The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe

by Kingsley, Allie

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Preface

  chapter one: Don’t You Know Who (I Think) I Am?

  chapter two: What’s Your Dream?

  chapter three: The G-Spot

  chapter four: One Foot in the Dior

  chapter five: Something Old, Something BMW

  chapter six: Is There a Cloud Ten?

  chapter seven: Swimming with . . . Shark?

  chapter eight: The Extra with Extras

  chapter nine: Vogue, BC

  chapter ten: When at Home

  chapter eleven: The Greatest Show on Earth

  chapter twelve: Isabella Blackstone

  chapter thirteen: What Happens in Vainness

  chapter fourteen: Right Away, Miss Blackstone

  chapter fifteen: Souvenirs

  chapter sixteen: Killer (sons of) Bees

  chapter seventeen: Oh My Gaultier!

  chapter eighteen: All in a Day’s Work

  chapter nineteen: Crash. Boom. Bang.

  chapter twenty: WWJD?

  chapter twenty-one: I See London, I See France

  chapter twenty-two: One of Us

  chapter twenty-three: Phoenix Rises

  chapter twenty-four: A New Method

  chapter twenty-five: Fish out of Sparkling Water

  chapter twenty-six: Thanks for Giving. Now Leave.

  chapter twenty-seven: Not All It’s Cracked Up to Be

  chapter twenty-eight: . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Zero.

  chapter twenty-nine: Fantasy Suite, Not So Sweet

  chapter thirty: New Year, Nothing New

  chapter thirty-one: One Year Later

  acknowledgments

  about the stylist

  BERKLEY BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is entirely a work of fiction. In those instances where celebrities are named, and make cameo appearances, the use of the celebrity’s real name should not be understood as suggesting that the occurrence described actually took place, much less that the celebrity was involved in any way. As for the rest of the characters and events in this novel, they are all fictional. Thus, although some of them are inspired by real-life personalities and events, that should not be understood as suggesting that any character is meant to accurately depict a real person (none are), or that any event actually happened as described (none did).

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2012 by Allie Kingsley.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  Cover photographer: Ashley Barrett.

  Hair stylist: Stephanie Hobgood.

  Makeup artist: Alexis Swain.

  Book design by Kristin del Rosario.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / September 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kingsley, Allie.

  The liar, the bitch and the wardrobe / Allie Kingsley.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-425-25539-1

  eBook ISBN 978-1-101-61127-2

  1. Women photographers—Fiction. 2. Fame—Fiction. 3. Celebrities—Fiction.

  4. Hollywood (California)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3611.I63256L53 2012

  813'.6—dc23

  2012017074

  “Don’t count on this book thing happening.

  Please get a real job.”

  —MY MOTHER (I LOVE YOU, TOO.)

  Preface

  A series of flashes exploded from multiple strobe lights, setting off a popping sound each time. I lifted a folded tripod, kicked out its legs, then knelt down to secure it in place. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to the two women standing over me.

  The shorter of the two wore a half apron packed with makeup brushes of every size. She had smudges of eyeliner and shadow on the back of her hands from testing colors out on herself. “Hey, Lucy . . . what do you think of this?”

  I stood up and did an about-face. I folded my arms and put one hand under my chin as I did whenever I was giving something my full attention. I tilted my head while carefully studying the model’s face. Her porcelain skin was painted to near perfection. “I think that she needs a darker, pinker lip.”

  The artist exhaled a sigh of relief and exclaimed, “Thanks Lucy! I thought so too!” The women strutted off into the flashing lights.

  “There’s my girl!” The photographer, world-famous Stefano Lepres, skipped over and handed me a medium-format camera. “Let’s set this up for the next shot, shall we?” I smiled at him as he patted me on the back before walking away to discuss lighting with two other photo assistants. I flipped the Hasselblad over and began tinkering with the aperture. The flashing lights continued to pop off toward a fog that flooded the ethereal-looking set. The makeup artist was putting finishing touches on the models who were practicing preening in the direction of the lights as we, the crew, prepped for the shot.

  Abruptly, the camera I was holding began beeping wildly. I turned the dial from auto to manual but the nagging sound persisted. People were staring, some glaring at me. What was happening? Why couldn’t I silence the annoying sounds interrupting the shoot? I frantically wrapped my cardigan around the camera, trying to muffle the incessant beep beep beeping, but it seemed to be getting louder by the second. I started to really panic, when—

  I stretched my arm out from under the cozy comforter. The cold air tingled across my skin as I blindly located the largest button on the little black box next to my twin-sized bed. I slammed my fist down on it and the beeping ceased. I peeked out from my tangled sheets to look at my alarm clock. It was 8:00 a.m. Time to start the first day of the rest of my life.

  chapter one

  Don’t You Know Who (I Think) I Am?

  I couldn’t tell if the wetness dripping down the sides of my face was sweat or rain drizzling from the gray sky. As I held the creased Los Angeles Times directly above my head so as not to drench my coveted portfolio or smear my mascara, I leaned my body in toward the forbidding steel door. My voice became frantic. “What do you mean, you have no idea who I am? Dan is expecting me.”

  “Who?” An exotic-looking Asian girl with smoky pink eye shadow backed up slightly, keeping the door open only a fraction.

  “Dan . . . DAN! I interv
iewed him for my ‘Working in the Arts’ article for the Art Institute of Seattle . . . because he works here . . . for Stefano Lepres.” At the mere mention of His name, the young woman closed the door even more. “My name is Lucy . . . Lucy Butler.” Desperation shook me to the core.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are and we’re in the middle of shooting. You’re going to have to leave, sorry.” SLAM. LOCK. LOCK. LOCK. An evil bolt of lightning flashed briefly across the sky, followed by a jolting pound of thunder that roared across the palm-tree-lined streets.

  I could actually feel the color leave my face. My heart barreled down into my stomach as I stood on the step of a Spanish-named street in an unfamiliar area. The rain continued to pour down on the City of Angels as if heaven were attempting to submerge it completely.

  I dragged my feet across the quiet, slick road in disbelief. This was not how I had imagined the first day of my internship. I paused mid-road and pivoted to take another look at the studio. It appeared to be a deserted and ordinary garage from the outside, but I knew what could only be described as magic was happening beyond the fortress façade—and I was supposed to be in there. Raindrops trickled down my ponytail and into the neck of my oxford shirt. I blinked away a blend of rain and tears while reciting the conversation that had brought me here.

  I was ecstatic to be speaking to an actual employee of Stefano Lepres! He had called me, in response to my numerous phone calls to the studio and e-mails to the generic address on Lepres’ website, pleading to interview anyone from the studio for a school assignment. It was one of the highlights of my life, so of course I vividly remember every word that he said. Plus, I took notes. There is no way that I misunderstood what he meant when he said, “You sound like a cool chick. We’re always hiring interns. Come to LA! I’ll get you in!” A cool chick I was not, but possibly he felt some kindred spirit with me, since he had probably once been in my shoes. Why not pay it forward? I certainly would. I recall beaming. “You’d help me get a job with Stefano? That would be amazing!” His friendliness and open-arms attitude was starkly contrasted with my encounter with the mean door girl and her stupid conjunctivitis-esque eye shadow.

  My posture fell into a defeated slump after I climbed into my Jeep and started the engine. As I sat there, gripping the steering wheel with my wet hands, I dared to glance back once again at the building. The one ounce of optimism left in me hoped that Dan had heard that I’d arrived and was mistakenly turned away. He would rush out the door in search of me, apologetically escort me in, and introduce me as the new intern for the greatest photographer in the world, the one and only Stefano Lepres. I stared at the building, willing Dan to appear, but the steel door remained shut.

  Navigating my ancient Jeep Wrangler through a sea of stalled luxury cars, I headed north on Sunset Boulevard. “It’s just rain, people!” I yelled through the zipped-up plastic windows. I hoped that I was going in the right direction. I had only driven up the famous strip a few times. Fortunately the iconic landmarks assisted me like breadcrumbs on a trail. Chateau Marmont. The Sunset Plaza. The Roxy. And . . . turn.

  Infiltrating the “cool crowd“ was not an unfamiliar challenge for me. Unfortunately, this was not the first time a mean girl shut a door in my face. Natalia B. was having the slumber party to end all slumber parties. The crème de la crème of the ninth grade was in attendance. I could only imagine what actually happened at a “cool girl” sleepover. Luckily I would soon know, since Julie K. passed me her Bedazzled invite during biology class and said, “You should come! Natalia’s mom told my mom everyone is invited!”

  From the porch I clutched my *NSYNC sleeping bag and glittered retainer case tightly. I motioned quickly behind my back, waving my parents off so they and their minivan didn’t embarrass me. The giant front door opened halfway, much like it did today, although this time, Katie G. answered the door and quipped, “No nerds allowed. Sorry, Lucy, but this party is by invite only.” The door shut and I could see her shadow walk away from the frosted glass entrance as another came forward. Julie K. slipped through the door and put her hands on my shoulders. “I am so sorry, Lucy! I guess that I was wrong about everyone being invited.” It was hard to be mad at Julie even then because she was so beautiful and angelic looking, with her almost white hair and luminous blue eyes. Julie was the only nice popular girl in school. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk down the driveway before any of the girls, now piled up along the living room window to watch the scene unfold, could see me cry. “Wait!” Julie bellowed as she skipped down the driveway. “I’ll walk you home!” Perhaps it was this twinkle in my childhood that gave me a glimmer of hope that Dan would appear and turn things around.

  * * *

  The Los Batres apartment complex was a tiny Spanish-style building with a minute kidney-bean-shaped pool located just off Melrose Avenue. I dropped my soaked trench coat, shoes and bag in the tiny den of my apartment. “Julie? Sebastian?” I called out toward the two bedrooms. There was no response. I had figured when I moved into the converted two-bedroom apartment with two other roommates that any alone time would be few and far between, so I decided to take advantage of this current solitude.

  I entered the bedroom that I now shared with my best friend since ninth grade, Julie Kaplan. You see, when Julie walked me home after being rejected from the house of awesome, my life was forever changed. I offered to show her the photographs I had been editing for our class yearbook. It was then that I became aware of the power of photography. Naturally, she wanted to take the pictures of her friends back to the party, but as an official yearbook photographer, I could never let them out of my sight. So with one phone call, I was re-invited back to Natalia B’s. “Bring your camera!” they urged. Thereafter, I wasn’t just invited to the cool kids’ parties; they insisted I attend. Photography was my “in.” I became an even hotter commodity once I learned how to use Photoshop. According to photographic evidence, there was not a single pimple or flyaway hair to pester the populars all through high school.

  What drew me to photography in the beginning was its honesty. The camera does not lie. Film records truth, delivering experiences exactly as they occur. It is the photographer’s job to capture the emotion in the best light by way of composition and timing. It is a very simple, honest concept. The more that I compromised this honest documentation, the easier it was to get caught up and lose sight of what it—and I—was all about. By staging shots and retouching the images to the girls’ liking, together we created a false reality, much like the pros do in fashion photography. Digital manipulation granted the girls fuller lips, bigger breasts and clearer skin, and I was the one who could deliver such luxuries with just a few clicks of a mouse. The camera may not lie, but we sure do.

  I constantly reminded myself that my presence was not to be confused with their acceptance. Although I received a VIP pass to popularity, I was still the outsider, a gawky girl who knew how to make everyone else look spectacular. The alternative was to remain a nobody, and being around those girls made me feel like a somebody. I wasn’t in any of the pictures, so it didn’t matter that I didn’t look like one of them. Why even try? It was the same way that I viewed my relationship with fashion. Upon inspection, one would never assume that I know fashion. And I don’t mean that in an I-know-better-than-to-wear-stripes-with-plaid kind of way, which you can actually do—but that’s another story. What I mean is, I know the difference between Proenza and Prada. I can spot a stiletto and tell you who made it and what season. Well, when I spot it in a magazine, that is. But just because I devour dailies and watch Fashion Week on YouTube, it doesn’t mean that it has a place in my real life. I often wonder who actually wears those clothes, and where are they going? True, of course those people exist—just not in my world. Besides, I would rather spend my money on a new Nikon. I was forever going to be a little chubby, a little frizzy and a lot less fashion forward than my peers—and I have always been cool with that. That’s who I am and it’s worked for me. Up until now.
>
  Julie and I had always enjoyed slumber parties, but sleeping in twin-sized beds at twenty-two seemed absurd. I collapsed backward onto my mini-mattress and pushed hard on my tired eyes. I refused to get upset so easily and promised to daydream of the happy, hopeful place I had been just one week ago . . .

  * * *

  It had been another rainy day much like today, however in Seattle where it is expected and accepted. I waited impatiently in my career counselor’s office for our final meeting. James Braves was young, only ten years my senior, and enthusiastic about helping “his” students. His perfect smile and winning personality caused quite a few girls at the Art Institute to scrutinize his hand for a wedding band and hope for a chance at a post-graduation date. I’ll admit that I too wondered about his relationship status, but mostly because I was curious to know who the luckiest-girl-ever would be. I imagined her to be a sun-kissed, willowy blonde with a toned body and blinding smile, just like James. Fantasizing about him being with me would be a waste of time because there was no way a girl like me stood a chance with a guy like him. But he was always nice to me. He often e-mailed me industry news and notified me of local photography assistance work. In fact, I suspected that he sometimes sent me job postings before placing them on the student bulletin board. Fortunately, since he was a huge supporter of my work, it gave me plenty of face-time where I’d pretend that we were at a Parisian bistro table for two and not a particleboard desk for too many. Okay, fine. Yes, I did fantasize about James Braves—but who didn’t? As I waited in his office, my eyes fell on a photo of James and his golden retriever on a river raft. My heart felt like it was thumping and flashing from inside me like a strobe light gone awry. He had the kind of long, curly brown hair that fell just where it should, and his natural smile showcased the kind of teeth that people paid top dollar for.

  “Good morning, future star shooter,” James said with that mesmerizing smile as he entered his office. He put his hand on the shoulder of my faded zip-up hoodie as he walked by. Could he hear my heart being catapulted across my chest? I sure did. “You must be pretty stoked about being this close to the end.” He sat down in his chair.