The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe

by Kingsley, Allie

  I looked in the rearview mirror at the guys and wondered what they could have possibly been talking about the entire ride here. I didn’t know two more different men. Roman caught my eye and began tapping his wrist and raising his hands as if to say What’s the holdup? I excused myself and told Adriana I’d be right back.

  I leaned into Roman’s car through his driver’s-side window, peeking into the backseat. “Did you return those gowns from yesterday’s shoot?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe . . . Why?” Roman inquired. I eyed the vacant driveway, the unattended entrance to the massive cream tent encasing the backyard and Adriana still carrying on in the Porsche. Roman followed my gaze, catching on to what I was thinking.

  “Are you high? You can’t just walk into Bozo’s Big Tent party uninvited, Valentino or not.”

  “We can’t abandon her—especially in the condition she’s in. She’s already on thin ice with her parents . . .”

  “And this is our problem because . . . ?” I looked up at the Porsche to see Adriana still falling apart in the passenger seat. I felt badly and related to her parental predicament.

  Not too surprisingly, James was the voice of reason. “Lucy, that might not even be legal.”

  “Look at her, you guys . . .” Her head rested atop her arms, which were both dangling lifelessly out the window. “James, come on—I know that you of all people are always down to help someone in need. And Roman, I’m sure there have been at least a dozen times that you might have majorly disappointed your parents had a friend not covered for you.”

  “We’re not her friends, Lucy,” Roman corrected. Still, he released the trunk and stepped out of the car. “But lucky for her, I still have that Tom Ford suit Bradley Cooper wore last week and it might be my only chance to get into that man’s pants.” He turned to James. “As for you, my friend, you’ll have to settle for Seth Howard’s suit.”

  “Who?” James questioned.

  “Exactly,” Roman snipped.

  Getting dressed behind a series of cone-shaped hedges was not my proudest moment. Shimmying an inebriated Adriana into a Herve Leger bandage dress wasn’t Roman’s either. I looked all of us over. Even in couture we looked like a motley bunch. The full-length L’Wren Scott gown I was wearing hardly covered up my Converse sneakers. I wasn’t sure we could pull it off.

  Roman and I each had one of Adriana’s arms wrapped around our own as we supported and kept her stable, both literally and figuratively. James lifted an open slit on the side of the tent and we all inconspicuously slipped in.

  Light pink silk tapestries elegantly draped from the center of the tent. A small orchestra sung out happy sounds from the adjacent lawn. Caterers sailed through the room showcasing hors d’oeuvres that looked too cute to consume.

  “I can’t believe we are doing this,” James whispered in my ear. Did he think that I was certifiably crazy? I looked up and found a slight smile spread across his face and knew that he was having fun.

  Adriana’s head fell to my shoulder. Roman switched her right arm to his right hand and swiftly put his left arm around her shoulders to lift her head upright just in time.

  “There you are, Adri. Mother has been looking for you. She’s especially unglued today, which is beyond entertaining for me—not the best of news for you, however.” Trey Darling Jr. sipped his scotch and gave me and Roman the split-second scan, to briefly check whether or not we were worth acknowledging (we were not). Trey was unfairly handsome. His perfectly parted blond hair and icy gray eyes completed his prep-school Ken-doll look.

  Adriana’s head flung forward as she attempted to utter a response and Roman instinctively grabbed her hair, jerking her head back into place.

  “Oh my God, of course—you’re drunk. This party is going to be far better than I anticipated.” Trey chuckled as he arrogantly walked away.

  “I’d like to water his elephant . . .” Roman quietly uttered.

  “Let’s find an empty seat for her. Maybe if she eats something it will sober her up a little . . .” James suggested. I was nervous and starting to think that this was not one of my best ideas. With slow, steady strides, Roman and I followed James toward the back of the tent where the less-desired tables stood.

  “The bearded lady, three o’clock!” hissed Roman as we passed a rumored-to-be-closeted actor.

  “Would you cut that out?!” I halfheartedly pleaded. Although it was entertaining, I desperately just wanted us to blend in. My plan was to help this girl keep it together long enough to fulfill her daughterly duties and then . . . Well, that was as far as I had planned for, actually.

  We spilled Adriana into a chair and propped her up between a wall and the table. I poured a glass of water and placed it in her hand. “Adriana . . . Adriana . . .” It took a few times to get her to focus on me. “Drink this . . . We’ll be right back with some food, okay?” She grinned and nodded while petting my face. I took both of her hands in mine and placed them around the glass of water.

  “Roman, you stay here and keep an eye on her. James, follow me.”

  Had I paid any attention to the society page of W Magazine, I might have recognized those in attendance and played a game of “who’s who?” in my head as I made my way to the buffet. Instead, I hovered over the fine cuisine, trying to figure out what Adriana might prefer to eat. Some bread? Definitely a good idea to soak up some of that liquor. Poached salmon, perhaps? Everyone loves fresh fruit. A small side of wild mushroom risotto? Why not?

  “Welcome, friends.” Jeanne Darling addressed the party using a microphone from atop a small podium. The crowd faced Adriana’s mother and began golf-clapping.

  “The Ringmaster . . .” Roman said over my shoulder.

  “What are you doing here? You are supposed to be watching Adriana!” I seethed.

  “Oh honey, that hot mess ain’t going nowhere.” He picked up a plate and began serving himself.

  “I’ll go,” James offered. He took his plate and the one that I’d made for Adriana to the table.

  “Girrrrrl . . . he loves you!” Roman hummed.

  “No he does not. He was my guidance counselor and we’re just friends,” I corrected.

  “Trust me, the only place he wants to guide you is horizontally and upside down.” I swatted his arm. “If a man looked at me the way that he looks at you, it would be o-v-e-r . . .”

  The well-to-do-lady next to us told us to shhhh.

  Feeling sufficiently reprimanded, I quietly set my half-full plate and the silver tongs on the pink linen and did an about-face, giving the podium my full attention. Mrs. Darling was of average height and size, looking posh in a pink bouclé Chanel skirt suit. She had the same almost-white shade of hair as her son and daughter, although hers was pulled up into a hurricane-proof bouffant. She continued to speak purposefully about the importance of community, responsibility and awareness. It was clear from her remarks that she was an intelligent woman, not just another socialite making irrelevant noise. I couldn’t help but nod along with the others as I listened to Mrs. Darling go on.

  “Lucy. . . . Shit. Lucy!” Roman began frantically whispering and jabbing me in the arm.

  “Roman, not the time!” I quietly sneered.

  He began to panic and squirm like a toddler about to wet his pants.

  “What is it? If it’s another stupid circus pun, Roman, I swear I’ll . . . Oh my God.”

  In a Godzilla-like manner, Adriana was making her way through the sea of somebodies. A mixture of ouches and pardons blended with the occasional breaking of a glass that followed her as she neared the podium.

  James stood up from the table with his hand out. He must have felt like he had accidentally let go of a balloon, watching it erratically fly off in every which direction.

  “Hold this,” Adriana demanded as she pushed her glass of water into the hands of Melania, Donald Trump’s wife. It splish-splashed across the model’s chest and a collective gasp was heard from their table.

  My jaw remained unhinged as I wat
ched Adriana tornado her way toward who knows where. All we could do was watch her trip past her stunned mother and all her guests. An exclamation of concern echoed from the crowd. I balanced on the toes of my sneakers and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of Adriana plunging backward into the estate’s stately fountain.

  “The heiress wheel has fallen off its tracks,” Roman concluded.

  James joined us as Roman and I hurried out of the party through a slit in the tent.

  chapter twelve

  Isabella Blackstone

  My palms were sweating as I gripped the steering wheel. Stefano and I were on our way to a shoot and running late as usual. As soon as I had arrived at Stefano’s house, I knew the day would be rough. He was still awake from the night before, and clearly a mess. The good news was that he was still wearing his uniform of layers from the previous day, so I didn’t have the absurd task of selecting his outfit. The bad news was that Stefano was acting bizarre, anxiously tapping his knees and maintaining an ominous silence. It made me very nervous.

  James had called this morning to let me know that he enjoyed spending time with me even if it was “a little crazy.” He also said that he thought it was admirable that I wanted to help a stranger and he hopes that I never lose my kindhearted qualities. His validation made me feel good.

  But those good feelings had long since evaporated. Stefano and I drove in silence the entire way to a modern estate tucked away in the Hollywood Hills. I couldn’t help but feel as if he might be a volcano on the verge of eruption. As we pulled up to the set, he became increasingly agitated. The second the car came to a halt, he dashed into the house, isolating himself from everyone. I immediately rushed to Roman, who was supervising the setup in the backyard, to warn him about Stefano’s state of mind.

  I stopped short to admire the expansive yard. An infinity pool looked like it was placed upon the edge of the world. Unobstructed views of Los Angeles could be seen from every angle, and the Hollywood sign commanded attention as well.

  “Damn it.” Roman grunted in frustration after I filled him in. “This will only get worse now that Ebony is gone!”

  “His last personal assistant?”

  “Yeah . . . Ebony used to . . . help Stefano with his antidepressants . . . by kind of, putting them in his shot of wheat grass every morning.”

  “And he won’t take them if I give them to him?” It seemed any pill that you put in front of Stefano was gone before an official offer was made.

  “Well . . . He didn’t exactly know about it . . .”

  “You guys drugged him?” Roman grabbed my wrist, dragging me to the other side of a near wall. He surveyed our surroundings to confirm nobody was close enough to hear our controversial conversation.

  “Technically, yes . . . but not in a bad kind of way. I mean, look at the guy . . . He pops Klonopin like candy . . . it snows more frequently in his right nostril that it does during Sundance . . . and really, it’s in his best interest, our best interest. It keeps him healthy!”

  “No. Balanced meals and the occasional nap would keep him healthy . . . I hope you don’t expect me to do that.” I sternly looked into Roman’s eyes. “I won’t do that.”

  Roman put his hands around my own and smiled. “Godspeed.” We laughed at the craziness of the situation. It finally felt like we were on the same team.

  “Ugly!!!! Uglyyy!!!” Stefano’s raspy voice bellowed from inside the house.

  Roman manned up. “I got this one. You find Liz and see what time Blackstone will be here.”

  “As in Isabella Blackstone?” I asked incredulously.

  “The one and only!” Roman dramatically threw his arms up and snapped.

  Isabella Blackstone was set to arrive any minute. Miss Blackstone is not only hands down the most famous woman on the planet, she is also the most beautiful. Men, women, straight, gay and everything in between have all fantasized about her. I learned the scheduled shoot that day was a Pepsi advertisement for which Blackstone had reportedly accepted over eight figures in return.

  I found Liz in the kitchen, which had been turned into a makeshift production room. She too appeared to be in last night’s attire and full makeup. “Hey kitten! What’s shakin?” she called out. No matter how hungover—or let’s be honest, still drunk—Liz was always kind. Although in retrospect, maybe it was because she was always drunk.

  “Can I pick your brain for a minute?” I felt comfortable addressing her.

  “What’s left of it, absolutely.”

  “What do you think about me taking over Marc’s job?” I bit my lower lip. I wanted this so badly and hoped she wouldn’t laugh at the idea.

  “It’s certainly something to strive for! But darl, you’re still very green.” I had heard the term “green” before. The color meaning I wasn’t ripe enough to join the other experienced fruits in their more respected departments. I knew it was the truth and part of me expected to hear it. I had no experience in production—why would they just let me sail on in? My knowing that I was destined to do more than adult babysitting wasn’t reason enough. “That being said, you’ve been consistently showing us that you are capable of more. When you get a chance, word up Stefano and let him know you’re interested. Then keep killing it like you have been!”

  Roman slid the giant glass door open and stepped inside, his Prada sandals trailing in backyard dirt. “He wants you. What’s with the nickname?”

  “The nickname?” I didn’t understand why Roman flipped his lip to express his sympathy. I was still confused until a crew member poked his head inside. He pointed a clipboard at me. “Are you . . . Ugly?”

  I knew it would only be a matter of time before I had been blessed with a mean moniker. Something that “Lushy” Liz and “No-man” Roman seemed to embrace. “Yeah, I guess I am. What’s up?”

  “Stefano wants you. He’s on set.”

  “This too shall pass, honey!” Liz advised as I made my way to the set.

  The Pepsi set was designed to look like a pool party circa the 1960s. The extras were in short shorts and dated swim suits. The area was littered with vintage bottles of soda and multicolored floating devices. Everything appeared authentic to the era. Not a detail was missing. Stefano sat with his legs in the pool, next to a handsome young male extra.

  “There you are, Ugly! How great is this house?” Stefano stood up and rolled his pants back down. Together we walked back into the sleek estate.

  “So, Stefano . . . about this ‘Ugly’ thing . . . It kind of makes me feel uncomfortable.” I had to say something.

  He stopped in his tracks and did an about-face. “Oh no, it isn’t meant to! I’m really calling you pretty . . . like those ugly-pretty models. You’re like them, remember? Special!” Although he seemed sincere, I knew him well enough to know that he was playing mind games with me.

  “Okay, well, why don’t you call me ‘pretty’ then?”

  “Because pretty really isn’t that pretty; pretty is ugly. You see? I’m complimenting you!” How could I even respond to this type of logic? This man had the maturity level of a five-year-old combined with the sense of a schizophrenic. I had no choice but to go along with it for the time being. He continued walking a few paces in front of me. “Come on, Ugly! Let’s go meet Isabella Blackstone!”

  We approached the luxury Star Waggon where Ms. Blackstone was preparing for the shoot. I couldn’t even count the number of paparazzi who were being held off the property by barricades monitored by armed security guards. Stefano lowered his head and held his hand in front of his face as he passed them by, as if the photographers would be interested in getting his photo. Unbeknownst to him, they all imitated him doing this, which honestly made my day. I followed Stefano inside to find Isabella surrounded by admiring stylists. The makeup artist, wardrobe stylist, hair dresser and all of their assistants hung on to her every word and tended to her as if she were the most delicate of flowers. Her platinum hair was rolled up in glamorous pinup girl curls and her plumped lips were pain
ted a dazzling plum shade. She looked like the ballerina in a jewelry box that I had as a young girl, also seemingly too beautiful to be real. Her perfect body was elegantly posed as she balanced over a platform while a girl airbrushed a bronze hue to her already tanned legs. Another girl pinned a tiny ruffled Rosa Cha bikini tight to her body. Suffice it to say, Isabella didn’t look like a woman pushing forty.

  “Stef! Oh my God! How exciting to finally work together! My favorite photographer of all time!” The voluptuous star bounced over to Stefano and gave him a half hug, careful not to let her freshly painted legs touch him.

  “Bella, you look phenomenal! Really, you radiate! Look at you! Let my staff know if there is anything you need! My assistant Ugly would be happy to get you anything at all!” The stylists paused to glance at the girl named “Ugly.” I quietly chuckled, pretending as if he were joking.

  None of this fazed Isabella’s sunny disposition.

  “Okay, wonderful! See you both in a bit!”

  While the extras waited in the unrelenting sun for Stefano and Bella to arrive on set, I decided to snap behind the scene shots with my “James” camera. Every time that I held it, it made me feel a little bit closer to home—even though I wasn’t exactly homesick. My first shot was of a model from behind as she stood at the end of the edge-of-the-world pool and leaned backward. The Hollywood sign appeared to rest above her chest and fell perfectly into her curves. I took another picture of a male model’s torso while the makeup artist airbrushed on a more defined six-pack, the dark paint slightly dripping in the creases.

  Everyone including myself was thrilled when things finally wrapped ten hours later. It had been a long, hot and sticky day. I opened the driver’s-side door to Stefano’s stifling car when I heard Isabella’s heels click-clicking across the pavement. “Stef! Wait! Come to Vegas with me! I have the most incredible penthouse to myself for the next two days! I’m leaving right now! I have a plane! Come with me!”

  “Vegas? You’re mad, woman!” he teased and rested his arm on the car door. “What the hell would we do in Vegas?”