Lily Does LA

Book 2: Girls On Tour

by Nicola Doherty

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Meet the Girls on Tour - Poppy, Lily, Maggie and Rachel. Four ordinary girls who have the most fun in faraway places. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll lose your heart. Perfect for fans of Jill Mansell, Debbie Johnson and Fiona Collins. 'A great beach read' Star on The Out of Office Girl Lily is an actress. At least, that's what she tells people, even though she's currently working in a call centre and her last big part was an ad for Sofa Warehouse. So when she's invited to her cousin Alice's wedding in LA, it's a dream come true. Alice's fiancé Sam is actually a Hollywood agent; how can Lily fail to get talent-spotted? There's only one problem; not only is Lily banned from mentioning acting, parts or producers to Sam, she's expected to spend the entire week doing wedding-related prep (read: chores) with Sam's boring groomsman Jesse. But Lily firmly believes that rules were made to be broken ... Expect the unexpected, the utterly hilarious and unforgettable, on this rollercoaster ride of love, laughs, surprises and sparks. You have a VIP pass to join each girl's adventure, so pack your bags and buckle your seatbelts, because just about anything is possible...

Release date: September 25, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 74

Sample

This is going to be an exciting phone call, I can tell. It could be J. J. Abrams asking me to audition for his new thriller. Or even Jake Gyllenhaal. He’s single now, and he did take my number at that party last week. I allow a slow smile to spread across my face.

‘Good afternoon, my name’s Lily,’ I say warmly into my headset. ‘Have you got a minute to take a quick survey about your leisure activities?’

‘I’ve had enough of these fucking calls! Stop calling me!’ the voice snaps and slams down the phone.

‘Certainly, sir, I’ll take you off our list at once. Have a lovely day,’ I tell the ring tone.

Obviously I knew it wasn’t going to be anyone thrilling, let alone a Hollywood director. But sometimes the only way I can make myself start a new call is by pretending it’s going to be something good – or by practising an accent. After all, you never know when I might need it for an audition.

I’m sitting in a little grey cell, with a computer screen in front of me. There are about 150 of us in the windowless room, which has a low ceiling, fluorescent lighting and stained grey carpets. All around me I can hear people saying: ‘No, we won’t sell your details,’ ‘It can be as quick as ten minutes but it can take up to twenty,’ ‘Can I ask your age? Are you: twenty to thirty, thirty to forty . . .’ The irony of it: we’ve all got a script. It’s just the wrong script.

I’ve just finished my sixth successful survey of the day (while taking the opportunity to practise my Scottish accent) when I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s our supervisor, Gary. He has a horrible habit of creeping up on you and standing way too close so you have to breathe in his Lynx deodorant, and is generally a nasty little man, with over-gelled hair and a permanent frown.

‘Lily,’ he says, ‘what have I told you before about those accents you put on?’

‘I don’t remember you saying anything,’ I lie, putting on a confused look.

‘Yes, I did. Twice. No more accents.’

He wags his finger at me and stands, breathing down my neck, while I make the next call. Bad idea, Gary. If you test me, I will test you right back.

‘G’day, my name’s Lily,’ I say, in my best Australian accent. ‘Have you got a minute to take a quick survey about your leisure activities?’

Gary squeaks and makes throat-cutting signs at me. I give him a friendly little wave back while the voice asks me how long it will take.

‘It can be as quick as ten minutes but it can take up to twenty,’ I parrot, still in Australian. Gary is going bright red in the face and waving his arms madly from side to side. I give him an innocent ‘what?’ look. Fire me, I think. If you’re man enough.

‘Twenty minutes! I don’t have twenty minutes to spare. And what’s it for?’ the caller continues suspiciously. ‘Are you going to sell my details to someone?’ Great: a time-waster. He’s going to spend ten minutes trying to catch me out and then refuse to do the survey.

‘Hey, mate, relax,’ I say. ‘It’s just some bullshit survey. Not worth bothering with.’ I press the button to end the call and rip off my horrible headset, which I know is crawling with germs despite all the sanitising wipes I use.

‘You’re fired,’ Gary splutters.

‘No, I quit,’ I tell him, pushing my chair under my desk. ‘This is the worst job I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some shitty jobs. Nobody should have to do this.’ I look around to see if I’m going to lead a walkout, Jerry Maguire-style. But everyone’s still plugging away at their calls, oblivious. I stumble out, thinking: I can’t believe I stayed three weeks in Gary’s little battery farm. Now I just need to make sure I get paid.

As I trudge along through the rainy streets of Slough, I’m trying to not think about how many awful jobs I’ve had in the past three years. Meanwhile I’m desperate to get cast in something, anything. But you need experience to get work, and you can’t get work without experience.

On the train back to Paddington, I get out my phone and check for shout-outs on Spotlight.com, which is my main source of acting jobs. Today’s new listings include a Global Circus Show – acrobatic skills essential – and a James Bond Murder Mystery Night in Cheltenham. Eighty-five pounds, no expenses paid. Also a Theatre in Education play about Hitler that’s going to tour the West Midlands. They all look awful, but I’ll try for them anyway.

I click onto my own profile, trying to see myself through a director’s eyes. Age: Twenty-four. Hair: Blond. Eyes: Green. Height: 5'8". Weight: 9 st. That’s all fine. But then my eyes move down to my embarrassingly scanty CV. Three years out of Central Drama School and all I’ve got to show for it are a tiny part in a community theatre production and two seconds on a Sofa Warehouse TV ad. I missed the end-of-year showcase, where most people get their agents, and I’ve never caught up.

Leaving the station, I head to Whiteley’s shopping centre with the intention of looking for job signs in the shops. I trail around half-heartedly for a while, and then find myself on the escalator going towards the top floor, where the cinema is. I can’t really justify the price of a ticket, but I need two hours’ escape from my life. I hide behind a sign and jog on the spot for a minute, and then rush up to the guy at the entrance to the cinema.

‘Hi, I left my scarf in the cinema!’ I say breathlessly, practically throwing myself on his little podium. ‘Can I go in and get it please?’

He stops chewing his gum and looks me up and down, smiling as if he knows I’m bullshitting him and is quite up for the challenge.

‘Have you got your ticket?’

‘No, I lost it! Please, I’ll only be a minute.’

‘What film was you watching?’

‘Tamara Drewe,’ I say promptly.

He’s obviously enjoying being counsel for the prosecution, because he continues, ‘That ended ages ago. Did you only just remember your scarf?’

‘No, I was on the bus, and then I had to come all the way back. Please? It’ll just take a second . . .’

‘Hmm,’ he says, his eyes twinkling. ‘I don’t think you was in the cinema today. I woulda remembered you.’

The admiring look in his eyes is as soothing as a hot bath, reassuring me that I’ve still got something going for me.

‘OK, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve had a horrendous day. I was fired.’

‘For real? From what job?’

‘Call centre.’

He winces sympathetically. His expression says: been there.

‘But I’m an actor, really. And I would love to go in and see a film, even if it’s halfway through. I won’t disturb anyone. Just this once.’ I look at him pleadingly.

‘OK,. . .