Emma hearts LA (6 page)

We walk along the outside of the pier, past a row of booths, each one hosting a children’s party. Music and balloons drift out onto the boardwalk. Once we’ve passed them all, I stop and look out across the beach and ocean, back towards Venice. The beach is wide and the sand pale. The sky is pure blue without a single cloud. The blue of the ocean reflects the sky and white waves roll in as far as I can see.

‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ Bex says.

I nod. It really is.

‘I thought we’d go on the Ferris wheel, for the best view,’ Oscar says. ‘You up for it?’

We walk to the end of the pier and look up at the wheel, all red and yellow against the bright blue of the sky.

‘I don’t like heights,’ I say.

‘Oh, come on!’ Bex says. ‘We’ll be with you, you’ll be fine.’

It does look really beautiful and the view will be incredible, I’m sure.

‘Please?’ Bex says, squeezing my arm and doing this stupid puppy face she’s done since she was practically a toddler.

I laugh. ‘OK. But if I faint or wet myself, you’ve only yourselves to blame.’

In the queue for the wheel, we’re made to hop up on stools and pose for a photo. It’s in a little wooden shelter, like a bus shelter, so I don’t know what that’s about. While we wait, Oscar remembers a few more films and TV shows the pier’s been in, but they’re all crime or gangster things neither Bex nor I have seen. We get to the front of the queue, scan our tickets in a little machine, and then climb in. The wheel doesn’t have the usual little swinging carriage seats; it has round gondolas with umbrellas over the top, which means we can all get in the same one. My stomach wobbles as we get in and the whole thing moves, but I feel better once I’m sitting down.

It lifts and slowly climbs until we can see back along the Boardwalk, out to the ocean and even further back, across beautiful houses and to distant hills.

‘Is that the Hollywood Hills?’ Bex asks Oscar.

He nods. ‘Are you free tomorrow? I could give you the grand tour. There’s a bus tour – it’s a bit touristy, but it’s a good overview.’

‘We can go, can’t we?’ Bex asks me.

I nod, but I must look a bit pained – or she notices that I’m clutching the edge of the plastic seat – because she asks if I’m all right.

And I am. The only bit I can’t cope with is when we go over the top and, for a second, I can’t see the wheel, just the ocean and the sky. It makes me feel like I could float away. I don’t like it.

We sit in silence for a while, taking it all in, and the next time we get to the top I stare at my feet until my eyes blur.

‘You’re not working tomorrow?’ Bex asks Oscar.

‘I’m working in the evening.’

‘And what about your other job? What’s that?’ I ask him.

Oscar taps his nose. ‘All in good time.’

I roll my eyes.

Bex laughs. ‘Are you a strippergram?’

‘Yes,’ Oscar says, his face serious. ‘The ladies pay a lot of money to see my…stuff.’

And then he blushes. I knew he hadn’t changed that much. His ‘stuff’ indeed.

I take a few photos on my phone and text them to Jessie and then the ride’s finished. As we leave, we’re offered the photograph taken in the booth as we queued. The bus-shelter background has been replaced with a photo of the view from the wheel, to make it look as if the picture was actually taken on the wheel itself. Despite our protests, Oscar buys one.

‘You should always buy the cheesy memento,’ Oscar says. ‘The crappier the better.’

We walk back down the pier, looking at the bowling and shooting games where you can win giant Angry Birds, and inhaling the caramel smell from the popcorn carts.

‘Do you want to do any other rides?’ Oscar asks. ‘Or is that enough for today?’

‘I think that’ll do me,’ I say. ‘Bex?’

‘I think I might just go and lie on the deck or the roof,’ Bex says. ‘I want to email some friends and Dad.’

‘Right,’ I say. I have no plans to email Dad, but it would probably be nice to spend a bit of time with Mum before she starts work in the morning.

‘Do you want to come back with us?’ I ask Oscar.

He shakes his head. ‘Thanks for asking, but, no, I’ve got some stuff I need to do. I’ll pick you up tomorrow about eleven, though, OK?’

We walk back along the Boardwalk, dodging cyclists, tandems and people actually rollerblading. It looks so much like I imagined before we left Manchester that I look down at my chest to make sure my boobs haven’t magically inflated. (They haven’t.)

My sister wakes me up by practically yelling the words, ‘You have to promise to say yes!’

‘Whaa?’ I mumble, rolling over and pulling the duvet – comforter, whatever – over my face.

‘You have to promise to say yes!’ she says again.

‘I’m not promising anything until I know what you’re talking about,’ I say from under the covers.

‘That’s exactly my point. You have to. This is the most important thing that’s ever happened to me and you have to—’

‘Promise to say yes. Yeah. I got that. What is it?’ I shuffle up the bed and rest against my pillows while Bex bounces up and down at the foot of the bed. I try opening one eye, but my room is so bright that I close it again instantly.

‘Promise!’ Bex says.

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ I say. ‘I promise. But I’ve got my fingers crossed. Now tell me.’

‘Emily wants to see me to discuss a casting,’ she says, and throws herself down on the bed next to me.

I open my eyes and squint at her. ‘Seriously?’

Emily is Emily Hennigar, the agent friend of Vivienne’s from Starmakers.

‘
Yes!
Today! There’s something she thinks I’d be perfect for and she wants to see me today at twelve. Mum’s going to meet us there, cos you have to have a parent with you—’

‘Wait. What time is it? Has Mum gone already?’

‘Yes! It’s ten o’clock. She left at nine. She says she can meet us, but you have to stay with me until Mum gets there. There isn’t anyone else!’

‘Well now that you’ve made me feel so special, I don’t see how I can say no.’

‘
Oh my god
!’ Bex shrieks, right next to my ear. She grabs me and squeezes me then runs out of the room, chuntering to herself about what she’s going to wear.

I pull the duvet back over my head. I can’t believe my little sister’s got a meeting with a Hollywood agent on practically our first day here. I know Vivienne said Emily was keen, but I didn’t expect this. I shouldn’t really be surprised, though, I’ve always known Bex was determined – from the minute she convinced Mum and Dad to send her to Starmakers she’s been really serious about it all. She’s had a lot to fit in around school, but they insisted that her schoolwork didn’t suffer and so she’s worked really hard to make sure nothing slipped. And she honestly is good. I didn’t know what to expect the first time I saw her performing – I knew she was dramatic, but that doesn’t necessarily translate – but she’s great. Offstage she’s sweet and funny, but a bit of a doofus; onstage she sort of glows. She’s got charisma, I suppose.

‘How are we going to get there?’ I ask Bex. I’m now out of bed, showered and dressed and sitting on the terrace. Bex is sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, trying to ‘centre’ herself. I’m sitting at the table with a gigantic mug of coffee and a plate of toast with peanut butter.

‘Mum suggested Oscar might be able to drive us,’ Bex says. ‘Since he was going to be spending the day with us anyway. Can you ring him?’

‘Has he even got a car? He didn’t mention one.’

‘Mum says Michael says he has. Can you just phone him and ask him?’

‘Certainly, miss,’ I say, standing up and pretending to curtsey, even though her eyes are still closed so she won’t appreciate the sarcasm.

I get my phone from my bedroom and ring Oscar.

‘Have you got a car?’ I say, when he answers.

‘Sort of,’ he says. ‘Why?’

I tell him about Bex’s audition and he says driving us is no problem.

‘Will we still be able to do the grand tour tomorrow?’ I ask him.

‘Oh, I think I can manage that. Wouldn’t want you to miss out.’

I smile. ‘I’m concerned about the “sort of” car. How can you sort of have a car?’

‘You’ll know when you see it,’ he says. ‘Where’s the agent’s office? Somewhere fancy?’

I take the phone outside and ask Bex, who is now doing the downward dog.

‘Wilshire Boulevard,’ she says from between her legs.

I tell Oscar.

‘Oh. Not fancy at all, then,’ he says, and laughs. ‘I’ll just have to let you out and park elsewhere. Somewhere the parking doesn’t cost more than the car’s worth.’

We confirm the rest of the details and then I go back to my breakfast while Bex finishes up her yoga by lying flat on her back and humming gently to herself. It’s really amazing that we’re even related.

I sit with my face turned up to the sun and Bex comes outside every now and then in a different outfit and says, ‘What do you think?’ before saying ‘No. I know,’ and leaving again before I’ve even had a chance to comment. Eventually she comes out wearing a denim skirt, red-and-white-striped T-shirt and brogues.

‘That looks great,’ I tell her, before she has a chance to reject it. ‘Simple, effortless, chic. Age-appropriate. The brogues make it quirky, but not too quirky. Perfect.’

‘Do you really think so?’ she asks, looking down at her shoes.

‘I really do,’ I say. ‘You should leave your hair down too. It looks great.’

‘And natural make-up, right?’

‘As little as possible,’ I tell her. ‘She’ll want to see your face.’

While Bex was changing, I googled Emily Hennigar and was surprised to find both that she’s English – she went to the same posh girls’ school as Clare, Dad’s new girlfriend – and she’s pretty young. She looks like she’s in her early thirties. But she’s definitely a successful and professional agent. She discovered Leanne Carr, the star of that sci-fi film where the kids get trapped in their school by aliens, and she also represents Cate Cooke from that Disney series about the boring daughter of the out-of-control rockstar couple.

I’m emailing Jessie some of the photos I took yesterday when Bex comes back out to the terrace and says, ‘Didn’t you hear the door? Oscar’s here.’

I step into my ballet pumps and follow her downstairs and outside where Oscar is standing next to the most pathetic-looking car I think I’ve ever seen.

‘Your chariot awaits, madam,’ he says, bowing to Bex, who giggles like it’s the most charming-looking car she’s ever seen.

‘Does this even go?’ I ask, walking around to look at the back of the car. It’s an old VW Beetle. It’s white, but so dappled with patches of rust that it looks a bit like a giraffe.

Oscar tuts at me. ‘Of course it goes! It got me here, didn’t it?’

‘You live about two streets away,’ I say.

‘Yes! And it only took me half an hour,’ he says, joking. At least, I hope he’s joking.

‘Were you pushing it?’ I ask, one eyebrow raised.

‘For that,’ he says, ‘you’re sitting in the back.’ He opens the passenger door and gestures at me to climb over into the back. Of course. It’s only a two-door. Tragic. I clamber over, catching my skirt on a jagged bit of metal at the side of the door. I reach back and pull it free, hoping I haven’t just shown Oscar my knickers. I glance over my shoulder and the look on his face suggests both that I have and that he may have liked whatever it was he saw. I flop down on the back seat, which is covered in cracked plastic and sags in the middle, and put my hands up to my face. How embarrassing.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Oscar mumbles, then yanks the front seat back again so that Bex can get in.

‘Isn’t this great?’ Bex says, looking over her shoulder at me.

‘Wonderful,’ I say, trying to find somewhere to put my legs. I end up with one foot in each footwell and reach round for the seatbelt.

Oscar gets in and slams his door.

‘Are we ready?’ he says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

‘I don’t know,’ Bex says. ‘I think I might be sick.’

‘Well, that window doesn’t open,’ Oscar says, cheerfully, ‘so if you are going to spew, you’ll have to open the door. Put your seatbelt on. Wouldn’t want you falling out.’

Bex laughs and I boggle at both of them. This is LA. And we’re heading out in a total death trap.

‘Are you really nervous?’ Oscar asks Bex as he reverses down the road at the back of our house.

He’s got one arm over the back of Bex’s seat so he can look over his shoulder and I feel slightly embarrassed that I’m sitting there in the middle of his reverse view. I slide down a bit in my seat. Oscar’s wearing a relatively normal outfit today: skinny jeans – except they’re bright green, so he looks a bit like a poppy – and a black, short-sleeved T-shirt, and I can see the muscles flexing in his arm as he manoeuvres the car. I would never have imagined that Oscar had muscles in his arms or anywhere else. Combined with the fact that he’s actually driving, well…it’s distracting.