For a brief moment, as the laser scanned my drugged, bloodshot eyeball, I wondered if the steely-faced man at customs would have me escorted to a tiny room. At least I had two pills left, not that I planned to use them anytime soon. If all went well, my next flight would be on a private jet to a remote Siberian landscape to play the love interest in the next Bond movie; hey, you have to have a dream.

I hadn’t even realised I was still wearing my neck pillow until I came to the counter to hand over my passport. I had simply followed the sea of people snaking its way through to the customs checkpoint, with, I can only assume, a serious case of bed hair and raccoon eyes; thank God nobody knew me here.

When arriving in Australian airports I made sure I looked fresh and sun-kissed, and wearing a light shift dress from a local designer, but there was no point here. Besides, if I had been at home the paparazzi would be dissecting me mercilessly, no matter how good I looked. Fortunately, customs let me through and I was once again swept up in the zig-zagging line of weary travellers on the way to claim their luggage; which, in my case, contained as much of my life as I could stuff into a suitcase.

I scanned the baggage carousel for my belongings, keeping an eye out for the red ribbon I had tied onto the handle. When I saw the same suitcase on its tenth rotation, the paranoia started to sink in.

They’ve lost my bag. They’ve lost my bloody bag.

Then, just to prove me wrong, my bag appeared, rolling around out of reach. I cursed under my breath, then ran after it, edging past bystanders, tripping, and dodging luggage until I lost sight of it completely. I stopped my scrambling and decided instead to move to a clear space right in front of the carousel, waiting for my bag to make its way around again.

Finally, it came into view; I was ready this time. Nothing was going to stop me from grabbing it, even if it meant I was dragged onto the belt and taken around for a joy ride. I yanked the fifty-kilo suitcase to the ground with a loud crack.

As I considered the potential damage, the support belt of my suitcase unclasped, snapping open like a broken rubber band. I clawed at it, desperately trying to edge myself away from the crowd. My suitcase felt like it was crumbling with each desperate drag. The zipper bulged and a corner piece of my case was left somewhere behind me. This was bad, really bad.

I finally made it to the ladies’ toilets, breathless, then rummaged around in my carry-on for my mini make-up bag. I planned to emerge from arrivals fresh-faced and lovely-smelling, with the fine people of LA none the wiser.

But as I stared at my smudged mascara and shaggy, blonde mop I had never been so glad to be anonymous. Back home, public toilet situations were a nightmare. If I never heard ‘Aren’t you Cassie Carmichael?’ again, I would be completely fine with that. It was why I had chosen LA as the city where I would further my career and escape the ghost of Cassie. The UK wasn’t really an option, with Ship to Sea having a cult-like following there. If I was going to reinvent myself, what better place than the city of angels in the land of opportunity.

I couldn’t wait to reunite with one of my dearest friends, Billie Martin. We had met on the set of Ship to Sea where she was the apprentice make-up artist. Now, after two years in Hollywood, she was living the dream, working for some big television network. She had made a good life for herself here, and now thought of LA as home – she’d even developed a slight American twang, which I relentlessly teased her about.

Now after a whirlwind two weeks of planning I was going to be able to tease her in person. I popped the top of my compact and checked my reflection, decidedly more at ease with my appearance now, and positively giddy knowing that my next destination was Billie’s arms, a reunion I sorely needed. Billie had not only offered me a bed, but inauguration into LA life that would no doubt have me wondering why I hadn’t taken the leap sooner.

The friends and acquaintances that had come and gone through the show seemed to take one of two main paths: LA or London. Thus, I had friends in both parts of the world, but more in the US, a group of people living the dream and hashtagging themselves as #LAfamily. I had watched on from the social media sidelines, envious of their sun-kissed skin, mirrored glasses and carefree lifestyles; an existence where the biggest concern seemed to be which club to hit next. Now I was here, and soon my two-hundred-thousand-odd Instagram followers would know it. I had already planned the first pic: it would involve a palm tree, it just had to. With a final after-travel facial spritz and one last hair scrunch I was on my way, rolling my beast of a suitcase to my new life.

Walking through international arrivals I knew I’d soon spot Billie’s bright auburn hair shining through the crowd, better than any beacon. Friends, lovers and business associates greeted each other, lingering in awkward spaces and causing me no small amount of difficulty as I shifted around them with my faulty roller bag. Despite the noise and the threat of my arm getting dislodged from my socket, I smiled widely, so happy that I was here. I continued to search the sea of faces, wondering where she could be. Was she late? Finding a park? Was there more than one arrivals gate?

I was about to approach airport security for assistance when something caused me to pause, my smile falling slowly from my face. I blinked, sure that I was hallucinating. Was this some weird Valium side-effect? There before me was a sign scrawled in black sharpie:

Cassie Carmichael

Was this a joke? Attached to the makeshift sign was a very hot, tall, dark stranger. Most definitely not Billie. I had envisioned my welcome to be filled with squeals and tears – that I’d be jumping around with Billie like a loon. But, all things considered, this guy was quite the welcoming party.

I took a moment to stare at the unsuspecting hottie, taking in his well-cut denim, white tee and shades. He casually chewed gum, which somehow made him look even more gorgeous. I usually hated the act, after years of waiting for Scott to park his gum before every kissing scene we had. But he made it look cool; a suave effortlessness radiated from him, even as he checked his watch.

It was that small action that snapped me out of my trance, just in time to save me from tripping over a small child in front of me. With every step towards him, my nerves increased.

He can’t be waiting for me.

Could he be a driver? Was this what taxi drivers looked like in LA? Christ. Oh God, what if he was actually waiting for a girl called Cassie Carmichael, and this was just some cruel joke that Fate was playing on me. The universe had pulled its fair share of pranks on me lately, and using a sex god to taunt me, bearing a sign with my character’s name, no less, was certainly a clever way to do it.

I lingered awkwardly in front of him, smiling nervously.

‘Hey, um, I’m Cassie Carmichael,’ I said, waving like a total dork.

His attention shifted to me, his dark sunglasses masking his eyes; was he glaring, surprised, cross-eyed? It was impossible to tell, but the set of his mouth made him seem so serious. He looked at me for a long moment, giving me the strangest urge to apologise, though I wasn’t sure what I should apologise for; I just felt so incredibly small under his inspection.

‘I mean, I’m not really Cassie, like, in the literal sense, but she’s kind of like a part of me in a way, like an alter ego, I guess, you know, having spent so long pretending to be someone, they’re like kind of a part of you, especially after so many years, it just feels natural to say, yep, I’m Cassie.’

Oh God. Stop. Talking.

I cleared my throat. ‘Hi, I’m Abby!’ I said, thrusting my hand out to him so forcefully that he reeled back a little, his brows rising in surprise.

I had a moment of panic wondering if ‘shaking hands’ was not the go in America; had I been seriously uncool? Well, obviously, but was my attempt at a handshake making it worse?

Where was that sick bag? I suddenly felt very ill.

After another beat, the man lifted his shades, propping them on his shortly cropped hair to reveal intense, dark eyes, making me forget my name, real or fictional.

I would have stopped breathing in that moment, if an impossibly bright smile hadn’t formed across his face.

‘I’m Jay,’ he said, and I could tell he was laughing at me, not with me, as he took my hand and shook it. If I had felt small before, I felt completely tiny now, his hand engulfing mine in a firm handshake that I could still feel long after he let go.

A silence fell between us, and he flipped his shades back into place; apparently he was a man of few words.

‘Um, so Billie isn’t here?’ I asked, looking past him, half-expecting her to leap from behind a concrete pylon and yell, ‘Surprise!’ I wouldn’t have put it past her. Examining the scrawled black handwriting on the sign ‘Jay’ held, I knew that it was Billie’s handwriting; oh, she was sooooo funny.

Jay handed me the sign and reached for my bag. ‘No,’ he said, stating the obvious as he extended the handle of my suitcase, then paused to examine my baggage.

Oh fuck!

A giant pair of undies was spilling out of my busted suitcase – the bright yellow ones with ‘Bootylicious’ embossed on the back of them. This comfy weekend pair was not meant to be seen by anyone but me.

Oh, sweet Jesus, of all the pairs, why them?

I yanked, then yanked some more, literally tearing them free before dropping them at his feet, then stooping to pick them up. My cheeks burning, I shoved them into the deep, dark recess of my bag.

Yep, nothing to see here, folks.

‘Lead the way,’ I croaked, making an effort to not look up at the smirk I got a glance of before.

Without a word, he rolled on.

Staring at his broad shoulders as I walked behind him, trying to not die of mortification along the way, I had one very clear thought: I’m going to kill you, Billie Martin!