Coffee, tea? Or me?

Part III

III

Lucy was lying in the bed of her hotel room in downtown Los Angeles, pack of crisps in one hand and remote in the other. She was zapping through the channels to find something decent to watch, maybe a true-crime show or some good old film she could fall asleep to. It had been a long day and she was exhausted, she didn't know how some of her crew could find the strength to go out and party after a fifteen-hour shift, surrounded by people.

Youngsters, she thought settling for a crime TV show about cold cases.

Her phone dinged, she opened her Whatsapp notification and a photo of Jack holding a cocktail came up.

You should be out having fun babes.

Can't. Too tired. Also, I think I win.

She sent the message along with a photo of herself munching on some crisps.

That's an inglorious picture! And you're missing out: it's a very exclusive bar, might meet more celebrities...

Once a day is enough. I'll leave the rest to you!

Oh, that's sweet! Btw I think you should have kept James Kent's credit card, could be having drinks on him right now!

You're a bad person Jackie! But I like you regardless. I'm going to sleep now, I'll see you tomorrow at dinner. Don't get in trouble Xxx.

I'll do my worst ;P

Lucy thought back at the flight that was now starting to vanish like a dream: the wine accident with the actor, their nice chat during her colleagues' break. He had then lost his credit card in his seat (if she had that much money she would probably glue all her cards to her body), so she had called the number on the credit card to make sure they'd be in contact with Mr Blackwood and let him know it was in a safe place. A little trick she had learned a while back from another flight attendant. The number of people that forgot valuables on planes was shocking...

She yawned, she was exhausted. She put her phone on silent, turned the TV volume down to barely audible and fluffed her pillow ready for bed. This was her second favourite moment of her job: letting sleep take over after a long day, closing her eyes and letting Morpheus do the rest.

***

James walked into his room at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, he removed his jacket and tie, undid the first couple of buttons of his shirt and finally sat heavily on the sofa facing the big glass door. He was exhausted and slightly drunk after spending the night at a dinner party with the actors who worked with him on his latest movie; the next week was going to be intense with the film promotion and interview panels and he was beyond excited as this was his first starring and directing role in a blockbuster of that proportion. He stood up with a sigh and walked to the minibar, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and took it to the balcony. The warm California breeze welcomed him and he stood still for a moment taking in the Los Angeles city lights and the hills on the horizon, all so different from the grey town in Dorset where he grew up. Despite being in the movie industry for years his career had been gradual and fought for and he still found himself incredulous at how much his life had changed.

He finally found a sun lounger and lied on it, opened the bottle of beer with his lighter, took a big gulp of the beverage then lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting out a thick cloud of smoke.

Perfection.

As his phone vibrated he removed it from his pocket and checked the many notifications he had ignored while at the party: two missed calls from an unknown number, a text from his mom "Saw Richard at the supermarket, said you grew up well after all. Dad asks when are you home for Sunday roast?". He smiled sweetly and decided he would give her a call the day after. Then he moved on to some Instagram notifications from his mates, some pictures of them at the local pub watching a rugby match. He missed his friends; they had always been a close group and despite taking different paths in life they had always stuck together. His friends were really understanding and supportive of his lifestyle but kept him grounded as well, calling his bullshit whenever he acted out of the ordinary. With them, he was still that seventeen-year-old from a small town with cheeks bruised by rugby practice and some weed in his backpack to share with the lads.