Sylvia Sinclair
The Star
Three a.m. Closing time for any self-respecting nightclub on the Sunset Strip.
I tramp along the snowy path towards the trees, Herb trotting alongside me.
I suck in nice big lungfuls of air. The little black moths came for me in my room.
This is so much better than sitting there, ruminating, hoping for sleep that even Nembutal won’t bring.
‘This is blowing them away, huh, Herb?’
Herb is having a great time, snuffling through the fresh powder like a furry snowplough. Guess they’ll have to use one of those special brushes on him when we get back before he can shake wet snow all over the place.
It’s so quiet out. But a better quiet than inside the hotel where the silence is loud and my room too warm and close.
I look back at the Grand Alpine. I like the place a damn sight better from here.
Right now it looks like a fairy-tale palace, light streaming gold from some of the windows.
All aglitter. But then I guess Hollywood glitters from a distance, and behind the scenes it can be one of the dirtiest, most demeaning places you’ve ever been.
The things they make you do. Well. Just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, like now. Tramp tramp tramp.
I’m at the trees now. Each one is wearing her white fur coat: very much my style. The lights of the hotel have nearly disappeared. It’s a little spooky. I’m kind of wishing I had a torch to hand. I clutch Herb’s lead and stop awhile, waiting. Because I think I heard …
I listen hard. Is that … footsteps? The soft pad and squeak of boots on snow? Hard to make out what’s just the shush of the wind in the trees or the occasional whoomp of powder falling from a branch.
‘Hello?’ I call softly. My voice casual as old Frankie Sinatra’s attitude to fidelity, but my heart going fit to burst. ‘Anyone there … ?’