The Sex Was Great But... (17 page)

I slumped into my corner in a sulk.

Nancy's hand reached out to pat my knee. “Are you thirsty? Would you like an Evian darh-ling?” She was speaking in her Dick Van Dyke voice, and I knew she was trying to be kind, but it felt like another slap.

I glared at Holly, but she was looking out the window. “Thanks, but I'm Evian-intolerant.”

I ignored Nancy's manic laugh as I sank farther back into my limo Siberia. As the Hollywood Hills slid past in a blur of postcard views and hairpin turns I focused my sedition on a section of stitching in the leather armrest, and picked away at it while Nancy and Holly talked in hushed voices amongst themselves for the rest of the journey.

Occasionally they glanced over at me to make sure I
wasn't listening, but I couldn't hear them over my internal dialogue anyway. I could see what they were talking about, though—and I knew they were plotting and strategizing like an army off to peace talks. It was small comfort that by the time we reached Laurel Canyon I'd made significant headway on the upholstery seam—there was already a hole in the armrest about an inch wide. But it wasn't enough.

What I'd really have liked to do was carve “LEO WOZ ERE” into the polished wood of the minibar. I ran my finger under the starched collar that was starting to choke me.

Here I was, entering the courtroom of Holly's world with the noose already around my neck and without so much as a beer to fortify me. I tried to think what Kev would do in this situation, and then I realized that Kev would never allow himself to get into a situation like this. And Kev's supposed to be the nutter?

As we slid silently around the bends, and slipped down the slopes of Laurel Canyon, I concentrated on the thought that I would be back in London soon enough. With a bit of luck I'd beat the postcard, even.

I looked up and saw Holly looking at me, and to my surprise she smiled. Nancy was gazing outside the window. I smiled back and Holly mouthed the word “sorry.”

I decided to lay off the upholstery.

Then Nancy interrupted. “Have either of you ever had sex in a limo?”

I shook my head, irritated with her for interrupting my moment with Holly.

“I have,” Holly replied. “Remember that time after the Golden Globes, when I was first dating Ted?”

I closed my eyes and tore another inch off the upholstery.

As we turned into Sunset Nancy crawled across the gulf between us and sat down beside me, taking my hand in hers. Now I know how Little Miss Muffet felt. “You don't look too happy,” she said.

“Yes—try and smile, Leo,” Holly added.

I felt like a guy about to meet the firing squad as our limo pulled into the Mondrian—a chi-chi, show-us-your-press-file sort of place, where even the toilets are art and the bellboys wear Armani.

Looking out the window of the limo, I suddenly felt very, very nervous. I was holding it together, but only just. One finger running along the gap between noose and neck, the other still picking at the hole I'd managed to make in the upholstery. The girls were looking out the window too, wrapped up in their own thoughts—each registering a different reaction to what they saw.

Holly turned to me, clearly sick with nerves. “This is it, then, Leo…you ready?” I know it sounds mean, but part of me was hoping she'd throw up all over herself and we could all go home.

Nancy turned to me too. She had a delighted smile on her as wide as a Chelsea grin. “Holly—our makeover is about to be tested! Are you ready, girl?”

Holly groaned as if in real pain.

I tried to think up something supportive to say, and in the end settled on, “Piss easy.” But she didn't hear me because she'd gone back to gazing out the window. A bottleneck of limos were being cleared away from the entrance by the West Hollywood sheriff's department,
and I finally saw what it was that had her so scared. The paparazzi were everywhere, man. Swarming like a nest of frenzied ants.

“Come on, Holly—aren't you just a teensy bit excited about showing Leo off, darh-ling? Look at him. He looks gorgeous.”

Holly looked at me without emotion.

“You think you'll be okay, Leo?” Nancy asked.

I looked at the ceiling. It was getting a bit much, this terror of theirs that I was going to embarrass them. The truth of it was, Nancy was more likely to embarrass herself—by slapping my hand away from a drink, or snatching food off me, or correcting my grammar, or reminding me how to take a compliment.

“I'll be fine,” I assured her, suddenly softening.

But then Holly spoiled the mood by adding, “Just don't
say
anything, okay?”

I looked at her. “Don't say
anything?
You mean like pretend to be mute or something?”

“See!” she cried, looking at Nancy, imploring her to join her in a group horror-shock squeal. “See—
this
is what I'm afraid of.”

I ignored her. “Or foreign? I could be French, if you like. You know—speak with
ze Frainche accente,
” I offered, in my worst impression of a Frenchman ever.

Both girls turned back to the window. Our car was next up to the plate. I peered out as the photographers began circling us. They were up for it. With their half-shaved hungry faces, and their herd fervor. A few of them looked like they were up for actually devouring us. Some of them were even licking their lips.

“It's going to be fine,” Nancy said firmly, just as an Armani suit talking into an earpiece opened her door. A hundred flashes exploded outside, creating a wall of white light.

The press pack started yelling things. I put my hand out to block Nancy. “I'll get out first,” I insisted.

Armani Man and I managed to push the hungriest of the guys aside, allowing Holly and Nancy to make a semi-dignified exit from the car into the exploding flashbulbs and quick-fire questions.

“Holly! Who are you wearing?”

“You look great, Holly!”

“Over here, Holly!”

“Here, Holly!”

“Smile, Holly!”

And then I heard it. Someone from the back of the pack called out—only not too loudly—not at first. “How do you feel about your mother being here with your old boyfriend, Holly?” The flashbulb exploded in a blinding second and I grabbed her under the elbow to prop her up before she collapsed.

“Give them nothing,” I breathed in her ear as the chorus continued.

“What are you going to say to your mother, Holly?”

“Hey, Holly, are you going to slug your ex?”

Someone even asked if she was planning on taking a swipe at her mum. Holly froze. She was rooted to the spot. I had to pull her on or we would never have moved.

More Armani-clad model-cum-actor boys opened the glass doors into the hotel, and I hustled the girls inside ahead of me. “Ted's here with my mom?” Holly said, al
most to no one in particular as the doors closed behind us. “He didn't tell me he was bringing her.”

“Yeah, I wish I'd known before. I could have returned his cheesy swim trunks,” I joked, hoping to lighten her up a bit. Her face had gone geisha-white.

Nancy gave her a few words of encouragement before we walked to the red carpet, where a fresh lot of photographers were gathered. “What a prick for turning up,” Nancy whispered in my ear.

I was about to offer to hit the guy, but thought better of it. I'm not the best street fighter in the world, as it happens. On the two occasions I've been set upon—once for sleeping with some semi-mini-gangster's girlfriend, the other time when I was mistaken for someone else in Hoxton—I came out of the situation the worse for wear. Both times my fight strategy was to curl up in the fetal position until they got tired of kicking me and then to run off as soon as I got my breath.

We were ushered onto the red carpet in the paparazzi-thronged corridor.

“Who are you wearing?” they were asking all the celebrity guests striding by in a dazzling array of borrowed designer frocks.

“Versace.”

“Tom Ford.”

“Armani.”

“Donna.”

“Duke.”

“It's not what you wear but
who
you wear,” Nancy quipped while Holly posed for a rapid-fire assault of photographs. It was all so fast. All so bright. Holly had
split seconds to look how she wanted to look. One frown, one pout, and she could immortalize herself as a bitch forever. She had two press files back at the house; one was dedicated solely to all the awful shots ever taken of her.

I'd offered to poke the eyes out of those photographs for her, but the
Ugly Album,
as she referred to it, wasn't a laughing matter—not for Holly anyway.

Finally we made it into the sanctuary of the Asia de Cuba restaurant, which for tonight had all its glass walls open out onto the wooden decking of the pool area, with the Sky Bar and the tea lights of the city beyond.

“What is all this in aid of again? I asked, as we were seated at our white-linen-cloaked table.

“The Make-A-Wish Foundation,” Nancy replied.

“They finance the last wishes of kids dying of terminal diseases,” Holly added, anticipating my next question.

I was surprised when she took my hand and gave it a squeeze under the table. “You look gorgeous, Leo,” she said, and I instantly regretted making that hole in the upholstery of the limo. “I'm sure you'll be great. I don't know why I've been such a bitch all night. Nerves, I guess.”

The drinks waiter came then, and I ordered two large vodkas with a beer chaser. It was meant to be a joke, but Holly gave me such an evil look I allowed the waiter to take me seriously and write the order down. She had on her pursed look.

Maybe I wasn't so sorry about the hole in the armrest after all. Maybe I was in the mood to get smashed and seriously embarrass her in front of all her celebrity friends. Nancy, as if reading my mind, discreetly pointed out a few to me.

“Everyone looks gorgeous,” Holly said, as if excluding herself from the compliment.

“None more so than the staff,” Nancy added, eyeing up our waiter, who reminded me of a younger Joseph.

Holly and I smiled politely at one another, but pretty soon I fell back into a morose slump. I knew the evening was on a runaway course to a hangover and morning-after regrets before I sipped my first drink. It didn't help that I could sense Holly scanning the room, clearly searching for Ted and her mother.

“I can't see him anywhere,” she admitted.

I said, “Who?” even though I knew perfectly well who she meant. I wish I hadn't, because when she said his name she looked like she might cry. God, I was a bastard.

“Ignore him,” Nancy urged, and I thought she was referring to me. “If I see him I'll step on him. The snake.” I gathered it was Ted she was referring to.

My vodkas with a beer chaser arrived. “What's this Ted geezer look like anyway?” I asked. “We know he's got shocking taste in swimwear, but what's he
look
like?”

Nancy kicked me under the table and gave me a don't-go-to-that-place look. “Hey, guess what? Barbra Streisand is rumored to be going to sing!” she announced.

I groaned, unable to think of anything less likely to get a party swinging. The other people at our table took their places, murmuring hellos and how nice-to-see yas…oh, and remarking how elegant Barbra was.

I started to laugh, remembering last night's episode of
South Park,
where Robert Smith from the Cure hits Barbra Streisand in the nose after she turns into a monster Godzilla and smashes up South Park.

“I hope you aren't planning to have any more to drink,” Holly warned as I took a sip of my beer. “You'll be on camera, remember? They're going to be filming you throughout the night.”

I took in the atmosphere—the stars, both celestial and mortal, the glamorous surroundings. There
were
cameras everywhere, but I wasn't going to focus on it, though. It pissed me off that Holly was. Nancy started running her hand up my leg and I moved it away. Holly was working the table beside us, so she didn't notice. There was no pleasure in drinking anyway, when Holly wasn't there, so I left my vodkas as a silent rebuke to my own childishness.

Over the next hour it felt like a thousand celebrities came to our table to pay their respects to Holly. They all said how great she looked and gasped about how long it had been since they'd got together. They all told me that they were big fans of the show. None of them mentioned her mother or Ted, although when I'd gone to the toilets earlier in the evening it was all I'd heard people talking about. Someone had even written on the graffiti wall with the complimentary chalk “Holly & Ted.” I rubbed it off.

Holly introduced me to everyone as “a friend visiting from London.” They all shook my hand and said how much they
loved
London. Some of them asked me about their favorite haunts—restaurants or shops. I'd never heard of any of them.

Hugh Grant asked me which part of London I was from. I said Islington and he asked which street. I decided to lie at that point, and said the name of the smartest street that came to my head because I didn't think my own address would cut it.

“Ah, the same street Tony Blair used to live on,” he quipped, and I suddenly thought of my mum's pedophile remark and started laughing.

He was a good sport and laughed with me.

A lot of the celebrities I met were shorter than I'd imagined. Tom Cruise practically needed a stepladder to look me in the eye. I tried to be natural and effortlessly charming, as Dinny had advised, but I was self-conscious that in some of the lighting my teeth glowed. I eventually spotted Wayne as I was chatting to Kate Hudson, and he gave me a thumbs-up. They all seemed so natural that I began to wonder if their fame meant as much to them as I'd first suspected. All of them were shinier and brighter and smarter and funnier than I'd imagined them to be.