‘Oh. Well, yeah, they do. He’s, you know, a big star.’ She takes a moment, then gestures to the road ahead. ‘So, where are we going?’
‘Nearly there.’
Lola’s flustered. When Corey mentioned Scott Ford she had to change the subject. Oh man. It’s not like she’s doing anything wrong being here, but, gee, it sure feels like it. She needs to deal with this ASAP.
‘Ta-da. We’re here.’ Corey’s voice pulls her from her thoughts as he directs the BMW onto a patch of grass that overlooks a deserted beach.
She looks around. ‘Malibu?’
‘Yep, not far from Bowen’s place. I walk down here at night sometimes, look out at the ocean.’
In fact, the house where Corey’s been staying, which belongs to Matty Bowen, Corey’s agent and Lola’s boss, is just up the beach a little way, in case they want to ‘repair for a nightcap’, as it were. Not that Corey’s expecting any ‘repairing’ or ‘nightcap’ activity. So far the relationship has been completely chaste, not even a kiss — though he’s hoping that might change tonight. He has a plan. It’s not a particularly sophisticated plan, in fact it could be described as both rudimentary and amateurish, but it’s all he’s got and he’s gonna take it to the hoop.
They climb out of the car and Corey pulls a small wicker picnic hamper and a tartan blanket from the boot. He wanted the evening to be just right so he thought a hand-packed picnic was the way to go. He’d raided Bowen’s enormous fridge for supplies.
Lola’s impressed. ‘Thought of everything.’
They head towards a grassy knoll that overlooks the beach, the moonlight showing the way. Spike gallops ahead.
Corey stops at the spot where that moonlight glistens on the ocean at just the right angle, puts down the hamper and turns to Lola. She smiles and he realises this is it — this is the moment. Yes, he knows the night is young and he’s going early but it feels right.
She tilts her head. ‘What?’
‘If you don’t mind, I thought we could —’ He steps closer. ‘ — dance.’
‘Oh, God. Okay. I have to tell you I don’t do much of that. It’s like I’m from that town in Footloose.’
He grins and takes her left hand in his, places his other hand on her waist and moves her in time to the rolling surf. He can see she’s surprised, but, he’s almost certain, delighted too. Their eyes meet.
Time slows.
She smiles and he takes in her beaming face. He can’t believe it. The moonlight, the beach, the dancing — ha! Maybe his unsophisticated plan isn’t so rudimentary and amateurish after all. He leans down to kiss her. She hesitates for a moment, rises up on her toes to meet him — then turns away.
Time speeds up.
‘I’m-seeing-someone-I’m-so-sorry.’ She blurts it out as one word.
Corey lets her go and steps back, shocked. ‘Oh. I didn’t, I had no — I mean I would never —’
‘I-met-him-just-before-I-met-you.’ That sounds like one word too.
‘Right. Well, that’s a bit embarrassing — for me.’
‘No, no, it’s not. I should have said something earlier.’
Corey is stunned. And sad. And yes, embarrassed. He rarely gets embarrassed but he’s definitely feeling it now. So he doesn’t just stand there like some fool who tried to kiss a girl and somehow screwed it up, he flaps out the blanket to lay it on the grass — then stops, mid-flap, his heart not in it. ‘Can I ask a question?’
Lola really doesn’t want him to. She can’t remember the last time someone asked her a question she didn’t already know the answer to. She likes to be prepared yet has no idea what the Australian is about to say. ‘Sure.’
‘If you have a boyfriend, why are we here?’
She takes a breath, studies the tartan blanket in his hand. It’s easier than looking into his blue eyes. ‘Because you’re a funny, unique guy and I enjoy your company and I hope we can be friends.’
Hope we can be friends. It sounds so lame. As soon as she says it it’s like the air shifts somehow, even though there isn’t a breath of wind. He doesn’t say a word but he doesn’t have to. His response is all in his expression, the look of disappointment he’s trying to mask with that crooked grin she likes so much. She can see the smile is no longer genuine but forced, and that’s the saddest part of this whole sorry episode.
‘Can I ask one more question?’
She really doesn’t want him to. ‘Of course.’
‘Who’s your boyfriend?’ Then quickly: ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
She hesitates for a moment, then says: ‘Scott Ford.’
‘The Blue Cyclone guy? With the tights?’
She nods.
Corey is visibly surprised. Even if you don’t know who Scott Ford is you still know who Scott Ford is. He is currently People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, has that classic, square-jawed American face, matched with the chiselled physique of a Greek god. He’s also a bona fide international movie star, with over four billion in worldwide grosses, a billion of that from The Blue Cyclone alone. He’s charming and debonair and has an easy way with people. He can have his pick of any woman on the planet but he picked Lola. They met at a fundraiser five weeks ago and have seen each other whenever their schedules allow, which has been two dates so far with a third pending. Though it’s not yet bedroom serious, they talk regularly and plan to meet up when he’s back in town tomorrow. Lola hesitated about telling Corey, but the fact is it’s only a matter of time before it hits the media and, well, she didn’t want him to find out that way.
Corey nods slowly. ‘Right, well, I’m really glad for you.’ He forces another grin but she doesn’t have the heart to return it.
In stark contrast to the drive to the beach, which had been fun and full of promise, the trip back is awful and silent and pretty damn depressing.
Scott bloody Ford! Good God. It’s impossible to compete with a guy like that. Even with Corey’s limited understanding of who was ‘hot or not’ in the entertainment universe, he knew Scott Ford was a big deal. Whatever fame Corey had accidentally stumbled upon through helping save the hijacked shuttle or on his trip around America, they were but minor footnotes compared to that bloke’s career. And, ironically, Corey thought The Blue Cyclone movie totally rocked.
Lola turns to him. ‘You okay?’
‘Yep, no wuckers.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s short for “no wucking forries”, which is the reverse of —’
‘Oh. Yeah, got it.’
Corey guides the BMW along the road. That’s the third time she’s tried to start a conversation and it’s the longest response he’s given. He can tell she wants to talk but he doesn’t know what else there is to say. The more he thinks about what happened the more embarrassed he feels. Did he completely misread the signs? Obviously. It doesn’t matter, though. This is the end of it.
She tries once more. ‘Look, I feel like I should explain —’
‘There’s no need.’
‘But I really want —’
‘It’s okay, Lola, really.’
He pulls up beside her McMansion, doesn’t kill the engine, keeps his eyes forward. ‘In spite of everything, I appreciate you telling me, instead of just not returning my calls, or, you know, letting me see it in a magazine or something.’
She takes a breath, meets his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘It is what it is. Nothing to be sorry about.’
‘Well, I am. And I meant what I said. I’d like to be friends.’
He looks at her. ‘When has that ever happened in a situation like this?’