Fucking Poppy hadn’t been his best move, but Poppy was the antithesis of Bella – tiny, blonde and fiery – and the contrast (and, to be scrupulously honest, the illicitness) had turned him on. He’d tired of Poppy pretty quickly, after the initial thrill, not least as she had been so evidently off her pretty face on coke all the time, going on about her guilt about Bella, boring the pants off him. Still, he shouldn’t have moved in on his best mate’s bird; that was unforgivable. Ben and Damian had grown up together and he still missed Damian’s easy good nature and laid-back sense of humour; he’d yet to meet a comparable buddy in the States. All things considered, if he could have done last summer differently, he would. It had been a mad time for all concerned.

But now wasn’t the time to be crying over spilt milk.

‘Ben, honey, where ARE you? Are going to come and show me how to do it again? I was a virgin until last night, but you’ve given me a real taste for it. I’m only seventeen …’

The Laker Girl was clearly lying and up to every trick in the book but, nevertheless, Ben felt his cock getting hard.

‘I love America,’ he sang as he made his way to the bedroom. The cheerleader was on her hands and knees, arse aloft. Her skin was golden brown, soft and peachy.

‘Does that feel good?’ asked Ben, loving the feeling of her tight, young body.

‘Oh … Yeeees … Oh, Benny … I’ve never done this before … Ohhhh …’

If she was telling the truth, she was half his age, and just for a split second he felt ever so slightly like a dirty old man. Then he refocused. Christ, she was hot.

And so was he.

Driving up the freeway en route to meet Belinda at Chateau Marmont (it was difficult to express how much he loved the LA cliché), Ben turned up the radio, which was playing the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Californication.

He laughed, and for the second time that day thought of Damian, thinking how much he’d have enjoyed the serendipity. He put the idea firmly out of his mind and dwelt instead on nubile nymphets, fame, fortune, blue skies and palm trees. A pretty brunette in a white convertible lifted her shades to get a better look at him. She kissed her fingers and clutched her heart, feigning undying love. He clocked the rings on her fingers and blew a kiss back. Then he put his foot on the gas.

Modelled in the 1920s on a chateau in the Loire Valley, the Chateau Marmont was still the ultimate byword for hedonistic glamour. As Ben walked out of the lobby towards the pool, he could feel the cloisters themselves oozing their Tinseltown, rock’n’roll heritage. The stars who had stayed under this roof included Judy Garland, John Belushi (who had OD’d here, poor bugger), Vivien Leigh, Jim Morrison, Jean Harlow, Led Zep … The roll call was as bibulous as it was illustrious. He continued through beautifully fragrant and lush gardens until he’d reached the pool, which was surrounded by even lusher plants, and tables shaded by black-and-white stripy parasols.