when you had six foot four of sex god coming to see you for breakfast? That was if he turned up. I had been three minutes early; he was now seven minutes late. I took out my newly acquired BlackBerry, playing the ‘I’m waiting for someone’ game for everyone to see. Scrolling through the messages, I looked for something from Alex. He hadn’t called me back. And what was it, two in the afternoon in New York? That was so not on. Shouldn’t he be pining for me by now? I tapped out a text message, deleted it, tapped out another, deleted it before settling on the perfect breezy ‘missing you’ message.
‘Hey you, having brunch at Toast, yummy. Miss you A x’
I frowned at the sent message icon. Truly, I was a writer for a reason. Words were my tools. Tools that I wouldn’t need to be using if my celeb didn’t arrive soon. Nibbling on a piece of bread that the increasingly suspicious-looking Door Girl had set down in front of me, I weathered another forty minutes of sympathetic glances, not-so-subtle whispering and three cups of coffee before my phone rang.
‘Hello?’ I answered the unfamiliar mobile number in a heartbeat.
‘Hello, Angela? This is Blake, James Jacobs’s assistant?’
‘Oh hi, I’m at Toast, am I in the wrong—’ I started.
‘Yeah, James isn’t coming? His flight was delayed and he can’t make it?’ Blake continued.
‘I – are you asking me or telling me?’ I was a little confused by the way all of Blake’s sentences ended in a question.
‘He’s totally sorry and we’ll call you later with a new meet-up address? Bye.’ And he hung up.
Door Girl was on me like a hawk. ‘James isn’t coming?’
‘Ah, he can’t make it.’ I waved my hand airily, as though I was stood up by movie stars so often that it barely registered on my radar.
‘So just the check?’ The piece of paper was already in her hand and I could see she was itching to slap it down and fill my table with some Lauren Conrad-alike lettuce nibbler.
‘Just the check,’ I nodded. Bloody movie stars. I should have had the pancakes.
‘I can’t believe that asshole didn’t show,’ Jenny said as we tore down West Third Street in the ridiculous red Mustang convertible that I had told her not to rent but now sort of secretly loved. What I most definitely did not love was Jenny’s driving. She had chosen to confess that she hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car since her last LA excursion years ago, and it showed. As if driving in LA wasn’t scary enough.
‘I called Mary and apparently it’s not a big deal,’ I said, clutching my seatbelt tightly. ‘Apparently celebrity schedules are “fluid”. I’ll catch up with him later.’
‘I can’t believe James Jacobs is so unprofessional. I’m kind of heartbroken.’ Jenny whirled around a corner and through a red light. No matter how many times she told me you could legally turn on a red signal, I still closed my eyes. ‘I think you’re in need of retail therapy, honey, and I am the Dr Laura of retail therapy. I’m taking you to the best shopping in LA.’
‘I’m sure he had his reasons, but since you’re offering,’ I said, envisioning a Pretty Woman-style storm of Rodeo Drive, laden with stiff cardboard bags. ‘Let’s do some shopping. Show me some swank, Jenny Lopez.’
‘OK, here we are,’ she whooped, pulling into an underground car park.
‘But we just left the café.’ I was puzzled. We couldn’t have been driving for more than two minutes.
‘So?’
‘Well, where are we?’ I pushed up my sunglasses to take a look around in the dark. Rows and rows and rows of cars. I suppose it was Sunday, it made sense for people to be at their church. ‘Wouldn’t it have been faster to walk?’
‘Jesus Christ, they ought to throw you out of the city.’ Jenny squinted in the low light and swung the car recklessly across two empty spaces. ‘What did I tell you about people never walking in LA?’
‘And this is it? A shopping centre?’ I just could not believe it.
‘The Beverly Center, honey.’ She scrabbled around in the glove compartment. ‘This is the mall in LA.’
We could have been in Milton Keynes. ‘A shopping centre?’
‘Hey, did I rock up to LA with like, two T-shirts and a ski suit?’ she asked me. ‘No. But you did, so you need to do some shopping. So hush up and get your ass into Bloomingdale’s.’
Once I’d got over the disappointment that was ‘the mall’ and had drunk my body weight in Jamba Juice, I started to focus on the task at hand.
‘So tell me everything that happened with Joe,’ I mumbled through the silk BCBG paisley maxi-dress that Jenny was trying to pull over my head in the Bloomingdale’s changing rooms. I already had an olive green Roberto Rodriguez number, a yellow Phillip Lim 5.1 shift, black Kerrigan silk dress and half a dozen T-shirt dresses from Ella Moss, Splendid and James Perse hanging from the wall that Jenny had decreed were ‘keepers’. So far I’d managed to distract her from the swimwear section.
‘Nothing to tell,’ she said, standing back, head cocked to one side, trying to work out what was wrong with the dress. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘The dress is about a foot too long, Jenny,’ I explained, hoping to get that look off her face. She looked so disappointed in me. But that could be because she had already clocked my non-matching underwear, something Jenny and my mother felt very strongly about. ‘And what do you mean “nothing”? He didn’t make any sort of move?’
‘Nothing, nada, zip,’ Jenny pouted. ‘I don’t know, he just wasn’t taking the hint. And the dress isn’t too long, it’s BCBG – you’re too short. Try this. How’s the phone sex going? I bet Brooklyn is really good at the dirty talk, right?’
‘Shut up.’ I blushed inside the column of silk that was being yanked up over my head. ‘I actually haven’t heard from him yet.’
‘Really?’ Jenny didn’t even try to cover up the surprise in her voice as she zipped me into a very tight, very blue French Connection strapless mini-dress. ‘But didn’t you call him last night? You know, when you ditched me.’
‘I didn’t ditch you,’ I squeaked – the dress was tight around the old rack. ‘And no, I couldn’t get through to him. It’s fine, we’ve only been here for –?what – a day? And he’s working all hours on the new record. The record company are pushing them to get it out at the end of the year or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ she replied, slipping on the BCBG dress and looking like a goddess. Bitch. ‘I just wish he wasn’t so keen to talk to you every single time you’re out and I’m in the tub.’
‘Hmm,’ I was officially not thinking about it. So far, my star-studded Hollywood adventure had been nothing but a disappointment, and wondering what Alex was doing two and a half thousand miles away was
