The Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard was long past its heyday, a sort of faded 1930’s feel to the place, but Jean-Marc liked it for one reason - in addition to the rooms in the main building, the hotel has a number of little bungalows dotted around the grounds. And each bungalow has.....a fully equipped kitchen.

Jean-Marc was ostensibly in California for the American Film Market. The weekly French TV show he worked for was about the cinema (and movie stars of course), it was appropriately called “Boulevard du Crépuscule”, and, as the best English speaker on the team, he had been chosen to attend the Film Market, make a few contacts, and prepare the ground for the team to come from Paris the following month and shoot several programmes in Hollywood.

There was nevertheless a hidden agenda: Jean-Marc knew that there would be a Cable TV convention in nearby Anneheim and he was hoping to go there and sell his cookery programme, ambitiously entitled “The Gourmet Show”. He had even filmed a pilot episode in Paris with the technicians from “Boulevard du Crépuscule”. The plan was to make a cooking show in English and sell its European “quaintness” and old world charm to the Americans. Also each episode finished with the presenters actually eating the recipe in the chef’s crowded restaurant - Jean-Marc hoped that this concept, quite original for the time as most cookery shows were stuck firmly in the TV studio/kitchen, would appeal to the Americans.

So that night it was Indian curry in Jean-Marc’s Chateau Marmont hillside bungalow. He had invited several friends and acquaintances, there was a Japanese TV director who has a similar show to “Boulevard du Crépuscule” on NHK in Japan, there was an American underground filmmaker who Jean-Marc had known from his days of working in the art house cinema in London, there was a few French film distributors eager to make some useful contacts among Jean-Marc’s seemingly huge network of acquaintances, there was a young film distributor from New York who would steal Jean-Marc’s leather jacket and, later, go on to become a head of a big Hollywood Studio; there were some girls too: Wendy an Australian pop star, a crazy stunt girl apparently from Czechoslovakia who claimed to have set fire to herself and jumped off the top of a 15 storey hotel that afternoon, and the usual array of hangers-on that Hollywood and the film business attracts.

Then there was Charles Vinneker Kloch.

Kloch had first met Jean-Marc a year earlier in Cannes, not at the Festival but at a TV trade show being held there. It was in the toilet. Standing next to Jean-Marc at the urinals, he said “I’m in the paper business but I want to get into to the film and TV business, can you help me?”

Indeed at that time, Kloch had been seriously into “paper”, both the paper business itself and the paper trail of debt that was catching up with him. In true “creditors scenario” tradition, his empire of photocopying shops, many conveniently placed next to court houses and other administrative buildings where copies of documents were urgently needed, had been very successful .....for a while. But, in true form, Kloch had omitted to pay his rent and, worse, the suppliers of his photocopying machines and the huge amount of paper he needed. So, in addition to the phone company, Kloch had several photocopier manufacturers and the whole of US paper industry hard on his heels. It was definitely time for a change.

The curry “tiffin” à la Chateau Marmont was very good. Jean-Marc made his famous chicken and banana curry, Vietnamese caramelised pork, lentil dhal and home made chapatis. The produce in the West Hollywood supermarket had very pleasantly surprised him, there were even organically grown vegetables and Indian Garam chickpea flour which, back home in Paris, would have been hard to find at that time.

The problem was that many more people had turned up for the party than was originally planned. In fact there seemed to be an inordinate number of gatecrashers, many of whom were strangely dressed in black suits and dark glasses. Jean-Marc was stuck in the kitchen preparing much more food than expected, so somehow he was missing out on the party.

Charles Kloch was hanging around in the kitchen, endlessly “pumping” his host for ideas, “what are you doing now?”, “I’ve got this great business deal we can do together”, “Why don’t you borrow some money from your father, he’s a bank manager, no?”. If there is one thing a cook cannot stand, it’s people interrupting, distracting or interfering during the “creative” process of preparing a meal, and especially a meal for 35 people many of whom had unexpectedly invited themselves.

Worse, Kloch kept helping himself to the St. Vincent Very Strong Rum from the refrigerator. Jean-Marc had come across the bottle at the liquor store and, out of nostalgia for his West Indian connections, had purchased the bottle with the intention of using it to flambé some pancakes. Indeed the stuff was more suited to be used in a cigarette lighter than as an alcoholic beverage but Kloch seemed to be knocking the stuff back in large gulps, he was getting seriously drunk.

A guy in dark sun glasses, a trilby hat, a thin black tie and garish bermuda shorts, nothing else, walked into the small kitchen. “Thanks for a great tribute party” he said, “great food, John would have loved it”.

“John who? What tribute?” responded Jean-Marc who was, on the one hand, happy to have someone to rescue him from the drunken ramblings of Charles Kloch, but, on the other hand, a little concerned about what was going on outside the kitchen at a party for which, in theory, he was the host.

“John Belushi - he died in this bungalow exactly one year ago today, most of us here are from his fan club, we just presumed this was a party in his honour” said the trilby hat.

The dark suits and sun glasses suddenly made sense, Jean-Marc had unintentionally organised a Blues Brothers event. It rather amused him.

The phone rang, it was the reception saying that the “party” was getting a little out of hand.....

Jean-Marc quickly finished preparing two huge plates of vegetable byriani and placed them on the table with the remains of a fresh coriander and lime chutney, Kloch was trying to sell Australian horror movies he didn’t own to French film distributor, ..........it was fresh air not hot air that Jean-Marc needed. He pushed his way out onto the patio and strolled down to the pool. It was late, maybe 2am or more, the pool was floodlit but desolate. He sat on a bench, relieved to have some peace at last.

Rob, the film distributor from New York, came down the path and, without a word, lay down on a sunbed nearby.

“That’s my leather jacket you’re wearing” said Jean-Marc, “it’s a warm night, are you cold or something?”

Denis looked over at his friend and smiled. Somehow recognising the smile and the eyes, Jean-Marc smiled back, “Bonjour mon ami, you always pop up in my life at seemingly critical moments and in all manner of guises, is this something I should start getting used to?”

“You don’t remember how you obtained this jacket?”

It had been in London ten years before, those rock n’roll days, the drugs, there was a vague memory but Jean-Marc couldn’t place it.

“I’ve left you a replacement, it’s a terrible checkered orange jacket” continued Denis/Rob “you’ll find it back at your cottage and in turn you will pass it on, c’est comme ça que ça marche, this is the way it works”.

“Thanks a lot” said Jean-Marc. Denis stood to leave and turned, speaking this time in his “old” French, “adieu mon cousin, beware of your Australian friend, he will try to steal your life but first, together, we have more important things to accomplish”

“You mean Charles? I thought he was from Czechoslovakia or Poland or somewhere? You’re saying he’s a murderer?”

But Jean-Marc was alone.

Some laughter came down the path, Wendy and the Japanese TV guy stumbled down the path, there was a very definite smell of marijuana, they stripped naked and jumped/fell into the pool.

Jean-Marc sauntered back up the hill to the bungalow, the party was dying, guests were leaving for home. He walked into the kitchen and on the back of the chair there was the most awful yellow checkered jacket. He looked at the label inside, it said simply “Made in Tahiti”.