by Isabel Wolff
I had just bent down to stick it under his door when Amber grabbed my arm.
‘Hold it!’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you remember what happened in Tess of the d’Urbervilles?’
‘Er, no, can’t say that I do.’
‘Well,’ she began, ‘Tess was just about to marry Angel Clare, who she loved, but she decided, two nights before their wedding, to confess to him about her past. So she wrote him a letter and pushed it under his door, BUT,’ Amber went on melodramatically, and suddenly I was absolutely gripped, ‘the letter went under the carpet, by mistake, and Angel never got it. Result? Disaster. So I suggest you put that note in Joe’s mailbox instead.’
So that’s what I did. And I put it right inside so that it couldn’t possibly be whipped out again by the wind, and then we went down to the ocean front. The Pacific roared in the background, and shone like beaten silver as we strolled along the boardwalk in the breeze. An atmosphere of cheerful tawdriness prevailed. Ageing hippies played didgeridoos and offered tarot readings and psychic healing. There were stalls selling junk food and garish ethnic clothes. Teenagers sailed by on roller blades in a whir of tiny wheels, while seagulls wheeled high overhead, or scavenged and squabbled on the grass. We strolled about a mile, my eyes scanning the crowds like radar in case we should spot Joe. Then we turned round and tried his house again. And still there was no response. So now we went and walked along the short stretches of canal which still remained.
‘Wasn’t that canal holiday we had fun,’ said Amber, as we wandered along the towpath.
‘Oh yes,’ I said, as someone paddled by in a canoe.
‘And wasn’t it hilarious when Mungo fell in!’
‘Very funny, yeah.’
‘And you jumped into that disgusting, filthy water, not realising that Mungo could swim – duh!’
‘Mmm, that was funny.’
‘You can’t buy memories like that, Minty.’ I just nodded. ‘We must go on another canal holiday sometime, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, we must,’ I said. Not. Ever. Never. Never, ever again.
‘OK, let’s see if Joe’s back.’
But he wasn’t. And by now disappointment was seeping into my soul like drizzle. I was so near to him. And still so far. But he had to come back soon. He had to. So to pass the time we walked the other way up the boardwalk, up to Muscle Beach, where gleaming body-builders pumped iron in an open-air gym. Here, the atmosphere was carnivalesque. There were jugglers and faith-healers and fire-eaters spewing flames. A saffron-robed monk whizzed by on roller blades, playing a guitar.
‘Good material for your novel,’ I said.
‘Oh yes,’ Amber agreed, as we strolled back to Harbor Street. But still there was no sign of Joe, and by now it was half past four. We’d been waiting for him since eleven. So we drove to Santa Monica, three miles up the coast. Here, we parked at the sea-front under some feathery eucalyptus trees. And by now the sun was sinking with my hopes and the sea had turned pewtery grey, and the lights from the pier were beginning to glint under the dusky, darkening sky. And we walked down the main drag, browsing in the bookshops, and my eyes anxiously raked the milling crowds just in case Joe was here. But we didn’t see him. And now it was dark. So we decided to go back to his house one last time. Yet again, there was no reply. So I left Joe another note, with the number of the hotel, and our room number, and my number in London, just in case he’d thrown it away. I also wrote down my number at work, and even my parents’ number – just to make quite sure he could get in touch. Then we went back to the Beverly Hills.
‘He’s probably away for the weekend,’ I said, as we sat in the hotel bar later. I had another sip of my Martini. I was feeling morose. There was no sign of Joe, and we’d been sitting drinking for a couple of hours, watching all these chic, affluential people and eavesdropping on the Hollywood gabfest.
‘– Tom and Nicole.’
‘– indie feature.’
‘– Nick Cage got twenty million.’
‘– set in Poland.’
‘– ratings were great.’
‘Joe’s got to go back to his house sometime,’ Amber observed, as she speared another olive. ‘I think he’ll ring you tomorrow.’
‘But what if?’ I said with a slightly inebriated sigh, because by this time I’d had three glasses of rather good Merlot and, as you know, it goes to my head. ‘What if,’ I tried again, ‘he was there all the time, hiding, because he doesn’t want to talk to me?’
‘Minty,’ said Amber. ‘I have one thing to say to you: No.’
‘But I was not nice to him. Very.’
‘This is true,’ she said. ‘But if he knew you’d come all the way to LA to make it up with him, there is no way he wouldn’t see you.’
‘But what if,’ I said again, with another large sip of wine, ‘what if, right, he’s got someone else?’ By now I was on my fourth glass and was bordering on the lachrymose.
‘Don’t be silly, Minty. He hasn’t been here long enough.’
‘Yes, but maybe loads of women are crazy about him,’ I said. ‘What if- Oh God, look, Cameron Diaz has just come in.’ By this time we’d seen so many stars I wouldn’t have been surprised if the Lion King had walked in with Mickey Mouse.
‘Cameron’s bldy ‘tractive,’ I said as the actress walked past our table.
‘Is she?’ said Amber. ‘I suppose so. I’m a bit celebbed out to be honest.’
‘Oh, she’s ver ‘tractive,’ I said. And I looked at her long slim limbs and shining blonde bob and was felled by a jealous pang.
‘Amber, look …wha-if,’ I said, aware now that I was whirring my slurds, ‘wha-if, right, Cameron Diaz …salready met Joe …sfallen madly in love withm?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Minty!’ said Amber with another sip of water. ‘Cameron Diaz wouldn’t look twice at Joe!’
‘Oh yes shwould,’ I said indignantly, as I raised my glass to my lips again. ‘Course shwould – Joe’s ver ‘tractive.’
‘Look,’ said Amber wearily, ‘Cameron Diaz can take her pick in Hollywood, so why would she want to go out with a two-bit writer from London?’
Two-bit writer? Bloody cheek!
‘Srude of you Amber,’ I said. ‘Joe’s not two-bit, he’s ver lovely and …lovely.’
‘Look, I’m just trying to cheer you up,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to reassure you about Joe. Believe me, Cameron Diaz is not going to be interested in him, and that goes for Sharon Stone too.’
‘No need to be ‘suiting abt Joe,’ I said, resentfully. ‘Joe’s ‘tastic.’
‘Oh, all right then,’ she said crossly as she nibbled on an almond. ‘Cameron Diaz would definitely be interested in Joe. And that goes for Meg Ryan, Sharon Stone, Gwyneth Paltrow and Cate Blanchett. Happy?’ Oh God. No! ‘They’d all be going mad for him,’ she said.
‘Do you really think so?’ I said, distraught.
‘Yes,’ said Amber. And she had her mean face on. ‘But especially Cameron Diaz. I think she’d really go for Joe. He’s just her type.’
I felt sick. What was the point of flying to LA to find Joe if Cameron Diaz was trying to get off with him behind my back? This would not do at all. I could not tolerate competition from leggy, blonde film stars. I stood up.
‘I’m just gonna have a word with her,’ I said.
‘Minty, don’t – I’m only joking!’
‘No. I’m gonna sort this out. Once f’rall.’
So I went up to Cameron Diaz, who was sitting on a sofa by the piano, talking to Batman.
‘Look, Cameron,’ I said to her, ‘my name’s Minty …’
‘Who?’ she said. She didn’t look that friendly, to be frank.
‘Minty,’ I repeated.
‘What kinda name is that?’
‘Well, what kind of name’s “Cameron”?’ I shot back. ‘Unless you’re a Scottish bloke.’
‘Hey, get outta here,’ she said.
‘Look,’ I sigh
ed. ‘I jus’ wanna ask you a favour, OK?’ I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself.
‘Pardon me?’
‘I jus’ wanna say, please lay off Joe Bridges, OK?’
‘Who?’
‘Joe Bridges. He’s man I love, y’see, an’ I’ve come to LA to find him but I haven’t found ‘m yet but I’m gonna keep on looking and you can ‘ave your pick really, so I’d be ver gra’ful if you’d keep your hands off him, OK?’
‘Hey, what is this?’
‘Even if you get …work with’m, which you might, ‘cause he’s a f’tastic writer and his screenplay’s the dog’s bollocks …Thanks ver much. Thass all I wanna say. Thought you were brilliant in LA Confidential, by the way.’
I don’t remember what else Cameron Diaz said. She didn’t look very pleased. Anyway, my legs were about to give way, so I went and sat down again.
‘Come on, Minty,’ said Amber, grabbing me by the elbow.
‘Why? I’m having a ver nice time.’
‘Come on.’
‘Where we going?’
‘Back to the room,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve just landed you a starring role in The Big Sleep.’
I woke with a raging thirst, an appalling headache, and a chronic attack of post-alcoholic panic. A swim in the pool went some way to sobering me up, but I felt like shit. Still, I was relieved to learn that I hadn’t actually assaulted Cameron Diaz.
‘I only got drunk because I was so depressed at not finding Joe,’ I said as I took another aspirin and put on my shades. ‘To be honest, it’s beginning to get to me.’
‘Yes, but what if Joe had walked in, Minty? That could easily have happened.’ God. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Imagine,’ said Amber. ‘Joe walks in to the hotel bar, and what does he see? You, drunk as a skunk, being obnoxious to Cameron Diaz!’ What an appalling thought. I was filled with remorse.
‘I’ll never drink again,’ I said. ‘Not another drop will pass my lips. This has been a warning to me. God, I hope he rings,’ I went on miserably. ‘He must have read my note by now.’
But he didn’t ring. He didn’t ring in the morning as we strolled down the Walk of Fame. And he didn’t ring at lunchtime as we drove up to Hollywood Hills. He didn’t ring in the afternoon as we walked round the Museum of Contemporary Art. Nor did he ring in the evening as we sat outside, in the Sky Bar, having supper. And I had the mobile phone on me all the time, and I’d made sure it was properly charged up, so that if Joe had phoned me, there’s no way he wouldn’t have got through.
‘You’ll definitely get to speak to him tomorrow,’ said Amber, as we sat outside, looking at the lights from the city winking like stars. ‘Joe’s obviously been away for the weekend,’ she went on. ‘But tomorrow morning he’ll be back, because he’s got a film to sell. And he’ll open his mailbox and read your note and he’ll ring you straight away. And as a back-up, we have Ron Pollack. And Ron Pollack will probably have a number for Joe. So we’ll ring Lone Star tomorrow. And tomorrow it will all be sorted out.’
But the next morning there was still no answer from Joe. And I was feeling pretty low by now, and thinking that the trip, though enjoyable, had basically been a waste of time. At ten we phoned Lone Star. But Ron Pollack wasn’t there. He was on location all day. His assistant said she’d ring him and ask him to contact us, but two hours went by and still we hadn’t heard. So I phoned Lone Star again.
‘All I need is a contact number for Joe Bridges,’ I said. ‘Does Ron know Joe?’
‘Well, that name does sound familiar,’ said the assistant, ‘but I can’t be sure. I really think it’s best you speak to Ron.’
‘Well, could you ask him to ring me again.’
‘This is a very busy day for him,’ she said. ‘He’s shooting with Steven Spielberg. And, with respect, Millie, your enquiry could wait until tomorrow.’
‘No, it can’t,’ I said, ‘because I’m leaving LA tonight. Couldn’t you just look in his address book and see if there’s a number for Joe?’
‘I’m sorry, but Ron has his contacts book with him. In any case, I couldn’t give out someone’s home number over the phone. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait, and if Ron has time to ring you today, he will.’
Still he didn’t ring. So I phoned again, and the assistant said she was sorry, but I couldn’t have chosen a worse day and that Ron was incredibly busy. And the hours ticked by and Joe didn’t ring either. And I really didn’t understand that, because surely he’d have looked in his mailbox by now? By this time it was five thirty and we were packing for our flight. And we couldn’t really go anywhere because we’d returned the car. I was just collecting my things together, and checking under the beds, when at last, at last, the phone rang. I pounced on the receiver with a pounding heart.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Mindy, this is Jed again.’
‘Oh, Jed, hi,’ I said. ‘We went to Venice Beach, and we left a note in Joe’s mailbox. We were there all day, actually; we kept going back and ringing on his bell, but he never answered and we still haven’t heard from him, so I guess he must be away for a few days. We seem to have drawn a blank.’
There was an awkward silence for a second, and then Jed said. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a confession to make.’
‘What?’
‘I gave you the wrong address.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m afraid I mis-read my friend’s handwriting. Joe isn’t staying at seventy-nine Harbor Street.’
‘He isn’t?’
‘No. He’s at number nineteen. I’m real sorry. I feel such a dork. But this morning I looked at the note and realised I’d mistaken the one for a seven.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. And I felt my throat constrict.
‘I’m real sorry,’ he said.
‘Oh, not to worry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Easy mistake to make.’ I looked at my watch. It was six. We were leaving in half an hour. And though I managed to keep a stiff upper lip, my lower one had started to wobble. ‘At least I’ll be able to write to him now,’ I said. ‘So thanks for letting me know, and …well, good luck with your film,’ I added brightly. Then I sat down on the bed and wept.
‘Never mind, Minty,’ said Amber, as we pulled away from the Four Seasons in a yellow cab. ‘It was a long shot. We didn’t have enough time. And you very nearly found him.’
‘That’s what makes it worse,’ I said dismally. ‘Being so close …And now we’ve got to go home. I could have met him,’ I added bleakly. ‘Now I don’t know when I’ll see him again. And by the time I do see him again, it’ll probably be too late.’
‘Well, you’ll have to write to him,’ she said.
And I thought yes, I will write to him. I’ll write to him the minute I get back. The letter would take, what, three or four days to reach him? And then perhaps he’d ring. And so at least we’d get to speak on the phone.
As we drove down Wilshire Boulevard I mentally composed my letter. ‘Dear Joe,’ I would write. ‘You won’t believe this, but I came to Los Angeles this week and tried to find you. And I nearly did find you. I was even in the right street. Only I discovered afterwards that I’d been knocking on the wrong door. I think you’d say there was a metaphor in that. The truth is, I was mis-guided. Anyway, why did I decide to come to LA? Well, because, I just wanted to see you again, and tell you how sorry I am about what happened in London that night, and to tell you that you were right: Dominic was an own goal. And I’d also like to tell you …’ But I had to stop writing, because I couldn’t see the paper any more. I wiped my eyes and looked out of the window where darkness was beginning to descend. The sky hung in soft folds of pink and grey and the neon signs had started to flash. The entertainment capital of the world was about to stage its nightly floorshow.
‘Oh, look!’ said Amber, as we passed a large, square building, framed by an avenue of tall fountains like aquatic poplars. ‘That’s the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion,’ she explained, as the car idled at the lights. ‘That�
��s where they have the Oscars. I wonder what’s going on there tonight?’ For indeed, there was some sort of event in progress. Expensive cars had pulled up, and out of them stepped men in dinner jackets and women in evening dresses. And there were TV crews, and arc lights, and the phosphorescent flash of the paparazzi.
‘There’s a big premiere,’ said our driver. ‘I think it’s the new Bruce Willis. Wouldja look at this traffic!’ he complained. Indeed, the road was now clogged, bumper to bumper, with Mercedes, Porsches and Ferraris. But Amber and I didn’t mind. We weren’t late. And the sight of so many elegantly dressed people had somehow cheered me up a little. So I wound the window down to get a better view. And there were all these immensely glamorous people, smiling and laughing as they walked into the theatre, occasionally waving at the waiting crowd.
‘Oh, look – there’s Meryl Streep,’ said Amber. ‘What a great dress.’
‘And that one, there,’ I said, as a pretty girl of about twenty-five stepped out of a sleek, treacly, stretch limo. Her silvery sheath spangled and sparkled in the blinding television lights. She was laughing. She looked radiant. And now her escort was taking her arm, and gently tucking it under his own. Then I heard someone shout, ‘Over here!’ and they both turned and smiled as the cameras flashed.
And as they turned, I gasped. And I gasped because it was Joe.
‘Joe,’ I breathed. He was standing thirty feet from me, no more. There he was. Right there. And I was about to open the car door and get out, when I felt Amber’s restraining hand on my arm.
‘Don’t, Minty,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’
And she said it for a good reason. For suddenly the girl’s arms were round Joe’s neck and he was kissing her as though he’d never stop.
‘Money well spent,’ I reiterated bleakly, as our cab drove towards Primrose Hill. ‘Money. Well. Spent.’ I emitted a hollow laugh. It sounded like a cross between a cough and a bark. ‘It wasn’t even my money,’ I added, guiltily. ‘It was yours.’
‘I don’t mind about that,’ said Amber. ‘I just wish it had …worked.’
‘It didn’t work,’ I said dismally. ‘It was a mistake. I feel so …terrible.’