I tried to imagine what the office would be like, picturing a world full of impossibly beautiful models holding expensive leather folders and eating nothing but carrots. The angry foot tapping and throat clearing of a well-dressed gay man interrupted my daydream. Carlos was waiting at the elevator for me.
“You’re late. And what happened to your face?”
“I know, I am so, so sorry. I fell on Oxford Street.” The lie rolled off my tongue as easily as if it was the truth. “And there was also a wardrobe issue. I know that isn’t an excuse but—”
“Wardrobe issue? You’re late and you still came dressed like a lumberjack. We all know you’re Canadian. This,” he waved his hand over my ensemble, “wasn’t necessary.”
I wanted to run into the elevator and all the way back to Canada. Heathrow wasn’t that far from here, right?
He must have seen the look of dread and panic on my face. “At least the jeans are cute.”
I relaxed a little. “Thanks, they’re from Primark.”
Carlos gasped and covered his mouth as if I had just called his mother a two-dollar whore.
“Oh no you didn’t.”
“What?” I said defensively.
“You did not walk into Vogue House for an interview wearing Primark.” He whispered the last word like the adults in Harry Potter whispered “Voldemort.” “Never, ever, ever, tell anyone you are wearing Pr—what you’re wearing. Not within ten feet of this building.” He shook his head at me like I was a child who should have known better and pulled out the denim bow headband impulse buy off my head. It probably wasn’t my best decision today. “Never mind. Emma is waiting for you.”
I followed Carlos through the corridors. Everyone weighed twenty pounds more than I thought they would, but they were all very well dressed and very pretty, men and women alike.
Arriving at a set of large frosted glass doors, Carlos took a deep breath and ushered me through.
“Emma? Paige is here.”
“Fantastic. Hello, Paige, welcome to Fashionista.” Emma Taylor was a beautiful woman in her fifties with a jet-black pixie cut. Her features hinted at a pervious career in modeling. She stood up at her desk and leaned over to shake my hand.
“Let’s talk over here.” She gestured to two sleek black leather chairs. “Thank you, Carlos.”
With a nod he was gone, giving me an encouraging smile.
We sat down and she offered me something to drink. I politely declined, even though my mouth was so dry it tasted like feet. Not that I went around regularly tasting feet.
“So, Paige,” she smiled and did the obligatory once over, “I read your articles from University. Although the content isn’t exactly what we are looking for, the tone is. You have a real talent. The position on offer is not well paid, but it does have its perks. You’ll go to events, press launches, and sometimes samples will come your way.”
A smile crept on my face despite my best efforts to seem cool and aloof. I love free stuff!
Emma continued, “Essentially you would be assisting with what we call advertorials. They are paid for by clients, but need to be as good as the articles in the magazine, have a point of view whilst still selling the product.”
I was nodding like one of those novelty bobbleheads. Emma paused.
“That all sounds fantastic, Emma. I think I’d be great at it! Back home I used to make awful things sound incredible. Shouldn’t be too hard to make incredible things sound amazing.”
Emma forced a smile. She had them whitened to Beverly Hills housewife standard.
“Now, Paige, we’ve all read the papers.”
My heart dropped to the floor.
“But don’t worry, I’ve seen all of the pictures from that night. We were offered several to print—which we didn’t—and it was clear that you tripped.”
Finally, someone was on my side.
Emma’s eyebrows furrowed, but the space between her eyebrows didn’t wrinkle. “Paige, I have to ask, what happened to your face?”
I hoped the perma-smile I had practiced in the mirror was hiding the fear in my eyes. She was the same age as my mom, although way more chic. I didn’t want to lie to her. I really didn’t want to lie to anyone anymore. The truth always comes out eventually anyway.
“Funny you should ask. Just before my date with a very cute American guy last week, I happened to be reading Fashionista and the “Five Must Have Moves That Will Blow His Mind.” Well, number 4, “Mounting the Horse” sounded fun, so I thought to my self, ‘Self—you should try this out with Jason tonight.’ However, let me tell you, that move needs to come with a safety warning. Because mid leg swing, I smacked my face against the wall.”
There. I did it. It felt so good to tell someone the truth. Emma was silent for a minute-long second. Then, she burst out laughing.
“You certainly have an active imagination, Paige. I like that. However, you will need to be careful. You’re representing Fashionista now, and I don’t want my staff photographed in compromising positions, understand?”
I’m representing Fashionista?
“So, you’ll hire me?”
She nodded just enough to make me vibrate with excitement. “You’ll start tomorrow, hours are nine to five-thirty and pay is £22,000 per annum.”
“Oh my gosh! Thank you so much!” I shook her hand, maybe a little too aggressively, but I was just so freaking happy.
Thanking her one more time, I walked out of the room beaming and let out a deep breath. I had a JOB, and a very glamorous one at that. I couldn’t wait to call home because I finally had something to tell my mom. Our conversations so far had been really cagey on my part because I was trying to hide the whole daughter-painted-a-slut-by-the-papers situation.
Carlos came around the corner, arms wide.
“Congrats, hun!”
“How’d you know I got it?”
“Oh please, Emma wasn’t going to give up the chance to tell all her friends that she has Paige Crawford working for her. You would have had that job even if you were illiterate. But good thing is, you aren’t, and you’ll actually be able to help out around here.” That was more than a little depressing. So much for filling in my blank, apparently Stuart Smith had already done that for me. I followed Carlos’s gaze around the room. Most people were staring at us as he escorted me to the elevators.
“You will need to do something about the clothing situation though. You can pull off Primark, I’ll give you that, but that bag needs some work.” The elevator doors opened and he gave me a double kiss. “See you tomorrow, doll.”
The rest of the week passed in a flash of new faces, calorie-counted lunches, and writing sycophantic articles about gold cuffs, luxury holidays, and miracle face cream (none of which I could ever dream to afford on my salary). I really loved what I was doing and my evenings should have been full. Should, but weren’t because my face was still not camera ready. I looked like I should have my own morbid TV special, sandwiched between the people sexually attracted to flowers and the guy who needed a crane to lift him out of his house.
Emma gave me a few hours off to go to my follow up appointment with Dr. Chase. The hospital waiting room was relatively empty, and after I checked in I barely had time to sit down when the nurse called my name.
It was the same room I waited in before, but this time, instead of allowing myself to be distracted by what other people’s ailments were, I sat nicely on the paper-covered bed and behaved myself. Just a few minutes after I sat down, Dr. Dreamboat came in and he was just as amazing as I remembered.
“Paige, I’m glad you came back.”
“Doctor’s orders.” I grimaced at my corny line. Be cool for once in your life, Paige.
“Let me have a look.” He examined the bruise, pushing on it and making it hurt, but I played tough.
“Well, everything seems to be healing nicely.”
“Great,” I said to fill the space between us currently occupied by sexual tension. I wanted him to ask me out, he
wanted to ask me out, and we both knew it.
“Dr. Chase,” “Paige,” we spoke at the same time.
“Please Paige, call me Alex.”
“Uhh, sure, Alex. Is there anything else I should be doing?”
He smiled at the ground for a second, composing his thoughts and appearing slightly embarrassed. “Yes, you should be eating properly as well. What are you doing tomorrow?” he said exactly what I wanted to hear, and I came up with this smart-ass answer.
“Dr. Chase—I mean Alex, wouldn’t going out with you break some sort of doctor patient code?” His face fell. Evidently the only thing he wanted me to say was “yes,” which anyone who wasn’t a hot doctor repellant would have said.
“Right.” Alex walked out of the room.
Ugh! Why did those words come out of my mouth?
I sat there trying to look at everything and nothing at once. What just happened and why did I clearly hate myself?
Several minutes later the door opened and Dr. Olga walked in. “Hello, Miss Crawford, Dr. Chase has asked to transfer you over to me.” She gave me the once over and dismissed me. No further instructions to do with my love life and future with Alex, nor the healing of my chin.
I collected my stuff and walked out of the hospital putting my iPod on. Taylor Swift instantly started lamenting about knowingly dating a guy who was trouble, but doing it anyway. Sing it, sister.
The light was taking its time and I was just about to make a run through traffic when a man behind me grabbed my arm to stop me.
“RAAAAPPPEEE! MMURRRDER!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
“Paige! It’s me.” Alex seemed more shocked than I was.
“My bad. I think I overreacted.” My heart was still racing and the beautiful concern in his eyes wasn’t helping slow it down.
“Sorry for leaving like that. We had to end the doctor patient relationship, as you rightly pointed out, so I asked Maria to take over.”
“I see.” Now what?
“So, Paige Crawford, would you like to go out for dinner with me tomorrow?”
As per usual I was grinning like an idiot. “Yes, of course I would.”
When I arrived back at work, everyone was eagerly awaiting the conclusion to my face thing story that had made its rounds to accounting and back. It was like I had won the lottery. Seriously, there were Krispy Kreme doughnuts on my desk.
“I have a date.” Cheers rang out in the office. Well not really, but there were definitely a few gasps, which was the stiff upper lip equivalent to a roar anywhere other than a pub with the game on.
I barely had time to check my emails when people started leaving the office. It was only five.
“Did I miss the clocks springing ahead? Why is everyone leaving?”
“Darling, it’s the London Fashion Week Pre-launch Party. Didn’t you see the email?” Carlos had a decent-sized mirror on his desk and was placing each piece of hair precisely across his forehead.
I scanned through the thousands of emails I’d managed to amass in the short time I’d been there. Nothing. “No, no, there was no email. I can’t go like this! Help!” I was pulling at my ratty cardigan. Where there was a party, especially a Fashionista party, there would be cameras. I typed “Launch Party” into my Outlook search and there it was. A London Fashion Week Pre-Launch Party hosted in conjunction with Globetrotter and Fashionista. Strictly invite only, strictly no wandering in reeking of Midwestern sale rack.
Carlos let out a big sigh. “Go to the cupboard.”
My first trip to the fashion cupboard to borrow something! I thought The Devil Wears Prada was lying, but the more I saw Carlos show up in designer goods, the more I realized he wasn’t doing it on our salary.
When we arrived at the door to the room of wonders I nearly peed myself in anticipation. Carlos opened the door and introduced me to the gatekeeper, Louis, and it was clear they were totally sleeping together, which could only work to my advantage. I walked into the fashion closet wearing an outfit that was barely passable for a day in the office and a doctor’s appointment, and walked out dressed like someone who should come with her own red carpet. Louis had given me an amazing navy Herve Leger body con mini dress and paired it with a pair of nude Louboutins, a matching Jimmy Choo clutch, and some amazing chandelier earrings. When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself.
“Darling, you look amazing. Let’s just fix your hair and add some eyeliner and you are good to go. And FYI, this outfit is worth at least three months salary, gross. If it doesn’t come back intact, you better be in the morgue.”
So my planned 2:00 A.M. hot dog street-vendor binge was out of the question.
I crammed into a taxi with Carlos and three of the interns. I loved that about London. You and a group of girls out and worried about fitting in a taxi? Not a problem here.
The first to get out of the taxi, I was greeted with thousands of flashes. It was like The Box all over again, without the drunk part, and I was determined that this time it would be different. Good news was, there was an actual carpet down, so I wasn’t as worried about getting stuck in the stupid cobblestones. Bad news, I was still blind and my face felt like it had a deer in the headlights meets lopsided grin going on.
“Paige!”
“Paige!”
“Paige, over here.”
Everyone was shouting my name, which was really strange, considering I didn’t know any of them. At first I tried to make eye contact with each person shouting, a habit from home which in this circumstance caused black spots in my vision. I placed my hand on my hip and prayed the three pounds I’d gained since I’d moved to London wasn’t showing through the expensive and unforgiving dress. I’m really not sure how people manage to eat and drink at the rate I’ve been exposed to and not go up a dress size every month.
A flash out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and I remembered I was on a red carpet, and people were taking hundreds of pictures of me. Right now. Focus, Paige. Hand on hip, tilt head, and arch back. That’s what the models did in the magazines, surely it could work for me.
“What are you doing?” whispered Carlos.
“I’m posing,” I answered through my clenched smile.
“You look like you need the loo.”
Quickly, I brought my arms in and stood at a right angle to the floor like a normal person. Note to self: stop trying to be a red-carpet queen when you’re more like the court jester.
When I walked into the ballroom, a feeling of inadequacy hit me like a train. Everyone looked like they were either on the cover of a fashion magazine, or in a position to decide who was on it. I grabbed on to Carlos’s hand tightly.
“Relax, doll, the good thing is, you are not even close to the most famous person here. Nobody will notice you.” He squeezed my hand back.
The interns found Carlos and I, carrying two glasses of champagne for us. I felt bad that I didn’t know their names, but they were all so alike, like little Fashionista triplets: eighteen, petite, pretty, and they all had the exact same accent. The only difference between them was their hair color: one of each, blond, brunette, and red head. The red head probably used to be a blond, but got to work the first day, realized she was exactly like the other intern, and ran home to dye her hair the first color of red she could find in the drug store.
It was just after midnight and my fourth glass of champagne when Charlie Newton approached me.
“Paige?” I turned so see a tall, muscular, private-school type behind me.
“Um, ya?”
“I’m Charlie Newton. I can’t believe I finally found the elusive Paige Crawford. I asked my publicist to get in touch with yours, but no luck.”
“That’s probably because I don’t have a publicist.”
“Really? Well if you’d like I can introduce you to mine. But what do you think? Can I take you out sometime? I’m not married, I promise.” He laughed as he lifted his ring-less left hand as evidence. Who was this guy? He clearly assu
med someone had briefed me.
Like champagne fairy godmothers, the interns appeared, left their package, and were gone before I could ask them to join us or better yet take me away.
Charlie raised his glass and glanced quickly over my shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Paige.”
What? It can’t be. I checked my phone. It was. It was Valentine’s Day, and technically tomorrow, which meant not only was it very late on a school night and I should be in bed, but that my date with Alex was on Valentine’s Day. Why didn’t anyone point that out to me?
“Oh—uh, Happy Valentine’s Day, Charlie. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to be at work in the morning.”
“No problem, glad I got to steal a little of your time. So, what do you say? This weekend, are you free?”
“Sorry, I’m … busy. Bye!” I waved, but as I did, Charlie grabbed me by the waist, pulled me in, and kissed me. It happened so fast I barely had time to react, but there was apparently enough time for someone to take a picture because I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. I unhinged my lips from his and frantically scanned the room. Whoever had taken the picture was long gone.
“Sorry about that.” He didn’t look sorry.
“Ya. I gotta go.” I turned to walk away.
“See you soon, Cinderella.”
My alarm went off at some ungodly hour. I picked up my phone and it was … ugh, 7:00 A.M. Shoot me. Still a little drunk, I laid in bed for ten minutes trying to put together what was real and what was wildly exaggerated in my dreams.
The fashion cupboard outfit was strewn across the floor. Please don’t have any stains please don’t have any stains please don’t have any stains. I picked up the dress and it was perfectly fine. The shoes were in relatively good condition as well. That crisis averted, I noticed a large silver shopping bag in the corner of my room.
My almost sober self thanked my drunk self for remembering to grab a goodie bag while I stumbled out of the event. Hopefully there was something in there to help out what would surely be a disastrous outfit being put together while still slightly drunk at seven o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday.
The Accidental Socialite Page 5
