there for hours . . .
This depressing thought was just sinking in when she heard a familiar noise. Normally it irritated the hell out of her, now it was music to her ears.
‘Yoohoo.’
It echoed around the arrivals hall, bouncing off the walls like a demented cuckoo clock.
‘Yoohoo.’
It grew louder until, like the biblical parting of the waves, the crowds split and through the middle cantered a five-foot-nothing redhead in velvet hotpants and three-inch platforms.
8
‘Blimey, sorry I’m late. The traffic was a ruddy nightmare!’
Flustering and out of breath, Rita impatiently pushed behind her ear a chunk of scarlet hair that had escaped from her ponytail and began tugging at the sides of her shorts, which were fast disappearing up the cheeks of her bum.
‘Still, better late than never.’
Breaking into a grin, she stopped yanking down her hotpants and, as if suddenly remembering where she was and why she was there, threw her arms around Frankie’s waist and began shrieking like a Catherine wheel, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re here!’
Frankie smiled weakly, pinned to the polished floor of Arrivals by Rita’s enthusiastic welcome. Neither could she.
They finished wedging Frankie’s luggage into the boot of Rita’s car – a baby-blue 1950s Thunderbird convertible that stretched out its fabulous fin-tailed limbs along the side of the kerb. Frankie had never seen anything quite like it. It was lean and about twenty feet long. A far cry from the beaten-up Mini that Rita used to bomb around in at home.
Noticing her look of wide-eyed amazement, Rita grinned. ‘So what do you think of the new motor? I figured if I was going to be a Hollywood actress, I better start looking like one.’ Throwing herself across the bonnet, she struck a classic Rita Hayworth pose – leg up, chest out. ‘Suits me, don’t you think?’
Frankie nodded. She had to agree. It had Rita written all over it.
‘So, is that the lot then?’ Rita slammed the boot shut and slid into the driver’s seat.
‘Nearly,’ sighed Frankie, ‘I’ve just got to pop back inside and get one more piece of luggage. Won’t be a minute.’ She disappeared through the airport’s sliding doors.
Waiting in the car, Rita carefully reapplied her brick-red lipstick in the rear-view mirror and, slipping on her sunglasses, began trying out different acting poses for an audition she had later that week: a vulnerable shy-Di head dip, a sultry over-the-shoulder Marilyn pout; a bags-of-confidence, straight-at-the-camera Madonna smile. She was just about to attempt a tearful Oscar-winning Gwyneth Paltrow lip tremble when she caught sight of a gorgeous bloke walking up behind, laden with luggage. Angling the mirror to get a better look, she watched as he strode by the car. Doing a shy-Di head dip, she smiled. He smiled back and carried on walking. Rita’s tongue was practically hanging out. Fucking hell, who was he? Talk about sex on legs. She stared lustfully as he began loading his bags into a taxi, eyeing up his bum, his broad shoulders, the tufts of hair escaping from underneath his beaten-up old Stetson. ‘Easy, cowboy,’ she muttered, giving free rein to her wild imagination and picturing herself doing a spot of bareback riding.
Watching the cab pull out, she followed its progress through the traffic. It was just disappearing out of the airport when Frankie re-emerged carrying something large and bulky, partially concealed by a vinyl cover.
‘Bloody hell, what’ve you got in there? The kitchen sink?’ Tearing herself away from her X-rated daydreams, Rita balanced her sunglasses on the end of her upturned nose and peered at Frankie. ‘How much stuff do you need for a two-week holiday?’
Frankie hesitated, looking more than a little anxious. ‘Actually, I was going to tell you earlier . . .’
‘Tell me what?’ Seemingly oblivious of Frankie’s unease, Rita started fiddling with dials of the original 1950s
This depressing thought was just sinking in when she heard a familiar noise. Normally it irritated the hell out of her, now it was music to her ears.
‘Yoohoo.’
It echoed around the arrivals hall, bouncing off the walls like a demented cuckoo clock.
‘Yoohoo.’
It grew louder until, like the biblical parting of the waves, the crowds split and through the middle cantered a five-foot-nothing redhead in velvet hotpants and three-inch platforms.
8
‘Blimey, sorry I’m late. The traffic was a ruddy nightmare!’
Flustering and out of breath, Rita impatiently pushed behind her ear a chunk of scarlet hair that had escaped from her ponytail and began tugging at the sides of her shorts, which were fast disappearing up the cheeks of her bum.
‘Still, better late than never.’
Breaking into a grin, she stopped yanking down her hotpants and, as if suddenly remembering where she was and why she was there, threw her arms around Frankie’s waist and began shrieking like a Catherine wheel, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re here!’
Frankie smiled weakly, pinned to the polished floor of Arrivals by Rita’s enthusiastic welcome. Neither could she.
They finished wedging Frankie’s luggage into the boot of Rita’s car – a baby-blue 1950s Thunderbird convertible that stretched out its fabulous fin-tailed limbs along the side of the kerb. Frankie had never seen anything quite like it. It was lean and about twenty feet long. A far cry from the beaten-up Mini that Rita used to bomb around in at home.
Noticing her look of wide-eyed amazement, Rita grinned. ‘So what do you think of the new motor? I figured if I was going to be a Hollywood actress, I better start looking like one.’ Throwing herself across the bonnet, she struck a classic Rita Hayworth pose – leg up, chest out. ‘Suits me, don’t you think?’
Frankie nodded. She had to agree. It had Rita written all over it.
‘So, is that the lot then?’ Rita slammed the boot shut and slid into the driver’s seat.
‘Nearly,’ sighed Frankie, ‘I’ve just got to pop back inside and get one more piece of luggage. Won’t be a minute.’ She disappeared through the airport’s sliding doors.
Waiting in the car, Rita carefully reapplied her brick-red lipstick in the rear-view mirror and, slipping on her sunglasses, began trying out different acting poses for an audition she had later that week: a vulnerable shy-Di head dip, a sultry over-the-shoulder Marilyn pout; a bags-of-confidence, straight-at-the-camera Madonna smile. She was just about to attempt a tearful Oscar-winning Gwyneth Paltrow lip tremble when she caught sight of a gorgeous bloke walking up behind, laden with luggage. Angling the mirror to get a better look, she watched as he strode by the car. Doing a shy-Di head dip, she smiled. He smiled back and carried on walking. Rita’s tongue was practically hanging out. Fucking hell, who was he? Talk about sex on legs. She stared lustfully as he began loading his bags into a taxi, eyeing up his bum, his broad shoulders, the tufts of hair escaping from underneath his beaten-up old Stetson. ‘Easy, cowboy,’ she muttered, giving free rein to her wild imagination and picturing herself doing a spot of bareback riding.
Watching the cab pull out, she followed its progress through the traffic. It was just disappearing out of the airport when Frankie re-emerged carrying something large and bulky, partially concealed by a vinyl cover.
‘Bloody hell, what’ve you got in there? The kitchen sink?’ Tearing herself away from her X-rated daydreams, Rita balanced her sunglasses on the end of her upturned nose and peered at Frankie. ‘How much stuff do you need for a two-week holiday?’
Frankie hesitated, looking more than a little anxious. ‘Actually, I was going to tell you earlier . . .’
‘Tell me what?’ Seemingly oblivious of Frankie’s unease, Rita started fiddling with dials of the original 1950s
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