The California Club: LoveTravel Series - USA

by Belinda Jones

  THE CALIFORNIA CLUB

  Belinda Jones

  PRAISE FOR BELINDA’S BOOKS

  “Fast-paced, enthusiastic, good-hearted… a wise & witty read about the secret desires deep within us.' Marie Claire

  ‘There’s something about Belinda Jones's writing that takes you away to whatever beautiful setting she's evoking and holds you there right until you reach the last page.’ Daily Express

  'Great gags undercut with genuinely moving emotion - this is a cut above most romantic comedies. A gem.' Woman's Own

  'Definitely worth cramming in your suitcase.' Cosmopolitan

  'A deliciously entertaining beach read.' Heat

  'Fun, romantic and set in various exotic locations, it's the perfect escapist read for summer days.' Closer

  'A sparkling read.' OK!

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright ©Belinda Jones 2014

  Cover Design by Jarmilla Takač

  Published by Notting Hill Press

  Formatted by Polgarus Studio

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior permission of the publisher.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I think The California Club is my biggest-selling novel to date because of a) the aspirational setting and b) the appeal of a club that would grant you one sun-kissed wish, causing thousands of readers to ponder, ‘What’s my dream?’

  You might ask yourself the same question as you tour San Diego, Los Angeles, Yosemite National Park and beyond, and perhaps by the end of the book your answer will change and surprise you!

  Enjoy the read!

  Belinda xx

  DEDICATION

  For Tony Horkins

  (for showing me just how fabulous unrequited love can be)

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR BELINDA’S BOOKS

  COPYRIGHT

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  ALSO BY BELINDA JONES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Elliot.

  I've been carrying a torch for him so long people mistake me for the Statue of Liberty. In fact just last month I celebrated a whole decade of unrequited love. But now look at me – standing at London’s Heathrow airport about to jet off with His Handsomeness for two weeks of swaying palms, candy-colored convertibles and airbrushed skies.

  Shame he's bringing his girlfriend.

  Elise. That's right – Elliot and Elise. The two Es. Shouldn't be allowed.

  It would all be fairly unbearable were it not for the fact that I am to be joined by two fabulous allies – Sasha and Zoë. They got me through the first meeting with Elise and they can get me through this. Not that this was supposed to be an ordeal. The original plan was a two-week romp over to California to visit our beloved friend Helen and stage a grand sandy reunion of our old gang: the Brighton Beau-Belles.

  For the record, we comprise one beau (Elliot) and four belles (Helen, Sasha, Zoë and me – Lara). Categorically no Elises.

  The five of us were drawn together one brow-moppingly hot summer by The Seaflower – Brighton's most wincingly chintzy B&B. I'm allowed to say that because it belonged to my mother. Belonged. Past tense. As of a week ago it belonged to me. I may as well continue using the past tense because, before I can so much as change a lace doily, I am about to lose it. That's got to be the ultimate definition of carelessness – losing a six-guest-room building. And I got off to such a great start – inheriting it without my mother even having to die and just at a time when I fancied a career change.

  I'm a Home Stylist which sounds rather bogus, I know, but in reality I make a decent living shopping with other people's money and providing one-of-a-kind finishing touches once the interior decorators have done their utmost. Whether you're after a Regency mud-scraper or Warhol original, an antique Venetian mirror or functioning Sodastream to ruin the look of your Tikki Bar, I'm your woman.

  The thought of getting my hands on the B&B – ie: ripping out every carpet and cornice – thrilled me, as for nearly twenty-two years I've been planning a stunning re-design from the depths of my ever-metamorphosing bedroom. Every year since I was eight years-old, my mother has given me a birthday present of a Room Makeover Kit - pot of paint and a new duvet cover in the lean, younger years and then hard cash ever since I was big enough and tough enough to haggle at a flea market.

  Each spring I'd create a whole new environment for myself – running the gamut from space-age tinfoil to Zen bamboo. But not this year. This year I'm going to be thousands of miles from home, staying in someone else's hotel, assessing their knick-knacks.

  I was hoping we'd be checking in to the hotel where Helen works as head pastry chef – the legendary Hotel Del Coronado, set on a tiny island across the bay from San Diego. It's where Some Like It Hot was filmed and still attracts big movie stars today – the day Helen called to say Brad Pitt had just checked in was the day we finally quit our assorted procrastinations and booked our flights.

  I don't know why she's got us staying elsewhere as I'm sure she could have wangled us a reasonable room rate with her keen negotiating skills. That's how she got out to America in the first place, on a business exchange with a tech company in Arizona. How she ended up fluffing meringues by the seaside is beyond us all.

  Helen has always been the executive among us, even at the age of twenty when she decided to use the B&B as a case study for her Business Studies degree course. That's how we met.

  It was an auspicious start – within a matter of months she'd taken over from our accountant, neatly trimming back our overheads and plumping our profits. She was a natural – so smart, so quick, so ambitious – and as the rest of the group began to form Helen easily filled the role of Mother Hen, though never in a clucky, fussy way. It was more that she was the hyper-organized one. Yes, she can come off a little bossy at times but she always has our best interests at heart as she chivvies us along, hell-bent on us reaching our full potential.

  ‘Oop!’

  I step out the way of an outsize family struggling with an over-stacked trolley (which will almost certainly topple over and flatten at least one of their three tots before they reach the check-in desk) and survey the airport concourse for signs of Zoë. I arranged to meet her half an hour early so I could break the news about the B&B to her first. For all her in-yer-face bravado she's going to be the most devastated about losing it.
It was her home for seven years, after all.

  Zoë turned up at The Seaflower just shy of midnight one Tuesday in June with a distinctly pink chin and the man responsible for her stubble rash lurching behind her. He was much older – twenty-five, I think. Doesn't sound that old until you consider that she was fifteen at the time. They were both drunk and not the least bit interested in hearing about the coffee-making facilities. The next morning she woke to find him gone, leaving a soggy condom (actually a blessing – teenage pregnancy runs in her family) and an unpaid bill. As a schoolgirl with only a Betty Boop purse-full of coins to her name, this presented her with something of a dilemma.

  My mum threatened to call her parents but the look on Zoë's face made me intervene. Mum was late for the hairdresser's anyway so she left the situation in my inexperienced hands. I'd seen enough soaps to know that all problem-solving began with a nice cup of tea and so I took her through to our private living area and reached for the large brown glazed teapot and even made use of granny’s crocheted tea cozy. Something about the clichéd homeliness of it all prompted Zoë to spill her heart out.

  She told me all about her volatile, racist stepfather (who seemed permanently furious with Zoë that her real father was black) and her cowering, in-denial mother. She had no one to stand in her corner and I could only imagine what her stepfather would do if he found out what she'd been doing last night, and with whom.

  Being five years older than her and having always hankered after a younger sister, I adopted her on the spot. And then my mum did the same for real a year later. The three of us lived in giggly, girlie companionship until the day Zoë decided her destiny lay in Hemel Hempstead. Not an obvious relocation destination for someone hoping to be ‘discovered’, but at the time she had a more pressing reason for moving – her youngest cousin on her blood father's side was diagnosed with dyspraxia (formerly known as the clumsy child syndrome) and in her efforts to gather every scrap of information on the subject she so impressed the MD of the Dyspraxia Foundation that they offered her a job at their HQ in HH. It was just answering enquiries and general office admin but considering Zoë had barely attended school she felt this was her big break.

  It was a real wrench watching her leave, not least because I felt like she didn't need me any more. But I understood that she had something to prove to herself – her mother and stepfather barely set a skanky toe outside Brighton's notorious Whitehawk Estate and she has always felt a keen need to not be like them. Well I reckon the 'Have a Beautiful Day!' cheeriness of California has got to be about as far from their miserable mindset as possible – must remind her to send them a postcard.

  ‘Lara!' A clattering of mule heels and jangle of charms announces Zoë's arrival.

  Since I saw her last, her springy brown curls have been ironed straight and interlaced with multi-colored extensions, hanging in chunky layers past her shoulders like a carwash brush. Gotta love her – she's full-on drag queen glamor 24/7.

  'Did you see him?' she yelps, releasing me from an overexcited embrace.

  I take a moment to recover – Zoë's hugs always put me in mind of those junkyard compressor machines that can turn a tank into a battered metal sheet in one crunch.

  'Did I see who?' I ask, setting my shoulder back in its socket.

  ‘David Duchovny! He's over there at the First Class desk.'

  Normally we don’t give any credence to Zoë's star-spotting – to her every man in a tuxedo is Pierce Brosnan, every grey-haired gent drinking red wine is Anthony Hopkins and every petite brunette eyeing the security cameras is Winona Ryder. Even if we're at the Churchill Square mall. But in this location, it actually seems feasible.

  'He's so sexy, isn't he?' she continues, leering over at his sleepy, stubbly face.

  I roll my eyes – considering she's only twenty-five, Zoë is partial to a strange array of retro crushes. I blame the repeats on Living TV.

  'I think it's a sign!' she decides.

  'Of what?' I laugh.

  ‘That I'm going to shag a celebrity!’

  ‘Well, law of averages, it's going to happen sooner or later.'

  'I'll have you know I've been very restrained lately,' she sniffs.

  'No more single fathers, child psychologists or male nurses?' I check.

  'No, I've cut right back!' Zoë looks pious.

  'Conserving your energy for this trip?'

  She nods eagerly. Men of America beware.

  'So what did you want to talk about?' she tilts her head expectantly.

  Suddenly I can't do it. The timing is all out. She's hyped up about the trip and I don't want to see the work-of-art that is her eye make-up streaking on my account. Maybe it's best I wait until we're all together?

  'Lara?' Zoë tries to prompt a response.

  'I just wanted to make sure you'd get here before Elliot and Elise – you know how I feel about seeing him with her …' It's only half a lie – I am genuinely queasy at the prospect.

  She gives me an understanding squeeze. 'Vile creature. I don't know why he had to bring her. Why can't it just be our gang like the good old days?'

  'Like she was going to leave him alone with four women,' I huff.

  'Yeah but he's known us for years, if he was going to get it on with any of us it would've happened by now. Oh!' Zoë clamps her hand over her mouth. 'Sorry Lara-'

  'It's okay,' I mumble.

  'Obviously he wouldn't you know with the rest of us. But you … you he could do it with any minute!' Zoë gives me an earnest smile.

  'I'll be lucky if he can hold himself back!' I try to play along. 'We might have to do it right here on the suitcase scanner.'

  Nervous laughter.

  I wish I could convince the Belles that I'm over Elliot so they wouldn't have to constantly feel bad on my behalf, but it's tricky. First I'd have to convince myself.

  'At least we can count on Helen to be single!' Zoë takes a different tack. 'Maybe she can hook us up with some naked chefs!’

  I chuckle. She may well have some spare – Helen has always found men too disobedient and lax with their promises to take seriously. She once totted up how many hours her sister wasted waiting for the phone to ring or sobbing into her pillow over some guy and – other than the occasional accidental summer romance – decided she had more productive things to do with her time. Zoë's relationships rarely lasted either, but that's more down to her 'variety is the spice of life' motto.

  As for Sasha, she gets more offers than all of us put together but never seems particularly keen on any of the poor love-struck fools. She only goes on dates to prove she isn't aloof and out of fear of seeming ungrateful. Whereas I long to inspire eternal devotion, she finds that infatuated puppy-dog look the biggest turn-off. She says it makes her want to give the guy a good ‘snap out of it’ slap a la Cher in Moonstruck. Well, if she acted on that impulse today she would have already assaulted half the men in Terminal 4 – as she sashays towards us they gawp after her slinky bod and swishy hair like she's hooked their noses with an invisible fishing line.

  I look at my watch. 1pm on the dot. Sasha never did learn the diva ways of a supermodel despite nine years in the business and a cereal ad campaign that made her a household bottom. She's given it all up now and is currently between careers, though the first word that springs to mind when you see her will always be 'model'. (Fractionally ahead of 'vain cow' – not that she is, but you can't help wishing, can you?)

  'Belles!' she breathes, gliding into our arms and staying there for a full minute.

  'It's so good to see you!' I smile and inhale her Scandi-fresh scent.

  'You too,' she sighs, still holding life-raft-tight. 'I'm sorry I've been such a recluse lately.'

  Sasha's normally the best at keeping in touch but over the past few months she's been uncharacteristically 'absent'. I presumed she just wanted to take some time to de-program herself now that she's an ex-model – you know, let her cuticles grow ragged and maybe cultivate a baby pot belly – but it'll never w
ork, she's beautiful to the core.

  ‘I've been thinking about you all so much.' She's misty with sentiment as her eyes flick between us. ‘We've had some good times, haven't we?' she adds with perfect death-bed delivery.

  'We're about to have a whole lot more.' Zoë reminds her.

  'Yes!' I grin to excess in the hope that it proves contagious, but all Sasha can manage is a slight 'let's hope so' smile. She never was exactly a raver but today her meek streak seems more apparent than ever.

  'So, how are you?' I probe, feeling the first twitches of concern. 'How's life without the lens?'

  'Fine,' she looks uncomfortable but quickly brightens. 'You know how the last time we spoke I said I wished I'd never gone into modeling in the first place?'

  I nod. She had a point – there is a certain class to being that exquisite and not doing the obvious thing.

  'Have you changed your mind?' I ask.

  'Oh no! It just occurred to me that if I hadn't gone down that path we might never have met!’

  Beautiful, languid Sasha slipped into the B&B one afternoon in July on a fashion shoot for Marie Claire magazine. I would have stared longer but the photographer distracted me with his rapturous tizzy on seeing my mother's décor: 'This is exactly the level of tackiness we were going for!' he cheered as I showed him our flouncy four-poster suite. 'I mean, it looked cheesy in your brochure but all these ornamental bells and cross-stitched pillows – it's perfect!'

  I thanked him through gritted teeth and left them to it, but within twenty minutes the make-up artist came dinging on the reception bell asking me to call a doctor – Sasha was being violently ill. I thought she'd looked a bit pale on arrival but this was back in the days where all models were supposed to look eerily pallid so I hadn't taken much notice. Turns out she had gastroenteritis and couldn't move from the bathroom. Not even back to the luxury of The Grand Hotel where the rest of them were holed up for the night.