Hollywood Dreams E-Book

L.J. Diva

• Herausgeber: Royal Star Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 540

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

This book is dedicated to…

To the two most important people who inspired this book…Michael Weatherly and Carmine Giovinazzo.

Need I say more?

Winning lotto possesses all of Tahlia Cameron’s thoughts. So does a certain sexily suave star of the TV naval drama she watches every week.

She’s convinced she’ll win millions, move to Hollywood, and marry him. And then comes a call. A call that's about to change the rest of her life. So, what’s the first thing she does? She makes a to-do list!

Flying off to Hollywood, she begins setting up the fashion and jewellery empire she’s always dreamed of owning, all while shopping up an absolute storm.

Win lotto, move to Hollywood and set up a business. Triple check.

But karma depleting drama comes with her new life, such as seriously tiresome run-ins with seriously bitchy celebs, being stalked by a hot Italian stud from a hot TV crime drama, and saving a bigwig network C.E.O. and then his wife. And it all happens before she meets her future husband.

Meet annoyingly bitchy celebs and save a bigwig. Double check.

When she does meet her future husband they both know it's love, and she’s determined to make him hers. But tragedy strikes at a huge network function where she has to save every celebrity in TV Land before she marries the man of her dreams.

Marry a really huge TV star and try not to seek media attention. Double check.

As Tahlia battles anguished demons, life-altering wounds, and seriously depleted karma, she knows she can get through it all and kick her really bad karma to the curb with the love of her man by her side.

Find fame, fortune and good karma. Double check. And we’ll leave that last one for some other time…

And then she receives another call…

A call from one of the world’s biggest daytime TV hosts…

If you love kick-ass heroines who save the day, and fall in love with sexily suave TV actors, then you’ll love L.J. Diva’s Hollywood Dreams: A Karmic Tale of Money, Love and Bitchy TV Drama Queens!

Pick up Hollywood Dreams: A Karmic Tale of Money, Love and Bitchy TV Drama Queens! tday to discover who Tahlia gets a call from, and if she can get her good karma back!

Leseprobe

HOLLYWOOD DREAMS

A KARMIC TALE OF MONEY, LOVE AND BITCHY TV DRAMA QUEENS!

L.J. Diva

CONTENTS

Dedications

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Titles

Copyright

Dedications

To the two most important people who inspired this book…

Michael Weatherly and Carmine Giovinazzo.

Need I say more?

Chapter 1

His thick luscious pink lips parted as they made their way toward mine.

My lips quivered with wild anticipation of what was to come. My heart pounded like a jackhammer in my chest.

They were closer now. Only inches of space between us.

My eyes couldn’t tear themselves away. My breath came orgasmically in quick, uneven rasps as I struggled for air.

He was so right, so sure he wanted to take me into his arms and make me his.

Those lips were only centimetres away now, coming closer and closer. The world fell away...there was nothing. Nothing but his lips, my racing heart, and a body that was so ready and ripe for him and all he could do to it.

Fingers slid around my arms in vice-like grips, ready to take me to heights I’d never known.

My tongue snaked out to wet my lips, ready to mate, as his found their way home.

They were so hot, so sure, as they planted themselves and hungrily devoured mine…

Bring bringgg. Bring bringgg.

Huh!

Bring bringgg. Bring bringgg.

I came to in a daze, dragged out of my daydreaming. Away from locking lips with the gorgeous TV naval drama actor heartthrob, Michael Anthony, and being taken to heights I so wanted to go with him. Coming back down to earth to realise...there was something calling out to me.

Bring bringgg. Bring bringgg.

The phone rang out loud and clear in my apartment’s tiny lounge room. I turned from staring out of the tiny window to run from the tiny kitchen to answer it, which wasn’t far, since the place was so small. And I mean small. I only took five large steps!

I saw that my fave Aussie group, Human Nature, or as I call them, Australia’s Singing Sexpots, were still performing some mushy love song on The Morning Show with Larry Emdur, so it’s no wonder I’d been dreaming of Michael. I grabbed the TV remote and turned the boys down as I reached for the phone. I love Laz, as I affectionately call him. I think he and David Reyne, another morning show veteran, should get together and have their own show, calling it ‘The Big Spunk Rats Show’, with Big Dave and Big Laz. I’d definitely watch it, as would millions of other women aged 25 to 105. Anyhoo, back to reality. “Hello.”

“Hello, Ms Tahlia Cameron, I’m Rose Dawson, calling from the Lottery Commission.”

Well, knock me down with a goddamn feather!

“Ms Cameron, are you there?”

My heart raced a million miles a second, and I gripped the phone, almost breaking it, not sure if I’d heard correctly.

“Ms Cameron, are you there?”

I knew what it was about. There’s only one reason the Lottery Commission calls you at nine a.m. It’s because you won the jackpot. The prize. The division one multimillion-dollar dream. I swallowed the lump in my throat that was making my eyes water and pushed a few words past the lump. “I’m here.” It came out in a squeak, my hands shaking and sweating.

“Ms Cameron, as I said, I’m Rose Dawson from the Lottery Commission. I’m ringing to tell you that you won division one in lotto last night. Congratulations.”

“Oh, my, God!” I gasped in a rush, my body sliding downward, my knees bending, my butt landing on the couch. Thank God I didn’t fall flat on the floor and hurt myself. Now that would have been a problem. I sat there stunned out of my mind. My head moved back and forth in slow motion. No! I couldn’t possibly have, I, oh, my, God! All of the things I had thought about, all of the dreams I had dreamed about, were about to come true. Everything I wanted to do flew past my eyes in a delirium of joy. I would finally do everything I wanted to do. Buy everything I wanted to buy. Have everything I wanted to have...etc, etc, etc.

“Ms Cameron, are you there? I know this must be a shock for you. Everybody we call is in shock. They can’t believe they’ve won either. But they do, and now you have too. Let me tell you a bit more.”

I don’t think I heard a thing she said, as her voice was this muffled sound warbling down the line. My mind was still full of things to spend my brand-new money on.

“Twenty-three million…division one winner…cheque in two weeks...”

Of course I heard the particulars, which brought me back to reality. “Ah, yes,” I muttered. “Are you absolutely sure you have the right person? You have to be positive that the numbers are right, that’s definitely my ticket with my name on it. You have to be certain.” I was animated now. “I mean if you sit there and tell me I’ve won, and then I go on a huge spending spree and rack up debt while waiting for my money to come in then you call again and say it’s been a huge mistake and you’re so sorry...” I gasped for air. “Then I’ll kill you!”

There was silence at the other end. Well, yeah! I’d just dramatically threatened to kill her!

“Ms Cameron,” she went on, unperturbed, “it’s definitely your ticket, the right numbers, the right game. I understand your reasoning. A lot of people ask the same things.” She gained momentum now. “Besides, you used your lotto player’s card when you bought your tickets, so your name is on them, and your details are registered. That’s how I contacted you.”

We have cards the size of credit cards that we apply for from the Lottery Commission. They have our details, phone, address etc. It’s all registered when we buy tickets. So if we win, they can call us. And if we lose the ticket, they still know it’s us, and we get our money.

“Believe me, Ms Cameron, you have won division one in lotto. Twenty-three million dollars.”

“Oh, my God!” I interrupted. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God!”

She laughed. “That’s understandable, Ms Cameron. It’s going to take some getting used to being Australia’s newest millionaire.”

“Screw Australia! I’m getting the hell out of here,” I blurted out.

“Oh!” She seemed shocked. “Well, that’s up to you. Remember though, you can’t cash the cheque for two weeks. Do you want to be in the news? You can stay a secret if you wish.”

“Ah,” I said, thoughts coming in quick succession. As much as I’d love the people in my life to know I’m now filthy stinking rich, so I can brag to my heart’s content and tell them where to go when they come slinking out of the woodwork scavenging for money...I decline.

“Okay, that’s fine. We will need to meet so you can sign some papers and claim your check. When will you be in?”

“What’s today?” I asked, having a mental gap. “Hell, I’ll be in today!” I remembered it was a weekday. Who cares about the book I’m writing, or the dolls I want to bid on, on eBay? I’ve won shitloads of money, and I can buy whatever the hell I want!

“Okay, Ms Cameron, that’s fine. We’ll see you today. Come to the third floor of the Lotteries Commission in town, and we’ll fill out all the paperwork. We’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” I managed.

“Oh, Ms Cameron. You have won twenty-three million in lotto. I guarantee you.”

I sat there like a stunned mullet, the phone still in my hand, my backside still plastered to the couch. Images and dreams screaming through my mind of all the things I’d do and buy. I inhaled, deep and slow, then exhaled, once, twice, three times, and then realised the phone was beeping. I put it in its cradle and sat there contemplating my future.

“What the hell am I going to do?” I kept repeating to myself as I hauled my big butt up and stumbled over to my desk in a daze, still stunned out of my brain. This hasn’t? Could it? Really? No! Don’t even joke with me! My bladder threatened to overflow, but I ignored it as I fell into my chair and just stared out the window at the crappy, weedy front yard, and the dead tree across the road. The suburb I’d re-named Hicksville. No more Hicksville. Hicksville will be gone forever in two weeks.

“Two weeks?” you ask.

Yes, two weeks. That’s when I’ll be able to cash my cheque and have all that glorious money in my bank account. Wait, it will take longer than that to get my visa and passport. Damn, I don’t want to wait that long. Well, who cares! L.A., here I come!

Oh, my God! I moved around in my seat at a frantic pace as I came up with one good idea after another. I have to get rid of my junk and have a clean out. Put in notice with the banks, the bookshop, the library, the doctors, and oh, my God...I’m a freakin’ multimillionaire! A mega multimillionaire! I’m freakin’ rich beyond my wildest dreams. Woohoo!

My heart was still racing, and I was panting in shock. Oh, my God! Tears sprang to my eyes. Oh, my God! I’m going to live the life I’ve always wanted. I wiped at the teary overload. I’m going to leave Hicksville, move overseas, start my companies, publish my novels, and with God as my witness I’ll meet and marry Michael Anthony… Okay, so I sound like Scarlett O’Hara at this time, but seriously, the moment calls for dramatic poise.

The tears flowed forth, and I sat there at my little old desk, in little old Hicksville, and thanked God for the abundant riches he had bestowed upon me in good faith.

For a few moments, I let the quiet wash over me, then I opened my gratitude diary.

Well, actually, it’s a folder, full of pictures of things that I want to buy, have and do.

As I turned each page, starting with wanting to be a millionaire, I thanked God for the abundance he had given me to look after and to do much with. I thanked him for the financial freedom so I could move to L.A. and be with Michael – pages three and four – publish my first novel and make the movie – five and six – start my fashion and jewellery labels – seven and eight. I moved through the folder and scanned the pages, so thankful I could now have all that I want. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I let them fall. I was now about to have to most amazing life ever and believe me, I thank you, God.

An hour later I flew into town. I live about forty minutes out of the city, but when money’s at stake, the time flies. I was now a multimillionaire. Owner of twenty-three million dollars. I arrived at the Lottery Commission, and three floors up met Rose Dawson, the woman who’d called.

“I’m so glad you could make it. Congratulations. Do you believe it yet?”

“No,” I replied, shaking her hand and taking in her black hair, blue pinstripe business suit and pearls. “I guess I won’t believe it until I’m told the money’s in my bank account.”

“Well, it is an awful lot to take in,” she said, striding around her desk.

Awful? I thought with a cocked brow.

“Most people are still overwhelmed days, weeks, even months later.” She sat down. “So, what do you plan on doing with your money, may I ask?”

No, you can’t! It’s none of your business! “Moving,” I said, hoping I hadn’t said the other thing out loud. “Lots of shopping. New car, etc. You know, the usual.” I just wanted to snatch my cheque and run the hell outta there.

“That’s what most people say,” she said, signing a few forms and handing them to me. “Sign here, here and here.” I read the forms first, and then with overwhelming happiness, signed my name. “And here’s your check. Now, you can’t bank this for two weeks. The money’s not applicable till then. Well, you can take it to your bank, but you can’t cash it.”

“That’s fine,” I said, gingerly taking the twenty-three million dollar cheque from her, the half million was a nice extra bonus of extra money. I folded it and tucked it into my bra for safe keeping. “Should be safe in there till I can get to the bank.” I saw the comical look on her face. “Do you know where the closest bank is? I haven’t been here for over ten years.”

“Just down the mall,” she said, standing. “I’ll show you out, and you can be on your way to a big, brand-new world.”

I followed her to the lift, thanked her before she left, and thought about what to do next on my way down. I suppose I could have a bit of a shop while I’m here. After all, I won’t be coming back. What a great idea! I headed for the first store, remembering that big fat cheque in my bra, waiting to be banked.

I arrived home six hours later, laden with bags from almost every store. Since I didn’t have the money yet, I just booked it up on credit. Isn’t credit wonderful! Buy now, pay later.

Feeling so damn good, and having a need to dance, I threw a cd into the player and cranked it up loud. To hell with my soon to be ex-neighbours I say! Indecent Obsession, an Aussie pop-rock group from the late eighties, early nineties, belted out of the speakers. To think, it was over twenty years ago that four young, good looking guys burst onto the Aussie scene.

Girls loved them, and I had a huge crush on the keyboardist for six years. Ironically, his name is Michael, and he’s got brown hair and blue eyes! Mmm, I see a pattern forming! I still love listening to them and wish they’d reform like all the other eighties bands. It would be so cool to see and hear them again.

So, here I am in my small Hicksville bedroom, listening to good music, dancing around, and sorting out everything I’d bought, knowing I had to have an almighty clear out. After all, I wasn’t going to be caught dead in L.A. in some of the crap I owned.

I suppose at this stage I should tell you a little more about myself. Well, I live in Australia, in a state I won’t name as I’m being mysterious, and because I don’t want you thinking you can hunt me down. As much as I don’t mind living here in Aus, now, L.A. is more important.

I live alone. At my age I damn well should I suppose. A wannabe singer, author, collector, entrepreneur, businesswoman of the year, and a fashion and jewellery designer, struggling away to get my designs out to the world.

Except I’m no longer struggling, thanks to those wonderful coloured dollars of money.

Which reminds me...the time is flying by and there’s a hell of a lotta stuff I gotta start doing. Let’s see now. I told the girls at my local bookstore they wouldn’t be enabling my Nancy Drew addiction anymore – they were sad at that. Oh, and I got to tell the girl at the lotto counter that she wouldn’t be serving me anymore. I’d won the jackpot. Take that girly! She could not get over the shock. I need to cancel my memberships everywhere. And I get to quit my crap shit job. Woohoo!

My boss didn’t like me quitting, although I only had the job to pay the bills while I got my designs up and going. He begged and begged me to stay and work for him.

“But, Tahlia, my sexy little minx.”

What the?!

“I do not want to lose you.” His fat greasy hand crept over to my leg, while his filthy black tongue licked his fat, cracked lips in anticipation. “You my most valued employee.” His fingers reached me, and I slapped them away in disgust.

Considering this guy is a sleazy old sleazebag, I figured it was a definite NO to me staying and working there. “Listen, shit head,” I hissed, “you think you’re such hot stuff and you can hit on all the girls who work for you. Since you don’t hire guys, then I’d say it’s a fair assumption that you only hire girls to perve down their tops and up their skirts. Ugh, how gross.”

I stood up in the store’s small office, which I’d once called work, and with great delight said, “You can stick ya job up ya fat arse ’cause I’ve won shitloads of money in lotto and don’t need you touching me up ’cause ya think ya can.” I moved toward the door. Ugh, the poor girls left behind will get twice as much crap now that I’m leaving, but that’s their problem. They need to stand up for themselves! My boss also seemed to think now that I had loads of money I should pay him back as a thank you for giving me the job and helping me out.

“But, Tahlia.” His fat sweaty body managed to get from the desk to the door in one quick step. He spun me around and slammed me back against the door. His gross body was against mine, his foul breath overwhelming me. I tried to quash the ever rising panic that sped around my body. I moved my head to the side, trying to get fresh air. I was unsuccessful.

“Tahlia!” His tongue licked his lips again. “You won lotto? You have money? Maybe you, no, you should pay me back for helping you out all these months.”

What the hell?!

Oh, crap, I should’ve kept my big mouth shut, and my lotto win to myself. That’ll teach me for opening wide and letting words spew out of my mouth before thinking about it, I thought.

Bugger!

His hands tightened around my arms, and he pressed his body closer against mine. I felt his erection eagerly trying to find its way through his pants to get some relief.

EEEWWWWWW!

“You should pay me back, Tahlia, for helping you. That would be so nice of you...wouldn’t it?”

Well, you know what I told him. “GET STUFFED you fat arrogant bastard.” I pulled my right knee up into his groin and shoved him back into the desk. He yowled in pain and tumbled to the floor. I shook the feeling of him off and spat at him. “I should call the cops on you, you lowlife piece of scum. GET STUFFED!” With a kick to his groin for extra good measure, I slammed the door open and ran out of the shop to my car. I almost sped all the way home, then lay panting and shaking on my couch. “Ugh, how gross. How could I have put up with that? Ugh.” Once I’d showered three times, and calmed down enough, I checked my phone messages. There was one very important call waiting for me.

“Ah, Ms Cameron. This is David, from your bank. I’m just calling to let you know that your money is now deposited into your account. You can start spending it any time now.”

My money was now safe and sound in my account. Snug as a twenty-three million dollar bug in one damn big rug.

Fan, freakin’, tastic!

I went over my list of things. I needed statements to get a passport as I had to prove who I was and where I lived. Then a passport so I could apply for a visa to move to L.A. After all, I was going to be with my gorgeously gorgeous Michael. So, during the week I found a post office that took passport applications and the photos to go with it. I had an appointment for all of five minutes and was told my application would be sent off, and I’d get it in about two weeks. Well, I couldn’t wait.

I rang the Australian branch of the American Consulate to find out which visa applications I would need and any other relevant details such as when to make appointments, get my fingerprints taken etc. There’s a lot required when you apply to move to the U.S. While I was waiting for my paperwork I got to work, emailing someone who follows my blog.

See, I own and write a blog coz I love bitching about all things big and small. I started it up because I found myself sitting in front of the TV yelling abuse at everyone who said or did anything stupid. I was good at it and decided to start a blog, so I could bitch to the world. I also write about my fave actors, Michael Anthony, and Carmine Gionetti, from one of my fave crime show spin-offs. Things like what movies they’re in, what functions they attend, magazines they may pop up in, or the latest entertainment show they give an interview on.

My posts attracted my first follower, Sin Mainwaring, a lawyer who lives outside of L.A. I had sent her a copy of the book I’d written, a raunchy sex novel that our fave actor had inspired so much. And believe me, he inspired most of the sex in the book. We did it all over the place, er, ah, I mean the characters did it all over the place.

I emailed her about me moving to L.A. and, of course, all the particulars that I had to have. Cough, Michael Anthony, cough. Our emails ran as follows:

Hey Sin,

Oh, my freakin’, God I’m moving to L.A. I won lotto baby and am on my way. Just waiting on my passport and visa. I want you to be my lawyer. I need to show the U.S. Consulate I’m ready to set up or invest in a company. I need to know about registering/copyrighting/trademarking my company names. If there are any businesses I could buy out. Are you up for it?

Tahlia :)

Sin replied with...

Hey, Tahlia,

Fuck yeah! I’m so happy you want to move here. I’ll be your lawyer. Okay, so I looked into it, and you need to pay to register your company name etc. But you need a place of residence. Do you want me to file on your behalf? By the way, how are you paying me?

Sin

I replied back...

Sin,

I can pay you in person, or in shopping. Go ahead and register my business. I’ll put the money in your PayPal account. I need you to find a place for me to live, as close to Michael Anthony as possible. Book a couple of rooms at a hotel in the same postcode so we can look for a house nearby. Give me a number I can call you on.

Tahlia :)

I got Sin’s number, and we started talking. “I want a warehouse, and since I’m thinking big, I need at least a hundred workers to make the clothes, print the clothes, and pack and ship. I want it all in the same area I’ll be living in. And have you tracked down where Michael lives yet?”

“Fuck you, I’m not a miracle worker, but yeah, I have. I’m a lawyer, I have privileges.”

“Of course you do. Let me know about the warehouse. I want a new one.”

So, that was the first of many calls to Sin. While waiting for my passport and visa, I had many things to do, so my life was incredibly hectic. And I still had months to wait. Argh!

*****

Since money had been tight for so long, I had struggled to scrape together enough cash for a one hour singing lesson a week. Now, I could make it a two hour lesson a day. The teacher didn’t mind the extra money, and she knew I was determined to be the best I could be. Definitely not a world-famous rock or opera singer, but one who could carry a melody, sing a song, and look and sound good while entertaining the crowd at hand.

I had also been taking free weekly self-defence classes at my local gym since I was unable to afford those either. Now, I paid for extensive classes and added martial arts to my already full schedule. But as it turned out, this body could only do so much, and twist and turn in so many ways. So the instructors found my strengths – there weren’t too many of them – and worked on those while helping to fix my weaknesses, which were unbelievably far and wide.

I also got into weapons training. I was going to be living in California, and I needed to be able to keep myself safe. I trained hard, with firearms and other weapons such as bats, swords, knives etc, that may be used against me. I know, it sounds strange, but muggers, killers, and home invaders will use anything against you these days. I made sure I knew how to deal with almost any weapon. My teachers were great; they helped me figure out some quick, simple and efficient moves that my body would allow, and would get me out of any situation without being hurt, and without turning myself into Chuck Norris or Bruce Lee!

I worked out hard in the gym, and danced up a storm at the local studio, including pole dancing. I found a doctor to suck out any fat I couldn’t burn off. Liposuction baby! I also found a dentist who whitened my teeth and gave me a Hollywood smile. I needed one since I was moving there, and had to look my best when I flew in to L.A.

I had my body hair permanently removed, and my face and body sucked free of all the nasty germs that were embedded in my pores. I thoroughly enjoyed my first time at the day spa. It was very relaxing and invigorating. I had some moles removed that were either sore or itchy, or just in the way of straps. ’Cause God, I’ve got millions of them. Really!

I had defensive driving lessons and learned how to drive on the other side of the road, succeeding in getting an international driver’s licence. I donated money to the Cancer Council as a thank you to God for the abundant riches he’d given me.

I even had a Nancy Drew luggage set made in turquoise blue with black embroidered silhouettes on it. And on top of all that, I collected as many Nancy books as I could, to try and complete my collection before I left. Especially since time flew by. And believe me, you really don’t need to know any more details than the above mentioned. Otherwise, you’d be bored to death if you’re not already. And we’re not even through the first chapter! Ha, ha, ha!

My passport arrived, and thanks to Sin, I could send in my visa applications. A week later the U.S. Consulate rang and told me my appointment was in two weeks. Two weeks, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God! I needed to get prepared...and have everything ready...I had to come up with documents...

God, where are they...I needed time, time I tells ya. ’Cause right now, I’m running around like a chook with its head cut off.

*****

The U.S. Consulate was in another state, so I flew over the day before. It’s only open in the mornings, and I made sure to be there when the doors opened at eight thirty a.m., even though my appointment was for nine. After going through security and being looked over by the guards, who were so not good looking, I sat and waited.

“Ms Cameron,” a woman called, after what seemed like a very restless eternity.

“That’s me.” I dove out of my chair and followed her into her tiny white office, sitting in the chair she pointed to.

She seated herself and looked at me. “So, tell me why you want to live in America.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting that, although I should’ve, since it was of great importance, and pretty much bordering on the whole, me getting a visa to move there thing. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her I only wanted to move there to meet and marry Michael Anthony. No way! She’d consider me a stalker. “Well,” I started. “I’ve lived all my life here in Australia, and now that I’ve won lotto, I’d like to spread my wings and experience the joy and wonder of another country.” I gazed at her with great expectations. No...not the book!

“Nicely put,” she said, reading over my application.

I twittered in my seat – no, not the social media website – and tried not to show my nervousness.

“I see you have plenty of money to support yourself. Congratulations on winning lotto.” She looked up at me with a huge grin.

“Thanks. I still can’t believe it.” Her smile made me relax a little.

“I see you already have a business plan in place.”

“Ah, yes. My friend who lives in L.A. is a lawyer, so she’s put it all into place for me.”

“That’s very nice of her,” the woman said, not giving me an indication of anything.

“Yes, it was,” I replied before silence fell around us. I glanced at the walls and saw posters of America, advertising the many states and touristy things you could do there.

A few moments went by during which all I wanted to do was pee myself with nerves.

After what seemed like forever, she looked up. “Well, Ms Cameron, everything is in order, and your application will be looked at. We’ll be in touch.” She stood and extended her hand.

I almost leapt out of my seat to shake it.

That was it. A few heart wrenching, gut twisting, mind altering minutes.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said, and walked out the door. I stood on the steps outside the Consulate, my brain slowing down long enough to understand it had happened. All I had to do was wait for my visa. But in the meantime, it was still early, and I didn’t leave until later, I may as well get in a spot of shopping while I was there. After all, I’m a multimillionaire. I could buy whatever the hell I wanted.

I ended up going home with far more than I’d taken, so it was just as well I had a case that I’d only thrown a few outfits into. As if I needed any more than I already had! I wanted to look good and all, but does a person really need everything I’d bought?

Of course the answer is yes! When one wants to be a fashion icon, darling, one needs EVERYTHING!

*****

Here is another month flying by with me running out to the mailbox every day waiting for my visa. It will come, it will come. I believed! In the meantime, more lessons, more lipo, more dancing. I was going to be a new person when I flew into L.A.X. I was very determined about that. There were a million emails and phone calls to Sin about the business. She’d found a warehouse that sounded perfect, a couple of struggling businesses I could buy out, and she’d gone house hunting in the same area Michael lived in.

And, of course, I’d been scouring the internet for all things Michael. I had to keep up with his comings and goings. Find out where he was eating, where he was shopping, where he went for relaxation. I knew every little detail about Michael Anthony. Every little detail that mattered that is. And no, while you may think I am, I am not a stalker!

Oh, yes baby, this will happen. I was prepared. As prepared as I could be. I had all my business and legal papers ready. I knew which boxes of my stuff I wanted to be sent over to America once I found a house. I was ready. And then the parcel post van delivered a huge bulky envelope labelled – “The U.S. Consulate”. I ripped it open in apprehension, and with very shaky hands I pulled out a pile of papers and read from the letter sitting on top.

Dear Ms Cameron,

Congratulations on your successful visa application.

Chapter 2

OH, MY HOLY FREAKIN’ GOD!

It’s happened. It’s come. It’s happened and it’s come.

My hands were shaking so badly I dropped some papers and they fluttered to the ground. Snatching them up, I ran into the lounge room, and sitting at my desk, spread the papers out.

Dear Ms Cameron,

Congratulations on your successful visa application. Welcome to the United States of America as a new resident.

I read the letter five times. I had to make sure it was really real. There in black ink on white paper. The words swam before my eyes. I was moving to America!

Oh, my, holy, freakin’, God! Yes, I do repeat myself. A lot! I sat there shaking my head. I can’t believe it’s true. I can’t believe it’s true. But it is. It is true. I have been given permission to move to the United States of America. Oh, my God!

Oh, my God, there’s so much to do. There’s, there’s, there’s getting my tickets, and packing my bags. All of the stuff I can and can’t take. There are rules to flying, and I need flight socks – don’t want to get a DVT now do I – I had so much to do.

I consulted my calendar and diary. “Okay, let’s see,” I said, my finger running down the week. Absolutely nothing. Well, I need to call Sin and see if she can come to L.A., book my hotel room, and sort out car hire. I slid all the papers into a folder. I’ll have to see when she can meet first. That will depend on when I go. I grabbed the phone.

“Hello, so when are you coming?”

“I got my visa today,” I squealed. “It just came by delivery. All my papers are inside, and I can come anytime. When can you be in L.A.? Can you hire a car and where are we staying?”

“Whoa, just a minute. I can’t be there until Wednesday, and we’ll use my car till you get yours. I can make some reservations at that hotel we picked out. It’s not summer yet, so they won’t be busy. When can you fly in?”

“Well, it’s Monday now. I need a few days to pack and prepare and buy my tickets etc. So…I can see if my flight lands on Thursday.”

“Fantastic. You’re comin’ to L.A.”

“Yay,” we both squealed.

“I’ll make a phone call to the hotel and call you back.”

“Okay,” I said, ending the call.

Five minutes went by.

Ten minutes went by.

I busied myself with my list for preparing to move to America. It’s a list I’d had for many months. I always added to it when I thought of something new to take or do. There’s a lot of stuff in my notebook. Lists of places to go, and things to do. What I’ll do, and buy. What I wanted from the coming week and year. What I wanted in my house. How I wanted my wedding…

The phone rang...twenty minutes after our call.

“We’ve got two rooms reserved at The Colonial Inn, right next to each other. Twenty-eight and twenty-nine. I take it you want twenty-eight.”

Twenty-eight is a strange number for me. In numerology, when you add up all of your birthdate, you get a number. Mine is eleven, which is the master number. Apparently, you’re not supposed to add the two ones, but if you do you’re also a two. And Michael claims eight is his lucky number, so, two, eight. Twenty-eight. There’s gotta be a good omen in there.

“Of course,” I replied. “When do we get our rooms from?”

“I can get them on Wednesday night when I drive down. I told them a filthy rich millionairess is moving to our country and needs a nice place to stay while searching for a house and setting up her multimillion dollar clothing business. That sucked them into waiting. Besides, you’re paying.”

I snorted at her description of me. “I suppose their eyes bugged out of their sockets when you told them I was filthy rich?”

“Of course they would have.”

“Okay. I’ll track down my tickets and let you know the details. Bye.”

Okay, so there it was. My hotel was booked. My chauffeur was ready. All I needed were my tickets and a ride to the airport. I called the airport.

“Hello, you’ve reached Main City Airport, this is Tamara speaking, how may I help you?”

“Hello, I’d like two seats, side by side, to Los Angeles this week. Qantas business class.” I heard a tapping of computer keys and a message on the loudspeaker in the background. I tapped my foot, then my pen. Waiting.

“Okay, then.” Some more tapping. “When did you want to go?”

“Well...I’m hoping to get to L.A. on Thursday morning. So, whatever flight lands then. On their Thursday morning that is,” I said, having no idea about the whole dateline thing.

“Okay, you’re in luck. Two seats, side by side in business class on Qantas flight 208, Thursday morning at ten. How’s that?”

Flight 208 did she say? Ha, another numerology omen. Things were looking good.

“Sounds great, thank you so much.” I wrote down the details in my notebook. All I had to do was pack according to the regulations, get rid of my stuff, and then...leave the country.

I called Sin. “Thursday morning I arrive. Qantas flight 208 from Oz. Yay.”

“All right,” she crowed. “I’ll be there to pick you up and we will paar-taay.”

“Let’s just get to the hotel first. I’ll want a shower and a lie down before we go out. We have a lot to do next week.”

“We do,” she agreed. “But a lie down? Seriously? This weekend we are gonna paar-taay!”

*****

My, God, it’s happening. All of my dreams are about to come true. True, true, true. Yes! Woohoo.

I surveyed my bedroom. I had already packed my clothes, jewellery, and personal belongings into my new turquoise blue Nancy Drew luggage set. The amount of times I packed and repacked. Sheesh. All of my cosmetics were sealed nice and neat in a ziplock bag. A varied assortment of personal books and folders were in my carry-ons ready to go. Having thrown in a few other items I couldn’t do without, I zipped shut and sealed my luggage.

God, there was so much I had to have on me. Just for a plane flight! All I needed now was a moving company to pack and ship my monstrous Nancy Drew collection, and a rubbish removalist for all the crap I had left to get rid of.

I marked off each job as I did it in my notebook. Phone calls to the removalists and the rubbish men. I also called my landlord to let him know I was moving out the next day. Yay!

*****

“Well, Miss, that’s all of it.”

I watched the last of my boxes being packed into the back of the moving van. “Thank you so much,” I said, signing the papers he handed me. My stuff was going to be stored in their warehouse, which I had already paid rental for until I wanted it shipped over. I watched the van drive away then turned to survey what was left; my luggage and some cleaning supplies.

My disgusting landlord walked in. “Sad to see you go, you’ve been a good tenant.”

Yeah, right, I thought. You lecherous old perv. I was only good for you to perve at. Ugh! “Yeah, well, time to move on.” I hadn’t told too many people about winning lotto as I didn’t want all of the leeches to come out of the woodwork expecting a handout. A car pulled up to the curb. “Taxi’s here,” I called in relief, gathering as much as I could with lightning speed.

“Here, let me help you,” my lecherous landlord said, reaching for one of my flash blue suitcases with his meaty, sweaty hands.

“No,” I cried, then recovered as the taxi driver came to the door. “The driver will help. You don’t need to.” I threw my luggage at the poor driver and hurried him back to the car. “That’s all of it,” I told him, stuffing my overstuffed bags into the backseat.

“All right, Miss.” He shut the boot – that’s trunk to some – and got into the driver’s seat while I flung myself into the back and landed among my bags.

“Ah, what do you want me to do with this stuff,” my ex-landlord yelled.

I realised he meant the cleaning supplies. “Keep them,” I yelled back as we pulled away.

“Where to, Miss?” the driver asked.

“The airport hotel please.” I leaned back and sighed in immense relief.

*****

That night, before going to bed, I laid out my flying outfit – I had to be comfy, but cool, not slobby in track pants and ugg boots – so I had chosen a nice pair of black cotton pants and a blue top. I had an extra set in my carry-on bag for changing before we’d land.

My visa, passport, and papers were in an undergarment safety belt, and I had a blowup neck pillow as well. I even had flying pills from the doctor, just in case.

Settling into bed for my last evening of Australian TV, I watched the gorgeously gorgeous Michael Anthony. Drooling as he removed his shirt, I sighed longingly, my hand snaking its way to the big furry nest upon his chest, so ready to tangle itself in the soft silkiness of his hair.

What can I say? The man is gorgeous, insatiable, sexy, amazing, blah blah blah. I want him. And I will have him. My feelings are so overwhelming that my heart dances in double time every time he comes on TV. God, I love that man. And considering I had used Michael as inspiration for one of the characters in my book, it’s no wonder I fell in love.

He’s suave, he’s dashing, he’s downright sexable.

“Sexable?” you ask.

I have no idea what that word means, but I like it. Michael is “The Sexiness”. The Sexiness that is Michael. The sexable Michael Anthony!

“Stop,” you cry. “You’ll make him blush.”

Damn right! But I want him to do so much more than that...

Damn it...an ad break...GO AWAY!

I fell against my pillows, my hand dropping to my side, and I made a face at the TV. Four bloody minutes of idiotic crap before my Mikey came back on. I watched the rest of the show with adoration for the producer and director. I love you for getting Michael shirtless.

I’m dreaming big. But to get Michael, I have to be with Michael, and that means moving to L.A. America doesn’t let just anyone in. Especially stalkers. Which I’m not.

I sniggered under my breath, switched off the TV, and rolled around for awhile trying to get comfortable. Finding a suitable position, I fell into a deep Michael-filled dream.

*****

I was awake at seven and eager to go, and bounding out of bed with newfound excitement, I showered and dressed. Though my flight was for ten, I needed to be there two hours early for check in and safety measures.

L.A. here I come!

Making sure I had everything, I grabbed a taxi and arrived at the airport right on time. When I’d unloaded my fancy Nancy luggage set, I rolled into the terminal and all but ran to the queue for my plane. Standing for thirty minutes was tiring, but I made small talk with a woman who inquired about my luggage.

“What lovely blue luggage,” she said, her eyes taking in the black embroidered Nancy silhouettes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She looked up at me. “Are you going for awhile? You seem to have so much.”

I felt a little annoyed at the intrusive question. But then we were at an airport, where people usually fly away to somewhere else. And they did usually take luggage with them. “I’m moving to America,” I said, a small smile on my lips.

“Why?” the woman asked in horror. “What have they got that Australia doesn’t?”

Michael Anthony!

Oops, I hope I didn’t say that out loud. I snuck a look. Nope, no reaction. Thank God I didn’t say that out loud. It’s true enough. Australia doesn’t have Michael Anthony. He may have visited twice, but he doesn’t live here. I can start my clothing and jewellery business anywhere. Buy a house and do it up how I want. Have my two cats and two dogs, but I can’t have Michael Anthony because he doesn’t live in Australia. I could settle for some dickhead Aussie bloke who’d want to sit on his fat, lazy arse all day doing nothing the minute he finds out I’ve got loads of money.

Hey, where did that thought come from? I silently berated myself for thinking such an idiotic thing. What were you thinking? I asked my brain.

Obviously, you weren’t, came the reply.

Wait, what? I got a reply from my brain. Good grief. I cocked my left brow and tried not to look crazy. Now that was strange.

After all, I don’t want some dickhead Aussie bloke ’cause I think too highly of myself to stoop that low. I’m not that desperate. I sighed inwardly. It’s still true though. Michael isn’t here and I want him more than anything in this world.

More than your money? my brain asked.

Stop that, I snapped silently. Well, no. I want them both equally. End of discussion.

I made it to the front of the line, sent my bags off on the conveyor belt, made my way through security, and away from the unnerving woman who wanted to start World War three because I was moving overseas. Settling into a nice comfy chair in the business class lounge, I watched my fellow passengers, studied the detail in the carpet, watched the planes go by, and wasted time by dreaming of my wedding to Michael.

“Would the passengers of Qantas flight 208 to Los Angeles, California begin boarding.”

“Oh, finally,” I muttered. Gathering my carry-on bags, I made my way to the loading zone, handed my ticket to the attendant with a smile, and walked down the aisle into business class. I found my seats, stashed by bags, and sat down to watch everything going on around me. It was very nice. Business is a class of its own. Sure as hell not economy, but not first either.

Who wants first? It would be first to crash into a mountain or sea. Argh, don’t think about that. Did I mention I’m scared of flying? I strapped myself in and waited, closing my eyes and breathing deeply, thinking positive thoughts about my flight.

It will be fine. The flight will be fine. Everything will be fine.

Oh, it will!

I listened carefully to the safety procedure, noted all exits, and made a mental note of which door to flee through in a panic. Soon, I was winging my way to L.A.

And Michael Anthony!

I tried to entertain myself by watching a movie – it was boring as hell – writing in my journal, thinking positive thoughts, and watching my fellow passengers.

Oh, sure, there were a few A-grade celebs and minor D-grade celebs on board who’d caught my attention. Like the ex-footy star who was on his way to Miami, with a crossover in L.A., for being arrested last year. There was the radio announcer who thinks he’s shit hot and tells everybody so. The TV star who’s been around so long no one seems to be able to get rid of him, and another ex-footballer who’s made a ritual of running to L.A. to go on benders. Drug benders.

But this one woman, in particular, was fascinating. I didn’t know who she was or where she was from, but she certainly grabbed my attention. There she was, sitting regally in her seat, wearing a high-necked frilly blouse and ankle-length skirt with a hat perched perilously upon her tight grey curls. She wore too much make-up and flung her bejewelled hands around as she talked. Everyone could not only hear her but see her jewels. She reminded me of Barbara Cartland.

Or Nancy Drew in disguise, my brain said.

No. I scowled. Nancy would never be so obvious. So loud. So...tacky! I sat there with an amused look and listened to her stories about the old days.

She was from the theatre, and a huge star in her day, in every play, every musical. Started off as an understudy at sixteen, and made lead by eighteen. She detailed her dalliances, which made more than a few people blush, and told on her husbands. Such mean men apparently, only wanted her money. I could relate to that. She had two sons and a daughter but wasn’t going to leave them anything when she died, and was running away to America to prevent her kids from stealing her fortune...

Something was shaking me, and my head moved in the direction of the person speaking.

“Ms Cameron. You asked me to wake you. We’ll be landing in L.A. soon. You wanted to change and freshen up.”

I wiped my eyes and covered a yawn. “Yes,” I mumbled. “Thank you.”

“Breakfast will be served soon.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled again, pushing the button that made my seat rise into its upright position. I grabbed my carry-on bag and tottered my way to the bathroom. It was a tight fit, but I managed to freshen up and put on clean clothes. Making my way back, I saw other people waking up, some already drinking their morning coffee. I had a light breakfast, and pulled out my notebook, going over the list of things to do upon arriving.

“This is your captain speaking. The fasten your seatbelt sign is on as we are approaching L.A.X. and will be landing shortly. I hope you’ve enjoyed your flight, and I might see you again soon.”

Well, that’s a strange thing to say, since he didn’t see us at all! I gripped my armrests and tried to keep breathing past my tightly fastened belt. Now, we just had to wait for the landing.

And miracle of miracles, it went as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

The door flung open, and we all stood at once, except for the old lady who demanded to leave first. I grabbed my bags and walked slowly toward the exit, and once free, bolted through the overcrowded terminal till I came to the luggage area. I was the first one there and positioned myself to claim my bags. After all, I was the only one with turquoise blue Nancy Drew luggage. All four pieces came out quickly, and I was on my way to Customs.

I fidgeted while waiting in line, moving from one foot to the other, and that made several workers watch me suspiciously. But they didn’t know I was just so eager to get going.

“Do you have anything to declare?” the woman asked when I finally reached the counter.

“Just that I’m bloody excited to be moving here and living here and I’ll start my companies and publish my books—”

“All right, all right,” she said, putting her hand up to stop me. “Place your bags up here, and I’ll search them.”

Two suitcases, two bags and two carry-ons later, I was free to leave.

“I hope you enjoy your stay,” the woman said.

“Oh, I definitely will,” I replied with the biggest grin I had. Wheeling my way back through the terminal to meet Sin, I was overwhelmed for a moment. I was here. I was in L.A.

“Oh, my God, there you are,” I heard, and looked up to see this nutty woman running toward me. She dove at me, and I barely managed to release my cases before they toppled.

“All right, Sin, all right,” I cried, hugging her back. Here I am, five foot eight, and she’s towering over me. “Hang on, aren’t you five foot six?” I pushed her away to glance down at her feet and saw four inch black stilettos. I looked up at her porcelain white face with its spattering of pale freckles and saw her fiery brown eyes, daring me to some sort of verbal duel. “How can you teeter around in them things? You didn’t drive in them did you?”

“I did, but who cares, let’s get you out to the car.” She grabbed a case, with a bag attached, and walked off as she kept talking. “Booked us in to the best restaurant... ’Stang dealership nearby... Need to sign some papers...”

I tried to hear what she was saying as I followed her – the airport was packed and noisy to boot – and I almost had to run. It was all I could do to keep up with the size four powerhouse.

Sin’s fire engine red hair swung back and forth in a long curly ponytail that had a few colourful braids wound through it. Her short black skirt and heels showed off her long, lean legs to perfection. And, of course, there was the obligatory fake California tan.

I felt so plain next to her. So boring, so short, so...white! I was also getting shoved every which way by the busy crowd around me. Kinda hard not to in such an incredibly busy place.

“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” someone hissed in contempt.

“Excuse me!” I turned around to find myself face to face with a famous actress. “I know you weren’t talking to me. Especially since you’re the one who bumped into me.”

Her hazel eyes burned into mine, and her delicate English hand flung her dark glossy hair over one shoulder before placing itself on her hip. The dark fur coat draped around her glistened with expense, and the diamonds in her ears radiated brightly. But not as brightly as the anger in her eyes.

She stood as tall as she could, but that was only five foot six. No one spoke to Margaret Daly-Tomes that way. How dare anyone eventhink of speaking to her that way? She glanced over me, her eyes cold and critical, her rosebud mouth ready to let go of the venom it was waiting to release.

“Where are you from, dear?” She spat the last word.

Dear?Ugh, I hated being called dear. It’s so patronising. I watched her husband creep up behind her like a little boy. He’s a famous actor himself. And thirty years older than her.

“I’m from Australia,” I said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to talk to me that way—”

She threw up her hand to silence me. “It’s obvious Australians have no manners. After all, your country was founded by convicts.”

Oh, I bristled at that. “Yes,” I replied acidly, noticing the crowd standing around watching. “Convicts, that your ancestors couldn’t be bothered dealing with because the poms are so goddamn useless that you decided shipping your criminals off would be far easier than sticking them in jail.”

“Ooooh,” the crowd cried.

Margaret narrowed her eyes in hateful anger and came in for the kill. “How old are you, dear? A little young to be so rude to your elders. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

“Aaaahhh,” the crowd said in unison.

Strange, that second sentence, coming from a woman so obsessed and worried about getting older that she’d use the term “elders” when referring to herself.

Now it was my turn to kill. I stepped in closer, so we were inches apart, my own eyes narrowed. “My mother did teach me manners. And thank you for noticing I’m so young.” Here it comes. “Because regardless of how old I get,” my left eyebrow cocked in excitement, “I will always, be younger, than you!” With a flick of my head and a turn of my heel, I grabbed my luggage and strode off toward the entrance with Sin while the crowd loudly cheered us on, and Ms Margaret Daly-Tomes screeching something I really couldn’t repeat. We made it to the door, then Sin’s car, before collapsing against each other in a fit of unbridled laughter.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, wiping away tears of laughter. “That was so hilarious. I caught a glimpse of her face before following you, and let me tell you, she was seething.”

We packed my bags into the car.

“It serves her right for thinking she could mess with an Aussie chick,” I said, wiping away some tears of my own and sliding into the passenger seat. The car was a comfy blue sedan.

She drove out of the car park. “I wonder if she’s had anyone speak to her that way. She’s a big movie star, married to an even bigger movie star. Maybe no one’s stood up to her before.”

I wound the window down and took a deep breath, then quickly wound it up again as I gasped for air.

Sin laughed. “You do know it’s smoggy here, don’t you?”

“I do,” I choked, and then cleared my throat. “I do, I do.” I coughed. “Well, I don’t care who she is, or who she thinks she is, or who she’s married to for that matter. I will not let anyone get away with speaking to me like that. No one!” I emphasised with a fist.

We drove along the main highway out of L.A., heading north. To Michael. It’s about half an hour out of the city, and the air seemed cleaner, sort of. The sky was bluer – not so much smog – and it’s a nice rolling suburb.

“Which suburb?” you ask, fluttering your eyelashes.

Alas, I cannot tell you. That would be giving away where Michael lives.

I marvelled along the way. The buildings, the cars, the clothes that people were wearing, or should I say, lack thereof. My God, I was really in L.A. The places to shop, the restaurants to eat at, and a million things to buy and see and do.

Sin pulled to a stop in our hotel’s car park. “Here we are.” She popped her belt and the boot at the same time.

I got out and looked around. It really did look like a colonial inn with the architecture, colouring with its red bricks, and tall white columns at the entrance. The gardens were nice and green, neatly manicured and spread out for as far as my eye could see on three sides of the hotel. Everything was neat and tidy and in its place.

“Wow.” I pulled my bags from the car. “This is nice. Really nice.”

“You have to check in at the front desk. They’ll want to meet their millionaire guest.”

“Ah, yes,” I said with a wink. “Their filthy rich millionaire guest.”

We rolled into the lobby, which was amazing. Crystal chandeliers, paintings, art. Very expensive. But then, there was no doubt guests like me paid for it.

We stopped at the chiselled oak wood front desk.

“This is my fellow guest,” Sin said. “Ms Cameron. Whom I told you about.”

The clerk became a flutter. It was obvious that the staff had been waiting for me to arrive and start spending my money, as suddenly five other people hurried up to us.

“Miss, let me take your luggage,” the porter said.

“Ms Cameron, it’s so nice to finally make your acquaintance,” the manager added.

“If there’s anything I can get you and do you,” the concierge said, then corrected himself after my icy stare. “I mean do for you. Let me know,” he hastened to add.

“And, of course, I’ll make any dish you want,” cried the head chef.

“And if you need security. I’m your man,” the guard chimed in.

I cocked my eyebrow in amusement. “Okay, people, enough,” I said, trying to get a hold on the situation. “I just want to get up to my room and unpack. If I need any of you, I’ll call. But until then, please, go back to what you were doing.”

Everyone seemed a little perturbed at my forcefulness. But tough! I signed in and the porter brought my luggage upstairs with us.

Room 28.

My room.

My lucky numbers 28 room.