fun,’ I said. ‘You like it out here then?’
‘Love it,’ Joe said, mixing a second round of drinks. ‘Sunshine, good living, hot girls, what’s not to love?’
‘Not as hot as New York though, right?’ Jenny gave him a mock innocent look. Even after six months out of the game, Jenny’s flirting was second to none.
‘Not nearly,’ Joe grinned, leaning across the bar to ruffle Jenny’s hair. ‘I already told you, you look good, Lopez.’
‘I can always stand to be told again,’ Jenny pouted. ‘A girl’s got to keep up her self-esteem. It isn’t easy walking around in a bikini, honey.’
I ducked my head and smiled. There was clearly nothing wrong with Jenny’s self-esteem.
‘I don’t know, you’re doing pretty well,’ Joe commented, passing over our drinks. ‘And girls walking around in bikinis is as good a reason as any to stay out in LA for ever. Just let me know when the girls start walking around Union Square in their lingerie in January and I’ll come running back, sugar.’
‘Well, it depends whether or not you think it’s worth the price of seeing all those people that really should never be wearing swimwear,’ Jenny said in a low voice.
‘Yeah, but they’re the best tippers,’ Joe countered.
For a horrifying split second, I wondered if they were talking about me. Was the bikini wax not good? But as I followed Jenny’s gaze around the pool, I understood. It was true that not everyone looked quite as stunning as Jenny. There were a couple of other girls in bikinis with gleaming long limbs, perfect hair and full make-up. Clearly not about to take a dip. They lay together in silence, only moving to take a sip of an elaborate-looking cocktail and turn over, one after the other, every fifteen minutes or so. But looking along the line-up of loungers, it became very clear that not all bathing beauties were created equal.
On closer inspection, some of the women sunbathing were a lot older than I had first thought and their skin was slightly leathery under their sparkly make-up. Others wore strategically draped sarongs, positioned to conceal flabby thighs and chubby tummies, whereas other proudly flaunted their curves in horrifying neon yellow thongs and triangle bikini tops. This was going to make for all kinds of fun blogging.
Alongside the leather ladies were several solo men, either a tad overweight and straining in their Speedos, or incredibly skinny and pale, but all tapping away at laptops or BlackBerrys while sipping Coronas. There was just one fine figure of manhood, dozing opposite me, and I was fairly certain he was gay. Defined muscles, immaculately groomed and definitely waxed; all the signs were there. I tried not to think about my own less-than-worked-out figure. Yes, I had managed to keep my weight in check with lots of walking and the odd burst of WeightWatchers but I was nowhere near as toned and bronzed as the girls taking part in the competitive tanning over by the pool. I suddenly felt very pale and porky. And this was neither the time nor the place to suffer a crisis of confidence.
‘I think I’m starting to burn,’ I said loudly, inspecting a marble white arm, as one of the bikini girls turned over to display a tiny little bottom, tanning nicely in a silver thong. ‘I’m going to head in. Remember, I have to be up to meet Mr Movie Star at eleven.’
‘You sure?’ Jenny asked, making no move to come with me. ‘You don’t want to go eat?’
‘We have a great restaurant,’ Joe bargained. ‘I can get you a table.’
‘No, really, I think I’m just going to get some sleep for tomorrow. And I have to blog, call Alex.’ I kissed Jenny on the cheek and hopped off her stool. ‘Big day.’
‘OK, tell Alex hi,’ Jenny called after me. ‘And call me as soon as you’re free tomorrow.’
I wandered along the corridor to the lift, slightly buzzed from the two mojitos. Tracing the pattern of the embossed wallpaper with my fingertips, I tried not to be weirded out by the fact that they were using the same air fresheners here as on the East Coast. It was like the hotel version of a Lush store. Different city, exactly the same overpowering smell.
Pausing in front of the huge wooden-framed mirror propped against the wall, I slipped the T-shirt up over my head, taking a deep breath before opening my eyes. Well, it wasn’t that bad. I was never going to be a sixfoot supermodel but I wasn’t looking awful. Yes I was pale, but I had only been in LA for a day. My light brown bob was probably in need of a trim, but at least New York’s miracle tap water kept it super soft. Leaving the hard water of London behind seemed to have cleared my skin up too, so that was OK and, joy of joys, working freelance meant No Early Mornings so my eyes, even though they might be suffering from some ‘late-night lovin’ bags, were super bright; even the fine lines I had pretended weren’t there for the last two years seemed to have retraced their tracks. Seriously, if there was ever a case for girls not having to get up before ten a.m., I was it. The bikini still didn’t exactly fill me with joy, but I would cope. At least nothing was technically hanging out or over, but I couldn’t strictly claim to have abs of any kind. Unless maybe I shaded them in. I did have an awful lot of bronzer with me…
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,’ I tutted at myself, scooping the T-shirt up off the floor and slipping it safely back over my head. I had never really been one that considered ‘mirror time’ time well spent, and I had a nagging feeling that LA wasn’t the place or moment to change that if I didn’t want to develop an eating disorder.
I pulled a tub chair, identical to the one that Jenny had hauled twenty blocks home from The Union, over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and collapsed into a warm and slightly tipsy heap. Hollywood Boulevard literally buzzed beneath me, dozens of tourists wandering up and down the star-lined pavement. I reached out to press my bare toes against the glass and stared out. I might only be able to see the tops of their baseball caps but I would have bet anything that they were all smiling. Why wouldn’t they be, they were on holiday in Hollywood. And above them, past the world’s biggest Gap ad on the opposite corner, were the famous Hollywood Hills. I wondered how many celebs were sitting in their own homes looking back out at me at that exact second. Which superstars were practically within touching distance? How many MTV reality shows could I feasibly get in the background of in the next seven years?
New York and London were both full of actors, musicians and writers, but it wasn’t the same. For some reason, the idea of A-list celebrity was strictly Hollywood.
My phone vibrated quietly, snapping me out of a quickly developing bumping-into-Brad-Pitt fantasy. It was Louisa.
‘Hey,’ I said, and utched the chair right up to the glass to get better reception. ‘Are you in New York? Are you OK?’
‘Yes and yes,’ she laughed down the line. ‘We got in a couple of hours ago. Tim just went out to meet some people at the bar.’
‘Some people? Right,’ I smiled. Bless her for not mentioning my scumbag ex’s name. It actually pained me that he dared step foot in my New York. ‘Where are you going now then?’
‘I made Tim book that Balthazar place you were raving about for dinner,’ she crackled down the line. ‘And then I think I’m just going to have an early night. What are you up to? Met Tom Cruise yet?’
‘Yeah, I’m having cocktails with him and Katie,’ I said, happy that we were back on good terms. I hated falling out with anyone, dickhead ex-boyfriends aside. I couldn’t help it, I was a Libra. And a wimp. ‘We haven’t been here very long, I’m actually in a bikini.’
‘No
