I swallowed the knot in my throat, taking a second to contemplate how to put into words what I myself didn’t quite understand. “Stefano thought you might need my help so he left me here . . . for you.” I felt like a prostitute.
Isabella furrowed her thinly manicured eyebrows and put one of her dainty hands up to her chin. “Really?”
My mind raced. Would Isabella think she was stuck with me? Was Isabella a good person or was she another crazy? Her face lit up and she flashed a giant, blinding smile. Without hesitation, she reached out and pulled me into the suite. “Slumber party! This is great! You are officially on vacation with me!” Startled, but too in awe to react, I watched in shock as the star flew in and out of the bedroom waving a credit card and room key. She slid the cards under my bra strap. “Massages! Facials! Margaritas by the pool! This is going to be great! Take my card and treat yourself to anything you want because I know you don’t want to be wearing that for the next three days!” She pointed her perfectly polished pointer finger up and down at me.
Isabella removed the Nikon strap from around my neck and looked into the viewfinder of my camera. “What’s with this?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I didn’t want her to think that I was like everyone else, wanting to take her picture and honestly, I wasn’t.
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Is it Stefano’s?” I briefly wondered if she would have it confiscated. Maybe she assumed I’d take pictures without her knowledge and sell them to tabloids.
“No, it’s mine.” As if Stefano would put that dinosaur anywhere near his face. “I’m a photographer too. Well, not an actual professional photographer, but hopefully one day I will be.”
Isabella lit up. “That’s amazing! I’ll take good care of it while you are on your shopping spree!”
“Isabella, thank you so much . . . but it isn’t necessary to . . .” Before I could finish, she had rushed behind me and began to push me out the door.
“It’s Bella . . . and when you come back, meet me at our pool!” As I was being physically forced out of the penthouse suite, I glanced over my shoulder and took note of the private pool off Isabella’s living room. Before I knew it, I was back in the elevator. I reached into my bra and examined the black American Express Centurion card that read “Isabella Blackstone, Inc.” I have always dreamed of my parents giving me their credit card to spend on whatever I fancied—but now that I was met with the opportunity from a stranger, it just didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel comfortable spending someone else’s money, let alone my boss’s friend and client. I did however need a few bare essentials to get me through the weekend, and since I’d likely be assisting Isabella, technically these purchases would be business related.
Upon returning to the suite an hour later, I found Isabella under the sunroof reading a fashion magazine. Naturally, she was on the cover. I reached into the Gap shopping bag, pulled out a basic blue bikini, and headed for the guest bathroom. I exited the bathroom with a plush cream hotel towel modestly draped around my equally as pale frame. Isabella stood over the shopping bag, her arms sternly folded across her gigantic breasts. “Are you out of your mind?” I was unsure of how to react, so I just stood there as Isabella investigated the contents of the shopping bag. Had I bought too much? Regardless of my frugal attempt, had I gone too far? “One pair of shorts, two T-shirts, what may be a dress but I’m not certain . . .” Isabella pulled out the dress, scrutinizing the price tag. Squinting her eyes, she called out, “What is that word, is this French?”
I stepped forward and read the red sticker aloud. “Clearance?”
Isabella swatted my arm with the dress. “I’m joking, Lucy! I gave you a black Amex—you could have bought a jet and an island off Capri with that thing! I was kinda hoping you would! This is no time to be modest!”
Isabella clicked her kitten heels to the master suite as I added, “I got a toothbrush too!” She returned wearing a white crepe Halston jumpsuit. She flung an almost identical blue one at me. “Put this on.” It was a Tibi! It probably cost at least five hundred dollars. I dropped the towel and did as I was told. It was without a doubt the most expensive piece of clothing I had ever worn. Isabella swung a monogram Fendi slouchy tote bag over her shoulder and pulled out two pairs of giant Chanel sunglasses, handing one to me. Was she kicking me out? I quickly stuffed my camera back into my messenger bag. Pushing me out the door for the second time, Isabella shoved the still full Gap shopping bag into the trash can outside the elevator. When we stepped outside the hotel, everyone turned to stare. Cameras and cell phones flashed as we made our way to yet another waiting limo.
Once inside, Bella instructed the driver, “Caesar’s Palace Forum Shops, please.”
“Right away, Miss Blackstone.”
chapter fourteen
Right Away, Miss Blackstone
I had seen television shows about the indulgent spending habits of celebrities, but the spending sprees depicted on those shows paled in comparison to the shopping whirlwind that was Isabella Blackstone. Within no more than ten steps into the decadent clothing store, Alphabet, Isabella went into a purchasing frenzy. With wild abandon, she directed the store personnel to aid me in disrobing and trying on racks of clothing from the couture collections. Each outfit looked like something I had only seen in high-fashion magazines. This was like nothing I had encountered in Seattle or even in my wildest dreams! Bella was delighted to observe while reclining on a chaise lounge enjoying strawberries and champagne. She was like the crazy, rich stage mom that I never had or wanted. Not that I wasn’t enjoying it!
“Why is this store called Alphabet?” I asked the Zac Posen look-alike employee positioning a Philip Treacy fascinator on my head at just the right angle.
“Because, darling, here you will find the ABC’s of fashion,” Posen explained. “Alexander McQueen, Balmain, Chanel . . .”
A Rachel Zoe wannabe removed a copper-feathered Helmut Lang vest from my shoulders and replaced it with a rose faux fur Fendi bolero while reciting, “Dior, Etro, Fendi . . .” Pushing my shoulder’s back, she went on, “Gucci, Hermès, Isaac . . .” My knees went weak.
Bella ran up to us, champagne in hand, chiming, “I love it! Now that’s a Hollywood Photographer!”
I defended what I’d always believed. “Nobody cares what the photographer looks like! We’re behind the scenes . . .”
“Really? What is Annie Liebovitz’s signature style?”
I knew this! She was one of my favorites. “Easy, black button-down shirts.”
Bella shot me a knowing look and directed the attention to the stylists. “Ladies?”
They chimed, “Lanvin, runway.”
I gasped. “No . . .” It was as if I’d been living a lie. Okay, that’s dramatic. But come on! Next they’d try to convince me that Dian Fossey only wore Givenchy while working with the gorillas.
“Look, girlfriend, you’re fresh on a scene that is solely based on smoke and mirrors! You’ve got to step it up.”
“But it’s not like I’m that . . . important. It’s just me,” I stated. I didn’t want to sound lame, but why would anyone care what I wore? I am only an assistant, lady. Minimum wage. Nobody expects me to look like . . . well, you.
“Then you’ll have to pretend that you are important if you really want people in our industry to take you seriously. You’ll be surprised at how differently everyone treats you once they see you like this.” She pointed behind me.
Faux Zoe rolled out a floor-length mirror. I was blown away by what I saw. I had never imagined that little old me could look so, so . . . haute couture! I twisted and twirled in the yellow Marc Jacobs layered organza dress as the fuzzy bolero tickled my chin.
“Wait!” Bella squealed. “You need a little something . . .” She wriggled two of the four gold bangles off her wrist and slid them onto mine.
“Ohhh, Cartier Love bracelets!” the stylists swooned. I twisted them around with my other hand and admired each tiny screw dotted along the way. I vowed never to take them
off.
“Is that it?” Bella referred to the rack outside the dressing area, now loaded down with the dozens of luxurious labels that I had tried on. Everyone stopped twirling and fussing to do an about-face.
“Yes, Miss Blackstone,” the man answered.
“Great! We’ll take it all!” The sales duo and I froze in disbelief. Bella took me by the wrist and began pulling me toward the exit.
I must have turned beet red. “Bella, no. I can’t! . . . I mean . . . that was . . . this is . . .”
“You’re welcome! Let’s go . . . Shoes are next! Lesson number two: if you’re going to step on people to reach to the top, you might as well do it in stilettos!”
“But I don’t think I have to step on anyone to . . .”
“So much to learn in so little time . . . I’m kidding! Come on. You haven’t walked until you’ve Choo’d!”
As she yanked me out of Alphabet I felt beyond flustered. Of course I wanted those things, but I didn’t want her to buy them for me. I have a hard time letting someone buy me lunch unless I can reciprocate with dinner. Not in this lifetime could I ever reciprocate one third of what she had just bought me.
The Jimmy Choo boutique had hundreds of shoes displayed like individual pieces of priceless art. An enthused Bella plopped down on a lounge, kicking off her own Choos while telling an employee, “I’d like to see everything new in the last month that’s over four inches. Size seven and a half. And, get whatever this beautiful girl wants . . . and two glasses of champagne, please.” I strolled the perimeter of the store, reveling in the wonder of the amazing footwear. Flipping a black strappy sandal over, I could have fainted at seeing the $725 price tag.
I snuck away to call the one person who I knew would just die to be here . . .
“Julie! You’re not gonna believe where I am . . .” I barely let her say hello upon taking the call. “Isabella Blackstone took me shopping and bought me all these clothes—Dolce & Gabbana! Chloé! And I’m even wearing your fave, Marc Jacobs! And now we are at Jimmy Choo and she just told the sales guy . . . Wait, Julie—are you there?”
“Lucy, I’m at work but haven’t heard from you in so long. Not since my birthday party, to be exact . . .”
“Are you not hearing me?! I’m shopping with Isab—”
“I heard you! I just didn’t think that you cared so much about that stuff. And I’m good, by the way, thanks for asking.”
“Well, it’s not that I care about that stuff . . . or I didn’t . . . But I don’t know, maybe I do?”
“I really do have to get back to work—we’re in the middle of a lunch rush. Have fun, Lucy.” After cutting me off, she hung up all too quickly. I guess I hadn’t considered that she might still be upset about the party. I had been so busy, we hadn’t spoken about it—or anything, really—in a while. I would definitely make it up to her when I returned to LA.
I sat myself next to Bella, who was surrounded by boxes labeled with both of our sizes. I was still feeling increasingly uncomfortable accepting such lavish gifts from someone I had known for less than twenty-four hours. A small crowd was gathering outside, peering into the windows to catch a glimpse of the famous star. Several held their cell phone cameras up to take pictures. “What do you think of these?” Bella stuck out her legs, admiring the melon-colored, rhinestone-studded base of the five-inch heels she had on.
“They’re gorgeous!” I smiled, thinking incredulously that Isabella Blackstone was asking me for fashion input. Up until fifteen minutes ago, the most expensive item in my closet was the prom dress I had bought from Macy’s. Even during my high school years, the populars had never once asked me what I thought of an outfit.
“They come in five colors,” said a well-informed and highly motivated salesman.
“Brilliant! I’ll take them in every color . . . in both our sizes!” Before I could speak up to again explain how unnecessary the gifts were, Isabella was on to the next topic. “So tell me, what do you want to do with your photography?” The salesperson slid Bella’s foot out of a turquoise satin strappy heel and replaced it with a chocolate brown zipped-up ankle bootie.
“I’d love to show at a gallery one day! That’s pretty much my ultimate dream.”
“That’s easy! Some of my best friends own the most renowned galleries in the world. What would you show?” I couldn’t tell whether she was simply pointing out that she knew “people” or if she was suggesting that she could help me get into a gallery one day.
“I’d definitely show portraits. I love to tell stories by capturing the unexpected sides of people.”
“Stefano is the master of celebrity portraiture! Working for him will take you anywhere you want to go!”
“You think? I’d thought that too, before. But I’m starting to wonder if that’s how it works.” I wasn’t sure how much I could confide in Bella. I chose my words carefully so I wasn’t saying anything negative about my boss.
“Here’s the thing. Stefano isn’t going to help you. Hollywood doesn’t work that way. You have to help yourself.” She gave the salesman a nod of approval and continued. “You need to start cultivating relationships within his network—become friends with everyone. Go to every party, every screening, every anything, and then when you get there, network some more! Getting to the top is all about who you know—and who you blow, but that’s a lesson we’ll save for later!”
“Should I be taking notes?” I joked.
“Really, Lucy! You need to cut the wallflower act and become a force to be reckoned with! A force in Fendi!” She fluffed up the feathers on my bolero. “You’re his assistant now because you act like one. Stop being part of the background. Do whatever it takes to stand out and get noticed, then you’ll definitely get ahead!” She did make sense. I was not only dressing but was acting like an assistant.
“Okay, one more stop . . . my obsession!” Bella led me, along with a curious crowd of tourists, to a store called Shady, which featured luxury sunglasses, also displayed like tiny Rodin sculptures. Bella headed straight for the back counter where the most expensive sunglasses were displayed. “May we see this tray?”
A stylish, pin-thin woman with a too-tight bun pushed up the bridge of her cat’s-eye glasses. She then removed a large flat of shades from the glass case. Twenty oversized and overpriced pairs reflected Bella’s face as I peered over them. Her hands flickered mid-air as she debated. Without further deliberation, Bella plucked out a pair and put it aside. “I’ll take these.” The woman tugged on a white cloth glove, picked up the Marni glasses and carefully began ringing them up. “Oh, no. I mean these . . .” Bella pushed the entire tray forward, indicating that she wanted all but the singled-out pair.
Outside the shop, several clerks pushed the rack of clothes from Alphabet and the ten pair of Choos. Bella added a black shiny shopping bag full of sunglasses to the overwhelmed cart and marched on, with me following suit as we made our way out of the shopping center. The bellman cart barely contained all of the bags and boxes that looked about as stable as an elephant on a roller skate. I couldn’t help but take advantage of the scene and memorialize it on film. In addition, it couldn’t hurt to let Bella see me in action. I took out and tinkered with the settings, adjusted the aperture and captured the shot, all while walking backward alongside Bella.
Just as we reached the exit, where two doormen leaped to attention, Bella selected two new pairs of glasses from the bag. Handing me a YSL pair, Bella instructed, “Put these on.”
I giggled. “The sun’s not even out.”
She sang, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . .”
“Huh?” As the doors swung open toward the outside world, hundreds of flashes blinded us as we hustled to the waiting car. At least twenty paparazzi ran to the car, some jumping on its hood, and just as the shop attendants shut the goods into the trunk, the driver zoomed away.
“That wasn’t as bad as last time,” Bella noted as we leaned back into the leather seat.
“You know, Lucy,
I hire photographers all of the time! I should hire you!” For a flash, I believed that the most miraculous opportunity had just been handed to me. Was this how it really happened? Were they lying to us in art school the entire time we were prepping our portfolios and learning about agencies and so on? Of course not. She hadn’t even seen my work, how could she offer me a job? “No really! I bet you are super talented. I know an artist when I see one!” I thought back to the last twenty-four hours. Bella hadn’t so much as seen me scribble my name let alone exhibit any type of artistic expression.
Regardless, I played along and said, “That would be incredible! I would love to!” But I mean, come on! There was no way one of the most famous faces in the world was going to trust some kid with a camera to shoot her next W Magazine cover. I officially felt like a charity case knowing that Bella felt so badly for me being ditched in the desert that she took me on a shopping spree and then offered me pity work to boot. It was very sweet of her and I appreciated the sentiment, yet I still felt like a total loser.
I gazed out the back window from behind her tinted YSLs.
chapter fifteen
Souvenirs
Everything seemed to be falling right into place. Bella and I were en route to LA just hours after my parents checked into their hotel. I called them earlier to explain that my job had taken me to Las Vegas and they offered to pick me up from the airport. Since Bella had been within earshot, I couldn’t get into details. I wondered if they understood that they were picking me up from a small airport used only by private planes. They never would have assumed I was with one of the most famous women in the world either. They were soon to find out about both.
I grew anxious as we began our descent. There were so many thoughts firing off in my mind. I was supposed to have today and tomorrow off as requested, to spend time with my parents. Would those days still be granted since I wasn’t with Stefano? Or due to the fact that he left me to “assist” his friend, did today still count as a work day? I hadn’t heard from Stefano since he deserted me in the desert—did I still even have a job? Sailing from air to land at what felt like light speed inside a tin can that sat eight didn’t help. I gripped the armrests and held my breath as we landed on the short strip.
The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Page 11
