LOLA

LOVE

Livin’ la vida Lola

By

Lisa Clark

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Six

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

FADE IN:

Camera flashes pop and crowds cheer as Lola Love, scriptwriter, director and leading lady of the fantastically fabulous and now, Oscar-winning movie, Livin’ la vida Lola! works the raspberry pink, sparkle dust carpet in a customised sequinned vest and tutu combo, sparkly-pink pumps and what have now become her signature pink-tinted shades.

It’s a look that could easily of made her a muse for Andy Warhol. Fact.

She flashes a mega-watt grin at the cameras, holds up the gold statue with fit-to-bursting pride and works a few practised poses for the camera. Lola smiled to herself, thinking how it was good to know that the entire weekends she had spent watching back-to-back re-runs of America’s Next Top Model had not gone to waste.

“Lola! Lola Love! You look awesome!”

The super-hot Americano entertainment TV presenter, Brad Bradston, is calling her name.

“So Lola, how does it feel to be the first ever 14 year old to win an Oscar for writing, directing and starring in your own movie?”

“Brad,” Lola replied, flicking her pink hair and causing a killer breeze with a single blink of her long, fake eyelashes, “it feels blimmin’ brilliant! Can I just say a big, huge thank you to Eva Satine and the Negative Ninas, because without them… well, this would never, ever have been possible!”

Lola turns to the crowd and signals to her pink-jacket wearing girlfriends to come join her on the raspberry pink sparkle-dust carpet. The feisty, fun, fearless and fabulous Pink Ladies walk towards the camera arm in arm, working the carpet like one long fashion-week catwalk.

CUT TO: Evil Eva Satine and her gum smackin’ clique.

Eva is mid-manicure and the Negative Ninas are grooming themselves each other like monkeys in the zoo. Their petite bee-hinds are perched on Eva’s over-sized princess bed and they are all staring at the TV.

At the Oscars.

At Lola Love…

They’re watching Lola on the TV screen.

Open-mouthed.

Eva is shocked and stunned and lets out an ear-piercing, glass shattering wail.

“No WAY!”

FADE OUT.

Chapter One

I heart movies.

My top 5 favourites are:

Breakfast at Tiffany’s–Audrey Hepburn is a goddess-girl. Fact.

Amelie–she’s a total Ooh-la-la magic girl. J’adore.

Ghost World–this film makes me feel just that little bit less alone in the world.

Pretty in Pink–I heart the colour pink. I heart Molly RIngwald. I especially heart her 80s wardrobe, it’s the stuff of retro-girl dreams.

Any movie starring Marilyn Monroe–it would be rude to pick just one, and as I’m not a rude girl, I won’t.

Now, while it maybe true that I have a touch of the drama queen about me, I am absolutely not over-reacting when I say that, right now, if my life were a movie, it would be the straight-to-DVD kind.

It would be called Welcome to Sucksville, there would be absolutely no drama/suspense/romance or even comedy it would lack any amount of drama, the supporting cast would be noticeably absent and there would be nothing, I repeat, nothing that even remotely resembled a plot.

My life is not sweet.

I’m a fourteen-year-old, should-be starlet, with a reflection that rudely disagrees. I mean, seriously, with a name like Lola Love you’d think I’d have an access all areas, VIP insta-pass to the fabulous world of silver screen fabulousness, wouldn’t you? Turns out, not so much. I’m a fourteen-year-old, should-be starlet, with a reflection that rudely disagrees.

Y’see, there are a number of factors standing in the way of my life being a glitter-globe snow-shaker of absolute fabulousity.

These are just a few of the reasons why my name is not currently flashing neon…

1. I don’t have a movie-girl-esque complexion

Starlets have flawless skin.

I do not.

In fact, the only remotely star-like thing about my face right now is that the entire constellation of Orion is very clearly visible on my entire left cheek.

2. I’m awkward looking

Like, really awkward looking Movie stars are picture perfect. I am not. My eyes aren’t symmetrical. No matter how many times my mum tells me I’m making it up, if you look really closely, you can clearly see that my left eye is slightly higher than the right. That’s wrong.

I have freckles that are sometimes visible and sometimes not. They decide.

I have mousy brown hair that never, ever does what it should. It just hangs around my shoulders, all limp and uninterested, like the arm of a super-cute boy who doesn’t actually want to be there.

(Sadly, I am not basing the above statement on my own extensive experience of super-cute boys.

Why is that you ask?

Because I have absolutely no experience with super-cute boys, that’s why.

Yep, you heard me. None. Zilcho. Nothing. Nada. Nuchos.)

Oh wait, there was this one time, it was last September. A super-cute, messy-haired skater boy rode past me in town. He missed his footing and nearly toppled over so, I put my arm out to save him. He didn’t topple, he mumbled something that resembled ‘thanks’, normal life resumed.

Yep, we most deffo shared, what they call in the movies, ‘a moment’.

What’s that?

An ‘accidental, almost arm-brush’ does not a moment make?

That’s rude.

I do however, have A LOT of experience watching movies that include super-cute boys, and FYI, my hair is VERY representative of the uninterested kind.

3. I have a chubby tummy.

I want to live in the olden days, because in the olden days, it was cool to have curves.

For example, Marilyn Monroe, one of my total movie-girl idols, had curves.

Real, woman-like curves.

I also have curves, but apparently, according to the people without curves, curves are no longer cool.

I think this is really rather rude considering I have a bit of a chubby tummy that my mother keeps insisting is puppy fat. It is not. I am just not a stick insect. Fact.

And, as if all that really wasn’t enough for one girl in the world, I’m stuck in Dullsville, the wrong side of Happytown, on my own.

My BFF Angel has been totally kidnapped by her parentals and is on vacay in Europe. Apparently, it’s not enough that my best bud in the entire world is packed off to a super-posh boarding school during term-time, it seems her parentals think it’s more than do-able to kidnap take her away for the entire summer holidays too.

Rude.

And if all that wasn’t bad enough, my aunt Tallullah–uber glam, goddess-like lady, the one person who actually gets me, as in really, really gets me–has gone and moved to my most favourite place in all of the world.

New York City.

I know.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased for her.

(No, really I am. Grr.)

Aunt Tallullah, my lovely Lullah, has an ah-mazing new job that involves her getting all schmoozy woozy with actor-types on a daily basis.

I know.

My aunt is an on-set designer-girl for TV and movies.

I mean, seriously, what’s not to love about that?

And I’m not talking just C-list wannabee actor-types, nope, I’m talking the headline grabbing, pap-toting, turn-up-late-to-work-just-because-I-can A-lister variety.

I know.

But the thing is, with her being all the way over there in Schmooze Ccity, well, it means she’s not here. And here, without lovely Lullah, is like having the hugest, most dee-licious, slice of gooey chocolate cake without lashings and lashings of whipped cream.

Pointless.

Chapter Two

Things I love Some facts about lovely Lullah:

She’s totally fabulous.

She’s my idol-girl.

She sometimes looks like she’s walked out of 1940s Paris–ooh la la.

She sometimes works monochrome like a 1960s mod girl.

She’s a superhero-girl. Think younger, red-headed sister of Wonder Woman. Although, unlike aforementioned superhero, Lullah would never discard her handbag when changing costume. Evah.

She’s a palm reader.

She smells like candyfloss and jasmine incense.

She gave me a journal to track all my hopes and dreams.

She sprinkles her vocab with crazy made-up words from her favourite films. She’ll say things like, ‘sweetie, that’s simply de-lovely’ or ‘Lola, this chocolate cake s’wonderful, s’marvellous.’

She’s a bright ray of sunshine on a dark, cloudy day.

‘Til recently, Lullah was studying all things fashion and film, her two favourite things, at a fancy-schmancy university in the city of Londinium. To save pennies, she shunned the bright lights of the big city and stayed here with us, in dreary old Dullsville-by-Sea, commuting into the Londinium when she had to do the study stuff.

And she did a lot of the study stuff–that’s why she’s got the schmoozy woozy job of fabulousness–but she was never, ever too busy to hang out with li’l ol’ me.

I loved it best when I’d arrive home from school and instead of finding an empty house I’d find a lovely Lullah sat on the kitchen table–literally, either sewing buttons to a £2 chazza shop bargain or sketching a foofy hoop skirt and flowery décolletage in her notebook.

Lullah just gets it.

She doesn’t care what people think of her, not one little bit and dispenses guru-like advice in every sentence. Like, when we go chazza shoppin’ she’ll say ‘vintage clothes are better than new ones because they have history.’

But what I loved best was that, unlike my mum, she was a superhero-girl. And as a superhero-girl with superhero-girl powers, she was able to sense a major-league sucky event in Lola world at 100 kitten-heeled paces.

At the first sign of trouble, she would throw me the double wink and I knew what I had to do.

In a one swift movement that even ol’ slinky-milinky Catwoman couldn’t have found fault with, I would crack open a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice-cream, grab two spoons and put Breakfast at Tiffany’s in the DVD player. And together, we would make a Lola and Lullah-shaped dent in the old battered sofa. Mission accomplished.

“When real-life lacks the technicolour fabulousness of the big screen, Lola Love,” Lullah would say in her best Hollywood-esque vocab, “there really is nothing better to soothe the soul than an idol-girl in industrial strength foundation.”

Tres poetic.

With a flick of the ‘play’ switch and a quick cuddle, I felt safe. Safe in the knowledge, that for the next hour and a half, I could imagine what my life might have been like if I had lived in another time and place–what can I say? I’m an old fashioned girl.

But just like every good movie before it, Breakfast at Tiffany’s has to end. It always does. And in one of those sucky ‘life imitating art’ moments, at the end of our last movie session, so did my life, as I knew it.

I’m super-chuffed that Lullah has got her dream job. She’s my real-life actual proof that dreams come true and if that’s not amazing x 100, then I really don’t know what is.

But at the risk of sounding like a selfish Suzie, I miss her.

A lot.

I miss her tying pretty-coloured ribbons in my hair and calling me ‘kiddo’, I miss her making me hot chocolate with huge pink and white yumsville marshmallows and what I miss most, is that when she was around, the parentals didn’t argue as much.

But that’s probably because when Lullah moved in, dad moved out.

Only temporarily apparently, but if I’m honest, it was a welcome relief because, boy, can those crazy-adult types argue. If there were a gold medal for raised voices and inaudible vocab, my parentals would win it. Hands down.

Just before she got in her taxi to the airport, Lullah read my palm. She traced hear chipped, pretty-in pink varnished nail across a long line that went from one side of my palm to the other, looked up and smiled.

“Lola Love, you’re going to be a star!” she laughed, pointing at my hand.

I laughed back because Lullah always said that. And well, if I didn’t laugh, there was a good chance I was going to cry.

“It’s true!” Lullah promised. “See your life line? Your life will be just like a movie, the very best kind. You will write the script and most importantly you’ll be the leading lady–I absolutely promise!”

“Whatever,” I replied. It’s fair to say I wasn’t completely convinced.

“No, really, Lola,” Lullah wasn’t one to give up easily. “Do you really think I would be going to New York right now if I hadn’t made the decdecision I wanted to? We make our own destinies–if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got. But if you want things to change, then it’s up to you to make those changes happen, then I promise, when you do, your life will be an absolute blockbuster.”

I figured that was a pretty big promise and one she wouldn’t make unless it was definitely true, but now she’s gone, well, I’m not so sure. But it definitely got me thinking.

Thing is, Lullah’s never, ever wrong. She’s just magic like that.

Which is probably why, when I was busy making the most of my last Lullah hug–that I made last for an entire forever, I agreed to look out for THEM.

IM to self: In future, under no circumstances, make NO deals with Aunt Tallulah. Not unless they involve ME going to live in NY with her. Indefinitely.

Meet ‘Them.’

Her cat–imaginatively named ‘Cat’ in homage to Holly Golightly’s feline friend in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Not unlike the movie version, this Cat has ’tude. I have the multiple scratches on my arm, thigh, shoulder, back and hand to prove it.

And her older, substantially less fun sister–Scarlett.

My mother.

Like Cat, she too has ’tude, along with a permanent, judgemental frown where her mouth is meant to be.

Like I said before, welcome to my life, Welcome to Sucksville.

Chapter Three

To: princess.lullah@email.com

From: lola@lolasland.com

Subject: I’m a starlet, get me out of here!

Lullah, you’ve got to save me!

There is a severe, 99.9% chance that I’m about to die of a not-even-cureable case of boredomitis.

No, really. I’m not even joking. What is a joke is that in my journal, after our little talk before you left, I have laughing titled this summer vacay ‘the summer of re-invention’ after our little talk before you left. Ha.

Well, I am three whole weeks into the summer holiday, a time that is meant to be filled with fun, adventure and memory-makin’ moments, yet my life, as I know it, is still very much the same old, lame old.

I have no friends and I have no ‘thing’.

I want friends and I want a ‘thing’.

My ‘something’. At this point, my anything.

Lullah, I am beyond frustrated.

I’d also really like Mum to cheer up, Cat to stop chewing everything in sight and to move to NY. Like, this afternoon, if possible.

Until then, please provide me with tales of your muchos glammy life so that I can feel even more sorry for myself, take to my bed and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the 127th time.

Miss you. A lot.

L oxoxox

Hmpph.

I really do want a ‘thing’.

Something that makes people go ‘Wow, Lola Love is cool’ because cool and Lola Love are words that are never, ever mentioned in the same sentence.

Weirdo, loser girl and Lola Love however, are mentioned on a near daily basis, thanks to Eva Satine.

Eva Satine is a toxic girl.

Oh, there’s no doubting the girl’s ability to throw an outfit together or her ‘just-stepped-out-of-a-salon’ silky soft blonde hair, but with all that superficial stuff comes the most horrible of insides, all knotty, angry and self-obsessed.

She’s very clever though.

Eva has fooled the entire school with her butter-wouldn’t-melt, snake-like charm and has won herself the much coveted, Miss I-am-Popularity-Personfied title.

I, on the other hand, have become her very own official torment toy. And it’s not as though Eva is not alone in her quest to make my life considerably difficult on a daily basis. Nope, because like every popular-girl-in-the-playground before her, she has the obligatory, plastic-looking hair-flickin’ clique. Me and Angel call them ‘The Negative Ninas’ (but I don’t think they’re losing any sleep over it) who are the girls at school who arrive everywhere in a stinky mist of Eau Du Nasty, have the same outline as Eva but fade into insignificance compared to the real thing. If they weren’t so rude and obnoxious I might even feel sorry for them.

But ‘The Negative Ninas’ are rude and obnoxious.

They use cuss words that would make a trucker blush and they have a never-ending supply of put-downs.

So I don’t feel sorry for them. Not one little bit.

And just in case you were worried that they weren’t super mean enough, they don’t just stop at name-calling either. Oh no, these girls are premier league. They’ve read every script of every high school teen movie ever made and are completely up to date with their roles as popular-girls-who-make-lonely-weirdo-girl-feel-really-bad.

Now, before I press play on this particular scene of shame straight from the life of me, you absolutely need to know that if I had my way, for the sake of self-preservation, it’d be on the cutting room floor.

Deleted.

Forever.

But for some reason the delete button won’t work and this scene is on constant rewind, play and repeat in my mind.

You will soon see why…

Chapter Four

It was about six months ago, it was PE and I had no kit.

This was bad.

Really bad.

At our school you don’t forget your kit. Not ever. Because only a fool would risk the utter shame and humiliation that comes with forgetting your kit–wearing The Spare Kit.

Except I hadn’t forgotten my kit.

My kit had been stolen.

Which is why I was stood in Miss Appleby, the gym teacher’s office, while she rummaged around in a spectacularly stinky box, looking for a suitable ensemble. An active source of embarrassment since the 1970’s, the Spare Kit box is home to the most hideous of ill-fitting, never-been-washed items of clothing known to mankind.

“You can wear these,” Miss Appleby, the sadistic (aren’t they all?) gym teacher barked. (I should point out that as a gym teacher, she is almost as evil as Eva.)

I could have wept. The shorts were navy blue with off-white piping. Now, navy is a great colour if you can wear it, but against my milky whiter than white complexion, it was just rude and really, really wrong.

They were also a size too small.

Of course they were.

I had barely left the changing rooms when before Miss Appleby, in true Terminator-esque style, decided today was the day she would push me over the edge.

“Lola Love, you’re late. Five laps of the playing field, NOW.”

Now, I don’t do sports.

In fact, I’d even resort to eating my own toenails if it meant I could refrain from physical activity indefinitely.

Running is by far the most unpleasant experience I haved ever endured. That includes the time I cut a frog wide open in biology and its frog-inside juice got me right in the eye. And the time I didn’t eat chocolate for an entire week. Oh, and that oh-so-shameful moment I left the toilets in town with my flowy, flower girl skirt tucked in my knickers and a trail of white toilet paper blowing behind me. It wasn’t until some random dude asked ‘where are the puppies?’ that I realised he thought I was filming an advert for Andrex.

Basically, I don’t run unless I’m being chased.

Mortification x 100.

On the fifth and final lap, having been pushed to, and through, the pain barrier, I began to hallucinate. And for a minute, just a tiny, teeny minute, I thought that I’d seen the toned and honed athletic body of the beautiful Jake Farrell standing on the sideline, waving to me.

Jake is the stuff of candy-covered dreams. His bee stung lips and blonde locks are completely reminiscent of a painted cherub boy. He is the heir to my heart, my number one boy crush.

Sigh.

He’s also captain of the football team but totally not a jock-ass, Jake is funny and looks super cute when he has to wear his thick-rimmed glasses to see the maths board. In Lola Land, he is absolutely the biggest glass of chocolate milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

J’adore him mostest.

Anyway, back to my torture. It turnsed out I wasn’t hallucinating. It was him. He was on the sideline and he was with Eva.

Whenever I see Jake everything is thrown into soft focus and the sound of violins fill my fit-to-burst heart. I’ve imagined what it might be like for him to notice me at least a hundred times, but I have to say, in all the scenarios I’ve ever imagined, this one had never popped up.

Funny that.

Not really knowing what else to do, I kept on running. As I got closer, I could see that his face was struggling to make an expression. as I got closer. It considered both embarrassment and shock, before finally settling on a combination of vacant and confused. Bless.

I diverted my eyes to avoid his glance, hoping that if I couldn’t see him, there might have been a teeny chance that he couldn’t see me. Unfortunately, that particular method of hiding had one major flaw, it didn’t work.

He looked all awkward and even a little bit pitiful as Eva and the Negative Ninas-pepper-sprayed ‘loser-girl’ taunts in my direction.

Heroically, I ignored them.

Well actually, I tried to, but whoever said ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’ was obviously a popular kid from the right side of town with nice hair and lots of friends.

Seriously though, Why me?

More importantly, why in these shorts?

“You looking for this, Lardy Lo?” Eva was swinging my school bag, avec PE kit, from her manicured finger.

She was positively heaving with pride at her badness.

I was so surprised (this was super mean, even for her) that I wobbled off course and tried to grab it from her, but my legs didn’t get the memo about the change of direction and collapsed with a thump so hard I just knew it was going to cause not-at-all-fashionable purple bruising.

The Negative Ninas laughed. Of course they did. It was in their job description.

Eva knelt down beside me and put her face so close to mine that I could smell her weird uber minty gum-breath.

“Poor weirdo Lola,” she sighed. “Running is really not your thing is it? Come to think of it Lola, what is your thing? Oh, I know, you don’t have a thing do you? Apart from just being just a sad little loner who fancies Jake Farrell and makes up imaginary friends…”

I didn’t entirely know what she was on about, and all I was worried about was whether or not Jake could see my bum peeking out of my too tight shorts–until Eva waved a collage-covered, bulging notebook in front of my face.

My journal.

She’d read my journal. The super scrapbook Aunt Lullah had given me. Page after page of intricate detail about how my life really should be. The elaborate sketches, the pages from vintage magazines of outfits I’d love to wear, quotes from my favourite films and swatches of fabric.

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her those movie stars were my thing. I wanted to tell her that I did have a friend, a best friend called Angel and an amazing Aunt Lullah. I wanted to tell her I did have a thing, I had dozens of things but I didn’t. And more than anything, I just wanted my journal back.

But I didn’t do anything. Nada. Nothing.

My sitting there in silence seemed to annoy Eva more than anything in the world. Bored at my lack of reaction, she paced around me a couple of times, flicked her gold-spun hair over one shoulder and threw my journal to the floor while she thought of something else mean to say.

Which of course was quite easy for her.

“Oh, you didn’t mind me showing Jake your little fantasy book did you?” Eva pointed towards Jake, who just looked completely confused. “It’s just that when he heard the circus had come to town, he wanted to see the star attraction! Typical boy.”

The Ninas laughed in high-pitched unison at their leader’s cutting remarks which just encouraged her to carry on.

“You really should ask Jake out y’know Lola, he loves a good cause. Only the other day he gave money to ‘save the whale’. Just think, if he went out with you, he’d actually get to do it in person!”

My eyes filled with water but there was no way I’d ever let her see me cry. I was so freaked out, I didn’t even cry. I just really, really wanted that book back.

“What?” she exclaimed in mock shock. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

She smiled a smile that you would only usually see in Miss World Pageants or on the devil, turned on her vixen-spiked heel, and clicked her fingers for The Negative Ninas to follow, with Jake trailing behind.

They did. As you would absolutely assume that they would.

So, to briefly recap, my boy crush had finally noticed me but for all the wrong reasons.

I wanted more than anything to belt out a power ballad about how terrible I felt. Eva, as always, had come out smelling of just of her far-too-expensive perfume: Roses.

And I was just an out of breath little loser girl, sat in the mud in someone else’s shorts.

My life? A movie?

Pah.

Chapter Five

To: lola@lolasland.com

From: princess.lullah@email.com

Subject: Drama Queen

Lola Love, Greta Garbo had absolutely nothing on you! You are a total tiara-wearin’ drama queen supreme, do you know that?

Firstly, I’d like to point out that all the time there are movies Lola, we are never alone.

Secondly, consider your pity party well and truly gatecrashed, girlfriend–because I will simply not allow this attack of the deep reds to continue one moment longer!

Do you not remember anything I’ve taught you? In times of total major-league suckiness we must always, always, always call upon our favourite goddess girl of the silver screen and ask those four magic words, ‘What Would Audrey Do?’

Which is why my mission, should you choose to accept it Lola Love, is simple. Go watch Funny Face.

Now, I’m sorry to disappoint you but as I don’t start work officially ’til next week, tales of over-inflated ego celeb-types will have to wait. Right now, while my apartment buds are running amok in Williamsburg, Brooklyn catching new bands like the cool cats they are, I’m at home in my Kimono with my hair wrapped in a silk turban on ye ol’ isle of Manhatta watching Bette Davis movies–who is the coolest, btw.

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve been exploring New York as Madison, Daryl Hannah’s character in the 80s movie Splash. I’m still a complete fish out of water,. I keep pointing out every New York-y detail, naming the film or TV show I’ve seen it in and totally freaking out! Next time you see me, I’ll have bum-length, mermaid-crimped hair and will be wearing a far-too-big man suit. (From Bloomingdales, natch.)

Look after Cat and your mumma ’k?

Oh and Lola, Think Pink!

Lullah x

Despite the distinct lack of sympathy for my so-called-life, no offer of NYC accommodation and absolutely nothing that resembled a step-by-step life guide to help me find my thing–I’m beyond excited to hear from Lullah.

And of course, as always, she was right.

There really is nothing in the whole wide world that can’t be solved by watching a movie. Especially an Audrey movie.

I heart Audrey Hepburn.

It was like she was put together by angels and thrown down to earth as a challenge to anyone who thought they could better her. She was all swan-like and gamine, and renown for her killer stylin’. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who hasn’t dreamed of replicating Audrey’s style with a sleeveless black dress and a pair of oversized sunglasses ala Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I know I have.

Every time I watch that movie.

Y’see, when Angel, my BFF, got sent to a super swank boarding school a gazillion miles away, Audrey, along with Marilyn Monroe and Jane Mansfield, became the Queens of my silver screen. They had to! Because there really isn’t a single person on this planet as cool as Miss Angel-Cakes.

You’ll love Angel everyone does. She’s a fashion-lovin’, glossy magazine readin’, afro-wearing girl of total fabulousness.

Angel’s parentals split up two years ago and her super-swank business dad sent her to a super-swank boarding school saying it was ‘for the best’ as they had ‘issues to sort out.’

Neither Angel or I really understood what that meant exactly, parentals talk a whole language of crazy as far as we’re concerned. All we knew was that we were no longer going to be everyday hang-out buds and that was sucky x 100.

So ever since Angel left, I’ve been in a total friend funk.

I’m not cool enough for the cool crowd and I’m too kooky for the kooky kids, which makes hanging with the coolest ladies of all time Audrey, Marilyn and Jane, a much more do-able option than trying to make actual real friends.

Y’see, Marilyn was all about the glamour. She was glitz and fun rolled into a size 14 package. As for Jane, well she rocked. She was deliciously fabulous. She owned a pink Jaguar, she got married in a skin-tight pink gown and called her home the Pink Palace in homage to it’s décor. It even had a pink heart-shaped pool. What’s not to love about that?

“Lola Love. Hello? Are you in there?” mum is impatiently clicking the fingers of one hand in front of my face, while her other hand is fixed firmly on her hip.

I study her face. She’s pretty. Not glam-girl pretty like Lullah, but pretty none the less. She has a sharp, brown bob and an English Rose complexion. All that’s missing is a smile, but if I’m honest, I think she might have forgotten how.

“I just got an email from Aunt Lullah” I tell her.

“Oh great. What stupid ideas is she filling your head with now?”

I think mum is mad at Lullah for leaving. Not because she’s gone off to NYC to do a fancy shmancy job with celeb types, but because she’s now left home alone with a daughter she doesn’t even know.

But mum doesn’t hang around to hear about what ‘stupid ideas’ Lullah may be filling my head with, she picks up her bag, throws it over her shoulder and tells me my tea is in the fridge.

Which is good, because I don’t want to argue with the parental.

Right now, she’ll either shout really loud or cry.

I don’t like either version of my parental a whole lot, and ideally would like to trade her in for a carin’, sharin’ version, but apparently, that’s not an option.

Before leaving the room, mum pauses at the door.

“Lola Love, you’re such a dreamer.”

She always says my whole name. It’s like she has to remind herself of who she’s actually talking to.

I say, “What’s wrong with that?”

She shakes her head and mutters something inaudible as she shuts the door behind her.

It’s true, I am a dreamer girl. Wouldn’t you be if you had a life like mine?

I dream huge dreams and I store them in my journals.

Not a blog diaries or a live journals or anything like that, I mean the good ol’ fashioned kind where all the really good stuff gets written. I’ve collaged it with 60s icons and gorgeous glam-girls from the silver screen. Then inside, I turn the blandness of my everyday life into multi-coloured movie scenes. In my journal, my life is a cinematic blockbuster full of magic and spontaneity and there’s never, ever a dull moment.

If you took a sneaky peek in my journal, you’d see that I’m an Oscar-winning starlet.

And…

I’m an editrix-in-chief of my very own magazine that doesn’t, and never, ever would, draw rings around celeb-girls’ bad bits.

And…

I am proud that I have the body of a 1950s pin-up girl with shocking pink hair borrowed from a punk-princess.

And…

I rock out in a kick-ass girl band making holes in the knees of my faded, low slung jeans when I skid across the pink, sparkly stage during a screechy guitar solo.

And…

I eat vinegary chips on a seaside pier before riding on the back of a scooter, with my arms tightly wrapped around the waist of my very own ruby-lipped, angel boy.

Sigh.

Y’see, dreaming, wishing and hoping are my most favourite of all past times.

In fact, every night without fail, I wish upon the sparkliest star in the inky, midnight sky. I wish that when I wake up, my life would become the sugary sweet, candy-covered movie that it really ought to be.

It will happen. It has to happen. Lullah said so.

Chapter Six

Seriously, who needs a summer of re-invention when you’ve got a whole Audrey back catalogue to catch up on?

Surprisingly, as much as I heart Audrey, I’ve never watched Funny Face. In fact, my entire love for Audrey is based purely on Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and while personally, I think that’s more than justifiable, I’m all about expanding my Audrey knowledge, which is why I’m kinda glad that Lullah had no room for the box set in her filled-to-the-brim luggage.

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