‘Well,’ she eventually drawled. ‘Paramount are casting a new movie. It’s gonna be huge, they say, but they always say that …’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The South of France in the 1950s. Saint-Tropez, Bardot, you know.’
‘Oh, cool. And I love that part of the world. I went backpacking along the Riviera with all my drama-school mates in the college holidays ten years ago.’ It was more like fifteen, but Belinda didn’t need to know that. ‘Nice, Antibes, Juan Les Pins, just so we could get a glimpse of the stars at Cannes.’ He remembered them all smoking dope and drinking cheap wine out of their rucksacks on the beach, assuring one another that they’d be up there one day. If they could see me now, that little gang of mine …
‘You European kids,’ said Belinda, slightly wistfully. ‘So much culture at your fingertips. Anyway, Cannes is the cynical premise behind this venture. The producers think that a movie based on its doorstep might get those uptight bastards to sit up and take some notice of something produced by a MAJOR studio, for once, instead of one of those fall-asleep-in-your-popcorn subtitled crapolas where everybody, like, dies.’ She made a gesture that combined an extravagant yawn with slitting her throat.
Ben laughed easily. He was amazed by his own patience.
‘And? Do they want to see me, or what?’
‘Oh, honey, of course they want to see you. I wouldn’t be telling you all this now would I, if they didn’t? What kind of a woman do you think I am?’
She pouted and Ben refrained from telling her.
‘It’s a period romcom, along the lines of To Catch A Thief.’
Ben wasn’t sure how Hitchcock would have reacted to one of his classics being referred to as a period romcom, but he let it pass.
‘So you mean, I’m up for the Cary Grant character?’ It was difficult to keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Get real, handsome. They’ll only go with a proper, American star for the good guy.’ Wasn’t Belinda aware that Cary Grant was originally from Bristol? ‘No, you’re the bastard Brit who messes with our heroine’s heart.’
‘Silly me.’ Ben laughed again. ‘We Englishmen are always the villains. But, bloody hell, Belinda, that is amazing! When do they want me to read for it? And who are they thinking of for the lead roles?’
‘They haven’t decided yet for the lead, but maybe Scarlett Johansson or Amanda Seyfried for the girl. Somebody suggested Gwynnie, but she’s way too old of course.’
As Gwyneth Paltrow was about the same age as him, Ben nodded solemnly.
‘And they want to see you in two days’ time, so brush up on your French.’
‘Mate, that’s amazing news,’ said Tom, one of Ben’s new ex-pat buddies, a trust-fund twat who had moved to LA to write a screenplay, thinking that anyone could do it. As he could neither spell nor string two sentences together, Ben thought it unlikely Tom’s masterpiece would ever see the light of day. But he did mean well.
They were at Soho House LA, with all the other Brits who liked to stick together.
‘But promise us you won’t turn native!’ bellowed Julia, an actress who’d been very successful in London three years ago but had yet to hit the big time Stateside. Possibly on account of a weak chin and a slightly-too-large nose that she’d refused to get fixed, vainly (and stupidly) thinking her work as a ‘serious actress’ rendered such measures unnecessary. ‘We don’t want you to start saying “Lie-sesster Square”!’
Everyone cracked up, and Ben pretended to too, but inside he was thinking, If you don’t like it here, then why don’t you fuck off back to London? He was growing a little tired of his fellow ex-pats, with their twee insistence on tea parties, and Sunday roasts, when it was far too hot to eat anything other than the innovatively healthy (and surprisingly delicious) fresh produce on offer locally. These people would have been the first to sneer at Brits in Benidorm demanding the full English breakfast, so why the fuck did they think it was OK in LA?
They were sitting on the roof terrace, underneath a silvery olive tree, drinking vodkatinis. Ben swivelled his head to take in the 360-degree view. LA at night sprawled, glittering and full of promise, beneath and all around him. Somewhere to his right, the gated mansions of Beverly Hills beckoned, in all their opulent splendour. One day …
‘Two nations, divided by a common language!’ Julia guffawed, and tried to sit on his lap, but even though she’d lost the Brit blubber and was now the requisite size two, she represented the weight of his past, and he wanted her off him. He got up, nearly sending her flying, and said, ‘I’ve got to get an early night. Big day the day after tomorrow. ’Bye guys! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’
Julia looked offended, as well she might. She had been his first contact in LA (they’d been at RADA together), and he’d shagged her to get in with the ex-pat crowd.
As he walked out into the jasmine-scented summer night air, he heard Julia saying, ‘I do hope he’s not going to get too big for his boots now.’
Outside, he lit an illicit fag. He still wasn’t quite sure why fags and booze were so frowned upon in California when dope was legal, but he was willing to toe the line most of the time when so much was at stake. As he put his lighter back in his jeans pocket, he felt a piece of card and took it out.
Jennifer Jackson. Nutritionist and personal trainer.
He recalled the girl with the dreadlocks, smile and fantastic arse. Now, she would be a way forward. He’d had enough of his previous life and the no-hoper Brits weighing him down. He thought for a second, then took out his phone and dialled the number on the card.
‘Who is it?’ A very cross-sounding voice eventually answered.
‘Hi, Jenny, it’s Ben. We met on the beach today—’
‘Oh, for God’s sakes. Don’t you know what time it is? If you want to talk about training, call me in the morning.’
And she put the phone down on him. Ben wasn’t sure that any woman had done that to him in his life before. He rather liked it.
‘Jenny, hi, it’s Ben. We met on the beach yesterday.’ He put on his poshest RADA accent.
‘Oh my. The Brit who woke me up at midnight?’
Ben chuckled in what he hoped was an endearing manner.
‘Mea culpa, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll make it worth my while.’ She sounded crosser than ever. ‘I only had four hours’ sleep because of you. I was training Tom Hanks at five a.m.’
‘Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry,’ said Ben. ‘Tom Hanks, really?’
‘Of course I wasn’t training Tom Hanks, you British idiot. Do ya think I’d be handing out my card on the beach if I was Tom Hanks’s trainer?’
Ben laughed sheepishly.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘So, d’ya want me to train you, or are you just gonna annoy me with late-night calls? Your abs could do with some work. But it’ll cost ya. And nobody calls me Jenny. My name is Jennifer.’
Bitch. My abs are fine, thought Ben, stroking his washboard stomach. But he definitely wanted to see her again.
‘I thank you.’
Natalia smiled graciously as she accepted her champagne and caviar from the BA stewardess. She was flying from Heathrow to Kiev on her annual June trip to check up on the two charities to which she had been contributing generously for years. After her mamushka had