He turned over the last one to see the photo (they all had photos on the back) and recalled the mixed-race girl with a wide smile, dreadlocks and body to die for. He’d actually stopped for a few seconds to watch her arse as she sauntered off in the sand. Then he’d jogged back to the rented clapboard beach house his agent had found for him. He put Jennifer Jackson’s card to one side – she might be worth a booty call.
Beautiful, and vain as hell, Ben walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror that lined the far wall of his open-plan living space. His floppy gold-streaked light brown fringe, still a little damp from the shower, grazed his long black eyelashes. His pink pouty lips, delicious blue eyes and high cheekbones had made him such a hit back home that he had managed to acquire an LA agent almost without trying.
People Like Us, the UK sitcom whose first series he had starred in, had been a runaway success and attracted the interest of Belinda Hyman, one of the most notoriously hard-bitten agents in Hollywood. He was contracted to star in three series of People Like Us, and due to start filming the next in a few months’ time, but if he landed a movie role – well. Belinda wasn’t known as the Bitch of Beverly Hills for nothing.
Ben flexed a muscle or two and smiled in satisfaction.
Looking good, boyo. Occasionally, the Welsh accent resurfaced, though only in his head.
‘Benny, honey? Baby’s getting lonely,’ called a very young voice from his bedroom.
He smiled again, focusing on his newly whitened teeth, as he recalled the cheerleader he’d picked up at the game last night. Sweet seventeen and definitely been fucked. He’d been to watch the LA Lakers with a couple of fellow ex-pats and this fantastic specimen of perky blonde near-jailbait had – well – just thrown herself at him. No other way of putting it. He did love California, despite the weak beer.
But during his run, his mind had been on Bella, Poppy and Damian, all of whom he’d comprehensively shafted the previous year. Ben wasn’t one for an enormous amount of introspection, but even he felt bad about what he’d done.
Bella had been great to start with – fun and sexy, with a healthy appetite for all the good things in life. But once they had that horrible intimacy thing going, she got so bloody needy, and the way she gazed at him with those huge hurt brown eyes made him feel guilty as fuck, especially when he’d shagged the odd model on the odd shoot (a man’s prerogative, he’d always felt – or at least an accepted perk of the job). As an angelic-looking only child, Ben had been spoilt rotten his entire life and wasn’t used to being denied what he wanted.
Fucking Poppy hadn’t been his best move, but Poppy was the antithesis of Bella – tiny, blonde and fiery – and the contrast (and, to be scrupulously honest, the illicitness) had turned him on. He’d tired of Poppy pretty quickly, after the initial thrill, not least as she had been so evidently off her pretty face on coke all the time, going on about her guilt about Bella, boring the pants off him. Still, he shouldn’t have moved in on his best mate’s bird; that was unforgivable. Ben and Damian had grown up together and he still missed Damian’s easy good nature and laid-back sense of humour; he’d yet to meet a comparable buddy in the States. All things considered, if he could have done last summer differently, he would. It had been a mad time for all concerned.
But now wasn’t the time to be crying over spilt milk.
‘Ben, honey, where ARE you? Are going to come and show me how to do it again? I was a virgin until last night, but you’ve given me a real taste for it. I’m only seventeen …’
The Laker Girl was clearly lying and up to every trick in the book but, nevertheless, Ben felt his cock getting hard.
‘I love America,’ he sang as he made his way to the bedroom. The cheerleader was on her hands and knees, arse aloft. Her skin was golden brown, soft and peachy.
‘Does that feel good?’ asked Ben, loving the feeling of her tight, young body.
‘Oh … Yeeees … Oh, Benny … I’ve never done this before … Ohhhh …’
If she was telling the truth, she was half his age, and just for a split second he felt ever so slightly like a dirty old man. Then he refocused. Christ, she was hot.
And so was he.
Driving up the freeway en route to meet Belinda at Chateau Marmont (it was difficult to express how much he loved the LA cliché), Ben turned up the radio, which was playing the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Californication.
He laughed, and for the second time that day thought of Damian, thinking how much he’d have enjoyed the serendipity. He put the idea firmly out of his mind and dwelt instead on nubile nymphets, fame, fortune, blue skies and palm trees. A pretty brunette in a white convertible lifted her shades to get a better look at him. She kissed her fingers and clutched her heart, feigning undying love. He clocked the rings on her fingers and blew a kiss back. Then he put his foot on the gas.
Modelled in the 1920s on a chateau in the Loire Valley, the Chateau Marmont was still the ultimate byword for hedonistic glamour. As Ben walked out of the lobby towards the pool, he could feel the cloisters themselves oozing their Tinseltown, rock’n’roll heritage. The stars who had stayed under this roof included Judy Garland, John Belushi (who had OD’d here, poor bugger), Vivien Leigh, Jim Morrison, Jean Harlow, Led Zep … The roll call was as bibulous as it was illustrious. He continued through beautifully fragrant and lush gardens until he’d reached the pool, which was surrounded by even lusher plants, and tables shaded by black-and-white stripy parasols.
‘Ben! My handsomest client, looking sexier than ever. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’d just had a pretty piece of LA ass!’
Belinda winked and Ben laughed. Was it really so obvious?
His agent didn’t look like the hard-nosed bitch whose reputation preceded her, even the other side of the Atlantic. In fact, when he’d first met her, he’d wondered if he’d walked into the wrong office. Belinda, who was probably in her mid-forties, though it was hard to tell, contrived an air of luxe hippy softness, in the Rachel Zoe/Nicole Richie mode. Her golden hair was loose and tousled around her shoulders – a casual California style that cost at least $1,000 a month to maintain. She wore a simple spaghetti-strapped maxidress in a splashy floral silk, flat tan leather sandals, wooden bangles stacked up her sinewy, Bikram-yoga’d arms, dangly vintage silver-and-turquoise earrings and the most enormous pair of shades Ben had ever seen.
‘Looking pretty bloody gorgeous yourself, darling.’ Playing up the posh-Brit thing hadn’t done Hugh Grant or Rupert Everett any harm, after all.
The pool wasn’t as big as he’d imagined, but Lindsay Lohan was swigging from a bottle of tequila on a black-and-white-striped sun lounger, bitching into her BlackBerry about ‘that asshole who calls himself my dad’, and one of Keith Richards’ daughters was having her photo taken for a magazine shoot. Belinda had wanted to meet him at Café M on Melrose, the hottest new health-food café, insisting that Chateau Marmont was for wannabes, but Ben wanted to live the full LA dream. Besides, he wanted a real drink, somewhere he wouldn’t be accused of being an ‘alcoholic Brit’.
He sat down opposite his agent.
‘I guess you want something alcoholic?’ she sighed.
‘Well, a cocktail would be nice.’ He gave her his most winning smile. ‘What’re you drinking?’
‘Iced green tea with ginseng. You should try it sometime.’ He did his little-boy-lost look and she laughed. Belinda was just as susceptible to his charms as every other female on the planet.
‘Hey, I’ll let you off this time.’ She put a hand weighed down with cocktail rings on his arm. ‘And I’ll have whatever you’re having. We may have something to celebrate.’
‘What?’ Ben felt an enormous jolt of excitement. ‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up too quickly, handsome