Lindsey Kelk 6-Book ‘I Heart...’ Collection. Lindsey KelkЧитать онлайн книгу.
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?’