‘I’m not going to put your daughter on the cover of Style Bride just because you did a home invasion on my office and brought me a drink,’ Jodie said, keeping her face straight and serious.
‘Well, of course not!’ Tamra said, apparently shocked that Jodie would even think such a thing. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Go ahead.’ Jodie gestured to the Egg chairs.
Tamra took her coat off, draped it over a side table and sank so elegantly into one of the chairs that Jodie, less naturally graceful, couldn’t help but envy her.
‘Did you ever do any modelling?’ she found herself asking.
‘No,’ Tamra said simply. ‘It was all about my daughter. I was a single mom, and I wouldn’t leave her behind to go try my luck with a modelling agency in a big city. I’d’ve loved to do pageants, though, believe it or not. They’re real fun if you’ve got the right temperament, and you can use your title as a great platform to take you where you want to go. I bet the editor of Style thinks pageants are totally old-fashioned – hell, you’ve probably got way worse words for ’em than that – but I’d really have enjoyed ’em.’
She winked conspiratorially at Jodie, picking up a glass and holding it out to her in invitation.
‘And I could totally deal with all the girls scheming behind my back and being bitchy to my face,’ she added. ‘I bet you get a lot of that in your job.’
‘Sometimes you’re your own worst enemy,’ Jodie heard herself saying, much to her surprise, as she stood up, came round her desk and sat down in the other Egg chair, swivelling it to face Tamra and taking the glass the latter was proffering. ‘At least, that’s been how it’s worked for me.’
Tamra nodded with sympathy as she picked up her own glass and chinked it with Jodie’s.
Ten more points! Sod it, twenty! Jodie thought as she sipped some of the cocktail. She just got me to tell her something personal, let down my guard – wow, she’s really good.
‘This is great,’ she admitted, setting down the glass.
‘Yay!’ Tamra flashed her stunning teeth. ‘I’m so glad you like it! Now, I can see you’re working, so I won’t take up more than a few minutes of your time.’
‘You’ve got as long as it takes me to drink this,’ Jodie said, returning the smile for the first time. ‘And I really like it, so I may drink it pretty fast.’
Tamra’s smile was appreciative now.
‘So let me get right to it,’ she said. ‘What you saw of Brianna Jade at the shoot wasn’t really who she is. Brianna Jade’s done a shitload of pageants. She can get up on stage and smile for the cameras and pose her ass off at the flick of a switch. I’m not going to tell you what went wrong with her that day, because it would sound like I’m making excuses for my daughter. But she can bring it – she’s incredibly photogenic – and there’s no way she’s not going to do it on her wedding day.’
Jodie sipped some more of her cocktail, not saying a word: it was a technique she’d learnt from Victoria, the silence that intimidated her interlocutor but also instructed them to keep talking. She was unsurprised to see that Tamra was not ruffled in the slightest by this treatment. Instead, she continued, crossing her legs and sitting back, the picture of relaxation and elegance:
‘Maybe Milly and Tarquin’s wedding would be right if you were picking a cover for Mini Style Bride. In fact, it totally would. I can see that: she’s got that flower-power boho vibe that the tweens and teens are really keen on right now. But she doesn’t look grown-up enough to be on the cover of Style Bride, does she? I know you’re pursuing a policy of avoiding really young models, which as a forty-year-old woman, by the way, is fantastic, and thank you for that! But little Milly, with her Shirley Temple curls and her Little Lord Fauntleroy fiancé – oh God, I can’t even! I mean, that’s before you start picturing what my sources tell me’s going to be some wild-flower-and-vintage-china hippy-dippy puke-fest in Tuscany . . .’
Jodie, drinking some more of her cocktail, had to use all of the self-control she had learnt working as Victoria Glossop’s assistant not to spray her Pimm’s and champagne martini out through her nose at this.
‘I mean, how can that even compare with a wedding in the Stanclere Hall chapel, attended by Princess Sophie?’ Tamra concluded triumphantly, reaching into her handbag and pulling out her iPad from its Italian leather croc-embossed sleeve, drum dyed in a pale gold. Jodie’s eyes went straight to the sleeve: she hadn’t seen quite that pebble-effect leather before, and it was highly covetable.
‘Here’s the sketch for Brianna Jade’s dress,’ Tamra said, clicking on the screen and laying the iPad in front of Jodie on the white table. ‘Designed for her by Sartoria Massimo in Milan. We have the first fitting next week. Lace georgette and silk gazar, in perfect clear white. Brianna Jade’s colouring can take that, unlike most. It’s really going to pop in photos.’
Jodie gazed down at the exquisite sketch on the screen. The bodice and cap sleeves were in heavy lace georgette, the base of the bodice scooped into an elegant curve that would follow the line of the breasts: below that, silk gazar flowed down, snug to the line of the perfect figure outlined in the drawing, which, for once, was not a flattering elongation, but an exact reproduction of the shape of the bride. Below the hips was a wide band of lace georgette, under which more silk gazar, with a lace underlay, flowed out into a flounce which was gentle in the front but spread out into a train at the back; it would actually be a double train, the silk layered over the lace, a striking effect which was only earned by the simplicity of the dress and the fact that both materials were used so effectively.
‘The silk will be sewn invisibly to the lace of the train, so one flows out over the other,’ Tamra said, watching Jodie’s face with great satisfaction. ‘And it’ll be weighted, of course. This is couture, all handsewn by Massimo’s seamstresses in his Milan workshop. Exquisite, isn’t it? Of course, only someone with Brianna Jade’s figure could carry this off. The lace inserts would cut up a shorter girl.’
She didn’t need to say that Milly could never wear this dress, would be drowned in it. Jodie reached out and scrolled across, seeing another sketch; it was Tamra’s mother-of-the-bride dress, also designed for her by Massimo: a stunning silk satin wrap dress, sleeveless, with a huge handmade silk flower on one shoulder, the wrap opening over an embroidered lace underskirt. It subtly echoed Brianna Jade’s dress, while clearly acknowledging the two women’s different roles at the ceremony, as well as their respective ages. But in the wedding photographs there would clearly be a beautiful coherence of the entire aesthetic.
‘In deep rose-pink,’ Tamra said. ‘I don’t do pastels.’
Perfect, Jodie thought. Wedding-suitable but fantastic with her colouring. Wow, everything I’m looking at is just . . . perfect.
‘Bridesmaids?’ she asked, not looking up.
‘Two flower girls. Edmund’s nieces,’ Tamra said efficiently. ‘Throwing white and deep pink roses. Keep going. Oh.’ She placed a USB stick on the table. ‘Copies of the sketches for you. Just in case you want to take a look at them later.’
Jodie’s eyebrows couldn’t help but rise as she gazed at the next sketch: Massimo had pulled off the very demanding challenge of designing a scaled-down version of Brianna Jade’s dress that managed to be suitable for an eight- and a ten-year-old and avoided even the faintest hint of cutesiness. No sashes, no frills, but a pretty little cluster of deep pink silk flowers at their waists which echoed Tamra’s huge shoulder appliqué. It was a triumph.
‘I’m not familiar with his work,’ she admitted, handing the iPad back to Tamra. ‘But I will be now.’
‘His stuff doesn’t date,’ Tamra said. ‘And you always look a million dollars in it. But it’s all word of mouth recommendations. He doesn’t advertise. He doesn’t need to.’
Jodie nodded, understanding Tamra’s point: a fashion editor was driven very much by brand considerations when making choices for editorials. You had to use your advertisers, first and foremost, and thos
e were the designers who drove fashion trends, because they functioned by constantly driving change, telling women shoppers that they needed to continually update their wardrobe in order to look modern. Yet the bulk of their income came from diffusion sunglasses and handbag lines that were much less fashion-forward than their catwalk collections. Massimo’s style was the opposite: he and many smaller designers flourished by making beautiful couture outfits for clients who wanted primarily to wear clothes which flattered them and expressed contemporary style without being dominated by it.
‘I’m on the last sips of my drink,’ she observed, picking up her glass.
‘So you are!’
Tamra rose to her feet, coming up onto the high spiked heels of her boots with such effortless grace that Jodie had to agree that Tamra would have been a raving success in the pageant world. Picking up her coat, she shrugged it on, wrapping the fabric belt around to hang smoothly down over the knot like a runway model showing off an outfit, a gesture of such panache that Jodie almost wanted to applaud.
‘Someone from Claridge’s will come by for the tray tomorrow,’ Tamra said. ‘Thanks so much for agreeing to see me – I can only imagine how busy you are!’
She extended a hand to Jodie, who was also on her feet now, and the two women shook hands, exchanging a glance of mutual acknowledgement for the very astute businesswomen they both were.
‘It’s been a real pleasure,’ Tamra said, turning and whisking herself from the office before Jodie could even agree with her. ‘I’ll leave the door as it was when I came in, shall I?’
Thirty points! Jodie thought, staring at Tamra’s blonde ponytail, lightly curled at the ends, bouncing over the fur collar of her coat as Tamra said goodbye to Catalina and was buzzed out through the main double glass doors to the lobby with its bank of lifts. My God, she went before I was ready for her to go – she left me wanting a little more. No one’s ever pulled that off before!
Jodie leaned over and refilled her Martini glass from the shaker; there was enough for another, and honestly, it was too good to resist. Carrying it and the USB stick back to her desk, setting it down beside the proofs, she realized that she was shaking her head slowly in appreciation of Tamra’s mistressful technique.
No wonder she’s the Fracking Queen! she thought. That woman could sell Crocs to Louboutin.
And instead of returning to her proofs, she found herself clicking on her computer, pulling up the gorgeous, smiling, and, as Tamra had observed, hugely photogenic images of Brianna Jade which Veronica, Tamra’s publicist, had sent Jodie months ago on first pitching for the Style Bride cover, and she sat staring at them very thoughtfully indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tuscany, late May
‘Eva! Shit fuck fuckety fuck! Help!’
Eva was sitting in the elaborately carved wooden swing in the grounds of the Madonna della Neve church, watching the workmen installing the shiny wooden dance floor and bandstand: they were being very careful not to step back too far and fall over the edge of the stone retaining wall that kept the church lawn from tumbling down onto the dirt road below. She looked round to see Milly running towards her from the side of the oratory. Milly, who was carrying an iPad, was clad in a high-necked, slightly see-through blouse and shorts cut so high on her slim legs that a workman looked round and muttered ‘Madonna!’ so devoutly that one might have thought he was contemplating the Virgin Mary in the frescos painted in the portico, rather than the young woman rapidly approaching.
Flinging herself onto the seat of the swing with her usual dramatic flair, Milly kicked off her Bisue ballerina flats and curled up girlishly in the other corner of the seat, dropping the iPad to bury her face in her hands and letting out such a wail that the other workmen, who had failed to notice her arrival, were now alerted to her presence on the swing: the moan cut through the loud clicking noises they were making as they locked together the panels of the parquet floor. They all tilted their heads to the same angle, focusing on the crotch of her tight shorts. Eva didn’t even bother alerting Milly to this. Years of being best friends with her had made her fully aware of Milly’s extreme need for attention.
If anything, it’s worse now she’s wrapped that film, Eva thought gloomily. The month-long shoot of And When We Fall, which sounded as if Milly had spent most of it stark naked with her face buried between another actor’s legs, had, if anything, intensified Milly’s exhibitionism. Presumably, the fierce competition to stand out among Maitland Parks’s carefully selected troupe of hot, up-and-coming young actors had meant that Milly had learnt to further exaggerate all her little flirtatious tricks.
Certainly, Eva was finding her almost completely unbearable nowadays. Eva had made a decision: they would get through this wedding, making it so wonderful and magical that Style would crown Milly its Bride of the Year. And then Eva would not only use the consequent publicity to build sales for Milly and Me, but start a line of her own that didn’t have Milly’s name on it. She just couldn’t take being tied so closely to her any more.
Milly peeked through her fingers to check if everyone was looking, saw they were, and, with another wail of despair, let her hands drop to her lap, thus calling even more attention to the tight crotch of her denim shorts and the fact that the hems rode up almost to her pubic bone when she sat down. If she had not been so slim, the sight would have been positively obscene; the fact that she had barely any bum cheeks to flash was the only saving grace. She looked at Eva expectantly, her big round eyes wide, but Eva was so exhausted by Milly’s antics that she didn’t have the energy to ask what was wrong.
Eventually, rather petulantly, Milly whined: ‘Oh Eva, it’s so awful! Tark’s just dropped a bombshell on me! He’s saying we’re going to write our own vows. You have to help me! I’m so rubbish at the kind of thing! It’s all right for Tark, he writes his own lyrics, even though no one can understand what they mean, but I’m an actress. Other people write words for me!’
No way, Eva thought instantly. I’m absolutely, positively, not helping her. She’s going to have to do this all on her own.
Her thick, straight dark brows formed a single line under her heavy fringe as she said: ‘But Milly, you were always going to write your own vows. That was planned as part of the ceremony: the mayor does the official bit, Father Liam comes in to do the blessing, you say your own vows and then the mayor pronounces you husband and wife. Ludo said that ages ago.’
‘I’ve been sooo busy,’ Milly moaned, pressing her hands prettily against her cheeks. ‘Just, like, rushed off my feet with all the filming—’
At the start of the year, Eva noted to herself.
‘—and then learning my lines for Nina sooo unexpectedly—’
Which you don’t even start rehearsals for until the end of June.
‘—such a hurry, though lucky me about Melody getting pregnant!’
Milly brightened up, temporarily forgetting about the woes of having to write her own vows to the man she was promising to love and cherish till death did them part. Melody Dale, the young British actress, had discovered she was expecting a baby, due in November, which put the kibosh on her plan to play Nina in The Seagull on the London stage for a two-month run starting in August. Despite the fact that Nina’s role revolved around her getting pregnant by a famous actor, the entire pregnancy subplot took place in a time lapse between acts, and, as the ingénue, Nina could not possibly be visibly pregnant onstage.
Melody was so happy about the pregnancy that she had barely batted an eye at having to surrender a prized role in one of Chekhov’s most famous dramas, and her loss had been Milly’s gain. She couldn’t help glowing with excitement every time she mentioned it.
‘Lucky Melody,’ Eva said wistfully. ‘She’s got it all – great career, lovely husband, and now a baby on the way.’
‘What?’ Milly stared at her blankly. ‘I’m the lucky one – I get to play Nina. She has some great monologues. Anyway, the vows! Look, Eva, what would you say if you were me?�
��
The transition was so fast that Eva, taken by surprise, blurted out a stream of consciousness before she could remember that she’d sworn two minutes ago not to help Milly with her vows in any way. Of course, the words were so close to her heart that it would have been hard not to say them; on the eve of watching the man she loved get married to a woman she was sure wasn’t worthy of him, Eva had been unable to stop imagining herself in the place of the bride, and what spilled out was exactly what she would have said if she were marrying Tarquin.
‘The Leonardo da Vinci connection,’ she said instantly. ‘I’d talk about this place being the ancient family seat of Mona Lisa’s family, the Gherardinis, and how her portrait’s become one of the most famous in the world, and how Leonardo painted her and the church – well, sketched the church – and a miracle happened here, snow in August, and how you and Tarquin having found each other is a miracle, because it’s so hard to find love, lasting love, and when you do, it must feel like your own special, personal miracle . . .’
Milly had grabbed the iPad and was making fast notes, but Eva didn’t realize. She was staring ahead of her, at the landscape, the stream tumbling down the side of the hill, still full from the winter and spring rains, the same stream depicted by Leonardo da Vinci in the exquisite, sepia ink drawing in the Uffizi, Florence’s main art museum. A curator had shown it to her and Tarquin last year, when they had visited on the special tour arranged by Marco Baldini. Milly, naturally, had been much too busy to join them.
But Eva and Tarquin had exchanged a long look full of awe and anticipation as the curator slid open one of the narrow drawers in the print cabinet, eased her fingers under the acid-free paper that enclosed the drawing, and very gently extracted the landscape, bringing it to a lightbox table so that the visitors could examine it in detail.
Eva and Tarquin both had photographs on their tablets, taken of the church and its setting so that they could compare the view then and now, and they were both amazed at how unchanged it was: Marco telling them it was still the same, and the visual proof, were two very different things. Time and again, switching back and forth between the inked landscape drawing and the photographs – which Tarquin had suggested viewing in black and white to make the parallels clearer – their eyes had met, sparkling with the same excitement. Their words babbled over each other’s, expressing their wonder at the sense that the day before, at the Madonna della Neve d’Agosto, they had been standing in a place that was almost out of time, the past and the present overlapping each other, the only missing element the castles that had been razed to the ground.
Bad Brides Page 38