Read Online The Year of Living Famously by Laura Caldwell - Free Book Online Page A

back at us. And how could they not? We glowed.
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    I tried hard to make L. A. my new hometown. One day, when Declan was at an audition, I went to Fred Segal in Santa Monica. To me this outing smacked of something a true Los Angeleno would do. I knew of Fred Segal, the jeans designer, but I had never heard about his L. A. stores, and my ignorance had been met with abject horror by one woman.
    â€œYou’ve never been to Fred Segal?” said Tara, wife of Brandon, one of Declan’s acting friends. A week or so after I moved, Declan had invited the couple for dinner at a restaurant called C&O in Venice so that I could get to know some people. But Tara only wanted to lord over me how much I didn’t know about Los Angeles. She had already giggled maliciously when I said I didn’t have a car and didn’t think I would get one. (In retrospect, I can’t blame her.)
    â€œThey’re some kind of shops?” I said.
    â€œSome kind of shops?” Tara sent Brandon a smug look, as if to say, Isn’t she just precious?
    â€œSweetie,” she said, placing a hand on mine. “Fred Segal is the place to shop. And for good reason. It’s casual, it’s delicious, and you will spend way too much money. Trust me. Just go.”
    And so a few days later, after Declan left, I went to Fred Segal, and found that Tara was right. It was very L. A.—a glorified mall—but there was no Gap, no Barnes & Noble, just tiny boutiques filled with gauzy pink slip dresses, silver salad tongs in the shape of tree branches, decadent bath products that smelled like lavender.
    Most of the boutiques were individually owned, and I tried to talk to the managers or owners about taking a look at my clothing line. The fact was, I had no such line ready at the time, but I figured I’d lure them in, then figure it out. But all I heard was, “No thanks, we only buy from a few reps.”
    Dejected, I wandered the stores. I bought Declan some English shaving cream in a decorative can that set me back fifty dollars and a leather journal for Emmie, then I had lunch in an Italian café. I drank pinot grigio and ate salad with a crowd of people doing exactly the same thing. Except that all those people had lunch partners or spoke constantly into their cell phones.
    I called Bobby from mine.
    I’d seen him the previous week for drinks at the Sky Bar on a night when Declan had his acting class. There was a huge line stretching from the bar into the Mondrian Hotel lobby, and every beautiful person in line looked as if they were famous or counting on being famous soon. Bobby walked to the front, said hello to the bouncer with an earpiece, and we sailed right in.
    â€œYou know him?” I said to Bobby.
    â€œNot really. He knows I work for William Morris.” As if that said everything. And I soon came to understand that it did. Everyone in L. A. was “in the business” in one form or another, or if not, they were trying to get “in the business” or they had a friend or sister or roommate who was trying to get “in the business.”
    â€œWow,” I said as we got into the bar. It was open-air, the sky above us black and sparkling with stars. On one side, the lights of Los Angeles burned orange, competing with the stars and winning.
    Bobby soon scored a low table surrounded by white plushy couches. We stretched out on them, ordered vodka martinis, just like we always did when we were together, and proceeded to get pleasantly boozy. But we were interrupted on a regular basis.
    The first time, it was a short, muscled woman with spiky, cherry-cola hair. “Are you Bobby Minter?” she said.
    Bobby nodded, but didn’t change his slouched position,which I thought was rude. I sat up straight and smiled at her, waiting to be introduced.
    â€œI’m Rachel Tagliateri,” she said.
    â€œNice to meet you,” Bobby said, although he didn’t sound as if it was all that