Going La La by Alexandra Potter Page B

cigarette left. Oh, well, one teensy-weensy cigarette wasn’t going to do any harm, was it? She only wanted a drag. And Rita wouldn’t mind. After all, it was an emergency. Putting it in her mouth, she grabbed a box of matches from one of the handcarved-in-Bali-type bowls that had been painstakingly scattered around. She was just about to strike one when she heard, ‘I’m sorry, it’s no smoking.’ She looked up. Like a genie, a waitress had appeared.
    Frankie was nonplussed. What did she mean, no smoking? She was in a bar. ‘Excuse me?’
    The waitress repeated the sentence robotically. ‘I’m sorry, it’s no smoking.’
    Frankie started to feel impatient. It wasn’t her hearing that was at fault. ‘You mean I can’t smoke anywhere?’ She looked in confusion at the abundance of matches around her, all emblazoned with the bar’s logo. What did people in LA do with them all if they didn’t smoke? Make matchstick models? Somehow she couldn’t imagine the likes of Madonna putting the finishing touches to a model of the Mary Rose .
    The waitress shook her head. ‘Not in a public bar. It’s California state law.’ She sounded as if she was reading from an autocue. ‘You can always go outside.’
    ‘But I am outside,’ retorted Frankie, looking incredulously up at the dark, open sky above her.
    Ignoring her, the waitress put her hands on her non-existent hips, her earlier smile now set in a grim line. ‘If you intend to smoke, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the bar area and go outside .’ She motioned to the patio doors at the far end of the swimming pool.
    ‘OK.’ Realising that there was no point trying to reason with Ms Personality, Frankie stood up. It was then she saw that she had an audience. Everybody was staring at her. And nobody was smoking . Feeling like a criminal, she took the fag out of her mouth and, as there was still no sign of Rita, bolted the full length of the pool and out through the doors.
    Outside it was dark and felt cool after the warmth of the bar. Her head whirled – too much champagne. Taking a lungful of air, she looked around her. It was deserted. There was no noise but the faint hum of the party and the distant roar of the traffic. So this was the smoking section, she thought, thinking how different it was from London, where banished smokers always huddled together in jovial camaraderie, happily working their way through packets of B&H, drink in one hand, fag in the other.
    Feeling a bit unsteady, she leaned against the stone balustrade that ran around the far side of the patio, lit her cigarette and, inhaling deeply, looked out at the streets below that made up a gridwork of lights. Her mind drifted back to thoughts of Hugh. He was miles away on a different continent, in a different time zone. Miles away from her. Maybe Rita was right, maybe he was arrogant, maybe she did run around after him in circles, but she still loved him. She missed him.
    Her eyes filled up and she knew she was going to cry again. Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her and she sniffed vigorously instead. She turned round. After the lights of the traffic, it was difficult to see in the darkness, but she could make out the shape of a man – tall, broadish. She couldn’t see his face.
    ‘S’cuse me, have you got a light?’ His voice seemed loud against the faint hum of the background noise.
    Nodding, she held out the matches and watched as he looked for a place to put his drink.
    ‘Here, I’ll do it.’
    Ripping a match from its cardboard roots, she scraped it against the emery strip. The phosphorus flared and, moving forward, she held the match close to the end of his cigarette. Putting down his glass, he cupped his hands around hers as he sucked hard on the orange filter, the flame illuminating his face, exposing tanned skin, heavy stubble, a roughness around the mouth. He seemed familiar, as if she knew him from somewhere . . . For a brief moment she glanced into his eyes, before the