swim. The last time I swam in the sea it was in Eastbourne and it was a dare and I needed a double brandy after. I wanted a tan that wasn’t Rimmel.

  Sod checking in and unpacking. I wanted the sun and the sea. I altered my course. I walked around the hotel. In thirty seconds I was walking on sand. Bloody hot sand, actually. I started to run towards the sea to cool my hot feet off. I picked a spot that was mine and no one else’s. I stripped off. I left all my belongings in a messy pile. I stood with waves lapping at my feet and I raised my arms over my head. It was hotter than a sauna but there was a slight breeze gently whipping my body. I felt sublime.

  ‘This is the start of my dream!’ I whispered. And then I uttered the sound ‘weurgh’ with a jolt. I vowed to cut down on The X Factor.

  thirteen

  Julia, as my best friend, had insisted I Skype her whenever something important happened during my time in LA, for example after I met the cast for the first time, or after I shot my first scene, or after I bumped into George Clooney and he took me to Mexico for a cocktail. She hadn’t expected me to Skype her as soon as I got into my hotel room.

  ‘Jesus, Sarah!’ she shrieked as soon as she saw me. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Is it that bad?’ I croaked.

  ‘Carlos, baby, come and have a look at Sarah’s face.’

  Bloody Skype. Carlos’s fuzzy face appeared next to Julia’s on the screen. Carlos and Julia had been seeing each other for a few months. Carlos is a big beefy Latin-looking DJ. He’s not Latin at all, despite his exotic name. He’s from Southgate. His mum named him after a Spanish waiter from the tapas restaurant by the station. Carlos has my rarely seen ‘best friend nod of approval’. I’d defy anyone not to like him, as he’s so easy-going and agreeable. He smiles through life like a charmed cherub. And he’s a proper DJ. Julia has snogged DJs before but they were generally just blokes wi
th a box full of records who played in friends’ flats. But Carlos plays in big clubs and gets paid to go to Ibiza. He is probably the coolest person Julia and I have ever even spoken to. But he’s not intimidating. He likes dance music with lyrics and he talks bollocks like we do. It’s brilliant.

  They peered silently at their computer in England. I cringed to think what my face must have looked like in digital.

  ‘So, what happened?’ Julia asked eventually.

  ‘I fell asleep in the sun.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Ages.’

  ‘Did you have any sun cream on at all?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Is it sore?’ asked Carlos.

  ‘Agony.’ I tried to smile at Carlos in thanks for his considerate question but the pain involved created more of a stroke-victim grimace.

  I lay down after my swim to dry off and the next thing I knew someone’s hand was on my breast. I opened my eyes to see Erin groping me. Not because she was moved by my physique. She’d seen me from her balcony and was concerned. She was trying to put sun cream on me. Unfortunately she was about four hours too late.

  ‘But it’s not all red, Sare, that bit is still white.’

  Julia was squinting and pointing at half of my right cheek. Whereas my left cheek was pure roast tomato, the right was half roast tomato, half Best of British white. Put something blue next to me and I could have been the French flag. I must have put an arm over my head while I was asleep because the underside of my right arm was burnt as well.

  ‘It’s a look I’m going for.’

  Julia started to laugh. Perhaps I should have felt grateful that the laughter took so long to come when I had expected it instantly. But there was little consolation in the fact that I was not just a laughing stock. I was a stunned silence that preceded it as well.

  ‘Jules, it’s not actually funny,’ I pointed out.

  Julia laughs like no one else I’ve ever met. She once got asked to leave a cinema because she was laughing so hard. I could understand it though. The popcorn she was eating at the time was going everywhere.

  On this occasion, she was already laughing so much her nose had started to run. So she reached off-screen and returned with a tissue and she had just about composed herself when Carlos leant towards her and whispered something in her ear. Whatever he said set her off again.