“I am so sorry. I am not usually this klutzy—I don’t know what happened.” I have never felt like a bigger idiot.
“The intern fucked up our coffee order—tell her what you want. Again,” Roman shouted into the office. A collective groan echoed through the space.
I went to the bathroom so I could clean up and allowed myself to cry, but only for a few minutes. That’s when I heard Him arrive. The music was hushed and several people called out to him, “Good morning, Stef” or “Great shoot last night, Stefano!” I pushed my ear up against the door and tried to decipher whether or not they were directly on the other side of the bathroom wall. When the distinct greetings turned to soft mumbles, I cracked the door, confirmed the coast was clear and hopped back to the office. I was not avoiding Lepres per se—however, I was not exactly ready to see him either, seeing that I looked like the victim of death by decaf.
I diligently made my way to each staff member to re-take their coffee order. A giant black velvet curtain had been erected and it obstructed an area that people were buzzing in and out of. Each time someone stepped out, I took their order. I really wanted everyone to like me, and they seemed to once I told them that I was going to get their coffee.
Since I had taken a grand total of twenty-seven orders, I needed to make several trips back and forth to each café. With the final order in tow, I returned to the studio at last. I had my eye on the curtain opening, hoping for a glimpse of what was going on behind it, should someone exit and hold the curtain open just enough. Flashes from the strobe lights peeked their way out along the top and bottom of the blocked area. Stefano was shouting, “That’s it . . . yeah, right there . . . amazing . . . fucking hot bitch . . . I love it!” and I can’t even tell you how badly I wanted to know what was going on behind that curtain.
“Hey, are you the coffee girl?” a witchy-looking woman said in a strong New York accent. I nodded my head while thinking, Oh my God, I am the coffee girl. “I’ll take a skinny vanilla latte, extra hot and—hold on . . . Joyce! She’s over here!” An even stronger New York accent from behind the curtain yelled out, “The caw-fey girl? Large black!” And, faster than you can say venti skinny mocha latte, an avalanche of orders ensued. Medium Earl Grey. Steamed soy cap. Hazelnut with half-and-half . . . The coffee girl? I thought that I was here to work for Stefano! I hadn’t even seen him or the set or anything. The closest I had gotten to a photo shoot all day was at the yellow traffic light I ran earlier in fear that I would be late. Late to fetch lattes for seven hours straight.
On what was my last run for the day, six, seven, eight people buzzed in and out of the giant door, but no one offered to hold it for me. As I struggled with the deliveries, I pried the door with my foot, caught it with my hip, and squeezed in the rest of the way. The door slammed shut on me, causing me to bounce forward. The drinks splish-splashed but I cradled them like a newborn and safely delivered each beverage like a dumb stork. I felt like such a loser as I walked into the office and announced, “One tall double shot no fat no foam sugar free soy vanilla latte.” Without a word of gratitude, the final cup was claimed as I collapsed into a chair. The photo shoot was over and Stefano had left the building. The crew had left the building. My dignity had left the building.
“Same time tomorrow?” Liz called out from behind her desk. She was applying an alarming cherry red lipstick and using the webcam and monitor as a vanity.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” I responded, and then I too left the building.
chapter five
Something Old, Something BMW
“Today, I will make it onto the set.” For the sixth day in a row, I repeated this mantra to myself as I got ready for another long day at the studio. Although I had not yet directly dealt with anything remotely related to photography, let alone set foot near the action, I knew that all it took was one opportunity to show them that I was worthy. “Today . . . I will make it . . . onto the . . . set.” I zipped up my nicest pair of khaki pants and pulled my ponytail tighter. This would be the day. It just had to be.
“You just got in four hours ago and already you’re going back?” Julie yawned as she stumbled to the bathroom.
“Yup! I am the coffee wench, which means I’m the first one in and the last one out, every day.” I stepped into the heap of clothes that had taken over the bedroom floor. I reached into a pile and pulled out a crumpled light blue cardigan. I stuffed it into my messenger bag, which I swung across my body. I removed my camera strap from the bedpost and swung it across as well. I must have looked as if I was about to go on some sort of safari, but like a true photographer, wherever I went, my camera did too.
Julie leaped across the clothes and snuggled back into her bed. “What are you guys shooting today?”
“Well, they are shooting Christina Aguilera’s music video. I am shooting myself if I have to go through another day like yesterday.” I picked up two sets of earrings from the nightstand, showcasing them to my friend. Julie pointed to the pair on the left.
“No offense, but how difficult could it be to order and pick up lunch?”
While putting in the earrings I thought back to the previous afternoon. How was I supposed to know that the vegan meals couldn’t be in the same bag as the kosher meats, which couldn’t be served on the same plates that non-kosher fish might have once been on? “It doesn’t matter because today I am going to . . .”
“. . . make it onto the set,” we said in unison.
“Good luck, Lucy! Go get ’em . . .” Julie encouraged.
We whispered our good-byes, careful not to wake Sebastian, and waved as Julie went back to bed and I made my way back to the studio.
Just as I arrived and put my car into park, my cell phone began buzzing. James Braves. It was my second missed call from him this week, but I wasn’t ready to talk to him. He was likely calling to congratulate me and hear all about my dream job. I e-mailed him the incredible news that I had in fact attained the unimaginable, however I wanted to wait until I had an actual hand in the photography before filling him in with the details. I would much rather tell James that I was adjusting the lights, changing film or editing contact sheets instead of ordering lunch and taking out the trash. I’d only been working for Stefano for one week, so I figured any day now I’d have responsibilities that I would be proud to discuss. So I let it go to voice mail. Soon after, my phone began to buzz again, but this time I answered it.
“G’day, darl, it’s Liz. We had an issue last night and had to get rid of Ebony, Stefano’s assistant. I’m running behind so you all are going to have to go up there and help Stefano. By you all I mean you.”
“Go up where? What do I do?” I wasn’t sure if I should be excited or nervous.
“Go to his house in the Hollywood Hills. The Bible’s on my desk with all you need to know. Just follow the instructions, fix him up a good brekkie and you should be fine. Call Roman if you need anything.”
“The Bible” was an enormous binder filled with laminated pages of lists. It contained the most meticulous instructions for everything from Stefano’s preferred groceries to alarm codes to his grandmother’s renowned banana pancake recipe. It also contained Stefano’s social security information and emergency numbers to close friends such as Elton John and Madonna. The overwhelming honor of being able to enter Stefano’s studio was one thing, but going to his house was a whole new level of holy shit. Even in Oz all of the munchkins got to hang out in Emerald City, but only Dorothy and a select few were invited to the wizard’s lair—let alone able to see the man behind the curtain. I toted the Bible like Toto and took off for the Hills.
The house commanded views of all of Los Angeles. I wondered if it was too early to just walk into my boss’s house but decided to after remembering we had to be on the set soon. I used the spare key tied to the Bible to unlock the front door. I took several steps into the bright foyer and closed the door behind me. Holy shit, I mouthed. I was in Stefano Lepres’ house. The directions instructed me to wake Stefano
up with an array of items, including a Pressed Juicery detox drink, a freshly made shot of wheatgrass and two medium-sized strawberry guavas. The Bible instructions were complete to the last detail, even stipulating which glass to use for which drink.
I looked around the house in fascination. It was very modern and simple, even stark, classically decorated in rich cocoas and clean taste. There was no clutter or hint of artistic expression, which was in sharp contrast to Stefano’s photographs, which were garish and colorful.
Back to the task at hand . . . the kitchen was decked out with the finest of culinary equipment. I walked to the stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and opened it. There was a labeled assortment of colored Pressed juices, numbered one through eight, perfectly lined up inside. I removed a number one and poured it into a tall frosted glass. The guavas were to be freshly picked from a small orchard in the backyard. I dragged a lawn chair underneath a small tree and began selecting what I could only guess was ripe guava. White sap oozed from the branches each time I pulled off one of the ruby-colored fruits. I tried twisting them off, pulling them straight down, and pulling them to the side, but every time I attempted to retrieve one , the juice ran down my arm, soaking my sleeve.
Once I had semi-mastered the manual wheatgrass grinder and managed to crank out enough liquid green to almost fill a small shot glass, I placed the beverages and guavas on a tray and began to climb the banister-less staircase. Halfway to the second floor, I was greeted by thunderous snoring. The sounds of Stefano swallowing air through his nasal passages shocked me into reality. I swiftly tiptoed back downstairs and phoned Roman. “Am I really supposed to just walk into his bedroom and wake him up? I mean, this is kind of weird! I haven’t even really seen him at the studio yet—and here I am waking him up in his home?”
“Yes! And hurry! You’re like fifteen minutes behind! Now, listen, he is going to get in the shower, and while he’s in there, pick out his outfit for today. His closet is basically an Atelier New York pop-up shop, so everything goes together. Just grab a few layers and you’ll be fine. Got it? Oh, and don’t forget to pack his backpack and his wallet and his cell phone.” My head was spinning.
“Wait . . . what?” I was beginning to question whether or not this was some sort of hazing they played on new interns.
“I know it’s a bit much, but hello! He trusts you enough to do this. You’re very lucky. He specifically asked for you.”
I wasn’t even sure that he knew I had showed up to work for him until this point, yet here he was trusting me with . . . everything. “He did? Me? Okay, well, we’ll see you soon!”
Still unsure of the legitimacy of the request, I made my way back up the stairs and slowly opened the bedroom door. There I found my idol sleeping in a fetal position, wearing white Fruit of the Loom briefs.
“Um, good morning . . . Stefano. Good . . . morning.” I lightly touched his arm.
“Heeey, Laurie, good morning. Mmm, yum. Fruit, thanks.” He rolled over onto his back, plucked a guava off the tray, tossed it upward and caught it, while still lying there as if I had seen him nearly naked a thousand times before.
Now, I am no prude, but I mean—we had only just met a few weeks ago, and since then I had been the coffee girl to everyone else. I hadn’t even been trusted to get his coffee yet! To see his package seemed so unnatural and awkward and, well, he still hadn’t even gotten my name straight. I second-guessed myself before correcting him on my name. I wanted to say, “Actually, it’s Lucy,” but remembered what Roman had said about him always being right. Besides, at this point I was so elated to be there that I kind of didn’t care if he called me Lacey or Leslie or whatever. He is Stefano Lepres! And I am in his house!
Stefano stood up to stretch and bask in the sunlight pouring in from the double French doors off his balcony. He then slid out of the tighty whities, picked up a towel from the floor and nonchalantly breezed out of the room. “Going for a swim,” he mentioned. I thought that I was going to implode from the amount of freaking out that I was somehow containing.
As soon as Stefano and his bare ass were out of sight, my phone began vibrating.
“It’s Roman. How did it go? Is he in the shower?”
“Well, he umm . . . went for a swim.”
“A swim? Lucy! No, no, no! Christina is here . . . in hair and makeup. We’re ready to shoot in one hour! It’s your job to get him here on time! I told you what to do and you totally failed me! Please, get him out of the fucking pool and dressed! Get him here . . . Now!”
Shaken out of my stupor, I walked into Stefano’s massive closet to find row upon row of meticulously displayed muted and murky but expensive looking clothes. If anything was for sure, it was that this fashion monogamist didn’t stray. I selected a Rick Owens jersey T-shirt, a frayed, draped cardigan and a pair of distressed jeans and folded them on top of a chair, placing a pair of military-style A Diciannoveventitre boots underneath. I had seen him wear something similar in numerous tabloid photos before, so I figured it was a safe bet.
From the balcony atop the lavishly landscaped backyard, I found him floating around the lagoon-style pool. “Stefano, the studio called and they want you to know they’ll be ready to shoot soon. Your clothes are upstairs and I’ll have your backpack by the front door.”
“Okay, thanks,” he chirped.
What did Roman expect of me? I couldn’t simply yank Stefano out of this peaceful haven and tell him what to do! He was Stefano Lepres, for crying out loud! We all worked for him! I decided to take a seat on the couch and wait for him to get ready. Forty-five minutes later, Stefano finally made his way downstairs, dressed and ready for work. He seemed in no particular hurry.
“Are you old enough to drive?” he asked me.
“Sure, I’m twenty-two . . . Do you want me to drive?”
“I don’t drive. I’m from New York,” he stated matter-of-factly. We walked out onto the driveway and I swung open the driver’s side door of my less-than-impressive Jeep Wrangler.
“Oh no . . . no way I’m getting in that death trap. No way, no how.” Stefano dramatically grasped his chest and stepped away from the vehicle. I felt my cell phone vibrating in my back pocket but didn’t dare answer it.
“Death trap? Hardly. A tornado couldn’t destroy this beast! I actually drove it through a minor one last year and . . .”
“We’re taking my car. Pick one. Let’s go.” With the flip of a button, the garage door opened to reveal three incredible cars. I eyed a vintage Mercedes, a Karmann Ghia and a BMW. All three were black and in mint condition. I chose the BMW since it was the least intimidating of the three. As I settled into the deluxe leather driver’s seat, I imagined the car’s interior was similar to a NASA rocket.
It was only 9:00 a.m. and already I was noticeably sweating through my shirt. I decided to break the silence by taking the opportunity to let Stefano know I was capable of more than cappuccinos.
“Stefano, I was wondering if I could maybe get to assist you on the set today? I’m not sure if you remember our first conversation when I told you that I studied photography in school where I was trained on how to use the . . .”
“Sure,” he blurted out. I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “Sure” meant yes, and that was good enough for me!
As we strolled into the studio—Stefano still in no hurry—everyone bid him a congenial “Good morning.” I felt important walking alongside him, ignoring the fact that everyone was reacting to his arrival, not mine—also ignoring the fact that I was carrying his leather Julius backpack like a mule. He vanished behind closed doors and I was instantly put in check as the crew pounced on me like a team of vultures. “Do you have any idea how important this shoot is?” . . . “Christina’s been waiting for over an hour.” . . . “So unprofessional!”
Liz came to my rescue. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders, using me to help her stand but, regardless, standing up for me. “Hey, hey . . . Leave her alone! It’s her first time and he seems relatively
happy. I’d say you did a rippa job, darling.” Kissing me on the forehead, Liz held up a sparkling flute. “Mimosa?”
“Laurie! My coffee!” Stefano boomed. Up until now, I had been fetching coffee for the staff and crew but never for Stefano. He only let Roman or Ebony, maybe Liz, get his coffee. This was a very big deal. I returned to the set with a venti plain iced coffee. Roman gave me a head nod and I felt like everyone was watching me return from my mission à la Apollo 13. What was the big deal? It’s plain coffee, right? And I had been doing it all day, every day, under worse circumstances. What was with everyone?
Little did I know.
And then it happened: I made it onto the actual set! Cue the sounds of crowds cheering! Who would have thought that a plain iced coffee would have been the golden ticket? Even though I hoped this wasn’t what Stefano had in mind when I asked to assist on the set, I felt a sense of accomplishment in getting there. Christina was surrounded by her dancers, all wearing black satin lace-up corsets. They were practicing a provocative burlesque dance on top of a gigantic dining room table. An enormous chandelier swung above with two male dancers dangling from its base. It was something out of a dream. Stefano was perched atop his stool, arms folded, as he studied the scene. I handed him the beverage.
He took a sip and instantly spit it onto the floor. ”Fucking sweetener! Disgusting! Do you know how horrible that is for my body?” I used all of my willpower not to glance at the cigarette resting behind his ear. Knowing for certain his coffee was unsweetened, I looked at Roman, who was nodding his head up and down like a bobblehead to remind me that He is always right. With a shrug and an apology, I returned to Starbucks and watched as the barista put unsweetened coffee into the cup. Tasting it for good measure, I confidently returned to the set, handing him the coffee once again. One sip and he was in a rage. Stefano catapulted the plastic cup to the floor, soaking my khakis and shoes in the process. I felt the cold brown beverage saturate through to my skin from the knees down. He roared, “Can somebody competent please get me my fucking coffee! For fuck’s sake!”
The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Page 4
