‘Flying is very dehydrating,’ Rachel explains to him. He nods and retreats quickly behind his Financial Times.
On Rachel’s other side, Maggie still has her book open – One Hundred Years of Solitude – but she’s not reading it; instead she’s staring into space.
‘You know what I’ve decided?’ she says suddenly. ‘I’m not going to talk to a single man for this entire weekend. I’m serious. Not a waiter, not a … a taxi driver, nothing. I’m having a mancation. A hombre holiday.’
‘A bloke break,’ suggests Rachel.
‘Are you sure, darling?’ I ask. ‘After all, we are going to this VIP event. What if you meet Ryan Gosling?’
‘Yeah, about this event,’ says Rachel, drumming her fingers on her little side table. ‘Do we have any clue yet what it is? Has Lily said anything to you, Maggie? Also, if she lives in LA, why is she doing this thing in New York?’
‘Not a word,’ says Maggie. ‘She’s being extremely mysterious.’
‘Maybe it’s a strip club,’ says Rachel. She slaps her knee. ‘Lily’s opening a strip club … and we’re the acts.’ She’s bent over with laughter, delighted with herself. Maggie and I stare at her, puzzled.
‘I think it’s probably just some product launch or other,’ says Maggie.
I’m not so sure. Lily is an events manager, and she’s worked on some very high-profile launches and is Twitter friends with a number of A-and B-listers. I’m guessing it’s a private screening of a new film, with the stars and directors. Which wouldn’t be awful. As long as Rachel calms down by then; in her current state, I could see her leaping straight into Mark Ruffalo’s lap.
‘Would you like some champagne, ladies?’ asks the air steward, beaming at us.
Rachel and I say yes please. Maggie grabs my arm and nods at me urgently. Of course: she’s not talking to men. This is going to be a pain.
‘She’ll have one too,’ I say. The steward looks puzzled.
‘She’s taken a vow of silence,’ Rachel explains, taking her glass and half-draining it in one swallow.
‘You know you might have to talk to a man at immigration, don’t you?’ I ask, once he’s left.
Maggie sighs. ‘Fine. As long as he’s in a Perspex box.’
‘Can I have another champagne?’ Rachel asks the steward.
I’ve lined up two films and three episodes of Parks and Recreation, which should get me through the flight, but before I’m half an hour into the first one, I feel my eyes closing. After what feels like ten minutes, I wake up to the sound of an announcement about landing.
‘Landing?’ I say, yawning and looking around blearily. ‘What? Landing where?’
‘Where do you think, Atlantis?’ says Rachel, bouncing up and down in her seat. ‘New Yoik, baby! You slept the whole time. Not us. We were awake, weren’t we, Mags?’
Maggie nods, looking stony-faced.
‘Thank God you’re awake. She’s been talking non-stop for the past six hours,’ she hisses to me, while Rachel goes to the loo. ‘I couldn’t watch a single film! First she was going on and on about all the things she wants to see in New York and about how she’s going to climb the stairs in her office building instead of going to the gym. Then she started talking to the guy across the way about how, when you find your soulmate, you just know.’
‘What?’ Looking at the businessman across the aisle, I can see he’s shrunk deep in his seat, headphones clutched protectively to his ears.
‘Oh, and she was also telling him she’s a … master of the dark art of tort law? I really hope they don’t sell Red Bull in America,’ Maggie says.
The queue for immigration is as hellish as ever; this is one guest list Lily couldn’t get us on. And I’m nervous when Rachel starts quizzing the man in the box about the finer points of immigration law. But eventually we’re safely out and queuing for a taxi. Although it’s only April, it feels like summer and we’re all peeling off layers – Rachel tries to remove her denim shirt before we remind her she’s got nothing on underneath.
‘Is it OK if I do the talking?’ I ask, as we queue for cabs. ‘I’ve got our directions all planned out, so we don’t sound like tourists.’ I also don’t want the driver noticing Rachel’s state in case he refuses to take her.
Rachel interrupts. ‘Hold on one cotton-picking second,’ she says in her terrible American accent. ‘What have we here?’
She points over to a massive red convertible with a shonky home-made sign beside it: ‘Ride to the Big Apple in Style in a 1958 Chrysler Convertible with Jim’s Tours. Only $200 per trip.’
‘Isn’t that a bit – expensive?’ ‘Tacky?’ Maggie and I say in unison, but Rachel has already charged ahead and is thrusting dollar bills at the driver. We shrug and pile in after her, giggling and putting on our sunglasses.
Unfortunately, our luggage won’t fit in the tiny boot, so the three of us have to squash into the back with all our bags on top of us and Maggie’s case in the front seat. Plus, Jim of Jim’s Tours looks about fifteen and stalls twice before we’ve even left the airport.
‘Hi, ladies, it’s my pleasure to take you to Manhattan,’ he says as we join the freeway. ‘Let me start by telling you about the history of our great city. Founded in 1624 by the Dutch fur—’
Rachel interrupts him. ‘Have you got an iPod dock? I made a New York playlist!’
Jim, getting the message, abandons his commentary and sticks on Rachel’s playlist, which starts with ‘Hot in the City’ by Billy Idol. As we drive through Brooklyn, hipsters in beanie hats look at us pityingly – what with our teenage driver, Rachel dancing in her seat and all of us singing along to the theme music from Working Girl, we’re not cool.
Then the view we’ve been waiting for comes into sight, and we all scream in excitement. Before us is Manhattan under the blue April sky, its towers shining in the sun, and right ahead, the Williamsburg Bridge with its elegant red lines and double-arched tower.
‘Quick! “Empire State of Mind”!’ yells Rachel. Jim obliges, and as we speed across the bridge, we’re all singing along at the top of our voices, though none of us really know the words. When it gets to the chorus, Rachel takes off her seat belt, and, despite our yells of protest, stands up in the moving car and thrusts her arm in the air, hair whipping in the breeze. Not knowing the lyrics, she settles for ‘Da da da da DA DA …’ before falling sideways into my lap as Maggie and I scream hysterically.
‘Miss! Sit down, please!’ yells Jim, swerving in alarm. ‘I’m not insured! It’s my dad’s car! He’ll kill me if I do anything to it!’
‘What? That’s outrageous!’ Rachel says indignantly, whipping off her sunglasses. ‘Is your name even Jim?’
Maggie and I manage to calm her down, and then we’re over the bridge and driving along through the Lower East Side, Chinatown, Little Italy and SoHo. The traffic’s slowed to a crawl and Maggie’s trying to take pictures of everything at once. Meanwhile, the Chrysler’s attracting plenty of attention all of its own: tourists are filming us and Rachel is giving regal waves from behind her sunglasses like Jackie O. She’s also keeping up a running commentary on how she’s getting rid of her Oyster card and buying a convertible when we get back to London.
‘It just makes so much sense,’ she keeps saying.
I’m ignoring her and concentrating on the New York sights: the green and white street signs, the brownstone buildings and the trees, the men in baggy shorts and baseball caps and the actress-model-whatever types loping along sipping iced lattes. All too soon we arrive at the corner of Mercer and Prince streets in SoHo. Jim boots us out, but not before Rachel insists on taking pictures of us all with him and the car, while traffic piles up behind us hooting furiously. I tip Jim an extra twenty dollars and he skedaddles, thrilled to get rid of us.
‘So much for us not seeming like tourists,’ Maggie says as we watch the Chrysler drive off, leaving a crowd of gawpers in its wake.
‘Now we need to find the hotel,’ I say. ‘It’s somewhere on th
is corner.’
Rachel’s looking up, teetering around in circles and craning her neck. ‘I think the hotel … is the corner,’ she says, in tones of profound insight.
Examining the wall with her fingertips like a blind person, she finds the revolving entrance and crashes through with such force that she manages to go around twice before falling into the lobby. Maggie and I hurry after her, dragging her suitcase, which she’s abandoned on the pavement outside.
‘Would you look at this place! It’s like a library. Look at all the books arranged by colour! Ooh, that chair looks comfy.’ She flings herself down on a giant armchair, legs stretched out in front of her. I’ve just spotted a miniature vodka bottle sticking out of her handbag. It’s five in the afternoon; I hope we don’t get kicked out before we’ve even checked in.
‘Guys! You’re here! How was the flight?’
It’s Lily. She runs over to hug us all, looking very glamorous in an oversized black mesh top, with her long, slim legs in tight grey jeans. She’s wearing sky-high black platform heels, and her blond waves are falling around her face.
‘It was great! Maggie lost her make-up and we flew first class!’ Rachel announces at top volume, jumping to her feet to greet Lily. ‘And I almost fell out of the car! How are you? I’m so excited! New York!’
Various fashionista types are now looking up from their laptops and cocktails in polite horror. I make ‘Get her out of here’ signals to Lily.
‘I tell you what,’ Lily says, ‘let’s go straight up to our rooms. I’ve already got the keys. Rachel and Poppy, you’re sharing one room, and Maggie and I are next door.’
Before Rachel can object, we drag her to the lift and bundle her upstairs to our room. It’s gorgeous: neutral sleek decor, two gigantic beds, lofty ceiling. There’s a handwritten note welcoming us to the Mercer, and even a complimentary bottle of Pinot Noir, which I quickly stash in the bathroom cupboard before Rachel spots it.
‘What’s happened?’ Lily whispers, following me into the bathroom.
‘Nothing. Maggie’s lost her make-up and Rachel’s lost her mind.’
‘Whoa,’ Rachel says, from next door. ‘I feel sort of weird suddenly.’
We rush back into the bedroom. She’s sitting on her bed, fingertips pressed to her forehead. We make her lie down, pull off her shoes and find her some salted pretzels and mineral water.
‘Do you feel sick at all?’ Maggie asks, putting a stainless-steel bin beside her.
‘No, I’m just … crashing. Think I was on a bit of a high earlier,’ she says indistinctly. Within seconds she’s asleep, a half-chewed pretzel on the pillow beside her.
‘Oh, thank God,’ whispers Maggie, as we tiptoe out of the room. ‘What was that? You don’t think she’s got a drug problem, do you, Poppy?’
‘No. But I definitely need a drink.’
‘Me too. Let me just …’ and Maggie opens the door of their room, shoves her bag inside and closes the door. ‘Ready!’
‘Seriously? You don’t want to unpack and change first?’ Lily asks, bewildered. Maggie normally likes to move in and unpack fully once she arrives somewhere, and have a full costume change between events.
Maggie shrugs. ‘What’s the point? You look great, though, Lily. Are you … How come …?’
Lily throws back her head and laughs. ‘How come I look presentable, you mean? I had a meeting. Come on, let’s head to the bar.’
Downstairs, the bar is already filling up with shoppers wielding big bags and people having civilised afternoon drinks. I tell myself that nobody remembers us from earlier, though this is probably wishful thinking. We find a table and order a round of Cosmopolitans – Lily’s suggestion. ‘I know it’s a massive cliché, but this was part of my New York fantasy,’ she explains. ‘The four of us together, having Cosmos! Though I didn’t think we’d be one man down so soon.’
‘Could I see some ID, miss?’ the waiter asks me.
‘Oh my God! Are you serious?’ I ask, thrilled. ‘Of course you can!’ I show him my passport, before stuffing it away in my bag so the girls don’t see my date of birth. This holiday is going to be a birthday-free zone.
‘If it isn’t my favourite English party planner! How are you, Lily? Everything OK?’ A dark-haired guy in a cream suit has breezed up to us: very handsome, with beautifully waxed eyebrows that put mine to shame. Lily jumps up to hug him.
‘Girls, this is Christian, who’s hosting us here at the Mercer. Christian, these are my friends Poppy and Maggie.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ I say.
‘I adore your hair,’ Christian says to Maggie. ‘Very Jennifer Lawrence.’
Maggie just smiles and raises her eyebrows expressively. Christian looks puzzled, but continues, ‘I hope Luis comped you these drinks? Great. Anything at all you need, let me know. Oh, I almost forgot. My stylist friend said she could pull a few outfits for you tomorrow. I’ll leave them in your room, yes?’
At this, Maggie’s eyes widen and she looks mutely at Lily.
‘Wonderful! That is brilliant, Christian. Thank you! Can you stay and have a drink with us?’
‘I would love to, but I’ve got to interview some pet pedicurists. Have fun, girls!’ And he’s gone.
‘Look at you, Miss Well-Connected,’ I say admiringly, taking a sip of my Cosmo. ‘How do you know him? Has he got something to do with your mystery event?’
‘No. He used to be the concierge at Chateau Marmont – which is the sister hotel of this place, in LA – and we’ve worked on a ton of events together. So when I told him I was coming to Manhattan, he said we had to stay here.’ She shrugs. I’m impressed: Lily’s only lived in Los Angeles for six months, but she’s obviously got the States sewn up, coast to coast.
‘But what was he saying about outfits? I was dying to ask him, but I couldn’t,’ says Maggie.
‘Oh, yes. He’s got some dresses for us, because it will be very glam. I knew you’d bring lovely dresses of your own, but I thought it could be fun for you to have some real red-carpet stuff.’
‘What about you?’ Maggie asks.
‘I’ve already got a dress.’ She shivers with excitement. ‘I hope it goes well! I’ve never been so nervous before an event.’
‘Not even when you organised Chris Pine’s birthday party?’ Maggie says.
‘Oh God, it’s bigger than that.’
‘Does it involve Luther Carson?’ I ask. He’s a big star, and Lily knows him.
‘In a way, yes. Him and others.’
‘Is it a performance?’ Maggie asks.
‘Um – I suppose so. Yes.’ Lily wriggles in her seat. ‘But please don’t ask me any more questions or you’ll spoil it! The whole thing’s completely confidential.’
‘Can’t you even tell us where it is? Or when?’
‘Downtown, tomorrow at five o’clock. Near Wall Street. And that’s my last word.’
Maggie’s peering at herself in the mirror behind the bar. ‘God. Is that what I look like without make-up? I’m like a mouse.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling, you look lovely,’ I say. ‘But you can borrow some of my stuff if you want. I’ve got fake lashes and everything.’
‘Thanks … I can’t believe I’ve lost all my make-up just as I’m attending my first and last red-carpet event. I presume there will be photographers at this thing, Lily?’ Maggie asks.
‘Yes,’ says Lily. ‘But bring your own cameras as well. And that is positively the last question I’m answering. The actual event will only last about an hour, I think, and then we can go out afterwards. And before you ask, Mags, tomorrow is our big night out. I’ll want to celebrate once this thing is safely done. Now, where do you want to have dinner?’
The next morning, we meet in the lobby at nine thirty. I slept pretty well considering the time difference, although I woke up a few times and took the opportunity to check that Rachel was still alive. Lily’s back in her usual jeans, white T-shirt and trainers, and Maggie is looking more like herself in a
striped Breton T-shirt dress and ballet pumps, but is still make-up free.
‘You know, I really like your no-make-up look,’ I tell her. ‘Your skin is so amazing, you should go bare more often.’
‘That’s what I was saying!’ says Lily. ‘It’s very off-duty model.’
‘Hardly,’ Maggie says, patting her cheeks cautiously. ‘I look washed out. But it’ll be good for me – take me out of my comfort zone. No men, no make-up.’
‘Where’s Girl, Interrupted?’ Lily asks.
‘Rachel? She’s fine. She was in the shower when I left.’
‘Morning,’ says a hoarse voice. We look up to see Rachel approaching us slowly, wearing a sequinned long-sleeved black top, green linen Bermuda shorts and orange sports sandals. Her wet hair’s in a bun and she looks dazed.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Maggie mischievously.
‘Like I’ve been tumble-dried,’ says Rachel, sitting down and looking at us apprehensively. ‘How long was I asleep?’
‘About fifteen hours.’
She winces. ‘I am so, so sorry about yesterday.’
‘It’s OK, Rachel,’ says Lily, patting her hand. ‘We know about the amphetamines.’
‘I wasn’t on amphetamines!’ says Rachel, at which the business meeting beside us looks up. ‘Urgh. My throat is sore from talking so much yesterday. What … what was I saying?’
‘You were going to buy a convertible because it makes more sense than an Oyster card,’ I tell her.
‘And you had a lot to say about soulmates to that guy on the plane,’ Maggie says. ‘And do you remember standing up in the car, on the way from the airport? You almost fell out.’
Rachel buries her face in her hands as we all giggle mercilessly.
‘I’m so sorry. It’s this Hennings case, it’s been a nightmare. I had eleven Red Bulls on Thursday night, and with all that champagne on the plane … I must have gone temporarily mad. I’m so embarrassed.’ She plucks at her sequinned top. ‘And I seem to have taken a lucky-dip approach to packing.’
Girls on Tour Page 32
