by Laura Burton
After my date with Blaze Hopkins, I couldn’t sleep. Against my better judgement, I scrolled through all the media posts about Blaze that I could find. In almost every picture there’s a different woman on his arm.
Girl, after girl, after girl, after girl.
I take another sip of Diet Coke to steel my nerves, which has to be one of the worst things to do in the early hours of the morning.
It does nothing to calm the jitters.
The thing is, I felt something tonight, and it’s driving me crazy because I can’t explain it. Not even to myself. What was it that had me so worked up today? The thrill of dating my celebrity crush? Fear over what pictures of us will be plastered over the papers?
I should have taken a selfie with him and sent the picture to Lucy; an inside scoop on our date for her struggling magazine could land her the promotion she’s always wanted.
There I go again, thinking about her needs over mine.
Speaking of needs…
My body wants to touch Blaze and never let go. My heart yearns for connection – the kind of connection I felt when we locked eyes over the candlelit dinner. But my brain is quick to remind me of all the times I’ve been disappointed in my life.
Don’t get attached, Leila.
He’s a Hollywood playboy. To him, we’re probably just having fun. Whatever I feel is only temporary, and sooner or later, Blaze will find some supermodel to wine and dine.
A soft knock on the door jolts me awake. I hadn’t even realized I was asleep.
“Well, well, well. Look at you.” Olly holds up a cardboard box in one hand and a bottle of spring water in the other. My stomach grumbles at the smell of bacon. “You brought me breakfast?”
Olly tosses his ginger locks with a dramatic shake of the head and gestures to someone in the hall. “I also came with reinforcements.”
The twins follow Olly through the door, each one carrying a bag. They tut and size me up like a broken down car. “We’ve got our work cut out for us,” one of the twins says.
I follow them into my room, rubbing my tired eyes and wondering what the heck is going on. Maybe I’m not awake after all. “What work?”
The front door shuts with a slam and Olly leads me to the chair by the dressing table. “Refuel. Let us do the rest.” I sit, and he lifts the box lid to unveil a full English breakfast.
Steaming baked beans, bacon, button mushrooms, eggs, and sausages. The works.
My stomach does a happy dance at the sight, and without hesitation, I pick up a fork and tuck in.
“We’ve just finished with Blaze and Eddie. The others are still working on Harper. Now it’s your turn,” Joy says, picking up my hair and combing out the knots.
I swallow my food and frown up at the stylists who are grinning at me like three Cheshire cats. There’s something odd about their behavior. Joy’s voice is too high and Olly’s smile looks far too unnatural. “Why are you doing this for me?”
“Can’t we do something nice for our new friend?” Olly asks, looking mildly offended. Then he turns away, picking out a shade of lipstick. “Besides, we want to know how your evening went.”
My stomach clenches when the realization hits; they’re here for gossip.
“What do you mean?” I ask, testing my theory. The stylists exchange looks.
“With Blaze, of course. Did you two have fun last night?” Hope says, her voice breezy. She leans close and works on my brows, but her eyes flicker around the room. I get the feeling she’s looking for some evidence that Blaze was here. I’m not sure what she expects to find. A forgotten sock? Maybe his smartwatch lying on the nightstand? I suppress a laugh. The thought is ridiculous.
We did have fun. But not as much fun as I would have liked.
Flirting with Blaze is one thing, going in for a kiss would be crossing a line.
A line that would turn our nice dinner into a scandalous affair. I mean, he’s technically my boss. Getting paid to kiss him feels… icky.
“We had dinner. That’s all.”
There’s an exchange of disappointed looks. But Olly doesn’t fully buy it. “Come on, this is Blaze we’re talking about…”
“What are you insinuating? I kept things strictly professional.”
Joy scoffs. “Professional?”
If Olly wasn’t applying my foundation, I would have shrugged back, but I hold still instead. “I’m working,” I say through gritted teeth, my appetite waning. I drop my fork and hold my breath as the stylists do their work on me at expert speed.
“And what exactly is it you do?” Olly presses. A quick glance at the three of them tells me he’s voicing the question on everyone’s mind.
“I’m his personal shopper.” I don’t say the word terrible, but a terrible personal shopper is exactly what I am.
So far, all I’ve done is measure him poorly and collect actual measurements from his tailor.
“It’s highly unusual to bring a personal shopper on a press tour,” Hope says, and I can’t argue.
It is unusual. You could call it weird even. But I needed the money, and Josie forced me to take the job. I can’t tell them that, though.
“Well, he needs help choosing outfits…”
“Girl, that’s my job.” Joy leans back, holding her makeup brush like an old cigarette holder. With her sleek frame and dark eyes, I’m getting Breakfast at Tiffany’s vibes. She’s like a pink haired Audrey Hepburn.
This time I recoil in my chair, guilt rippling through me. To them, I must look like some random person who does nothing but hang out with Blaze in the upper class cabin, and go on fancy dinners with him. If I were in their shoes, I’d be suspicious too.
I scramble to think of some way to make this look less like I’ve just agreed to be Blaze’s plaything on this trip. “Harper gave me a shopping list too. I’m going out today.”
Realizing there’s no delicious gossip to collect from me, the three of them finish their work quickly and make excuses to leave. “Well, we have to go to the studios within the hour. Have fun on your shopping trip.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying and failing to not sound glum. I guess I’m destined to spend the day alone.
I study my reflection in the wall mirror. At least they made me look less jet lagged and smoothed out my frizzy roots.
“I’ll see you guys for lunch?” I ask. Joy and Hope look at me like I just said someone stole the moon. Then they snigger. “Yeah. Good one.”
I look at them all blankly, wondering why they think that was a joke.
Olly answers the question like it’s written on my face. “You think they have fabulous figures by eating lunch? How cute.”
I fake a laugh back as I watch them leave my room, cackling.
After speaking to Josie on the phone and sorting out the logistics of how I’m going to pay for Harper’s shoes, I pack my purse and boldly leave my hotel room, ready to shop.
Josie was ecstatic to hear I’d scooped up another client. She wired me more money than I’ve ever made in a year and now I’m extremely aware of my wallet. My pink fuzzy llama wallet is usually as light as a feather. Not today. With Josie’s money in my account, I may as well be carrying sacks of gold.
I throw my shoulders back and try not to look too suspicious as I clutch my purse to my person and walk out of the hotel. A part of my stomach relaxes when I don’t see a crowd of paparazzi waiting. What must it be like to be famous and have giant cameras following your every move? I’d hate it.
A rumble of thunder draws my attention to the dark gray skies and the constant mist around me. So much for smoothing out my frizzy roots.
I’m going to look like Einstein by the time I get inside.
There was so much rain last night, the crooked streets of London are dotted with huge trenches of puddles. I step back just in time for a truck to charge past, thrusting a large splash of water into the air that narrowly misses me.
I exhale with relief, then I press forward, following the robotic voice from my ph
one that’s barking directions to Oxford Street.
I thought coming from a big city would make London feel like a home away from home, but I’m a little disoriented. There are a few similarities; the streets are packed with professionals walking with purpose, for one thing. And there are families of all colors and nationalities. It’s not just the beautiful British accent that my ears pick up – a young Indian couple walk hand in hand with a small boy, and all of them are speaking a language I do not understand.
The taxi cabs, on the other hand, are black and suave - a far cry from the mustard yellow cabs I’m so used to in New York.
Another difference is the noise. Or lack of. I’ve become so used to the sound of impatient drivers honking their horns, that the absence of it is a bit alarming.
The exquisite architecture is another thing. I can’t get over the fact that every building is shaped like a curve to fit in with the roads.
I could walk the streets of London for hours, just taking in the novelty of it all. But I have a job to do, and the sooner I get it done, the sooner I’m free to do as much touristy stuff as I like.
There is, of course, a downside to doing this alone. First off, I have no idea what store to check for some of the designer shoes on Harper’s list. Secondly, Josie gave me strict instructions to put on my nicest dress and even affect a Queen’s English accent. She said the stores––or shops, as they call them in England–– will have guards at the doors. If I don’t look the part, they might not let me in.
That sounds illegal to me, or discriminative at the very least. But Europe has different laws, I guess.
Chessy did tell me about that one time she went to Vegas with her friends and got turned away from the Gucci store at the mall because she was carrying a fake.
I always thought she was embellishing that story. Especially when she said the store manager called the mall cops and they were chased by two beefy men on Segway bikes all the way to Macys.
But maybe some of that story was true.
Even so, it’s weird. How we can be in 2021 and still have to deal with discrimination is beyond my comprehension.
I round a corner and my phone announces my arrival at Oxford Street. To my disappointment, it’s not green like the Oxford Street on my Monopoly board. Now I feel like my whole childhood was a lie.
The road stretches far beyond the eye can see, with dazzling shop windows of glittery shoes and cashmere sweaters––or jumpers, as they call them here.
I suck in my stomach and smooth the candy pink dress I’m wearing over my hips. This is it.
This is where I shop until I drop. Hopefully, not literally, but considering the fact that I’ve just walked two miles in a pair of four-inch stilettos to get here, the odds of me dropping in the next twenty minutes are very high.
Now I wish I hadn’t laughed at the TV commercial showcasing Emma’s Shnooze Shoes. Sophisticated work shoe on the outside, fluffy slipper on the inside. So your feet can be snoozing, while you’re at the work party schmoozing.
A pair of those babies would come in handy right now.
It takes several frantic calls to Josie and Chessy, and a lot of help from shop assistants, but three hours and seventeen minutes later, I’m standing on the side of the darkening street, a stack of shoe boxes piled high in my arms.
I got through the list. Now I’ve just got to get said shoes back to the hotel safely.
Such a job will require a cab as my toes are pinched, and I stopped feeling my feet an hour ago. I bite my lip with every step, praying I keep balance and I don’t run into a kid or something. I’m looking around the boxes, it’s impossible to see over them.
Thankfully, I manage to successfully balance the shoes on one hand while I flag down a cab that rolls toward me and pulls over.
“Oh, thank heavens…Whoa!”
As I take a step towards the cab, my heel gets caught in a drain and I trip up, kicking my other ankle. My knee buckles, and the unthinkable happens.
It’s like watching a train crash in slow motion - I’m only able to stand by and watch as all eight boxes of shoes fly into the air like a fountain of Jimmy Choos.
“Noooo!”
If there was ever a time to discover that time travel is real, now would be perfect. Please, please, let there be a future me whizzing to the rescue!
Alas, all the shoes and their boxes fall into a giant puddle on the street.
But the Universe isn’t done with me yet. As if my already established misfortune was not enough, a huge truck charges by, sending a tremendous wave of dirty puddle water over me like a terrible tsunami. I just stand there, soaked from head to toe and blinking in horror at the wreckage left behind.
How, on Earth, can I be this unlucky?
I mean, sure, I trip and drop the shoes. Typical Leila.
But for those shoes to fall in the biggest puddle there is, and then get steam rolled by a huge truck, covering me in filthy water? That’s got to be a sick joke, right?
Can this day get any worse––?
“Leila?”
My stomach plummets as I recognize the sound of the man’s voice shouting at me from across the street. The first thing I want to do is scowl and shake my fist at the heavens.
Is this karma? Did I kill a puppy in a past life or something? Maybe this is punishment for coming on this trip for monetary gain?
Blaze charges across the road like a lion, ignoring the traffic as if the cars are gazelles grazing in a field. That devilishly handsome face is full of concern.
Concern for me?
“Are you okay?”
I begin to tremble, the cold British air nipping at my soaked skin. I take it all back; I don’t want Schmooze shoes. I want a pair of Ruby Red slippers. There’s no place like home. Take me away. Tell me all of this is a terrible dream.
Blaze inspects the damage around me and without a word, he takes my arm and leads me away from the road. “Come on, let’s sort you out.”
I can’t speak. I’m merely a nodding dog by this point.
A wet, nodding dog.
Oh gosh, I hope I don’t smell.
For once, Blaze doesn’t take the opportunity to tease me, even though he’d usually take great delight in pushing my buttons and rubbing me up the wrong way. He does the complete opposite.
First, he takes me to some kind of secret lair.
Okay, fine. It’s not a lair. It’s a boutique, owned by a friend of a friend. (I guess everyone is a friend of a friend when you’re Blaze Hopkins. Oh, to be filthy rich and famous.)
The boutique has its own salon, and the next hour passes by like a montage of every makeover I’ve seen on TV. My hair is washed and expertly blow-dried, so that I swear I resemble Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge. The combination of my dark locks resting on my shoulders and the understated makeup look they fix me up with makes me look oh-so-sophisticated!
They dress me like a doll, in stockings and lacy underwear. Then they put me in a knee-length sky blue wrap around dress that sits on my body like a second skin.
“You look stunning in jersey,” the boutique owner says with a satisfied sigh. The man has two hairs on top of his head. Yes, just two. The rest of him is entirely bald. He wears a white shirt tucked into a pair of dark pants, and if his skin happened to be yellow, he’d totally pass as Homer Simpson.
When I discover that his name is Homer, I go into a coughing fit to cover up a laugh.
The universe’s sense of humor is on point today.
The look is finished with a pair of low heels covered in diamantes.
Fully dressed, I walk out into the middle of the boutique where Blaze is waiting and twirl in front of the mirrors. I feel like a million dollars.
“See? Silver lining,” Blaze says.
I stop twirling to see his eyes sparkling at me. “You look even better now than before.”
“You didn’t see me before,” I quip back.
The stylists did a good job on my hair and makeup, and the dress I
put on this morning is the most expensive thing I own.
In theory, at least; I got it on sale at one of the outlets in New Jersey.
Blaze stands and cocks his head to the side, giving me a broad grin. His tongue slips between his lips, and he licks them like a cat eyeing up a bowl of milk.
Oh, my goodness, my insides tingle at the realization that I’m the milk.
The thought turns everything inside of me into Jell-O.
I hold back a giggle.
No. I need to keep professional.
Blaze is off-limits. I can’t be having inappropriate thoughts… Thoughts like what it might feel like to have Blaze take me in his arms and kiss me right here in the middle of the boutique. Would he be soft and gentle at first? Or would he take a fistful of my hair and yank me toward him with a grow-.
No!
I shake my head, forcing the images of Blaze kissing me to fade.
“Now, have a lovely evening, you two. Great to finally meet you in person, Blaze.”
Homer waves us off and Blaze rests a giant hand on the small of my back.
I get goosebumps and begin to walk. “But I need to pay…” I say, picking up my damp purse from the floor. Blaze rests his hand over it with a frown and picks up another bag. “You don’t want that to spoil your dress. Here.” He puts my purse in the bag and I glimpse that it has the rest of my wet clothes in there. “But I-”
Blaze chuckles softly, opens the door to the boutique, and steps out. “It’s taken care of. Don’t even think about it.”
I want to argue, but as soon as I think about telling him I have money, Josie’s furious face pops up in my mind. “The shoes! Josie is going to kill me! Harper will be furious! This is going to look so bad.”
“Do you still have the list?” Blaze asks.
I look around. It’s quieter now, and there are less people walking around. “Yes, but what time is it? Most of the shops look closed.”
“Shops? Already picked up the local lingo, have you?” Blaze says with a smirk. When I don’t laugh, his smile falls and he turns serious again. “Relax, I’ve got this.”
“Got what? Blaze, it took me hours to get those shoes. Harper is expecting them tonight. And if the shops are closed…”
