Swell
Authors: Lauren Davies
Swell
Lauren Davies
Copyright © 2014, Lauren Davies
Jacket photograph © John Millard Photography
LOS ANGELES
CHAPTER ONE
I was a British writer of moderate success. Some would say three novels published in three years was something to be proud of, but I felt little pride in writing books few people had read.
‘Have you written anything I would know?’ people asked politely at parties.
After years of embarrassing silences when I uttered the titles, I finally resorted to the line, ‘No, I have an underground following.’
I desperately wanted to be a bestseller. To hold book-signings that would have people queuing in the rain for my autograph. I craved the sort of deals I read about in the Press: an eye-watering amount of money for one book, film options, bidding wars, one million pounds for the reality TV star who could hardly string three sentences together let alone write a book. My guess was, they didn’t.
I worked hard and my career meant everything to me. It had been my sole focus for most of my adult life, yet the overwhelming feeling I had when I reflected on my ‘achievements’ was guilt about the waste of trees. I had made a mediocre amount of money, so I had to continue pursuing that bestseller in order to pay the bills. It was either that or throw in the towel and admit I had been dreaming to think I could keep myself clothed and fed by way of my creative efforts. My motivation, however, was waning by the day. I wanted to inspire but I could not even inspire myself. An exceptional idea for my fourth book was proving to be the most elusive yet. The more I focused on finding a subject I felt passionate enough about to spend a year of my life writing about it, the more my mind went as blank as a shaken Etch-a-Sketch. I feared my grasp on literary success
was slipping and I was about to plunge headfirst into the remainder bin along with my back catalogue.
According to my publisher there was always a reason my books had not topped the charts that was beyond their control. The cover was the wrong shade of blue. The market was down. The dollar was up. The supermarkets were only buying the ghost written autobiographies of halfwits, recipe books written by people who had never been to chef school, or guides to surviving on monkey spit in the jungle.
I had considered taking a risk and changing the genre of book but I had never been one to relish risk-taking whether in my career or otherwise. I had never dyed my hair outlandish colours, or been skinny-dipping, or had a one-night stand.
‘Stick to fiction, that’s what you’re good at, darling,’ my agent, Tristan, a true English gent advised, ‘and if we decide you’re no longer good at it, we’ll find you a bit of ghost writing.’
‘An autobiography of a half-wit,’ I groaned. ‘Did you not once tell me that is the road trodden by failed novelists?”
‘Did I, darling?’
‘Yes, Tristan, I believe you did, several times. A year ago I was, according to you, too talented for ghost writing.’
‘Oh and you are, darling, supremely talented.’
I don’t think he even convinced himself with that statement,
‘If I’m that talented why is my royalty cheque a negative value? I
owe
money to my publisher, Tristan. That is not the definition of bestseller.’
‘Bestseller means anything we want it to mean, Bailey darling. Look, don’t fret. I am positive the right thing will come along,’ he said while ushering me out of the office past a waiting author who was evidently worth his expensive breath. ‘We just have to hope it comes along soon or I fear your publisher will drop you like a buttered baby.’
Motivational speaking was not his forte.
In need of a holiday to escape the four walls that seemed to mock my lack of inspiration, I headed to L.A. to visit my old friend, Jon, who worked in the film industry and had been begging me to visit him for years. Like a moth to a flame I was drawn to the place where money talks out of the mouths of perfectly sculptured people, all of whom are either a success or well practised in pretending to be. The trip was intended to kill or cure. I would either be inspired to write the best book of my life or I would realise I did not belong in the club for creative geniuses, allowing me to finally let go of my dream and, as my mother had said all along, get a proper job.
Jon took me straight to an ‘industry’ party, said with the mimed inverted commas.
‘This is just our weekend house,’ said the host who was an acquaintance of Jon’s, not for any reason other than she was something in the film industry, which, I soon realised, was how L.A. worked. People were friends if they were either useful or connected to people who were useful.
If she weighed more than seventy pounds I would have been surprised.
‘We also have homes in Vail, Hawaii and, oh I forget.’
I felt like impaling myself on the jewel-encrusted champagne glass that probably cost more than my flat.
‘Have you met Ashlee? She just got back from her latest tour.’
Seeing my blank expression, Ashlee, who looked like she should have been at home playing with her Bratz dolls, raised both manicured hands as if I were about to shoot and squealed – ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of me?
Gaard
I am like totally famous. My music is huge in Japan.’
‘Big in Japan,’ I mused, ‘you should be very proud.’
Ashlee eyed me suspiciously.
‘Sorry,’ I said to the self-proclaimed musical megastar, ‘I stopped listening to music when Genesis split up. It broke my heart.’
I thought she was going to throw up on my shoes. Musical Barbie and my skeletal host tottered away twittering like canaries.
‘Genesis,’ said a voice behind me, ‘that was funny. So tell me, did you have a crush on Phil Collins?’
‘Didn’t everyone have a secret crush on Phil Co…?’
I almost choked on the Collins when I turned around to see the face of an angel staring back at me. A bronzed, broad-shouldered, blond haired, edible angel with the most spectacular silver eyes I had ever seen.
‘Phil Collins,’ I said again, well aware my cheeks were burning with the intensity of rescue flares, ‘and of course I had a crush on him. Most girls my age did, even if they didn’t like to admit it because he was a ballad singing baldy dwarf.’
The angel smiled. His teeth, of course, were as white as coral and straighter than the Queen’s guards, this was America after all. He ran a hand through his own thick, sun-bleached hair that almost sighed as it relaxed back over his smooth forehead. He slowly pushed the same hand into the pocket of his jeans and leaned back against the wall.
‘I had a crush on Tiffany.’
‘I think we’re alone now,’ I sang.
He placed a warm hand on my shoulder. I jolted like a schoolgirl caught passing notes in class.
‘Sorry, do I make you nervous?’
I brushed my shoulder dismissively.
‘Not at all, I’ve just got a thing about personal space.’
‘Is it not better with me in it?’
‘Wow, you’ve got a ticket on yourself haven’t you?’
‘Not at all,’ he repeated mockingly, ‘although I do have two VIP tickets for the Jack Johnson gig in town tomorrow night. It’s not Genesis but I think you could easily develop a crush.’
‘Are you asking me out?’
Five minutes earlier I had been questioning my attendance at this ego-fuelled bash. Now I was standing in a dark corner sipping champagne alongside easily the most handsome man in the room who had just asked me on a date. I hoped Ashlee was within earshot.
‘Yes I am asking you on a date. You’re cute and you’re funny. Why waste the opportunity, right?’
His very un-British directness was rather appealing.
‘But you don’t even know me,’ I said, flicking my long hair over my shoulder in a rather obviously flirtatious move that made me want to poke myself in the eyes, ‘and I don’t know you.’
The look on his face was enough to tell me I should.
‘Oh God not another one.’
Raising my hands in an Ashlee manner, I squeaked – ‘I am like totally famous. Don’t you know who I am?’
It was his turn to blush. The modesty suited him.
‘Is it me or is everyone famous at this party except me?’
‘This is L.A., babe, get used to it.’
The ‘babe’ made my legs tingle.
‘My name’s Jason,’ he said, extending a hand, ‘Jason Cross.’
‘I bet you are.’
Rather than punching myself in the face, I took his hand. His skin was smooth and warm. The tough skin on the ends of his fingers suggested he played guitar.
‘Bailey Brown,’ I said, shaking his hand confidently, ‘are you a musician?’
A group of men walking past laughed out loud.
‘She’s either bullshitting you or you’ve found the one girl in L.A. who won’t let you get laid just by saying your name, TS,’ one called over his shoulder.
Jason laughed along, his eyes shimmering.
‘I wish I was talented enough to be a musician but no, I’m not.’
‘So if you’re not a budding Phil Collins, what do you do?’
I leaned back against the wall and tilted my head towards him.
‘You first,’ he said.
‘I’m a writer,’ I said, almost swallowing the last word.
‘A writer? Cool, what do you write? Screenplays?’
‘Like every waiter in L.A.?’ I smiled. ‘No, I write books. I’m a novelist.’
The word always sounded precocious but I secretly enjoyed using it.
‘A novelist? I’m impressed. How many novels have you written?’
‘Three.’
‘So you’re published?’
I nodded and looked at my feet. My toes wriggled inside my wedges.
‘And modest too. I knew you were smart when I first saw you.’
‘How? Because I’m holding my champagne glass the right way up?’
He laughed. The sound warmed my body, which was already glowing from the pleasantly mild temperatures for early November.
‘You’re funny,’ he said.
My toes wriggled again.
Funny was a start but I would have preferred ‘sexy’ or ‘unfathomably gorgeous’.
‘Thanks. I’m British, we always seem funny to Americans.’
He grinned and, as he did so, he winked, which would in most circumstances have made me cringe but those silver eyes had the power to pull off a wink.
‘So, Bailey, these novels of yours, would I have…?’
‘No,’ I said, pre-empting the dreaded question, ‘I have an underground following.’
‘Sounds intriguing, I’d like to read one.’
Good luck, I thought to myself, Amazon might have one wedged under a wonky desk.
‘So what about you?’ I chirped, moving the subject on, ‘You’re here with the who’s who of L.A. so you must be a “someone”’ – I made inverted commas in the air – ‘but you’re not a musician, so what are you, an actor?’
‘No actually I’m a “surfer”.’ He copied the motion with his fingers.
‘A surfer? Is that a job?’
He laughed out loud. I saw a few heads – predominantly female – turn to look at us.
‘Now that was a very British question and the answer is, yes it is a real job.’
‘So you’re a professional surfer?’
‘Yup.’
‘Gosh that’s a very twenty-first century job title. And judging by the fact that you’re rather well put together’ – I looked him up and down, which I rather enjoyed – ‘and that you’re not hanging out in the car park in your VW campervan smoking spliffs and listening to the Beach Boys, I am guessing you’re a successful professional surfer.’