The California Club: LoveTravel Series - USA

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Oh Helen this place is amazing!’ I gasp as we’re confronted with a marina of gleaming yachts, just one minute outside of the airport. Even downtown’s skyscrapers have tiptoed right to the water’s edge.

  ‘Look at that whopping cruiseship!’ I laugh. ‘Right at the center of the action!’

  ‘And the Pirates of the Caribbean number next to it!’

  ‘That’s the Star of India!’ Helen notes.

  ‘This feels like a dream!’ Zoe reels. ‘I can’t believe we’re all here!’

  'I know,' Elliot grins. 'It's ages since we were all together. When was the last time – Helen's leaving do?'

  'No, Sasha was in Cape Town on a job,' Helen reminds him. 'Before that.'

  Elliot asks the panel on the back seat.

  'What?' Elise snaps. 'I can't hear you from back here!'

  Elliot repeats the question, oblivious to her huffiness.

  As Sasha recalls the exact date, I can't help narrowing my eyes at Elise: you just sat on an eleven-hour flight with Elliot and now you're begrudging me a fifteen minute car ride? Look at her acting all left out. If she can't hear, all she has to do is lean forward, everyone else is managing. Surely she can't resent us reminiscing? We haven't seen Helen in over a year.

  ‘What about the time we went to that Bucking Bronco bar!' Zoë chuckles. 'Maybe we could do it for real out here - is California part of the Wild West?'

  'You're kidding – my groin still hasn't recovered.' Elliot shifts in his seat.

  'You were a natural!' Helen laughs. 'Randy the Cowboy!’

  ‘Oh no!’ I cringe. We called him that for weeks. He certainly had a knack – we reckoned it was because his legs are so long he got to tuck them under the bull whereas the rest of us just flailed around, cheerfully impaling ourselves on the horns.

  Elliot inspects his left index finger – slightly misshapen since that day from gripping so hard – and sighs. 'That was a great summer.'

  The best, I think to myself. All those beautiful hungover sunrises we saw in.

  'I'll never forget—' Elliot begins, but before he can finish his thought, Elise has strained forward into front-seat territory. Instead of pawing at him she jabs Helen.

  'The air conditioning isn't working back here,' she complains. 'I think you've got it all switched to the front.'

  'It should be coming out here,' Helen reaches her hand back and runs her fingers over the vent.

  'I'm okay,' Sasha shrugs, ever neutral.

  'Well, I can't breathe,' Elise wheezes, slightly overplaying her bid to get attention.

  'Here – I'll open the window,' Zoë offers.

  Suddenly a flurrying blast of air whips up a wind tunnel effect and amid the bluster I hear a piercing scream. I wrench round to find the whole side of the SUV missing – nothing but a seatbelt between Zoë and speeding tarmac.

  'Hold on!' Helen urges.

  The vehicle lurches as we veer over to the hard shoulder and screech to a stop.

  'What happened?' Elliot scrambles around in his seat.

  'I was just trying to open the window!' Zoë wails.

  ‘You pulled the door handle!' Sasha gasps.

  While we take a moment to let our battering hearts settle, Helen runs around to slide the door closed again, this time tapping on the window to indicate the lock to Zoë. She depresses the button with a trembling finger.

  'Are you okay?' Elliot reaching back to give Zoë's knee a comforting squeeze.

  Zoë nods, still in shock.

  'You'd better straighten up, we're off again!' Elise snaps as Helen starts up the ignition.

  'I wondered what it was, that rushing sound,’ I shudder. 'Imagine if you'd got sucked out!'

  'It would have been awful – I'd have died before I got famous!' Zoë frets.

  'You could've been famous for the way you died,' Sasha suggests.

  'I think they already made a movie about that,' Elliot notes.

  'Did they?’ I frown. 'What?'

  'Gone With The Wind!' Elliot hoots.

  We all fall about laughing. All except Elise. It seems that nothing makes her more miserable than Elliot having fun. I'm telling you, if she gets through the week without me squashing her into a smoothie blender it'll be a miracle.

  ‘Woohoo! Check out that rollercoaster!' Elliot exclaims as we continue on our way.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over to the right!’

  'Wow!' I gawp as I make out a loop of blue steel held up by vast concrete Roman numerals.

  'You want to go on it?' Helen looks playful.

  'Now?' I balk.

  'It looks like it's on the way …' Elliot looks hopeful.

  'Actually, it is the way!' Helen grins, sliding off the freeway and following the curve of the road until we're approaching the 'rollercoaster' head on.

  'Oh my god!' I gasp as we mount it.

  'Welcome to the Coronado Bay Bridge!' Helen introduces us.

  Within seconds our altitude increases tenfold and we find ourselves suspended high above the sea, the skyscrapers of downtown San Diego behind us and a lushly-green island ahead.

  This has got to be the automobile equivalent of tightrope walking – the edge barriers don't seem nearly high enough, and my stomach feels as if it's just gone head-first over a high jump.

  'Over to the left is Mexico!' Helen directs our gaze to the hazy mountain range.

  As Sasha's eyes widen, Zoë sings, 'Tequila! Du-duh-da-da-da-da-duh-duh!’

  The rest of us would join her but our hearts have leapt into our mouths and there's no room for any vocal gymnastics. Gripping the dashboard, I dare myself to peer down at the elegant sailboats crossing the bay – little white triangles set against the blue like crisp handkerchiefs in a blazer pocket. There’s a fringe of sand below us and some kind of sprawling resort with hammocks and firepits.

  ‘What is this place?’ I ask as we come back down to the same level as the paddle-boarders and meandering cyclists.

  ‘How to sum up Coronado,’ Helen muses. ‘I think of it as part tropical island, part storybook village and part millionaire’s beach retreat.’

  Everything we see as we cruise down Orange Avenue seems to reinforce this – the soaring palms, the stars and stripes flags, the gingerbread cottages and movie star mansions. Even the police station is brimming with peachy bougainvillea.

  ‘Is this where you live?' Elise asks, unable to keep the envy out of her voice.

  'No, I'm about twenty minutes up the coast, at La Jolla,' Helen tells her, then locates Zoë in the rearview mirror, 'Your Spanish stretch to a translation?'

  Zoë's longest relationship to date was with a Spanish barman but that was five years ago now.

  Zoë frowns, 'Spelt j-o-l-l-a but pronounced hoya?'

  Helen nods.

  'Rings a bell but, no …' Zoë shakes her head. 'Tell us!'

  'The Jewel,' Helen shimmers.

  We sigh in unison. This is all so magical. Elise can do her worst but I know now that I won't regret coming on this trip. I'd forgotten how amazingly uplifting sunshine and a new view can be.

  'Hotel Del Coronado!' I spot the sign for Helen's workplace. We all tug at our seatbelts trying to get the first glimpse of the infamous landmark – a whitewashed wooden palace with dark red turrets extending along acres of pale blond shoreline.

  ‘They say the Hotel Del is one third sand, one third sea and one third fairytale,' Helen smiles, winding up the driveway. 'But most people just call it the Some Like It Hot hotel!'

  'Just think, Marilyn stayed here,' Zoë coos, utterly enraptured.

  Every year since we met I've hunted down some quirky piece of Marilyn-abilia for Zoë's birthday so I know how much this means to her.

  'Remember the bit in the film when they arrive at the hotel for the first time and there's all these ancient millionaires in rocking chairs on the porch?'

  'I've never liked black and white films,' Elise sneers.

  This is sacrilege to Zoë but she's too mesmerized by
the guy in the stunted bowler hat who's stepped forward to greet us to care.

  'Checking in?'

  'Just visiting.' Helen leans across to him. 'Grant, these are the friends I was telling you about.'

  'Heeyy! Welcome!' he cheers as we spill out of the SUV.

  ‘You must be Elliot – ' he shakes his hand. 'And your fiancée …' His finger wavers like a water diviner between me and Elise. Then settles on me! My heart leaps as I redirect him. They have to break it off now – the doorman thinks we're a match!

  'I'm Lara,' I tell him.

  'Sasha!' The Beautiful One shakes his gloved hand. 'And this is Zoë!'

  The bowler hat's eyes bulge at Zoë's cleavage then, as a luggage trolley brushes past, he stammers. 'Mind your, er, backs!' Still transfixed. I'm sure Marilyn herself had a similar welcome.

  'Shall we?' Helen beckons us up the tiered redbrick steps, pushing through the glazed glass doors and leading us from dazzling sunshine into a ye olde world of dark wood paneling, creaky balconies and antique brass lifts. The lobby is dominated by the Liz Taylor of all chandeliers – a great bejeweled blancmange with dangling baubles flashing rainbows across the room.

  We take a moment to inhale the towering floral display and then peel off in different directions - Elise guiding Elliot over to the pretty gazebo in the grand garden courtyard, Zoe returning to get a snap with the bowler hat, Helen catching up with the receptionist just back from her vacation… Meanwhile I’m exploring the Est. 1888 gift shop. (I quickly learn that was the year the hotel was built.) This place is a treasure trove of trinkets, vintage jewelry and some of the prettiest sugar bowls I’ve ever seen. There’s even a Marilyn Monroe paper doll kit with cut-outs of her most iconic outfits. I’m torn between purchasing that and a plaque that says, ‘Life is about finding people who are your kind of crazy!’ when I hear Helen call:

  ‘Who’s ready for tea?’

  We assemble quicker than the Von Trapp children at the toot of the Captain’s whistle.

  Wait. There’s someone missing – where’s Sasha?

  Turns out she never made it further than the ante-room, having been waylaid by a suitor. Nothing new there. I feel almost sorry for him – he doesn't stand a chance. Not because he's unattractive, which coincidentally he is (unless you like your men to have the purplish complexion of the semi-strangled). It's just that if he's paid her any kind of compliment she'll have instantly switched off. With Sasha you can forget 'You had me at hello!' It's more a case of 'You lost me at "You're gorgeous!"'

  However. It would seem Mr Plum has gone for something original, because he's holding her attention longer than most – perhaps she can't take her eyes off that golfball-size boil on his neck – but still she's shaking her head. He's offering her his card. She's declining. He's insisting. She's pointing over at Zoë. Strange. Zoë can find something attractive about most men but I think this one may be a flabby earlobe too far. He pulls a face, she reluctantly accepts his card, then quickly tucks it into her purse before hurrying over to join the rest of us.

  'What did he want, apart from the obvious?'

  'Who?' Sasha blushes.

  'That guy,' I point back but he's gone.

  Sasha shrugs and studies the floor.

  Curious. Why would she try and deny the encounter? Before I can probe further, Helen sweeps us through to the Crown Room to enjoy Victorian Afternoon Tea served by waitresses in bustles and buns.

  It’s an impressive venue: the ceiling is like an upturned ark with its curved wooden beams and the giant-bulbed chandeliers are shaped into the form of crowns.

  ‘Interesting motif…’

  ‘Coronado, coronation…’ Helen explains the origin as she pads across the richly-patterned carpet.

  ‘Ahhh!’ I nod. This place certainly does have a regal air. We learn that Edward, Prince of Wales has visited and numerous presidents from Roosevelt to Clinton. Not to mention Hollywood Royalty from back in the day – Judy Garland, Katherine Hepburn and Gregory Peck…

  ‘All that class,’ I sigh.

  ‘And now they let in any old riff-raff,’ Elise sneers at a woman in low-rise jeans and a cropped top yapping loudly on her cellphone.

  ‘I think it’s nice that it’s open to the public,’ Helen counters. ‘I mean, it’s more than a hotel, it’s a historic landmark.’ She stops beside the floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight filtering through the green palm fronds of the front lawn. ‘This is our table…’

  Within minutes of settling we're presented with the best-dressed cake stand I've ever seen – three layers, each with a distinct personality: at the top sit the dainty-girlie-frilly items, all frosted icing and sugared pastels, then comes a succulent fruit topped selection, and at the bottom the rich browns of the chocolate, coffee and nut offerings.

  'Helen, you've excelled yourself!' Elliot admires her handiwork.

  I look at the anticipatory rapture on everyone's faces and think how B&Bs really talk up their breakfasts – quite logically of course – but what if our attraction was a legendary teatime? That would be a lovely bonus at check-in, you'd feel indulged the second you were through the door.

  'Lara, are you going to try something?' Helen nudges me. 'I did the mini donuts specially for you.'

  My life is one big quest for the perfect donut. I like them light and fluffy with a slightly crispy shell, as opposed to those solid doughy cushions that are so common.

  'Perfection!' I gasp. 'Just a hint of jam and it's the quality stuff with pips and everything!'

  Helen grins proudly, grabs an éclair and takes a giant bite.

  I can't quite believe my eyes. In the old days, if a raisin got wedged in her teeth she'd consider that her treat for the month. I wonder if there's some new culinary equivalent of wine-tasting – take a bite, roll the food around the palette and then spit it out. But no, she swallows. And takes another bite.

  'Mmm, and you've got to try these,' Helen raves, plucking one of the flaky pastries oozing custard. 'I know it looks messy but I tried adding a little almond paste to the filling and it's worked out really well.'

  'I love these chocolate-dipped Florentines!' Sasha enthuses.

  'I have two every morning for breakfast!' Helen smiles. 'Aren't they divine?'

  I look at Zoë. She nods at me as if to say: You ask. So I do.

  'Helen …' I try to sound casual, not wanting to make a big thing of it. 'Since when did you start eating your own creations?'

  She laughs gaily. 'I don't know, one day I just got this appetite!'

  'I don't get it – you're eating all these treats and you're looking slimmer than ever. What's your secret?' Zoë wants to know.

  'Please don't tell me you've found true love, I'll have to kill myself,' I whimper.

  'As a matter of fact I have met someone!' Helen beams.

  'Traitor!' I joke but inside I'm crushed. Is there anything left of the old Helen? I mean, it's one thing to get a makeover but deliberately withholding earth-shattering gossip (I still can't believe she knew about Elliot's engagement first!) and now finding love! It’s quite outrageous.

  'His name is Reuben,' she sighs, looking elated.

  'When do we get to meet him?' Elliot enquires.

  'Soon,' she says, mysteriously.

  'How did all this happen?'

  'You really want to know?'

  'Yes!' we insist.

  Helen takes a second to look at each of us, almost as if she's assessing whether we're really ready for her reply.

  ‘Well …?' Sasha eggs her on.

  She takes a breath and whispers: 'The California Club!'

  'The what?' We all lean forward, eager to learn more.

  'Miss Hill,' a waiter interrupts, 'the mother of the bride wants to thank you for being so creative with the replacement cake, have you got a minute?'

  The second Helen is out of earshot we begin our speculation.

  'It's got to be a Weight Watchers thing,' Zoë asserts. 'It's just like in the ads when people lead these fabulous
zesty lives after they've dropped six stone. Look at her – she's glowing.'

  'She wouldn't be allowed chocolate éclairs if it was Weight Watchers,' Sasha observes.

  'Maybe it's just all the extra sugar making her hyper,' Elise opines.

  'I reckon it's a surf club.' Elliot gets practical. ‘There's more to it than weight loss, she's toned, she's lithe – look at her body.'

  Elise raises an eyebrow.

  'Not that I was,' flounders Elliot.

  ‘Could be,' Sasha muses. 'She's got the look, she's right here on the beach…’

  'I think it's a dating agency: The California Club – bringing sun-kissed singles together!’ I sing.

  Hmm. I guess it’s obvious which aspect of her transformation is preying on my mind. There I was coasting along, comfortable with having an absolute nothingness of a love life and suddenly Elliot’s engaged and Helen’s head-over-heels. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt quite so left behind. Something tells me I’ll be sneaking a peek at Sasha’s self-help books tonight.

  ‘Wait!’ I gasp. ‘It could be therapy! She’s let go of some issue we never knew she had and its freed up her heart to embrace a whole new life!’

  'Oh no.' A look of horror flashes across Elise's face. 'What if it's one of those change-your-life cults!'

  'What if it's Scientology?' Sasha murmurs.

  ‘What if we get to meet John Travolta?' Zoë gurgles.

  'She's far too level-headed for any cult,’ Elliot tuts.

  'A year ago she'd never leave the house without a serum-smoothed ponytail, and now look at her!' Zoë points out.

  As we lapse into silent contemplation I give myself a chill. 'You don't think she's got us over here to recruit us, do you?' I ask, unsure of whether that would be a good or a bad thing.

  'You can rely on my bullshit detector,' Elise bristles. ‘If I sense a whiff of mind control I'll scream the place down.'