by Lucy Dawson
‘You look great. Text me when you land.’ He opened the car door. I got in and wound down the window.
‘Love you, Al,’ he said. ‘Safe journey.’
‘Love you too,’ I replied automatically. ‘So just phone that bloke then, tell him he can have the room. Don’t do anything else though, will you? Oh and don’t forget to call your mum – tell her we’ll come to them on Boxing Day and do my mum and dad on Christmas Day.’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ He pretended to salute me and I shot him a ha ha look as the car began to pull away. I turned at the end of the road to see him still standing there, waving cheerfully. I waved back, but as we rounded the corner, sank back into the seat heavily and was discomfited to find myself thinking that perhaps three days’ escape in LA might have some advantages after all.
Later, strapped into my seat on the plane and reading the safety card, I still couldn’t settle, which was daft, because it wasn’t like Tom’d said ‘Will you marry me?’ All we’d actually agreed to do was rent our spare room out, which was hardly dramatic. But he was thinking about mortgages and marriage . . . and thinking seriously too by the sound of it.
That was a good thing, surely? It wasn’t like I hadn’t imagined myself walking down the aisle on my father’s arm and Tom, beaming, turning slowly to face me. I had. Why was I feeling stressed out?
To be fair, I’d been stressed about everything recently. It’d been tough going self-employed, particularly money-wise. I hadn’t been able to ask Mum and Dad to help me out either because they’d been totally rinsed by Frances’ wedding. I thought Dad was actually going to explode when he’d received the quote for the flowers. But then, why should Mum and Dad have bailed me out anyway? It’d been really hard work but everything I’d achieved, I’d done myself – which I was quietly proud of, although it had meant doing a lot more of the sort of jobs I didn’t much enjoy, like the one ahead of me.
I found having to make myself do the whole ‘That’s brilliant, look at me like the camera loves you!’ excruciating – it felt so fake having to force myself to be someone I wasn’t and didn’t especially want to be either. That was the beauty of travel photography: I didn’t impose myself on anything or anyone, just recorded everything as it would have been, even if I hadn’t been there, and then quietly left. This gig, however, was completely different. Whatever very small satisfaction I would squeeze out of taking a picture of a pretty girl against a city backdrop wouldn’t outweigh the sheer embarrassment of being in public and taking pictures of someone dressed as – I checked my brief – a British office worker/naughty schoolgirl astride a star on the Walk of Fame. Oh God. I felt myself cringe inwardly, my stomach squirming. It was so cheesy.
A plate of plastic plane food, which managed to taste curiously of nothing and yet had a uniquely gross texture and scent, didn’t do much to help matters, but once I’d watched a couple of movies and had a little nap (although I got three electric shocks from the tartan blanket and discovered in the tiny toilet cubicle festooned with bog roll that my hair resembled Doc Brown’s from Back to the Future), I began to calm down a bit.
I was just going to have to get with the programme. I was going to LA. It was a new experience, which was a good thing, another stamp in my passport and an opportunity to do a good job that would lead to a better job. One I really would enjoy. Glass half full, Alice, I told myself firmly, looking in the mirror and deciding that the two spots on my cheek that had appeared from nowhere, as if they’d been forced through my skin by the pressure of being several thousand feet in the air, were not going to bother me. I was going to make the best of this.
After all, most people would give various parts of their body to be flying to LA, staying in a posh hotel and meeting a famous presenter, and all I had to do was point a camera at her. It wasn’t like I got to do this sort of thing all the time, for goodness’ sake. Last week I’d taken pictures of twenty different lip glosses from various angles, which had hardly been bloody exciting. ‘Hooray for Hollywood,’ I sung lightly under my breath, peering at myself more closely in the mirror, psyching myself up. ‘Where you’re a star if you’re only good . . . or something.’ I could do this! I was going to do it.
‘Nice hotel we’re in, isn’t it?’ said Gretchen Bartholomew chattily to me as the make-up artist dabbed her skin and then commanded, ‘Look up for me, lovie.’
‘Very,’ I agreed sincerely, wondering what it must be like to be her, having her make-up done by strangers, having people she didn’t know reading all about her in magazines, looking at her picture, ripping apart what she was wearing. Urgh.
‘Apparently the Dalai Lama is staying there too,’ Gretchen said, unfazed, ‘so we’re in good company.’ I was just about to ask her how she knew that when a tour bus drove past us for the umpteenth time, full of gawking, slack-jawed tourists clutching digital cameras, noses pressed eagerly to the window at the sight of a real life camera crew!
I glanced away as the tour guide shouted, ‘How you folks doin’?’ Gretchen, however, without moving a single muscle in her face, somehow managed to give him an enthusiastic thumbs up. I had to hand it to her, she’d been a tireless and enthusiastic worker from the moment I’d met her at our first location of the day – a Rodeo Drive jewellers’.
‘You must be Alice,’ she’d said, standing up immediately and offering me a hand so small and delicate it was like a child’s, but with a surprisingly energetic grip. ‘I’m Gretchen, pleased to meet you.’ She gave me a bright and engaging smile, and I saw immediately how she came across so well to the millions of children whose homes she was beamed into. She looked exactly the sort of girl any six-year-old would long to be when she grew up.
The stylist had already dressed her as the archetypal kids presenter, pulling Gretchen’s blonde, bouncy hair off her heart-shaped face and into two bunches. Each one was secured with a bit of pink sparkly fluff that could have been yanked off the underside of an indignant flamingo. Her T-shirt, obscenely tight and yellow over two perky breasts, read ‘Lollipop us up’. To ensure the readers got the message that LA was the town where all grown up girls’ dreams came true, the stylist wanted her draped in as much ostentatious bling as the shop was prepared to provide.
We eventually wound up with a shot of Gretchen flanked by two enormous unsmiling security guards, as she looked delightedly into a mirror. Her eyes were wide with glee as she inspected Liquorice Allsorts-sized yellow diamond earrings dangling at her jaw, and fat rings like sucked and spat-out gobstoppers on her fingers. It was a perfectly respectable image, if a little predictable. What the client wanted, the client got. To be fair to Gretchen though, she’d done exactly what I asked without complaint and given it her all.
‘You must have been doing this sort of thing for ages,’ she said to me as we packed up to move locations. ‘You’re very calm and organised. I think this is the least hysterical shoot I’ve been on for a long while.’
I looked up and smiled gratefully at her. ‘That’s kind of you to say so. I don’t do a lot of this type of work actually, maybe that’s why. Am I not being exciting enough?’
She held up her hands. ‘No, no, it’s a good thing, believe me. I feel much more relaxed than normal, despite her.’ She nodded in the direction of the coke-honed magazine stylist who had been taking VERY URGENT CALLS on her mobile all morning. ‘I can’t believe anyone can be that indispensable. Silly cow. It’s been like having the bloody Batphone go off every five seconds. What exactly is a celebrity editor anyway?’
I had shrugged in a non-committal ‘your guess is as good as mine but also I can’t really comment seeing as she’s technically my boss’ sort of way.
Things were much better creatively once we set up outside on the Walk of Fame, but worse from the perspective of traffic slowing and random people becoming interested in what we were doing. I felt pretty self-conscious as I peered through the lens at Gretchen with people watching me interestedly, arms crossed, like they were at a magic show. It didn’t seem to bother Gretchen though, a
nd she was the one dressed in a tight black jacket, suit shirt slightly unbuttoned from the bottom up, and black shorts that barely covered the crease of her bottom. She stayed focused and obeyed every instruction instinctively, lean legs either side of a Hollywood star as she leant on a terribly British black umbrella and peered up at me from under long lashes and a tilted bowler hat.
I twisted to the right slightly to cut out a pneumatic blonde who had appeared from nowhere and seemed determined to ease her tits into the frame. As I moved, a male passer-by in trainers and baggy jeans whistled appreciatively, walking past to Gretchen’s left, looking back over his shoulder at her. ‘Damn, girl!’ he called, as her long, blonde curls lifted lightly on the warm breeze. She glanced at him coquettishly, and good naturedly laughed.
It turned out to be just what was needed. We all inspected the shot of him looking at her in rapt admiration, the bright LA sun illuminating the edges of the black bowler hat and the stark, crisp lines of the umbrella. I couldn’t help feeling that all I’d done was take the photo at the right time – it wasn’t exactly styled, more luck than anything – but at least it had some movement, and Gretchen had a genuinely happy expression on her flawless face.
She looked as if she was poised to take over the world . . . and absolutely knew it.
Chapter Five
‘It’s always so good to kick back after a long day’s shoot,’ Gretchen sighed happily. ‘Do you want some more wine?’ She passed a bottle to me and sat back for a moment, peering at my plate. ‘Your fish looks amazing – I’ve got food envy.’ She was still making a real effort to be friendly, which was a pleasant surprise and not at all typical of most people like her. My somewhat limited experience had taught me that the more middle of the road a star was, the more self-obsessed they were likely to be; and the more tired they were, the more precious they became. But she didn’t seem to fit that mould at all.
She shook her head and laughed. ‘I’m so stuffed, and yet I seem to be keeping on eating.’ We were all sitting about a large table in a lively open air restaurant. The edges of the terrace were lined with giant terracotta flowerpots that were dripping with brightly coloured bougainvillea. It was a warm night; a lot of laughter and excited chatter was going on around us.
‘OK, second wind,’ Gretchen said determinedly, picking up her chopsticks and attacking her food with renewed relish. She popped a prawn in her mouth and rolled her eyes. ‘To be fair, this does taste amazing! Here, try this.’ She passed the bowl to me and waited eagerly. I tentatively speared a piece of what looked like tuna with a chopstick and put it in my mouth – she was right, it was incredible, just melted away like it had never even been there, leaving me wanting more.
‘You know, I can’t believe you’ve been a photographer for so long and we’ve never worked together before.’ She shook her head.
‘Umm,’ I agreed, through a mouthful of my food, ‘but I’ve not been freelance for very long, I’ve only just branched out on my own.’
‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘You seem very good at it – I’m sure you’ll do brilliantly. So,’ she grinned, ‘were you saying to the make-up girl that it was your first trip here? What do you think of LA?’
Honestly? Bits of it had totally sucked. I’d had low expectations, but I hadn’t even realised we were driving down Hollywood Boulevard until someone told me – it was full of crappy fast food outlets and looked really shabby. But then equally, in spite of myself, I’d enjoyed the swanky restaurants, the ridiculously fluffy hotel dressing gown, the staff warmly saying ‘You have a great day, Alice.’
‘I think it’s probably a good thing we’re going home tomorrow,’ I smiled, and picked up my glass of wine as I watched a rather glamorous couple take their seats two tables away from us. ‘I ordered room service for breakfast this morning and this amazing plate of fresh fruit arrived; the sun is always shining; the people are really friendly, and this is so lovely, sitting outside to eat – it’s November, for God’s sake!’
Gretchen nodded enthusiastically.
‘I think I could get worryingly addicted to such an exclusive lifestyle, which is funny because,’ I paused carefully, I didn’t want to appear rude, ‘I really wasn’t expecting it to be my kind of place.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Gretchen agreed. ‘I like visiting once in a while to have my fix of fun and easy living, but then it’s good to get back to reality. You’re wise to be wary – it’s really easy to get sucked in. Everyone seems friendly, but they’re actually so ruthless, they would literally sell their own grandmother with a smile to get the part they want or the movie deal they’re after. LA likes people to think it wears its heart on its sleeve but actually it prefers naked ambition. Quite an unhealthy little bubble.’
I was totally taken aback by such an unexpected and sharp comment. I remembered my rather bitchy remark to Tom about expecting her to be thick. She wasn’t at all.
‘I prefer New York,’ she grinned. ‘What you see is what you get. You been there?’
I nodded. ‘A couple of times.’
She glanced at me. ‘You look very Greenwich Village actually, sort of arty, understated but confident.’
I looked down at my slightly dishevelled black shift dress in disbelief, the only thing I’d managed to salvage from my suitcase that hadn’t been plastered in Pantene. ‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling secretly flattered. ‘I went there last year with my—’ I was about to say boyfriend but then stopped and added instead, ‘friend.’
It was a split second thing. My mouth said it before my brain connected. I slipped into the shoes of the savvy free spirit photographer she appeared to think I was, just for fun. I was only trying them on for size, to see what it felt like to be a fascinating creative type who flitted from country to country, carelessly. I knew I was flying home to Tom and a sinfully boring engagement party, but no one else knew that.
‘So what other places have you been to?’ she asked, reaching for her drink.
I tried to think. ‘Fair bit of Europe, parts of Africa.’ Which actually was true. ‘I’m really trying to break out into more . . .’ I struggled for a way of phrasing it that wouldn’t offend her, ‘reportage photography, travel stuff – but it’s hard, this is where the money is and all my contacts are.’
Gretchen nodded understandingly. ‘My older brother is a travel writer, I could introduce you if you like, he’s bound to know some people you could network.’
‘That would be really great!’ I said in genuine amazement. ‘Thank you!’
Then a thought occurred to me.
‘Oh God,’ I said in dismay and put down my napkin. ‘This is what you mean, isn’t it? I’ve already gone all LA – I’ve just contact-pimped you. I’m so sorry.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t be silly! I suggested it to you!’
‘Well, thank you. It’s really kind of you,’ I said, feeling embarrassed nonetheless. ‘So do you have just one brother?’
She chuckled, appreciating my attempt at recovery. ‘Yeah, just Bailey. How about you?’
‘One incredibly lazy younger brother called Phil and an older sister called Frances.’
‘Oh?’ she said, her eyes lighting up. ‘I always wanted a sister.’
‘You can have mine if you like,’ I said quickly.
‘Ah,’ said Gretchen. ‘Not that close?’
I pictured Fran standing looking at me with her arms crossed, unimpressed eyebrow raised. Feeling horribly disloyal, I started to back pedal. ‘It’s not that,’ I explained. ‘We are, it’s just she very recently got married, which was great, but the lead up to the wedding was pretty . . . full on. Frances can be . . .’ I paused for the right words.
Gretchen sipped her drink, listening intently.
‘A bit domineering. We’ve all spent the last few months organising and stressing. Phil’s got away with murder, Mum’s lost about a stone without even trying and I don’t think Dad can retire for another five years now.’ I smiled. ‘I’m just a bit all wedding-ed out.�
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‘Were you her bridesmaid then?’ Gretchen asked.
I shook my head. ‘I was taking the photos.’
Gretchen looked confused. ‘At your own sister’s wedding?’
‘I didn’t mind. She really wanted me to and it’s pointless arguing when Fran has her heart set on something. I just kept my head down and got on with it. She was five when I was born – she had a long time to wrap my parents round her little finger. When we were little,’ I wriggled more comfortably into my seat, ‘her best game was to tie a lead to my wrist and drag me around telling everyone I was her puppy; that gives you a good idea of what she’s like. Sometimes the attention wasn’t always a good thing.’ I tucked an escaping bit of hair back behind my ear. ‘She cut my fringe off once, which was nice of her. Mum left the back long because she wanted everyone to know I was a girl so, thanks to Frances, in the pictures of my third birthday party I look like Rod Stewart circa “Do You Think I’m Sexy?”’
Gretchen laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ I smiled. ‘She could be really mean. I had a hamster I really loved called Verbal James Gerbal and—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gretchen interrupted, holding up a hand. ‘He was called what?’
‘Yeah, we had really weird names for our toys and pets,’ I said, trying to remember why on earth I’d called him that.
‘If it makes you feel any better, I had a toy elephant I called Mr Price. I have no idea why either,’ she laughed. ‘God, I’d forgotten about him! So what happened to Verbal James Gerbal?’ She ate another mouthful of food and looked at me. ‘I have a feeling you’re about to tell me events took a tragic turn?’
‘I’m afraid so. Frances set Verbal James Gerbal free in the night. On purpose.’
Gretchen shook her head. ‘That was a low blow. Did he come back?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’ I shook my head, suddenly wondering why on earth I was telling her this, and why she was humouring me. It was nice of her. ‘We heard him scrabbling around under the bathroom floorboards, but Dad didn’t want to take the new carpet up.’