The California Club (35 page)

'I've never been on a double-decker train before,' I marvel as we take the stairs to the upper level. 'It's so spacious and spanky-clean. Are we in business class?'

'Nope, just "coach" as they call it,' Zoë notes, taking her seat without any of the usual armrest-up-your-bottom contortions.

Suddenly I'm revived by the novelty factor of my surroundings and attempt to fold down my tray table – no mean feat considering the seat in front is so far ahead of me: it's like an elaborate Meccano project of slotting joints and extending limbs to get the table all the way over to my lap.

'I'm setting the alarm for 5.45pm,' Zoë tells me as she simultaneously programs her mobile phone and reclines her seat.

'What stop do we need?' I ask.

'I've got it all written down but it's at the bottom of my bag …' Zoë waves vaguely at her feet. 'Just make sure you give me a shout before 6pm.'

As we leave LA behind I watch the vegetation change from jutting dark green poplars – so precision pointy they look like the super-glued spikes on a punk's Mohican – to hanks of long grasses and then strange yellow stacked-rock formations.

'Isn't this surreal?' I turn to Zoë. She's out for the count. I thought she was uncharacteristically mute.

The train conductor, however, has something very interesting to say: 'Late lunch is being served in the diner car.'

More interesting still, it appears to be being served in another era. Some time in the late Sixties, I'd say. The décor is authentically retro with squishy brown leather seating and rough-textured orange curtains. I so wish I was wearing a polyester dress and a backcombed hairpiece. I’m halfway through my chicken pot pie when I get a sudden urge to call Joel and tell him about the crazy birthday I'm having, then realize I can't. Ever. I don't have his number. I don't know where he works or even where he lives. In the rush to get to Sasha I forwent any of the traditional number exchanging and promises to meet again real soon. Besides, I was expecting to see him again that evening.

I suppose he could always contact me through Zoë at the diner. She's there for another two whole days. I shake my head - how did I let this happen? Unless – maybe he passed on his number to Zoë when he came back with the tickets and she just forgot to tell me. I quickly pay for my lunch then hurry back to Zoë, only to find her even more comatose, now lying across my seat as well as hers.

Maybe it's for the best. What will be, will be. And what won't, won't.

In searching the carriages for a free place to sit I happen upon the viewing carriage. After the dining car, this looks positively space age. The chairs are groovy molded plastic and the windows curve up to the ceiling. I settle into one and get a full-frontal of glistening blue ocean. So this is why they call this train the Coastliner. The light glinting on the waves dazzles as if all the fish have been given little mirrors to angle at the sun. Who needs diamonds – here's the real bling-bling in this world.

I close my eyes to daydream, loving the feeling of the sun on my face. Almost immediately my thoughts turn to Elliot and our parting conversation at the Ahwahnee. What with zooming around with Joel, confronting Ty and partying with Zoë I haven't had much time to process my feelings for him. I realize now that his revelation about missing me and saying he felt he was losing me has made me feel all the more close to him. It's as if we've shared an honest moment amid all the mixed messages. Initially he was huffy about Joel, seemingly peeved that he'd been ousted from being my number one guy, and in turn I was running with the Joel situation for all it's worth to somehow punish him for not loving me the way I want. But ever since he showed himself to be a little vulnerable, I feel we're subconsciously working together on finding a new way to be with each other, adjusting to the new circumstances in our life.

Even if he's never mine exclusively, I know now I matter to him. It seems foolish considering all we've been through but I had been having doubts – ever since Elise came on the scene I'd felt replaced. Now I don't feel threatened by her, or anyone who might come after her. I feel like he's made me a guarantee that he'll always have a place for me in his heart, and that makes me feel less needy, more loved.

I open my eyes again and find the sea has been replaced by dusty earth with rows of mystery plants creating lines of fuzz in the soil like the strips on the bottom of a Hoover. I wonder where we are? I look at my watch – just half an hour to go. I'd better go and wake Zoë.

This time I find her splat against the window so I'm free to slot back into my seat. As I do, she stirs and blearily asks the time.

'5.30pm,' I tell her.

'Okay! Let the beautification begin.’ Suddenly she's wide awake. 'You might want to think about sprucing yourself up too.’

‘Do I have to pretend to be your agent or anything?'

'We'll just play it by ear. Back in a mo!'

As Zoë dips to the restroom, I pull out my make-up bag and contemplate my face. Why are my nostrils always the first place foundation disappears from? I dab beige over the pink and then sparkle up my eyelids, melon gloss my lips and further clog my lashes to please Zoë. Now what? I return to gazing out the window.

'Hey, look at those rusty old oil drills!' Zoë rejoins me. 'They look like they're nodding at the ground.'

'Do you think there might be an oil theme to the movie?' I ask.

'It's all top secret,' Zoë shrugs. 'I haven't been told anything. All will be revealed when we get there.'

'I'm sure it will,' I agree, amazed by how Zoë can arrange her cleavage in such a way that it gives the illusion of teetering over the edge of a precipice.

'San Luis Obispo!’ she exclaims, jumping to her feet. ‘This is us!’

While Zoë summons a cab I study the old mission-style station. It doesn't look like the kind of place geared up to accommodate Hollywood divas and coke-snorting movie execs. A teenager in beige shorts and a white T-shirt scutters by on a skateboard, no doubt on his way to appear in a Gap ad. Suddenly I feel like giving birth to 2.4 children and bagging myself one of the quaint clapboard houses painted a soothing mint green.

'Cab!' Zoë calls me over.

She's starting to look excited, I guess the adrenalin is kicking in.

'Nervous?' I ask her.

'A bit!' She grins, looking anything but.

As we drive along, I notice she hasn't taken her eyes off me.

'What?' I demand.

'Nothing!' she trills.

'We're just about to …' the driver connects with Zoë in his rearview mirror.

'Close your eyes!' Zoë reaches across and puts her hand over my eyes.

'What are you doing?' I fluster.

'Sshh!'

I sense the car slowing to take a turn.

‘Okay, now!' I hear the driver's voice.

Zoë removes her hand.

'What's going—Oh my god!' I gasp at the lurid pink billboard before me:
'The Madonna Inn!'

Zoë gives a gleeful gurgle at my reaction.

My mouth continues to gape like I'm in mid-dental procedure: 'I can't believe I'm here! This is my fantasy!'

'Happy Birthday!' Zoë cheers.

'Oh Zoë,' I blub. Turns out my eyes are going to spill over before her cleavage.

She pulls me into a hug.

'What about your audition?' I muffle into her shoulder.

'There isn't one!' she pips.

'You little minx!' I pull back to look at her. 'The whole thing—'

'Made up to trick you – see what a good actress I am!'

I beam at her, overwhelmed. 'This is the best surprise I've ever had.'

'It's about to get better,' she winks. 'Wait there!'

As she darts into the registration nook, I step from the cab and gawp over at the jumble of elliptical boulders – some sand-blasted smooth, others retaining their oyster-shell ridges – set around a selection of rock pools and gently burbling fountains. The building they front peaks to a witch's hat turret and is painted icing sugar pink. It’s like a cross between Bedrock and a fairy grotto, with a bit of Quality Street detailing (ye olde lamps, horse-drawn carriage motif) thrown in for good measure.

I'm dying to peer inside but already Zoë's back with a key and a room map.

'I've just got to fill out the registration card but you can go on up, room 139.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes go, your present is waiting for you in your room.'

I get a present too? This is unbelievable.

I bound up a hillside driveway that would normally have me wheezing after one stride – funny how happiness gives you so much energy. It’s the building at the top takes my breath away – all painted white with its three-tiered verandas and carved wooden balustrades it puts me in mind of a Mississippi showboat. With a couple of dovecots tacked on either end.

I study my map. Room 139 is on the ground floor in the middle. I burrow down a corridor and then spy the door plaque that goes with the number – Jungle Rock. Oh my god! This room is legendary!

I fidget the key in the lock and burst into a vast carpeted cave dominated by two king-size beds hiding beneath zebra print counterpanes. Though the layout is open plan the beds appear to have their own rooms. I sprawl like an animal skin on the one nearest the door and then hurtle into the bathroom. There it is the shower that cascades down the rough-hewn rock like a waterfall! I step inside and run my hands along the patchwork of lacquered granite – blood reds, charcoal greys and muddy eggplants, all bonded together with concrete. I take a sniff of the Madonna Inn shower gel and then dance back into the main room. Which bed shall I claim? The one I've mussed up or the one over here by the—I jump back, freaked out.

There's a body in the second bed.

My first thought is that I've got the wrong room and I dart towards the door in a panic. But then I reason that the key worked and it's unlikely someone would be calling it a night at 6pm. Recalling Zoë's words, I decide to check to see if the mound is in fact gift-wrapped.

Au contraire. It's naked.

And there's something familiar about the duckling-blond hair and freckly shoulders.

My heart swoons. It's Elliot.

'My present…' I sigh, in disbelief.

I tiptoe closer. Can this be for real?

I lean closer, so I can awake him with a kiss…

‘SURPRISE!'

Sensing a stampede behind me, I swivel round to find Helen, Sasha and – urgh! – Elise colliding as they rush towards me.

'I gave you the wrong key!' Zoë apologizes, bringing up the rear.

'We were all waiting in the other room!' Sasha pants as she slides beside me on the floor to give me a birthday squeeze.

'Elise, why didn't you wake me?' Elliot stirs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

'You looked so peaceful!' she chimes.

'I wanted to be in on the surprise,' he complains.

‘Trust me, you were the surprise.' I think to myself.

'Well, Happy Birthday, Lara!' He reaches out an arm and coaxes my head towards him. My lips meet his – soft, warm, sleepy – a two-second taster of what might have been/almost was. I cringe, imagining the scene if the girls had burst in even a minute later – me caught kissing a sleeping Elliot. Elise would have freaked, so would Elliot for that matter. It was all in my head. As if he'd offer himself to me like that. What was I thinking?

As Helen and Zoë pile on the bed, Elise smothers herself over Elliot. I can hardly bear to watch. The only good news is that she's inadvertently snagged the sheet away from him and it's gaping all the way down to his fuzzy tummy.

'So whose fabulous idea was this?' I brazen, trying to summon up my former enthusiasm.

All heads turn to Elliot.

'I just remembered the name of the place. Helen made all the arrangements,’ e shrugs.

'The lying and deceit was all Zoë,' Helen adds.

Zoë chortles. 'I was so good!'

'Well, thank you all – I can't believe we're all here together!'

Elise nuzzles deeper into Elliot. I have to get away.

‘So when do I get to see my room?’

‘Now!' Zoë leaps to her feet. 'Come on, everyone!'

'You'll have to excuse us,' Elise leers. 'We've got some catching up to do.'

Elliot looks far too exhausted for what she has in mind, yawning: 'What time are we eating?'

Zoë gives me a look as if to say: See, he's more interested in his stomach than shagging her.

'I've booked a table in the Gold Rush Dining Room for eight,' Helen informs him. 'Shall we see you down there?'

'Definitely!' Elliot nods. 'Both of us this time.'

I think I preferred the La Valencia arrangement.

As I close the door on Jungle Rock it occurs to me that Sasha should really be the one waving us off with a spear.

'What's your room like, Sash?'

‘Do you want to see it? It's right here,' she offers, dangling the key. ‘Zoë’s choice…’

'The Tack Room?' I read the plaque on the door.

'As in ponies?' Helen suggests.

'Well, riding crops maybe,' Sasha mutters as she swings open the door to reveal a blaze of red walls, red doors, red carpet, red sofa and red leather bedspreads. Bright pillarbox red. I kid you not.

'You don't get these at Laura Ashley,' I coo, stroking the scarlet hide.

'There's twisted rope on the front of the wardrobe,’ Helen notes. ‘Isn't it all a bit bondage?'

'Yes, I'm going to tie Sasha to the bed tonight with her own hair!' Zoë cackles, reaching to whip off Sasha's baseball hat.

Sasha leaps back as if she's just been electrocuted.

‘Are you all right?' I ask, slowly moving towards her like she's a startled deer.

'I didn't want to make a big deal. This is your day, Lara.' She takes another step back.

'A big deal about what? Am I missing something?'

'No, but I am!' Sasha heaves a sigh and then removes her droopy cotton sunhat. No hair comes tumbling down.

Along with Helen and Zoë, I suck up all the air in the room with a sudden intake of breath.

'Your hair!'

'Where's it gone?'