Lindsey Kelk 6-Book ‘I Heart...’ Collection. Lindsey Kelk
column of silk that was being yanked up over my head. ‘I actually haven’t heard from him yet.’
‘Really?’ Jenny didn’t even try to cover up the surprise in her voice as she zipped me into a very tight, very blue French Connection strapless mini-dress. ‘But didn’t you call him last night? You know, when you ditched me.’
‘I didn’t ditch you,’ I squeaked—the dress was tight around the old rack. ‘And no, I couldn’t get through to him. It’s fine, we’ve only been here for—what—a day? And he’s working all hours on the new record. The record company are pushing them to get it out at the end of the year or something.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ she replied, slipping on the BCBG dress and looking like a goddess. Bitch. ‘I just wish he wasn’t so keen to talk to you every single time you’re out and I’m in the tub.’
‘Hmm,’ I was officially not thinking about it. So far, my star-studded Hollywood adventure had been nothing but a disappointment, and wondering what Alex was doing two and a half thousand miles away was not going to help me have any more fun.
‘Jenny, if I wanted to go somewhere really glam, where would you take me?’
‘Seriously, would you get over it? I know this is a mall but it has the most stores, it’s where everyone shops,’ she said distractedly, holding out a Nanette Lepore petal pink number and a navy Theory shift. ‘I mean, we’ll totally hit Melrose, maybe The Grove before we go, but The Beverly Center has everything…I saw Britney here once. Before the whole head-shaving thing, when she was allowed out alone. And you can’t afford Rodeo Drive, I know what you make.’
‘No, I mean something really Hollywood?’ I tried not to pull a face at the pink dress. ‘A real, genuine LA experience.’
‘Uh, maybe lunch at The Ivy? Drinks at La Deux?’ she held up the pink for my approval. ‘I guess maybe LAX or Hyde or somewhere if you wanted a club. I’m kinda out of the loop on where’s hot.’
‘Lunch actually sounds really good.’ I held up a deep red Elizabeth & James number, Jenny nodded in agreement and stuck the pink dress back on the end of a random rail. If we had to discuss every shopping decision out loud, we would have no time to cover the other, almost equally important subjects in life. ‘Is The Ivy nice?’
‘Uh, I guess?’ Jenny draped the red silk across herself, slipping her head between the hanger and the dress before heaving a pile of dresses into my arms. ‘You should get these. Joe could probably get us a reservation. I’ll get Daphne to meet us there.’
I clapped happily as Jenny wandered off to get better reception on her mobile, the red silk still swishing around her neck. So what if I’d been stood up by my movie star? What man could compare with Jenny Lopez, shopping and a super-swank restaurant for lunch?
‘Can I set up a changing room for you?’
A helpful shop assistant appeared at my elbow and held her arms out to take the masses of silk and jersey that I was cradling. I paused for a second and thought of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel. And then of my credit card limit. And then of my feeble wardrobe back at the hotel.
‘Actually, could you just take them to the counter?’ I asked. She nodded gleefully and literally ran across the shop floor. Sneaking a peek in my bag, I checked my mobile. Well, certainly not Alex, still nothing. I sighed and swung my bag around my back. I was going to need dessert.
It turned out that my interpretation of the real Hollywood and Jenny’s interpretation of the real Hollywood were very different. I couldn’t argue with the fact that The Ivy was exclusive and swanky, but unlike genuine A-list haunts in New York, there was no quiet dark entrance, designed to keep the undesirables away through sheer intimidation. Instead, it was slap-bang in the middle of a main road, nestled in between a row of shops and smothered by tourists and star-spotters. McDonald’s on Oxford Street was less conspicuous.
Flashbulbs clicked and buzzed all around us as we pushed our way up the little footpath leading from the street into a pretty little country cottage. I paused on the patio and turned back towards the sidewalk—paparazzi waving, shouting and screaming. Blinking back towards the restaurant, I followed Jenny through the calm, quiet and unwaveringly beautiful diners, none of whom appeared to actually be eating; instead they were concentrating very hard on pretending that they weren’t a living breathing version of the ‘Spotted’ page in Heat magazine. Trying to navigate a safe route through the wrought-iron tables and chairs and dozens of stiff cardboard carrier bags, I saw a hand shoot up at the back of the patio and wave us over.
‘Jesus, why on earth did you want to meet here, J doll?’ The hand belonged to Jenny’s friend Daphne, who introduced herself and greeted us both with extravagant kisses. ‘It’s such a circus.’
‘Angie wanted a real LA experience.’ Jenny peered over the top of her sunglasses at me. ‘And she got it.’
‘This isn’t really what I was expecting,’ I said, switching my attention from the heaving crowds back on the pavement to Daphne. ‘I was thinking, well, I don’t know. Glamorous? Swanky? LA is weird.’
‘Yeah, get used to it,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I ordered. I’m fucking starving.’
Given that the majority of The Ivy’s clientele appeared to be the exact same group of blondes I’d seen at Toast that morning, who had just about had time to go home and get changed into little sundresses and rich old men instead of Ugg boots and gym boys, Daphne stood out a mile. Just like everyone else here, she was undeniably beautiful but, unlike anyone else, she was a vision of retro beauty. Her black shiny hair was coiffed into a Betty Paige bob and her porcelain skin made my English-rose-slash-pasty-Brit complexion look as though I’d been in the Bahamas for six weeks. Teamed with the most precise eyeliner and perfect ruby red lips I’d ever had the privilege to behold, Daphne was an arresting sight. Jenny had told me she was an artist and a stylist, but I hadn’t figured that her talent with a paintbrush would run to her eyeliner. Next to her polished perfection, I felt as if I’d turned up in my decorating clothes.
But weirdly, no one was giving Daphne so much as a second glance. Instead, every single person in the restaurant was pretending not to look at a tiny little brunette, skulking in the corner and wearing a ridiculous number of layers for such a sunny day, who was sitting with an incredibly average-looking man in a business suit.
‘Who is that?’ I asked quietly, joining in the pretending-not-to-notice game. ‘I feel like I should know her.’
‘You should,’ Jenny said, sipping one of the gimlets Daphne had ordered for us. ‘It’s Tessa DiArmo, the singer? She stayed at The Union just before Christmas. Pain in my ass.’
‘Everyone’s a pain in your arse,’ I said, giving in to curiosity and turning around for a good look. The girl was genuinely minuscule, with masses of wavy light brown hair and glowing tanned skin. Whatever ‘it’ was that celebs had, Tessa apparently bathed in it every morning. Without batting so much as an eyelash, she had the attention of every single person in the restaurant. ‘I never saw her in The Union. She’s so pretty.’
‘Wouldn’t cut it with us, huh J?’ Daphne said, sipping the fresh cocktail that had been silently replaced. ‘You can’t shake what ain’t there.’
‘Shake?’ I tried to register the looks that were exchanging between the two girls, Jenny seeming slightly startled and Daphne smiling innocently into her drink.
‘Jenny told you how we met, right?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I turned to look at Jenny. ‘She actually didn’t.’
‘Daphne,’ Jenny let out a warning shot. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daphne wasn’t going to be hushed by a stern tone of voice.
‘Chill, J, it’s so not a big deal.’ She pressed her lips together, refreshing her pout. ‘We used to work together. When J lived here last time?’
‘When she was acting?’ I asked.