Ice Creams at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Of course, he’s in the car.’ Eddie motions towards the window where a sleek black town car is waiting. ‘Fancy coming to a pool party?’

  ‘What, now?’ I ask, glancing down at my top and comfy skinny-jeans-for-travelling combo.

  ‘Yes, now. Get that burger down you,’ he pushes the plate closer to me, ‘and let’s go. It’s Saturday night in the best city in the world, so I for one am not wasting a precious second of it.’ He rubs his hands together with glee.

  ‘Oh Ed, I’d love to, but I’m hardly dressed for a party, and I’m actually exhausted. Plus, won’t I need a bikini?’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘Whaaaat? Are you kidding me? Come on, you can sleep when you’re dead! The party is at Soho House, sweet pea. You know – pool on the rooftop, dancing, cocktails, and famous people. Cool, exclusive, very exclusive.’ He sweeps a palm through the air to accentuate the exclusivity of the venue. ‘And a VIP members’ guest list with my name, plus two, on. You’re sooo going to love it. And you can grab a bikini and sling on a party dress en route, we’ll swing by your place on the way.’

  14

  I want to die. Or at least swim in a massive vat of water, I’m that dehydrated and hungover – and jetlagged! I roll over in my giant four-poster bed, and scream as something pincers my foot – I kick it away, hard, then immediately clutch my head and force myself into an upright position.

  ‘Must you yelp quite so raucously?’ Eddie says. It’s all coming back to me now – the glorious hot summer evening breeze, the rooftop bar, the pool – oh, God, the jasmine-scented heated pool! I’m sure I jumped in fully clothed, or maybe not – I honestly can’t remember for sure.

  After a brilliant night, laughing and chatting with loads of media types who all seemed to know Eddie, and involving far too many Soho Mules followed by an even more obscene amount of tequila shots, I managed to crawl back to my Manhattan mansion with Eddie in tow. From what I can remember, Ciaran had had enough partying at about three this morning and took the car back to the Plaza, but for some insane reason, Eddie and I kept on going. I’m sure we watched a film too, inside a proper little cinema with gold velour armchairs and bottles of Grey Goose L’Orange and cocktails with names like Bramble and Canadian Rockies – a far cry from the Wetherspoon’s back in Mulberry-On-Sea with its Monster Ripper pint specials.

  But now I’m paying for it. Oh yes, I’m paying. I want the bed to open up and envelop me in its soothing softness and never let me go – I’m that fragile.

  ‘Sshhhhhhuuuush,’ I just about manage, reaching for a bottle of water. ‘It’s your own fault, plying me with all those drinks. And what’s the bloody time?’ I huff grumpily, while scrabbling around on the floor for something to wear. I’m sure I took off my dress before I collapsed into bed, about an hour or so ago, or so it seems. And then I realise that I’m still wearing it, with a slightly damp bikini underneath and my leopard-print Loubs too. Oh God. I think I might actually still be drunk. I can’t even see properly, and what is that black spikey thing dancing on my left eyeball?

  ‘Lash alert, darling,’ Eddie says, as if reading my mind. He sits up and pulls a section of the duvet up under his chin. ‘What a night!’

  ‘Never again, Ed, you’re insane.’ And they’re expecting me today – a welcome meeting at the design studio. Gaspard’s PA said they want to get to work right away, and Gaspard is keen to show me what they’ve been working on so far and get my input. Oh God. I feel sick. And make a dash for it down the hall. But where’s the bloody bathroom? I fling open a door only to find I’m in the kitchen – it will have to do – and I end up hurling into the sink. Jesus.

  Two hours later, I have established that the bathroom is in fact through a door in the bedroom – an en-suite, of course it is! And I’ve managed to have a cold, rejuvenating shower and several cups of strong coffee, and now my driver has just pulled up outside Gaspard’s studio on Franklin Street, in Tribeca.

  I take a deep breath and haul myself out of the cool, air-conditioned car, gasping as the humid midday heat hits me like a steam train gathering speed.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to the driver, steadying myself against the door before he has to almost prise my hand away to close it. Awkward.

  ‘You’re welcome, ma’am. Do you require any … further assistance?’ he asks, delicately, giving me a brief up-and-down glance while fingering the silver crucifix that’s on a chain around his neck.

  ‘Oh no, I’m fine.’ I wave an arm around. ‘In fact, take the day off,’ I add grandly, as a cover for my embarrassment at still being half-trollied on a Sunday lunchtime.

  ‘If you’re sure. Have a good day!’ And he wastes no time in jumping into the driver’s seat, swinging the door closed behind him and speeding off … to the nearest church, no doubt, to pray for my redemption.

  I stand for a few seconds, just to get my bearings, wondering where the damn entrance is. I can see the building spanning the whole block – five, or is it six floors? I can’t lift my head up long enough to count them without feeling dizzy again. I’m seriously contemplating giving up and trying to find my way back uptown, when another car glides to a halt at the kerb behind me. I turn around. A window slides down.

  ‘It is you! Georgie Hart. I wasn’t sure, in those huge shades. Have you just arrived?’ It’s Gaspard.

  ‘Yes, just now,’ I say, attempting to sound breezy and desperately trying not to wobble on my wedges.

  ‘Wonderful, I can’t wait to get started.’ I gulp, wishing my eyes would focus properly; thank God for the shades. When I last looked, they were a bloodshot mess. ‘I shall escort you in.’ Once on the pavement, he gives me his arm and leads me in like an old-fashioned gentleman.

  Inside, and I’m taken through to an enormous light-filled space with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a spectacular bird’s-eye view of the new One World Trade Center in the sky, it’s amazing. And to my right are two breathtakingly beautiful guys wearing nothing but tight white Calvin’s. I try not to gawp as a woman, who looks just like Betty Draper’s twinsie (she’s got the pearls-and-belted-puffball-dress look down to a T) motions for me to follow her.

  ‘Don’t mind them. They’re here for the shoot – the fall/winter fragrance campaign,’ she says, her kitten heels clipping across the solid wood floor. Ooh! I didn’t know the House of Mercier had its own perfume range too. ‘That’s right. It’s another new venture,’ she adds, as if she can actually see inside my head. Eeek! And the way she says it tells me that she’s not entirely on board with all the ‘new’ things – the Georgie Bag included – if the hostile vibe she’s emanating towards me is anything to go by!

  We reach a corner of the room that’s been sectioned off with a thick white cotton sheet, which she sweeps aside.

  ‘You can get undressed here.’ Whaaaat? What’s she going on about? ‘And don’t dilly-dally, the photographer is a real stickler for timekeeping.’ Hold on! Undress? What, me? A photographer? Did she really just say all that? Oh God. I knew it was too good to be true – an all-expenses-paid trip to New York, with a driver, and a mansion to boot. Damn Kelly and her wacky plans, she’s got me again, only this time I’m not showing myself up in front of a camera. Oh no. ‘The gowns are on the rail, pick one and we’ll take it from there.’ She gestures to a long clothes rail against the wall, laden with a multicoloured selection of designer dresses, each one hanging in its own plastic protector bag. ‘Understated, of course: the bags are the focus. Give me a shout when you have the first one on.’

  ‘But, err … I thought I was here to talk about design ideas,’ I squeak, wondering what she means by ‘bags’? When they haven’t even been designed yet.

  ‘Oh no!’ she pauses. ‘Well, yes, of course you are doing that too,’ she says blithely, planting a hand on her hip. ‘But you’re the “face” for the collection. The ordinary girl.’ She gives me a disparaging glance. Flaming cheek. ‘I thought you knew.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, well, you do now.’ And with
that she lets the sheet drop before clipping her way back across the floor. Fuuuuuuck. Instinctively, I pull out my phone and press to call Tom. I hate being in the spotlight, he’ll know what to do – maybe he can call Kelly and explain that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, and she can square it all with Gaspard before things go any further. Maybe she can find him another muse, or even a proper model, a ‘face’ that actually knows what she’s doing – because I sure as hell don’t. The nauseous feeling from earlier makes a rapid return. I inhale sharply. Tom’s number rings for ages, so eventually I give up and redial Eddie, instead.

  ‘I can’t move my face,’ he mumbles on answering, and I’m imagining he’s still in the same position he was when I left – semi-comatose on my bed, with the left side of his head wedged against the bucket I found in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

  ‘Ed, listen! Wake up and park that hangover for a minute. This is serious. I’m huddled behind a sheet in the corner of a warehouse and they want to take pictures.’

  ‘OMG. Shit. OK, get off the phone, I’m calling 911 right now,’ he says covertly.

  ‘Eddie! Stop it. It’s serious,’ I hiss in a stage-whisper voice.

  ‘Have they hurt you? Oh God. Do they want a ransom?’ He sounds wide-awake now. ‘Have they mentioned me? Do they know we’re friends? Crack-addled crazeees will snatch anyone these days, just to get their next spoonful. Well, I won’t pay! Sorry doll-face, but Carly warned me about this kind of thing … we must let the police deal with it.’

  ‘Eddie. Shut up. I haven’t been kidnapped, you fucking idiot. I’m at Gaspard’s studio.’

  ‘Oh darling, is that all? Why would you wake me up just to tell me that?’

  ‘Because, well, because they want me to be the “face” of the collection. I had no idea. I was supposed to be helping out with some design ideas, or so I thought – you know, giving them the “everywoman” perspective. I’m not a flaming model. I’m going to make an utter fool of myself.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late to back out now!’ And the line goes dead. Grrrreat. Thanks Eddie. Love you long long time too.

  I toss my phone in my bag, pull off my shades, squeeze my fists and do a silent scream, instantly regretting it when the pressure inside my head intensifies to near explosive levels. I rest my forehead against the cold concrete wall instead. Right. Get a grip! It’s just a few photos, nothing to it; just say cheese, and all that, nobody will actually see them … I hope. They’ll be so awful that the Betty Draper wannabe will bury them at the bottom of a bin. I say the words over and over before caving in and pulling my clothes off, figuring the sooner I get on with it, the sooner I can make polite excuses and leave to go back to bed. Because bed is all I want. I wish I’d stayed at home now in Mulberry-On-Sea – I don’t want to be a model. Or a ‘face’. I thought it was all about the handbags.

  *

  Scrap that! I’m having the time of my life. Soon after Eddie hung up on me, Millie, the hair and makeup artist turned up. We had met before – she worked on Kelly Cooper Come Instore and is now based here, working freelance (Kelly owed her, so to get her started she sorted out this gig and a few others at glossy magazines with plush offices on Fifth Avenue). Anyway, she’s transformed me, so now I’m glowing from head-to-toe, even my eyes are sparkling – she tilted my head back and squeezed in some magic drops. She has plucked, tweezed and teased me to perfection, well, almost. The headache is still there, and if you look closely you’ll see the shadows under my eyes, but hey … Nothing a bit of airbrushing can’t fix.

  ‘Ready?’ Millie says brightly, smiling over my head in the wall mirror.

  ‘Think so. I can’t believe that vision is me,’ I laugh, fluttering my extra-thick navy lash extensions, which complement my turquoise eyes perfectly, and my hair has gone from being a frizzball – no time for serum earlier – to a sleek, glossy, swingy bob.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Millie laughs, selecting a midnight-blue floor-grazing gown from the rail. ‘Try this; it will look sensational with those lashes.’ I take the dress, letting my fingers brush over the tiny Swarovski jewels as I carefully step into it. Millie zips me up. And someone shouts out.

  ‘Let’s go, people. We’re on a schedule.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Millie holds up crossed fingers and gently nudges me forward.

  I step out from behind the sheet and wow! The floor has been transformed into a magical forest scene, the windows have been covered with wooden shutters, and a woodland backdrop canvas hangs the length of the wall at the far end of the room. There’s even a floor-to-ceiling tree made from the pages of books and a chaise longue waiting for me to lie on. A production assistant shows me how to drape across the chaise and arranges the dress accordingly, so it puddles around my body, creating a flattering silhouette. She hands me a small Kelly bag with a garish gold buckle on the front – not my kind of thing at all – and positions it on my hip and places my hands around it like a frame. The cameraman starts snapping, over and over and over, until I’m convinced my middle-distance, ‘draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls’ faraway gaze has frozen onto my face.

  ‘Stop! Stop at once!’ Gaspard appears, powering down the room with an outraged look on his face. ‘This is all wrong.’ A hushed silence circuits the floor. ‘Too contrived. I want normal, girl-about-town, not this glitzy, glamorous overproduced crap. This isn’t the Louis Vuitton Christmas advert! And what is this monstrosity?’ He gasps and clutches his chest as if he’s been shot through the heart with a poison dart. A few seconds later, he recovers sufficiently to point at the bag still positioned in my hand-frame, before recoiling to flip open his cigarette case and select a restorative cigarillo.

  ‘Get it out of my sight.’ A minion darts forward and swipes the bag from my clutch before tossing it into a giant bin. ‘Georgie, get changed.’ And Gaspard extends his free hand towards me, which I gratefully accept, before unravelling myself from the chaise and standing up. ‘We’re going on location. And bring the cruise collection!’ he instructs to nobody in particular. They all leap into action, dashing around gathering up equipment as Gaspard leads me back to the cotton-sheeted changing section.

  Two hours later and I’m sauntering in Central Park, wearing an exquisite pair of cherry-red satin pedal pushers and a striped navy crop top with kimono sleeves – both from the House of Mercier cruise collection. I’ve got sparkly silver pumps on my feet and my hair has been shooshed up to create a breezy girl-about-town look, instead of the sleek, over-styled look I had going on earlier. Milly was a bit upset as the Betty Draper twinsie had specifically instructed her to ‘Vogue me up’, whatever that means, which as it turns out wasn’t what Gaspard had in mind at all.

  Anyway, Gaspard has explained that to start with he wants to see me in action, doing ordinary, everyday things but with wonderment and intrigue – apparently, it’s how he must work to unleash his creative genius. And so I must saunter, while he mooches along in the distance behind me with just one cameraman snapping away. So far, I’ve admired the giant mosaic at the entrance, casually glanced at the lush green trees, run a finger over the arm of the bronze Alice in Wonderland statue, gasped at the glistening water, even smiled whimsically at the people – Lycra-clad women mainly, clutching hand weights as they exercise by running up and down concrete steps. How do they do it? And in this heat! It’s so humid and clammy. I’m exhausted just watching them. And, to be honest, I feel like a bit of a plum, pretending to be enchanted. Don’t get me wrong, Central Park is breathtaking, a beautiful green wide-open space in the centre of a bustling metropolis, but it’s not the same wandering around on my own.

  I find a bench overlooking the lake and sit down. The headache from earlier has eased now – the lunchtime pizza and giant pretzel washed down with an all-sugar Coke certainty helped, courtesy of Millie. The others all had carryout from a nearby Whole Foods, but I couldn’t face any of the dubious-looking items from the raw food bar. And the chia seed salad with blackened chicken, dried cranberries
, edamame, jalapeño, cayenne shrimp and avocado just seemed too healthy for my current state. It’s all so different here – a far cry from Mulberry, where carbs and sugar are the standard cure for a monster hangover. I wish Sam was with me and could see the sights too; it would be so much better if she were here. I know she’s never been to New York, surprisingly, as she travelled all over the world when Alfie was still alive, and we used to talk about doing an NYC shopping trip. This was before she had the twins, of course, when we’d spend winter weekends cosied up together on the sofa drinking hot chocolate while watching Sex and the City repeats – Sam was always Samantha, of course, and I was a hybrid of Carrie and Charlotte, according to Sam. As if on autopilot, I pull out my phone to call her, briefly checking the world clock app – it’s 7 p.m. at home, that’s OK. She answers on the second ring.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hey you! How are you? Did you get my messages?’ A short silence follows.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Um, it’s me!’ I say, feeling weird.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Georgie.’ Maybe it isn’t Sam speaking. I don’t think I’ve ever had to say my actual name to her on the phone before – we’ve always just known whenever one of us was calling the other …

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know it was you. The number came up as “unavailable” on my phone.’

  ‘Ah, maybe it’s an international thing,’ I suggest, wanting to disperse the awkwardness between us as quickly as possible. ‘So, how are you? God, I wish you were here, Sam. You’ll never guess where I am? Central Park. And it’s just like it is on the telly …’

  ‘Lovely. Are you having a good time?’ she asks, but her voice is stilted.

  ‘I am, yes. Thanks. Be better if you were here though. How are things?’ I ask tentatively. She sounds distant. A million miles away, which I suppose she is, but it’s more than that. There’s something else … and I can’t put my finger on it.