Free Going La La by Alexandra Potter

like a gun; a shih-tzu dog was tucked under his other arm. It was shaking violently – as was its owner.
    ‘Jesus Christ, I nearly had a fucking heart attack. How was I supposed to know it was you? I thought I had intruders or something . . .’ His voice rose an octave, switching from a deep ghetto growl to a high squawk. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths.
    Frankie stood and stared, not knowing what to do. Luckily Rita took control. ‘Bloody hell, Dorian, you frightened the life out of me, you idiot.’ She slapped his chest, as if she was swatting a mosquito. ‘And you probably frightened Frankie to death as well. It’s hardly the kind of welcome to give to my new flatmate, and your new neighbour.’
    Dorian opened his eyes, seemingly aware for the first time of Frankie’s presence. ‘Fucking hell, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ Promptly dropping the dog, which squeezed itself through Rita’s legs and scampered outside, he put down the gun and grabbed Frankie’s hand in his. ‘I’m Dorian, it’s wonderful to meet you.’ With his sense of vanity returned, he turned on the charm, flashing a perfect set of even teeth. ‘Rita’s told me so much about you, but she never said how gorgeous you were . . . Did you, Rita?’
    As Rita rolled her eyes and Frankie smiled self-consciously, Dorian finally let go of her hand and, tugging on his belt to tighten his robe, stepped to one side. ‘Well, come in, come in . . . Don’t stand on the doorstep all night, it’s fucking freezing.’ And puffing out his chest, he waved them both inside. ‘Get your gorgeous little bottoms inside, immediately !’
     
    Dorian’s apartment was a higgledy-piggledy assortment of hi-fi equipment, televisions, shelves full of knick-knacks and fairy lights running around the fireplace that switched off and on automatically in differing rhythms. Pride of place was held by a large 1980s leather sofa, chrome and black smoked-glass coffee table littered with dollar bills and an overflowing ashtray shaped like a pair of double-D breasts. Frankie was taken aback. It was like being in an adult Santa’s Grotto – a fussy, kitsch, eclectic den that was a far cry from Hugh’s minimalist beige and cream – cushions on their ends, DVDs arranged in alphabetical order – flat, and she loved it.
    But all this was overshadowed by the spectacular view. Perched on stilts above the valley, the apartment had one wall entirely constructed from glass, with sliding patio doors that led on to a small deck hung with a hammock and littered with bongo drums, Indian embroidered cushions, plants, snow-boards and a didgeridoo. Overawed by the scene before her, Frankie was incapable of taking it all in. Standing on the deck, the inky valley receded, giving way to a carpet of flickering golden fairy lights that was downtown LA. For the first time in days, her mind completely cleared as she looked across to the horizon. The City of Angels in all its magical, inviting, anything-can-happen-out-there glory. It blew her away.
     
    While Frankie was admiring the view, Rita lugged her stuff from the car into her apartment and released Fred and Ginger from their mobile home. Relieved to stretch their paws, they padded inquisitively around her bedroom carpet, checking out piles of dirty laundry, cupboard doors left ajar, waste-paper baskets brimming with empty chocolate-bar wrappers, before gobbling up the remains of a smoked salmon bagel.
    Dorian was meanwhile flitting around his apartment, pacing up and down the open-plan living room’s wooden floor, sipping liquorice tea and answering one mobile after another. He appeared to have several dozen in fact, and they rang, vibrated, beeped and played ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ at various intervals, creating an orchestral symphony of ringing tones. One after another, he snatched brief conversations, like a well-practised telephone operator, and proceeded to make frantic notes in a pad.