What My Best Friend Did by Lucy Dawson Page A

yonks ago. She was just as bad then, a nasty piss-head bully.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to go home. We’ve been so lucky with this hot weather! How nice would it be if we could just laze here by the pool all day? Just think, in England we’d be having to drag around in thick jumpers and tights, and here we are sitting outside.”
    “Don’t,” I said, thinking of the brain-freezingly boring Fulham engagement party that lay ahead of me at home. I didn’t want to leave LA. I wanted to stay after all.
    Gretchen reached for her glass and I noticed, for the first time, a faded squiggly mark on the inside of her left wrist. “Is that a tattoo?” I said curiously.
    She glanced at it. “Yeah. I got it when I was a dickhead seventeen-year-old.”
    “Teenage rebellion?” I asked.
    She looked at it thoughtfully. “Boredom, actually. Or maybe I thought I was being anarchic, I can’t remember. Nowadays everyone’s got one—they’re about as anarchic as big pants.”
    “Can I see?”
    She held her wrist aloft and I spelled out “T.T.W.P.,” then looked at her inquiringly.
    “This Too Will Pass,” she said, looking embarrassed. “It was supposed to remind me to make the most of good times and not let the bad times drag me down.”
    “That’s impressively profound for a seventeen-year-old, isn’t it?” I said. If I’d have come home with a tattoo at seventeen my parents would have spontaneously combusted on the spot—that was much more the sort of stunt Fran would have pulled.
    She pulled a face, and then smiled. “Not really. I didn’t know my arse from my elbow … or my wrist it seems,” she began, leaning her head back again, but then she frowned and tried to focus. “Oh my God! Look!” She nudged me.
    A hush descended as I looked up to see a tiny, bespectacled gentleman in long orange robes, head down, walking quietly over the wooden footbridge that arched above our heads. He was accompanied by ten other similarly clad, serenely quiet men. It was the Dalai Lama and his entourage.
    “Ha!” said Gretchen delightedly. “It’s true! He is here. I heard someone at reception say he was staying here, but I thought it was bull … I mean rubbish,” she said, awestruck. “Look! He wears Hush Puppies!” she exclaimed. “How completely random!”
    We watched in amazement as the procession silently trotted back to their rooms and finally disappeared.
    “I have a toast,” Gretchen said finally. “To good times and surreal moments.” She raised her glass again. “Long may they continue.”

SIX
     
    S he was just really, really nice,” I said enthusiastically to Tom. “Last night, after I got off the phone to you, we all had a drink in her room, and the stylist, who was a complete whack job, suddenly turned on the poor little makeup girl for no apparent reason and had an absolute rant, but Gretchen completely stood up to her.”
    “What a warm, festive tale,” Tom said drily. “Celebrity looks after the little people—it’s practically a modern-day nativity story.”
    I gave him a look.
    “Oh come on, Al!” He laughed. “The stylist was hardly going to tell her off, was she? It’s pretty easy to stand up to people when they’re beneath you in the first place.”
    I slung my bag down and flopped on to the sofa. “You’re a very cynical man sometimes. All I’m saying is I was wrong about Gretchen, that’s all. She was very friendly and extremely professional. She’s going to be a hit in the States and she’s a genuinely nice person. I felt really bad for being so dismissive of her before I’d even met her.”
    “Well, good,” said Tom, dropping his car keys on the table and sitting down next to me, facing me side on. “Seriously, I think it’s great you had a good time.”
    “Thanks for coming to get me.” I leaned toward him to give him a brief kiss.
    “You’re welcome.” He smiled and kissed me back. “Want a cup of tea?” he said, our unspoken