Going La La

  About the author

  Alexandra Potter is an award-winning author who previously worked as a features writer and sub-editor for women’s glossies in both the UK and Australia. In 2007 she won the prize for Best New Fiction at the Jane Austen Regency World Awards for her bestselling novel, Me and Mr Darcy. Her novels have been translated into seventeen languages and her latest novel, You’re The One That I Don’t Want, is being adapted into a film. She now lives between London and Los Angeles and writes full-time.

  Also by Alexandra Potter

  You’re the One That I Don’t Want

  Who’s That Girl?

  Me And Mr Darcy

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  Do You Come Here Often?

  Calling Romeo

  What’s New, Pussycat?

  Going La La

  Alexandra Potter

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Alexandra Potter 2012

  The right of Alexandra Potter to be identified as the Author

  of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  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 the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition

  being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 848 94598 2

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Kelly, my beloved big sister,

  who’s been going la la for the last 25 years . . .

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Isobel Akenhead and everyone at Hodder for breathing new life into this book and giving it a fabulous new cover! Big thank you as always to my wonderful agent, Stephanie Cabot.

  I also want to say a big thank you to my sister, Kelly, my amazing mum and dad, and all my brilliant friends on both sides of the Atlantic. Fact followed fiction, and a few years after writing this book I moved to Los Angeles and started going la la myself. Thanks to everyone for all the great times, let’s hope there are many more.

  Letter from the Author

  I’m really excited at this new publication of Going La La. I wrote this book over ten years ago, and at the time I had no idea it would be a premonition of how my life would turn out. That a few years later I would follow in Frankie’s footsteps and find myself with a broken heart and a suitcase, jumping on a plane to Los Angeles . . .

  But let’s rewind for a moment. Back to the early 90s where I first got my inspiration for this story. Aged twenty-one, I’d just left university, and not knowing what I wanted to do with my life I decided to visit my sister who lives in LA.

  From the moment the plane touched down at LAX airport my life completely changed. I went from attending university lectures to star-studded parties in the Hollywood Hills where I met a whole crazy cast of characters that would later fuel my imagination. And then there was the weather! They don’t call it ‘sunny California’ for nothing. Out went the grey skies and woolly jumpers, in came the bikinis and palm trees. During the week I worked various jobs and at weekends my sister and I would drive down to the beach in her 1966 Mustang and rollerblade on the path that runs alongside the ocean. It was some of the most fun I’ve ever had and I still have scrapbooks filled with memories.

  But after a few months my desire to be a writer brought me back to the UK, and eventually London, where I went on to work for various women’s glossy magazines before finally plucking up courage to write my first novel, What’s New Pussycat?. A book deal followed, and Going La La was my second novel. ‘Write about what you know’ is a piece of advice often given to writers, and so I drew on my experiences of the wonderful time spent in LA, the people I met, the adventures I had, never imagining at the time I was writing that fact was going to follow fiction . . .

  And yet there I was, a few years after its publication, jetting off once more again to La La Land. Only this time it didn’t turn out to be just a visit. Like Frankie I ended up falling in love and before I knew it I was swapping my life in London for life on Venice Beach.

  There’s so much written about LA in magazines and newspapers, yet there’s so much more to this city of angels than mere celebrities. Yes, it’s fun to spot A-list actors standing in line in Starbucks or the supermarket. And just for the record most of the men are tiny, and most of the women look nothing like their photographs. But living in LA also means waking up to a constant lavender blue sky. To 80 degree weather in January. To being able to swim in the ocean and hike in the canyons. To being encouraged to live out your dreams.

  To be who you want to be.

  And yes of course, it can be crazy and whacky and it’s true, there is far too much plastic surgery (please! stop with the trout pouts!), but one thing’s for sure, life in LA is never boring!

  I now split my life between LA and London and I think it’s these two halves that make me the writer I am today. I was born and bred in Yorkshire and my classic down-to-earth British sense of humour runs through my books like the words in a stick of Blackpool Rock. But it’s my time spent in Los Angeles, the land of make-believe, that adds that special touch of magic.

  After all, like I say in Going La La,

  ‘Who says it only ever happens in the movies?’

  GOING LA LA

  1

  Have you ever drunk vodka at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? Neither had Frankie, but she was about to. Bracing herself, she took a deep breath – one . . . two . . . three – and swigged back the contents of her glass, wincing as the clear liquid burned an acidic path to her empty stomach. It tasted disgusting. Wiping the bitter residue from her lips with the damp paper coaster, she beckoned the barman, who was lolling against the optics reading the celebrity exposé on the front page of the News of the World.

  ‘Another one please. This time can you make it a double?’

  Grumbling, Terry – whose name-tag was safety-pinned upside down to the grimy pocket of his thin nylon shirt – put down his newspaper and sullenly measured out the vodka from the large bottle fixed on the wall.

  Frankie watched him, feeling decidedly queasy. She wasn’t used to any sort of alcohol first thing in the morning, except of course on Christmas Day, when traditional family celebrations meant lying on the sofa with a hangover and a glass of Bristol Cream Sherry, watching telly and humming along with Julie Andrews, who was skipping yet again up and down an Austrian hillside with a guitar and seven brats dressed head to toe in a pair of old curtains warbling Doh, Ray, Me. But today wasn’t 25 December and Frankie certainly wasn’t celebrating.

  On the contrary. It was the middle of October and she was propping up the bar at Heathrow’s Terminal 4, trying hard to drown her sorrows in Smirnoff. A week ago she’d been deliriously happy, looking forward to a promotion at work, a proposal of marriage and a party for her twenty-ninth birthday. Fast-forward seven days and she had no job, no boyfriend and certainly no party. Which is why a normally sensible and sober Frankie was now gloomily knocking back double vodkas and feeling sorry for herself. In less than a week she’d gone from having everything to having absolutely s
od all.

  ‘Last call for Miss Francesca Pickles on flight BA 279 to Los Angeles.’

  The clipped nasal voice reverberated over the Tannoy system, crackling out of speakers inside the duty-free shops flogging perfume and giant-size bars of Toblerone, overpriced cafés offering lousy coffee euphemistically described as cappuccinos and souvenir stalls selling dodgy tartan head-scarves and Houses of Parliament fridge magnets. Frankie wrinkled her forehead. Was she imagining things or had she just heard her name? She strained to catch the rest of the announcement but it was impossible. All she could hear was Cliff Richard on continuous play through the reproduction Wurlitzer jukebox. Shrugging her shoulders, she took a sip from her glass. She must have been mistaken. Absent-mindedly she glanced at her watch – 9.20. For a split second the time didn’t register. She glanced again. This time it did.

  Oh my God. Despite the neat vodka, her mouth suddenly went very dry. Twenty past nine! Where on earth had the time gone? In less than ten minutes her flight was supposed to be taking off and if she didn’t get her arse to gate 14 pretty damn quick, the only thing taking off would be her luggage – from the aeroplane.

  Hastily putting down her drink on the mock-Tudor bar, she slid off her barstool, laddering her tights in the process. Shit, she cursed silently, watching the hole in her new pair of opaques weave its way down to her ankle, and realised she was actually feeling a bit tipsy. In fact, to be honest, she was more than tipsy – she was pissed. Frankie groaned. Why was it that she always seemed to miss out on the giddy, tiddly stage and go straight to the drunken staggering about stage?

  Frankie tried to sober herself up by taking a few deep breaths. The vodka was meant to help blot out last week’s disastrous chain of events, it wasn’t supposed to blot out the rest of this week as well. Inhaling deeply, she fell to her knees and began scrabbling around on the garishly patterned beer-sodden carpet, gathering together her sprawling mountain of hand luggage, which had somehow taken on Everest-like proportions. What was it about hand luggage that made it multiply so alarmingly? She’d started out with one piece – as instructed at check-in – but despite all good intentions, after a couple of hours spent trawling around Terminal 4, her carefully packed compact rucksack had doubled in size and given birth to two bulging carrier bags straining dangerously under the weight of glossy magazines, a tube of Pringles, two packets of Jaffa Cakes, a Walkman, an inflatable pillow and fifty quid’s worth of duty-free perfume she’d whacked on her credit card in a desperate attempt to cheer herself up. It hadn’t. It just meant that now she could be depressed in Eternity.

  Grimacing as the handles of the plastic bags cut sharply into her fingers, she stood up and began staggering towards the departure gate, struggling to keep hold of everything. But it was no good. Before she’d managed more than a few hundred yards a thinly stretched handle snapped, spilling the contents of one of the plastic bags all over the floor and sending the tube of Pringles catapulting like a missile across the departure lounge to wedge itself under one of the rows of plastic chairs. Frankie groaned in frustration. This was ridiculous. At this rate she was never going to make it to the gate in time to catch her flight.

  Then suddenly out of the corner of her eye she saw it – the answer to her prayers – a shiny silver trolley, and it had been left unattended outside Knickerbox. Feeling a wave of excitement, she made a dive for it and, with a technique worthy of Magic Johnson, triumphantly threw her rucksack into the basket area. At last, something was going right. Taking a deep breath, she was about to enjoy a huge sigh of relief when she was interrupted by a voice behind her.

  ‘Excuse me, that’s mine.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  She swivelled around. Standing in front of the ‘50% off G-string promotion’ was a bloke wearing faded jeans and a checked flannel shirt. Frankie’s eyes travelled upwards, noting the scuffed leather boots, fraying Levi’s and rolled-up shirt sleeves revealing tanned forearms and a couple of those hippy-dippy woven wrist bracelets. A silver chain glinted against the nape of his neck and he wore a battered old cowboy hat that cast a shadow over his face. He looked like a scruffier version of the Marlboro Man. Frankie suddenly realised she was staring.

  ‘That’s my cart.’ Marlboro Man spoke in a deep Texan drawl, lazily rubbing his chin, which was covered in what looked like a week’s worth of beard growth.

  Frankie looked at the trolley and then back at the American. She hated any kind of confrontation and seemed to spend her whole life apologising, regardless of whether or not it was she who was at fault. But the mixture of vodka, last week’s triple whammy and airport nerves had had a peculiar effect. She might have lost everything else, but there was no way she was losing this trolley. ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ she replied politely but firmly. ‘It’s my trolley.’ She spoke slowly, deliberately emphasising the words and shielding the trolley defensively with her body. With any luck Mr Cowboy here would bugger off and get his own.

  He didn’t. ‘I don’t think so.’ He shook his head and started piling his luggage on to the trolley – large black tripods, scratched metal camera cases, an oversized holdall.

  Frankie watched in utter disbelief. This guy had some cheek. Determined not to be outdone, she piled her stuff on top and grabbed the handle. So did he.

  ‘Hey, I ain’t got time for this. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ He pushed a strand of hair away from his eyes and stared hard at Frankie.

  She glowered. He had a plane to catch! What about her? What the bloody hell did he think she was doing in Departures? Enjoying a day out? She gritted her teeth in determination. ‘Excuse me, but I’ve got a plane to catch too, you know.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, that makes two of us then.’ And he began wheeling the trolley across the departure lounge, accompanied by Frankie, who adamantly refused to let go of the handle.

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re so rude,’ she gasped in amazement as he pushed defiantly on to the moving concourse, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘This is my trolley.’ Chivalry was obviously a four-letter word in the United States.

  Infuriatingly, he completely ignored her.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  It would have been impossible not to, with Frankie’s voice echoing loudly along the corridor, but he chose not to answer. Instead he continued striding down the moving walkway with both of his large, strong hands firmly on the trolley. They made a bizarre sight – him cool, calm and collected in his cowboy hat, her drunk and dishevelled with holes in her tights, both clinging grimly on to one trolley – but neither of them was laughing. Instead they were caught in a silent duel until, suddenly, they reached the end of the conveyor belt causing Frankie to trip as they lurched on to the carpet where they came to an abrupt halt.

  Presuming he’d realised the error of his ways, Frankie felt a rush of victory. It was to be short-lived.

  ‘Well, thanks for coming along for the ride,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘This is where I get off.’ He started unloading his bags – leaving hers to fall on the floor, scattering her duty-free products. ‘It’s all yours.’ He smiled broadly and, tipping his hat in mock politeness, threw his bag over his broad shoulders and strode towards his gate and a cluster of stewardesses, who took one look at this burly passenger and rapidly changed their impatient scowls to flirtatious smiles.

  Frankie was gobsmacked. She’d been taken for a ride – literally. Watching him disappear down the jetty to the plane, she suddenly noticed the gate number displayed in digital lights – 14. She was at gate 14. Her frustration was momentarily replaced by relief that she hadn’t missed her flight – but it didn’t last for long. As soon as she’d handed in her boarding card it dawned on her that the trolley rustler was obviously on the same aeroplane. And probably in the seat next to her. She swiftly dismissed the thought. Nobody – not even she – could be that unlucky.

  Hurrying on to the plane, she was greeted by a stony-faced stewardess handing out boiled sweet
s and a 747 full of grumpy passengers who looked at their watches and eyed her accusingly. Frankie smiled apologetically and started bumping and banging her way down the gangway, struggling to keep a grip on her carrier bags – and their contents – while searching for her seat number. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a familiar-looking Stetson looming ominously ahead and as she edged closer she saw that slap bang across the aisle, next to the window, was an empty seat. Her heart sank. She didn’t even have to double-check her boarding card. She knew it was hers.

  Resignedly stuffing her bags in the overhead locker, she squeezed herself into the economy seat and fastened her seat belt. She stared resolutely ahead, determined not to look in his direction, but after a few minutes curiosity got the better of her. Barely moving her head, she sneaked a look at him out of the corner of her eye. Resting his chin in his hand, he had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly and heavily, as if he was in the first stages of falling asleep. Tufts of dark hair bleached almost blond by the sun had escaped from underneath the brim of his hat and faint lines flickered around his eyes – the result of squinting in the sun. Frankie noticed his eyelashes, thick and dark against his tanned and slightly freckled skin, and the small squiggle of a scar cut across his left eyebrow. At a guess he was in his early thirties and, although she hated to admit it, he was sort of handsome, in a rugged, unkempt kind of way.

  Not that Frankie liked rugged and unkempt. She liked clean-shaven and smart. Starched collars, freshly pressed suits and the faintest whiff of aftershave. Just like Hugh. Closing her eyes, she could see him now in his Ralph Lauren shirt, his neatly knotted tie, his short fair hair neatly gelled into a little quiff. Gorgeous Hugh. Her Hugh. She bit her lip, trying to stop a tear she could feel prickling her eyelash from falling down her cheek.