Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (43 page)

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, looking around. ‘Always seems crazy to me when they spend a fortune on a set, though. Although I suppose they can’t go around blowing up parts of the real Trafalgar Square.’

‘You’re blowing bits of it up?’ I asked, hoping it wouldn’t be my lion.

‘Shit, I’m supposed to be sworn to script secrecy.’ James pulled an imaginary zip across his mouth. ‘You didn’t hear that from me.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Are you blowing it up today? Can I watch?’

‘Bloodthirsty, aren’t you? Nope, sorry, Trafalgar Square doesn’t get it until next week.’

‘James!’ Blake yelled from the steps of the National Gallery and tapped his watch. ‘Trailer!’

‘Want to see my trailer?’ James raised a perfect eyebrow.

I raised mine. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

‘Maybe a couple,’ he admitted, putting an arm around my shoulder and walking me off into a Waterloo Sunset.

If walking onto the set had been like walking into London, walking into James’s trailer was like walking into heaven. I’d never, ever seen anything so plush. It made The Union and The Hollywood look like a youth hostel.

‘This place is amazing. Why would you even have a house?’ I charged up the steps and into the lounge. Three massive plush sofas dominated the space, all pointing at a huge flatscreen TV with a beautiful low coffee table set in the centre. Under the TV was a DVD player, a Blu-ray player and several games consoles. It was basically boy heaven.

‘Gets boring after a while,’ James said, his hand hovering over a fruit platter on the coffee table before he skipped over onto a bowl of M&Ms. ‘Sometimes I just really want to fuck off back to my mum’s. You can fly direct to Sheffield now, can’t you? I could be there in a day.’

‘Sheffield?’ I gave James a questioning look. ‘I thought you were from London?’

‘Not approved!’ Blake called from the kitchen. He stuck his head around the door. ‘We’re not talking about James’s past, Miss Clark.’

‘OK.’ I launched myself into one of the squishy sofas and filed it away.

‘So, James has to go do some actual work. We’ll be, like, two hours. You’ll stay here?’ Blake pushed James through the door as he threw me a helpless shrug and disarming wink.

‘Perfect,’ I said to myself, pulling my laptop out of my bag. It was almost twelve already and my blog wasn’t about to write itself. Couldn’t hurt to at least attempt to get it in on time …

The Adventures of Angela: LA Story

So finally, I can let you in on my secret … right now, as in right this second, I’m blogging to you from the trailer of a very cool, very talented and, well, gorgeous movie star. Seriously, we’re talking A-list, super-hot, 100% amazing Ac-Tor-type person.

What’s great for me (but possibly a little bit rubbish for you), is that I’m actually interviewing him for The Look – my first-ever proper interview! But that’s not the most rubbish bit (unless I do a really shoddy job, that would be a bit tragic): what’s really sad is that I’m not allowed to tell you who it is.

I know, what a tease.

What I can do is tell you all about LA and all the adventures I’m having … Which have so far totalled a bit of shopping and puking outside a bungalow at Chateau Marmont. I am all class, I know. But seriously, what gives? Why am I not loving this place? I was so excited to leave the New York snow but LA just seems a bit empty and impersonal instead of glamorous and exciting. Am I doing something wrong? If you have any recommendations, please email me and let me know where I should be going. And yes, before you ask, I have a car.

Course, things might pick up when Mr Movie Star takes me out this afternoon … I do this all for you, you know.

Blog written and emailed to Mary back in New York, I popped in the earphones from my Dictaphone and prepared to type up my notes. Hmm. Me telling James how I ended up in New York. James laughing. Me telling James how much I disliked LA. James laughing. Blake telling me I had to stick to approved topics. James laughing. So far, all I had for the interview was: James Jacobs loves to laugh.

Before I could even start to panic, I heard my phone buzzing in my bag. Mary – Office. Meep.

‘Hi Mary,’ I said, shuffling onto the edge of the chair and actively not biting my nails. ‘You got my blog?’

‘I did, you were sick outside his bungalow?’ Mary wasn’t one for pleasantries.

‘Er, yeah, food poisoning,’ I bluffed. ‘James didn’t know anything about it, I just thought it sounded funny on the blog.’

‘Right.’ I know she didn’t believe me for a second. ‘Is everything OK? Have you got some good stuff?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you want to send it to me?’

I stopped actively not biting my nails. ‘It’s not ready.’

‘It’s not ready?’

‘And I’m a perfectionist.’

‘Right. Send me something tomorrow.’

I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that she hung up without absolutely kicking my arse, but I was fairly sure that it was not good. Mary might have agreed to let me do the interview, but if things looked as though they might be going badly, she would pull me off in a heartbeat, and I was absolutely not going to let that happen. This was my chance; I really wanted it to work. Somewhere along the line, I’d got it into my head that if I could do this, then I could do anything. That maybe Mary would send me more exciting assignments than reviewing the new Christina Aguilera album. I just had to do a good job. Even if I had absolutely no experience, precedent or genuine reason to believe that I might be able to. Shit.

So what had I really learned about James Jacobs? He liked to run in the hills, he had just filmed a movie in Canada and he may or may not be from Sheffield. Hmm. Not even enough to warrant a ten-second interview on Facebook let alone a magazine interview.

OK, Angela, I told myself, as soon as James comes back to the trailer, you will be a hard-hitting journo. You will be the world’s most investigative interviewer. You will check your make-up and hope that you are still looking human. And then, of course, James will walk back in while you have two giant rings of Touche Eclat highlighting your impressive eye bags. He was shadowed, of course, by Blake.

‘Well, you, Angela Clark, are a rare beauty.’ He gave me one of his most dazzling smiles. It was a wonder he didn’t think everyone in the universe was mentally challenged, it was so difficult to actually give a coherent response when he really turned it on.

‘It’s a terrible load to bear,’ I agreed. ‘So what are we up to?’

‘I’m all done here for today.’ James stretched, touching the tips of his fingers to the ceiling of the trailer. ‘Just let me get changed and then I thought we could head out into town.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I agreed, watching him vanish into the other room, giving me a chance to pat (never rub) the magical make-up into my skin and check my phone. Nothing from Jenny still; nothing from Alex. It was nice to feel loved. I sent a quick text to Jenny to check she was alive, but didn’t have time to put together an Alex-appropriate message before James reappeared, car keys in hand, Blake by his side. It took time to be breezy.

‘So, where are we going?’ I asked, dropping my phone into my bag.

James held out a hand and hoisted me up. ‘We’re going to show you LA. Ready?’

Outside the trailer, James’s limo had mysteriously vanished and in its place was a huge, petrol blue truck. Oh dear.

‘A Hummer?’ I tried not to raise an eyebrow at the cliché. Very Entourage.

‘An H2H – hydrogen-powered Hummer. Don’t judge a book by its cover, Angela.’ James held open the door.

‘You are a long way from home right now, James Jacobs,’ I tested, shaking my head and clambering up inside.

‘Not approved.’ Blake ‘helped’ me into the cab with a firm shove to the arse. ‘Seriously, Miss Clark, we are not talking about James’s past in any way—’ But before he could climb into the car after me, James leaned over, slammed the door shut and ran around to the driver’s side. Sliding in and gunning the engine, he gave his assistant a hearty salute as we pulled out of the parking space.

‘Bye Blake, I’ll keep her on the approved topics, don’t worry,’ James called as we drove off, making an overly dramatic ‘I can’t hear you’ gesture at his furious assistant as he revved the engine ever louder and peeled out of the car park. ‘Now, I love that guy, but seriously, how are we supposed to do an interview with him barking “not approved” every ten seconds?’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’ I wound the window down, trying to ignore the giddy butterflies building up in my stomach as we pulled out of the studio lot and onto the Avenue of the Stars. It wasn’t just the ridiculous street name, it was cruising at high speed in a great big shiny truck. It was looking out of the window and up into the sunshine. It was the great big genuine grin on James’s face. ‘But aren’t you afraid I’ll ask you some horribly inappropriate questions and print some scandalous filth in the magazine?’

‘Here’s hoping,’ he grinned.

‘What do you think?’ James asked as we screeched to a halt.

For the second time that day, my eyes turned to fall on something impossibly beautiful. I’d been so busy fiddling with James’s iPod in the truck, trying to work him out by his song selections (impossible: he had everything ever recorded from Strauss to The Stones – and Stills, of course) that I hadn’t even looked out of the window once we pulled onto the freeway.

Why bother? The streets weren’t interesting like in New York or London. No one walked anywhere, the strips of shops were ugly or run down; there was literally nothing to look at. But while I’d been busy not paying attention, the ocean had appeared from nowhere. The Hummer was surrounded by people laughing, running, Rollerblading. We were at the beach.

Practically falling out of the truck, I ran towards the sand, leaving a sandal behind me. ‘It’s amazing,’ I said, more to myself than anyone else. ‘Look at it.’

‘So this is Malibu. Beats Skegness, doesn’t it?’ James said quietly, presenting me with my abandoned shoe. He knelt down and cradled my bare foot in his hand, slipping on the sandal. Instinctively, I caught my breath and my balance, holding onto James’s shoulders. Which was fine until my balance and my breath decided they didn’t want to be caught and I toppled forward in slow mo, right on top of James.

‘Beats Skegness,’ I muttered.

I was only vaguely aware of the fact that my skirt had ridden up well clear of my knickers, but I was intensely aware of the tiny flecks of green in James’s blue eyes, the scar in his eyebrow from a long-departed piercing and how ridiculously shiny every single strand of his hair was. Somewhere not that deeply hidden, my biological clock set itself to Pacific Standard Time and I felt a very strong urge to have all of James’s babies. As soon as possible.

‘That’s twice you’ve fallen for me today.’ James stared up at me for a moment, then brushed my hair off my face. ‘You know your eyes are really beautiful.’

‘What?’

‘Your eyes, they’re really pretty.’ James gently pushed me off and sat up. ‘So, blue. Have you ever thought about going darker with your hair?’

‘Muh?’ Seriously, I was dry-humping him on the beach and he was asking me if I’d thought about cracking out a bottle of Nice ’N Easy?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, gently pushing me up and averting his eyes while I put myself away. ‘I spend far too much time with make-up artists. They’re always telling me if my hair was darker it would make my eyes look bluer. Apparently.’

‘Make-up artists,’ I nodded. ‘So not all those hot women you’re forever being pictured with?’

‘Not approved,’ James smirked, taking my hand and pulling me up onto the sand. ‘Shut up and come on.’

The endless ocean melted between the cloudless blue sky and golden beach, but it just couldn’t compete with the skin-on-skin contact. I was sure that the tiny thrills that kept tickling up and down my back would go away if I could just speak to Alex. But my phone had only had the decency to buzz once and that was to remind me that the repeat of Gossip Girl was starting. Or it would be if I had been in New York and not Malibu. I gave myself a mental shake and breathed out. Either I was just going to have to put Alex out of my mind and get on with the interview, or I was going to have a week’s worth of embarrassing anecdotes and an empty Dictaphone.

‘Shall we sit down for a while?’ I asked, kicking off my sandals and pulling out my ‘I’m a professional’ paraphernalia.

‘Jesus, I suppose so,’ James screwed up his face. ‘I know you’re a journo and everything, but can we at least attempt to keep it fun? I’ll let you in on a secret, I’m not a very good celebrity.’

‘I’ll try,’ I said wryly. ‘And I can let you in on a secret too: I’m not a very good journalist.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘I’ve read your stuff, you’re great.’

‘Don’t you have people to do that sort of thing for you?’ I asked, trying not to be too flattered. ‘Surely you don’t actually read for yourself?’

‘There’s actually just my manager, an accountant somewhere who makes sure I don’t go broke –?and Blake. When I first moved here, I had dozens of people, but it just didn’t work. I’ve never been great at letting people think for me and talk for me, and I hate having dozens of people around me when I don’t know if they’re genuine or not. That’s one of the reasons we’re doing this.’ He tilted his head and looked squarely at me. ‘Blake is … Blake is great at running my life but I don’t think he’s the best person to put in front of journalists. All the media people out here are just, well, just too much. They have to know every single thing that you ever did or might do. There was just no privacy, ever. This, by the way, is off the record.’

I held up the Dictaphone. ‘You want me to turn this off?’

Instead of answering, he took it from my hand, turned it over a couple of times and gave it a considered look. Before throwing it hard and far into the sea. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Don’t ever ask to borrow my phone,’ I said, wondering how I would write that off as expenses. Shit. ‘So let’s just sort this out. The magazine told me we were trying to do a piece to explain to all your adoring female fans that you’re not some heartbreaking Hollywood lothario but just a misunderstood artist looking for your perfect woman. What was it that you were expecting?’