Free Going La La by Alexandra Potter Page B

windows of Dorian’s silver Mercedes convertible, staring at the adverts that loomed above her on colossal billboards.
    Why, oh why, had she agreed to go to the party? Why hadn’t she gone next door to Rita’s apartment and curled up in her pyjamas next to Fred and Ginger? Instead of sitting here, all dolled up in her trusty black dress and heels, her blotchy, tear-stained complexion hidden under a generous helping of Body Shop bronzer and Rita’s thousand-calorie mascara. She looked at Rita and Dorian in the front seats – Rita was smoking a cigarette, while Dorian was chatting into his hands-free mobile and putting gel in what was left of his hair. It was eight o’clock on a Sunday night. Back in London it would be four the next morning and Hugh would be asleep in bed. However hard she tried, she couldn’t help wishing she was snuggled up next to him . . .
     
    ‘Thank fuck, we’re finally moving.’
    Dorian put his foot down and, taking advantage of the lights, switched lanes. Ahead, the road was a mass of white headlights and red tail-lights, a sharp contrast to the ghost-like emptiness of the pavements. Frankie scanned them for signs of life, but she couldn’t see a single pedestrian. Probably because there weren’t any. The entire population of Los Angeles was on wheels. Everyone was going somewhere – either literally or metaphorically, up or down – everyone was on the move.
    Instead she saw a couple of neon-lit bars, three liquor stores, the derailed carriage of a train that was now a diner and a huge cutout of the Marlboro Man. Frankie glowered at this abrupt reminder of the arrogant arsehole at the airport, and was about to start stewing over the whole thing again when she was distracted by the sight of an impressive-looking hotel, lit up by swirling violet-blue strobes. It loomed ahead and, as they got closer, Dorian took a sharp right and they swept up a glittering driveway lined with colossal palm trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze.
    A gaggle of uniformed valet parkers dived on the doors, ushering them out, and deftly whisked the car away, ready for the next arrival. Being unexpectedly thrust into the glare of the strobe lights, Frankie froze like a frightened rabbit, her mind going into overload at the lavish surroundings. A continuous stream of Rolls-Royces, Ferraris and stretch limos glided past, and as she watched them she noticed that the driveway really did sparkle. Made of tarmac mixed with glitter, like millions of miniature stars, it twinkled and shone in the bright spotlights. Only in LA could she have the stars at her feet.
    At the entrance a crowd was gathering. Willowy girls in hipsters, big-haired femmes fatales in Gucci, square-jawed men with terracotta tans, all trying to get into the party. A bouncer the size of a portakabin was doing his all-action-hero impersonation, barring them with his arm and shouting into his microphone headset. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Mike Tyson. Perhaps it was Mike Tyson, mused Frankie.
    Assuming they were going to have to wait with everybody else, Frankie tried to figure out where to stand. She didn’t want to look as if she was pushing in. ‘Excuse me, is this the back of the queue?’ she asked a blonde twenty-something next to her.
    ‘The queue?’ The blonde twenty-something, who looked exactly how a blonde twenty-something in Los Angeles should look, wrinkled her forehead as if she didn’t understand.
    ‘Yeah, the queue, to get in.’
    The blonde looked puzzled. The pensioner on her arm helped her along. ‘She means line, sugar.’ It was like watching the lights being switched on. Giggling brightly, she turned back to Frankie. ‘Oh, sure, honey, this is the queue.’
    She looked thrilled to bits with herself. As did the pensioner, who squeezed her eighteen-inch waist tightly. Grinning like a proud grandparent and not the lecherous cradle-snatching boyfriend that he was, he showed off fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of