suppose not,’ he said without any emotion. It was horrible: he could at least have the decency to shout or call me a slag or something.
‘Seriously, it’s ridiculous. The magazine just called to say we might sue.’ OK, so not entirely true but I couldn’t stand this. ‘The whole thing is ridiculous. James got into a big fight with Jenny’s friend Joe in the club and that’s why we had to run out. And I got a drink spilt all over me and so James got my dress dry cleaned. This is what was happening when I called you last night. This is what I was trying to tell you about.’
‘That would be the phone call at four this morning?’
‘That would be the one,’ I said slowly. ‘I was having a horrible evening; I just wanted to talk to you. Sorry.’
No response.
‘How was your open mic thing?’
‘It was good.’ His voice was still measured and flat. ‘So what are the plans for today? Shopping for engagement rings? Quickie wedding in Vegas?’
‘Alex, there’s nothing going on with me and James. I know those stupid photos look like … something, but really there is nothing going on. All that I’ve done since I’ve got here is fail miserably as a interviewer, row with Jenny and try to call you. And to top it off, I’m this close to getting sacked.’ I felt sick saying it all out loud.
‘Just a tip on the interviewing thing – I’m pretty sure you don’t have to go back to the guy’s hotel room at one a.m.,’ Alex replied evenly. ‘I’ve always managed to keep my pants on in interviews.’
‘Really? Because I didn’t think you had such a great history at keeping your pants on.’ It was out before I’d thought about it. Such were the perils of being so bloody quick.
‘Right, there are pictures of you on the internet, whoring yourself all over LA with some asshole actor you just met, and you’re bringing up my past?’ At least I’d got his attention now. Shit. ‘Is this where I mention the part where you were dating someone else behind my back when we met?’
‘No, this is the point where you calm down and realize that this is all really stupid and that I wouldn’t ever cheat on you and that sometimes, just sometimes, trashy websites print things that aren’t true.’ How dare he be on the other side of the country for our first row. I could practically hear him thinking down the line but he still didn’t say anything.
‘Look, Alex, all I’m asking is for you to trust me and not the internet. That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?’ I was not happy. These kinds of conversations had not gone well for me in the past. Plus, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t considered crossing a very unprofessional line with James, which wasn’t exactly helping my argument ring true.
‘I’m sorry, this is all just too weird,’ Alex said, finally. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m sorry too, I didn’t mean to say that stuff,’ I sniffed. ‘I’m just being all paranoid because we haven’t really spoken since I got here and then all the pictures and stuff and then Mary called and now you’re freaking out—’
‘Angela, hey, hold up,’ Alex interrupted. ‘I meant, I’m sorry I can’t really talk about this over the phone. We’ll only end up saying dumb stuff. More dumb stuff.’
‘So what, we’re not going to talk until I get back?’
‘You’re back on Sunday.’
‘But it’s Tuesday …’ I bit my lip. ‘Can’t I just call you later?’
He sighed loudly. ‘I’m sorry. Just, well, let me call you, OK? Bye.’
I looked at my phone, just to check. Yes, he had hung up. This really was the perfect start to the perfect day. If I’d known I was going to get into such a mess anyway, I would have just shagged James senseless when I had the chance. Bloody stupid bloody conscience.
‘Angela, you’re on the internet!’ Jenny shrieked from the bedroom. ‘You’re freakin’ famous!’
Brilliant, just brilliant.
It took me far too long to convince Jenny to back away from the laptop and not email my details directly to Perez Hilton. She felt very strongly that I should be making the most of my potential new-found fame, or at the very least sign up for reality TV shows and get us both into gifting lounges. I, however, felt very strongly that I should go back to bed and sleep until everyone in the world stopped reading celebrity gossip or the internet broke down, whichever came first. But I couldn’t. I had things to do. I had a blog to write, and tomorrow, assuming James was still on for it, I had to drag my arse out of the hotel and carry on with the interview. He might have emailed the magazine but he wasn’t answering his phone to me. Swearing I would meet her for brunch as promised, I sent a still slightly pissed-off Jenny on her way and settled down at my laptop.
The Adventures of Angela: Valley of the Woes
Hmmm. So my LA adventure isn’t exactly going according to plan. Since you’re reading this, I’m assuming you’re fairly familiar with the internet and the pages full of wonderful, wonderful things it contains. Like net-a-porter.com. Unfortunately, it turns out there are some pages of not-so-wonderful things and lots of those pages are made right here, in LA.
Now, I did sort of know that before I got here because who hasn’t whiled away a few harmless minutesours/entire working days on Perez Hilton or WWTDD? Come on, there isn’t a person alive who doesn’t want to see the private mobile phone pictures of a Disney starlet, right? But what I didn’t know was, despite all the evidence out there, sometimes not only are the things on these websites not entirely truthful, sometimes they are as familiar with reality as I am with Brad Pitt. That is, not familiar at all. Goddamn it.
I guess a lot of people think it would fun to be on one of these websites, to be pictured hanging out with celebs in some swanky Hollywood nightclub but, well, just like the websites themselves, sometimes things aren’t what they seem.
Hopefully, I’m still in for a Hollywood ending … and I’m still waiting for your recommendations as to where to get one. Email me at [email protected]
After emailing the blog to Mary (and praying to every conceivable deity I could think of, including the genie from Aladdin), I searched through mine and Jenny’s wardrobes twice, searching for a ‘I really haven’t done it with James Jacobs’ outfit; but now, for some reason, everything looked as if it was right out of the Playboy Mansion.
Who in their right mind would believe I was sleeping with an A-list movie star? This was me we were talking about: mismatched underwear, not capable of curling my eyelashes without catching my eyelid, dodgy muffin top in all but one pair of my jeans, Angela Clark. Slightly useless, can’t even change a plug at twenty-seven, not a seducer of superstars, dress-shedding über-minx, Angela Clark, international super-slag. I settled on my jeans (sadly not the non-muffin-top pair) and stripy Splendid rugby top. Buttoned up. Every wanton inch of me covered. Sweating like a bee-hatch in the seventy-five-degree weather but covered from head to toe.
‘So I get that you didn’t love The Beverly Center,’ Jenny said, adjusting her sunglasses and spinning out of The Hollywood’s valet parking lot. ‘And I’m guessing that you’re gonna be freaking out about those photos for pretty much the whole
