"Of course not," said Chantelle. "It wouldn't be professional to disclose every detail."
"How do you decide what details you can let slip?"
"A receptionist just knows. It's a talent."
Club Jabber was in West Hollywood. As we hit Santa Monica Boulevard, I remembered something I wanted Chantelle to explain. "The woman next to me in the salon this afternoon was talking about her life coach. What's a life coach?"
She grinned. "You sure don't need one, honey!"
"So what does a life coach do?"
"A life coach asks what's missing in your life and what you really want to achieve then gets you to set personal goals. Basically, they keep telling you you're marvelous. It's like having your own private one-person cheer squad."
"People get paid to do this life coaching?"
"Thousands and thousands."
"Beats me why you'd give money to a stranger," I said, "when all you need to do is to sit down and think about it yourself, or maybe talk it out with friends."
"I don't know," said Chantelle, shrugging. "People get in a rut and need someone else to pull them out of it. Quip should be at the club tonight. You can ask him. He was a life coach for a while."
"Quip? Fran's husband? He's a screenwriter."
She laughed indulgently. "Kylie, every second person in this town's a screenwriter. Or an actor. Or both. Then they find you've got to do other things to put food on the table."
I chuckled. "Next you're going to say you've got a screenplay."
Chantelle seemed rather miffed by my lighthearted tone. "Actually, yes, I have. A romantic comedy."
"Don't tell me! One of the main characters is a receptionist."
Her eyebrows dived into a V. She was definitely miffed. "Something wrong with that?" she said in an icy voice.
Yerks! I'd better tread carefully. "Nothing wrong with that at all." I had to get off this subject fast. "My Aunt Millie's coming to Los Angeles," I remarked.
"That's nice."
"No, it isn't."
Chantelle had expressive eyebrows. Now they were raised in questioning arcs. "No?"
"It's a disaster. Could hardly be worse."
Chantelle took her eyes off the road to stare at me. "This must be some aunt!"
"She's indescribable. You'd have to meet her to see what I mean. Not that you will." Chantelle's hurt expression spurred me to add hastily, "That didn't come out quite right. It's not just you. Nobody is going to meet Aunt Millie, if I have anything to do with it."
Chantelle's disbelief was plain. "And your aunt will be happy with this? Not meeting anyone? What are you going to do? Lock her in a room?"
"If only." I was plunged into gloom. Chantelle was right. Aunt Millie would make it her business to meet everyone who had anything to do with me.
"I've got to meet your Aunt Millie," said Chantelle enthusiastically. "She sounds like a real kick."
"Real kick? Is that something good? If so, it doesn't apply to my aunt."
"She can't be that bad."
I slumped in my seat. "You don't know the half of it."
We turned off the main road onto a narrow laneway. "We have to find somewhere to park," said Chantelle. "Quip said you could usually get something down here."
"How do you know Quip?" Chantelle had never mentioned she'd met Fran's husband before.
"UCLA Writers' Program. We were in the same script-writing course a few years ago, when we were both starting out."
Quip had written what seemed countless scripts for movies and television-not one of them made-but at least he was involved in the biz in some way. As far as I knew, Chantelle had only one screenplay.
"Has your screenplay got a title?" I asked.
Chantelle swore under her breath as someone ahead of us snaffled an empty parking spot. She turned the Jeep into yet another narrow lane. "I was going to call it Wrong Number, but then I decided Sorry, Wrong Number had more pizzazz."
"Hasn't Sorry, Wrong Number already been used?"
Chantelle didn't seem concerned. "Has it? Doesn't matter. There's no copyright with titles."
"So you could call your screenplay Gone With the Wind if you wanted to?"
Chantelle shot me a look worthy of Julia Roberts in one of her more haughty moments. "That title wouldn't relate to the essential themes I'm exploring."
I could tell I was getting into chancy territory here. I peered through the windscreen. "Isn't that a parking spot?"
"Where?!"
I pointed. "Someone's just pulling out."
Chantelle accelerated like mad, then slammed on the brakes when we got to the gap in the parked cars. "Get it fast, or lose it," she said, reversing into the space with impressive skill. Thwarted, a guy going the other way gave us the finger as he passed.
We weren't that far from Club Jabber, which was hard to find unless you picked out the tiny red J above the black door. A big bloke was standing outside it, arms folded over his barrel chest. He wore a very tight white T-shirt that carried the words STONE killer in that really purple-purple that puts your teeth on edge. There was a small knot of people clustered around him, but he was ignoring their attempts to talk to him.
"Be nice to the bouncer," said Chantelle.
I looked at the bloke with interest. I'd never met a bouncer before, unless you counted Mucka Onslow, who was the sergeant in charge of the cop shop in the 'Gudge but also doubled on the sly as private security for high school dances and the like.
"G'day," I said to him.
The bouncer grunted. Chantelle said, "It's all right, Dana. She's with me."
Without a flicker of expression on his face, he stood aside and let us into the club. There was an annoyed mutter from the people left waiting outside as we disappeared through the black door.
Safely inside, I said, "The bouncer's name is Dana? That's strictly a girl's name where I come from."
"For pity's sake, don't tell Dana that."
I grinned. "You think he'd mind being told he has a girly name?"
"My guess is he'd mind a lot."
The air trembled with the thump-thump of a bass beat. A bored young woman perched on a tall stool behind a pay window set into the wall. She was chewing gum so hard I thought there was a fair chance she might dislocate her jaw.
"My treat," said Chantelle, shoving money through the slot at the bottom of the glass.
We went down a short, dimly lit hallway and through heavy black curtains, where the sound hit us like a slap in the face. My breastbone was actually vibrating, and my eardrums felt like they were bending inward. I reckoned enough of this and I'd be permanently deafened.
All this sound was coming from a band spotlighted on a tiny stage. The lead guitarist, who wore a shocking pink shirt open to the waist and super tight black jeans, was prancing around, frequently lunging forward to shriek something unintelligible into a microphone. The drummer, thin enough to be a male anorexic, thrashed his head from side to side, apparently in the throes of musical ecstasy. If he'd asked me, I'd have advised the bass guitarist not to perform shirtless, as his bony, hollow-chested physique didn't add anything to the pelvic thrusts he was performing in time to the beat.
"Who are they?" I bellowed to Chantelle, indicating the band on the stage.
I thought she yelled back, "Rat's Piss," but I could have been mistaken.
I looked around. The room wasn't all that large, but it was crammed with people dancing. Around the sides other patrons perched at rickety tables and shouted conversations at each other. Built into one wall was a bar, crowded with individuals fighting each other to get to the front so they could catch the eye of the lone barman.
With an earsplitting crescendo, the band ended what had to be a song, although I hadn't recognized any melody to speak of or made out a single word. People clapped and called out approvingly, possibly because the racket had stopped. In the comparative quiet, I realized my ears were ringing. "Loud, aren't they?" I said to Chantelle.