Lindsey Kelk 5-Book ‘I Heart...’ Collection

‘Daphne,’ Jenny let out a warning shot. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daphne wasn’t going to be hushed by a stern tone of voice.

‘Chill, J, it’s so not a big deal.’ She pressed her lips together, refreshing her pout. ‘We used to work together. When J lived here last time?’

‘When she was acting?’ I asked.

‘When she was dancing.’

I bit my lip and looked back at Jenny. Impossible. She was blushing.

‘Dancing? You danced?’ I really, really wanted Jenny to nod, smile and possibly demonstrate some tap moves.

‘Oh baby doll, I do not believe Miss J never told you about our act?’ Daphne pouted.

‘You had an act?’ This was too much.

‘Sure,’ Daphne said, as a waiter appeared with three giant salads. ‘A burlesque act.’

Jenny’s blush faded until her clear caramel skin paled to a sallow sea green. Even behind her giant sunglasses, I could see her eyes were as big as the huge salad plates in front of us. Simultaneously, we both reached for our gimlets and drained the glasses.

‘Well,’ I finally managed, ‘Jenny Lopez, you dark horse. I should have known.’

‘Excuse me?’ Jenny reached across the table and finished Daphne’s cocktail. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I just meant, you know, you carry yourself like a dancer,’ I protested. Just one cocktail in and I’d already had too much to drink to lie convincingly. Daphne sat cackling across the table and making ‘more drinks’ signs at our waiter.

‘And you’ve got good rhythm?’ There was no way to dig my way out of this. ‘No, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to fess up about this one. Burlesque dancing, Jenny Lopez?’

‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ She pushed her chair backwards, straight into the person behind her. ‘And when I get back, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Of course,’ I called as Jenny stormed across the patio, her massive tote bag bashing diners in the back of the head as she went. Waiting until she vanished inside the restaurant, I turned back to Daphne. ‘I reckon we’ve got about three minutes: go.’

‘OK.’ She cleared her throat dramatically. ‘Jenny and I met about seven years ago. She was out here waitressing, trying out at all these open auditions and shit, basically not getting anywhere. I was working in this vintage store on Melrose and, well, kind of stripping. But classy stripping, you know, not like “drunken bachelor parties” stripping.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I nodded, trying to think of an example of classy stripping. And failing.

‘So we were both at this club one night,’ Daphne went on, ‘and we got to talking, got to dancing, got to some serious fucking drinking, and so I tell her that there’s an open call for dancers on a new music show the next day. I kind of didn’t think she would show, but I turn up and there she is. The full Flashdance, seriously: legwarmers, one-shoulder sweater, the whole outfit.

‘But the problem is, Jenny can’t really dance. I mean, she can move, right? But she’s not a trained dancer. And look at me. I am so not what MTV are looking for. Anyways, we get up there, basically make asses out of ourselves, and just when we’re about to go get real drunk and laugh about the whole thing, this chick comes up to us and asks if we’ve ever thought about doing burlesque.’

‘And then what happened?’ The vision of Jenny dressed as an extra from Fame was almost enough for me, but I had to get the rest of the story.

‘What did I freaking say?’ A firm slap on the back of my head heralded Jenny’s return from the bathroom. ‘We’re so not talking about this.’

‘Oh, we so are,’ I pushed another gimlet at her. ‘Get this down you.’

‘Seriously,’ Jenny necked the drink, ‘we’re not. We’re also not going to be able to drive the Mustang back to the hotel. I’m wasted. I totally forgot how strong these were.’

‘I’ll drive, let’s just have one more,’ I said, tapping her hand. ‘Go on, Daphne.’

‘No, do not go on Daphne,’ Jenny shook her head. ‘And you cannot drive. Angie, honey, you’re tanked. Can we just eat now please?’

For the want of knowing what else to do, I picked at my salad, smiling, nodding and accepting more drinks as they appeared. Jenny stared across the table at Daphne, her face like thunder. Dessert was looking more and more necessary to save the day. Or at least another gimlet.

‘So where are we going next?’ Daphne asked after the waiter had taken away our plates. ‘You guys have a pool, right?’

‘We’re going to get the check and go back to the hotel,’ Jenny said, looking at her watch.’ Angie’s on standby for Mr Movie star and you still need to call Alex, right?’

‘I do need to call Alex,’ I slapped Jenny’s hand in agreement. Maybe I was a little bit tipsy. ‘Can you hear something?’

‘Angie, honey, it’s your phone.’ Jenny fished my BlackBerry out of my (divine) bag and held it up to my face. I leaned towards it, getting Jenny’s finger in my ear.

‘Yo,’ I slurred.

‘Hi, it’s Blake?’

‘Blake?’ Did I know a Blake?

‘James Jacobs’s assistant?’

‘Oh bollocks. I mean, oh yes, Blake, hi. How are y—’

‘James wants you to come to the Chateau now?’

Crap crap crap crap crap.

‘Now?’ All together too many questions in this conversation.

‘Call this number when you arrive?’

The phone chimed as Blake rang off.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, tossing the phone back in my bag. ‘Did he cancel the whole thing?’

‘Oh my God, I wish.’ I closed my eyes and willed myself to open them sober. ‘Try the opposite. Right now.’

‘They want to do the interview now?’ Jenny winced. ‘He’s here?’

‘He’s here. And I have to go and meet him now. God, Jenny, I’m wasted! I’m going to get sacked, I’ll lose my visa, I’ll have to go back—’

‘Jesus, overreact much?’ Daphne stood up, leaving a huge wad of bills on the table (how expensive were those gimlets?) and held out her hand. ‘Where’s he staying?’

‘Uh, at a chateau?’ That didn’t sound right even to me.

‘Chateau Marmont, it’s like, fifteen minutes from here. J, take her into the bathroom and, fuck, I don’t know, just do something with her. I’ll order a cab.’

Daphne was, thank God, all business. Once in the bathroom, it became horribly apparent that I was in fact very, very drunk. And just as Jenny was trying to shuffle me out of her T-shirt dress, which was covered in salad dressing from where a tomato had escaped my fork, and into the new emerald green Robert Rodriguez silk dress that had charmed its way onto my credit card in Bloomingdale’s, my BlackBerry began to chirp again.

‘Answer it: it could be that gorgeous douche-bag cancelling,’ Jenny puffed, fiddling with the black patent belt. ‘And if it is, give me the goddamn phone so I can kick his ass. And give him my cell.’