Authors: Alexandra Potter
Frankie stood and awaited her fate, still reeling from the shock of Hugh’s bombshell. What the hell was she doing here? Everything had happened so quickly. One minute she had a job, then she didn’t – a boyfriend, then she didn’t – a home, then she didn’t. One minute she was in a London bowling alley, the next, Los Angeles Immigration. From the sublime to the ridiculous, and she didn’t know what the bloody hell to think. Did she want to be waved through, free to start a new life in LA? Or, bypassing the bravado, if she was honest with herself, would she rather be escorted on to the next plane bound for the UK and flown back to her old one?
‘Next in line.’
This was the moment of reckoning. Frankie was beckoned forward by an official wearing a tight beige uniform and a pair of Ray-Ban aviators. He looked like Poncherello from
CHIPS
.
‘And what is your reason for coming to the United States?’
Sitting behind his counter, Poncherello flicked suspiciously through her passport, pausing to stare at the unflattering mugshot she’d had taken in one of those crappy photo booths at Waterloo Station. Frankie peered over his shoulder, regretting her choice of the sickly blue curtain. She should have gone for the warmer orange.
‘A holiday,’ she lied, trying to pretend she was a jovial holidaymaker and not a jilted this-close-to-being-a-fiancée. Her acting was lousy, but it didn’t matter. At least it proved she wasn’t a wannabe actress, arriving in Los Angeles with dreams of becoming a film star. In other words, she wasn’t Rita, or a heroine from a Jackie Collins novel.
‘And how long do you plan to stay?’
Never once looking up, Poncherello began typing into his computer. Probably some central, worldwide Big Brotheresque computer that contained every detail about her life, from how much she’d spent at Tesco last week to her smear test results. In fact it was probably programmed to flash up any kind of criminal record or misdemeanour she’d committed. Frankie suddenly remembered the overdue video wedged down the back of the Habitat two-seater. Surely Blockbusters wouldn’t have access to this computer – would they? She crossed her fingers.
‘Erm, two weeks.’
Well, now was hardly the right time to blurt ‘For ever’, was it? She’d be strapped back into her BA economy seat before she’d even adjusted her bodyclock. And the more she thought about it, she had to stay. Going home just wasn’t an option – after all, there was nothing to go home for.
Lots more frenzied movements over the keyboard. Poncherello would have no difficulty passing one of those typing speed tests, mused Frankie who was still bristling from being informed by one of the trendy Soho temping agencies that they didn’t accept people who could only type with two fingers. Luckily it had been over the phone, otherwise she’d have been tempted to show them what else she could do with two fingers.
Finally Poncherello stopped typing and, stamping her passport, stapled something inside before scribbling lots of incoherent graffiti across the pages with his biro.
‘Enjoy your stay.’
His face never moved as he solemnly handed back the passport. Frankie smiled with relief. She wasn’t on the next plane home after all.
Waiting by the luggage carousels, she pulled out her compact mirror from the bottom of her make-up bag and, angling it towards the light, peered at herself. My God. She looked about
eighty
. The pressurised cabin and a week’s worth of alcohol units had left her with dry, dehydrated skin and two piggy little eyes. Frankie felt even more depressed. How was it that celebrities could spend their life circumnavigating the globe and still manage to waft through international airports looking all chichi in leopard-skin mules and dark glasses, with their skin fresh and dewy? She’d only taken one transatlantic flight and her face looked as if it had been freeze-dried.
Gloomily holding the mirror with one hand and prodding her face to see if she actually
had
any cheekbones, she suddenly caught sight of that horrible American bloke again, staring at her from over the opposite side of the carousel. Embarrassed, she snapped the compact shut, wishing she too had a pair of dark glasses to hand. In fact any kind of disguise would do, just as long as she was unrecognisable. Now she’d reverted to her usual, sensible, sober self, just thinking about how she’d been wheeled, kicking and screaming, through Heathrow made her cringe with humiliation. No wonder the guy was gawping at her. He must have thought she was
off
her trolley, not on it.
Ignoring his gaze, Frankie defensively grabbed hold of her cart – well, she was in the States now – and moved closer to where the suitcases were about to begin spewing from the chute. The sooner she got out of there, the better. There was a heavy thud and the first suitcase made its entrance, its black vinyl chest puffed out with pride. Jesus, it was hers! Frankie was gobsmacked. In all her years of air travel, she’d always been one of the last remaining straggle of forlorn passengers, forced to watch a pair of skis and a bashed-up ‘handle with care’ box trundle round and round on the carousel, as she waited with mounting desperation for her holdall. Never, ever had she been in the hallowed position of seeing her luggage cross the finishing line first.
Feeling that her luck had changed, she grabbed her suitcases, breezed through Customs and pushed onwards and upwards towards the exit. Excitement stirred as the automatic doors slid open and she was suddenly greeted by crowds of people hanging over the railings, holding up cards with names or bunches of flowers for loved ones. For a brief moment she wished Hugh was there to meet her, but she caught herself. It was over, she had to forget about him.
Standing on tiptoes, Frankie looked over heads, scanning the arrivals hall. There was no sign of Rita. Maybe she was late, maybe she’d never got the message, maybe . . .
Frankie pushed through groups of people wearing T-shirts’n’shorts, Santa Monica suntans and Persol sunglasses, jangling their car keys, talking on cellphones, drinking from giant-size cups of Coca-Cola. Everything was big, bright and noisy. The collective buzz of a hundred conversations echoed loudly around her. It felt weird hearing so many American accents, as if she’d suddenly found herself on a film set.
Walking over to the smoked-glass windows, she leaned against the wall, feeling the currents of air from outside waft past her, hot and humid against the coolness of the air-conditioning. She stifled a yawn. Her jet lag had kicked in full-time and she wished Rita would hurry up. She knew it was a vain hope. Rita’s timekeeping was a law unto itself. She probably wouldn’t be there for hours . . .
This depressing thought was just sinking in when she heard a familiar noise. Normally it irritated the hell out of her, now it was music to her ears.
‘Yoohoo.’
It echoed around the arrivals hall, bouncing off the walls like a demented cuckoo clock.
‘Yoohoo.’
It grew louder until, like the biblical parting of the waves, the crowds split and through the middle cantered a five-foot-nothing redhead in velvet hotpants and three-inch platforms.
8
‘Blimey, sorry I’m late. The traffic was a ruddy nightmare!’
Flustering and out of breath, Rita impatiently pushed behind her ear a chunk of scarlet hair that had escaped from her ponytail and began tugging at the sides of her shorts, which were fast disappearing up the cheeks of her bum.
‘Still, better late than never.’
Breaking into a grin, she stopped yanking down her hotpants and, as if suddenly remembering where she was and why she was there, threw her arms around Frankie’s waist and began shrieking like a Catherine wheel, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re here!’
Frankie smiled weakly, pinned to the polished floor of Arrivals by Rita’s enthusiastic welcome. Neither could she.
They finished wedging Frankie’s luggage into the boot of Rita’s car – a baby-blue 1950s Thunderbird convertible that stretched out its fabulous fin-tailed limbs along the side of the kerb. Frankie had never seen anything quite like it. It was lean and about twenty feet long. A far cry from the beaten-up Mini that Rita used to bomb around in at home.
Noticing her look of wide-eyed amazement, Rita grinned. ‘So what do you think of the new motor? I figured if I was going to be a Hollywood actress, I better start looking like one.’ Throwing herself across the bonnet, she struck a classic Rita Hayworth pose – leg up, chest out. ‘Suits me, don’t you think?’
Frankie nodded. She had to agree. It had Rita written all over it.
‘So, is that the lot then?’ Rita slammed the boot shut and slid into the driver’s seat.
‘Nearly,’ sighed Frankie, ‘I’ve just got to pop back inside and get one more piece of luggage. Won’t be a minute.’ She disappeared through the airport’s sliding doors.
Waiting in the car, Rita carefully reapplied her brick-red lipstick in the rear-view mirror and, slipping on her sunglasses, began trying out different acting poses for an audition she had later that week: a vulnerable shy-Di head dip, a sultry over-the-shoulder Marilyn pout; a bags-of-confidence, straight-at-the-camera Madonna smile. She was just about to attempt a tearful Oscar-winning Gwyneth Paltrow lip tremble when she caught sight of a gorgeous bloke walking up behind, laden with luggage. Angling the mirror to get a better look, she watched as he strode by the car. Doing a shy-Di head dip, she smiled. He smiled back and carried on walking. Rita’s tongue was practically hanging out.
Fucking hell, who was he?
Talk about sex on legs. She stared lustfully as he began loading his bags into a taxi, eyeing up his bum, his broad shoulders, the tufts of hair escaping from underneath his beaten-up old Stetson. ‘Easy, cowboy,’ she muttered, giving free rein to her wild imagination and picturing herself doing a spot of bareback riding.
Watching the cab pull out, she followed its progress through the traffic. It was just disappearing out of the airport when Frankie re-emerged carrying something large and bulky, partially concealed by a vinyl cover.
‘Bloody hell, what’ve you got in there? The kitchen sink?’ Tearing herself away from her X-rated daydreams, Rita balanced her sunglasses on the end of her upturned nose and peered at Frankie. ‘How much stuff do you need for a two-week holiday?’
Frankie hesitated, looking more than a little anxious. ‘Actually, I was going to tell you earlier . . .’
‘Tell me what?’ Seemingly oblivious of Frankie’s unease, Rita started fiddling with dials of the original 1950s radio, trying to tune in to a station.
‘I was thinking of staying a bit longer.’
As if on cue, there came sounds from underneath the vinyl cover and the object Frankie was holding shook violently.
Rita’s glasses slid off her nose and on to the dashboard. ‘What the hell is that?’
She couldn’t put it off any longer. Frankie nervously removed the cover to reveal a white plastic cage. Two pairs of disgruntled eyes blinked in the bright sunlight. ‘It’s Fred and Ginger.’
Driving along the 405 Freeway, Frankie told Rita everything. Discovering the Tiffany’s receipt, losing her job, being dumped at the bowling alley on her birthday . . . everything . . . even the bit about Fred and Ginger and how, when she’d made her sudden decision to come to LA, she’d been determined they were going to come with her. At first it had seemed impossible. Even though they’d already had all the necessary vaccinations – Frankie was like a protective mother when it came to her beloved cats – the brusque official she’d spoken to on the phone had insisted that the airline needed twenty-four hours’ notice to complete the paperwork. Full stop. End of story. But Frankie hadn’t been going to give up that easily and so, using both her own powers of persuasion – in other words, bursting into hysterical tears – and that of her Visa card – she’d managed to melt the red-tape wrapped around the BA official’s heart and get Fred and Ginger on her flight.
‘I couldn’t leave them with Hugh. He’d probably swing them by their tails and use them as golf clubs . . . He’s always hated cats . . .’
Rita listened, puffing on a cigarette and hooting her horn at various cars, as Frankie wrung out every last detail, lurching from tears, to anger and back to tears. It took over an hour, and when she’d finished she slumped down in her leather seat, knackered after her emotional spring clean.
‘Look, I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but if you ask me – and I know you’re not but I’m going to tell you anyway – you’re better off without the bastard.’ Never one to mince words, Rita went straight for the jugular. ‘Hugh might be good-looking, but he’s an arrogant son of a bitch, and he’s so flaming bossy. He has you running around in circles after him.’ She flicked her ash into the ashtray, not seeming to notice that it was instantly whipped away by the wind and scattered around them. ‘To be honest, I always thought there was something dodgy about him.’ She turned to Frankie, who, propelled out of her self-pity by Rita’s rally-driving techniques, was gripping the edges of her seat as they raced hell for leather along the freeway. ‘I mean, how can you ever trust a bloke who tweezes his eyebrows, for God’s sake?’
Shaking her head in exasperation, she was about to continue with her snipe-by-snipe destruction of Hugh when she saw Frankie’s expression. She was close to tears again.
‘Not that there’s anything wrong with a man plucking his eyebrows, of course . . .’ Rita changed tack, suddenly remembering the sacred rule: never slag off your mate’s boyfriend, however much of a bastard he’s been, they’ll only end up hating you, not him. ‘I mean, you don’t want him to end up looking like Noel Gallagher or anything, do you?’ She smiled brightly, but it was no good, her attempts at salvaging the situation were just digging her a deeper and deeper hole.