‘You would do that? There are almost three thousand people in that fan group!’ I gasp. ‘You could get in serious trouble.’
‘I’m a journalist, I can cover my tracks. And the head admin of the forum, RoyalsStanAngel28 is super easy-going. And, for the record, there are two thousand eight hundred and ninety seven Crown Kissers in that fan group,’ Kennedy corrects me, even more of a Harcourt Royals fangirl than I am. ‘I mean, approximately. But I don’t mind that. I want to help. Mostly I am also trying to bribe you to come hang with me. It is my duty as your host to show you a good time. I couldn’t forgive myself if you returned to the UK having stayed in this one house every night.’
‘If I meet Gary, maybe I’ll get to stay here a little longer…’
‘Hmmm, definitely! Even more of a reason why you should get to know this town. So, are you in or are you going to make me beg some more?’
I roll my eyes, although secretly I’m pleased that she obviously likes me enough to want me to join her and her friends. She is much, much cooler than me and my ego is suitably flattered. ‘I have to go and do a couple of hours work first. But after that… I’m in.’
‘Yay!’ Kennedy starts shooing me away towards the bathroom. ‘Go ahead, go do your work. I’m gonna go and work out. Oh, and there’s this restaurant that Joseph Gordon-Levitt was photographed at last week. I want to try it! Ooh, there’s some Olaplex in the cabinet above the sink, make sure you put some on – your hair is very crispy. You really should wear a hat in this heat! Yay! We’re going out ON THE TOWN!’
Argh.
I manage to focus enough to catch up on most of my outstanding tasks and emails for work and make a plan for the next few days of admin assignments. After I’ve showered, I smother my body in an aloe vera gel that Kennedy suggested on account of my continuing mega-redness. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and realise that all my freckles have properly come out. I can’t remember the last time I saw my freckles! I like them.
I put some more eye drops in my eye, dry my hair in the bedroom area, and am delighted that – thanks to Kennedy’s suggestion of using that Olaplex stuff – it is now looking as glossy and silky as Imogene’s always does. I grab my jean shorts and pull them on, breathing all the way and grunting a bit as I wrestle to button them up. I pair them with a pearlescent white T-shirt of Kennedy’s, which, on her, looks big and baggy but on me looks like a cool form-fitting top.
Feeling the nervous beads of sweat start to form on my head, like they always do when I’m about to interact with strangers, I head over to the full-length window and gasp in astonishment at the candy-coloured pink and purple streaks painted across the sky as the sun sets. The beach has cleared considerably, leaving a few people milling about, taking photos of the sky and the palm trees, or sitting on colourful blankets, reading books or cuddling with loved ones. Further down the beach, way in the distance, there’s a man on a surfboard, wobbling slightly but holding himself up as a wave brings him to the shore. When he gets out of the sea, he starts dancing excitedly and the two people he’s with grab him into a bear hug. It makes me smile and I feel a small pang of longing, which is odd because the idea of surfing has never appealed to me before.
When I’ve finished getting ready, I spritz out a little cloud of perfume and walk through it before heading out of my area and into the living room. Kennedy, looking amazing in a tight purple dress, is frantically typing something on her laptop. When she sees me, she slams down the lid and stands up.
‘Just working on my news story in case I get shortlisted for anchor,’ she explains. ‘I’m trying to choose between two. A story about this guy who restored a 300-year-old piano and donated it to a middle school or a story about an Ocean Park goose and a cat who have become BFFs…’
‘They both sound like lovely stories.’
Kennedy sighs. ‘Not exactly thrilling, but, hey, it’s the junior anchor position. These are the kind of stories I’d get, so that’s what I should audition with. They save the really meaty smart stuff for the prime-time anchors. Anyway, your hair looks great!’
I flick my newly tamed hair around my shoulders daftly. ‘Thank you! It’s that stuff you made me put on. It’s amazing. Do my eyes still look really gammy?’
‘Gammy?’
‘You know, gross and red.’
‘A little. But they’re better than they looked before… so, are you ready to have some fun?’ she asks, standing up from the sofa and grabbing a small black purse from the coffee table. ‘Find some joy?’
‘I think so. But I can’t drink too much or stay out too late, okay? I really need to focus tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ Kennedy says, linking her arm through mine. ‘Let’s go!’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nora
Text from Imogene: You met Nicolas Cage?? You got kicked off a film set? Shit. What do you mean you saw Tori Gould and you are determined to prove me wrong? Please turn your phone off silent. I need to hear your voice to check if you are all right. Ring me. I don’t care if it’s a weird time here. I am okay. Just the same old stuff happening! I hope you’re all right. I can’t quite tell… Im x
So this is what it’s like to have a bona fide girls’ night out with an actual girl friend! I’ve never done it before. I mean, I went out a lot when I was gigging and was even starting to get a solid circle of friends – mostly other musicians and venue staff. And then the accident happened. Of course, I’ve attended online Facebook parties and forum meetups and enjoyed them very much. But this way is scarier.
We’re at a rooftop bar on nearby Abbot Kinney Boulevard. It’s not a particularly tall building, but the view out over the glittering city, set amongst a backdrop of hazy purple sky, is mind-bogglingly pretty. And the bar itself is gorgeous; all glass tables, firepits and white outdoor sofas filled with the most attractive collection of people I’ve ever seen in one place. In the centre of the space is a small, glistening turquoise pool with teeny floating candles bobbing gently along it. It’s pretty clear that I stick out as someone who doesn’t belong, with my noticeably bigger than a size zero body, very tight jean shorts, sun-dried face and still squinting dusty eye. But that feeling of anxiety is blurred considerably by the Patrón Silver tequila shots Kennedy keeps ordering for us, which I’m especially grateful for when we bump into a few of Kennedy’s co-workers and I have to make excruciating small talk with them.
One of the co-workers is the nemesis Kennedy talked about – a gorgeous, tiny red-headed woman called Erin, who actually seems much nicer than I expected and tells me that my hair reminds her of Penelope Cruz, which is maybe the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
I watch Kennedy and her co-workers chatting and it’s weird; she acts so differently around them. She’s nowhere near as floaty and chilled as she’s been back at the house and she definitely doesn’t make any of the geeky comments she’s been making to me online or in real life the last few days.
I ask her co-workers, Miles, Helen and Erin, whether they’ve read the Harcourt Royals romance books too and the three of them look at me as if I just suggested we take a turd in the pool.
‘Ha!’ Helen, who looks a lot like Lucy Liu, only hotter, says. ‘Who even has time to read fiction in this political climate? Long-form essays are about as frivolous as I get.’
I’m about to say that obviously Kennedy does because she’s a massive Harcourt Royals nerd when she sort of nudges me in the ribs, giving me an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Her cheeks pinken slightly and she swiftly changes the subject to local municipal elections and their candidates.
The conversation about local elections and other ‘newsy’ topics leads me to drink my alcoholic beverage faster than I ordinarily would do. And then, in the middle of a conversation about a recent NY Times profile on some woman I’ve never heard of, Erin, who has been intermittently checking her phone, squeals out loud.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ everyone asks, jostling over to see what
’s on Erin’s phone and why it’s making her so excited.
‘I’m shortlisted for the anchor position!’ Erin reveals with a huge white-toothed grin, her dark red painted lips glistening under the lights. ‘Me and one other person, apparently.’ She looks at Kennedy pointedly.
I gasp and am about to suggest that Kennedy checks her email, but she’s already on it. After a few seconds of pressing on the screen, she starts to jump up and down, which is impressive in the spindly heels she’s wearing. ‘I’m shortlisted too! Oh my goodness! Wow!’
I join Kennedy in jumping about. ‘This is so so so amazing!’ I cry happily, the alcohol making me feel loose and extra excited. ‘They are going to love your goose and cat story. How could they not? Everyone loves inter-species friendships!’
Kennedy’s face falls and I very swiftly realise that I wasn’t supposed to say that. Shit. Was that supposed to be a secret?
‘Oh, that sounds adorable,’ Miles chuckles, pressing his hand to his chest in an exaggerated sort of way.
‘You’re not really going with “cute animal story”, right?’ Erin asks, doing actual air quotes with a slight smirk on her face.
Shit.
Kennedy shrugs a shoulder, her cheeks colouring from pink to red. ‘I mean, it’s the kind of story they always give the junior anchors. It’s what they want, right?’
Erin snickers. ‘At least give me a little competition, babe. You know I like a challenge.’
They stare at each other for quite a long time and I cannot tell if it’s in anger or sexual tension. Either way, it is super uncomfortable for the rest of us.
‘Well, what story are you auditioning with?’ Kennedy asks eventually, her shoulders slightly hunching up.
‘And why would I tell you that?’ Erin laughs, tucking a shiny red strand of hair behind her tiny ear. ‘Let’s just say it’s got a little more substance than a duck and a cat.’
‘It’s a goose and a cat,’ Kennedy corrects, lifting her chin.
Helen and Miles giggle along with Erin and I’m pretty sure that these co-workers are not very nice after all. And I’ve gone and made Kennedy’s happy news into something sour.
I knock back the rest of my drink. This is why I should not leave the house. I just fuck stuff up.
Kennedy smiles beatifically at the rest of the group. ‘Well, it’s been great bumping into you guys, but we have somewhere else we need to be.’
With her head held high, she starts walking towards the door and for a second I think she’s going to leave me behind on account of my drunken, bean-spilling mouth. But she turns around and holds out a hand towards me. ‘Come on, Nora. We have somewhere else to be.’
‘Oh!’ My heart dips in relief.
I turn and awkwardly wave at the bitchy co-workers before grabbing Kennedy’s hand.
‘Where else do we need to be?’ I ask her as soon as we reach the warm, busy street.
‘I don’t know! I just made that up to get out of there,’ she replies as we stumble along. ‘This place will do.’
She drags me into the very next bar we come across, a place lit with a flashing neon sign declaring itself to be called ‘Trash’.
I follow Kennedy through a swinging door to a narrow, longish room filled with tables of people drinking from jugs of beer and chatting over a soundtrack of Miley Cyrus. The bar is small and surrounded by a crowd. At the end of the room is a small stage with a tinselly backdrop. Maybe it’s a comedy club…
Either way, it couldn’t be any more different than the place we’ve just come from. For a start, while the clientele still contains an abnormally high ratio of good-looking people, it does not look like a Vogue Interiors photo shoot. The chairs are upholstered in well-worn, raggedy hot pink fabric and the walls are crammed with pink and purple neon signs that say things like ‘Send Nudes’, ‘The Future is Now’ and ‘Spring Break Forever’.
One thing that is the same, however, is that almost every person in here – men and women – turn to admire Kennedy. I mean, it’s fair enough: she looks like she looks, and even with my Olaplex’d hair and my juicy denim-short-covered butt, I am drowned out by her light. Kennedy doesn’t even notice the appreciative glances. She’s more intent on the bar, ordering us another round of tequila shots and a jug of beer, which sounds like a pretty lethal combination considering the fact that I’m already more drunk than I have been in a number of years.
‘I’m not sure I should drink any…’ I trail off as Kennedy narrows her eyes at me, her serenity clearly upended by what just happened.
‘We’re celebrating the good news! Plus, you told Erin my story idea. You owe me. You are drinking with me.’
I can’t really argue with that. I shrug and we each take a shot before carrying the rest of the drinks over to a table by the stage.
‘Erin is The Worst. I cannot believe I slept with her. Ugh. Did you see how smug she was? How arrogant?’
‘I’m so sorry for spilling the beans.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Kennedy sighs and rubs my arm, before taking another glug of beer, indicating that I should do the same. ‘I mean, maybe she was right. Maybe I need to find a meatier story to focus on. My mom actually said the same thing…’
‘What do you think?’
‘I guess I want to increase my chances of getting the gig…’ She shrugs. ‘And I thought light stories would be what the producers wanted from me… Anyway, I will focus on that tomorrow. For now, let’s celebrate the good news!’
She holds a shot glass aloft. I do the same.
‘To you smashing the junior anchor audition!’ I say.
At the same time, she says, ‘Gary Montgomery reads Harcourt Royals!’
We knock back our drinks and I’m pretty sure that I am now completely and utterly drunk. So much so that when an older, very tanned guy in a glittering blue shirt with white spiky hair arrives on the stage and announces that it’s karaoke time and Kennedy suggests we do a song, I don’t immediately dismiss the suggestion out of hand.
The muchos alcohol I’ve ingested is definitely taking the edge off what I’m sure a sober me would classify as terror. The last time I sang in front of anyone was at the showcase gig I forced my parents to attend. The one they never made it to. Since then I’ve avoided stages the same way I avoid sweetcorn, new people and any kinds of competitive sport – with a deep and abiding focus.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ Kennedy urges, her eyes sparkling. She tops up my beer glass. ‘Find your own joy, girl!’
I take three big gulps and, all at once, Kennedy has dragged me onto the little stage with her and is talking into the ear of the glittery-shirted tanned man.
What am I doing up here? I feel a bit sick. I should go and sit back down and let Kennedy karaoke alone, but then she shoves something cold and heavy into my hand. I look down and see that it’s a microphone. Some small part of my heart lifts in excitement. I used to love having a microphone in my hand. I remember now. I used to revel in that growing bubble of anticipation, in those moments before I would see the audiences’ faces change from non-plussed to impressed. I had this need to show the people around me that I had real talent, that I could sing my stories and they would want to listen to them.
The crowd blurs in front of me, an abnormal proportion of attractive people swimming in and out of focus. I shouldn’t be up here. I should be at home doing Gary planning. But before I can second-guess what is happening, the music starts. Kennedy has chosen Adele’s ‘Rolling In The Deep’. With a bellyful of liquid courage and my new friend by my side, I start to sing.
As my voice booms out over the microphone, my cheeks lift into an irrepressible smile. I’m singing. I’m singing for an audience. I missed this. I missed it so much.
On the second verse, I turn to smile at Kennedy and notice that she’s no longer singing. She’s staring at me with an open mouth.
Kennedy leans into me and yells into my ear, ‘You are incredible. This one is yours, Nora.’
She quickly
hands her microphone back to glittery shirt man and hurries to our table, and instead of feeling scared, I just want to get lost in the music, in the silly drunkenness, in my voice and how oddly surprising it is to me that it is still there, as if it’s been waiting to be let out.
And so I sing. I sing like I’ve not sung in two years.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gary
Hey,
I am journaling for the second time in a day! Ira, what have you done to me, you sneaky old dog.
My very peculiar and unsettling day completely turned around into something awesome and it’s now 1.30 a.m. and I can’t seem to get to sleep. So here I am to ‘write it out.’ Again. I don’t want to forget how I feel tonight…
I just got back from an impromptu celebration dinner because two excellent things happened this evening. The first one is kind of insane: Aileen called me up and told me that I have been invited to do a handprint ceremony at the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood in a few days. I asked why the short notice and Aileen assured me that these things always move quickly, which makes a nice change from the snail’s pace the rest of the industry moves at. It feels ridiculous to be doing an actual fucking handprint ceremony. BUT Cary Grant did it, Marilyn Monroe did it, the cast of The Big Bang Theory did it. And so I’m going to take my opportunities when they come knocking and do it too.
The second reason for the celebration dinner is that tonight I was at the beach with Seth and Olive and they witnessed me riding my first full wave without falling off the board! They only came so they could laugh at me when I choked, but IN THEIR FACES! This dude has been practicing his fucking ass off. I mean, it was a tiny wave and I wobbled the whole time but… I did it! What a high! My whole body was buzzing. I’m already eager to get back in the ocean and do more.
He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner! Page 13