‘Me?’ I asked.
‘At 8 p.m. tonight.’ Glenn nodded.
I fidgeted in my seat. Tonight was meant to be my first night off since I started. I was meant to be leaving here at 5 p.m. No work. But here was my opportunity to show how dedicated and professional I was, that I was really part of the Maker team.
‘Of course, I can. No problem. Leave it with me,’ I said smoothly.
***
At 8 p.m., I was standing in the arrivals section of Sydney international airport, waiting for Honey. And yes, that was her real name. Honey was one of the country’s TV screen darlings, and one of very few Australians to make it big in the US. She’d literally transitioned straight out of wearing a school uniform in Home and Away, onto the Hollywood big screen in a period historical piece, where she’d got rave reviews. She’d followed this up with several other blockbusters, where she’d worked opposite Chris Hemsworth, and even one with Ewan MacGregor, who Tansy and Maggie agreed was the most gorgeous man, like, in the world.
Of course, the media was always looking for a good story, and soon articles were popping up everywhere, saying the fame had gone to her head, because she was out partying every night. There were photos of her stumbling out of nightclubs and falling asleep in taxis, but being in PR had taught me you couldn’t believe anything you read in the papers. If the photographers took a photo of you blinking your eyes, it could make you look half-asleep or half-drunk too.
But when Honey breezed out of the airport VIP area, she looked just like you’d expect a celebrity to look: long grey pants, a woollen white jumper on her slim frame, the shoulder peeking out of the side, just to remind everyone she had the best collarbones in the business. Her long, dark blonde hair was silky and full, and she wore it in a messy bun, but it looked perfectly messy, as if she’d had a band of hairdressers doting on her. She had not one skerrick of make-up on, but looked as if she could pose for a L’Oreal beauty campaign. She didn’t look as if she’d just been cramped on a plane for the last thirty hours, but then I guessed first class wasn’t all that cramped.
‘Honey!’ I exclaimed, waving and walking over to her. Glenn had told me to give her the five-star treatment the whole way. I grabbed her bags and gave her a big smile. ‘Welcome home.’ She looked less than thrilled.
‘I’m so tired,’ she said in the softest voice, which sounded as if she were at the bottom of a well; it instantly made me want to reach out and help her out. ‘That man snored the entire trip. Even my first-class pod wasn’t able to block it out. I had to put my earphones on and turn them up. High.’
‘That man?’ I looked around for the evil snorer, but no one else was in the hall.
‘Thank you.’ She looked at me as I struggled to wheel her extra-large Louis Vuitton luggage out of the door and towards the waiting Uber Black, a large glossy SUV with super-dark tinted windows.
‘Celebrities,’ Glenn had said, ‘don’t want to be seen, until they do. So dark tint always. Have umbrellas even if it’s not raining. Always bring extra-large sunglasses. Or hats. Keep the mystery, keep the celebrity’s happy.’
Glenn had rattled off an entire list of things for me to remember, as he was pacing in front of Nick and me. Half the time he’d been mumbling to himself: ‘Can you imagine any shots of Honey coming home looking tired? They’ll be spread across the entire front page, about her being hungover, and up will come the same old DUI story again.’ I’d nodded, dutifully taking notes. Tint. Umbrellas. Hide.
When the two of us were safely in the tinted Uber, and on the road, Honey finally put down her phone, looked outside at the night sky and said, ‘Where are we going?’
‘The Sheraton Grand.’ I smiled. A beautiful five-star hotel opposite Hyde Park, near the office. Glenn had told me, amongst the other thousand things he’d said, that the hotel had to be the best for our clients. The Langham, which came in at a whopping thousand dollars a night, was booked out, so it was off to the Grand for eight hundred dollars a night, which was still more money than I could afford in a month, for, well, anything.
‘What about stopping off for some drinks?’ she asked with a gleaming actress-perfect smile. Her teeth were pure white amazing, but not too white. If they were fake or veneers, the dentist had done an outstanding job.
‘No, straight to the hotel,’ I said firmly, not looking at her large round ‘help me’ actress eyes, for fear I’d cave in.
‘A little one. With dinner. Some Champagne.’ She pouted slightly.
‘Sorry, PR orders. Straight to the hotel.’ I smiled apologetically.
Honey went back to scrolling and messaging on her phone, smiling every now and then, when her phone kept beeping.
I tried to stifle a yawn, but Honey didn’t even notice. I was hoping to just drop her off, but when we got to the hotel, she said, ‘Aren’t you going to stay?’ and pouted a little again, before adding, ‘I’ll get bored.’
And I knew what bored meant: it meant she’d go out drinking, and getting into mischief, and the paparazzi would be on her like sharks smelling a drop of blood in the ocean. Tomorrow, the photos would be splashed over the front pages of the papers. I could see it now. Horrific Honey Can’t Stop Her Vicious Cycle. Drunk And Disorderly. I shuddered at the thought.
I nodded, trying not to think of my comfy bed. ‘Sure, I’ll stay a little while.’
Her penthouse suite was so large it almost took up the entire top floor. Expensive rugs with real gold thread adorned the floors. There was a lounge, a large bedroom, and a bathroom with a tub bath and a separate dining area that seated six, with a full kitchen complete with marble countertops. A note on the bench read in neat handwriting, ‘Your chef is ready to cook for you any time, anything, anywhere, in your room or delivered. Just call 111.’
The bedroom was darkly opulent with crimson velvet cushions, and deluxe grey blankets. Two plush chaise longues overlooked the bed, in case one wanted to swan around and drink tea, or Champagne. There were a total of three balconies. Three. Each one gave a different uninterrupted view, with a choice of Hyde Park, St Mary’s Cathedral and Sydney Harbour.
I’d never known a hotel room like this was possible. The room even had electric blinds and curtains. You could operate everything from a remote control, whilst lying in bed. On the coffee table there was an extra-large fruit bowl and expensive crafted chocolates with a handwritten note from the General Manager welcoming Honey. She sniffed at it, and walked past.
So this is how the other half live, I thought. What I would have done for just one night in here, tied up in a bathrobe, like a fat happy sausage, eating those caramel chocolates and having a movie marathon.
Honey fell onto a chaise longue and sighed. ‘Tea?’ she asked me, and I guessed she wanted me to make a cup. ‘Earl Grey. A splash of milk.’
I put the kettle on, and busied about getting a tea ready, with the most delicate fine-boned china tea set I’d ever seen. I took extra care not to break it, because it looked expensive.
When she had her tea, I smiled and said, ‘Ready for bed?’ As if I were her mother.
I desperately hoped she’d say yes, because I was absolutely exhausted, and also questioning why I was babysitting a twenty-four-year-old celebrity at ten at night. ‘Maybe we could watch a movie?’ Honey said happily. ‘And once I’m asleep, then you’re safe to go.’ She winked at me, as if she knew the drill.
I got out the remote control and started flicking through the channels.
‘It’s always so boring being babysat.’ She sighed, and stared out of the window.
‘Um, Honey, can I ask you a question?’ She nodded and sipped her tea. ‘Has this happened before?’
‘Where I’ve got in trouble and been on media watch? And babysat so I don’t go out drinking? Maybe once or twice.’ She grinned. ‘But the PR team in California thought this time it was better to go back to Australia, and Maker agreed. Apparently, I need some time out of the camera, so people forget.’ She almost laughed. ‘Thankfully it only takes a
week or two over there for that to happen, then I can slip back into my life, like nothing ever happened.’
‘I don’t know if this is speaking out of turn, but it just seems, like you’re so sweet …’ I trailed off, because I was speaking out of turn. But she really did seem just like a very young, sweet girl. I couldn’t imagine her trying to hit a police officer.
‘That I wouldn’t do the things you’ve heard?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Sometimes I don’t mean it, but sometimes I just get bored. And we just have a few drinks, then a few more, and the next thing you know …’
‘You’re swimming naked with a man you’ve only just met,’ I said, then realised I’d said it out loud.
She let out a hearty laugh. ‘I’ve never done that! Or, actually, have I?’
‘I was just using it as an example,’ I said quickly.
‘Everyone’s done something in their lives. It’s just I’m in the spotlight.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘What about you, Emma? I’m sure you’ve done something you wouldn’t want splashed on the front pages of a newspaper.’
Well, that was entirely true. Starting with Nick. ‘Maybe a few things,’ I admitted.
‘Like?’ She leaned forward excitedly as if we were besties and I was about to confide in her. And for a second, I thought, why not? I could tell her everything about my night with Nick, but give him another name, so she’d never know.
But eventually I said, ‘Oh, this and that, nothing much really.’
Bored of the conversation, she went into the bathroom and changed into a silk white nightgown, then curled up in her super-king-sized bed and asked if I wouldn’t mind handing her her pink sleep mask. I flicked through the movies until she eventually picked The Proposal. I sat on the chaise longue to watch it with her, praying she’d fall asleep fast. Checking my phone, and stifling another yawn, I saw it was almost midnight. I couldn’t believe I was still ‘on the clock’ and at work whilst Nick and Glenn were probably tucked up in their beds. Here I was, glorified tea-maker and babysitter, not even being paid for overtime. So much for my wonderful Maker career, I thought glumly.
I was debating in my head if this was better or worse than working at that Mexican dive making stale burritos look appetising, when Honey sat up in bed. ‘Could you make me another tea?’ she asked, batting her eyelids, and I wondered if she’d ever heard the word no.
One green tea later, thankfully Honey was fast asleep. I switched off the TV just before one in the morning, and slipped quietly out of her room, feeling every bit like a nanny. And not at all happy about it.
Chapter 20
‘Call the paparazzi,’ Nick repeated.
‘What?’ I said for the second time, doubting I’d heard the right words.
‘Call the paparazzi and line them up for where Honey will be this morning.’ He checked the schedule on his laptop, ‘Bluebell Café at 10 a.m., drinking herbal tea, meeting with the head of IAH, followed by a brief workout in the park opposite.’
Nick smiled and sat back in his chair, wearing a white linen shirt that was unbuttoned, and made him look extra tanned. He’d paired it with a perfect pair of light tan pants, and square-toed shoes. He looked immaculate, of course, and his hair, a little longer, had more of a tousled look. He’d walked in that morning with a large grin, as if he were on top of the world, and asking how my day was.
‘Long already, and I need coffee.’ I’d smiled bleakly, given I’d only managed to get four hours of broken sleep each night since Honey arrived two weeks ago, I’d been looking after her while Nick was in long budget and strategy meetings and Phil mocked me endlessly. It was a thankless task and I kept dreaming about making the wrong cup of tea. Honey was nice enough, but she took demanding to a new level. Phil had recently taken to calling me Cinderemma and asked if I lived in the ashes and had two wicked stepsisters.
Looking after Honey was like having a newborn baby. I was interrupted at weird hours because she wanted to talk. Or eat donuts. Still keeping strictly to LA time so she didn’t miss out on any updates from her friends, she had no concept of time and boundaries. It was a thankless task. She was nice enough, but she took demanding to a new level. She’d called me once at 2 a.m. asking me why Instagram wasn’t uploading her selfie and when would it be working properly. I barely slept through the night anymore.
‘But I thought paparazzi hid in bushes, and stalked celebrity clients, and we hated them, and now you’re saying we’re going to call and tip them off?’ I asked, astonished at what I was hearing. Was this really how it all worked? I thought back to all the ‘Stars in the Street’ and ‘Stars without Make-up’ articles I’d read and believed. Was it all fake?
‘That’s exactly what I’m—’ Nick looked at me quizzically. ‘Who did you work with in the UK? They didn’t have the same set-up?’
‘Oh, mostly government officials.’ I swallowed. ‘Not really paparazzi lovers.’ I tried to gloss it over, because it had been true over there, the tabloids didn’t want to photograph the backbencher for the Conservative party doing their Sunday groceries at Tesco’s – 99p tin of spaghetti and a loaf of brown bread.
‘Here’s the number.’ He handed me a Post-it note that said ‘Tom’, and underneath it ‘TakeOutMedia’. Oh. I nodded approvingly; I liked what he’d done there. TakeOutMedia as an acronym became Tom. Clever.
When I picked up the phone and dialled the number from my desk, I felt strange, and breathless, as if I was doing something wrong.
‘Hello?’ a strong Australian accent and smooth voice answered.
‘Um, hi, Tom?’
‘Yup.’
‘This is, um, Emma, from, um, Maker. We’re ringing to, um, tell you about Honey,’ I said, then added quickly, ‘And where she’s going to be today.’
‘Great, let me get a pen,’ he said smoothly, as if this happened all the time.
He took down the notes, and then with a polite but curt tone said bye, hung up, and I was left listening to silence down the line.
My strange day didn’t stop there. I was also on Honey patrol again. Or Honey babysitting. At 9 a.m., she needed help dressing so that the colours in her fake paparazzi shots made her look glowing. There were a thousand photos on my phone now of Honey, courtesy of Glenn, Honey’s Californian agency and Honey herself, in all colours under the sun. If anyone saw them, they’d think I was a Class-A stalker.
According to her, yellow made her look washed out. Red was too strong. And beige was too mumsy. I mean, I thought she looked wonderful in everything, but, sitting in her hotel room, Honey was staring at her thousand selfies critiquing every one.
‘We need to have her look healthy,’ Glenn had noted, ‘not hungover, never hungover.’ She ended up in a soft powder-blue top, white tight pants, and some slip-on white Prada espadrilles. She looked as though she were Elle Macpherson’s daughter, arrived refreshed from a top beauty spa.
Unfortunately, Honey was still on LA time and having trouble remembering the key messages I’d created for her, at her staged morning tea, with the head of the IAH charity. So now, it was me, not the paparazzi, that was hiding in the bushes. Well, near the bushes. Near enough that I had to lean into a bunch of leaves to hear what was being said on the other side. I was thirty minutes in and prickling. I had to overhear what she was saying and my job was to cough if she said anything inappropriate, and then she’d excuse herself to go to the bathroom, where I’d meet her and remind her what to say.
I couldn’t be seen in any of the paparazzi photos because then the magazine editors would know it was set up.
So instead I was in a bush. Hadn’t they heard of MI6 and earpieces? Wasn’t this the technological age? Couldn’t I sit in the air conditioning of the car and listen via a tiny chip of some sort? Nope, not at Maker. Apparently bush listening and coughing were the approach. Let me guess, it was ironic.
Thankfully Honey was staying on script for now, and saying things like, ‘It’s for the children, which I think is the most important thing.’ And she was a
good actress. No, great. Even I was buying what she was saying. And, thankfully, it appeared the IAH head was too, because he’d needed a little convincing when Nick and Glenn had suggested Honey was the new spokesperson. He’d only agreed to it when he’d realised her next movie coming up was a blockbuster with a budget of a billion dollars, and she was going to be the lead role, in a dystopian future, where children were hunted by machines. Now that was macabre.
I leaned back in, to hear Honey agreeing and saying a lot of ‘mmmm’s and the IAH head was talking about statistical rates of something that I couldn’t quite hear, and I knew, despite her acting skills, that she was bored silly. Even I could tell that.
Whilst I was mid-bush listening, Tansy called. Since Honey was doing so well, and they had almost finished the faux morning tea, that neither of them had touched, I thought I’d be able to take a quick call.
As soon as I picked up, Tansy almost shouted, ‘Oh, my God, Emma, you are alive! Where have you been?’
‘With Honey Clark,’ I whispered.
Tansy said breathlessly, ‘Wow. How’s it going? Gosh, I feel your life is so glamorous.’
‘Glamorous?’ I spluttered. ‘I’m in a bush.’
‘Whose bush?’ She sounded horrified.
‘Um, a restaurant’s.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. Listen, have you had the chat with Nick yet?’
‘Which talk?’
‘Where you tell him you have feelings for him!’ Oh Tansy, ever the romantic.
‘I have never ever said that.’
‘No, but you talk about him all the time, and you drop him into conversation whenever we chat, and so, I mean hello, you like him.’
‘I do not.’ I said hotly, because it was kind of true. A few weeks ago, when we were at the cemetery, I had thought I did really like him. And I’d even thought it was possible he liked me back. But more recently, he’d seemed distracted, and I couldn’t really put my finger on why or what had happened.
As if on cue, I looked down at my phone vibrating with another call. It was Nick. ‘Gotta go, Tans.’
Just As You Are Page 16
