“Can I please buy some running shoes too?” I change the subject. “I can’t exactly run in these!” I gesture at my Marc Jacobs kitten heels with a little laugh. (For the record, I did once climb an entire mountain in a pair of shoes just like these. But I mentioned that to Luke yesterday as proof of my athletic ability and he shuddered and said he’d blanked that whole incident from his memory.)
“Sure.” Mindy nods. “You’ll want our technical store, Pump! It’s right across the street. They stock all the shoes, equipment, heart-rate monitors … Did you get a biomechanical assessment in the UK?”
I look at her blankly. A bio-what?
“Talk to the guys across the street; they’ll get you set up.” She hands me a carrier bag holding my clothes. “You must be super-fit. I’ve worked out with Sage Seymour’s trainer. She’s hard-core. And I’ve heard about the team regimen. Didn’t you, like, go to Arizona for training?”
This conversation is unnerving me a tad. Hard-core? Team regimen? Anyway, I mustn’t lose confidence. I’m perfectly fit enough to run a race, even if it is in L.A.
“I haven’t been on the regimen exactly,” I admit. “But obviously I have my own … er … cardio … program … thing.…”
I’ll be fine. It’s just running. How hard can it be?
As I head back out to Rodeo Drive, I feel a swoosh of exhilaration as the warm spring air hits me. I’m going to love living in L.A.; I just know it. Everything people say about it is true. The sun shines and the people have super-white teeth and the houses look like film sets. I’ve looked at several houses for rent and they all have pools. It’s as if a pool is a normal thing, like a fridge.
The street around me simply glistens with glamour. It’s lined with expensive, shiny shopfronts and perfect palm trees and rows of luxurious-looking cars. Cars are a whole different thing here. People drive by in their colorful convertibles with the roof down, looking all relaxed and friendly, as if you might stroll up to them while they’re pausing at the light and start a conversation. It’s the opposite of Britain, where everyone’s in their own self-contained metal box, swearing at the rain.
Sunlight is glinting off all the shop windows and sunglasses and expensive watches on people’s wrists. Outside Dolce & Gabbana, a woman is piling a whole load of bags into a car, and she looks just like Julia Roberts except with blonder hair. And a bit smaller. But apart from that, just like Julia Roberts! On Rodeo Drive!
I’m just trying to edge closer to see what bags she’s got when my phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see Gayle on the screen. Gayle is my new boss at Dalawear, and we’re having a meeting tomorrow morning.
“Hi, Gayle!” I say in cheerful, professional tones. “Did you get my message? Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Hi, Rebecca. Yes, we’re all good at this end …” She pauses. “Except for one hitch. We still didn’t get your reference from Danny Kovitz.”
“Oh, right.” Drat. Danny is one of my best friends and is quite a famous fashion designer. He promised to give me a reference for Dalawear, only it’s been ages now and he hasn’t done anything about it. I texted him yesterday and he promised he would send an email within the hour. I can’t believe he hasn’t.
Actually, that’s not true. I can totally believe it.
“I’ll call him,” I promise. “Sorry about that.”
The truth is, I never should have asked Danny for a reference. But I thought it sounded so cool, having a top fashion designer on my résumé. And I’m sure it helped. They couldn’t stop asking me about him in the interview.
“Rebecca …” Gayle pauses delicately. “You do know Mr. Kovitz? You have met him?”
She doesn’t believe me?
“Of course I know him! Look, leave it with me. I’ll get the reference. I’m really sorry for the delay. See you tomorrow.”
I end the call and instantly speed-dial Danny, trying to stay calm. There’s no point getting cross with Danny; he just wriggles and becomes all plaintive.
“Oh my God, Becky.” Danny answers the phone as though we’re mid-conversation. “You would not believe what I need for this trek. It’s, like, who knew you could get freeze-dried lasagna? And I have the cutest little teakettle; you have to get one.”
This is why Danny is even more distracted than usual at the moment. He’s about to start training to do some celebrity charity expedition across the Greenland ice sheet. Every single person who knows Danny has told him he’s mad, but he’s adamant he’s going to do it. He keeps saying he wants to “give something back,” but we all know it’s because he fancies Damon, the lead singer from Boyz About, who’s also doing it.
Although how you get it together with someone on a Greenland expedition, I have no idea. I mean, can you even kiss? Do your lips stick together in the freezing air? How do Eskimos manage?
“Danny,” I say sternly, wrenching my mind away from an image of two Eskimos stuck together on their wedding day, flailing their arms to break free. “Danny, what about my reference?”
“Sure,” says Danny without missing a beat. “I’m on it. How many pairs of thermal underwear should I take?”
“You’re not on it! You promised you’d send it yesterday! I’ve got to go and see them tomorrow and they don’t believe I even know you!”
“Well, of course you know me,” he says, as though I’m an idiot.