Going La La by Alexandra Potter

fluorescent veneered teeth. Frankie nodded dumbly, blinded by his dental work.
     
    ‘Yoohoo!’
    It was that sound again. Frankie swivelled round and, standing on tiptoes, scanned the crowd. At the front of the queue she spotted Rita beckoning her madly, arms rotating wildly, like those of a parent trying to dance. Oh God, she cringed. Rita always did this. She always pushed to the front of any queue – be it in the post office, at the bus stop or at the bar – and Frankie would follow behind, dying with embarrassment and trying to duck the dirty looks being slung at them.
    Feeling as if she was on the catwalk, she nervously tottered past the line of people, who looked her up and down, trying to work out which film they’d seen her in. Was it a Quentin Tarantino, or maybe a Spike Lee, or, surely not, a Spielberg? Unable to place her, they whispered among themselves. Naahhh, with those tits and teeth she was obviously British. Probably a Merchant Ivory or, even more likely, a Ken Russell. After all, she must have been in something – how else would she be on the guest list?
    ‘Come on, you silly sod. We’re with Dorian.’ As if she was rescuing her from drowning, Rita grabbed hold of Frankie and pulled her in through the entrance.
    Frankie was nonplussed. ‘So?’
    ‘ So? ’ Rita pulled one of her faces. ‘So, we walk straight in.’
    ‘Why?’ She still didn’t get it.
    ‘Bloody hell, I don’t know,’ spluttered Rita, exasperated by Frankie’s inane questions. ‘Who the bloody hell cares? We’re in, aren’t we?’ She made it sound as if they were bank robbers who’d cracked the sophisticated alarm system installed at great expense to keep out Joe Public. ‘C’mon,’ she hissed and, without waiting for any further questions, clattered through the marbled lobby in her gold spangly boob tube and matching miniskirt. Frankie, meanwhile, was in funereal black: black dress, black tights, black shoes. Despite Rita’s earlier pep talk, she was still in mourning for Hugh.
    They rushed past security on the lookout for Dorian, but he was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared through the lobby carrying a silver attaché case, his full-length fur coat sweeping the floor behind like ermine robes. Following in his wake, they hurried through the swathes of white muslin suspended from the ceiling and billowing out like the sails of a boat, on towards the sounds of chattering, music, laughter and the chinking of glasses.
    And then suddenly they’d arrived.
    Frankie faltered at the entrance. She’d never seen a party like it. It was being held in the hotel’s bar, the famous Cloudsbar, but it wasn’t like any bar she’d seen in a British hotel. There were no mock Victorian fireplaces, vases of dried flowers, chintzy armchairs and curtains with tasselled tiebacks. There wasn’t even a bar, oak-panelled, brass-plated or otherwise. Instead it was alfresco and there was an Olympic-size swimming pool that was being lit by dozens of real-flame torches held by Roman statues on marble columns. Around its sides was a mosaic-tiled floor strewn with hundreds of cushions – and not the kind found in primary colours from IKEA, but great big stonking cushions the size of futons, covered in a soft white pearlescent velvet and plumped full of goose feathers – on which lots of people were lounging around, elegantly sipping champagne.
    It was like stepping into another world. Flames from the torches cast a flickering light across people’s faces, giving them a golden glow she’d only ever seen in Dutch old master paintings. It was a world of Kens and Barbies. Perfect, plastic people. But while the men looked vaguely recognisable, give or take an all-over tan and gym-honed pecs, the women were something else. Frankie felt as if she’d discovered another species: the LA Child Woman – females who went through puberty only from the waist upwards. While the bottom half had no sign of a bum, tum or – God forbid – hips, the