‘I hope you’ve packed your sunscreen, Ms Conte!’ the secretary answered. ‘And give George Clooney a kiss from me!’
‘Uhm, thank you. Will do.’
I put down the phone. George Clooney? As if. I wondered who they’d choose to play my fictitious hero? Probably some young, rising model turned actor. But who could play Stella, my heroine? Come to think of it, who the hell would want to feature in cargo pants, Crocs, glasses and a ponytail for three-quarters of the movie? What actress would want to look like me? I mean Stella.
On the eve of our departure I packed the kids some basics. There was no way they were going to need their macs in California this time of year. Besides, I didn’t want them to stand out as Brits abroad usually do. We’d go with whatever we felt comfortable with. Chloe would be all over the department stores pretending she was nineteen instead of thirteen. I had to keep a close eye on that one.
I sighed, but this time it was a happy sigh. Could it be? Could things really be taking a turn for the best for us, after all this time? Dared I hope as much? But I resolved that, whatever happened, even if the whole deal died a quick death, I would still stay upbeat.
And Ben – my throat contracted at the thought of him. Would they be overly kind to a kid in a leg brace? I didn’t want him to feel any different, and already I imagined California kids on rollerblades whizzing past him, making him feel teeny tiny. What could I do? I would give the whole of the film proceeds (there I went again, dreaming) to any doctor who could make my son stand on his own two legs and kick a ball without falling over. And so would Chloe – I knew that for sure, because, as shallow as she sometimes seemed, she loved her brother fiercely and would kick anyone’s arse if they dared to mistreat him.
Enough, I scolded myself, swiping at my cheeks. This was a good thing. The opportunity of a lifetime. I had written the book and I deserved the chance to make my kids happy after all we’d been through. Things were finally going to be good.
The next morning the car arrived bang on time to take us to Heathrow airport where we’d be boarding a direct flight to LAX. Listen to me – until yesterday Lax was my nickname for laxatives and now I was already slipping into the lingo. I could already picture a casual conversation with the folks at The Post Of ice and The Post Of ice Cream:
‘Where are you jetting off to this time, Nina?’
‘Oh, nowhere special, Deirdre. Just to LAX.’
‘Oh, how wonderful, Nina! And what will you be doing there?’
‘Oh, same old, same old. Writing my successful scripts.’
‘Oh, aren’t you the pride of Penworth Ford now?’
‘That’s right, Deirdre. No more Monday morning coronaries trying to get the kids to school, my arancini to the restaurant on time, completely bypassing the pressing phone calls for money, which I now have, thank you very much!’
It was nice to dream.
Ironically, the day of our departure was a Monday morning, only this one saw us washed, fed and dressed way ahead of schedule. Chloe had her favourite jeans on and all her magazines (I gave in in the end, fresh start and all that) and Ben had his crossword puzzles and his portable dictionary with him. Chloe rolled her eyes but gave him a fake punch in the shoulder.
‘Ready, sport?’
‘Hollywood, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,’ he answered. Oh God, listen to these two, I thought. Had they been bingeing on American sitcoms while I wasn’t looking?
Alice was already at the airport in an exquisite cream-coloured pants suit. Me, I had done my best in a linen dress, which turned out to be a horrible idea, because as we climbed the steps into the jet I could feel the sweat sticking my wrinkly outfit to the back of my damp thighs. Maybe I should’ve worn trousers, but Alice had said to dress smart. It only dawned on me then that she meant for the meeting, not the flight. Duh.
‘Is there any news?’ I asked her as we buckled up, Ben and Chloe on my left, Alice on my right.
‘None. Just that we have an appointment with Ben Stein on Wednesday afternoon.’
I nodded, making a mental note on what I was going to say about the book. Of course I’d totally deny it was autobiographical – what the hell did they know about divorced mums in Cornwall anyway?
As the plane’s engines roared to life, Chloe paled and she turned to me, her eyes huge in fear. I leant over Ben, taking her hand, which she gripped. ‘It’s okay, Chloe. You are safer here than in a car.’
‘Especially Lottie!’ Ben added, craning his head to see out the window next to him.
‘These planes are built to take off and land a million times a day, and every time they get checked thoroughly. It’s perfectly safe.’
She nodded, the rational side of her clutching at my words, but her hand still gripping mine.
‘Sorry,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Please don’t tell anyone.’
‘Of course not, sweetheart.’ Didn’t she know that I lived for her and Ben, and that I would never do anything to humiliate them? Because if she didn’t, it was something I needed to work on even harder.
As the plane soared into the air, Ben’s face practically burst with excitement as he craned his neck to take in every inch of the view. Chloe gasped and I made a show of breathing deeply.
‘It’s all right, we’re fine. Look around you, everyone’s happy. And if you’re still not convinced, look at the flight attendants. They do this so many times it’s actually nothing at all to them anymore.’
‘Look, Mum! Windsor Castle! And… Legoland? Mum!’
Ben was gaga over Lego.
