by Rosie Nixon
Eventually, just before five o’clock, I opened the door to the 20Twenty crew, and seconds after that AJ arrived with Beau. Rob looked rather distracted and got on with setting up without any small talk. Fran barely acknowledged me as she made a beeline for Mona, describing what they needed from the scene with Beau. Mona, in response, told her how it would be. I got the impression they were finding Mona difficult to work with.
Beau almost barged me out of the way to reach Pinky, who was scuttling around happily on the terrace.
‘Darling baby! Mommy missed you! Were you good for Mona and Amber? Oh yes, of course you were!’
She popped her head through the glass door. ‘Hey, Amber! Come give me a hand.’
A feeling of doom washed over me as I joined Beau in the sunshine.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked. Ridiculously large sunglasses almost covered her entire face.
‘Think so.’ I smiled through gritted teeth in response, squinting into the sun and feeling like the bullied girl in the playground.
‘I’ve got it all worked out,’ she continued breathlessly, putting an arm around me and glancing over her shoulder to check we were alone. Then she delved into her bag and produced some folded-up paper.
‘I’ve written you a script. You basically call Trey, say you’re a producer on Summer’s Not Over and that Jason and me were just rehearsing our scenes when some pap took the photos. But it’s all aboveboard and innocent. Just keep it short and to the point.’
She took a brief moment to study my face. If she sensed I was feeling deeply uneasy about the whole scenario, she ignored it.
‘Thanks, honey. One quick call, that’s all it’ll take.’
She then fixed me with that beguiling gaze and whispered, ‘If you do this, I’ll never forget it, Amber. I’ll make you a success here.’
Bribery. Lovely.
Chapter Seven
I held out the script in front of me. The phone rang and rang. Beau fixed me with the eyes of a puppy watching forgotten sausages burn on a barbecue.
He’s not going to pick up. Result!
‘Trey speaking.’ Damn.
‘Hello, is that Trey Jones?’
‘Yes, who is this?’ He was well spoken—I had almost forgotten he was British. That just made me more nervous.
‘Mr Jones, my name is Annie, I’m a producer on Summer’s Not Over, and I’ve been working with your delightful fiancée. What a charming, talented and devoted young woman she is …’ I sideways-glanced at Beau. This is the biggest load of drivel I have ever read.
‘Ri-ight …’ said the unsurprisingly baffled voice on the other end.
‘I’m just calling because I wanted to make you aware of a situation my office has heard about today. It, erm, I …’
‘Annie, what did you say your surname was?’ He sounded worryingly sane.
‘My surname?’ I repeated, staring pointedly at Beau.
She hurriedly wrote on a piece of paper, ‘Liechtenstein’. Jesus, she could have let me rehearse that in advance.
‘Just call me Annie.’ I glowered at her.
‘So—how can I help you today? It’s just … I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Oh, sorry, Mr Jones, you must be very busy.’ I scrambled back to the script, my eyes darting over the words to relocate my place. Had this been an acting audition, I would have failed it miserably by now. Only this was much worse than any casting. This was actually happening. In real life. ‘It’s about a call we had to the office earlier today. It seems that some low-life reporter from that shitty gossip website Starz has some photos of your fiancée in what they are referring to as a “compromising position” with her co-star, Jason Slater.’
Beau might as well have been reading the script herself, it was so clearly her voice.
‘Hold on, hold it there—is this a prank call?’ barked Trey. ‘Is Ashton Kutcher or some other joker behind this?’ His change of tone startled me. Desperately, I looked at Beau for help.
‘What’s he saying?’ she mouthed, tossing her big glossy mane to one side and shoving an ear close to the phone so that we were both huddled around it.
I put my hand over the receiver. ‘He thinks I’m Ashton Kutcher.’
‘Duh, that show ended over a million years ago!’ She shook her head, totally missing the point. I pulled myself together.
‘I’m afraid it’s not a prank, Mr Jones, far from it. As I was saying, the website Starz has some photos of your fiancée in what they are referring to as a “compromising position” with Jason Slater, but I’m phoning to let you …’
‘I’m sorry, I’m really not following this.’ He cut me off again, his tone authoritative, and verging on angry. ‘Would you mind explaining to me, in plain English, what you are trying to suggest here, Miss—Annie?’
I officially want to kill Beau for making me do this.
‘Basically, your fiancée has done nothing wrong. She was merely carrying out a rehearsal with Jason when a low-life paparazzo took some photos, and I wanted to offer you my sincere assurance that Beau—and you—have the full support of the studio. Because whatever Starz decides to run with, the truth is they were diligently rehearsing their scenes and that’s all there is to it.’ ‘Diligently rehearsing’, my soft, white derrière.
‘I’d be interested in seeing these photos—do you have copies of them?’ he asked solemnly. ‘I’d like to put them into the hands of my lawyer as soon as possible.’
‘Your l-lawyer?’ As I slowly repeated the words, my voice faltered, and Beau’s eyes grew large with alarm.
‘No, no, no!’ She shook her head wildly and whispered urgently, ‘No attorney, Amber!’ Frantically, she indicated the slitting of a throat—clearly meant to be mine—with her index finger.
‘Your lawyer? That won’t be necessary, Mr Jones, we think the situation will blow over quickly enough,’ I said, as calmly as possible, channelling my best reassuring producer’s voice. ‘This is more a courtesy call, just to put you in the picture and to say, you know, go easy on Beau tonight, it’s been a tough day. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it later, but she’s done absolutely nothing wrong. I just want to make that crystal clear.’
I decided to miss out the last bit of the script, where I was supposed to go on protesting Beau’s innocence and flattering her for another minute or so, hammering the point home with all the subtlety of a nuclear rocket.
Mercifully, he seemed to be buying it. ‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on the Starz site and we’ll take it from there. I know what these scumbags can be like. I appreciate the call, Annie.’
‘My pleasure, Mr Jones.’
Thank God for that. I was ready to hang up.
‘Where are you from in the UK, by the way? There aren’t many British producers I haven’t come across yet.’ No! I wasn’t prepared for small talk.
‘London,’ I replied, fidgeting to get off the phone.
‘Like the rest of us Brits in LA. North or south?’
‘North, born and bred.’
‘The best side. I’m a Portobello boy.’
‘No way—I’m in Kensal Rise!’
For a moment I almost forgot who I was supposed to be—it was so nice to hear mention of home.
‘Small world. Will I see you at the Weinstein bash this evening?’
Beau was indicating I should end the call, with another decapitation action.
‘Oh, afraid not,’ I muttered. ‘Early night for me, busy week.’
‘Know the feeling,’ he said. ‘Well, I hope I’ll get to meet you some time, Annie. Thanks for the call. Goodbye.’
‘Bye, Mr Jones.’
As I hung up—breathing a huge sigh of relief—Beau launched herself onto me, flinging her arms around my rigid body and hugging me uncomfortably tight.
‘You were amazing! You actually sounded like Annie Liechtenstein, too! Well, if she was a Brit, she’d sound just like you.’
‘She’s not even from the UK?’
I sank down onto
the patio sofa, throwing the script down and releasing the phone. My palms were sweaty from grasping it so tightly, and I suddenly really wanted a glass of wine.
‘Did he sound okay? He’s not going to call anyone, is he?’
‘No, he was cool,’ I said, trying not to show how exasperated I felt.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mona approaching. She didn’t look happy.
My heart was still racing from the call. Trey had sounded like such a nice, decent man—I felt horrible for having lied to him. It must have been one of the most bizarre phone calls he’s ever received. Mona pushed the glass door ajar.
‘Hate to break up the party, but we’ve got some styling to do,’ she said brusquely, just as Beau’s iPhone rang.
‘It’s Trey. Just let me take this, Mona, and I’ll be inside in two minutes, promise.’
Mona gave us a mildly irritated look. I went in and closed the terrace door, not wanting to hear whatever Beau was going to say to him. Anyway, showbiz wedding deal protected. For now.
Back in the suite, Rob caught my eye and came over.
‘What was that all about?’
‘She’s a drama queen, that one,’ I said. Half of me hoped he wouldn’t ask anything else, although the other half desperately hoped he would.
‘Sounds juicy. Anyway, Fran’s getting tetchy about filming because we’ve got some schmoozing to do after this—the Weinstein party—can you get her in so we can crack on with it?’
I looked back towards the terrace, Beau was still there, phone clasped between her cheek and shoulder, giggling and covering it every now and again so no one could possibly hear what she was whispering to her husband-to-be.
Probably pure filth.
Mona, meanwhile, had disappeared from sight.
‘Bathroom,’ said Fran with the bob, reading my mind. ‘Give her a shout, would you. Jesus, it’s like herding cats around here.’
I knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Everything all right, Mona? They’re ready when you are.’
She poked her head around the door and I noticed she’d kicked off her skyscraper Manolo Blahniks.
‘Amber, my head’s killing me, I need some headache relief. Have you got any paracetamol?’
‘Only back at the house,’ I replied, cursing myself for not having any in my kit. ‘Want me to get you some?’
‘I’ll get through the filming and then yes, please, there’s a CVS pharmacy on the next block. Make a start on the rails with Beau—there’s a couple of Roksanda gowns that would be perfect for her. If she wants to make a splash, this will get the fashion press taking note.’
Back in the room I covertly peeked at labels on gowns until I found the two by Roksanda. I didn’t want the camera crew to notice that I didn’t instantly know my Roksanda from my Roland Mouret. The feeling of being a fraud in this label-obsessed world kept creeping up, but all I could do was ignore it for now. Luckily Beau was oblivious. We both knew she had bigger fish to fry.
‘Pleased to see Pinky today?’ I asked as she approached, pulling Pinky by his lead, a big smile that screamed ‘crisis averted!’ spread across her elfin face. Her cheeks were flushed. I imagined some phone sex might have occurred.
‘Oh yes! Only he’s a bit … I noticed he’s got a bit of a gross tummy today, poor thing.’
Sensing Fran and Rob were anxious to start filming, I did what I had seen Mona do countless times by now and led Beau to the rails, pointing out the hot pink Roksanda Ilincic number with big, puffy sleeves. ‘Mona was thinking you could start off by trying this,’ I offered, noticing that the camera had started rolling and cursing myself for not even touching up my make-up. Why do I always look like the hired homeless person?
‘Eww—yuck! And not very me.’
‘Right, um, so you don’t like it?’
‘I really want something old Hollywood for the Globes.’
I began riffling through the rail, as I had seen Mona do countless times, my hand soon settling on the beautiful scarlet Valentino gown.
‘You can’t get more old Hollywood than this,’ I said, gently teasing it out and laying it across my arm, presenting it to Beau. Her eyes lit up. Result!
‘Oh wow—she’s amazing! I want to try her!’
It might have seemed slightly odd to refer to a dress as though it were a long-lost girlfriend, but she wasn’t the first person I’d heard doing it in LA. Even Mona did it sometimes. Beau reached for the stunning scarlet silk Valentino that had immediately caught my eye while we were setting up.
‘It … She’s beautiful,’ I sighed. ‘A dream dress. This would look amazing on you. You must try it on.’
I grabbed a pair of diamanté Jimmy Choo sandals and a pretty matching box clutch and led her towards the bedroom-cum-changing room. This time I would wait for her outside; I wasn’t stupid enough to risk another confessional. Mona came out of the en suite as we approached the door, still clutching her head.
‘Oh. The Valentino. Was the Roksanda not working for you, then?’
She was shooting me daggers; I wasn’t sure why.
‘Beau thought she’d prefer this.’ I smiled awkwardly, painfully aware the camera was still trained on the three of us.
‘Yes—I know I’m going to love it, Mona. It’s the perfect Golden Globes gown. Out in a sec!’
The camera zoomed in on the items, and then Beau disappeared behind the door. Through gritted teeth, so Rob and Fran couldn’t hear, Mona breathed into my neck.
‘The Valentino, Amber, if you had bothered to ask, is for Jennifer Astley. It’s not on offer for Beau. So you’d better make sure we get it back!’
Shit.
I darted back towards the rails and pulled out another gown, a Marchesa number in a slightly deeper red, still figure-hugging and with a shape that would leave enough cleavage on show to achieve column inches the next morning.
‘This one okay?’ I asked Mona, who stood with her arms folded, like a teenager in a huff.
‘Just get her out of the Valentino. Fast.’
As I headed towards the bedroom, my head was spinning with reasons I might possibly give for why Beau couldn’t be loaned the gown.
It has a big stain down the back.
Valentino himself has requested it be returned because it’s faulty.
Michelle Obama wants to auction it for a children’s charity.
It’s needed to preside over peace talks for the UN.
And then a moment of sanity washed over me.
The truth, Amber. Just tell her the truth. The gown has been promised to Jennifer Astley. Surely she’ll understand? My hand was lifted, primed to knock on the bedroom door when it flew open and Beau appeared, looking—it had to be said—every inch the knockout Hollywood starlet in the Valentino. It hugged her curves in all the right places and the slight train at the back made her look sophisticated and chic. In short, it made a brassy bombshell like Beau look like a goddess. The camera crew knew it, too, and as they stepped forward to picture the end result as Beau twirled around, a star in our midst. Even Rob and Fran with the bob were smiling in genuine admiration of the transformation that had occurred. I could envisage her on the red carpet—some dazzling diamond earrings, her hair loosely tousled, scarlet lips—the dress practically styled itself.
‘I love her so much, I’ve never felt so in love with a dress before. She’s perfect!’
Her eyes were misted over. She really was in love with it. Probably more than she loves Trey. ‘And she’s even easy to pee in—look, I can just hoist her up and squat!’
She began gathering up the dress. The spell was abruptly broken.
‘We get it! No need to demonstrate!’ Mona rushed in to save her dignity. Fran looked pleased; filming was finally livening up. You can put the girl in a Valentino, but you can’t put the Valentino into the girl.
‘Will you thank Mr Valentino personally for me, please, Mona?’
I looked at Mona, wondering what would happen next. I certainly had no idea how to tell Beau
that actually, no, she couldn’t wear the gown of her dreams after all. Mona didn’t strike me as someone to shirk an awkward conversation, but even she looked dumbfounded. She just pushed her hands deeply into the pockets of her silk shirt dress and looked at me. I shifted my weight, uncomfortably. The odd-shoe feeling I’d had in Smith’s returned with a vengeance. Is this a sackable offence?
‘It’s just Valentino,’ Mona muttered, po-faced, ‘no Mister.’ Then she seemed to do a volte-face. ‘And I’m sure the darling man will be delighted that you can pee easily in his gown. I’ll be sure to let him know, after you’re a huge triumph in it at the Golden Globes!’ She launched herself onto the beaming Beau, throwing her arms around her sparrow-like frame. For a few seconds she completely engulfed her, only pausing briefly to look over her shoulder and check the camera was trained on them as they hugged and kissed.
When it came to keeping celebrity clients happy, there was only one word that applied: a sugar-coated ‘Yes!’
At last I released the tension in my shoulders and allowed a sense of pride to wash over me. Mona would never give me the credit for it, but hadn’t I just styled my first celebrity? Fran seemed to have read my mind.
‘So how does it feel to have selected Beau Belle’s Golden Globes outfit?’ She stood to the side of the camera, its beating red light letting me know that I was being filmed. Mona suddenly dropped Beau and barged into the shot, placing an arm around my shoulders.
‘Exquisite on her, isn’t it?’ she chimed, pushing a curl behind her ear and looking straight down the lens. ‘Valentino is the ultimate awards ceremony designer—the gown screams “screen siren”, and I knew straight away that it would be perfect on Beau. She’ll be the Belle of the ball! Get it? Belle of—’
