What My Best Friend Did by Lucy Dawson Read Free Book Online

bright LA sun illuminating the edges of the black bowler hat and the stark, crisp lines of the umbrella. I couldn’t help feeling that all I’d done was take the photo at the right time—it wasn’t exactly styled, more luck than anything—but at least it had some movement, and Gretchen had a genuinely happy expression on her flawless face.
    She looked as if she was poised to take over the world … and absolutely knew it.

FIVE
     
    I t’s always so good to kick back after a long day’s shoot.”Gretchen sighed happily. “Do you want some more wine?”She passed a bottle to me and sat back for a moment, peering at my plate. “Your fish looks amazing—I’ve got food envy.” She was still making a real effort to be friendly, which was a pleasant surprise and not at all typical of most people like her. My somewhat limited experience had taught me that the more middle-of-the-road a star was, the more self-obsessed they were likely to be; and the more tired they were, the more precious they became. But she didn’t seem to fit that mold at all.
    She shook her head and laughed. “I’m so stuffed, and yet I seem to be keeping on eating.” We were all sitting about a large table in a lively open-air restaurant. The edges of the terrace were lined with giant terra-cotta flowerpots that were dripping with brightly colored bougainvillea. It was a warm night; a lot of laughter and excited chatter was going on around us.
    “OK, second wind,” Gretchen said determinedly, picking up her chopsticks and attacking her food with renewed relish. She popped a prawn in her mouth and rolled her eyes. “To be fair, this does taste amazing! Here, try this.” She passed the bowl to me and waited eagerly. I tentatively speared a piece of what looked like tuna with a chopstick and put it in my mouth—she was right, it was incredible, just melted away like it had never even been there, leaving me wanting more.
    “You know, I can’t believe you’ve been a photographer for so long and we’ve never worked together before.” She shook her head.
    “Umm,” I agreed, through a mouthful of my food, “but I’ve not been freelance for very long, I’ve only just branched out on my own.”
    “Good for you,” she said. “You seem very good at it—I’m sure you’ll do brilliantly. So”—she grinned—“were you saying to the makeup girl that it was your first trip here? What do you think of LA?”
    Honestly? Bits of it had totally sucked. I’d had low expectations, but I hadn’t even realized we were driving down Hollywood Boulevard until someone told me—it was full of crappy fast-food outlets and looked really shabby. But then equally, in spite of myself, I’d enjoyed the swanky restaurants, the ridiculously fluffy hotel dressing gown, the staff warmly saying, “You have a great day, Alice.”
    “I think it’s probably a good thing we’re going home tomorrow.” I smiled and picked up my glass of wine as I watched a rather glamorous couple take their seats two tables away from us. “I ordered room service for breakfast this morning and this amazing plate of fresh fruit arrived; the sun is always shining; the people are really friendly, and this is so lovely, sitting outside to eat—it’s November, for God’s sake!”
    Gretchen nodded enthusiastically.
    “I think I could get worryingly addicted to such an exclusive lifestyle, which is funny, because”—I paused carefully, I didn’t want to appear rude—“I really wasn’t expecting it to be my kind of place.”
    “I know what you mean,” Gretchen agreed. “I like visiting once in a while to have my fix of fun and easy living, but then it’s good to get back to reality. You’re wise to be wary—it’s really easy to get sucked in. Everyone seems friendly, but they’re actually so ruthless, they would literally sell their own grandmother with a smile to get the part they want or the movie deal they’re after. LA likes people to think it wears its heart on