His American Classic (Part 1)

J Morgan G

Description

Told from dual perspectives that span two books, this moving andemotionally-driven love story will leave readers breathless and reeling inequal measure.It begins. Lilly Goodridge always wantedto be an actress, but fame is an unwanted side effect she's desperate to escape- along with the City of Angels and her enigmatic boyfriend. So she takes atiny film role across the pond in a quiet seaside town where nobody can findher. Except for Tom. Down on his luck, Tom might not be the greatest tour guideof Hollywood Hills, but he loves living in America, even if America doesn'tquite love him back. With no choice, he takes on a job he never wanted: in search of an actress he doesn't know, but knows he has to catch.

Sujets

• Contemporary romance

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789011029
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

G J Morgan has been a Chef, a fashion graduate and now works in finance. His unpublished novella “Miss B Tee” has recently been adapted into a short film. His and Her American Classic are his debut novels.
His
American
Classic





G J Morgan
Copyright © 2018 G J Morgan

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781789011029

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Thank you to all those at Matador and Troubador Publishing. You made the process of turning stone to diamond far less daunting than I thought it would be.

Thank you to my early readers: Taya Nicholls (my little Romanian pocket rocket/Business partner), Sarah Lawson (my cinema girlfriend) and Gina Hewitt (my lifestyle coach).

Thanks to Phil Burman (Dad number 2) for constantly being my technical support and turning childlike scribbles into a front cover.

Thanks to Paul Burman for being the only person who could relate to the struggles of being a writer and when best to laugh or cry (mostly cry).

Thanks to Barbara Middleton-Chappell for telling me straight and making me realise I’d ran out of excuses not to start writing again.

Thanks and love to Jodi Ellen Malpas for taking time out from being a New York bestselling author and giving me invaluable advice on what to do when the last word has been written (turns out more writing).

Thank you most of all to my wife Krissy, my friends and family, for giving me hours and evenings and mornings and years to type away at my laptop. Without whom the novel would still be an idea on a hotel napkin.
Contents
Part One Tom
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8

Part Two Lilly
9
10
11
12

Part Three Tom
13
14
15
16
17
18

Part Four Lilly
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Part One
Tom


The Valley/Feb/Shot 7
1
“Lad ies and g entlemen , boys and girls. Welcome to Hollywood Star Tours. My name is Tom and I’ll be your guide today. How are you all? You all happy? I want to see bigger smiles than that, guys. Come on, days like today don’t come around often. No w straight off the bat I know what you are all probably thinking. Milk-skinned, sunburnt, funny accent. Hardly who you would typically be expecting to be driving you around this beautiful city. And I tell you, it is beautiful, and some of the beauty you’ll see today you will recognize from movies and magazines. But my job today, ladies and gentlemen, is to show you its hidden beauty, its little gems, its secrets. Do n ’t worry, you’ll get to see your Rodeo Drive and your Hollywood sign, you’ll get your postcard moments, that is a given. But trust me when I say that today you are going to see a hell of a lot more than you were probably expecting. Closer than you could ever imagine to the real thing. So, buckle up those seatbelts, apply those suncreams, get those cameras ready as the next two hours are gonna be jam-packed and I wouldn’t want you to miss a thing.”

It was mid-August, busy season; the boss called us all in for her daily pep talk. It was no room for five people, it wasn’t even a room, it was a cupboard space. Paperwork loomed floor to ceiling, fans surrounded her desk as she rattled a keyboard at speed. Normally either ill, stressed or pissed off, that Thursday morning she was all three.
“Tom my. How did yesterday go?” Not yet looking up from whatever she was reading.
“Went well. No hiccups.”
“Manni is settling in,” she said, as I wor ked out a reply to neither a question nor a statement.
“Where is Golden boy? Romancing married women again?”
“Day off, smart-ass. He deserves one after nine days straight. Did you hear he got another $100 tip? Got within twenty yards of Aniston over at Runyon Canyon, walking that little white dog of hers.”
“Norman.”
“What?” She looked up.
“Norman. Her dog is called Norman.”
“Who gives a fuck. Where were you when all this was going on? Showing some old fucks where Ginger Rogers used to live. You could do well to take a leaf out of Manni’s book.”
“The guy’s a sex pest. He hits on anything.”
“The guy gets tips.”
“I prefer my way of doing things.”
“We l l I don’t, and I don’t reckon the customers do either.”
“I get no complaints.”
“Wh at is it with you Brits?” She fed herself a handful of pills. “You judge a service by whether or not some poor bastard has complained or not. Do you think my business survives based on no hiccups? Do you think I get repeat custom based on no hiccups? I don’t know what to do with you. You work hard, I’ll give you that. People like you. God, I even like you, don’t do me much good, but you’re likeable. But in this job, that ain’t enough to cut it, you hear me?”
“Lo ok. If you want me to flirt more, I’ll do it, just like Manni. I’ll flirt with the old, ugly, women, kids, men. I can flirt with anything if that will keep you off my back.”
“I just want you to wow them. This is America. I know it’s a struggle for you to understand. But we expect pearly whites and razzle-dazzle as standard. We expect and I expect the best. Tourists haven’t travelled across oceans and drove across state lines for ‘no hiccup’ service. They’ve come here to see the dream. Do you understand, you lump?”
“Crystal-clear.”
“I hope so. Back to work. There’s a group of eight outside. Departing in five.”
“I’m on it.”
“Oh, it’s Halle Berry’s birthday today, she’s just been spotted up at Maxfield with her kids. Pattinson is out and about too; seen an hour ago over at Melrose Trading Post. Antiques shopping. Vampires have to eat too, so be on the lookout.”
“And there was me thinking we just show the tourists houses and landmarks.”
“Don’t push my buttons today. This is last-chance saloon for you, boy.”
“As much as it pains me to say this, Pattinson eats over at Surs on North Robertson.”
“Sounds a good place to start. Right, off you go to the mob, look restless. Remember: teeth and gums.”
“Can’t I be mysterious and aloof?”
“You can be unemployed if your tips get any smaller.”
She laughed, as much as she fought it. That was the trick, I guessed. Keep her smiling.
The rest of the day was pretty standard. Met some nice people, newly-weds, retired folk on vacation, met a few rude ones too, nothing out of the ordinary. I even managed to track down Pattinson, not where I predicted, but I found him, that was the main thing. Gave a couple of Twilight fans the best day of their lives, something signed to take back home. Not that Pattinson was best pleased, though they never were.
Halle Berry. I decided to ignore my boss’s orders on that one, left that to the others to fight and squabble over. Me, I drew the line at mothers and their children blowing out birthday candles. Some moments aren’t to be shared with others, even the ones that tip well.
* * *
At home, I played catch with Molly, not that she caught much, as Cassie set the garden table, waving at next door who were doing the same. Next door was always broiling or singing, they didn’t speak English too good, but always smiled and waved. Their cooking always smelt better than ours too.
We rented in Glendale, far away off the tourist route and our house wasn’t anything camera-worthy. Damp, wallpaper ripped and curled, furniture borrowed or bought cheap, but we tried our utmost to make the best of it. Admittedly, we weren’t the tidiest, and despite our best intentions, over time it became accepted that we lived in a permanent state of tidying, a party that neither me nor Cassie had attended. Every day Cassie would curse at the mass of shoes and boots piled up by the front door, the stack of bills and statements left to pile up in the kitchen unopened. Despite all our combined efforts we never quite kept on top of it. We’d both rather be roller-skating or at some zoo or gallery than be sweeping floors or mowing lawns. That was us, in a house that was ugly but loved.
Cassie served up dinner, as we talked and ate. It was nice, the evening sun less harsh; meant I could come out of the shade finally, we talked about something and nothing. Somehow, over mouthfuls of ice cream, me and Cassie had now fallen out and it was my own fault for bringing it up, not that I thought I had. I just said that we didn’t need a three-bed and could make do with renting a two to save on bills. The conversation escalated quickly, and it was a debate we’d had time and time again: she wanted a second child and I didn’t, least not yet, so it was a disagreement that would not go away and would either end in separation or pregnancy, probably the latter. Molly was between us, eating and humming, so the difference in opinion we kept to angry whispers across the table and then later silent baths and early bedtime for everyone except me.
I decided to go