6

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LOS ANGELES HAS NOT let us down. The sky is so blue that just looking at it makes you feel warm and happy, as if you’ve never had a problem in your life. The palm trees line Sunset Boulevard, the leaves shimmering in a gentle breeze, as we cruise along in our rented 1960’s Cadillac convertible. It’s powder blue. Only in LA.

Living here must feel like being on vacation every single day. People are easy in Los Angeles and constantly in a good mood. They don’t call it La La Land for nothing. Beneath the veneer of perfection lie secrets and a dark interior, but why delve deep when you can savor the trappings of glitz? At least for a little while.

Sunset Boulevard is a winding road, over twenty miles long, linking the urban streets of downtown to the grand and glamorous residential avenues of Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, and Brentwood. It continues to the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, passing some of the most beautiful properties that money can buy. Why take the freeway when you can soak up the ambience of the old-style Hollywood allure along this stretch? Gloria Swanson immortalized this place with her 1950’s film, Sunset Boulevard – I imagine the debauched parties that were held in the exquisite homes here, the deals, the passion and the back-stabbing divorces that followed.

Max’s left elbow rests languidly on the sill of the open window, a content smile on his handsome face as the wind laps his dark hair – neither of us speaking, just enjoying the music; a golden oldie, Hotel California.

We’re headed to Valentina Gimenez’s house in Topanga Canyon, an interesting choice for an abode, once famous for being an artists’ colony. She has invited us for lunch. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling nervous.

We arrive at our destination, although it’s not quite as elegant as I had imagined. Our low automobile has trouble on the bumpy, pot-holed driveway, which crosses a creek where frogs are croaking – not your typical Hollywood mansion. Who is this woman? Everybody has been raving about her acting abilities and her brooding beauty. I’m already intimidated by her.

Max parks the car in an opening where the driveway seems to come to an abrupt end. There are no houses around, or at least, none that I can see.

“Did we make a wrong turn?” I ask him.

“This is where the GPS directed us,” he answers, looking around. There are some lemon trees and rolling, scrubby hills in the distance and exposed bedrock. I even see a vegetable plot and beyond it a sort of shack. There’s a black vintage Porsche, dusty from passing along this makeshift driveway, no doubt, parked in a corner.

Just then, a figure appears from behind a hedge. A sunbeam of light catches her, and she’s wearing a long, black dress. She’s slim and when she walks she glides as if she were not part of this world. For a second, I think I must have seen a ghost. But it must be Valentina Gimenez.

She grins at us and calls over, “You made it! Shows you must be in the top four percent of the intelligent population – you’d be amazed how this place has most people flummoxed.” Her accent is vaguely Spanish but obviously she has mastered the English language with a word like flummoxed. I look at Max to see if he’s as bowled over as I am by her beauty, but he seems nonchalant as if seeing stunning women is part of his daily routine. He walks over to greet her, and she immediately offers both cheeks.

I do the same. When I kiss her, her skin is soft as down, and she smells delicious, of flowers and sweetness; femininity seeping from every pore. I step back and my breath hitches. Her thick, wavy hair is almost wild, like a teenager who hasn’t brushed it in days. The dark locks hang down her bronzed back, her shoulders are strong but slight, her breasts pert but not large – you can see straight away that she isn’t wearing a bra. Again, my eyes flit over to Max to gauge his expression, but he seems unimpressed by her. Her teeth are flaming white and her smile stretches across her face – a Julia Roberts sort of smile, warm and friendly.

“You know what? I’m starving,” she cries, “I skipped breakfast. D’you mind if we eat something straight away? I’ve prepared some tapas to nibble on. Then I have a home-baked pizza cooking away in my wood-fired pizza oven.”

I lick my lips. “Wow, you have a special pizza oven?”

“Made by hand by an Italian guy who lives nearby.”

“Count me in!” I say.

“Where are you guys staying?” she asks.

“In Santa Monica,” Max tells her, edging towards the old Porsche. Is this car yours? It’s a 356B, isn’t it? Let me guess, 1962?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Poor thing, she needs a wash,” Valentina says with a laugh, and then links her arm in mine and pulls me towards the gap in the hedge from where she emerged five minutes ago like a dark angel. “Boys – always obsessed by bits of metal. Sniff about her, Max, why don’t you. Take her for a spin if you like – the keys are under the matt. Meanwhile, I’m going to feed your fiancée some snacks and give her a Bloody Mary. Come join us when you’ve finished with your testosterone boost. Anyway, I want to have your beautiful Arielle all for myself for a while and talk shop. Go for a drive, Max – take my car along the coast.”

Max laughs out loud. “I can see you’re desperate to get rid of me.”

“Just for a little,” she says, tossing her dark mane. “Come back in half an hour.” She pulls me close and walks me away from him. I look behind, and he winks at me in amusement, settling himself in the driver’s seat of her classic car.

“See you in a bit,” he calls out, but Valentina ignores him and rakes her gaze over me from my head to my toes. I’m wearing just a dress and some flat Greek sandals. A frisson of nervousness shoots through my body. No woman has ever looked at me this way before.

Once through the secret entrance in the hedge, I set my eyes on her house; a glorified barn made of wooden clapperboard, and with a garden surrounding it of roses and more lemon trees. There’s a little tree house looking like something out of Robinson Crusoe and a hammock resting between two small oaks. Beyond, I see a swimming pool, the water shimmering and breaking up into fragments of wavy light from dark blue mosaic tiles. The place is magical and from another world. The antithesis of ‘Hollywood’ or how you imagine it should be.

“He’s cute your husband-to-be,” she notes. “Very sexy British yet with a body like an American movie star – before and during filming, you know, when they’re in perfect shape.” She throws her head back and laughs. “He’s very Alpha male. I bet he’s a great fuck.”

My mouth hangs open at what she just said. I’m speechless. I’ve known her for less than ten minutes. I reply simply, “Yes, he is.”

“Of course, that’s something I don’t do anymore, but sometimes I miss that, you know, I miss that hard rod between my legs. But the whole man thing is such a bore. The pride, the bullshit, and they just don’t smell like we do. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch to make you feel like you’ve come home.”

At the words ‘woman’s touch’ she places her hand on the small of my back, letting her fingertips linger on my butt. I think of Cecile’s warning and know that this woman is just beginning. I feel scared but thrilled, and mostly, curious. Not even Max came on so strong when he met me.

Why is this woman making me feel as if I have no control? As if she’s running the show? What happened to Arielle the ball-buster? Is it because Valentina has no balls at all that I am at a loss for words?

I wriggle away from her contact, but she grabs my hand instead and leads me to the pool.

“I’m hot,” she says, and pulls her slinky dress over her head. She isn’t wearing anything underneath. I glance awkwardly at her body. It’s perfect. Her legs are smooth and long, her golden arms hang cool beside her hips. Her breasts are perfect and not surgically enhanced like so many actresses here, but curve upwards like full but perky teardrops, the nipples pert and small. She catches me watching her and smiles seductively, the dimple on one cheek reminds me eerily of Max when he looks at me that way. It’s uncanny. She’s like a female version of him. He may be Alpha male, but she’s an Alpha female, all woman. Tough but whimsical, strong but softly feminine. Her eyes are also green like his but more feline. The similarities between them are frightening.

“Come in, the water’s perfect,” she entreats after she has accomplished a perfect swallow dive. Her hair is now sleek on her head and her eyes dark from run mascara – it makes her the epitome of a Hollywood ‘femme fatale’.

I take off my sandals and dip my toes in the water. It really is warm and I’m tempted.

“Come on, don’t be shy. Nobody’s allowed in this pool with a swimsuit – only skinny-dipping here at all times. Come in, Arielle.”

I slip my dress over my shoulders and stand there in my bra and panties. A matching, pale pink lace set from La Perla that Max surprised me with the other day. I suddenly feel awkward and embarrassed – I don’t know this woman! “You know what? I think I’ll just dangle my feet in and wait until Max gets back.”

Her eyes narrow. “I won’t bite, you know,” and then she dives down and does a handstand, her elegant toes as pointed as a ballerina. She emerges from the water and looks like a Bond girl, all sex, heat, and temptress. As if she were designed by God to do nothing but seduce. I turn my eyes away and reach for my dress and struggle back into it – I should never have taken it off in the first place.

“Come, I’m going to make you the best Bloody Mary you’ve ever tasted,” she tells me, water dripping off her tanned body as she grabs a towel.

I follow her to the kitchen, which is country-style with a large pine table in the middle and baskets of dried flowers hanging from rafters and wooden beams. She takes a jug out of the refrigerator and pours the mixture into two tall glasses, garnishing them with sticks of celery and lemon slices. She hands me a glass. “Here, try this, it has a kick to it, a touch of horseradish. And help yourself to my spread of cold meats and Italian bruschetta. The basil’s fresh from the garden and the tomatoes are from my greenhouse. Oh, and the olive oil I brought from Mallorca where my grandparents live. It has a nutty taste – quite delicious. Actually, let’s take it all outside on the porch.”

We put everything on a tray and take it outside where there’s a wrought iron table and chairs. I delve into the bruschetta and can taste the sun in the tomatoes. It’s true, the olive oil is sublime.

“So Arielle, Billy says we need to get to work on the script straight away.”

“We?”

“You didn’t think you’d be doing it all alone, did you? No, no, my darling, this needs to be teamwork. I want the script to feel natural to me. You know, be part of who I am.”

But you’re an actress, ACT! “Oh, Billy made out that I’d be working with just the script writer, he never mentioned that you wanted to be involved,” I say as politely as I can.

“Nuh, uh, I want to put in my two cents worth – I want to have my say.”

“With all due respect, Valentina, that wasn’t part of the deal – it wasn’t written into your contract.”

She pouts her lips like a child. “But Billy wants me to be happy. Don’t you?”

I take a sip of my Bloody Mary and then reply, “Well of course I do. I think an actor’s input is very important, but you know, too many cooks can spoil the broth.”

“I just need a week with you. Just so you get to know me. I thought we could do a little improvisation, you know, have some fun.”

“But we’re only here for three days, and then we have to get back to New York.”

“Who has to get back to New York?” It’s Max. He comes up behind me and massages my shoulders. His touch is warm. I feel a wave of relief wash over me.

“Hi English,” she says. “Hope you had fun with my car. Just trying to persuade your other half to stay on a few days. You know, we need to work on the script together before the others get hold of it. I want it to be our baby.”

Max laughs. I can see her flirtatiousness toward me is amusing him for some reason. Even calling him English. I feel as if I’m being fed to the wolves when he says to me, “Stay, darling. Enjoy this beautiful LA weather – relax a little. I can’t as I’ve got a meeting in Montreal, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“No way,” I state assertively. “I have to get back to Manhattan. Cecile and I are working on something very important. She needs me in the editing room.”

“Nonsense. That was your old job, remember? You’re on features now, not documentaries. Cecile can take care of it all herself,”

Whose side are you on? But all I say is, “I’ll call Billy later and discuss it with him.”

Just then a black cat shimmies its way around my bare legs. Its soft fur seductive, its purr intense.

“That’s Lucifer,” Valentina tells me. “He’s an Oriental. Isn’t he the most handsome thing you’ve ever set your eyes on?”

The cat continues to purr and rub itself against me. Why do I have this ominous feeling that between Lucifer and Valentina, I don’t stand a chance?

ON THE WAY BACK TO the hotel, Billy calls and confirms my worries. He wants Valentina to ‘assist’ me with script changes. He tells me that the buzz is out, and he wants this film to not only be a blockbuster but ‘a classy blockbuster’ – to have a chance to be nominated for an Academy Award. He feels that Valentina is going to put it into a higher category because she’s a ‘real actress’ and that we need to respect her wishes. He persuades me that I need to stay on a few more days, work with her before handing our changes over to the main script doctor. It all feels odd, but as I am a virgin to the world of movie producing, I have to take his word for it.

Max and I are sitting on the balcony of our luxurious room that overlooks the ocean. We’re listening to the rhythmical sound of the surf and enjoying the feeling of being on vacation. I’m using this opportunity to discuss Billy and Valentina with him and the rather bizarre situation.

Max kisses my hand and says, “You make it sound as if it’s some sort of punishment, Arielle – don’t be so worried. How bad can it be to hang out in the sunshine with a beautiful actress while you fiddle about with the script?”

I sigh and fix my eyes on some surfers in the distance, waiting to catch the next big wave. “She’s just so persuasive, so...so...”

A mischievous smile spreads across his gorgeous face. “You’re worried she’s going to try and seduce you.”

I look into his sparkling, amused eyes. “Yes.”

“Ooh, how dangerous,” he teases.

“You’re laughing about it now, but what happens if she succeeds?”

“Sexy.” He grins. “You can sex Skype me – the pair of you. I can’t think of anything that would turn me on more. Two beautiful women getting it on together – two sexy female bodies entwined. Feel my cock,” he says, taking my hand and putting it on his crotch, “I’m hard just thinking about you two together.”

I rub his huge stiff erection through his jeans, but I take my hand away and say, “Seriously, Max, she means business, I can tell.”

“Have some fun and come straight back home. I’m not worried, Arielle – not in the least.”

“What, even if something were to actually happen? If she kissed me or...or...something more?”

He laughs then presses his lips lightly on my temple.

“You’re acting like this whole thing is a joke,” I blurt out, a touch annoyed. “You might get jealous if something really did take place.”

“Baby, she’s a woman. How could I feel threatened by a woman?”

“What if a guy was coming on to me like this?”

Max’s smile fades and a flash of irritation dances in his green eyes. “That would be a whole different story. I wouldn’t be allowing you to stay on in LA if some good-looking movie actor was demanding to co-write with you, I can tell you.”

“But this is my job, you can’t dictate to me who I work with!”

“I’m your fiancé. Didn’t anyone ever warn you that Englishmen have a hidden possessive streak?”

I think of Emma’s wise advice: He’s a man. “So you speak for the whole of England?” I ask with a laugh. “Or is it just a small minority of you who suffer from jealousy?”

“Not jealous, just claiming what belongs to me, that’s all.”

“Yet a woman couldn’t possibly pose a threat? A woman isn’t as powerful as a man, is that what you’re saying?”

“Now you’re twisting things. A woman doesn’t have a penis.”

I roll my eyes. “Ah, so it boils down to that, does it? The testosterone factor!”

“Maybe.”

“So how would you feel about any of my past instances with men? How would you feel if you knew I’d been... promiscuous once upon a time?”

“Well, I happen to know that you weren’t. You told me you were a virgin before me.” He narrows his eyes, and my stomach dips.

“But let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I had been running around, but it was—”

His cell rings and our conversation’s over. It’s his sister. Of course. As if she can hear what we’re saying. Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t sneaking recording bugs into the room to spy on us, or tapping his phone. Max ends the call, and now I feel compelled to speak out. This time, about Jenny.

“Max – before we became engaged, you told me that you’d be opting out of Finders Keepers, that you and Jenny would go your separate ways.”

“That’s my plan. But all in good time, darling, all in good time. That’s what Finders Keepers Enterprises is about – you and me. The two of us veering off in a new direction without Jenny.”

I knit my brows. “When will ‘good time’ be?”

“As soon as the moment is right.”

Getting nowhere with this, I return to Conversation One. “So to be completely clear, if something happened between me and Valentina, hypothetically speaking, because I have no intention of letting her have her way, but if it did, you wouldn’t consider that I was being unfaithful to you, or cheating on you in some way?”

“No, not all at.”

“Just double-checking,” I say.

LATER, MAX GOES SURFING. He’s dressed in a black rubber, short-sleeved suit; his pecs defined and the bulge of his biceps accentuated by the outfit. I sit on the beach, a cardigan wrapped around me, with my headphones on, listening to the perfect soundtrack by the Beach Boys, Surfin’ USA as I watch my fiancé take each wave, moving his body in elegant swivels and jumps, flowing with the surf, bending and straightening his body at each perfect moment. He makes it look effortless, gliding with precision under each barreling wave, never flinching, never falling. He surfs as well as my father and that’s really saying something. My stomach flips at his prowess – there’s nothing like watching a man excel at sport.

I feel warm inside. I love this man more than ever.