‘My mom doesn’t drink, nor does Cynthia.’
God, poor Alice. Tonight is obviously going to be a riot. ‘Well, weddings drive people to drink. It’s well known,’ I say, as we carry the boxes back to the car.
Jesse gives me a look; I have a feeling I’m beginning to get on his nerves. But all he says is, ‘Let’s drop these back to their place and then we can hit the flower market.’
Everything really is bigger in LA, including flower markets. The building itself is like an aircraft hangar, with people staggering out under massive armfuls of red roses the size of triffids. We have to pay an entrance fee, and I can see why: it’s like Disneyland for flowers. Everywhere there are buckets and rows of flowers four times the size of the ones we get in England and a quarter of the price: peonies, sweet peas, roses, irises … Mum would have gone crazy for this place; she probably would have ended up filling our hotel room with flowers, and my dad would have pretended to grumble at what a waste of money it was but secretly not minded at all.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Jesse. ‘Is it not what you expected?’
‘What? Oh yeah! I’m totally fine.’ I snap back into wedding mode and take a few photos of flowers I think Alice would like. I buy a bunch of peonies so that she can see how they look with the dress, and check with the sellers that they’ll have more later in the week. I also find some massive bags of natural petal confetti, as requested (the Casa de la Luna doesn’t allow artificial confetti).
‘Here – let me help you.’ Jesse comes over and takes the bags from me, as I pay the flower seller.
‘Thanks. Now let’s go and buy a canopy.’
‘What do we need a canopy for?’ Jesse asks, trailing me through aisles of gerberas.
‘It’s for the bride and groom to stand under while they say their vows. It looks good in photos.’ I say this matter-of-factly; I don’t want him thinking I’m some kind of sucker for all this wedding stuff. I’m just doing my job.
The canopies are gorgeous, though; delicate white trellis-y ones that come with real white roses, and simpler, tent-like ones with voile cotton. I consider taking some photos to show Alice, but then I think: what she needs this week is to not have to make more decisions.
‘I’ll take the voile cotton one,’ I tell the sales assistant.
I put it on Alice’s card, give them the instructions for delivering it to the venue, and go off to find Jesse, who is looking very sadly at some cactuses, a confetti bag still under each arm.
‘A present for your girlfriend?’ the seller asks him.
He looks startled. ‘Right. No, I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ I ask, as we walk away. ‘I would have thought cacti were the unwanted pets of the plant world. Or does she prefer roses?’
‘Oh yeah, definitely roses,’ he says, sounding glum. ‘Two dozen long-stemmed red roses, three times a year: birthday, Valentine’s and a surprise.’
Wow, talk about being whipped. But Jesse is obviously a very obliging guy, which makes me hopeful about the next stage of my plan.
‘So,’ I say, as we get back in the car. ‘If it’s OK with you, we need to pick something up from an address in Laurel Canyon, and then we can head back.’
‘Laurel Canyon? But it’s already five, and you need to be back by six for the party.’
Damn, damn, damn. I feel guilty about being late for the party, but then I remind myself that this will be a quick detour. We’ll be back by seven, latest, which is when it starts anyway. And once I’ve managed to meet Brock Wilson, I can be totally available to Alice on all wedding fronts.
‘I’ll call her.’ I dial her number. ‘Alice? Hi, it’s me! Yes, we’ve been getting on fine, we’ve got everything done. And we got some drinks and snacks for this evening, they’re in the kitchen. But listen, I’m sorry, but we’re going to be late for the party. We’ve got car trouble! I know. I’ll let Jesse explain.’ I hand him the phone, ignoring his protests and frantic arm-waving.
‘Hey, Alice. Yeah. Um, I think the … carburettor’s gone.’ I give him a thumbs-up; he glares at me. ‘Yeah, I called the rental company and they said it could take a while, so … Yeah, sorry about that. OK. Yep.’ He hangs up. ‘What the hell was that about?’ he snaps.
‘Thank you! That was brilliant. Very quick thinking.’
‘Are you meeting your dealer or something? Because if you are—’
‘No! No, it’s nothing like that, I promise. Please, will you take me there?’ I gaze at him pleadingly. ‘It’s really important. I’ll explain later.’
Jesse says, with an expression of deep dissatisfaction, ‘What number in Laurel Canyon?’
‘It’s just off it – 8262 Marmont Lane.’
He plugs it into his GPS, and starts the car. Soon we’re deep in the gigantic tangle of highways and underpasses, spaghetti junctions and skyscrapers. The smog hangs thickly over everything like a giant thumbprint. On and on we drive, past buildings, parking lots, palm trees and 7-Elevens. Jesse isn’t saying anything – he still seems annoyed – and I’m too nervous to talk anyway.
‘Where are we now?’ I ask after a while.
‘Hollywood Boulevard. Didn’t you hear the GPS telling you?’
‘Seriously?’ I look out of the window in disbelief. It’s all so ordinary – low-rise buildings and signs for things like ‘Smoke Shop’ and ‘Suit City’. A homeless guy goes by pushing a big cart full of his tattered possessions. We could be in Bromley. But before long, the landscape changes and we pass the Chinese Theatre and the Roosevelt Hotel. Impersonators, living statues. Crowds and crowds of tourists, taking photos of each other with their hands on the ground. Maybe, if today goes well … But I won’t jinx anything by thinking about being on the Walk of Fame.
Now we’re climbing a hill – it’s like a country road, lined with firs and palm trees. Up and up we drive, the bends making me feel more and more nauseous. I’ve got the familiar pre-audition sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but a thousand times worse than ever before. I sip water, focus on my breathing, and start reciting the alphabet backwards to calm myself. But I keep losing concentration, and I also keep yawning, which is something I do when I’m nervous. Scared. Petrified.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, are you bored?’ Jesse asks. ‘I know it’s a really long drive. Too bad you’re not at the party, huh?’
‘I’m fine,’ I reply weakly. We’ve turned off Laurel Canyon and now we’re on an even posher and more exclusive-looking lane, with beautiful mansions behind high walls, lush palm trees and bougainvillea growing everywhere.
‘Arrive at destination on the right,’ says the GPS’s mechanical voice. We stop outside a wide dark red gate, behind which is a big Spanish colonial-style house with gabled windows. I wipe my hands on my denim shorts.
‘Nice place. You want to tell me who lives here?’
‘Oh, it’s … a friend,’ I say, getting out of the car.
‘Hey, not so fast. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, no. Stay here. I won’t be long.’
‘Forget it! This isn’t Driving Miss Daisy.’
I ignore him and leg it to the gate, where I ring the bell and try to look confident. ‘Hi, I’m here to see Mr Wilson. I called earlier from Sam Newland’s office.’
‘Sam’s office?’ says Jesse, following me. ‘What the hell is going on? Whose house is this?’
‘Shush!’ I tell him.
Silence; I wait in suspense. Will it work? Will they answer? Finally a dark-haired woman wearing jeans, a navy T-shirt and sandals unlocks the gate.
‘Hi, I’m Denise, Brock’s assistant. I’ll take you in to him.’
And just like that we’re walking inside. I’m so scared I barely notice the surroundings; all I see is a swimming pool and a terrace where a kid is playing, watched by a nanny. There’s a breathtaking view over the city from here, but I’m not in a state to appreciate it.
‘You can wait here if you like,’ the woman says to Jesse, showing him to a sofa inside. ‘Would y
ou like anything to drink?’
‘I’ll have a non-alcoholic beer. We’re not staying long,’ he says, giving me a warning look. I’m too scared to say anything back to him, or to notice what the house looks like except for the high ceilings and a huge candelabra above our heads.
‘Sure. This way,’ she adds to me, and I follow her around a corner to a door. She knocks, and Brock Wilson answers.
He looks exactly like he does on TV: a grown-up comic-book nerd with glasses, a round, friendly, slightly shiny face, and receding hair. Cuddly, in fact, is the word. But also terrifying.
‘Thanks, Denise, you can leave us to it. You’ve got something for me? From Sam?’ he asks mildly. He’s so trusting! Isn’t he worried about crazed actors breaking in and holding him at knifepoint until he gives them a part? I don’t have a knife, of course, but I could have.
‘I … hope so. I’m … I think I could be perfect for the role of Ella in your film.’
‘Did Sam send you?’
He’s clearly puzzled, but not furious. ‘Not exactly. I’m … well, he’s getting married to my cousin. I’m helping them to organise their wedding. That’s how I got your address. From the guest list. I want to audition for you.’
He’s not listening; he’s walking away towards his desk. He’s about to press a panic button and have me dragged out of here.
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes,’ he says, sitting down. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’
Oh thank you, God. I am so lucky. Before he can change his mind, I start the speech. I block out everything but the character and how she’s feeling and I give it my absolute best shot, and I think it goes pretty well.
After I finish, he says nothing. I stand there while the minutes tick by.
‘Sit down,’ he says, indicating a chair.
I lower myself into it, in an agony of suspense. Did he like it? Did he hate it?
‘Look. I’ll be honest with you.’
This doesn’t sound good.
‘You do look the part. Tall, blond, English rose. But you’re just … not what I’m looking for.’ He looks a little regretful, but fine about it on the whole, as if he’d like dessert but doesn’t have room for it.
‘No?’ I say, my voice trembling.
‘This is a character who’s travelled around the world and left her whole family behind at a time when women didn’t do that … and I didn’t get that.’
‘Oh.’ Now I’m completely stung. I thought I had got that across.
‘I need someone with more … presence. More charisma.’
‘I see.’ He can stop there and that would be fine, frankly.
‘More fiery.’
‘Of course.’
‘But still vulnerable. Complex. That’s what I need.’
I nod, feeling about a millimetre high. He stands up and walks me to the door.
‘It’s not that you don’t have something,’ he says. ‘It’s just … not enough. Sorry.’
‘Thank you very much for your time,’ I whisper. He closes the door.
I want to collapse on the floor, but I manage to drag myself back along the corridor and find Jesse.
‘We have to get out of here, now.’
‘Why? What happened?’ He looks around, startled, and then follows me out as I stagger back towards the car, barely looking right or left.
He doesn’t think I can act. And I can’t dismiss him by saying he’s a two-bit crappy ad man or am-dram director. He’s Brock Wilson. He’s my hero, and he thinks I’m not good enough.
‘Do you want to tell me what all that was about?’ Jesse asks as we get into the car.
I shake my head, and then I manage to say, ‘I need a drink.’
‘You can have a drink at the party. What happened in there?’
‘Oh no, please. I need a drink before I can face them … please don’t make me go to the party. Not yet.’ I know we’re really late, but I’m in bits; I can’t face a room full of strangers.
Jesse ignores me, and starts typing Alice’s address into the GPS.
‘I texted Alice earlier, by the way,’ he says. ‘Told her we were still waiting for the repair guy.’
I stare out of the window as we drive back down the hill, trying to process what’s happened. Soon we’re back on Laurel Canyon, and we’ve turned right, past a drive-through McDonald’s and giant billboards advertising things like Liquor Locker and Squidbillies: America’s 4th Favorite Animated Family! The sun’s getting lower, sinking into the haze of smog. Ahead of us, perched on a hill, I can make out a big building like a mock French castle, with a sign outside saying Chateau Marmont.
‘Look, Chateau Marmont,’ I say tentatively. ‘They must have a bar … I could take you for a drink to thank you for driving me around.’
Jesse says nothing.
‘Jesse, I know you’re not happy with me, but I really, really need a drink, now. Just a quick one and then we’ll go to the party. My treat. Please?’
I can tell he wants to strangle me, but he’s too nice. ‘Fine,’ he mutters. ‘One drink, and then I’m taking you straight back. And tomorrow you’re on your own. I’m not running any more errands for you.’
‘OK,’ I say meekly.
It turns out the bar in Chateau Marmont is down the road from the hotel itself. We drive there and Jesse hands our keys to a valet, who’s so good-looking I’m gloomily positive he’s an actor-in-waiting. Inside, the bar is decadent and dimly lit, with red-fringed lamps above the polished wooden bar and a sort of kitsch opium-den atmosphere. Jesse slides into a booth while I go to the bar to buy a locally crafted beer for him, and two mojitos for me. I neck the first one back and then sip the second more slowly. I know I should be calling Alice to tell her where we are, but I can’t face the explanations that would involve.
I’m so lost in my own misery that I’m startled when I hear a voice.
‘I hate to crash your pity party,’ Jesse is saying. ‘But are you going to tell me what happened?’
I shake my head. I’m never telling anyone; it’s too humiliating.
‘Let me guess,’ he says. ‘It involves a guy. Someone you’ve been seeing long-distance? Or you met him online and you saw each other for the first time today, and he’s two feet shorter and two hundred pounds heavier than he said.’
I roll my eyes. ‘As if I would ever cry over some guy, let alone one I’d never met. Please.’
‘Well it must be something pretty big to make you blow your cousin off tonight,’ he says. ‘And make me spend three hours chauffeuring you across LA when I could have been …’ he pauses as if he’s trying to think of something, ‘sightseeing. You can’t be that selfish.’
‘I’m not selfish!’ I say, stung, and thinking: am I? Oh God. I probably am. The mojitos and the lack of food all day must be getting to me, because I start crying. Jesse passes me a paper napkin, looking resigned, and says, ‘Come on, tell me. I was joking about the guy. It was an audition, wasn’t it?’
Nodding, I manage to recover myself and tell him: about how I got Brock’s address, and the audition and what a disaster it was. I expect him to say how stupid it was or tell me off for stealing the address, but instead he whistles and looks almost impressed.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, but I have to admit … you’ve got some moxie.’
That makes me feel worse, because I do pride myself on having moxie.
‘See, the thing is,’ I say, sniffing, ‘I always thought, if I could have a real chance, I’d be discovered. But now I have auditioned for someone good – and he thought I was awful.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s made me doubt my whole sense of who I am.’
I look over at Jesse and see that he’s hiding a smile.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing! Just – wow. Your whole sense of who you are? You should be an actress, definitely. You certainly have a sense of drama.’
‘I prefer actor. And I’m not so sure. Maybe being a drama queen isn’t the same as being a real actor.’ I dra
in my mojito and start ripping up my napkin.
‘Have you eaten today?’ Jesse asks. ‘We could order some fries or something.’
‘I shouldn’t,’ I say automatically. ‘I might have a salad.’
‘You need more than that,’ he says. He goes to the bar and comes back with two menus. ‘My girlfriend’s had us on the paleo diet,’ he remarks.
‘The pale-what?’
‘It’s where you eat like a caveman. Caveperson. So, nothing but organic meat, nuts, vegetables … no grains, no dairy, no alcohol. It’s hardcore.’ He looks at the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the truffle mac and cheese.’
‘Make it two. Actually, no. I’ll have the tagliatelle with ragu, and a glass of white wine. And the cheese puffs.’ After all, what’s the point in watching my weight if I can’t act anyway?
Jesse orders our food at the bar. Looking at him from a distance, I think what an odd pair we must look: me in my Daisy Dukes and him in his neatly ironed shirt and tie.
‘Why are you wearing a tie?’ I ask, when he’s come back with wine for me and a cocktail for himself.
‘I was meant to be meeting my uncles for a drink in some swanky bar in Beverly Hills while you ladies were crafting. I’ve got a jacket in the car as well.’
‘I’m sorry.’ For the first time, I realise how much I’ve turned his day upside down.
‘It’s fine. Trust me, I didn’t feel like it.’
‘How come?’
He looks as if he’s about to explain, but we’re interrupted by the arrival of the food. My cheese puffs and tagliatelle with ragu are to die for: little melty balls of flavour, and sweet pasta perfectly al dente. I can feel the carbs and fat going straight to my brain. Jesse gives me some of his mac and cheese, which is so good it makes me bang the table with my fist.
‘This is unbelievable,’ I mumble between mouthfuls of salty, greasy goodness. ‘I can’t believe I’ve deprived myself for so long.’
‘Me either.’
The way he looks at me makes me wonder if he’s talking about more than mac and cheese. But he’s hardly the type to flirt when he’s got a girlfriend.
Girls on Tour Page 12
