Ziggy’s Marilyn Monroe suite was an open-plan loft-style apartment, with white furniture, sleek, hardwood floors, vintage Eames pieces and a wraparound balcony overlooking the Tropicana pool and café.
I could have thought of worse ways to say goodbye, watching as Ziggy poured me a hot black coffee.
‘I feel like such an idiot,’ I confessed. And I wasn’t solely referring to my disastrous audition, more my reaction to it.
‘The first of many hurdles, sweetie.’
‘I know, but I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls. That’s not cool and it won’t happen again.’
‘I’ll forgive you this time, but do me a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Learn from this: bunker down, do your lessons, try out for the roles I send your way and stay humble.’
Now there was some good advice. The last thing I wanted was to turn into the LA Family, where the lines between truth and fiction were so blurred they didn’t know the difference anymore. I didn’t want to become one of those people who used others as stepping stones to get to the top. I had to believe that things happened for a reason, like my run-in with Leon and the audition that I’d thought belonged to me. Nope, I was going to do this the hard way – the right way.
‘So this week you have that commercial, and another casting call through the Delaware agency I organised for you. Nothing heavy, just take a look, show up, do your thing, get some notches on your belt.’
All the things I would have turned my nose up at before but now grabbed with both hands.
‘Okay.’
‘Alright, then, well, I best go and make sure I have pilfered all the soaps and shampoos before the porters come. I want to maintain my Marilyn vibe for as long as I can back home.’ Ziggy floated off into the bathroom, clanging and clattering about and scooping up anything that wasn’t nailed down. Just because she was successful didn’t mean she didn’t like free stuff just as much as the next girl.
I nursed my coffee, staring into its depths, thinking of Jay’s eyes and smiling, eager to see him again. I was ready to front up to the Saloon Bar, this time hoping to get through an entire shift without making a scene; facing Deedee would be far more terrifying than any audition I was likely to do.
Ziggy’s voice rang out from inside, but I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.
‘What’s that?’ I called over my shoulder, refocusing on the poolside cabanas below, seeing if I could celebrity-spot among them.
‘I said,’ her voice called out clearly as she stood in the doorway, ‘why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Jay; it bloody bugged me all night until I figured out.’
I tore my gaze from the view and turned, confused. ‘Figured what out?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, the fact that Jay Davis is the son of Alexander Davis, the lead villain of – ’
‘Hollywood Heartbreak!’ I cut her off.
I knew the show, hell, everyone did – Hollywood Heartbreak was one of the longest-running scripted television programs in the world, airing every weekday. The show was a mix of drama and romance, the main, ongoing storyline following two feuding families in the entertainment industry. My mother and nan had been addicted to it for years, and Alexander Davis – or, as we all knew him, Victor Nankervis – was the most notable patriarch and villain on television. He was a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair, a very impressive goatee, and dark, brooding eyes – Jay’s eyes.
‘Oh my God!’
‘I know! Why didn’t you tell me he was born into Hollywood royalty? That means his mum is – ’
‘Amber Foster Davis.’
‘The multi-millionaire make-up, diet and fitness guru who assaults our television sets with her “only four instalments of $59.99” products; we even had a few in our house.’
‘OH MY GOD!’
After my second exclamation it dawned on Ziggy. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘What, that salt-of-the-earth Jay grew up in a Hollywood mansion surrounded by industry pros? No, I didn’t fucking know!’
I scooped up my bag so fast I nearly took the chair with me.
‘Oh dear,’ grimaced Ziggy. ‘Well, I’m sure he had his reasons.’
I paused at the door. ‘Yeah, I am sure he had his reasons, while judging me as being nothing more than a pathetic actress trying to make her way in this town. How bloody dare he?’
‘Right, well, umm, do you want to maybe calm down before you walk into traffic on the way out? You’re starting to worry me.’
‘Sorry, Ziggy, I gotta go, I just …’ I hugged her then walked out of the suite, dodging the porter in the hall and storming into the elevator. I was so angry I couldn’t even bring myself to hold the doors for a young couple who were running to catch a ride. My hands were balled into fists at my side; my pulse thudded in fury.
‘Victor fucking Nankervis.’
I waited out the front of Madame Tussauds on Hollywood Boulevard, declining a snapshot with Thor and Iron Man. I looked up and down the street, not sure from which direction my saviour might come. A car horn sounded, and I turned to see the flailing arms of Sienna as she pulled up outside of LA LA Land souvenirs in her little white convertible.
‘Hey, sorry I took so long, traffic is – ’ She peeled her glasses down, examining me as I slid into the passenger seat. ‘Hey, are you okay?’
I didn’t speak, I simply pressed a map against the dashboard, poring over it.
‘Abby?
I pointed to the map. ‘Here. I need to be here.’
‘So we’re celebrity stalking?’
‘Sienna, please, I just need you to take me there.’ Sienna must have read something in my eyes, as she simply nodded and pulled back out onto Hollywood Boulevard.
Never argue with a crazy person.
As a new citizen to LA I had fully intended to, on a spare day, nose about some celebrity streets, gasping and pointing at the views of the stunning mansions en route to the Hollywood sign; I mean, I was only human. But I had not envisioned it quite like this – zooming around in Sienna’s open-top convertible down Sunset Boulevard, past Rodeo Drive, the sun beaming down as we sped past palm tree after palm tree, the wind whipping my scowling face. I felt Sienna giving me the side-eye, much like any nervous driver who had picked up a crazy, unpredictable hitchhiker.
After squinting at the Hollywood sign from afar, we continued along Mulholland Drive, passing the mansions of Katy Perry, Bruce Willis and Quentin Tarantino, and even the house where the freakin’ Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was filmed! But there was only one house – mansion, really – that I was interested in, and, without questioning me, Sienna pulled up outside the place I had flagged on the map.
‘Are you sure this is it?’ I asked.
‘This is it.’
I couldn’t bring myself to move – I was too busy staring. My eyes followed the gated circular driveway, the immaculately-kept grounds, the soaring fountain and, finally, the sprawling white two-storey home. The mansion featured large arched windows and a grand double-door entrance that was bigger than Sienna’s car. I envisioned Jay as a small child splashing around in the front-yard fountain, but he probably didn’t need to do that; no doubt there were several pools out back, along with tennis courts, maybe even a bowling alley.
I felt sick. This couldn’t be true. The Jay I knew was a self-made, hardworking, condo-living bachelor in West Hollywood who recoiled from the entertainment industry. This was not him, not possible; Ziggy must have got it wrong.
‘Holy shit! Jay’s parents’ house?’
My head snapped to Sienna, who was looking at her phone. I took it from her while she recovered from her shock. I saw an old photo on the screen, probably from the nineties, of Alexander, Amber and Jay at some red-carpet event. Jay looked like a sullen fifteen-year-old, flanked by his dad in a double-breasted suit and his mum in shoulder pads and Dynasty hairdo.
‘Holy crap, Abby, that’s the dude off – ’
‘I know,’ I said miserably.
‘I told you I knew Jay’s face.’
I scoffed. ‘You and everyone else, it seems.’
‘Mind. Blown.’
We both looked from the map back to the mansion.
I shook my head in utter disbelief. ‘Wait until Billie finds out about this.’