Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ryan did not want to head straight to the party, so they walked along the Strip like regular sightseeing tourists. They came to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, where the names of movie stars had been set in stone on the pavement for all eternity. He stopped and pointed to one of the stars. “Not bad, hey?”
She looked down to see the name “Ryan Stamp” etched into the flagstone.
“Is that you?” she asked.
“Who else? And near enough to Brando for some of the magic to rub off.”
“But don’t you have to be really famous to have your name here?”
He smiled. “That’s what everyone thinks. But all you need is an agent and the money to pay for your vanity.”
“And you went the vanity route?”
“Fooled you, didn’t it? Though I guess they did it for Brando for nothing.”
His modesty touched her. “Your day will come, and soon,” she said, squeezing his hand.
He took her into a cocktail lounge bathed in low blue mood lighting and packed with a young crowd, only the occasional middle-aged man standing out amongst them. The waitresses were squeezed into black and white bunny costumes with fishnet stockings, red smiles painted on their faces. He declined a booth, and they took a place standing near the bar.
“Would I be right in saying this is what you call an ‘LA singles bar’?” asked Isobel. She had meant it as a simple question, not a value judgement, but it seemed to prickle him.
“It’s Saturday night, everyone’s having fun, that’s all. You okay with that?”
“Having fun, you mean? I’m all for it.”
They sipped their drinks and chatted as the bar became more crowded and boisterous.
“You looking out for anyone in particular?” she said, as once again he broke eye contact to scan the room.
“I know some of the guys who like this place, I expect we’ll see them later. But you never know who will drop in. It’s popular with movie people. But tonight,” he paused and slightly furrowed his perfect brow, “tonight, it’s just too crowded.” He gave a passing waitress his glass.
“Let’s move on, the drinks are free at the next place.”
As he steered Isobel toward the exit with a protective arm around her shoulder, a petite young woman bounced towards them. “Hi Ryan,” she said, her wide smile audible in her voice, “you not saying hello tonight?”
She looked no more than twenty-five; a small but immaculately formed blonde with lustrous Hollywood waves and a generous bosom crammed into a tight red dress. Her collagen-enhanced lips had been shaped into a perfect cupid bow.
“Hi,” said Ryan uneasily, “we’re just heading out.”
“I’m Mel, by the way,” said the woman, offering a limp hand to Isobel, never breaking eye contact.
“And this is Isobel,” said Ryan, before she could respond.
“Hi,” said Isobel, returning the young woman’s stare from several inches’ height advantage.
Ryan put a reassuring arm around Isobel. “Isobel is up from San Diego for the weekend.”
Mel’s eyes stayed on Isobel, the look of a woman checking over the competition. “Lucky you,” said Mel, turning her attention back to Ryan before Isobel could even respond. “You around later?” she asked, unabashedly letting flirtation back into her voice.
“We’re going to the party at the Stardust.”
“Maybe catch you there then,” she said, her eyes fixed once more on Isobel as she turned to leave, their poison settling on her skin like a rash.
A hostess with a clipboard and a sash promoting a vodka brand checked off their names against a guest list, watched over by a bouncer who looked like an advert for steroid injections, his biceps straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt, bulging like the pronounced veins that ran the length of his neck. “Is Ryan the first or last name,” she asked, as she turned several pages of names.
Ryan jabbed a finger against the paper. “Here,” he said, “in the VIP section.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stamp, of course.” She nodded in the direction of the bouncer, who grunted as he lifted the token rope.
Ryan took Isobel’s hand and led her into the penthouse lounge reserved for the party. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded the room. Outside, the bright lights of Los Angeles flickered in every shade of neon, tearing the sky into pieces. As they entered, a hostess wearing more fur on her head than cloth on her body offered them drinks from a silver tray. Isobel chose water and Ryan helped himself to a glass of sparkling wine.
“Let’s not drink too much tonight,” she said, squeezing his hand and thinking that it might have been better had she made the suggestion earlier.
They paused at a table and she set about taking in the scene. Bedecked in promotional material, the room glittered with the trappings of a false winter. A stage had been set up for a fur-swathed DJ and six foot models posed around him in stiletto heels that lifted them to skyscraper heights. Official photographers were scurrying around, their flashes reflecting off the ice sculptures in a dazzling crescendo of light. Images from Doctor Zhivago, the theme of the evening, hung like bunting from the ceiling. Waiters dressed in Cossack outfits manned vodka stations built on carpets of snow, adding a Siberian chill, though their perfect tans and lean bodies still screamed California.
“How did you come to be invited to this?” asked Isobel.
“I did some voice-over work on the commercial, I do a great Russian accent,’” he said, talking from the back of his throat to mimic one as he answered.
“Is there no end to your talents?” she said, giving him a hug.
“It comes with the territory. Unless you’re A-list, you have to find ways to feed yourself when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
A hostess in a ballerina costume stopped by and Ryan swapped his bubbly for a vodka and ice, his fingers briefly dancing on the tulle of her tutu.
“Let’s go mingle,” he said, springing up with his boundless energy. “I think I can see my gang over there.” He led her to a rowdy group huddled around a table, a frosty bottle of spirits ringed by egg cup sized glasses in front of them.
“Hey Ryan, come and have a shot,” called out one of the bunch, a beanpole of a man with a prematurely receding hairline who held the vodka bottle above his head. “It’s my round.”
“I’m good for now,” said Ryan, raising his own glass to excuse himself from the offer. A couple parted to accommodate them and Ryan chinked his glass with each in greeting. “You guys look like you’re getting into the spirit of things!” said Ryan, shooting Isobel a brief, questioning glance for her silence.
“Could lines like that be the reason you’re doing commercials and not blockbusters?”
“Could be. But doing commercials beats waiting on tables,” said Ryan, “and next time you’re laying the tablecloths remember who got you on the guest list.”
“I do believe you’ve forgotten your manners,” said a young woman with purple hair and a ring through her lower lip.
“Thank you, Cindy, for the etiquette coaching.” Ryan put his hand to Isobel’s elbow. “This is Isobel.”
“A woman that clearly needs no introduction,” said Cindy, turning to Isobel.
“I’m visiting from San Diego, Ryan’s showing me around.”
“The lady from England?” said Cindy.
Isobel smiled. “I’m afraid so. I hope that’s not a bad thing,” she said jokingly.
“Well for once, Ryan,” said Cindy, continuing to look at Isobel, “you haven’t lied. You’re every bit as ravishing as he told us. But what can a lady like you possibly see in a ruffian like Ryan?”
“I didn’t say I saw anything in him, I just said he’s showing me around.”
A chorus of “Oohs” went up from the group.
“Take no notice,” said Ryan, “Cindy’s been after me for years.”
“In your wet dreams, cupcake.”
Bodies jostled for position and skin brushed against skin as the friends separated to let them sit. Ryan and Isobel found themselves at opposite ends of the table, with Isobel squeezed in next to Cindy. She turned to engage Isobel.
“Great nails,” she said, taking Isobel’s fingers in her hand.
“Thank you.”
“Did you get them done around here?”
“No, an enterprising girl down where I live “
“Nice job, I love the gloss,” she said, continuing to admire Isobel’s hands, her thumb caressing her fingers. “Will we be seeing more of you in LA, do you think?”
Isobel tensed slightly before easing her fingers free. “Hopefully, but that depends a bit on Ryan.”
Cindy kept her eyes unerringly on Isobel. “No need to worry about that. But between you and me, he’s worried you’re out of his league.”
“He told you that?” said Isobel, unsure whether she should be disappointed or flattered.
“He didn’t need to. I can see past his macho bravado.” A waiter passed and Cindy reached out for a fresh vodka bottle.
“Sounds like you like him?”
“Most of the time, when he’s not trying too hard. But take it from me, he’s one of the good guys. That may not be saying much in Hollywood, but for an actor he’s a straight shooter.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Six years. Since I first arrived here on a bus from nowheresville with all the rest of the wannabes. Clichéd, but true. He gave me my first break, and we’re still friends.”
The man to Cindy’s left offered her a shot and she sank it in a single swallow.
“So you used to work together?” said Isobel, twirling her straw through the ice in her drink and trying to sound casual.
“No, and, in case you’re wondering, we’ve never been any more than friends. He did hit on me at first of course but most every actor does that, just in case you might think they’re gay.”
Ryan came up from behind and wrapped his arms around Isobel’s waist. “What have you two nymphs been conspiring about? Has the purple witch been spinning you one of her hard luck stories?”
“No, just telling me all your secrets,” said Isobel, taking his wrists and turning to face him.
“I’ve got too much dirt on the cheeky minx for her to do that.”
“I hope you’re going to be bringing Isobel to see us more often,” said Cindy, “because on your own you’re getting to be an insufferable ass.”
“And you’re getting to be noticeably sloshed,” said Ryan, lifting the bottle and filling Cindy’s glass.
Cindy reached into her pink clutch bag. “Next time you’re around this way and want some fun, look me up,” she said, offering Isobel a card.
“Thanks, I will do,” replied Isobel warmly.
“Then we can talk some more”— she lightly brushed her fingers on Isobel’s cheek, her eyes suddenly smouldering—“and maybe do some girly things together.”
“Isobel doesn’t swing that way,” said Ryan, laughing.
Cindy traced her fingers down Isobel’s upper arm. “Maybe she will, if we let you watch.”
“Can you two stop talking about me as if I’m not here, even though I have no idea what you’re on about?” said Isobel.
“I mean it,” said Cindy, ignoring Ryan and again fixing her eyes on Isobel, “look me up. Sometime Goldilocks here is too busy to look after you.” Isobel blushed and looked away, and Cindy reached for her glass, but knocked into the vodka bottle instead. It teetered on its edge before Ryan corrected it with a slick thrust of his hand, motioning Isobel away with the other.
“Looks like things are going to get ugly, we better be going before Cindy has any more ideas.”
“Before the goody bags run out you mean, you cheapskate.”
“Love you too,” said Ryan, planting a kiss on Cindy’s cheek.