Call me naïve, but I always thought that a so called business lunch was really just an excuse to expense a nice meal. You claim there's some vital purpose to it and the company pays for your food, seems fair to me. After all, it's taxing trying to think of a good excuse for why two people desperately need to have a meeting at a fancy restaurant instead of in the board room.

Apparently this is not the case. I have spent all week attending various business lunches and spending more time making notes than actually eating. It makes me very, very grateful that Lily and Alex yanked me out of there for the more traditional not-really-a-business-lunch before somebody could take me on yet another actual business lunch. It's criminal for me to have to leave a fifty dollar meal barely eaten because everybody else was able to eat instead of take notes and wants to leave; both from a fiscal and hunger perspective. I wound up having to buy myself a second lunch mid afternoon because I was that hungry.

"So will you do it?" Alex asks.

"No. The kind of courage required for that only comes from the Netherlands," I say shaking my head.

"What?" He looks at me quizzically, unable to work out why Lily laughed. These Americans have no appreciation for my sense of humour.

"Think about it for a second, you'll get it," Lily tells him with a smirk.

Alex is one of the designers who are mentoring her and he's also in charge of dishing out the outfits for this event on Thursday. He wants me to wear this blue satin corset dress thing which I dutifully tried on to be co-operative but had to veto. I'm not averse to showing a little cleavage but when my boobs are up around my ears that's when I know I'm dressed like a slut. Also, that dress gave me breathing issues; he yanked those laces so tight I think he may have cracked a rib or two.

"No, I just don't," he protests with a sip of his mineral water. All these Angelenos or whatever they're called make Lily and I feel alcoholic, apparently wine with lunch isn't so socially acceptable in LA. "You Brits have a weird sense of humour."

"It's just a little too sophisticated for you," Lily teases before dipping some more bread into the olive oil.

"Bite me," he responds cheerfully. It's weird, my part of the office is very politically correct; you can have a little fun and make some jokes but you have to be kind of careful. In that workshop downstairs however the PC brigade would probably suffer nervous breakdowns just on entering, they will say anything. "So come on, explain why this is so funny."

"But explaining the brilliance of my quips ruins the effect," I tell him.

"Think about," Lily ignores me. "Things from America are American, from England are English, from the Netherlands are…?"

"Dutch," he responds correctly.

"So what kind of courage comes from the Netherlands?"

"Dutch… oh! Well so why didn't you just say Dutch courage? Or better yet just admit that you don't have the balls to wear couture without getting drunk first? Are all you Brits such alcoholics?"

"Hey, just because you're Mr Miyagi or whatever doesn't mean the rest of us can't have a little fun," I tell him while blowing a discreet raspberry. We are in the middle of a nice restaurant, after all.

If the Mr Miyagi comment makes no sense, we call him that because he's some martial arts freak and his body is a temple and he's on some purification diet or whatever. We work on the theory he was tied to a chair and forced to watch the Karate Kid over and over again as a child… though that doesn't explain the penchant for fashion design. To totally defy all stereotypes, he's also straight.

"You're destroying your livers."

"Actually, red wine is medically proven to have health benefits," Lily replies in a faux snotty manner.

"Like what?"

"Don't know, didn't read the specifics. All I needed to know was that finally I had a legitimate excuse."

"Something to do with preventing heart disease, or maybe antioxidants?" I chime in helpfully while making a show of taking a sip.

"I don't believe you."

"You never believe us," Lily laughs.

"Yep," I nod. "One of these days you're not going to believe us when we tell you a car's about to hit you or something and you're going to feel really stupid when it does."

"Well who could ever believe a word from you two after that Viscount crap?"

"It's true!" We both whine in unison before laughing about how we whined in unison. I'm sorry, but it's not our fault that sometimes the truth is more outlandish than fiction. We really did go to a party at a viscount's country manor (Lily's dad worked with him) and his son really did get drunk, hit on Lily and then try to climb into one of the seventeenth century suits of armour to impress her. Maybe that bit's believable, but the part where he fell out of the window seems to have convinced Alex we were telling fibs. Every word is true though - unless you ask the viscount's son who swears he got that scar on his arm on safari in Africa. Masculine pride is a fragile thing.

"Sorry, sorry…" We're breathlessly joined by my next door cubicle neighbour Aurora (who else thinks of Sleeping Beauty every time they hear that name, I wonder) who throws herself into the seat next to me as if she's run a marathon. "Did you order?"

"Chicken Caesar salad as requested," Alex parrots.

"What would I do without you," she says with a grin before holding a bag out to me, handle dangling from her finger tip. "You owe me, woman."

Even though I know what's in there, I still start to squeal like a kid at Christmas. I reach in and pull out that beautiful, shiny box which tells me that I am the proud new owner of the very latest, greatest and shiniest Blackberry on the market. Lily gives me that look only rich people can - that look which just doesn't understand the giddiness of getting expensive freebies through work that you can't afford yourself. Of course this is a work Blackberry so I'm going to have to keep personal usage to a minimum, but do you think I care? Now I don't have to pay for work calls on my own cell phone AND I get this beautiful shiny Blackberry, the kind that would only arrive on Adora six months after the rest of the world had got over it and moved onto the new model.

"You are a goddess, I love it," I tell her gratefully.

Aurora is in charge of the office budgets - she gets to decide whether we can buy more printer paper, whether somebody can have a new lap top and who is allowed company credit cards and phones. I have a genuine business need in my capacity as general dogsbody to the senior team, but Aurora only went out and grabbed it for me personally because I'm special and I buy her Starbucks muffins. It's our deal, I stop by Starbucks for our morning caffeine and sugar hit and she gives me special treatment. In truth she also buys me lunch half the time so it even out monetarily, but the special treatment is what I care about.

"You should, I don't do that for just anybody you know."

"I know, I owe you."

"I will collect."

"I know," I pull one of her curls (she has the wildest afro hair, I love it) and giggle while busily gazing at my beautiful new Blackberry. I can't wait to get back to the office and set it up, but for now I have to put it away since the food will be here any second. There's also a spare bottle of water we thoughtfully ordered for Aurora so she's busy opening that while smirking at me.

"You know it's kind of weird for a girl to get that excited over a gadget," Alex tells me with a raised eyebrow. What he's trying to imply about my femininity I'm not sure.

"Nah, she cried when her kids send her their school project this morning. She's a girl," Aurora snorts.

You can make as many derisive noises as she wants, but I keep telling her that if she hasn't worked with kids she cannot understand how cute it is when your class's project with their new teacher was to make you a scrapbook in English to tell you what they're doing this year. The English was kind of terrible so it's good to know they're not doing much better with her than me, but it did make me homesick for a short minute there. Then the phones started going crazy and I had to snap right out of that, too busy.

My response is to pull out my blouse and peer down it at my bra. "Yep, definitely still a girl."

"I don't know, let me check…" Alex starts leaning over but with a short sharp yank Lily pulls him right back into his seat.

"Pervert."

"Shut it Red."

Lily is very grateful that in America she gets referred to as Red rather than Ginger. Though funnily enough people stopped calling her Ginger like it was a bad thing when her parents got rich… what a strange coincidence, huh?

"Bite me," she replies cheerily. She's adjusted very well to American slang, it has to be said. Somehow it still sounds unnatural coming from my mouth, and since Lily and I have similar accents it can't just be down to that. Alex keeps telling me to practice dropping 'shizzle' into sentences and it'll sound like I was born and raised here, to which I could only reply that to fall for that would mean I was born yesterday, wherever it was.

"Why are people hovering at that door?" Aurora changes the subject, staring quizzically around the room. There have been a lot of buzzy whisperings in here but hey, what are lunchtimes for if not gossip?

"I hadn't noticed anything," I say with a shrug.

"Last time I was in here and that happened, Jennifer Aniston was in there," Alex contributes.

"Oh. It's probably Miley Cyrus or something equally lame."

"Don't say that," Alex admonishes her. "We're supposed to dress Miley for some thing soon."

"Oh." Aurora looks grossed out, her nose is scrunched up in distatse. There are certain celebrities she thinks the label should not be associated with no matter how much publicity you get; I knew Paris Hilton was one but I guess Miley's on the list too. "Well let me know when that's over so I can go back to thinking she's annoying again."

"Oh you can still think she's annoying," Alex flashes a sly grin at her, "just don't say it where anyone can hear you."

Believe it or not, I got briefed on this very thing since Elena is starting to make a name for herself and get celebrities wearing her as an up and comer. It was a lengthy yarn that basically could have been summed up as "don't bitch about anyone in public." Their idea is that you can and will be associated back to the company and your thoughts and opinions will be assumed to be those of the company however far that logic has to leap.

"If I don't think the thought then it can't accidentally fall out of my mouth," she replies.

"Good point," Alex concedes.

The food then arrives and we're too busy tucking in to say very much. Alex tells a few distasteful jokes that make all three of us choke; I'll be surprised if we make it through this meal and nobody has to deliver the Heimlich. It's nice to be able to do this with people who aren't Lily. As much as I love her, I do need friends who aren't her. For a while there I was almost worried I wouldn't make any, LA has been such an adjustment for me. I still can't get used to the pace of the city; I miss my beautifully laid back beach. Everybody here is always so busy and their lives are packed to the last second and there's no time for spontaneity. My life, sadly, is getting like that too. On Adora Dante and I might decide to go fishing on a whim, or to drive to the volcano for a hike. Now even my weekends seem to wind up structured and scheduled with work drinks or whatever. Nobody seems to just be, you know?

For a while I felt kind of like the place and the people just weren't me. I didn't understand them, they didn't understand me and I was starting to feel like I was going out of my mind. I still hate this emphasis on beauty, too. Everybody assumes I exercise my butt off and that I'm one of these five in the morning boot camp exercise freaks who's on a macrobiotic low carb diet and all that rubbish yet the second I tell them I'm not they look at me like I'm obese or something, despite the fact that I'm as healthy and in shape as any of them. I'm sure a doctor would probably say I was healthier than them since I'm not starving myself. It's apparently not enough to be thin and healthy; you have to be doing what they think you should be doing to attain that. Sensible diet and exercise with a lucky pinching of good genes is not enough - they want extremes.

I said that to Lily though and she then started panicking about the eating disorder they're still convinced I had no matter how many times I say otherwise, so I had to quit that soapbox.

Gradually, though, I've started to get used to it. I'm learning that there are normal people around, even if they do move at a faster pace than I'm used to, and that different types of people can be good for me if I let them be. Alex, for example, is good for exercising my sarcastic side. Aurora and I compliment each other; I'm so laid back I calm her down when she's stressing, but she's so efficient and organised she gives me a kick up the butt if I'm moving too slow. Being so laid back isn't always a good thing when there's a deadline looming and you're not moving urgently enough. I am slowly getting into the groove, but it's been a much bigger transition than I thought it would. Though heck, if I'm this bad in LA thank God I didn't go to NYC where I'm assured life goes even faster.

"So much for the Miley Cyrus theory," Alex smirks. I have my back to the door so I have no idea what he means.

"What, who is it?" Aurora twists in her seat.

I don't need to twist in my seat because the 'my friend fucked Justin Timberlake' expression is all over Lily. I haven't seen it since I last snapped at her about letting the whole sorry debacle go, but I'm assuming if it's back on her face that he just walked out of there. Glancing to my left and right, though refusing to look behind myself, I see people all staring in the direction of the door, some with their phones and cameras out to take pictures.

"Justin Timberlake. Now you definitely can't say shit about him in public. This diffusion line for William Rast is practically a done deal," Alex divulges.

"Really?" Aurora says interestedly but without turning away from him. She's talking in a low voice from the corner of her mouth since we're not supposed to make the possibility public yet. Even though the magazines already have. It's complicated. "I didn't think they'd even had a formal meeting yet."

"They haven't," I reply while trying to keep the sour tone from my voice. "Nothing was in anyone's diary."

"Elena's set on it," Alex explains. "A Timberlake association is currency and she knows it. It's just terms they need to agree."

Wow. I didn't know bankers had such power in the fashion world. Here was me thinking it was just Wall Street they had their dirty little hands all over.

Aurora keeps nudging me to take a look, so I try and hide behind my hair while doing so. Sure enough, there he is, standing uncomfortably by the door with a guy I now know to be Trace. They're apparently waiting for their companions who are lingering in conversation with a waiter and gesturing at the bill. Clearly he's uncomfortable with the attention, so I guess I can see why he avoided Del Sol. I don't think there's one person in this room who isn't staring at him, though in my case it's against my will and better judgment. People are not subtle and have no shame; they're not even attempting to hide the fact that they're taking pictures. It's probably what it feels like to be a zoo animal, or maybe a freak show attraction.

Oh, and also, he looks like a hobo. His jeans are tucked into the kind of lace up boots only construction workers should wear and he's growing a small furry animal on his face, possibly a squirrel. It's not attractive. As much as I thought I was prepared for the possibility of clapping eyes on him again, my stomach is still twisting into the same pissed off knot it did when I saw that wretched magazine. It was such a stupid fucking lie, why did he have to spoil everything by telling it? I really wouldn't have given a shit who he was.

As much as I don't want to gawk at him like everyone else (not out of any compassion, his very presence is just irritating the shit out of me and I don't want to pay any attention to him), it's oddly difficult to turn away. I don't manage it until finally he catches sight of me and the look of stunned recognition hits his face.