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The air in LAX airport didn’t feel any warmer than the climate Beth had left behind her in the UK. As she passed along the blue rat-runs of passport control, she felt oddly alert. The other passengers shuffled through the process in a zombified state, and she was able to examine the faces around her without any fear of them meeting her eye.
It was almost as if she’d woken from a refreshing sleep, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. She’d remained awake for the entire flight, abstractedly staring through the latest Ryan Gosling movie, only eventually realising she’d watched it twice as it completed its loop.
She retrieved her single Samsonite case from the carousel and wheeled it to arrivals. She wouldn’t post on Eileen Froley’s Facebook wall yet. Beth wanted to check things out first. Then she would alert whoever it was to her presence. Even though she had the gate code details, she’d already decided to bypass Jody’s condo in Woodland Hills and book into a hotel.
Warmer air blasted at her through the open window of the yellow cab she picked up outside the airport. Beth told her driver to take her to Santa Monica Boulevard. As the car turned off Century Boulevard and hit the San Diego Freeway Beth looked up at the tall green signs and glimpsed faraway palms between the buildings. It gave Beth the sensation of being in a Martian landscape. From her closeted life at Jody’s to suddenly being in the middle of such an unfamiliar urban expanse made her feel completely vulnerable. As they reached their destination, she asked the rodent-featured cabbie with the nicotine stripe through his silver moustache to drop her at the first hotel she spotted.
The extra couple of dollars’ tip were scarcely in his palm before the vehicle drew away and left her standing in front of the sliding reception doors of the Francisquito Boutique Hotel.
The place clearly operated behind a thin veneer of respectability, but the warm welcome of the receptionist in the metallic purple bikini top at the desk dispelled her temptation to turn around and find somewhere else.
“Checking in?” The words squeezed around the peroxide beam, but Beth noticed her dark green eyes looked exhausted. As she moved closer she realised that, even though the woman’s henna hair was braided in a circle around her head, she was probably in her late fifties. Beth said she hadn’t made a reservation and the receptionist consulted the computer for a vacancy. She squinted, put on her half glasses and then positioned her face almost flat against the screen.
The low sucking noise of a filter directed Beth’s gaze beyond the desk to the tiny swimming pool set into the raised concrete platform in the cramped back courtyard. Nobody was using the two loungers positioned there, and two faded inflatable animals buffeting against each other took up most of the water space.
As she blinked at the system Beth noticed the silver roots bisecting the centre of the receptionist’s scalp as well as scars on her deeply tanned arms. They looked like notches on a post, and Beth wondered what sort of trauma each one represented. She tried not to speculate if she was a self-harmer or if someone else had carved them there. The woman seemed to personify the place she was booking into. She looked up with relief to say she had a room for her, and her smile didn’t falter as her eyes briefly lingered on the flaws around the left side of Beth’s mouth. Looked like she was right at home.
The receptionist got Beth a swipe key from a drawer. “You’re in room 234, one floor above ground; the elevator’s to your right. Sorry, left.”
*
Beth thanked the receptionist and examined the cracked key. The hotel didn’t look big enough to have 23 rooms, let alone 234. She picked up her luggage and got into a tiny clattering metal crate when it eventually arrived. She had to straddle her small case to fit inside.
Her room was dated but spotlessly clean. The air con sounded as if it had emphysema. She scraped the mushroom curtains along the rail and looked down at the inflatables in the pool. A few potted orange trees surrounded it, and their small dark leaves covered the surface.
After a shower and a change, she left the hotel and used her iPhone to navigate her way to the pier. Beth made her way downtown via Colorado Avenue, looking for a cab or bus, but decided to walk all the way. The day was heating up, but there was still a pleasant breeze along the sidewalk. She had on a mauve sweatshirt, cut-off jeans and a pair of purple All Stars, and felt completely conspicuous. The air smelt like marijuana as she walked past a row of homeless people sharing cold pizza from a box.
Nobody in the street paid her any heed, but she had the sensation of being exactly where she shouldn’t. She jaywalked, crossing between the traffic and anticipating the sound of a police siren. She felt suddenly exhausted but told herself she wouldn’t stop until she found the Oyster Shack. Exhaustion could play catch up later.
She turned left into Ocean Avenue and then cut down Seaside Terrace and found herself in the International Chess Park. The sand area with the wooden benches of fixed, green-chequered boards was quiet, with only a handful of children playing amongst them. From there she walked to the beach.
Even though it looked inviting, she didn’t want to explore it. This wasn’t a pleasure trip, and to Beth even stepping onto it seemed wrong.
The sun was breaking through the clouds, and she put her hand above her eyes to observe the tiny people moving along the pier towards the big wheel with the twinkling blue ocean beyond it. She wasn’t a million miles away from where the BriskyPix image had been taken.
She inhaled the salty, sunblock-scented air, and the wind blasted at her eardrums, muffling the sounds of the people on the sand. Frisbees were being tossed, dogs were being walked and everything seemed slightly staged.
Beth consulted her iPhone again, crossed the oceanfront walk and found Appian Way. She could see the red, switched-off neon half-shell logo of the restaurant jutting out on the right-hand side and suddenly stopped in her tracks.
She looked back the way she’d come, expecting to see someone following at a discreet distance. It was ridiculous. Nobody knew she was here yet. But if they did have access to her phone or computer, they would certainly know she’d booked the tickets and had checked in online.
Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell” eventually disentangled itself from the bass thud pouring out of the open door. She stood outside, the aroma of broiling shellfish and butter in her nostrils. A sign outside proclaimed:
Beware! Shuck Attack! Oysters $20/dozen Mon-Thurs!!
Looked like the lunch shift was just finishing; only a few tables were occupied by diners within the dingy interior. Three waitresses stood against the back counter with stoical expressions that said they were waiting for them to leave so they could close up. Beth took a step inside and three hostile sets of eyes regarded her.
Smiles simultaneously appeared and one of them, Chinese and looking barely sixteen, stepped forward to intercept. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re closed until this evening.”
Beth quickly absorbed her surroundings. Louisiana theme. Lots of framed retro ads for shrimp, clams and gumbo. The family nearest to her were finishing ice creams in enormous glasses. “No problem. What time do you open then?”
The girl’s features softened with relief. “Five o’clock for happy hour.”
“Thanks.” She turned, grabbed a card from the stand at the waitress station and left. She was parched but decided to find a coffee bar in a different street, somewhere she could think about what to do next. She looked up and down Appian Way before making her way back to the beach.
She walked onto the pier and paced out past the big wheel and towards the ocean. It felt like only a minute later that she had gone as far as she could. The wind was keen and goose-pimpled her exposed head. She could feel the sun’s heat starting to burn her scalp. Being exposed like this was foolish. She had to get into the shade.
But Beth remained where she was, leaning on the warm wooden balustrade and looking out into the blue void.
