We lapsed into a silent glow of hope and, for the first time, heard a conversation floating over the hedge from next door. The Goatee Boys were also taking the evening air in their backyard.

One of them said, ‘… crusty and kinda green…’

This gave rise to groans and ‘Oh man!’s. ‘Like peeing razor blades,’ the first voice said, and more groans ensued.

‘Venereal disease,’ Emily whispered, her face alight with disgust. ‘Ssshhh, listen. One of them has VD.’

Sure enough, we listened and there was more talk of peeing fire and a visit to the quack.

‘Which one of them is it?’ Lara asked. ‘Ethan? Curtis?’

‘Betcha it’s Ethan.’

‘It doesn’t sound like him.’

‘And Curtis is too weird, who’d sleep with him?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

We earwigged a bit more. Whoever it was, their winkie was like a war zone and the doctor had only added to the grief because he’d put a type of furled umbrella down into the afflicted willy – then opened it! Behind the fence, cries of horror rose up into the night and I myself felt the first signs of queasiness.

‘It’s not Luis,’ I insisted. ‘He’s too sweet.’

‘So who is it, then?’

‘I’ve got to know.’ Emily pulled her lounger across, stood on it and poked her head over the fence. ‘Which one of you is it? Luis? I’m surprised.’

Still standing on the lounger, she turned back to us. ‘It’s Luis, and they want to know if we want to come over. They’re doing tequila shots. Dude, that’s most excellent!’

Despite her sarcasm, she seemed happy enough to go round. So did Lara, and I had no problem at all with it: nearly everything I did in Los Angeles was strange and new, this was no different. But as we passed through their darkened house, I got the fright of my life when I saw a seven-foot-tall figure looming blackly out of a corner. It transpired to be a cardboard Darth Vader – Curtis’s most prized possession. ‘I got a C-3PO too, and a Chewbacca suit,’ he boasted. ‘And three of the original posters.’

God, he was peculiar. To humour him I said brightly, ‘So you’re a Trekkie.’

‘Star Wars.’ He sounded appalled. ‘Not Star Trek!’ Under his breath I heard him mutter with contempt, ‘Girls!’

Indeed.

They’d dragged their flowery old sofa out into the back, where Luis was installed, with a slight air of the invalid about him. His hands seemed to hover and flutter protectively over his groin. Or maybe it was just to fend off prying eyes: Emily, Lara and I all stared long and hard at the diseased area.

‘You girls look like you got x-ray vision,’ he said nervously.

‘You’d better believe it.’ Lara gave a menacing wink.

Ethan doled out shot glasses of tequila, then stopped in front of me. ‘You look different,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘No pantyhose on her head.’ This from Luis.

‘No-o, not just that.’ He paused to give Curtis a sharp poke and hissed like a mammy, ‘Get off the sofa and let the ladies sit down,’ then resumed his scrutiny of me. ‘You haven’t… had your moustache shaved off?’

‘She’s had her eyebrows done,’ Lara contributed.

‘Ahhh, gotta be that!’

And so began a pleasant, mellow night which only ended when an argument broke out over who should have the worm at the bottom of the bottle. (‘Stop!’ I berated Lara and Emily, who were both flushed from the tussle. ‘It’s Ethan’s bottle. He should be allowed to have it.’)

Then we all went home and slept soundly.

27

I awoke to find a woman, approximately four foot high, banging a swiffer around my room. Conchita, I could only imagine.

‘Sorry I wake you,’ she beamed.

‘I was awake anyway,’ I lied back, grabbing some clothes.

In the kitchen, Emily was hurriedly putting on her sandals. ‘Didn’t I forget to get Conchita’s bun, so I’ve to run up to Starbucks. She refuses to touch the bathroom unless we give her a sugar hit.’

‘I’ll go,’ I offered, still on my keeping-busy kick.

‘Are you sure? Well, thanks. But listen, she won’t eat anything with bananas or blueberries,’ she yelled after me.

Outside, yet another beautiful day was presenting itself for inspection. Considering it was a Monday morning, the world was suffused with triumphant yellow light, and everything looked picture perfect – the pretty little houses, the even-skin-toned lawns, the velvet petals of the blazing pink flowers.

In Starbucks I got us a chocolate muffin each, even though all Emily would do with hers was to crumble it into bits, then announce she was stuffed. Then I set off for home again, passing Reza’s salon as I went. She was within, grimly tugging the hair off someone. I waved at her and she glared at me. Just as it should be! God was in his heaven and all was well with the world.

But the second I walked back into the house, I knew something bad had happened. Emily was shaking on the edge of the couch and Conchita was ministering to her.

‘They passed,’ Emily declared.

For a confused moment, I thought she was talking about exams or a driving test. Where I come from, ‘passed’ is a good word – the opposite of ‘failed’.

‘Who passed what?’

‘Mort Russell. Hothouse passed on my script. David just rang.’

Shock rooted me to the spot. They couldn’t have passed. What about Julia and Cameron? What about the three thousand screens? It took a moment for my hope to dwindle away, to understand that none of it would be happening. The lying bastards!

Emily was hyperventilating with squeaky gasps and she was shuddering as if she was crying, but her eyes were dry. ‘What am I going to do? I’m fucked, I’m so totally fucked. I’ve no money, not a red cent. Oh my God, oh my God!’

From her apron pocket, Conchita produced a little bottle and said, ‘Xanax. To calm her down.’ I made sweeping, go-for-it, no-time-like-the-present motions with both my hands.

‘Can I’ve two?’ Emily asked.

‘Ob course.’

But when Conchita shook some pills into the palm of her hand, there was a little ruck and before I knew what had happened Emily had roughly grabbed not two, but four xanax and crammed them into her mouth.