The Year Of Living Famously. Laura Caldwell

this town, and I already sensed how hard it was to break in, in any capacity.

      But I soon saw what Bobby meant. Within fifteen minutes, one of Cherry-Cola’s gang came to our table and introduced herself.

      “Olivia Tenson,” she said. “I’m on The Bold and the Beautiful. I’m looking for new representation.” She got a little more of Bobby’s attention, but he soon sent her packing. Same with the stunningly beautiful boy with the jet-black hair and the dimples as deep as craters. Same with the comedian who sidled up to us and launched into his stand-up act.

      “You see why I’m so glad you’re here?” Bobby said. “You’re my one true friend in town.”

      So I figured when I phoned Bobby that day from Fred Segal that he would call me back, maybe come meet me, but his assistant, Sean, said he was in a meeting that would last a few hours. I finished my wine and watched the rest of the patrons gossip with their friends or yammer into their phones. I made my daily phone call back to New York, but couldn’t get Emmie, Margaux or Darcy.

      Finally, I left, strolling aimlessly, nothing planned for the rest of the day. I walked through Third Street Promenade and then down the Santa Monica pier. I waited for L.A. to seep into my bones.

      When Declan got home that afternoon, we took a walk on the beach, making our way to the pier for sunset.

      “What did you do today?” he said. He was always concerned about whether I was “fitting in,” whether I’d had enough activity. Every evening, he peppered me with questions and made suggestions about what I could do that week.

      I told him about my day.

      “Are you having me on?” he said. “You walked to Fred Segal?”

      “It’s only a mile or two.”

      “Bloody right. I can’t believe you walked.”

      “You know how I feel about all the driving out here.”

      In short, I wasn’t a big fan. Constant driving was required, since L.A. is really just a string of suburbs, not a city at all, and yet the need to drive everywhere killed any chance of spontaneity. Even if you were lucky to be with friends, and have someone suggest dropping by a party or a bar, there was the inevitable meeting in the parking lot where many important topics would be debated: Should we all drive? Can we take the 10 or will surface streets be better? How long will it take at this time of day? Does anyone have exact directions? Who’s going to be there anyway? Is the casting director from the WB really supposed to stop by?

      “Love,” Declan said, “you’ve got to learn how to drive.”

      “I will…someday.”

      We walked for a few minutes in silence, the pier a short distance ahead of us, the sand cool under our feet.

      Declan suddenly stopped and turned to me. He took both my hands in his; he looked very serious, which freaked me out.

      “What?” I said.

      “Kyra Felis,” he said somberly. “I have a question for you.”

      My heart began to pound. “What?” I repeated.

      He dropped on one knee. He kissed my hand.

      “Kyra,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Will you have me as your driving teacher? Will you trust me enough to put your adorable bum on the driver’s seat of my car?”

      I burst into laughter. “I don’t know. I haven’t known you all that long, and I don’t know if I’m ready. It’s a big decision and—”

      He stood and interrupted me with a big, Fred Astaire–like dip. “We can do it. We can make this work.”

      “The gas is on the right, Kyra! You have to keep your foot on it to make the car move!”

      I shot him a murderous look, although I couldn’t blame him for yelling. I tried again. I stepped tentatively on the gas, but when the car shot forward, it scared the hell out of me, and I hit the brakes. Once more, gas…whoo, that weird power of the car lurching, tying my stomach in knots…and I pounced on the brakes.

      I put the car in park, peeled away my death grip on the steering wheel and dropped my head. We were in a parking lot of a vacant strip mall, the only place Declan could find where I might attempt to drive and not maim the few pedestrians. I snuck a look at Dec. His face was flushed, his hair a little sweaty and pushed up in spikes. He looked, as he would put it, “shaggered.”

      “I don’t think I can do this,” I said.

      Dec didn’t look as if he thought I could do it, either, but he said, “Of course you can, love. If I can learn to drive on the right side of the road, you can learn to simply drive. Now let’s just sit here a bit and review the controls.” By that time, we’d “reviewed the controls” at least thirty times, but I was grateful for a task I could handle.

      “What’s this?” He pointed to the dash.

      “The gas gauge. It’s half-full.”

      “Good, and this?”

      He kept pointing to various instruments, and I answered dutifully. I knew what he was doing. He was trying to build up my confidence by mentioning things I knew and could answer. He didn’t understand that while I could also probably learn the controls of the space station, it didn’t mean I was ready to blast off.

      “Okay, we’re trying again,” he said. He breathed out heavily, as if he was preparing to pick up a large couch and move it to a third-floor apartment.

      I lurched and braked down the street, the car bucking like a rodeo bull.

      “Get her to bloody go!” Declan yelled.

      You can do this, I said to myself. Just do it.

      With a burst of determination, I punched down on the gas pedal with my foot. The car shot forward in one swoop.

      “Whoa!” Declan said. “Not so fast!”

      Suddenly, looming in front of me was a yellow metal garbage can left too far into the street. I told my arms to turn the wheel, but I reacted too slowly, and the car hit the can with a loud thunk, sending it soaring into the air like a mini blimp.

      I squealed to a halt as the can landed with a clatter behind the car.

      With trepidation, I glanced at Declan. He looked as though he wanted to cry

      “In my defense,” I said, “that yellow was a hideous color.”

      He moaned. “Let’s go again.”

      I sped forward in short bursts and halted with too much force all afternoon until, little by little, I could withstand the power of the moving car. Four hours later, I drove one block up the street, turned around and drove another block back to the parking lot. We practiced all the next day, too, when I advanced to going through stoplights and backing into parking spaces (I’m sure our neighbor didn’t need that ugly planter in the shape of a grizzly bear. Why put it in the parking lot, anyway?).

      Two weeks later, I took my driver’s license test. In the hopes of flirting with the tester for special consideration, I wore a pink tulip skirt and gauzy white blouse. Unfortunately, my tester was a mean little woman named Barbara who used to be a gym teacher and still wore a whistle around her neck. Anytime I made what she called “an infraction” she blew the whistle. Lucky for me, and to Barbara’s chagrin, I passed by a hair. When I came into the waiting room, Declan was there, pacing like an expectant father.

      “I got it!” I said. I waved my little plastic rectangle of a license, on which, I must say, was a rather fetching photo of me.

      When we pulled into our parking lot at home, there was a car in our spot. A tiny, old, rusted, green convertible. I couldn’t have told you what type it was at the time; I still wasn’t so good at judging the makes or models of automobiles.

      “Should I call