Disclaimer: I wished I owned Hot in Cleveland, but sadly, I don't. This chapter's title is a play on The Color Purple and I don't own that either.

The year was 1976, the place, a dingy, dimly lit bar in downtown Los Angeles. The woman at the counter sipped at her drink, knowing and revelling in the fact that every eye in the room was on her. Lazily, she traced the room with her eyes, as if looking for something that might make her having come here worthwhile. The sleazy patron who'd tried to pay for her drink leered lasciviously, and she pretended not to notice, as one can when one is young and "innocent". They all knew who she was, of course. They knew her father, and her talent, her figure and his connections meant that, at twenty-five (twenty-one, if anyone was asking) she'd had numerous television roles, including her current part as the ingénue on a popular, long-running daytime soap, and the odd lifetime movie, and that her recent marriage had been splashed across the papers.

As she dragged on her cigarette, she felt a shift in the atmosphere. People weren't looking at her anymore. In a matter of seconds, she'd lost her appeal. She'd gone from being the bar's main attraction to being part of the (somewhat dilapidated) furniture. What the hell? She stubbed the cig out in a nearby ashtray and looked about her for whatever dumb bitch had stolen the attention from her. Her eyes rested on a tall, skinny girl standing near the doorway, looking drained, distressed and uncertain as to whether she dared go any further. Despite her height (which was made even more prominent by the high heels she tottered in), the copious amounts of makeup she'd applied and her clothing (or lack thereof) revealing some of the best legs she'd ever seen, in real life or onscreen, she only looked about sixteen. Maybe eighteen at a stretch. Certainly not old enough to drink in the state of California. Still, she'd probably get away with it, because these were the seventies, this was L.A., and hell, she was beautiful. Long, flowing hair and eyes you could drown in.

At long last, the girl seemed to pull herself together, squaring her shoulders and approaching defiantly. The barman raised an inquisitive eyebrow (the girl seemed not to notice the irony with which it was done) as he asked "What can I get you?" The girl relaxed visibly on finding that she wasn't about to be thrown out.

"You haven't got any Pimms, by any chance?" British. Shit. Was there anything this girl didn't have going for her? Smirking into her drink, the actress watched as the barman wordlessly poured the pink liquid into a tall glass, and laid a kindly hand on the girl's arm as she fumbled in her bag to pay. She knew exactly what she'd have to do to regain the place in the limelight that, having worked so hard to get it thus far, she felt she was owed.

"Don't worry about it, honey. This one's on me." The girl stared at her, wide-eyed.

"What?"

"Your drink," she indicated the Pimms, "let me pay. Don't take this the wrong way, but you really look like you need it."

"Oh. Erm. Thank you." She could tell that the girl didn't know quite what to make of her offer, so she flashed her her best oven cleaner commercial smile in an attempt to reassure her, flipping her hand nonchalantly and declaring that it was nothing. The girl nodded, uncertainly, before picking up her drink, gulping down a mouthful and shuddering drastically.

"Christ, it can't be that bad. Why did you order it if you don't like it?" The actress fought to conceal her grin. This kid was too much.

"Oh, I don't bloody know," the girl slumped as much was possible on her bar stool, "It's all Mum ever has in the house." Smiling ruefully, she seemed to look directly into the eyes of her benefactor for the first time, having been too shell-shocked to focus her gaze before. Her own eyes narrowed slightly, in recognition, and one could almost read the thoughts flashing across her mind, especially when one was used to having this effect on people.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" she hazarded eventually, eyebrows almost knitted in concentration. The actress tossed her head, extending her hand to be shaken, shooting the words, "I don't doubt it. Victoria Chase, star of stage and screen. Well, mostly screen. You've probably seen me on TV," at her. The girl seemed a tad taken aback by this avalanche of information, but she took the hand nonetheless, quipping "Rej- Joy. Joy Scroggs. You probably haven't seen me on TV." Victoria smiled in spite of herself. A sense of humour and everything. She knew she shouldn't allow herself to get attached to this girl, but she also knew that she was going to do it anyway. Growing up in the sixties, she'd taken to applying the phrase "What the hell?" to any situation that arose in which she wanted to do something that she knew was a bad idea. It made the idea of not doing it seem blasé, pathetic and entirely ridiculous, and so then she had no choice but to do it, which, of course, was what she'd wanted in the first place. And so, here, she applied her phrase thus. What the hell? She asked herself, and rested her head on her hand.

"So, Joy Scroggs, what brings you to L.A.?" The girl rolled her eyes.

"Something called an aeroplane brings me here. Have you heard of them?" Victoria rolled her eyes right back. She was damned if she was going to let this child out-drama-queen her.

"Oh, please. You know what I mean." Joy let out a heavy sigh, and closed her eyes, as if giving up.

"Fine. If you must know, I've just had a baby and had to give it up, my mother hates me and I had to run as far away from home as I could before I ended up killing her or myself." Victoria blanched. That was a little heavier than she'd been expecting.

"Fuck," she spluttered, "You don't mince words, do you?" The girl simply took another swig from her drink, wincing again at the taste.

"How old are you, anyway?" Victoria wondered. Joy bristled uncomfortably, obviously not wanting to be caught out. Eyes fixed on her drink, and incredibly unconvincingly, she muttered "Twenty-one?" It sounded more like a question than a statement: is there any possibility that you'd believe I was twenty-one? Victoria snorted.

"Sweetheart, who do you think you're kidding?" Joy coloured angrily, and, for a few seconds, looked as if she might be about to push the older woman off her stool, but then, she seemed to see the sense in Victoria's words. Glancing at the bartender, she leaned towards Victoria, whispering "I'm fifteen." Fifteen. Holy crap, Batman, she was fucking fifteen. Even younger than she'd thought, and utterly adorable. She really should just put this kid on the first flight back to Heathrow. But still, she didn't. She just held her gaze, took her arm and told her "Come on. Let's blow this joint." Joy didn't say anything, but she didn't argue with her either. Victoria shoved her credit card in the bartender's general direction, still not taking her eyes off Joy. The room around her, from the crumbling light fittings to the puce of the barstools, seemed to blur into nothingness, and her show's title finally began to make sense to her. All there was was the two of them, caught in this moment, on the edge of tomorrow; of a beginning. And in that moment, her mind was made up. That was what it would be. A beginning. This was going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. She'd make damned sure of it.