by Rosie Nixon
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I don’t already know what the theme is for this year’s Gala.” I grabbed my iPad and began furiously googling to find the answer. “Ancient Civilizations,” I uttered. “Hmm, this is going to take some planning.”
* * *
When he surfaced, Rob was in a surprisingly good mood. I played along with it, wondering if perhaps the evening hadn’t ended as badly as I imagined. He even offered to make Vicky and I another cup of tea.
“What’s going on?” Vicky mouthed, as soon as his back was turned.
I shrugged. Unnerving as it was, this was a big improvement on the moody Rob of the previous morning.
“Do you fancy coming to an auction with me tonight, babe?” I ventured when he joined us on the sofa. “Liv’s been invited to the Met Gala and she needs to discuss outfits with me, she’s going to be hosting this charity event.” I hoped we might be able to have a more successful date night if we went out again and this time stayed off booze.
“Can’t, I’m afraid, we’ve got a late shoot today,” he said brightly. “Plus, you might not want to be out too late this evening because Ron has agreed to see you for an interview tomorrow at noon. I called him as soon as I woke up. He’s really looking forward to meeting you. How cool is that?”
“Whoop!” Vicky jumped up.
They both watched me spit out a large sip of tea.
“That’s fast work,” I said, flummoxed.
“Ron doesn’t waste his time,” Rob continued blithely.
“Did he mention Mona?” I asked.
“Not a thing.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll have some real news to post on social media before the week is out.”
A little dig there, but I was willing to let it go—I couldn’t actually believe I might be in with a chance.
“And if you’re looking for a partner in crime for the auction tonight, I’m up for it,” Vicky offered. “Keeps me out of your hair,” she said, winking at Rob.
“I guess it’s a deal—on both fronts.” I smiled, cautiously—mostly just relieved that peace had returned to the sardine tin.
In our bedroom, as we both hurriedly got ourselves ready for the day ahead, Rob squared up to me.
“I heard you in the middle of the night,” he said contemplatively.
“I thought you were asleep,” I said, laying down the pile of clothes I’d been about to transport to the laundrette. “I meant what I said, you know. I do love you—so much.”
He smiled. “I know, and I wanted to get back into bed with you, so badly. But I whacked my knee on some iron railings giving you a piggyback, last night. Remember?”
A vague recollection of the incident came into my mind.
“Come here,” he said, pulling me into the warmest embrace. I relaxed and the aching to feel his lips on mine subsided. “Promise you won’t Instagram this moment?” he said when we came apart.
“Promise,” I simpered.
* * *
Suddenly, my day had gone from quiet to insanely busy. First up I busied myself calling Maurice to explain the situation. When I suggested he design Liv’s outfit for the Met Gala, thankfully—I actually kissed my phone—he said he was up for the job.
“You know, dear Anna did actually ring me about a celebrity pairing for the Met last year,” he revealed, “but the timing wasn’t right, I was still in the grip of depression. In Liv, I see a kindred spirit though. If she’s happy, I’m up for it.”
Shortly afterward, the doorbell rang and a courier dropped off our tickets for that evening. It was a charity auction in connection with the Armory Show—New York’s annual international art fair, held in the ballroom of the grand Waldorf Astoria Hotel. Liv would be onstage presenting some of the artworks to be auctioned off. It was a black tie event, which called for a suitable floor-length gown. Vicky had a red Ralph Lauren dress bought the other day on Trey’s credit card, but I needed something to wear.
“Darling, your new best friend is one of the biggest names in fashion—surely, Maurice can lend you something?” Vicky suggested.
I shrugged. “I don’t like to ask him.”
Vicky held up a hand. “Oh, per-lease, Amber, this is America. Everyone asks for everything. Call him back immediately.”
I was glad I did, because Maurice was only too excited to tell me about the new collection of dresses he had been working on in secret. “I’ve been using Cleopatra as my muse,” he whispered into the phone, though there was no real need to keep his voice down. “The Egyptian queens were so powerful yet so sexy, elegant and feminine—I’m going to put Ancient Egypt back on the map. And I’ve been thinking about what to call my new label. I’m thinking De Retour, meaning “Comeback,” symbolized by an image of a phoenix. I think it represents all of us—you, me, Liv—we are les trois amis, arising from the ashes to seize the day once again.” I could feel a wide smile in his voice.
“I love it, Maurice, it’s perfect!” I said, smiling. “And you do know the theme for the Met is ancient civilizations?”
“Of course!” he said. “And wouldn’t Liv make the ultimate Cleopatra? I’m thinking statement gold choker, snake cuffs, bejeweled bra and elegant skirt. I’m so inspired by this, I can’t wait to design for her. Everyone will be talking about it!”
“Yes! I can see her as Cleopatra!” I shrieked, thinking how making a spectacle of herself being partially clothed was exactly Liv’s thing. “I love it!” It was so great to hear his voice full of enthusiasm—I had a sense the old Maurice was coming back. And I liked this Maurice, a lot. “I’ll tell her all about it this evening. Also, I was wondering whether you—whether De Retour—had anything I could borrow for the event tonight?”
“Of course, ma chérie! Why, I have an exquisite flowing ivory gown. I’ve been using my old seamstress and she’s just finished it. It’s beautiful in its simplicity—low cut at the front, with just a hint of Egypt about it, if you pair with a thick gold cuff. I’ll send it over in a cab.”
As I put down the phone I turned to Vicky, who had been listening in. “I think you could say a plan is coming together.”
Instinctively—well, we are in America—we high-fived.
* * *
When the ivory gown arrived, swathed in reams of tissue paper, we were both floored by its beauty.
“You can tell in the detail that it’s been made by a top designer,” Vicky gushed, running her fingers over the cool, silky fabric and admiring the delicate gold detailing around the deep neckline. Although undeniably a thing of beauty, there was something immediately jarring about me, Amber Green, in an insanely delicate ivory gown, that would cling to every love handle and show up every sweat spot, but I felt duty bound to try it on.
“Va-va-voom!” shrieked Vicky as I came back out of my bedroom.
“Va-va-doom!” I winced. I’d been holding in my stomach so intensely I was feeling light-headed. “I feel like the Snowman,” I said, grimacing. “Tell me, honestly?”
“Honestly—it looks stunning.” She took in my expression. “But if you’re going to be afraid of every glass of red wine and terrified of even looking at a bread roll in it, maybe it’s not going to work.”
I sighed. “In other words, I look fat.”
“I never said that!” she screeched.
“You didn’t need to . . .” I was already itching to take it off.
Dana rang just as I was on my way to the bedroom to peel myself out of the dress.
“What’s this I hear—you’re going to the Armory Auction tonight?” she said, sounding a bit annoyed. She was clearly outside, I could hear the clip-clop of her heels on the pavement and traffic noise in the background. A siren blasted, so I shouted into the receiver: “Yes, Dana, Mickey—”
“I know,” she quipped, equally loudly, “I just bumped into him in Soho House. He also said Liv’s been invited to the Met. Were you going to tell me, or were you going to poach my client? It’s not right, Amber.”
Her confrontational attitude startled
me. “Well, yes, of course,” I lied. To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed my mind to ring her before we went out tonight.
She read my mind. “Honey, I’m your former agent—you can’t steal clients without letting me know. What are you planning for the Met for her?”
I feel faintly ridiculous being told off while wearing a red-carpet gown. Even hugging my love handles, it managed to upstage everything in the entire apartment—including Vicky’s red Ralph Lauren dress. She knew it, too.
“Liv’s going as an Egyptian Queen in an outfit designed by Maurice Chan—for his new label.”
“Maurice Chan’s new label?” Dana sounded shocked. “He’s got a new label? That’s big news. Are you up to this?”
I could see my reflection in one of the windows. Let’s face it, this gown is stunning; Maurice is indeed big news. Of course I’m wearing the dress.
* * *
Later that evening, the area outside the ballroom entrance of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel was buzzing. Women in long flowing dresses with fur stoles and men in penguin suits littered the pavement as they bustled to get out of the cool evening and into the grand hotel. A stream of limos and taxis was rhythmically depositing even more gowns and suits onto the pavement, as we tottered down the street to join the queue to get in.
The ballroom was stunning to behold, a huge space, lit by twinkling chandeliers. There were elaborate floral displays in the center of at least sixty big round tables and the air was thick with the smell of perfume, champagne and excited conjecture.
Mickey had organized our table of ten, and he appeared briefly to introduce us all. To my left was an aging art collector and his blond-bombshell girlfriend who claimed to be an “actress” but was really his arm candy—a quick Google revealed she didn’t even have a Wikipedia entry. Next to them was the owner of one of Manhattan’s top art galleries and a man who was presumably his boyfriend and, to our right, a young heiress and her dashing boyfriend, neither of whom could have been over the age of thirty, but Mickey had quietly informed us that they were probably worth all the money in the room put together. And there were two empty seats to our right, for Mickey and Liv to return to once she had fulfilled her presenting duty.
The conversation between the eight of us was strained, so Vicky and I took it upon ourselves to crack open the two bottles of champagne for the table. Thankfully, most of them were teetotalers, which meant more for Vicky and me. Despite all this, I was still the only person to eat every bit of my wilted beetroot salad, masses of chicken in an indistinguishable gravy and no less than three dry dinner rolls, with an entire portion of butter. White dress or no white dress, this spread was too good to waste. As the evening wore on I kicked my heels off under the table.
Vicky had been in a fidgety mood; there was no phone reception in the ballroom so she kept popping out to check her messages.
“What’s going on?” I asked, when she returned to her seat for about the fourth time since the meal had begun. I’d been left bluffing my way through a conversation about David Hockney with the art collector and was now hopelessly out of my depth.
“It’s Trey,” she said, “he’s been messaging me nonstop today. I think he’s finally realized I may not be coming back. It’s only taken him the best part of a week.” She rolled her eyes.
“Is it too little, too late?” I asked.
“Too right!” she fumed. “He’s had the cheek to ask me to FedEx my credit card back. I mean, what does he think I am? I’m no gold-digger.” She looked across at the heavily Botoxed woman sitting next to the old man. “He said he’s been working nonstop, blah, blah, blah, the same old crap. I’ve had enough of it. He couldn’t even tell me he loves me.”
“And is that what you really want to hear?” I asked, sensing that she was feeling more angry than heartbroken. “I mean, do you still love him?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
As the lights were dimmed and the auction was about to start, I noticed her turn and coyly smile at a very handsome man at an adjacent table. He looked vaguely familiar. And he seemed to recognize Vicky, giving her an appreciative smile back. I observed him continue watching her with a mixture of amusement and fascination even after she had turned away.
I nudged Vicky’s knee. “Do you know him?”
“No, but he’s Noah West—he models for loads of the top brands.”
“He seems very familiar with you,” I replied.
“We met in the foyer, just now,” she said, eyes shining mischievously,
“Vicky . . . ?”
She was saved any explanation by the lights dimming as the evening’s host—a brash male auctioneer, took to the stage and began hawking round-trip holidays to Europe, ten-day cruises, customized Louboutins and epicurean experiences with New York’s top chefs, alongside some one-of-a-kind pieces of art from New York’s hottest artists. Liv kept appearing on the stage to illustrate the detail in the pieces. She looked ethereal in a sheer pale-green gown—it was the kind of dress that wore a person, rather than the other way around, and it couldn’t have been more perfect for the occasion.
Just as we had all become accustomed to works of art fetching staggering amounts of money—including one that I swear was just a blank white canvas—Liv came onstage alongside a painting that looked familiar. A simple beach landscape that appeared to be covered in the multicolored hand- and fingerprints of a young child.
“And next up we have this unique landscape by the famed Greenwich Village–based artist, Boris Cosgrove,” announced our host. “It was completed in his home studio only last week—the paint is just dry. You can see the tenderness of every brushstroke in this stunning canvas,” he continued, as Liv pointed out a few of the brushstrokes to illustrate his point, “where Cosgrove conveys the playful nature of childhood against the backdrop of a spirited young tide.”
The discerning art collectors in the room nodded their heads sagely.
“Er, ‘spirited young tide’?” I mocked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“And, ‘playful nature of childhood’?” Vicky replied, nudging me in the ribs. “Isn’t that the painting from the artist’s house on the baby shoot? The one that got you the sack?”
“Oh, my God, it is!” I sniggered. “Those are the prints and splodges of Jamie, the toddler, all over it. The artist is blatantly trying to pass it off as a masterpiece!”
Neither of us could believe it when the collector on our table entered the bidding at twenty-five thousand for the “masterpiece,” only to be outbid, and as it finally fetched sixty-two thousand dollars.
“Jesus Christ! We are in the wrong business,” I muttered to Vicky, as the winner of the painting celebrated with a very public, passionate kiss with his elated partner.
About halfway through the long list of lots, suddenly a spotlight shone brightly onto the male model’s table, illuminating him for the entire ballroom’s appreciation. The auctioneer then announced they were auctioning off a kiss with Noah West, to be delivered during a dinner date with him in a fashionable restaurant.
The auctioneer invited Noah onstage, before sharing his story of being born to a single mum in a poor area of Los Angeles and working his way to the top of the fashion world. “Today, he’s one of the top philanthropists in the US—as well as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors,” he said, Noah’s story capturing the attention of every woman in the room. I had never seen such a beautiful man in the flesh—he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Burberry campaign. The auction for this lot began apace—the price feverishly escalating from ten thousand to fifteen thousand to twenty thousand dollars within moments. The top collector’s girlfriend at our table enthusiastically raised her hand a couple of times, bidding against a platinum-blond woman with gigantic sparkling earrings sitting a couple of tables away. As the auction reached a crescendo at a staggering thirty-eight thousand, all for just one dinner date and a peck on the cheek from this man—who I supposed was as dull as ditch water to
actually hold a conversation with—the person sitting right next to me flung themselves into the air. It was Vicky, her arm raised skyward, heart pounding, making no mistake that she was placing a bid—for forty thousand dollars!
“Wow, thank you, ma’am!” shouted the auctioneer, who had descended from the stage and was approaching our table rapidly. “I now have forty thousand dollars on the table from this beautiful lady in red, for a dinner date with Noah. And what a lucky lady you are, unless you are to be outbid!” He turned back to survey the tables spread before him, diamond accessories twinkling from each one. It felt as though all the eyes in the room were trained on Vicky and me. A spotlight shone directly onto us, warming my cheeks. Vicky was smiling wildly, her eyes locked on Noah, and he was staring seductively right back at her.
“Do I have an advance on forty thousand dollars?” the auctioneer asked again. “For this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be wined and dined by the world’s most handsome man?” Heads began swiveling like lollies on sticks, as we all searched the room for signs of another hand in the air. Come on, someone bid, please. Anyone? “And not only is he the most good-looking single man the globe has to offer, he is also one of the most generous!” the host continued. “Who knows where this could lead! I’m thinking marriage, babies, pets!” He laughed, throwing his arms up, making a heart-shape with his hands, as Noah jokingly blew him a kiss from the stage.
Still no counter-bids from the room.
I looked at Vicky, panic in my eyes.
“Forty grand, babe, forty grand! What the hell are you doing?” I gently tugged on her dress, willing for her to sit down and stop.
Through gritted teeth, she turned slightly, and replied, “Amber, I know what I’m doing. Trey’s paying. He bloody deserves to.”
Vicky wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and, as the spotlight shone brightly on her, she basked in the attention smiling a megawatt smile—admittedly, she did look really hot this evening—as her audience wondered who on earth this lady was, to fritter away enough money for a down payment on a small apartment, on just one night with a model.
