I wrote for many years for women’s magazines, a hotbed of advice on how to improve the body image, so you could say I was “under the influence”. Try as I might by drinking only juices and eating only leaves my ample thighs and Jewish hips stayed out of perfect proportion with my top half.  Moving into Beverley Hills emphasised the problem, here physical perfection was the order of the day. Well you may wonder why I introduce this story with a focus on my own personal hang-up about beautiful legs but read on and you may come to understand.

I arrived in Los Angeles with several names to contact through friends of friends.  One contact was a publicist, a slip of a hard-faced female who wore cloche hats and platform shoes whom I shall call Melanie. She was gracious enough to meet me an hour after my arrival in Los Angeles.  She assured me I had caught her just in time.  Tomorrow she was off to Ireland but she had contacted some of her friends to let them know about me and that I was “press” so they should take good care of me. I remain grateful for her efforts because through her I met two wonderful people, one who remained a friend for many years – but truthfully I was not sorry to see her leave for Ireland.  My first impression of her was not favourable and I found out later that I first impressions are often true.

I needed contacts and I needed stories so I called the first name on her list. Let it suffice to say that “M” was a very celebrated cinematographer. His voice on the phone was slow and deliberate but he was friendly and receptive and we arranged to meet the following morning for breakfast at my hotel. I was to learn that Los Angelinos are morning people and breakfast is a big deal in Hollywood.

What is it about the first glimpse of someone that can hit the spot; it was like that with “M”.  I liked the look of him instantly.  He was lean and lanky with shoulder-length grey hair face lightly tanned and taut across high cheekbones. I would have starved to have my jeans hang as loosely around my butt as did his.

Formalities did not take long.  Within minutes we opened up to each other, completely ignoring the waiter hovering over us for an order.   He had been born in the Islands,.  He had moved to the USA for health reasons as a child, had married and had a family in the States.  Currently he was single.

By now I sensed a definite attraction growing between us. This was confirmed when the next morning his children joined us for our second breakfast. I was impressed and humbled that he wanted me to meet his family.  They were eager to know about Australia. Afterwards we moved poolside.  I didn’t undress, there were too many beautiful bodies languishing alongside that pool and mine would not compete, so I sweltered, bravely. He stayed dressed, in sympathy I guess.  As we talked I learned more about “M”.  He was no ordinary cinematographer, he’d won awards. I wanted his story. He was even talking about doing a book about his life.

I had to leave LA on an assignment and was booked to fly out the following day. Hearing this M then made a move.  Would I go away with him to the dessert? I should not think I knew LA until I had experienced the dessert.  As only a cinematographer could do he praised the beauty of the dessert and the surrounding mountains, snow capped all year around.  It was a must see for any visitor and he insisted I include it on this trip. How could I refuse, and anyway I found him darn attractive. It was afterwards my insecurities kicked in.  A Spa in the dessert, that meant swimming, and sharing a room, that meant undressing.  I was no prude, but … I rationalized my hang-up by pretending to myself that sharing a room with a stranger was not a thing to do.  Secretly I had to admit it was vanity that scared me. By the time he phoned to confirm our arrangements I was a neural mess. I agreed to meet up when I got back then phoned him half an hour later and asked if he could book me a room of my own. The Pause at the other end of the phone was deafening.  I could not understand why he hung up without another word.  His reaction surprised me as he seemed an understanding sort, mature enough to deal with a slightly dilly, inhibited journalist.  I tried to contact him again but he would not take my calls.

It was not until I had a call from Marilyn the publicist, fresh back from her trip to Ireland that I began to understand. Had I rung M? I sensed a hint of malice in her voice. Yes, and we had hit it off, I told her, not wanting to admit that I had spoilt things for myself. “Oh, I knew you would be his type” she said, then added almost as an after thought, “ he has a pretty awful scar on his leg you know.  I saw it once, it was awful”.  So then the penny dropped. He thought that she had told me about his scar and that I had purposely avoided seeing him undressed. What irony! He was more self-conscious than I was.

It could have been a wonderful weekend, experiencing the magic of the desert through his creative eye and maybe just maybe cultivating a friendship, but I spoilt everything worrying that a man who so worshipped beauty would see less than perfection in my dimpled thighs.