by Rosie Nixon
Caroline, the make-up artist, answered the door.
‘Oh—Amber. We weren’t expecting you,’ she said, in a markedly different tone from that of the friendly make-up artist we had welcomed into our hotel suite barely twenty-four hours ago.
‘I thought Mona had explained,’ I said, rummaging in my bag for my phone and totally failing to find it. ‘She’s unwell, unfortunately, so she asked me to pop over to check everything’s fine with …’ I stopped dead as Tamara’s head appeared from around the corner.
‘You must be Amber,’ she said, walking towards the doorway. I had forgotten how pretty she was, with her long, straight Abba blonde hair and legs that went on and on. I had never felt more short and frumpy—and unwanted—in my life.
‘Caroline called me in a panic because Jennifer had second thoughts about the Oscar de la Renta,’ she explained, a smug smile on her face. Judging by the body language of both of them, there was no way I was going to be let over the threshold. ‘She tried Mona, but no response.’ She looked at Caroline and rolled her eyes. ‘Quelle surprise, after last night.’
The hotel corridor suddenly felt very cold and unfriendly.
‘Of course, I wanted to do anything I could to help dear Jennifer,’ Tamara continued. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of her panicking over her gown. She’s a nominee, for goodness’ sake!’
An unpleasant sensation of nausea worked its way up from my chest to my neck and stopped, like a golf ball stuck in my throat. I suddenly felt thankful for the fact I hadn’t had breakfast.
‘Mona’s much better now,’ I said, weakly. ‘Mild case of food poisoning.’ I smiled awkwardly at Caroline, who was strenuously avoiding eye contact. And then Jennifer appeared from around the corner. She swept towards me, wearing—no—wait a minute, it can’t be … Is it? Oh Christ. It is.
She was a vision in red, wearing the same exquisite scarlet Valentino gown that Beau had selected to wear to the Globes. How could that have happened? I thought it was a one-off? Her hair was loosely swept over one shoulder. Before I could process what I was seeing, a man built like a bouncer came into view behind her. The suite beyond must have been huge, or else it was a Tardis.
‘Bodyguard. Chopard,’ Tamara explained, seeing me recoil, wondering if I was about to be arrested for being an unwanted dumpy person at a celebrity’s hotel door. I registered the glittering pear-shaped cascade of diamonds hanging from Jennifer’s ears and the diamond cuff around her slender wrist.
‘You look … incredible,’ I whispered, awestruck. And she did. She was Hollywood glamour personified. The problem was, it was exactly the same brand of Hollywood glamour that Beau would be trying to pull off, albeit not quite as well, in approximately—I finally found my phone—five hours’ time. The red carpet for the Golden Globes was probably being seen to by its very own grooming team right about now. And I had read enough reports about awards season fashion during my adult life to know that what you must avoid at all costs is a clash of identical gowns. It is fashion suicide. It could even be the death knell of a once glittering career—stealing headlines for all the wrong reasons.
‘An A-list star must look unique on the red carpet—their credibility depends on it,’ Mona had said on our first day in the suite, ‘and at no time are the stakes higher than during awards season.’
I started to panic. I was the only person who knew of the potential fashion clash that lay ahead. I had no time to be standing here, watching Jennifer mince up and down the corridor when I knew full well that Beau was probably doing exactly the same dress rehearsal right now, in front of Trey, up in the Hills. I had to act fast.
‘Can I have a quick word, please, Tamara?’
Briskly, I told the woman who might well be my nemesis the news that Beau Belle was in possession of the very same red Valentino showstopper, and that she had every intention of wearing it this evening. The golf ball remained lodged in my throat as I finished explaining the situation. How would she react? A tantrum? A screaming fit? A Naomi Campbell–style phone-throw, perhaps? We both knew that in the celebrity hierarchy Jennifer was above Beau, but what about who tried it on first—surely that counted for something?
‘Shit!’ She sucked in her cheeks and thought for a moment. ‘I knew the atelier had sent out two, but I thought both were intended for Jennifer. They sent one to me, thinking I was still working with Mona, and it’s always good to have a spare. How did it end up on Beau?’ I shuffled guiltily, but remained quiet. ‘I think we’ve no choice but to make Valentino’s people aware of the situation and get him to withdraw the dress from Beau. You’ll have to tell her,’ she continued, her hazel eyes icy cold.
Getting the great man involved seemed a little extreme. I felt certain Mona wouldn’t want me penetrating into the realm of the actual designer—that was way beyond my job description.
‘Just let me call Beau first,’ I pleaded.
I slipped back down the corridor towards the lift, out of Tamara’s earshot, to make the call. Thank God, she picked up straight way. I cut to the chase:
‘Beau, you know you said if I pretended to be Annie Whatsashitz and spoke to Trey for you, that you’d never forget it and you’d help me?’
‘Yeah, babe, what is it?’ She seemed to register the panic in my voice. ‘Do you want some free tickets to see my movie? I can easily have—’
‘No, well, maybe, but it’s more urgent, it’s about tonight, the Globes and, er …’ I hesitated, not even having had time to consider how I was actually going to verbalise the situation. ‘It’s about the Valentino gown.’
‘Oh, Amber, I’ve been trying to call Mona about it all day. I guess she got my message, then?’
‘Your message?’ I paused, catching my breath.
Has she heard about last night? Is she sacking us both?
‘I’m so sorry about the gown,’ she continued. ‘I really did genuinely love it and my plan all along was to wear it this evening, but Stefano and Domenico, they’ve been so kind to me following the premiere last night … I felt I couldn’t say no to the gown they’ve sent me for this evening. Mona will understand—she’ll explain to Valentino, won’t she?’
I was just about following.
‘So, you’re not planning to wear the Valentino after all?’
‘No, babe—don’t hate me.’
If my body was capable of doing a backflip, I’d be doing one.
‘The Dolce & Gabbana is so me, it’s black, with lace detailing, and figure-hugging. I was thinking I could wear it with one of those fur wraps you had the other day. Trey thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. We’ve been playing dress-up all morning.’
‘You must wear it!’ I said. ‘It sounds perfect!’
‘Oh, thanks, babe, knew you’d understand. You’ll let Mona know for me right?’
‘Of course I will.’ I wanted to kiss the phone.
‘Anyway, what was the thing you wanted help with?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter any more, forget it. I’ll drop a couple of fur stoles over to you this afternoon.’
‘Love ya, babe.’
‘Bye, Beau.’
I ended the call and then, at last, the golf ball felt as though it had dislodged from my throat. And she hadn’t even brought up Mona’s ‘incident’. Fortunately, Beau was so completely wrapped up in herself, she was oblivious to the antics of anyone else. And, come to think it, I couldn’t recall seeing her at the premiere party much after the drinks with the crew. Right now, I actually loved her.
I practically skipped back to tell Tamara the good news.
‘Sorted,’ I said, the second she flung open the door. ‘Beau’s not going to wear the Valentino.’
‘I want to hug you!’ she screamed, resisting the urge to actually hug me. Caroline popped up behind her, sensing correctly that we were all in a much better place.
‘I suppose you don’t need me any more, then,’ I said, after a lustful look at a room service porter laying out some dainty finger sandwiches that
Jennifer was unlikely to touch, on a table beyond them.
‘Bye!’ they both said in unison, the colour back in their cheeks.
‘Catch you at one of the parties, maybe,’ Tamara suggested, and the French-style wooden door was gently slammed in my face. I called Klara on my way back to the lift.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Right now? Spying on Mona trying to make herself a macchiato. She’s stubbed her toe about five times already just navigating the kitchen and she’s been swearing at the coffee machine for the last ten minutes. It’s funny. She’s got no idea. Mind you, do you know how to work that thing?’
‘Where’s Ana?’
‘Out. Mona sent her to the pharmacy for pills.’
‘More pills? I only just picked her up some painkillers, two days ago.’
‘Well, she must need some more.’ What’s going on with you, Mona?
‘Where are you?’
‘At the Chateau Marmont.’
‘Bit posh?’
‘I’m outside Jennifer Astley’s room.’
‘Please tell me you’ve Instagrammed a photo of the door?’
‘I’m working. Listen, I’ve got to be quick, I need your help.’
Pause on the other end.
‘Please, Klara. Will you help me?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘It’s really important, Mona’s not working today and there’s a ton she’s asked me to do.’
Another pause.
‘Well, I suppose the sun’s gone in.’ I guessed she was on a lounger. She shifted herself. ‘What’s up?’
‘You drive, don’t you?
‘Ye-es …’
‘I need you to ask Mona if we can borrow her car. And get the keys to the W suite from her. I need your help with some last-minute errands for the awards.’ Adrenalin was beginning to flow through my veins. Don’t let me down, Klara, please.
‘With any more celebs?’
‘Well, I need to stop by Beau’s,’
‘Sounds cool. Have you got tickets to the after-party?’
‘Not yet, but I know a man who can get me some. If you help me, I’ll sort tickets.’
I had already assumed that Rob and Tim would be going. Hopefully, we could be their plus ones.
‘Deal. I’ll ask her.’
‘Oh, and, Klara?’
‘What?’
‘Ask Mona for her phone, too. She’s already missed some important calls from clients today. Someone’s got to save her reputation.’
‘Roger that. I’ll come and get you at the Chateau in ten.’
I hung up. Thank you, Klara. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Chapter Twelve
Klara and I spent the next two hours zipping between the hotel suite and the grand houses of many of Mona’s well-to-do clients, the opening of the Golden Globes red carpet drawing ever closer. Our usual couriers had all been booked up for the day so we had no choice but to do most of the drop-offs ourselves. I soon knew LA based not only on a web of Mona’s preferred coffee houses, but by some of the city’s most salubrious mansions and fashionable hotel suites, where stars, their publicists, hair and make-up artists, PAs, nutritionists, and other hangers-on, were holed up getting ready for the awards.
Klara was a surprisingly good driver and we operated well together—it was even fun to have her loud rap music blaring as we swerved in and out of driveways and up and down highways across West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. As we returned to the W after dropping a selection of vintage fur stoles at Beau’s house, and picking up some lastminute alterations from the tailors, I finally had a moment to look at Mona’s iPhone. Sixteen missed calls and fourteen new answerphone messages. I grabbed a pen and the hotel desk-pad and braced myself.
01:46 a.m.: Beep. Mona, hi, it’s Sandy here from Fashion News Daily—I just wanted a word to clarify a few things about this evening. Can you call me back, please? Number is 310-4256. Thanks.
08:45 a.m.: Beep. Message for Mona Armstrong—it’s Sean Drew from Us magazine, we’re keen to know if you’re commenting on your breakdown. I’d be grateful if you could call the office back on 323-4030. We go to press in six hours. Many thanks.
09:04 a.m.: Beep. Mona, hi, babe, it’s Caroline here, I’m with Jennifer and we wanted to talk to you about the gown for this evening. Can you call back, please? Thanks, darling.
09:34 a.m.: Beep. Hi, I believe this is Mona Armstrong’s number. It’s Rochelle from Starz here—I’m filing on your sickness and collapsing story at the premiere party last night. I wanted to add an official statement. Can you call me, please? 310-4428.
10:00 a.m.: Beep. Automated message for Miss Mona Armstrong. This is the Long Island Loans Company. You are in serious arrears with your repayments, we have tried unsuccessfully to make contact with you a number of times now. Please call us back urgently to discuss your finances with one of our advisers. 904-4444.
10:15 a.m.: Beep. Mona, Caroline again. Jennifer’s getting anxious. Can you please call?
10:21 a.m.: Beep. Hey, Mona! Ohmygod last night was amaz—
10:22 a.m.: Beep. Oops, soz, was too excited! Thank you so much for last night. Love, love, loved the dress. I got on Perez Hilton! And on Fashion Police! Small hiccup about today though, Stefano Gabbana himself called Leslie and they loved me in the dress so much, he wants me to wear Dolce & Gabbana to the Globes, too. How cool is—
10:24 a.m.: Beep. Me again, why do they never leave you enough time to finish a message? Anyway, Stefano himself called—Leslie said he sounds so nice! And he’s sooo Italian. Mama mia! Anyway, he’s loaning me this gorgeous black gown. Sure you understand about the Valentino. Love you. Bye! I mean, ciao! Speak tom—
11:08 a.m.: Beep. Mona, Caroline. As we can’t track you down we’ve had to get Tamara on board. She’s sorting Jen’s gown now.
11:48 a.m.: Beep. Hello, it’s Maria from the tailors’ here, we’ve got the adjustments for the gowns finished. Please pick up any time.
12:34 p.m.: Beep. Mona, Tamara here, listen, I thought it might be sensible if we spoke. Call me.
01:02 p.m.: Beep. Second message for Mona Armstrong—it’s Sean Drew from Us again. I wanted to let you know we’ve spoken to someone who witnessed your breakdown last night, so we’re running a story in the next issue. If you would like to comment, please call me on 323-4030. We go to press in two hours. Thank you.
01:57 p.m.: Beep. Mona, Rochelle again from Starz. I’ve tried to contact you several times now with no success, so I’ll assume you have no comment on the sickness and collapsing story.
Shit. I rolled my wrist. My arm ached from all the scribbling down of numbers. Commenting on your breakdown, official statement, story in next week’s edition. No wonder Mona had decided to leave her phone turned off and crawl back under the duvet today. But this was way out of my league. There was one particular message that worried me the most: ‘You are in serious arrears with your repayments’. I banked that at the back of my mind to think about later; it was already gone 2:00 p.m. That meant the Us Weekly story would be going to press in about half an hour. Klara was in the bedroom, trying on some of the unclaimed dresses; she already had her eye on a slinky yellow Louis Vuitton number, complete with vintage diamond-drop earrings and matching necklace set. She might not be a nominee, or even an actress, but she could certainly look like one.
‘Hey, Klara!’ I called. ‘Need your opinion on something.’
‘You still wondering about the Phillip Lim?’ she shouted back. ‘Just go for it!’
‘No, something else. Have you got a second?’
There was a momentary silence, presumably as she unravelled herself from the Louis. She padded back into the suite.
‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I wish I had. A ton of press have been calling Mona asking for a comment on what happened last night,’ I revealed. ‘They seem to think she’s having a breakdown. I’m wondering if I should call any of them back. Some of them g
o to print—’ I looked at my phone to check the time again ‘—like, now.’
She scratched her pretty head. ‘Hmmm. Did they sound nice?’
‘Not really.’
‘What was it Mona said this morning?’ Klara stopped for a moment. ‘That old Hollywood mantra?’
‘There’s only one thing worse than being talked about …’ I replied.
‘And that is not being talked about,’ she finished the sentence for me.
‘So maybe we don’t do anything? I suppose it’s not as if we know what’s going on with her, anyway,’ I said.
‘Alternatively, you could let them know that regurgitated hot dog pink is this season’s hottest colour before telling them where to stick it?’
We laughed together.
‘But seriously.’ I pulled my legs onto the chair and crossed them underneath me. ‘You’ve known her for longer than me, Klara. What do you think’s going on with Mona?’
‘I make it my business not to know.’ She admired the necklace she was still wearing in the mirror. ‘Maybe it was food poisoning? God, I love this necklace, it totally looks real.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Or maybe she’s depressed. Remember, everyone’s on something out here. Is there anything else we need to do today? It’s just that I’ve been invited to an awards viewing party.’
I decided not to mention the message from the loans company.
‘Call me later.’
