Are We Nearly There Yet

by Lucy Vine

  I am happy to say my last few days here have been wondrous and magical. My friend Patrick and I travelled to Palm Springs, where we met very many deep people and had many fun times. Transparency is key with blogging, so I must admit to you, dear followers, that we didn’t quite get round to horse riding or playing tennis though. We nearly played golf at one point, but that was sort of an accident when we got trapped on a golf course after hours. Instead of trying to play sport, we decided to focus on meeting and connecting with other people, and so tonight, for our final evening, we are hitting up a very exclusive club to meet talented and inteligont people.

  Goodbye LA, farewell, sayonara, adios, hola, so long.

  Adieu,

  Alice x

  #FinalNightOnTheTown #PalmSpringsJoy #AccidentalGolfing #TravelBlogger #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog #BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser

  5 Comments · 14 AWOLs · 53 Super Likes

  COMMENTS:

  Karen Gill

  | It will be great for you to meet like-minded intoligent people

  Mark Edwards

  | Text me when you’ve landed safely. I do care a little bit.

  Noah Deer

  | Can’t believe you’re leaving already! Seems like you just got here :/

  Isabelle Moore

  | Byeeeeeeee!

  Eva Slate

  | Have a fab final evening in America!

  ‘Over here, babe! Babe!’ Patrick is waving at me from across the room, trying to get my attention. ‘BABE,’ he shouts this time, grinning from ear to ear. I clear my throat, my face red as I slide off my bar stool. I slowly make my way over, clutching my undrinkable whiskey sour. I made the mistake of trying to flirt with the sexy bartender by telling him to ‘surprise me’ with a drink of his choosing. And then I didn’t want to seem uncool by spitting the disgusting forty-five dollar cocktail in his face. Even though he deserved it.

  ‘BABBBBBBBBBE,’ Patrick yells, even louder this time, even though I am fucking coming.

  Patrick has taken to calling me ‘babe’ because I accidentally said it the other day when I was drunk, and he is now fully leaning into the joke. It’s one of those nicknames I never used to say, and then I said a few times with Eva ironically – but then my brain forgot it was ironic and started saying it all the time and at inappropriate moments: on the phone; at work; to the postman.

  Either way, it’s embarrassing, and especially so here in this venue. ‘Shut up,’ I hiss, reaching over to swat at him while simultaneously checking over my shoulder to see if any of the suave, understated clientele around us are taking any notice of this oaf. Luckily it is way too dark in here for anyone to be aware of anything. The US president could be getting a blowie in the booth next to us and I wouldn’t be able to see. Thankfully.

  This is maybe the fanciest place I’ve ever been in my life. And you know it’s fancy, because from the outside, you wouldn’t even know it’s a bar. There is no name or sign or bouncers, just a random door built into a wall. We needed a password to get in, and you just know everyone in here is big time because no one’s really talking, they’re just existing. They are rich shapes in the darkness.

  It’s wonderful.

  I’m pretty sure Patrick had to pull some major strings to get us on the guest list for this place, and I know it’s because he’s trying to cheer me up.

  I’ve had a nice few days in Palm Springs, but I also know I’ve been a little . . . distracted. I’ve been blue about what happened with Dom and I’m all too aware that this part of my trip is coming to an end. Plus, I’ve been dwelling a little bit on the awkwardness with Eva the other day. We’ve exchanged a few messages since our Skype chat, and we’re both pretending all is normal, but there’s an edge to it. And I don’t know how to feel. Eight years of living together and we’ve never had a cross word. Now, this.

  ‘Look,’ Patrick nods excitedly at the bookcase before us.

  ‘What?’ I frown, perplexed. He smiles mysteriously. ‘It’s a bookcase!’ he says, tapping it. ‘You know what that means. That means it’s a door – a secret door, babe!’

  ‘Shut up, it’s not!’ I scoff. ‘And please stop calling me “babe”, it’s not funny.’

  ‘It is very funny, babe, and you shut up,’ he is still smiling. ‘We have to find our way in. Help me.’ He starts pulling at random books and I roll my eyes.

  ‘You are such a dweeb, Patrick,’ I say affectionately. ‘You’ve seen too many Indiana Jones films.’ He ignores me, yanking at pretentious tome after wealthy moron autobiography. He stops to swig from his drink and a few books fall noisily to the floor. We look at each other, startled by the loud clatter. The president in the booth next to us looms up in the darkness.

  ‘Just keep goi—’ Patrick begins, sounding a bit panicked, but we are interrupted by the stealthy arrival of an angry-looking waiter. Oh crap, we’re going to be chucked out. Haven’t I been ejected from enough places in LA by now? And I haven’t even had my BUI yet.

  He regards us in the dim lighting, we look back at him. There is a three-way slow blink and I clear my throat, ready with my poshest royal family English accent.

  ‘Erm, good sir, we do beg your forgiv—’ I begin, but he cuts me off. ‘Every night,’ he hisses. ‘Every. Single. Night. Every stinking night one of you does this.’ He waves at the books on the floor despairingly. ‘You know the owner likes them in a special order? So after we finally get rid of you rich leeches at 3 a.m., I have to stay behind to pick up the books people have thrown on the floor, and sort out the ones you’ve pulled out.’

  ‘We’re not rich,’ I mutter sulkily. ‘I am a bit of a leech, but I’m not rich.’

  The waiter ignores me. ‘Every night!’ he continues. ‘Which pretentious garbage monster came up with the whole bookcase-secret-entrance-in-a-bar thing anyway? Because I want to find them and water-board them.’

  We hang our heads, ashamed of ourselves.

  ‘I told you,’ I nudge Patrick. ‘I told you it wasn’t a secret d—’

  The waiter interrupts, sighing, ‘Anyway, it should’ve specified which book it was on your invitation.’

  Hold on.

  ‘But everyone ignores that, don’t they? They come in just grabbing at any old Trump biography.’

  Oh?

  He sighs, exasperated. ‘It’s Lolita to get into the West event.’ He nods towards the Vladimir Nabokov book at the top corner end of the shelf.

  Patrick and I sneak a look at each other; he’s trying not to smile.

  The angry man gives us another aggressive sigh before moving off. I catch a faint, ‘Douchebags’ in the wind.

  Patrick reaches up and there is a click as the bookcase nudges ajar.

  ‘Holy mackerel, Batman!’ I gasp and Patrick snorts.

  ‘We have to go in,’ he says, gripping the edge of the door.

  ‘Can we though?’ I whine, excited. ‘It must be a private party; they’d clock us straight away. And, er, hello, Lolita? What kind of disturbing shit is that? It’s probably some kind of sex ring in there with underage slaves.

  ‘Even more reason to crash it!’ Patrick looks a little too delighted. ‘We could be heroes, saving them all.’

  ‘Or get murdered,’ I giggle, thrilled. ‘Ooh, what if it’s a secret celebrity party? He said it was the “West party”, right? That could be Kanye! We could be about to crash Kanye West’s birthday party! I’ve always wanted to crash a VIP A-list party! I have this theory that me and Khloe Kardashian would be best friends if we were only given the opportunity to hang out. I just get her, y’know?’

  ‘Come on!’ Patrick grabs my hand, interrupting what would’ve been a lengthy monologue about reality telly, and we slip inside. ‘This is going to be EPIC!’

  It is super lame.

  An hour later and we haven’t seen any celebrities or sex rings so what is ev
en the point. It is almost exactly the same situation as the main bar – rich-looking white people dressed in dark, expensive clothes. Everyone is standing around in small cliquey huddles, not talking to each other. In fact, everyone looks miserable AF. There is a DJ deck in the corner, but it’s just playing some tinkly lift music rubbish. The only reason we’re still here is that this secret VIP-type area seems to have free alcohol. So Patrick and I have been pounding the prosecco like teenagers.

  ‘Do you think there might be canapés coming round?’ I whisper from our position in the corner, people-watching. ‘We should stand next to the kitchen door just in case. So we can have first option on everything. I want some kind of fancy, tiny mac ‘n’ cheese.’

  ‘But that’s the other end of the room from the bar,’ Patrick looks rightly worried. Food v. booze is the eternal question on a night out. I nod agreeably. ‘Maybe we should split up?’ I slur thoughtfully. ‘Divide and conquer. I’ll go forage for food, you forage for drinks? We’ll meet in the middle with supplies.’

  ‘We should also forage for fun,’ he says grumpily. ‘This night was supposed to be really silly and spontaneous. It’s supposed to be your last big adventure in America! I wanted this to be a mad night. I wanted you to have a story to tell when you got home.’

  ‘I am having fun!’ I insist half-heartedly, but he doesn’t look convinced, mostly because I am also fiddling with my cuticles.

  ‘We need to liven this party up a bit,’ he says, suddenly perking up. ‘Let’s make it a secret mission. A dare.’ Inspiration strikes him. ‘I know! Right, I dare you to go take over the DJ decks. Put a banger on, and I will start talking to people and get a conga line going! Come on Alice, it will be excellent! Everyone here is dying for things to kick off, look how miserable they all are. Between us we can save this dire night.’

  ‘DEAL!’ I shout, suddenly excited. There is something in me that cannot resist a dare. It is juvenile, but irresistible. He’s also right, this place badly needs a conga line to happen. Everyone is so dour and bored-looking, making small talk in corners and ignoring the dance floor. I have just the playlist to get everyone moving.

  Patrick and I discreetly high-five and splinter off in different directions. I eye him joining a small group of men, all dressed in dark suits. He looks so out of place in his bright green shirt. Ugh, don’t rich people have any imagination?

  I sidle up to the DJ booth. There is a woman standing there looking bored, playing with her phone, which is plugged into the system. She must be responsible for this tedious background music. For half a second I wonder if this is a good idea. I could still make a run for it. She looks up, surprised by my closeness. ‘Hello,’ she says coolly.

  ‘Um, hi there,’ I say and for some reason, I am talking in an American accent. Not even a good American accent. She looks puzzled.

  ‘You OK, hun?’ she says half nicely. I nod enthusiastically. We fall silent and I swallow hard. This was a bad idea. This isn’t going to work! How do I even get her away from the decks so I can plug my Spotify in? I glance desperately over at Patrick, but he is fully immersed in his rich-suits chat. He looks a bit serious, maybe he wants to chicken out, too?

  ‘Do you know Sam well?’ the woman murmurs, and my head snaps back towards her. Shit, is Sam the host? He must be. No Kanye or Kardashian family then, bummer.

  ‘Quite well,’ I hedge, matching her low tone. ‘Great . . . person.’

  I nearly said bloke, but Sam could easily be a woman, couldn’t it? That is quick thinking. I am so good at this! Out of nowhere the adrenaline – and alcohol – kicks in. I need to take more chances, that’s why I’m here! For God’s sake, I’m in this country for one more night – this is it – my one chance to be silly. Constance Beaumont makes a big thing about taking risks and being spontaneous on her blog. Plus, Patrick dared me and I want to pretend to be a person who is brave, a person who does things.

  I’m doing it.

  ‘Mind if I have a go?’ I say to the woman, gesturing at the DJ system. She narrows her eyes at me. There is a beat. ‘I guess . . .’ she starts, sounding unsure, but I am already moving in, triumphantly unplugging her phone. She steps back, still looking confused. No problem, she will be on board in a minute because I have just the playlist for this evening. It’s the one I put on ahead of big nights out with my mates. When we’re going out-out. It is guaranteed to get everyone moving. I hit shuffle and crank up the volume. The booming sound of The Pussycat Dolls’ Don’t Cha fills the room. En masse, everyone turns in my direction. Clearly they were sick of the tinkly background music, too. Here we go! This is really happening! My belly fizzes with the joy of spontaneity. They are going to love this!

  Nicole Scherzinger’s distinctive warble fills the room, singing about how sexy she is and how no other woman comes close.

  I grin widely at all the shocked faces in front of me.

  I meet Patrick’s eyes. Time for the conga.

  Oh, here’s the part of the song where she says men should all cheat on their girlfriends if there is a hot freak available. I love this bit.

  Patrick is ashen.

  My smile falters.

  He is mouthing something. I can’t make it out. Why is no one dancing? Or . . . smiling?

  Nicole screams from the sound system some more stuff about being sexy, and I momentarily picture her with yoghurt on her nose.

  What is it Patrick’s saying? Wait, ‘phew’? It can’t be phew, what is it . . .

  Oh God, I think I know. I think I know what it is. I know what he’s saying. I glance round at the woman next to me. She looks back at me, horrified. She is in all black. So is everyone.

  Wait a minute, what did she say a minute ago? It suddenly clicks in my brain. She didn’t say, ‘Do you know Sam well?’ – that wasn’t what she said. She said . . . she said, ‘Did you know Sam well?’ She said DID. This is a . . . this is a . . . I turn back towards Patrick who has his head in his hands but is still mouthing the same words. It is so clear now.

  ‘THIS IS A FUNERAL’.

  Later, when we are both hiding in the unisex loo, trying to get the window open so we can sneak out, Patrick just keeps repeating the same thing.

  ‘It might not have been so bad if the incontinence advert hadn’t come on afterwards. Why, Alice, why couldn’t you at least have sprung for Premium Spotify?’

  14

  AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed

  18 May – 7.15 p.m.

  Good evening, dream chasers,

  I know I made it sound like yesterday’s blog was my final blog in LA, but this is actually the last one. I am writing this on my way to the very luxurious LAX, which they should re-name LUXE, because I have been upgraded to business class #blessed. And I know I said yesterday that I cannot believe my journey in LA has come to an end at last, but today I really can’t believe it. It has felt both endless and also very quick. I have learnt much and also learnt nothing. It has been spiritual.

  My final evening was wonderful. We went to a very exclusive bar, where there was almost certainly a president in a booth but don’t tell anyone. We were invited to join the VIP section down a secret passage. There, my musical talents were recognised and I was asked to DJ. I am now seriously considering a career in music when I return to England in a few months. You can contact me on the tab above should you like to book me for gigs.

  Goodbye to my dear new friends, thank you for sharing so much of yourselves with me. Until we meet again.

  ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’ Aristotle

  Alice x

  #Goodbye #MusicalVibes #FeeltheMusic #DJSkills #GoneAWOL

  #AliceEdwardsBlog#BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #Dream Chaser

  7 Comments · 4 AWOLs · 17 Super Likes

  COMMENTS:

  Hollie Baker

  | Wow!!! Do you have a YouT
ube account for your music? I would like to listen!

  Isabelle Moore

  | WHICH BAR? WHY WASN’T I INVITED?

  Karen Gill

  | Who did you sleep with to get an upgrade?

  Randy Howels

  | Fukin women shit at music, is a mens job stooped bich

  | AWOL MODERATOR

  Replying to Randy Howels

  | I get it, Randy, mate, it’s a tricky chat, but please be respectful to our users :) Let’s all just take a chill pill!! Luke

  Randy Howels

  Replying to AWOL MODERATOR

  | u r such a messy prick luke

  Mark Edwards

  | Hope you’ve got your neck pillow ready. Long flight ahead.

  So LAX airport has a shop dedicated entirely to novelty magnets, at least twelve perfume outlets, and an iStore – but not one place that sells tampons. MY KINGDOM FOR A TAMPON.

  This is definitely not my finest hour.

  I’m stuffing my pants with airport-loo toilet paper, so thin it disintegrates in my hands. But it’s the best I can do. My period arrived three days early, just as I was leaving for the airport. I think my body knew I was about to spend eighteen hours on a plane and wanted me to be as physically uncomfortable as possible. I assumed one of the biggest airports in the universe would have some variation of a chemist, but apparently not. I have now circled this bastard three times, and I’m on to last resort options.

  And honestly, it’s not even a tampon I really want. I want sanitary towels. Big, fat, night-towels with giant wings that make you feel like you’re wearing a nappy. That’s all I want for day one of my period, when I’m bleeding like an episode of Santa Clarita Diet. Especially when I’m getting on a long-haul flight. I just want to be securely strapped into my nappy and eating chocolate.