I Heart Hollywood
Lindsey Kelk

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

FIRST EDITION

Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2010

Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EBook Edition © NOVEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007353163

Version: 2017-08-10

Dedication

For Big Bear and Little Mouse (not as nauseating as it sounds, honest)

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The wedding was perfect.

Just ten people at City Hall, no hymns, no readings, no fuss; and then over to Alta in the West Village for the reception. Tiny candles flickered in the faces of my favourite people: Jenny, Vanessa, Erin. And Alex. God, he looked pretty in a suit. I made a mental note to get that boy a three-piece more often. Like maybe at our wedding…no, bad Angela, too soon to even think it. Dum-dum-dee-dum…

‘So you don’t think I’m making a ridiculous mistake?’ Erin whispered over my shoulder, bringing me back with a bump. ‘I mean, it can’t be six months since I was telling you I would never get married again.’

I shook my head. ‘Not at all.’ I glanced over at the new Mr Erin, or Thomas as he was known to his friends. Or ‘that mad hot piece of ass’ as he was known to Jenny. ‘You wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t absolutely the right thing to do.’

‘Uh, which it totally is. Hello?’ Jenny Lopez swung in and planted a great big kiss on the bride, smudging Mac Ruby Woo lipstick all over her face. ‘He’s a super-hot, super-rich lawyer and super in love with you. I’m pretty sure they are the main three factors to take into consideration before you hitch your wagon. Plus, wow, classiest wagon ever. Even better than your last wedding. And way better than the one before that.’

‘My God, you are so rude,’ Erin playfully slapped Jenny’s mass of chocolate brown curls. ‘But you’re right. I couldn’t not marry him. He’s so sweet.’

‘Yeah, sweet. I’m totally only getting married when the guy can rent out my favourite restaurant for an entire Saturday evening.’ Jenny sighed and sank a full flute of champagne. ‘Doesn’t Thomas have any single friends? And I do mean, single, rich lawyer friends?’

I couldn’t stop smiling. The last wedding I’d been to hadn’t been such a roaring success. I had started the day as a blushing bridesmaid with a devoted fiancé and ended up a high-heel-wielding hand-breaker, whose devoted fiancé was at it with some tart in the back of their Range Rover.

After leaving everyone in the wedding party in tears and/or hospital, I had hotfooted it over to New York only to be taken in by Jenny: an entire family, best friend and therapist all in one. It hadn’t been a walk in Central Park but I’d found my way eventually. A job blogging for The Look magazine, great friends, an actual life, all the things that had been missing for so long. As a hand slid around my waist and pulled me close, I was reminded of the other thing I’d found in New York: Alex Reid.

‘So this is the nicest wedding I think I’ve ever been to,’ he gently pressed his lips against my skin. ‘And I have the hottest date here.’

‘Firstly, there are only eight girls in the entire wedding and secondly, it’s still not even true,’ I said, turning to brush Alex’s long black fringe out of his eyes. ‘Erin looks stunning, Jenny is ridiculously pretty in that dress and Vanessa—’

‘Will you please just take the compliment?’ Alex shook his head. ‘And I don’t care what you say, there’s not a girl in the whole city that could compare with you right now.’

I wrinkled my nose and accepted a kiss, silently thanking my lucky stars. We’d met just after I had arrived in New York and got far too serious, far too quickly. He had put the brakes on and I had spent six months cooling my heels, pretending I wasn’t ready to start dating but really wondering when it would be OK to call him. Eventually, I’d picked up the phone, cashed in all my karma chips and, thank God, Buddha and Marc Jacobs, he’d answered. Now I was just trying to have fun and ignore the constant burning feeling in my stomach, that this was it, that Alex was the one. There was no way I wanted a repeat performance of last time. I’d spent ten years with my ex and not once, not for a moment, had I felt so scared to lose him as I did when I lay wide awake at night, watching Alex sleep.

For the last two months, he had been the most attentive, thoughtful, heartbreakingly wonderful boyfriend I could ever have imagined. He bought me little gifts, like the beautiful sunflower, my favourite flower, he’d brought to pin to my olive green Cynthia Rowley shift for the wedding. He surprised me with indoor picnics when I was on deadline, ran out to pick up breakfast before I woke up and even trekked all the way over from Brooklyn to Manhattan with the handbag and keys I’d left at his apartment as well as a huge hangover-friendly pizza when Jenny and I had both managed to lock ourselves out of our place at three a.m. We never did find out where Jenny had left the keys…But, most impressively, when I’d drunk far too much at a wine tasting I was supposed to review for The Look, he’d held my hair back while I threw up. Outside a very fancy restaurant. While everyone was watching. On his shoes.

And it wasn’t just that Alex was competing for the title of World’s Best Boyfriend, there was also the little fact that he was also a total rock god to take into consideration. His band had released their third album while we were on our ‘break’ and, despite a little commercial and a lot of critical success, he was still being a complete angel. While Jenny was loudly insisting that he should be out snorting coke out of groupies’ belly buttons, Alex was lying watching America’s Next Top Model, eating Chinese takeout on our sofa.

I peered up and down the table as we sat down for dinner and couldn’t remember a time I’d felt so happy or so at peace with myself. So what if these weren’t the people I’d grown up with, or the people that had taught me to ride a bike? They were the people that had taught me to ride the subway and to stand on my own two feet. Or at least how to get back on them after I fell on my arse, drunk.

‘Hey, how much does she make you want to puke?’ Jenny nudged me. ‘How come she’s been married, like, seven times and I can’t even get laid.’

‘I was just having a lovely quiet moment, thinking how lucky I am to have found such amazing friends,’ I tapped Jenny’s hand. ‘And then you go and ruin it.’

‘Aww, you love me,’ Jenny leaned her head on my shoulder and chucked me under the chin. ‘And you know I love you too. But seriously, I’m going to cry. If you and Brooklyn over there think you’re getting married before me you’re so wrong.’

‘Jenny!’ I looked over at Alex but he was giving one of Thomas’s investment banker friends his very best listening face. ‘Shut it. We’ve been together for about two minutes. You’ll jinx it.’

‘Not possible honey.’ Jenny swept her hand over the candle in front of her. ‘How many nights have you spent apart since you got back together? Three? Four tops. He is totally into you. And I know you’ve got the wedding march on replay in your head. I will bet you anything that you have a ring on your finger inside the year. You want me to direct him to some of the more tasteful options? I know he’s all, like, ‘creative’ but you have to get something you can wear for the rest of your life.’

I combed down my long light brown fringe nervously. ‘Seriously, stop it. We’re taking things slowly and you know it.’

Jenny smiled. ‘I know but it’s totally obvious. And you know that I’m really pleased for you, it’s awesome. But Angie, we have to get me laid. It’s been like six months, for crying out loud. Oh, thank God, food.’

‘Yes, because I really feel like eating right now,’ I muttered.

Dinner passed by altogether too quickly, the food amazing but not soaking up the champagne as quickly as I would have liked. A sausage roll and chicken drumstick would really have helped, but this was a classy New York function, not a Clark family knees-up. As dinner turned into speeches and speeches turned into drinks, I excused myself from a fascinating research analyst who almost passed out when I told him I didn’t have a pension, and went to look for people I actually wanted to talk to. Erin and Vanessa were busy fulfilling bride and bridesmaid duties at the door, Jenny was giving several of Thomas’s friends her best nodding and smiling while Alex was presumably hiding from the same people in the bathroom. He could dress up in a suit and comb down his messy black hair but he couldn’t hide the look in his eyes when Thomas and his friends started discussing stocks and shares. Without anyone to protect me from the same death by conversation, I vanished up to the balcony to hide.

‘You planning on spying on people too?’ Alex asked as I rounded the top of the stairs. He was leaning over the banister, nursing a champagne flute, his tie and collar loosened.

‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ I took a sip from his glass. Well, one more couldn’t hurt. ‘I thought maybe you’d left with your new boyfriend from dinner.’

‘Yeah, I think we’ve hit it off. You know I’ve always been fascinated by high-yield bonds.’

‘I knew the band was a front. So who are we spying on?’

He pointed down towards the makeshift bar at the back of the restaurant. ‘Well, it was you but then you vanished, so mostly Jenny. Just trying to work out who her target is this evening.’

I spotted her immediately, leaning against the bar, all glossy curls and red pout. She sipped on a clear cocktail and checked her nails, ignoring the guy standing next to her, who was awkwardly trying to attract her attention with a weak cough and terrified smile.

‘Looks like she’s over Jeff at last,’ Alex nodded.

‘Looks like,’ I frowned. ‘But I don’t really know. One minute she’s all “I want to get laid, I want to get laid”, but then she’s sat at home every night watching Nanny 911. See? It’s like he isn’t even there.’

‘Maybe she’s just choosy?’ Alex suggested as the hapless banker gave up and moved on to Vanessa. ‘Or maybe she just really likes Nanny 911?’

‘Well, yes she does and she ought to be choosy, she’s gorgeous, but it’s more than that,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. She goes out, she meets men, they give her their numbers and she never calls. And then at the same time she’s rattling on all the time about how she’s not getting any. I just don’t know what to do for the best. I know she’s hung up on Jeff still but it’s the one thing she absolutely will not talk about. Sober.’

‘Does she still think they’ll get back together?’ Alex leaned his head against mine.

I shrugged and pouted. The official line was that she was totally over her ex, but the unofficial, drunk-at-two-a.m. line was, ‘I’ll never get over him as long as I live, he’s my soul mate.’ But I had a feeling that wasn’t something she wanted to share with Alex.

‘So I don’t tell her that some blonde moved in with him yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. I totally forgot.’

‘Seriously?’

Alex nodded.

The fact that he had refused to sell his apartment just because it was in the same building as Jenny’s ex was usually reason enough for her to decide she wasn’t talking to him for days at a time, so it seemed to make sense to keep this little bit of information to myself. ‘No, she cannot find out about that. She’d probably take to her bed for a month.’

‘Sounds fun,’ he smiled, one hand sliding up my back, the other holding fast to the balcony. ‘Can we do that now please?’

I looked up into Alex’s ridiculously green eyes, his fringe catching in my eyelashes as he dropped his face to mine for a long kiss. His body was warm against the thin silk of my dress and the balcony pressed into the small of my back. I felt my clutch slip out of my fingers and drop, not sure if it had fallen over the balcony, not sure if I cared.

‘I should probably leave soon,’ I said, my voice catching as Alex ran his hand down the back of my neck, curling the hair at the nape around his long fingers. ‘I have a meeting with Mary at nine.’

‘So my place is closer by subway, yours by cab.’ Alex’s eyes were dark and dilated, his breath quick. ‘And I don’t think people on the subway would be OK with what I have planned.’

‘Cab then,’ I smoothed down my dress and scooped up the bag. Thank God it hadn’t actually gone over the edge and bashed anyone. I’d assaulted enough people at weddings in my time. ‘Have to say, didn’t think you’d be the sort of bloke to get turned on by weddings.’

‘What sort of “bloke” did you think I was?’ Alex smiled. ‘And it’s not so much weddings as you. Now get your ass in a cab.’

Chapter Two

The next morning was grey and cold, just like every morning had been since the end of November. The hardwood floor in my bedroom felt like ice as I gingerly poked my toes out of the bed and felt around for my slippers. I knew it was stupid not to wear my giant bed socks when Alex stayed over, but we hadn’t been together that long, I just didn’t think he was ready for it and so I suffered. Like an idiot.

March was the opposite of July. I’d sweltered from the moment I stepped off the plane but now I sometimes wondered if I’d ever be warm again. Hot and sticky summer had given way to a cool and crisp autumn, which was all too quickly overtaken by subzero temperatures and snow storms. As pretty as three feet of snow was, I had learned already that it was a) not a rarity in the city and b) not a good thing. When it snowed at home, everything stopped. My mum waited until the gritter had been around the streets, then trekked up to the shops in her wellies, walking in the road, to buy unnecessary quantities of canned food and eight pints of milk that would go off before she could force my dad to drink them all to avoid them going off. When it really snowed in New York, the roads jammed and the subway stopped but life didn’t. And walking in the bitter winds with a face full of sleet did not make it easy to lead the glamorous life that my family in England might have imagined me living. Although that could also be because my emails and phone calls rarely mentioned the fact that I’d been walking around with a Rudolph-red nose, bundled up like the Michelin man for months.

I flicked at the curtain to check the state of the streets. At least it hadn’t snowed in the night, but the sky looked grey and threatening and, below, people dashed backwards and forwards, bundled up for an arctic expedition.

‘What time is it?’ croaked Alex, rolling towards me and pulling the curtain back across the window.

‘Seven-thirty,’ I sighed, allowing him to pull me back into bed, my feet disappearing under the quilt. Alex was like my very own human hot-water bottle. No matter how cold the apartment was, he was always like a furnace. Aside from the obvious, it was one of my favourite reasons to have him in bed with me. ‘And as much as I don’t want to, I really do have to get up.’

‘See, I go around telling people how awesome it is having a writer for a girlfriend,’ Alex grumbled as I pulled away again, ‘because she doesn’t have to be in an office at nine a.m. every day. And here you are, at seven-thirty…’

‘I can’t help it,’ I said, wriggling away from him and braving the icy floorboards again. I pulled on my giant fleecy dressing gown and looked back at him, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, the covers up around his nose. ‘Do you really tell people your girlfriend is a writer?’

‘Mmm,’ Alex rolled himself over under the covers, hiding his head as I flicked on a lamp. ‘What else am I supposed to tell them? You’re a British refugee who can’t go home because you broke some guy’s hand?’

‘Arse,’ I grabbed a towel off the radiator, heading into the bathroom. ‘You can tell people whatever you want.’ As long as you tell them I’m your girlfriend, I added silently with a great big smile.

The Spencer Media building was on Times Square, one of my least favourite places in all of Manhattan. Even today, on a frigid Monday in March at eight-fifty in the morning, the streets were pulsing with tourists, clutching their Starbucks and digital cameras with inadequate knitted mittens. I had never thought I’d consider a North Face padded coat a necessity, but then I’d never tried to live through January in New York with nothing but a pretty Marc by Marc Jacobs swing coat and a feeble H&M leather jacket. Never, ever in my entire life had I been so bloody cold. Now I understood the need to forgo my newfound interest in fashion and put on As Many Layers As Humanly Possible before I left the apartment. It was insane.

I pushed past a group of school kids taking it in turns to snap shots of the group, one switching in, one switching out to take over photographer duties, and wondered exactly how many tourists’ pictures I had managed to land in since I started working for The Look. There were probably millions of shots of a disgruntled-looking girl tutting and sighing in the background all over Facebook.

The views from Mary’s forty-second floor office almost made the trekking across Times Square worth it. The higher up I got, the more amazing New York looked to me. At ground level I could sometimes forget where I was—H&M here, HSBC there—but up in the office, surrounded by skyscrapers, watching the rivers sweeping around the island, I couldn’t be anywhere else but Manhattan.

‘Mary’s been waiting for you,’ an uninterested voice came from behind a huge computer monitor as I tried to locate the group of kids below.

‘Aren’t I early?’ I asked the monitor. Mary’s assistant, Cici, had never been my biggest fan but she usually gave me the courtesy of a dirty look. Unfortunately I was wearing so many layers, I couldn’t find my watch, and Spencer Media was a little like Vegas, they didn’t bother with clocks, presumably so their staff wouldn’t realize how late they were working. Not many days went by when I didn’t get emails from Mary and the other editors at nine, ten in the evening.

‘Mary gets in at seven, your meeting was due to start at nine.’ She stood up and swept around the desk. I couldn’t help but hope she must have some really, really warm clothes to change into. Her teeny tiny bottom was squeezed into a skater skirt that just about covered her stocking tops and it didn’t look as if she had any thermals on under the gauzy, pussy-bow blouse that topped it off. In fact, it didn’t look as if she had anything under it. Oh my. ‘It’s now three after nine. You’re late.’

Was it right for a PA to make me feel like a naughty sixth-former?

‘Angela Clark is finally here,’ Cici purred ahead of me as we passed though Mary’s big glass doors. ‘Can I get you anything, boss?’

‘More coffee, and do you want anything?’ Mary was wearing her standard uniform of skinny jeans, cashmere sweater and steely grey bob, but something about her was different. I realized she was smiling. This had to be a good start.

‘I would love a coffee.’ I tried a small smile at the assistant who huffed a little and flounced off. ‘How are you, Mary?’

‘Good, you?’ She leaned across her desk and didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I have a treat for you. You’re going to love me.’

‘Sounds good.’ I began to disrobe. Gloves, scarf, coat. ‘I like treats.’

‘Well, you know everyone here loves your blog.’ Mary templed her fingers under her chin and smiled back. I had been writing an online diary for TheLook.com since I’d arrived in New York, thanks to Jenny’s amazingly well-connected friend Erin and my complete lack of shame at spilling the details of my private life all over the internet. And to humour my journalistic ambitions, my editor occasionally threw me the odd book and music review for the magazine when they needed an extra hand. But the most exciting part of it all for me was my column in the UK edition, much to my mother’s disgust. She didn’t like that Susan in the post office knew what I was up to before she did. ‘We have a new project for you. How do you feel about branching out?’

‘Branching out?’ I paused in my outerwear removal. This sounded an awful lot like a firing. ‘Branching out from The Look?’

‘No, not at all,’ Mary nodded thanks as Cici arrived with her coffee. I looked up hopefully. No coffee for Angela. I was definitely being fired. ‘This is it, Angela, your big break. An interview has come up and we want you to do it.’

‘I’ve never interviewed anyone before,’ I said slowly, not wanting to jinx anything.

‘Sure you have, you interview people all the time.’ The very fact that Mary couldn’t look at me proved she didn’t even believe herself. What was going on?

‘I have asked questions of the fourth runner-up of America’s Next Top Model cycle eight and waited in the queue for the toilets with an Olsen twin. They aren’t interviews, Mary,’ I said. ‘Don’t you have loads of writers that—you know—specialize in interviewing?’

‘We do,’ Mary said, looking up and staring me out. ‘But this one is yours. Are you telling me you don’t want to do it?’

Miraculously, a steaming coffee appeared in front of me, but Cici had turned on her heel before I could say thanks. Baby steps, I thought to myself.

I took a deep breath. Of course I wanted to do an interview. How hard could it be to ask some random a few questions? ‘Of course I want to. It’ll be great. I’ll be great. I’ll manage. I’ll try.’

‘No try here, Angela.’ Mary pushed her frameless glasses up her nose. ‘This is a biggie. One week in LA with James Jacobs.’

‘James Jacobs? The actor?’ I asked, sipping tiny scorching gulps. ‘Me?’

‘Yes you,’ Mary leaned back a little in her chair. ‘And yes, the actor. The very hot British actor.’

‘You want me to interview him for the website?’

‘Not quite,’ she replied. ‘It’s for the magazine.’

‘You want me to interview James Jacobs for the magazine?’ I wondered if I’d slipped and cracked my head on the shower this morning. That would explain why I thought Mary was suggesting I should interview this very hot British actor.

‘That’s right,’ she carried on. ‘You go to LA, you bond over being British, talk about, I don’t know tea and crumpets, and you get the inside scoop. He hasn’t done an awful lot of press but apparently he really wants to do this. Let his female fans in on the “real him” or some other shit.’

‘From what I’ve heard, he’s already let rather a lot of female fans in.’ I pulled off my last jumper, hot and flustered all of a sudden. ‘Isn’t he a bit of a slag?’

‘If you mean, has he been “linked with several Hollywood starlets”, then yes.’ Mary made bunny ears around the quote. She typed something into her Mac at super speed, then swivelled the monitor to face me. ‘But this is what we want to get past. His team are worried that all this “attention” could create a negative vibe with his female audience.’

The screen showed a Google image search. James Jacobs was tall, broad and athletic and there was no denying he looked good in a pair of swimming trunks. His dark blue eyes and damp, dark brown curls just added to the overall ‘Abercrombie at play’ look.

‘Doesn’t look very British to me,’ I commented, taking the mouse and clicking through a few more pictures. ‘Where’s he from again?’

‘Uh, his Wikipedia entry says London.’ Mary took the mouse back and flicked through to what was obviously her favourite shot, halfway down the page, James staring directly at me, dark brown hair tickling his cheekbones, bow tie loose, top two buttons of his shirt undone. ‘So you fly on Saturday.’

‘Sorry, what?’ I snapped back from the pretty pictures and looked at Mary. She had her, ‘I’m really not kidding’ face on. Not a favourite of mine. ‘But, it’s Monday?’

‘Which gives you almost a whole week to prep.’ Mary started to click at other things on her screen. A sure-fire sign that the meeting was all but over. ‘So, Cici will book your flights, your car, hotel and organize all the other stuff. Cash, credit card, BlackBerry, whatever.’

‘But, seriously, is this a good idea? Maybe I don’t have the experience for this. I’m not a professional interviewer, I’m a talker at best—and, when I’m lucky, people talk back. That’s really not a qualification.’ I leaned over the desk. Was Mary not feeling well? ‘And I’ve never been to LA before. What, I mean is, really, this doesn’t make that much sense, surely?’

‘Look, Angela,’ Mary’s eyes flickered across her screen. ‘Here’s the thing. I’m not supposed to tell you but they asked for you.’

‘What?’

‘Hey, I’m as surprised as anyone else.’ Mary pulled a face. ‘Not that I don’t think you’re great but, like you said, you’re not a professional interviewer: we both know that. But James’s people wouldn’t have anyone else. It was the only condition of the interview.’

I didn’t know what to say. What could I possibly have done that could attract the attention of James Jacobs’s ‘people’? I didn’t think they would have been that impressed with my critically acclaimed series on which Manhattan department store was the best to hit for a free makeover before you went out (Bloomingdale’s, Soho).

‘If you’re not going to do it, just say,’ Mary went on. ‘The entertainment team on the magazine are already incredibly pissed off. They can get someone else like that—’

‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not that. I absolutely want to do it. It’s amazing. I just—I just don’t get it.’

‘Me either.’ Mary really didn’t believe in sugarcoating anything. Even when I would have preferred it. ‘I can only tell you what they told me. James’s team doesn’t want a polished, super celebrity reporter who is going to stiff them with some horrible sordid Hollywood exposé. They want someone who is going to help show James as—you know—a fantasy guy. The whole point of the article is it needs to be fluffy, not scandalous, sort of a “My Dream Week with James Jacobs”. Almost like it was written by a reader.’

‘So basically an amateur not experienced enough to weasel out the details of his secret love child?’ I surmised, slightly relieved and slightly offended at the same time.

‘Yeah, pretty much.’ Mary had either missed or chosen to ignore the part where I was slightly offended. ‘The entertainment editor thought it was maybe because, you know, you’re British so he’ll trust you.’

‘Britain isn’t just this little quaint village where everyone makes jam and says good morning to their neighbours, you know,’ I grumbled half-heartedly. ‘Margaret Thatcher was British and no one trusted her.’

‘So, like I said, Cici will get you everything.’ Mary pointed towards the door, where Cici stood, clipboard in her hand, hateful look on her face. ‘And you’ll blog from LA, OK? You can say you’re doing an interview but it’s probably best not to give too much away. Save it for the magazine. It’ll be good for you.’

‘And people weren’t that mad on Tony Blair towards the end,’ I added thoughtfully. ‘And Sweeney Todd. Was he real?’

‘No, Angela, he wasn’t,’ Mary looked back across the desk. ‘Angela, they have asked for you. We are sending you. Against the wishes of the editorial team. Against the wishes of the publishing team. Do not fuck this up. You don’t want to lose your visa, do you?’

I bit my bottom lip. It was like getting told off by my mum. ‘Lose my visa?’

‘This is a major interview for the magazine and, if you do it right, could even go international,’ Mary explained. ‘If this goes wrong, the publishers are hardly likely to want to continue with your blog, are they?’

‘No,’ I said, suddenly feeling very sick.

‘Look, no one’s expecting a Pulitzer prize-winning article, just go out there and talk to this man. There are a lot worse ways to spend a week in March. You’re getting an all-expenses-paid trip to LA, plus you’re getting paid. Suck it up, go buy a bikini and interview the handsome man.’ She waved me out of my seat. ‘I’ll see you in two weeks. And don’t screw it up.’

I felt a bony grip on my shoulder and rose tentatively out of my chair. Please let it be Death, I prayed silently, gathering up my sweaters, gloves and coat.

‘Can we please hurry this up?’ came the snide voice attached to the Vulcan death-grip. ‘I have other things to do today.’

‘Oh, Cici,’ I said, trying not to be disappointed. She might be as bony as Death but Cici was a lot more dangerous.

‘And then, as if I wasn’t freaked out enough, she basically said they only want me because I’m an amateur.’ I dropped my head onto the table in Scottie’s Diner, across the street from our apartment, toppling the tomato sauce into Jenny’s fries. ‘Shouldn’t I be insulted?’

‘OK, firstly, you kinda are an amateur, aren’t you?’ Jenny gulped her Diet Pepsi and shrugged. ‘I just mean you’ve never interviewed anyone before, right? And uh, hello, you’re going to LA on Saturday?’

‘Yes,’ I started, ‘but—’

‘Shut. Up.’ Jenny held out her hand. ‘You’re being paid to fly to sunny, hot LA from cold, fugly New York. In March. To interview one of the hottest men in the entire world. Who has specifically asked for you. And they’re paying you for it. I see no bad here. It’s a massive step for your career, you’re interviewing one of the hottest men in the world. And you’re going to LA. With one of the hottest men ever. In LA.’

‘I can see that you’ve found a couple of positives.’ I frowned, sipping my hot chocolate. ‘But—and I know I sound like a whiny cow, but the more I think about it, it just doesn’t feel like a good idea. I don’t want to take on such an amazing opportunity and then cock it up because I don’t know how to interview someone, let alone some Hollywood super-stud. Plus, I don’t really want to disappear off to LA for a week on my own. Not at the moment…’ I tailed off and looked into my hot chocolate, painfully aware that I had said absolutely the wrong thing.

Jenny shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. You are not doing this: it could be my only chance to meet James Jacobs. And, you know, it would be nice to head out to LA again,’ she pointed with a floppy fry. ‘If you even suggest turning this down because you’ve just got back into Alex’s shorts, I will be so angry with you.’

‘Firstly, that’s not what I meant,’ I lied, pulling the fries across the table. Most days, I loved that Jenny knew exactly what I was really thinking, no matter what actual words made it out of my mouth, but sometimes it was just irritating. ‘And secondly, when were you last in LA? And thirdly, you’re coming with me?’

‘Firstly, yes I am, secondly a few years ago, I’ve so told you before and you never listen and, thirdly, that is exactly what you meant and it’s bullshit.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to go, or at least not because of Alex. I-I don’t know. I’ll miss him. Is that the saddest thing ever?’

‘Yes, it is.’ Jenny gave me her best ‘you’re being ridiculous’ look. ‘You don’t think he’s going to cheat on you?’

‘No, of course not,’ I shrugged. The thought might have crossed my mind. ‘Things are just going really well right now. But things were going really well before and look what happened.’

‘Oh Angie,’ Jenny said, ‘it’s different this time. Any idiot can see it’s real between you two.’

‘Wasn’t it real before?’ I asked. It had been everything I could do not to even think these things all day and now here I was, saying it all out loud. ‘And he walked away. And did God-knows-what with God-knows-who. Who’s to say I go away and he’s out with his friends and, well, you know. Have you seen him? He’s bloody gorgeous.’

‘Yeah, so over that and hello? He won’t cheat on you because he loves you.’ Jenny stabbed at me with a fry loaded with ketchup.

‘He hasn’t said so.’

‘Have you said it?’

‘Nope.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Huh. So you’ve been thinking it but not saying it?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘So what makes you think he isn’t thinking it but hasn’t said it either?’ Jenny reasoned.

‘But what if I say it and he thinks I’m moving too fast and dumps me again?’ I countered.

‘So you don’t say it,’ Jenny held up her hands. ‘Or you do. Whatever.’

‘Hmm.’ I nibbled a fry thoughtfully while Jenny wolfed down a whole handful. ‘You were there on holiday?’

‘Where, LA?’ Jenny asked through a mouthful.

I nodded, trying not to look at the big potato-ey mess. For a very beautiful girl, Jenny could be foul sometimes.

‘Way to change the subject. OK, don’t laugh, but before I decided to become the new Oprah and before Tyra frickin’ Banks beat me to it, I thought I might give acting a shot. So I spent a while in LA, stayed out for the pilot season, but it wasn’t for me so I came back to New York. It might be nice to go back out, see some friends. Maybe we could stay at The Hollywood. I could take a week’s vacation and you know, you can introduce me to James Jacobs.’

‘OK, OK, this is too much.’ I couldn’t help but grin at Jenny. ‘And don’t you dare try and change the subject—that’s my thing. You went to Hollywood to be an actress?’

‘And I’d have been a silver-screen goddess but the West Coast wasn’t for me.’ Jenny shook her head. ‘Can we leave it?’

‘Fine, I just—well, I can’t imagine you playing anyone other than Jenny Lopez,’ I said.

‘It’s the role of a lifetime.’ Jenny gave me a quick flash of jazz hands. ‘You do mean me and not the other one, right? Because I’d have to kick your ass.’

‘You’re more of a diva,’ I agreed. ‘So what’s The Hollywood?’

Jenny waved at the old silver-haired man behind the counter. ‘Sister hotel. It’s The Union in New York and there’s The Hollywood in LA, The Strip in Vegas and, uh, The Something Else in Paris. I can never remember. Scottie, could we get some more fries, please?’

‘How many times do I tell you, my name it is not Scottie, it is Igor,’ the guy behind the counter trundled over with more fries. ‘I buy this place from Scottie, this is why it is called Scottie’s Diner.’

‘Thanks, Scottie,’ Jenny gingerly picked up scalding hot chip and blew on it, ‘you’re good people.’

‘Are you sure we could stay there? The magazine said they would put me up in an apartment somewhere.’ I couldn’t believe the amount of crap Jenny could eat and never gain a pound. A true disciple of WeightWatchers, I had forgone almost all foods with a calorie content higher than that of a carrot for a whole year to slim into my ill-fated bridesmaid dress. Walking the streets of New York City every single day helped, but I could never be one of those girls who scarfed ice cream, pizza and chocolate all day long without putting on weight. A girl like Jenny, who only ever put on a couple of pounds—tops; which went straight to her already curvy curves and never ever to her tiny waist. If she weren’t such a great friend, I could really get around to hating her.

‘We are totally staying there. Tell the magazine you’re fixed,’ Jenny was already halfway through the new plate of fries. ‘As if I would let you stay in some skanktastic apartment. Who knows where you would end up. Besides, my friend Joe is managing the bar and I’m due a whole heap of vacation days. The hotel totally owes me. And Joe and I totally have history, he’ll look after us.’

‘By history, do you mean you shagged him? And by “us” do you mean “you”?’

‘Well, yeah.’ Jenny’s eyes glazed over slightly. ‘So if it doesn’t work out with me and James Jacobs, I can always call on Joe. I need to get laid already.’

‘Really? And Joe, this is Hot Joe who used to work at The Union?’ I asked, testing the waters. ‘You’re sure you’re up to seducing movie stars and bartenders?’

‘I’m fine,’ Jenny replied, without looking up at me. ‘Seriously, I’m all shiny and new.’

‘Good, because I’ve been worried.’ I slapped her hand away from the fries. ‘You haven’t been your usual irritating self for ages.’

‘It’s just winter,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve been out of it a little. I’ve been thinking about taking a break, so well done on the perfect timing.’

I smiled. Going to Hollywood with Jenny could be fun. ‘So, we’re off to LA then?’

‘Angie, honey, when have I ever steered you wrong? It will be awesome,’ Jenny replied, scooping up the last fry. ‘And I’m sure Alex is just delightful if you’re into skinny hipsters, but Joe is almost, almost as hot as James Jacobs. You organize the flights, I’ll organize the hotel and the booty call.’

‘Ick,’ I shook my head. ‘Just ick.’

I hopped on the L train at Union Square after abandoning my overexcited best friend outside the hotel. As the train trundled over to Brooklyn, Jenny’s giddiness started to wear off. I’d almost forgotten that this wasn’t a girls’ holiday, it was a job. It was a interview that, if I screwed it up, could cost me my job, my visa, everything. Climbing up the subway stairs, it just seemed like such a bad idea and, on top of everything, as tragic as it was, I really didn’t want to leave Alex. I couldn’t tell him I loved him in case he panicked and ditched me, but if I didn’t tell him, how would he know not to cheat on me with every groupie in Brooklyn while I was away?

And the potential destruction of my personal and professional life aside, what was in LA anyway? A seven-hour flight, a whole city full of super-hot, super-bronzed beach bimbettes and, most terrifying of all, a week-long interview with a real-life, genuine movie star.

Writing my blog was easy: there was always something interesting to talk about, and anyone could review some books and even a few CDs—that just meant winging a couple of hundred words. But there was no way I could bluff my way through this. There was no denying that it could be a great opportunity for me as a writer, but it was also a fabulous opportunity for me to fall flat on my arse. I was just an ‘amateur’, after all. The vision of me throwing myself off the ‘H’ of the Hollywood sign clutching a signed photo of James Jacobs played over and over in my mind until I reached Alex’s apartment.

‘Hey.’ He opened the door, pulled me in and pushed me backwards against the wall, kissing me hard on the lips.

‘I am so cold,’ I breathed, shaking my scarf, mittens and coat off onto the floor. ‘Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t go to LA on Saturday.’

‘The pizza sucks?’ Alex muttered, hoisting me up onto his kitchen counter, pulling off my top two sweaters in one swift move.

‘That’ll do,’ I nodded, trying to kick my boots off behind his back but succeeding only in bashing him in the hip seven times.

‘That actually really hurts.’ Alex tugged the boots off for me.

I crossed my legs behind his back as he stumbled with me into the living room. ‘Yeah, it’s never like it is in films, is it?’

Alex’s place was just as dishevelled as its owner, with books, guitar strings and worn T-shirts strewn everywhere. Luckily, the beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the East River to Manhattan made up for the disgusting kitchen. Lying full stretch on the sofa while Alex strummed something new on his acoustic guitar (and I pretended not to be watching Gossip Girl with the subtitles on) was officially my new favourite way to spend a Monday night. I yawned, gazing out at the skyline. When you weren’t outside, New York was gorgeous in the snow. The sun, sea and sand could never compete.

The apartment was also about twenty degrees hotter than mine and now, thoroughly warmed up, I was perfectly happy wearing nothing but Alex’s T-shirt and my pants, moulding myself against his slowly rising and falling chest on the sofa, my bare legs tangled in his long, warm limbs. We hadn’t quite made it into the bedroom, something I was always proud of. I’d come a long way from the Angela Clark who spent five or so years tucked up in her winceyette PJs before her ex came home so she wouldn’t have to endure his huffing, puffing and generally uncomfortable fumblings.

‘So, any reason in particular I should be trying to talk you out of going to LA on Saturday?’ Alex asked, combing his fingers through my mussed-up hair. Between getting back together with Alex and the terrible weather, my do was very much a constant don’t. ‘That was a pretty random request, even for you.’

‘The magazine wants me to go and interview this actor.’ I waved a hand around, working very hard to come across as very casual about the whole thing. ‘But they want me to go on Saturday and I’ve never really interviewed anyone before so I don’t know. I’m sort of in two minds about it.’

‘Sounds like a great opportunity,’ he offered diplomatically. ‘LA’ll be warmer than New York.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, twisting my neck around to get a better look at him. ‘I know, it could be amazing. It’s just a long way and stuff.’

‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But you never know, you might like it?’

‘Do you?’ I asked. ‘Like LA, I mean.’

‘Mehh,’ he held his hand up to mine. My small pale hands, with the nibbled-at fingernails filed down, palm to palm with his long, calloused, guitar-playing fingers. ‘I don’t love it.’

‘So you wouldn’t want to come with me?’ I asked, only briefly considering Jenny’s wrath. ‘It’ll only be for a week or something.’

‘However will I survive without you?’ Alex kissed my hand.

I paused for a moment to feel his heartbeat. Perfectly even. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know if I should do it. Even if it could be incredible.’

‘Then don’t go.’ Alex’s heartbeat started to slow, I could tell he was about to drop off. That was my only bedroom-based problem with the boy. He always needed a post-shag nap whereas sex left me wide-awake. And since I overthought every situation at the best of times, his post-coital narcolepsy wasn’t ideal for me. Depending on how the day had gone, I was either planning our wedding (I thought barefoot on the beach in Mexico; I’d never been but it sounded sort of fabulous) or panicking that the whole relationship was about to fall apart again.

I tried to toss and turn quietly, torn between running off to LA with Jenny and staying exactly where I was for ever and ever when my phone starting buzzing inside my beautiful bag. Slipping out of Alex’s arms, I shuffled down the sofa and answered.

‘Hello?’ I whispered, creeping into the bathroom.

‘Angela, it’s me,’ a voice crackled from a long way away. ‘Are you there? You’re so faint?’

‘Louisa! How are you? Is everything OK? You never call my mobile.’ Louisa was my best friend from for ever. We’d grown up together, gone to the same university, moved to London at the same time, basically done everything together—right up until I broke her husband’s hand at their wedding. But since we had resolved that tiny issue, our regular weekly phone calls could go on for hours. She wouldn’t mind if I had a wee while we chatted. I hoped.

‘I know, but you weren’t home and I couldn’t wait, it’s too exciting.’ I hadn’t heard her so giddy since she’d told me about her engagement. ‘Tim’s bank got taken over by some American bank this morning, did you see it on the news?’

‘Louisa, given that I was engaged to a banker for five years and couldn’t even tell you what his job title was, I think you’re probably going to have to fill me in on the details. Is Tim’s job OK?’

‘Yes, better than OK!’ Louisa was still gushing. ‘They’ve asked him and his team to go meet the US operation. We’re coming to New York for a week. Next week!’

I snapped upwards so quickly I almost toppled off the loo seat. ‘Louisa, that’s amazing! When do you get here? Do you know where you’re staying? God, there are so many places I’m going to take you!’

‘Angela, are you on the toilet?’

Yes. ‘No?’

‘Good, because that would be disgusting,’ she said sternly. ‘Anyway, we’re all flying out on Friday night, I’m not sure where we’re staying, Tim literally just called me to tell me. Oh, Angela, I can’t wait to see you.’

‘Oh I know, you too,’ I said, trying to wash my hands and flush super quietly. ‘And Tim. Oh, I can’t believe it!’

‘There’s just one thing that might be…but well, it’s nothing really,’ Louisa’s excitement faltered slightly. ‘I mean, New York is a big city and everything, isn’t it?’

‘Louisa…?’

‘It’s just, well, like I say, nothing. Forget I said it. I’m coming to New York!’

‘Louisa Price!’

‘Fine, well, it’s not just Tim coming out.’ Louisa finally sighed. ‘It’s his whole team.’

‘So…Mark?’

‘Erm, yes, and…well.’

‘Mark and…her?’

Even six months after finding out my boyfriend had been cheating on me, I still couldn’t actually say her name. As happy as I was with Alex, as pleased as I was to be out of that relationship, girl logic prevailed—he was an evil cheating scumbag and she was a nasty skank.

‘Oh, Lou,’ I massaged my temples. ‘Seriously?’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Louisa insisted. ‘You won’t have to see him, will you? Unless, I mean, unless you want to?’

‘That’s not even funny.’ My brain was spinning. ‘Why would I want to even see him?’

‘Well, it has been ages and you two were together a long time,’ Louisa said slowly. ‘Maybe you’d feel better if you did see him?’

‘Do you remember what happened the last time I saw him?’ I could feel myself getting angry, and angry was not my best look. Hence the hand-breaking incident at Louisa’s wedding. ‘And what happened the last time you didn’t tell me something? What’s going on, since when were you Mark’s biggest fan again?’

‘All right, yes, Mark asked Tim to ask me if I would get you to meet him,’ Louisa rushed. ‘But I said he had to get in touch himself if he wanted to see you. Because if you don’t want to see him then you don’t have to and I said I wasn’t going to try and trick you or guilt-trip you or anything. He’s a tit.’

I stared at Alex’s bathroom ceiling, feeling the entire last six months slip away. Of course it would make sense to meet with Mark. We had been together for ten years, grown up together really. And it would make me the bigger person; help prove to everyone that I had really changed in the last six months. And it would all be on my terms: New York was my home now, after all, and he’d never even been to America. And of course I really wouldn’t want to but, if forced, I would be able to flaunt my beautiful new super-cool boyfriend. Nothing intimidated a money man like a guitar boy. They didn’t understand them.

But of course none of that would matter if I wasn’t in New York when Mark arrived…

‘Angela, are you still there?’

‘I am, lovely, but I have really bad news.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m actually going to LA on Saturday for work. I forgot.’

‘You’re what?’ Louisa said.

‘I’m going to LA to interview James Jacobs, so I won’t be here.’

‘And you forgot that?’

‘Yes.’

‘You forgot you were flying out to LA this Saturday and interviewing one of the most famous men in the world?’

‘He’s not that famous,’ I protested. Wow, Louisa was pissed off.

‘Is this because Mark is coming? Because you’re better than that, you know.’

I paused before answering. ‘Actually no, it’s not just that,’ I said. ‘It’s really something I have to do. It’s an amazing opportunity, isn’t it? I mean, I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit relieved that I’m not going to see him, it’s not top of my list of things to do this weekend, but I do have to go to LA. I’m gutted that I’m not going to see you though.’

‘Right.’

‘Lou, please don’t be mad?’ I begged.

‘I’m not mad,’ she sighed eventually. ‘I’m just sad that I won’t get to see you. But yeah, it’s no contest really, is it? I can see why you’d rather nip off to LA and meet James Jacobs than hang around in freezing New York for the week.’

And for the first time, so did I.

‘You’re amazing,’ I smiled, excitement and relief bubbling up in my stomach. ‘I’m going to email you with all the incredible places you have to go and you call me if you get stuck for anything to do at any time, OK?’ We said goodbye and I hung up, breathed in deeply and then pressed speed-dial without even looking. ‘Cici? Can I come in later and book my flights? I go on Saturday, right?’

Chapter Three

Saturday came around altogether too quickly for me and not nearly quickly enough for Jenny. After calling in a few favours at work to get the week off, she had spent the entire week waxing, scrubbing and fake-tanning, in between sending increasingly indecent text messages to Joe at The Hollywood and throwing increasingly indecent bikinis into a tote bag. I took a more stressful approach to preparing for the trip.

After my not-so-fun phone call with Louisa, I’d headed back to bed to tell Alex I’d changed my mind about going LA. A sleepy smile and ‘cool, bring me back something carb-free’ wasn’t strictly the response I’d been hoping for, but I wasn’t going to let my hot boyfriend paranoia ruin LA for me. Admittedly, not so secretly, I had been hoping he would hate the idea of me taking off to interview the gorgeous man with an appalling reputation in sunny sparkly Hollywood and beg to come with me but not so much. He’d barely even acknowledged it.

And to make matters worse, he’d been ‘working’ all week and I’d hardly seen him. The band had just started writing their new record, which meant hours locked away in his apartment and a couple of unannounced arrivals at my place at random times in the night, with fevered eyes and a new song to play. And, well, everything else that came along with a two a.m. drop-in. Which wasn’t so bad, but being with Alex all night and writing all day had not left me looking my best. By Friday evening, Jenny looked like a Playmate, all buffed, bronzed and big hair, while I looked more like an inmate, bedraggled, bloated and big bags under my eyes.

At eight in the bitter morning, Jenny stood impatiently on the corner of our street, huddled in her down-filled parka and even bigger sunglasses, while I lingered in my goodbye hug with Alex.

‘So let me know when you get there.’ He pulled at the slightly longer side of my bob, curling it around his finger. ‘Just text or something.’

I nodded. ‘If I’m not too busy bailing this one out for sexual harassment.’ Jenny was reading her text messages with a wicked smile. ‘Possibly literally bailing her out.’

‘Well, as long as you’re not sexually harassing anyone but me.’ He leaned in for a warm kiss, his fringe brushing against my frozen nose, making me sneeze. ‘How do you feel about phone sex?’

‘You must be freezing,’ I said, ignoring his question, ‘and Jenny’s about to get in a cab without me.’ Oh, and I love you by the way, I added silently. ‘Um, I’ll call you later?’

‘For the phone sex,’ Alex nodded with deadly seriousness. ‘Don’t forget you’re three hours behind me.’

‘Well, you’re always up three hours later than me anyway.’ I nodded at Jenny to wave down a passing cab.

‘This could be the perfect thing for us then.’ Alex passed me my battered leather weekend bag. It looked pitiful next to my (sigh, so pretty) Marc Jacobs handbag. Maybe it would find a new friend in LA. ‘We could be the first couple to ever make a long-distance relationship work.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ I tried to laugh. Trust a boy to say something stupid just before you got on a plane. God, I should just say it. ‘Alex?’

‘Angela?’

‘I…I…’ I paused, not really knowing what I was waiting for. Alex shivered expectantly, his breath fogging up between us, hands stuck deep into his jeans pockets. ‘I’ll be back next Monday. Don’t get too used to being on your own.’

Congratulations on wimping out. What a great example of a strong, modern woman I was turning out to be.

‘You’re only going away for a week. I think I’ll survive.’ Alex kissed my frozen nose and shut the door. ‘And again with the phone sex.’

‘Bye, Alex.’ I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

‘You’re not exactly down with the phone sex then?’ Jenny asked as we pulled away.

‘Shut up,’ I replied pleasantly, watching our building—and Alex—vanish out of sight.

From the second we stepped out of the airport, it was completely obvious that California was going to be very different to New York. As we headed out onto the freeway, I couldn’t quite believe we were in the same country. The city was wide open, cars streaming up and down the highways with their tops down, the skyscrapers of downtown sparkling in the distance rather than constantly pressing down on us and, bejesus, the sunshine.

Despite the bitching and moaning I’d done about the steamy New York summer at the time, one morning I had woken up and it had gone. The weather teased me with a couple of weeks of creamy, cardigan-appropriate autumn before dissolving into burns-your-nose-when-you-breathe winter. It wasn’t like New York didn’t try its best to win me over—the shops were soon full of cute jumpers, flattering opaque tights and massive quantities of delicious hot chocolate—but by Christmas, when I had been snowed in twice and lost a pair of suede shoe-boots to an unforeseen storm, I was dying for a little bit of sunshine. And here it was. Hiding away in LA all this time.

‘Oh my God,’ I blinked once. Twice.

‘I know,’ Jenny patted me reassuringly on the back.

‘But it’s sunny.’ I looked up at the clear blue sky.

‘I know,’ Jenny sighed.

‘In March?’

‘Can we please just shush?’

‘Jenny, look!’ I pressed my nose up against the cab window, watching billboards and fast-food restaurants whizz by. At least taxi drivers still drove like psychos—London, New York, LA, all the same. It was oddly reassuring.

‘Yeah,’ Jenny muttered, touching up her make-up. A little Touche Eclat, some bronzer, a dash of lip gloss and, ta-da, she looked perfect.

I was avoiding even catching my reflection in the cab window. Even though I had spent the flight cleansing, moisturizing and then moisturizing some more, I knew I looked like crap. My skin felt like sandpaper and my hair hung around my cheeks, limp and lifeless. What was more annoying was that Jenny had done nothing for three hours but slump against the window, watch half a series of America’s Next Top Model and drink as many free glasses of wine as they would give her, occasionally slapping away my attempts to moisturize her against her will. And bless the man in the seat next to us for only complaining once when one of my misdirected paws full of Beauty Flash Balm accidentally landed slap in the centre of his forehead.

‘Did you see that?’ I pointed at a strip-mall. ‘There’s a shop called Condomania? Wow. And IHOP! I’ve heard of IHOP!’

‘Angela, you’ve been living here for—like—nine months or something. Why are American stores and restaurants still a total revelation to you?’ Jenny pointed with a mascara wand for emphasis. ‘If this entire trip is going to be like the time you saw Twinkies in the corner store, then goddamn it, we are going home now.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, trying not to point out the Wal-Mart to our left, ‘but it’s exciting! You see this stuff on TV but then they don’t have it in New York—I’m just a bit giddy. I can’t believe I didn’t want to come. Maybe it’s the sun.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Jenny muttered. ‘You know you have to interview a celebrity tomorrow, right?’

‘It’s just an interview; he’s just a person, isn’t he?’ I wrinkled my nose at Jenny’s incredulous head-shake. ‘I mean, Alex is a bit famous, he’s in a band and that doesn’t bother me. They’re just people, aren’t they?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I said when I started at The Union,’ Jenny sighed. ‘Until Christian Bale checked in and I spent three days sneaking around his room and stealing his underwear.’

‘Please tell me you’re kidding.’ I tore my eyes away from a Taco Bell.

‘They’re under my bedside table,’ Jenny smiled happily. ‘Thank God he never complained. I’d only been there a week; they would have fired me for sure. You’re going to lose your mind when you actually see him.’

‘Jenny, really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying not to doubt myself. What if she was right? ‘He’s just a person. I’ve talked to people before.’

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Celebs aren’t like normal people; it’s impossible not to get fazed by them. They just have this, like, charisma.’

‘But you see celebrities every day,’ I argued. ‘And you do nothing but slag off Angelina Jolie for wanting a special kind of tea.’

‘Oh, yeah, I meant celeb boys,’ Jenny conceded. ‘I don’t give a shit about the girls. You’re going to lose it over James Jacobs, honey.’

I shook my head and smiled, turning to look back out the window. ‘I’ve never even seen one of his films. I thought it would be better not to get caught up in the movie-star thing and just concentrate on getting to know him.’

‘What’s to know? He’s super hot, he’s a movie star so he must be super rich, and he’s super talented. Jeff and I saw that one about the casino…’ She trailed off for a moment. The ‘J’ word. ‘He was pretty good.’

The rest of the cab ride was awkwardly silent but mercifully short. I was terrified of setting Jenny off with a mention of her ex: nine times out of ten it ended badly. Once I had tried to cheer her up after a shitty day at work (she’d mixed up Mischa Barton and Nicole Richie’s dry cleaning—all hell broke loose) with a surprise Ben & Jerry’s, only to get a weepy, slightly icky story about her, Jeff, the kitchen floor, a tub of Chunky Monkey and New Year’s Eve 2007. Another time when she thought she’d seen him on the subway, I’d tried to distract her with several bottles of wine, but the evening had ended at four a.m. with Jenny in her PJs in a drunken rage, railing against all men. And then throwing up out of our third-floor window. Happy memories.

Soon we were off the freeway and passing stores and coffee shop chains I recognized. An American Apparel, a Starbucks, the Gap, a Starbucks and, eventually, actual people walking up and down the streets. Clutching Starbucks.

‘We’re here,’ the driver barked, swerving sharply into a small circular driveway. ‘Seventy-five bucks.’

‘Seriously?’ I whispered to Jenny, as I pulled out my wallet and handed over my precious ‘expenses’ cash from The Look.

‘Cabs here are insane,’ Jenny said, hauling herself out onto the street. ‘Everyone in LA drives. Why do you think all the celebutards are always getting served with DUIs out here? No cabs.’

‘Can’t they walk if they know they’re going out to get trashed?’ I asked, crawling across the back seat after trying the door with no success. If it was possible, it was even sunnier at the hotel than at the airport.

Jenny looked at me as though I was completely backwards. ‘This is not New York, Angela. Don’t you know anything about LA?’

I didn’t know anything about LA.

If it was possible, the lobby of The Hollywood was even swankier than The Union. The dim lighting was just as flattering, the dozens of candles were just as chokingly scented, but there was an extra layer of gloss on everything, from the shining gold surfaces to the hair of the girls behind the concierge desk. The only thing missing were the packs of well-to-do tourists huddled around their suitcases, mummified inside North Face down jackets. In their place were what seemed to be half a dozen extras from 90210. Tall, gorgeous and half naked, they lounged against furniture—not quite sitting on it, just against it. While Jenny checked us in I tried to remain staring at the floor to avoid mirrored surfaces, but I could see myself reflected in their gaze quite clearly. And no amount of flattering lighting was going to help.

‘Come on Angie,’ Jenny squealed over by the lift. ‘We’re on the fourteenth floor, amazing views. And we have adjoining rooms! You’re just a door away from me.’

‘Does that door lock?’ I asked, trying to stop staring at the beautiful people in reception.

‘Why on earth would you want to lock the door on me?’ Jenny breezed into the lift and jabbed at the big round ‘14’ button. ‘Come on, the sooner we get unpacked, the sooner we can get in the pool.’

‘The pool?’ I dragged my wheeled case into the lift, while one of the girls in the world’s shortest shorts lowered her sunglasses and checked me out with a genuine look of horror on her face. I was certain that she was visualising the horror of me in a bikini. Just like I was.

‘Isn’t it amazing, Angie?’ Jenny squeezed my arm with slightly too much upper-body strength. ‘We’re in LA baby, woo!’

As the doors slid shut, the lift shot up and my stomach sank.

To make matters worse, I had not packed well. Or even vaguely appropriately. Standing by the bed, looking at my poor wardrobe choices in an American hotel room was familiar in the worst way. On top of the Egyptian cotton sheets were the entire contents of my weekend bag. Two pairs of Seven jeans, an assortment of American Apparel T-shirts (three-quarter-length sleeves), a couple of bargain cashmere cardigans I’d found at Century 21 and my long-sleeved, super-heavy Marc by Marc Jacobs shirt dress. Everyone had said it would be sunny in California, but it was still March, it couldn’t be that warm, could it? Of course it could. Bugger.

And to make matters weirder, The Hollywood was absolutely identical to The Union. Same room layouts, same bed linens, Rapture Spa toiletries, same eight-dollar condoms in the ‘intimacy kit’ by my bed. Even the curtains were the same. I rubbed the heavy drapes between my fingers and peered out of the window. Down on the sunny side of the street, I could see people. Lots and lots of people. And every single one of them was strutting around in tiny shorts and even tinier tops. Shit.

‘I’m coming in,’ Jenny announced as she sailed through the adjoining door by my bed. At first she had been quite insistent that we should share a room, but she was equally insistent that she was going to give Joe a good seeing-to at his earliest convenience so, as much as I loved that girl, I really didn’t want to have to sit in the bathroom with my headphones on while that happened. This was not the sixth-form trip to Belgium.

‘What, you’re not ready?’

Jenny’s week-long grooming had proved completely worthwhile. She glowed from her hot pink toenails to her long chocolate curls. Usually, her hair was tethered in a ponytail for work, or at least restrained by an industrial-strength Alice band. Seeing it freed, fluffing out around her face and bouncing way past her shoulders, reminded me why I had been so in awe of this glamazon when we first met.

‘Get your freaking ass into your swimsuit and get out this door,’ Jenny demanded, snatching off her sunglasses and staring me down. Which reminded me why I had loved her five minutes later.

‘Please don’t kill me…’ I slowly walked backwards to put a bed between us. I’d seen her motor in heels and so those flip-flops were not going to hold her back ‘But I didn’t actually bring a swimming costume. I didn’t have one and, well, I forgot to buy one.’

‘I knew this was going to happen. Didn’t I tell you, you were completely unprepared for this?’ She rummaged around in a giant metallic tote.

‘You told me I was an idiot to pass up a trip to LA; you told me you were going to shag Joe until you broke something; and you told me you’d been waxed to a terrifying degree—but I don’t remember you telling me I was underprepared.’ I pawed through all my clothes again—not that it would achieve anything, I knew for a fact I didn’t have a swimming costume. I hadn’t possessed a swimming costume since I was seventeen. They were bad things that hated women.

‘Yeah, I’ve definitely got it in there somewhere—but I’m pretty sure I didn’t say “shag”.’ Jenny pulled a basic black two-piece out from the depths of the bag. ‘What the hell are you going to do in that interview without me?’

Oh, she was so going to make me put that on.

Fifteen minutes and one very, very painful bikini-waxing incident later, involving an overenthusiastic Jenny, one pack of ‘at home’ waxing strips and a genuinely terrified me, backed into the corner of the bathroom, I finally found a difference between The Union and The Hollywood. The rooftop pool, the rooftop pool bar and the definitely-not-in-Manhattan view of the Hollywood sign, shouting out from the hills. I perched awkwardly on the edge of a sun lounger, frantically rubbing factor fifty into my English Rose-slash-pasty-pale skin, staring out at the bold white letters. But something didn’t feel right.

‘Mojitos.’ Jenny sat two enormous cocktails on the tiny table between the two of us. ‘Hooray for Hollywood, right?’

‘I thought the sign would be, I don’t know, bigger?’ I squinted through my sunglasses. ‘It just isn’t what I thought it was going to be.’

‘Hmm, I guess.’ Jenny was busy staring at the bar. ‘I suppose when you see it every day for a few months, you don’t really see it any more, you know?’

‘I guess,’ I nodded. ‘It’s weird, though. When I saw the Statue of Liberty I couldn’t believe it. It was amazing. This just feels weird.’

‘That’s because you’re a native New Yorker now, honey.’ Jenny passed me a mojito and clinked glasses. ‘LA is cool, but if you’re going to have fun, you’re going to have to get past your idea of what you think it’s going to be, because, honey, nothing ever really is.’

‘Reassuring.’ I pulled at the bandeau top of the bikini. I wondered if I had time for a quickie boob-job. ‘At least tell me the shops are good. We have to go shopping; I can’t fill this out like you.’

‘The stores are fine, we’ll get everything you need.’ Jenny peeked over the top of her sunglasses as a tall, dark-haired man appeared behind the bar. ‘Just as soon as I’ve got what I need.’

‘Ick,’ I shook my head and sipped my mojito. ‘Go get ’em, tiger.’

Watching Jenny slink around the pool in her swimsuit, I leaned back into the padded sun lounger and concentrated on the Hollywood sign. It seemed so unreal, even though here I was with the sun on my face and a drink in my hand. It wasn’t possible that just yesterday I’d been in snow boots and earmuffs just to go out and buy milk, the sun was too lovely. But I had a sneaking suspicion that it would have been even lovelier had Alex been lying beside me. God, I’d got so tragic so quickly.

Opening one eye, I peeked over to the bar. Jenny was already flipping her hair around and leaning backwards in her high-backed bar stool to give Joe a better look at her bikini. She wasn’t wrong: he was incredibly good looking. He’d shaved off the thick black hair that Jenny had been raving about all week, but instead of it making him look like a convict, it only served to reveal an amazing bone structure and gorgeous brown eyes. Yep, I thought, he probably is worth travelling halfway across the country for a quickie. His black shirt did nothing to diminish his tan and I was fairly sure that trousers that tight were not conducive to a comfortable night’s work. Huge tips, yes, but a fun night behind the bar? Not so much. Wouldn’t it make him need to pee all the time? And how would he ever father a child?

It was only when Joe waved that I realized I was staring and it was only the filthy look on Jenny’s face that alerted me to the fact that I was gazing in the general region of his crotch. I downed the remainder of the mojito, pulled a T-shirt over my borrowed bikini and padded over in Jenny’s spare flip-flops, praying that I didn’t have any mint in my teeth. A very sexy look.

‘Hey, English!’ Joe flashed a huge smile as I clambered onto the stool beside Jenny. They were too high for me to even attempt to be ladylike, not that I was fooling anyone. ‘Great to see you.’

‘Hi Joe.’ I tried to give Jenny a subtle look to communicate his undeniable hotness. This was not possible.

‘Joe was just tell me about all the cool places he’s going to take us,’ Jenny chimed, winding a straw through her fingers. ‘He knows all the cool places.’

‘Sounds 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 way,’ I could hear her laughing all the way across the country. ‘I haven’t seen you in a bikini since we were about six.’

‘And you won’t see it again. There will be no photographic evidence, believe me.’

‘I’d give anything to be in a bikini,’ Louisa moaned. ‘It’s bloody freezing here.’

‘I did tell you,’ I replied, thankful for the sun still shining through the window. The unseasonal warmth made me feel slightly less shitty for not being in New York with Louisa. I was not going to win World’s Best Friend this year. ‘But you’ll be fine. Just stay in the shops and get lots of cabs. Seriously, cane Tim’s expense account as much as humanly possible.’

‘What expenses? He can’t spend a penny these days. We’re staying in a Hilton, for God’s sake,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I should be relieved he still has a job. Anyway, I’ve got to have a shower, I’m disgusting.’

‘Never.’ Louisa was never anything other than perfect, eight-hour plane journey or otherwise. ‘But I do need to get some work done. Call me later.’

I ended the call, relieved at the lack of Mark-talk. There’s no way I would have avoided it in person. It was the first law of break-ups—the first time you saw someone, post-dumping, no matter how long ago it was or what had happened in the meantime, they wanted to rehash the whole event all over again. If I didn’t ask about him, I would know they were thinking that I really wanted to but was still too upset about the whole thing. And if they didn’t ask me about the break-up, I would know they were dying to tell me something, some fact or titbit to make me feel ‘a bit better’ and I really didn’t want to know. But I would have to ask, complete girl that I was. And for ‘girl’, read ‘masochist’.

I picked up my phone to dial Alex. It rang a few times before clicking off to his answer phone suggesting you not even bother to leave a message because he was pretty crappy at checking his voice-mail but that he hoped you’d call back soon. I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment. So he wasn’t answering, I’d call back later. Just had to keep myself busy for an hour or so. Busy and awake. Glancing over at my laptop, I resigned myself to actually doing some work, crazy idea that it was. It wouldn’t hurt to show Mary how serious I was about this, given how ridiculously ungrateful I’d been when she first told me about the interview. Logging on to my TheLook.com account, my fingers hovered above the keyboard for just a second.

The Adventures of Angela: Hooray for Hollywood

So here I am in LA. Can you believe it? I’m such a jet-setter.

Albeit a jet-setter hiding in her hotel room full of two mojitos and no dinner. Not a good idea, just in case you were wondering. But, happier news, I’m staying in a gorgeous hotel, full of gorgeous people with gorgeous sunshine beaming down on me for the first time in what feels like for ever and I can’t recommend it enough. I’m not recommending putting on a bikini for the first time in what feels like for ever, though—what a cruel and unusual punishment. It does seem to be curbing my appetite though…

Well, I hope you’re having a fun weekend. I just wanted to check in and let you know that I have a super-exciting project while I’m out here in LA. Obviously I would never just hotfoot it to Hollywood to enjoy myself; everything thing I do is a massive sacrifice, as you know, but I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow. For now I’ll just turn up the A/C, roll into my giant hotel bed and get an early night before my big day.

Me? Smug? Never…

I pressed send and then rolled onto the bed. Even hinting at the interview made it feel all the more real. Picking up the remote, I decided to do a little research on James Jacobs. There was a chance I’d been taking the whole ‘go in with no preconceptions’ approach too far. What if he was a total diva and refused to talk to me because I hadn’t even seen one of his movies? Couldn’t hurt to watch one film, could it? I grabbed a ten-dollar bag of M&Ms and mixed a twenty-three-dollar vodka and Coke. Couldn’t hurt to have one more drink, could it?

‘Super-hot and super-talented James Jacobs…’ I said to my reflection in the giant mirror, launching backwards onto the ridiculously comfortable pillow-top bed with the same deliciously soft bed linen I enjoyed, only ever so slightly illegally, every night. Flicking through the movies-on-demand menu, I eventually found the casino movie Jenny had mentioned. At least, if I fell asleep halfway through, she would be able to fill me in on the bits I’d missed.

But I didn’t fall asleep. I sat up, staring at the screen, one hand clutching the comforter around me, the other systematically popping M&Ms into my mouth for two whole hours. I wasn’t sure if it was that last vodka, Alex not answering his phone, or all the flesh on display at the pool, but by the end of the film I had a very serious, very unhealthy crush on James Jacobs.

Leaning on the triple pillars of journalistic integrity—IMDb, E! online and Perez Hilton, I learned everything there was to know, drama school, RADA, bit parts in various soaps and then the big Hollywood break. And then there were the hobbies: talented painter, keen hiker and, oh yes, he liked the ladies. Lots of them. A Google image search provided dozens upon dozens of pictures of a ridiculously beautiful young man in various states of drunkenness or undress from the last three years. Falling out of a club with Lindsay, lunching with Scarlett, frolicking on the beach with Paris and even attending the opera with Natalie. I clicked on a red carpet pic and enlarged it. Wow, he certainly knew how to work a tux. And a bra strap from the look of it.

‘Angie?’

A dramatically loud hiss through the adjoining door made me jump.

‘Angie, are you awake?’

‘Yes, Jenny,’ I said, dragging myself off the bed and over to the door that separated our rooms. I opened it up and watched Jenny fall through onto my feet. ‘Fun evening?’

‘I forgot to leave the air-con on in my room, can I sleep in with you?’ she asked, crawling over to the bed and clambering in.

‘Yes?’ I rubbed my face and sighed, smiling. ‘Just get off my side.’ I pushed her bikini-clad body over to the other side of the bed but she was already asleep. ‘So much for my good night’s sleep.’

I’d had every intention of waking up for an early swim and a spot of tiny-dog watching before setting out to meet Mr Jacobs, but that was before Jenny decided to crash in my room and take up my entire bed. After rolling her back across to her side of the bed seventeen times in two hours, I’d climbed out of bed and made a den on the chaise longue and watched clips of James Jacobs on YouTube, transfixed by his pretty, pretty face. And after falling asleep at around three a.m., I woke up with the pillow glued to my face at ten. One hour before I was supposed to meet James Jacobs. The James Jacobs. Crap.

After a second’s panic, I shook Jenny awake to enlist her services as my personal stylist. I scrambled around in the bathroom while she rolled out of bed, irritatingly hangover free, and disappeared into her wardrobe. Somehow I managed to be out of the hotel inside thirty minutes, wearing Jenny’s jade green Velvet T-shirt dress, some pretty brown leather sandals and a matching wide leather belt. Three squirts of dry shampoo into my roots and approval for me to do my make-up in the cab; truly I had come a long way from when she wouldn’t let me walk out of our apartment without a full makeover.

‘Good luck, honey,’ Jenny said, opening the cab door and kissing my cheek. ‘I’m gonna pick up the rental car so call me when you’re through. And yes, I promise I’ll get a nice safe car. I thought maybe we could meet my friend Daphne for dinner?’

‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I said, raking through my handbag. Did I have everything? Did I have anything? ‘And really, I’m not kidding. Don’t come back with something ridiculous. We don’t need a Mustang. And I wanted to ask last night, what happened with Joe?’

‘He’s making me work for it,’ Jenny pulled a face. ‘Did I get fat?’

‘I don’t even have time to answer that ridiculous question,’ I yelled out of the car as we pulled away. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

‘Tell that to James Jacobs,’ she shouted back, causing everyone and their mother on the sidewalk to turn and look. But I didn’t mind. Safe and sound in the back of the taxi, I was on my way to meet James Jacobs.

Without my Dictaphone.

I was so going to be late.

After the fantastically professional start to my morning, I made it to Toast with some dubiously applied blusher, a smudge of mascara and about three minutes to spare. According to my itinerary from the delightful Cici, Toast was a ‘very LA brunch spot full of very cool people.’ The implication of course being that I was very much not one of those people. And she was right. Fragile-looking waif girls dressed in skinny jeans, Ugg boots and The World’s Biggest Sunglasses were stacked seven deep around a relatively ordinary looking café at the side of a relatively ordinary looking road. Maybe even slightly skanky road. It certainly wasn’t the glamorous LA I was expecting. For the want of an approved outfit and a size zero figure, I stuck on my sunglasses and strode past the tables full of girls pushing food around their plates.

‘Hi there, welcome to Toast. Do you have a reservation?’

There was a girl on the door with a clipboard. Of a café. On a Sunday morning.

‘Hi, erm, yes, I do.’ I scrabbled around in my beautiful handbag (at least that looked as if it belonged, even if I didn’t) for the bit of paper that I’d rammed back in there during my scramble out of the cab. ‘I’m a little bit early…’

‘We’re very busy, if you don’t have a reservation…’ Door Girl looked me up and down in a not particularly flattering fashion.

‘No, I do, it’s under someone else’s name—James Jacobs, maybe? I’m meeting James Jacobs. It might be under The Look, as in the magazine?’ I tried my most charming smile. It did not help.

‘Sure, honey. James Jacobs,’ she said. I really didn’t like the extra-long pause between the words ‘James’ and ‘Jacobs’. I waited until she took a grudging look at her list, then raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow so high that it was practically lost in her highlights. ‘Oh. You’re Angela Clark?’

I nodded and smiled again, trying not to look like a smug cow. Bwah ha ha ha.

‘OK then, if you’d like to follow me? We’ve saved James’s favourite table. He’s not here yet but can I get you some coffee?’ Scary Door Girl transformed into Lovely-Door-Girl-slash-helpful-waitress and I wondered if I hadn’t just been a little bit paranoid. Maybe, just maybe, she was human after all.

‘That would be great. Cream and sugar please,’ I said, sitting down at James’s favourite table, which was thankfully hidden away in a corner at the back of the café, inside and away from the crowds.

Door Girl frowned. ‘Cream and sugar? Sure…’

Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Surely as the only person there that couldn’t possibly be a relation of the Olsen twins, they ought to be welcoming me and my ability to ‘do dairy’ with open arms? Jesus, no one else sitting in that place had eaten in a month.

Everything on the menu looked delicious but my appetite had vanished. In just minutes, I’d be meeting James Jacobs. The James Jacobs. Who needed cinnamon pancakes and sliced bananas 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.

Chapter Four

‘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 not going to help me have any more fun.

‘Jenny, if I wanted to go somewhere really glam, where would you take me?’

‘Seriously, would you get over it? I know this is a mall but it has the most stores, it’s where everyone shops,’ she said distractedly, holding out a Nanette Lepore petal pink number and a navy Theory shift. ‘I mean, we’ll totally hit Melrose, maybe The Grove before we go, but The Beverly Center has everything…I saw Britney here once. Before the whole head-shaving thing, when she was allowed out alone. And you can’t afford Rodeo Drive, I know what you make.’

‘No, I mean something really Hollywood?’ I tried not to pull a face at the pink dress. ‘A real, genuine LA experience.’

‘Uh, maybe lunch at The Ivy? Drinks at La Deux?’ she held up the pink for my approval. ‘I guess maybe LAX or Hyde or somewhere if you wanted a club. I’m kinda out of the loop on where’s hot.’

‘Lunch actually sounds really good.’ I held up a deep red Elizabeth & James number, Jenny nodded in agreement and stuck the pink dress back on the end of a random rail. If we had to discuss every shopping decision out loud, we would have no time to cover the other, almost equally important subjects in life. ‘Is The Ivy nice?’

‘Uh, I guess?’ Jenny draped the red silk across herself, slipping her head between the hanger and the dress before heaving a pile of dresses into my arms. ‘You should get these. Joe could probably get us a reservation. I’ll get Daphne to meet us there.’

I clapped happily as Jenny wandered off to get better reception on her mobile, the red silk still swishing around her neck. So what if I’d been stood up by my movie star? What man could compare with Jenny Lopez, shopping and a super-swank restaurant for lunch?

‘Can I set up a changing room for you?’

A helpful shop assistant appeared at my elbow and held her arms out to take the masses of silk and jersey that I was cradling. I paused for a second and thought of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel. And then of my credit card limit. And then of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel.

‘Actually, could you just take them to the counter?’ I asked. She nodded gleefully and literally ran across the shop floor. Sneaking a peek in my bag, I checked my mobile. Well, certainly not Alex, still nothing. I sighed and swung my bag around my back. I was going to need dessert.

It turned out that my interpretation of the real Hollywood and Jenny’s interpretation of the real Hollywood were very different. I couldn’t argue with the fact that The Ivy was exclusive and swanky, but unlike genuine A-list haunts in New York, there was no quiet dark entrance, designed to keep the undesirables away through sheer intimidation. Instead, it was slap-bang in the middle of a main road, nestled in between a row of shops and smothered by tourists and star-spotters. McDonald’s on Oxford Street was less conspicuous.

Flashbulbs clicked and buzzed all around us as we pushed our way up the little footpath leading from the street into a pretty little country cottage. I paused on the patio and turned back towards the sidewalk—paparazzi waving, shouting and screaming. Blinking back towards the restaurant, I followed Jenny through the calm, quiet and unwaveringly beautiful diners, none of whom appeared to actually be eating; instead they were concentrating very hard on pretending that they weren’t a living breathing version of the ‘Spotted’ page in Heat magazine. Trying to navigate a safe route through the wrought-iron tables and chairs and dozens of stiff cardboard carrier bags, I saw a hand shoot up at the back of the patio and wave us over.

‘Jesus, why on earth did you want to meet here, J doll?’ The hand belonged to Jenny’s friend Daphne, who introduced herself and greeted us both with extravagant kisses. ‘It’s such a circus.’

‘Angie wanted a real LA experience.’ Jenny peered over the top of her sunglasses at me. ‘And she got it.’

‘This isn’t really what I was expecting,’ I said, switching my attention from the heaving crowds back on the pavement to Daphne. ‘I was thinking, well, I don’t know. Glamorous? Swanky? LA is weird.’

‘Yeah, get used to it,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I ordered. I’m fucking starving.’

Given that the majority of The Ivy’s clientele appeared to be the exact same group of blondes I’d seen at Toast that morning, who had just about had time to go home and get changed into little sundresses and rich old men instead of Ugg boots and gym boys, Daphne stood out a mile. Just like everyone else here, she was undeniably beautiful but, unlike anyone else, she was a vision of retro beauty. Her black shiny hair was coiffed into a Betty Paige bob and her porcelain skin made my English-rose-slash-pasty-Brit complexion look as though I’d been in the Bahamas for six weeks. Teamed with the most precise eyeliner and perfect ruby red lips I’d ever had the privilege to behold, Daphne was an arresting sight. Jenny had told me she was an artist and a stylist, but I hadn’t figured that her talent with a paintbrush would run to her eyeliner. Next to her polished perfection, I felt as if I’d turned up in my decorating clothes.

But weirdly, no one was giving Daphne so much as a second glance. Instead, every single person in the restaurant was pretending not to look at a tiny little brunette, skulking in the corner and wearing a ridiculous number of layers for such a sunny day, who was sitting with an incredibly average-looking man in a business suit.

‘Who is that?’ I asked quietly, joining in the pretending-not-to-notice game. ‘I feel like I should know her.’

‘You should,’ Jenny said, sipping one of the gimlets Daphne had ordered for us. ‘It’s Tessa DiArmo, the singer? She stayed at The Union just before Christmas. Pain in my ass.’

‘Everyone’s a pain in your arse,’ I said, giving in to curiosity and turning around for a good look. The girl was genuinely minuscule, with masses of wavy light brown hair and glowing tanned skin. Whatever ‘it’ was that celebs had, Tessa apparently bathed in it every morning. Without batting so much as an eyelash, she had the attention of every single person in the restaurant. ‘I never saw her in The Union. She’s so pretty.’

‘Wouldn’t cut it with us, huh J?’ Daphne said, sipping the fresh cocktail that had been silently replaced. ‘You can’t shake what ain’t there.’

‘Shake?’ I tried to register the looks that were exchanging between the two girls, Jenny seeming slightly startled and Daphne smiling innocently into her drink.

‘Jenny told you how we met, right?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I turned to look at Jenny. ‘She actually didn’t.’

‘Daphne,’ Jenny let out a warning shot. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daphne wasn’t going to be hushed by a stern tone of voice.

‘Chill, J, it’s so not a big deal.’ She pressed her lips together, refreshing her pout. ‘We used to work together. When J lived here last time?’

‘When she was acting?’ I asked.

‘When she was dancing.’

I bit my lip and looked back at Jenny. Impossible. She was blushing.

‘Dancing? You danced?’ I really, really wanted Jenny to nod, smile and possibly demonstrate some tap moves.

‘Oh baby doll, I do not believe Miss J never told you about our act?’ Daphne pouted.

‘You had an act?’ This was too much.

‘Sure,’ Daphne said, as a waiter appeared with three giant salads. ‘A burlesque act.’

Jenny’s blush faded until her clear caramel skin paled to a sallow sea green. Even behind her giant sunglasses, I could see her eyes were as big as the huge salad plates in front of us. Simultaneously, we both reached for our gimlets and drained the glasses.

‘Well,’ I finally managed, ‘Jenny Lopez, you dark horse. I should have known.’

‘Excuse me?’ Jenny reached across the table and finished Daphne’s cocktail. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I just meant, you know, you carry yourself like a dancer,’ I protested. Just one cocktail in and I’d already had too much to drink to lie convincingly. Daphne sat cackling across the table and making ‘more drinks’ signs at our waiter.

‘And you’ve got good rhythm?’ There was no way to dig my way out of this. ‘No, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to fess up about this one. Burlesque dancing, Jenny Lopez?’

‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ She pushed her chair backwards, straight into the person behind her. ‘And when I get back, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Of course,’ I called as Jenny stormed across the patio, her massive tote bag bashing diners in the back of the head as she went. Waiting until she vanished inside the restaurant, I turned back to Daphne. ‘I reckon we’ve got about three minutes: go.’

‘OK.’ She cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Jenny and I met about seven years ago. She was out here waitressing, trying out at all these open auditions and shit, basically not getting anywhere. I was working in this vintage store on Melrose and, well, kind of stripping. But classy stripping, you know, not like “drunken bachelor parties” stripping.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I nodded, trying to think of an example of classy stripping. And failing.

‘So we were both at this club one night,’ Daphne went on, ‘and we got to talking, got to dancing, got to some serious fucking drinking, and so I tell her that there’s an open call for dancers on a new music show the next day. I kind of didn’t think she would show, but I turn up and there she is. The full Flashdance, seriously: legwarmers, one-shoulder sweater, the whole outfit.

‘But the problem is, Jenny can’t really dance. I mean, she can move, right? But she’s not a trained dancer. And look at me. I am so not what MTV are looking for. Anyways, we get up there, basically make asses out of ourselves, and just when we’re about to go get real drunk and laugh about the whole thing, this chick comes up to us and asks if we’ve ever thought about doing burlesque.’

‘And then what happened?’ The vision of Jenny dressed as an extra from Fame was almost enough for me, but I had to get the rest of the story.

‘What did I freaking say?’ A firm slap on the back of my head heralded Jenny’s return from the bathroom. ‘We’re so not talking about this.’

‘Oh, we so are,’ I pushed another gimlet at her. ‘Get this down you.’

‘Seriously,’ Jenny necked the drink, ‘we’re not. We’re also not going to be able to drive the Mustang back to the hotel. I’m wasted. I totally forgot how strong these were.’

‘I’ll drive, let’s just have one more,’ I said, tapping her hand. ‘Go on, Daphne.’

‘No, do not go on Daphne,’ Jenny shook her head. ‘And you cannot drive. Angie, honey, you’re tanked. Can we just eat now please?’

For the want of knowing what else to do, I picked at my salad, smiling, nodding and accepting more drinks as they appeared. Jenny stared across the table at Daphne, her face like thunder. Dessert was looking more and more necessary to save the day. Or at least another gimlet.

‘So where are we going next?’ Daphne asked after the waiter had taken away our plates. ‘You guys have a pool, right?’

‘We’re going to get the check and go back to the hotel,’ Jenny said, looking at her watch.’ Angie’s on standby for Mr Movie star and you still need to call Alex, right?’

‘I do need to call Alex,’ I slapped Jenny’s hand in agreement. Maybe I was a little bit tipsy. ‘Can you hear something?’

‘Angie, honey, it’s your phone.’ Jenny fished my BlackBerry out of my (divine) bag and held it up to my face. I leaned towards it, getting Jenny’s finger in my ear.

‘Yo,’ I slurred.

‘Hi, it’s Blake?’

‘Blake?’ Did I know a Blake?

‘James Jacobs’s assistant?’

‘Oh bollocks. I mean, oh yes, Blake, hi. How are y—’

‘James wants you to come to the Chateau now?’

Crap crap crap crap crap.

‘Now?’ All together too many questions in this conversation.

‘Call this number when you arrive?’

The phone chimed as Blake rang off.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, tossing the phone back in my bag. ‘Did he cancel the whole thing?’

‘Oh my God, I wish.’ I closed my eyes and willed myself to open them sober. ‘Try the opposite. Right now.’

‘They want to do the interview now?’ Jenny winced. ‘He’s here?’

‘He’s here. And I have to go and meet him now. God, Jenny, I’m wasted! I’m going to get sacked, I’ll lose my visa, I’ll have to go back—’

‘Jesus, overreact much?’ Daphne stood up, leaving a huge wad of bills on the table (how expensive were those gimlets?) and held out her hand. ‘Where’s he staying?’

‘Uh, at a chateau?’ That didn’t sound right even to me.

‘Chateau Marmont, it’s like, fifteen minutes from here. J, take her into the bathroom and, fuck, I don’t know, just do something with her. I’ll order a cab.’

Daphne was, thank God, all business. Once in the bathroom, it became horribly apparent that I was in fact very, very drunk. And just as Jenny was trying to shuffle me out of her T-shirt dress, which was covered in salad dressing from where a tomato had escaped my fork, and into the new emerald green Robert Rodriguez silk dress that had charmed its way onto my credit card in Bloomingdale’s, my BlackBerry began to chirp again.

‘Answer it: it could be that gorgeous douche-bag cancelling,’ Jenny puffed, fiddling with the black patent belt. ‘And if it is, give me the goddamn phone so I can kick his ass. And give him my cell.’

‘Can’t reach it,’ I said, trying to kick the phone out of my (poor) bag but only succeeded in booting it behind the loo.

Jenny looked up at me. ‘This might be a nice restaurant, honey, but I won’t forget crawling around on the floor of a public bathroom any time soon. You so owe me.’ She grabbed my phone from behind the toilet and passed it up to me. ‘Missed call from Alex.’

‘Shit.’ I pressed redial but it went straight to answer phone.

‘No time, Angie, call him from the cab.’ Jenny took my phone and my hand and led me through the packed tables out to the waiting cab that Daphne had summoned. ‘You got everything you need?’

‘I think so,’ I nodded, gripping my bag tightly, hoping it might help the ground stopping spinning underneath me. ‘Dictaphone, cash, room key. Call you when I’m on my way back?’

‘Screw it, I’m clearly gonna have to make sure you get there OK.’ Jenny pushed me into the back seat and hopped in after me. Daphne coughed loudly from the pavement, giving Jenny what I took to be her most apologetic pout. She leaned out the door and sighed. ‘Fine. Get your ass in here, Pussycat Doll, let’s go get a drink.’

Chateau Marmont was, as Daphne had promised, just fifteen minutes away, making it a straight thirty minutes between Blake’s hanging up on me and my standing in front of the door of bungalow two. The girls had made up in record time and cackled off into Bar Marmont, leaving me to face the long walk up to the hotel alone. As much as I was trying to concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the hotel was. Just how I imagined Old Hollywood to be. A beautiful turret sitting high up on the hillside, huge arched windows looking into lounges full of gorgeous high-backed chairs, palm trees, discreet but hot waiters everywhere. If it weren’t for the ever-present BlackBerries, MacBooks and Lindsay Lohans lounging by the pool, I could almost believe I was back in the Fifties.

What I couldn’t believe was how crap I felt. I couldn’t decide if it was hot-even-for-LA-heat, the chaotic cab ride over, or my quickly building fear of meeting James Jacobs, jetlagged, drunk and made up in a taxi, that was making me feel sick to my stomach. I paused for a second and dialled Alex one last time. Just talking to him for a minute, a second, would be enough, then I could go in and do whatever it was the magazine were expecting me to do. But he still wasn’t answering. As always in life, when my girlfriends were busy in the bar and I couldn’t rely on a boy, I turned to my two constants, my handbag and lip gloss. A quick slick of Mac lip gloss and I was as ready as I’d ever be.

One quick knock and the door opened.

‘Hi, I’m…’ I looked up with my biggest brightest smile and lost the ability to speak. James Jacobs opened the door.

‘Angela Clark?’ he finished for me with a smile that put mine in the shade. ‘Hi, I’m James.’

‘I…I…’ I reached out, grabbing something hard, spinning away from the door and puking into some very pretty bushes just before everything went very, very dark.

Waking up in a strange place to the sound of a strange man laughing was not something I was incredibly experienced at, and so, when I opened my eyes in a bedroom that was most definitely not my own, wearing something that was not my dress, I panicked slightly. In that I rolled off the bed, cracked my elbow on the bedside table and screamed. Before I could locate an open window and make an escape, a shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. Oh, I had seen Misery, I knew what was happening.

‘Hello? Can I help you?’ Since there was no time to escape from the scary stranger holding a blunt weapon and blocking my escape, why not be polite? My mother would be very proud.

‘Doubtful, at least not before you put your dress back on,’ A deep BBC British accent came out of the dark and then the curtains opened. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see a very tall, very handsome man holding out my beautiful new green dress and a huge glass of water. Ha, like I was about to drink his drug-laden cocktail. Unless it wasn’t a drug-laden cocktail and the very handsome man holding my dress was in fact James Jacobs. Oh, balls.

‘James…Jacobs?’ I pulled the hem of the T-shirt I found myself in down over my knees.

‘Angela Clark?’ He set down the glass and held out a hand to pull me up. ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’

‘Oh, erm, yes.’ This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. The six-foot-something Greek God standing in front of me holding out a freshly pressed dress with a gorgeously lopsided grin couldn’t possibly be James Jacobs. ‘I am so sorry. I just don’t know what happened.’

‘Food poisoning, I’m sure,’ he said smoothly, laying the dress out on the bed. ‘There’s a shower just through there and I had this cleaned so it’s puke free. When you’re done, I’ll be in the living room.’

‘Thank you?’ There was such a serious chance I was still dreaming that I just decided to go with it. ‘Was I sick on your shoes?’

‘Little bit,’ he said, luckily still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got more shoes knocking around here than a Footlocker. I’ll live.’

A quick shower, a long session with my Touche Eclat and I was dressed, ready to face my fate. Mary was going to go insane. It was one thing for me to blow the biggest chance of my career but, mid-shower, I realized it wasn’t just me: I’d blown the magazine’s shot at a major interview. They’d told me numerous times in the last week that James Jacobs hardly ever did press and I had just thrown up on his shoes, passed out in his hotel room and, oh my God, had he undressed me? This humungous Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt certainly wasn’t what I’d arrived in. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to go in the ticks or crosses column.

‘Hi.’ He stood as I sloped into the living room, all six gorgeous feet and four beautiful inches of him, clutching loose pages of something in his tanned hands.

‘Hi.’ I didn’t know where to look.

Seriously, my Alex was so incredibly sexy, just the thought of him made my stomach curl up and purr, but this giant chunk of man was something else. His curly dark brown hair was longer than it had been in any of the photos I’d seen online and his blue eyes were so dark they were almost black. Even in a slightly scuzzy T-shirt, I could see broad shoulders tapering into a slender waist and, oh my, his great big thighs were just itching to get out of those jeans and into a hot tub. With me. And a bottle of baby oil.

Bad Angela: time to be professional. Plus, even if I was interested, I had a feeling that James Jacobs didn’t go for girls that introduced themselves by vomming on his shoes. Perhaps I could give ‘friends’ a go.

‘You’re feeling better? I can give my assistant a ring and ask him to get us some coffee or something if you want,’ he said, gesturing for me to take a seat on the sofa. ‘I thought you were out for the count, to be honest.’

‘How long was I passed—asleep?’ I asked, looking around the bungalow. Anything to avoid looking directly at The Hottest Man Ever. It was all very cool, very LA Confidential, the total opposite of The Ivy.

‘Couple of hours. I didn’t know if there was someone I should call or anything, so I thought it was better to just let you sleep it off.’ James folded himself back into the easy chair as I took the sofa. His legs were so long. Long enough to wrap themselves around a girl with a good shin to spare. Hypothetically speaking.

‘The only thing is, I’m actually going to have to get off quite soon—I’ve got a meeting with a director this evening.’

Fantastic. I had actually blown it. How lovely of him to give me a couple of seconds to check him out before dropping the bomb. ‘Oh, of course. I’m really sorry about, well, everything. It has been great to meet you. I’ll let the magazine know what happened. Sorry.’

‘Really? I can’t imagine they’d find it as funny as I did, to be honest. Wouldn’t you rather just crack on tomorrow and pretend this never happened?’ James put down the pages of the script he was holding and held out his hand. ‘I love your writing. Really bloody funny. Can’t wait to see how the interview is going to work out.’

Which was when I realized it wasn’t a script that he’d been holding, they were printouts of my blog. Pages and pages from ‘The Adventures of Angela’, photocopies of articles I’d written for the US and UK editions of the The Look scattered all over the coffee table. Wow. Beautiful and prepared.

‘Thank you, but well, it’s difficult to take a compliment when you’ve just been sick on someone’s shoes,’ I said, eyes firmly on his bare feet. He even had sexy feet. Eyes on the carpet. ‘So you still want to do the interview?’

‘Absolutely,’ the voice attached to the beautiful man replied. ‘Stop stressing about it. It’ll be a great story to tell the grandkids.’

I snorted a tiny bit of water through my nose. ‘Won’t it?’ I managed eventually. ‘Anyway, if you have a meeting, I should let you get on. What time do you want to start tomorrow?’

‘Ten?’ He stood up again to get the door. ‘I’ll get Blake to send a car for you. Where are you staying?’

‘I’m at The Hollywood,’ I said, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. ‘Uh, my friend works at The Union in New York, so we’re staying there.’

‘I love The Union. I haven’t stayed there yet but I, uh, visited a friend when she was staying there last year.’ James pulled out the big guns, a little shy smile with the big blue eyes peering out from behind his hair. ‘I’ll have to come and see you at The Hollywood. See if it’s as swish.’

‘Swish,’ I echoed. Then I actually giggled. ‘So tomorrow at ten.’

‘Tomorrow at ten.’ He kissed me on the cheek as I stumbled backwards out through the door. ‘Bye then.’

As the door closed, my sanity began to trickle back. I needed a cab. I needed to call Jenny. I needed to call Alex. God, that man was good looking.

As the cab travelled along Hollywood Boulevard, taking me further away from James Jacobs geographically, the further away I felt from reality. Surely none of that had just happened. The only thing that was certain was that Jenny did not appreciate my turning in early again.

‘This is the second night in a row you’ve ditched me, Angie,’ she yelled over the row of the bar. ‘Seriously, come on. You’ve already thrown up, you may as well get back on it.’

‘Jenny, I really wish I could,’ I lied through my back teeth. All I wanted was my bed. ‘I have to meet James tomorrow morning and I just need to call Alex and get some sleep.’

‘Call Alex?’

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

‘You’re going to go back to the hotel and call Alex instead of coming to meet me?’ Jenny wasn’t amused. ‘You get your ass out here and tell me every single thing that happened with James Jacobs.’

‘She’s blowing you out for a guy?’ I heard Daphne crow over her shoulder. ‘What an asshole.’

‘No, I…Jenny, I just need to sleep,’ I sighed. ‘Seriously. We’ll go out tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ she hiccuped. ‘Until you decide you have to stay in and wait around for a boy to call. Just don’t bother calling me in the day when Mr Movie Star stands you up again. I have plans.’

‘Doing what?’ I asked but she’d already hung up. Jenny was so much fun when she was drunk and grumpy. Why did I have a feeling Daphne was not going to be a good influence?

Back at the hotel, I stripped off my new dress and pulled on the ancient Blondie T-shirt I had ‘borrowed’ from Alex before I left. It must have been washed a thousand times but it still smelt of Alex’s apartment, of home. I dialled his number again.

‘Hello?’

‘Alex? It’s me.’ I had never been so happy to hear his voice.

‘I tried to call you earlier.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ OK, so we weren’t starting with ‘I love you, I miss you, I’m going mad without you’. ‘It’s been such a ridiculous day.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been busy too. We were in the studio until—like—three this morning,’ Alex replied through a yawn. ‘Shouldn’t you be interviewing your movie star?’

‘That all got off to a bit of a dodgy start but it’ll be all right, I think. James is really, really nice,’ I said, smiling at the thought of Alex with his black hair all ruffled on the pillow, my head resting against his chest as he fell asleep, his fingers curled around my wrist. ‘You sound sleepy. Are you OK?’