Girls on Tour

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Sam and I say in unison. But all the same, I take a very small portion myself, and lots of salad. I shouldn’t have had that pizza slice. I’ve been keeping thin for non-existent auditions for so long, it would be stupid to put on weight just as I might be about to get a break.

  I had thought there might be some celebrity gossip over dinner, but instead Sam and Alice are arguing over what kind of music to have at the reception.

  ‘I just don’t think my Aunt Diane is going to want to dance to Cyndi Lauper all night,’ Sam is saying.

  ‘Well, I promise you nobody will dance to all your film soundtracks.’ Alice turns to me. ‘Can you believe Sam wants to have the theme tune from The Godfather for our first dance? I still don’t know if he’s joking or not.’

  ‘I still don’t know if you’re joking,’ Sam says. ‘“Waiting for a Star to Fall”? If it was junior prom in 1986, sure.’

  ‘Which would you rather dance to, Lil?’ Alice asks me. ‘Cheesy eighties music or the Cinema Paradiso soundtrack?’

  The real answer is definitely cheesy eighties, but I don’t want to insult Sam. ‘Well, I love eighties music, but film soundtracks can be pretty cool too …’ I say, trying to be diplomatic but feeling weaselly.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Sam.

  ‘You’re welcome!’ God, I sound like an idiot. I add quickly, ‘Just out of interest … did you ever think of getting a wedding planner?’

  ‘We tried,’ Alice says. ‘We met one who was lovely but booked out, and two who were scary. They kept talking about mood boards and signature cocktails and asking us what theme we wanted.’

  ‘We said we wanted a wedding theme,’ says Sam. ‘They didn’t seem to go for that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re better off without them,’ I say, trying to be reassuring. ‘I booked the hair appointments and sorted out the chairs, by the way.’

  ‘Brilliant! Thank you so much. Lily’s also offered to pick up the bridesmaids’ dresses, and my dress, but unfortunately she doesn’t drive,’ Alice adds to Sam. ‘What do you think, could we hire her a driver for a few days? Or is that madness?’

  Sam thinks. ‘Maybe Jesse can help you out.’

  ‘Who’s Jessie?’ I ask, picturing some assistant of Sam’s.

  ‘My cousin. He’s one of my groomsmen, visiting here from Colorado. He’d probably be happy to help.’

  ‘Great,’ Alice says. ‘And do you mind helping me to host this crafting evening tomorrow, Lil? People are coming from seven. I’d love a hand with it.’

  ‘Of course! Anything you need. Absolutely anything at all. Nothing is too much trouble.’ I hope Sam is noticing how helpful, reliable and all-around fabulous I am.

  ‘How was your meeting with Brock today?’ Alice asks Sam.

  ‘Who’s Brock?’ I ask before I can stop myself.

  ‘Wilson,’ Sam says, shortly. ‘He’s a director. He’s casting for a new film.’

  I put down my knife and fork. ‘Brock Wilson? As in Apocalypse High?’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’

  Does Sam think I was raised in captivity? Of course I’ve seen it, and I love it, along with the entire world. It’s one of the greatest TV shows of all time. Brock Wilson is famous for having the wittiest scripts and the best, most kick-ass heroines ever.

  ‘What’s his new film about?’ I ask eagerly.

  ‘It’s a Western.’

  ‘But with a twist, right?’ says Alice.

  ‘Yep,’ says Sam.

  ‘It’s about an English girl who travels to the Wild West and becomes an outlaw,’ Alice adds, before looking as if she wishes she hadn’t.

  I literally cannot imagine a more thrilling part. I have to audition for this film. Even to be an extra would be a dream come true.

  Sam glances at Alice and then says, as if reading from an autocue, ‘It’s nice that you’re a fan. You’ll be able to meet him at the wedding.’

  ‘At the wedding?’ I ask faintly. ‘He’s coming to the wedding? To your wedding?’

  I cling to the edge of the table to stop myself falling over. ‘How?’ I croak.

  ‘Just, you know, as a guest,’ says Alice. ‘Have some more wine, Lily.’ She looks anxious, as if she thinks I’m about to demand that Sam drive me to Brock Wilson’s house, right now. Which I’m not going to do. Yet.

  ‘Could you introduce me?’ I ask boldly.

  ‘You’ll meet all our guests,’ Sam says, in a sort of ominously polite tone. ‘Lily, you know I’d be happy to talk to you about acting while you’re here, and give you some advice. But first, you should relax. You’re on vacation.’

  The meaning is clear: do not ambush our wedding guests, or there will be trouble. It’s such a pity. But then it occurs to me: if Brock is a guest, his address will be on the guest list …

  ‘Would anyone like some dessert?’ Sam asks. ‘I got tiramisu.’

  ‘Not for me,’ I say quickly. If I’m going to be meeting a director – or even be seen by him in the distance – I can’t afford to look anything other than match-fit.

  ‘Really, Lil? You’ve hardly had any pasta,’ Alice says, in a motherly way. ‘You’re so thin … Have you lost weight recently?’

  I shake my head, smiling. I don’t even give the tiramisu a second glance. I’m focused, like a laser beam, on meeting Brock Wilson somehow.

  ‘Jesse’s texted me,’ says Sam. ‘He can drop by tomorrow at two, and take you wherever you need to go.’

  ‘Great!’ I say enthusiastically. I’m sure we can power through the wedding jobs in no time, and then … I know where to find Brock’s contact details. Now I need to get my hands on that script.

  I’m almost dead with exhaustion by the time dinner ends, but I keep myself awake long enough to sneak out of my room when the others have gone to bed and flip through Sam’s man bag, which he’s left lying by the sofa. I’m doubly lucky: the script is here, and it’s a paper copy. I do feel bad for rifling through Sam’s bag, but he’ll never know.

  The script is fantastic, and Ella, the main character, is a dream: brave, funny and vulnerable. I skim through it as quickly as I can to get the gist of the story, and then I choose one of her best speeches. I’m too shattered to learn it now, so I take a photo of the page, like in The Bourne Identity, before finally crawling off to bed.

  By lunchtime the next day, I’ve memorised the speech and found Brock’s contact details on the guest list. I’m dressed in denim cut-off shorts and my flannel check shirt – just the outfit for running wedding errands and (hopefully) auditioning for a film set in the Wild West. I’m thinking of having some food when there’s a knock at the door. It’s already two. Damn. I always think arriving bang on time is as rude as being late. It doesn’t give people a chance!

  I open the door and find myself face to face with a familiar-looking dark-haired man. He looks different today – he’s wearing shoes, for a start, and glasses, and is rather formally dressed in a blue shirt, tie and chinos – but he is definitely the guy I said hello to on the beach yesterday. How embarrassing.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, giving me a strange look. ‘Lily?’

  ‘Um – yes!’ I think frantically about how to cover up my pick-up attempt yesterday. ‘Jesse! Hi! Nice to meet you! Sorry, I’m not one hundred per cent ready yet. Can you give me a few more minutes?’

  ‘OK … I’m parked illegally, I think, so I’ll wait in the car.’

  ‘Are you sure? Alice says they never come around here.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to get a ticket. I’ll see you outside.’

  I run inside and do a little dance while I bite my fist. Of all the strange men I could have said hi to on the beach, it had to be Sam’s cousin. I touch up my make-up, scurry around gathering the addresses and printouts Alice has left me and then, when I can’t delay it any longer, walk outside to find him sitting in a red convertible.

  ‘So! I thought that was you yesterday,’ I say, getting into the passenger seat. I think that’s a neat way of cov
ering up.

  ‘You did?’ he says, looking confused. ‘But we’ve never met before.’

  ‘Thank you for driving me,’ I add quickly, pretending I haven’t heard him.

  ‘That’s OK. All part of a groomsman’s job.’ He slows the car at the junction at the end of the street. ‘The alternative was taking my sisters to some mall with a fountain that plays in time to Lionel Richie music, so you’ve saved me from that at least. Where to first?’

  I show him Alice’s map. ‘We need to pick up the dresses from this place on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. We should probably bring them straight back here, and then we need to go to the flower market, or rather the flower district, which is all the way over … there.’ I peer at the map. ‘Oh. That looks a long way away.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ says Jesse. He turns on the stereo; some classical music is playing. ‘Do you like Beethoven? Or would you prefer NPR?’

  I know NPR is the equivalent of Radio 4, so I shake my head. ‘I love your car, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. It’s a rental … I got a special deal on it.’ He sounds embarrassed. ‘People in LA don’t generally drive convertibles, because of the smog.’

  ‘Really? It’s not smoggy here.’

  ‘That’s because we’re right by the coast. I hope you’re not asthmatic?’

  ‘Nope.’ Gosh, he’s a worrier.

  ‘So,’ he says, as we drive off, ‘do you have a chauffeur in London as well?’

  ‘I wish! No, I use public transport.’

  ‘You don’t have to drive to work?’

  ‘I just got fired, so no.’ I have to admit, I do like the way that sounds. It’s dramatic.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because I was practising accents to make my job less mind-numbingly boring … I was working in a call centre. So they fired me over that. It was completely unfair, because I got better results when I used my accents. I could probably take them to court, actually.’

  ‘That sounds like it would be a landmark case,’ he says.

  I look over suspiciously to see if he’s taking the piss, but he’s looking straight ahead innocently.

  ‘What do you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I teach English at a high school. It’s a public school, right outside Boulder. And I coach the girls’ football team.’

  I can imagine what kind of teacher he is: cute enough that all the girls have crushes on him, but upstanding and law-abiding enough that the parents trust him. I still feel embarrassed about yesterday, but I don’t find him that attractive any more. He’s perfectly nice, but he seems a bit serious, even uptight. And why is he wearing a tie?

  Now we’re driving along Abbot Kinney, Alice’s Mecca, which is full of cool shops and cafés. I’m dismayed by the number of gorgeous girls drifting along clutching giant Starbucks cups and juices; I hope they’re not all actresses.

  One girl, in black ankle boots and tiny white denim shorts, is obviously a model; she has the longest limbs I’ve ever seen, like a daddy-long-legs, and her tanned skin looks completely poreless. And right behind her … I do a double-take. It’s Scarlett Johansson, wearing a blue T-shirt and black yoga trousers. She’s got sunglasses on and has her head down, eyes glued to her phone, but it’s definitely her. She’s even tinier and more perfect in real life. After twisting around in my seat, I whirl back to Jesse.

  ‘Did you see her? That was Scarlett Johansson!’

  ‘Oh. No, I didn’t see her.’ After a minute, he adds in a clunky, deliberate way, like a bad actor being fed a line, ‘My girlfriend likes her movies.’

  I think that’s a hint for me. I know I spoke to him yesterday on the beach, like the shameless hussy I am, but does he think I’m not going to be able to control myself unless he hangs the girlfriend garlic around his neck?

  ‘Is she coming to the wedding?’ I ask, just to be polite.

  ‘No, she has to work.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘She volunteers at an animal sanctuary.’

  I instantly picture her: perky, blond hair in a ponytail, freshly scrubbed face with no make-up, loves handicrafts, goes hiking on weekends. But wait: is that her whole job? How does she earn a living?

  ‘She must be very dedicated,’ I say. ‘I mean, to volunteer full-time … it must be hard financially.’

  ‘We work it out,’ Jesse says evasively.

  Hm. Maybe not so saintly after all. I love our furry friends as much as the next girl, but it seems poor form to flake out on your boyfriend’s family wedding for some unwanted pets.

  ‘What do you do when you’re not getting fired?’ Jesse says. When I tell him I’m an actor, he asks the dreaded follow-up question. ‘Have you been in anything I’ve seen?’

  ‘I’ve been doing mainly commercial and theatre work,’ I say: my standard response. I find myself continuing, ‘It’s hard. The people from my drama school who’ve got parts in television and film all seem to have gone to public school together, or they’re related to the director or something. I know that sounds like I’m jealous, but it’s true.’

  ‘Well, maybe Sam can help you out.’

  ‘Oh, he already has,’ I say, thinking of Brock Wilson’s script.

  ‘I think this is where your dressmaker is at,’ Jesse says, parking beside a row of shops. ‘Do you have any change for the meter?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll only be a minute, won’t we?’

  But he insists, and makes me wait by the car while he goes into the nearest shop to get change. Very law-abiding. I lean against the car, practically purring as I bask in the sunshine. I can’t believe that a few days ago I was standing at a bus stop with wet feet, wondering if we had any Lemsip at home.

  Just as I’m thinking that, I notice a little sign on the window of a place called The Farmacy: Do you suffer from anxiety, stress? Medicinal marijuana available here.

  A thought strikes me. Alice is under an insane amount of stress. This could be exactly what she needs, and it won’t even give her a hangover!

  Jesse is back now, and feeding coins into the machine.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Is pot legal here? I might get some for Alice.’ I’m not sure if Alice will be totally up for this, but if it’s legal it must be OK.

  Jesse looks shocked. ‘Forget it. Those places are incredibly sketchy and scammy. They could end up charging you hundreds for repeat prescriptions. And also, really?’ he adds reprovingly. ‘I doubt Alice needs that.’

  I should have known better than to consult a teacher on buying drugs. I find his tone to be rather judgey, and it immediately makes me want to disobey him. But he’s clearly on to me; he sits in the car watching me, leaving me no choice but to abandon my idea and go straight to the dressmaker’s.

  The dressmaker is a very severe-looking lady straight from central casting, complete with a tape measure around her neck and an indecipherable Russian-sounding accent. All I can make out is, ‘Four dresses, yes? One bride and three bridesmaids.’

  Oh God. I feel a cold chill as I think: there might not be three bridesmaids once Ruth has checked her emails. And I’m pretty sure she’ll have done that by now. That stupid email feels like a ticking bomb; I don’t know how to defuse it and it’s only a matter of time before it explodes.

  ‘Bride,’ she says, handing me the dress. I almost stagger from the weight of it. It’s heavy ivory crêpe, sleeveless but not strapless, with the kind of simplicity that can only have cost many, many dollars. ‘Bridesmaids.’ I put out my hands and take the dusty-pink-taupe-biscuit armful of chiffon. Alice is so nice: I’m sure not every bride would give us such gorgeous, flattering dresses.

  ‘Do you mind if I make a phone call?’ I ask the dressmaker, who shrugs. Using the mobile Alice lent me, I dial the number I got from the guest list, and wait. My palms are sweaty and my pulse is hammering, but I’m committed now.

  ‘Wilson residence,’ a female voice says, just like in the movies.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Hi, I’m calling from Sam Newlan
d’s office for Mr Wilson. I’m sorry, I meant to dial the office number but I think I must have got the home number by mistake.’

  ‘OK, you should try his office,’ says the voice. ‘Do you want the number?’

  Yes! It worked! I’m about to thank her and say goodbye when the voice says, ‘But he’ll be home in a couple of hours, so you can try him then if you want to set up a call.’

  ‘OK, great, thanks. Good to know,’ I say as casually as I can. ‘Bye.’

  This is incredible! I have the address, I have the speech memorised, and I know he’s going to be at home. Fear pinches my stomach: am I really going to do this? But then I think: of course I am. Because what’s more scary – going to Brock Wilson’s house and asking for an audition, or going back to rainy Bromley and being the third wheel with Dad and Fi at dinner?

  I make my way back to the car, weighed down by the armful of dresses. Jesse gets out and takes them from me, handing me a coffee in return – he must have got it while I was inside. ‘Do we need to drop these home now?’ he asks.

  ‘Thanks. Yes, we should. But first, can we buy some snacks and drinks for this crafting evening tonight? That’ll be one less thing for Alice to do,’ I add virtuously.

  ‘They look pretty,’ Jesse says, glancing over the back seat as we stop at a red light.

  ‘They’re gorgeous,’ I say, gulping the last of my coffee. ‘I’m going to wear mine again. And do you see, each of them is a different design and shade to boot. Very cool.’

  Jesse doesn’t reply; he’s looking at the floor of the car in front of me, where I’ve put my empty coffee cup. I wasn’t planning on leaving it there, but now I nudge it with my foot to see what he’ll do. He winces. Taking pity on him, I stash it away in my bag, feeling more and more sympathy for his wedding-dodging girlfriend. I can picture their life together: jogging every morning, watching the news together, recycling; they probably compost. No wonder she wanted to break free for a weekend.

  It’s fun browsing the grocery store; I love seeing all the weird products, like Mountain Dew and Green Goddess Yogurt Power Drink. I’m taken aback by how expensive it is here, though. I end up spending about $100 on some crisps, dips, cakes and little mini quiches, plus two bottles of wine – I was going to get six but Jesse convinced me that two was enough.