The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe

by Kingsley, Allie

  He beamed, “Girl, there isn’t any sense in crying over not becoming America’s Next Top Intern. You only just got here! Did Julia Roberts become a wifey one week after whoring herself out to that financial fox? HALE no!”

  “Um, actually, it was one week,” I corrected.

  “For the bargain rate of three thousand dollars . . .” Julie dramatically quoted between sips of the potent drink.

  “But nice try, Bas.” I giggled through my tears.

  Sebastian snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Well, there’s your problem, honey! You put the wrong bait on the fishing wire! You should have sent me to Mr. Lepres—I’d have hooked that fine man just like Miss Roberts did!” He turned to walk away, slapped his derriere with his left hand, raised his glass high above his head with his right and let out a “Cinda-fuckin-rella! Welcome to Hollywood! What’s your dream?”

  chapter three

  The G-Spot

  The GiGi Spot (G-Spot, to those in-the-know) was a Spanish-Italian-French fusion restaurant that had been the most happening place to see and be seen at for the past year—a lifetime in LA, where attention spans are short and diners fickle. Rather than the standard chairs and barstools, the interior was adorned with wine-colored velvet chaise lounges. Seven gigantic gaudy chandeliers hung from the mirrored ceiling. It was alluring and overdone—much like its owner, Gi Gi Ramone, heiress to the Ramone Records family, a socialite known mostly for her late-night antics and appetite for infamous men. All those men must have kept her appetite at bay since, according to staff, she hadn’t been seen in her own bistro for at least six months. I don’t know if it was her absence or just the typical life cycle of an LA restaurant, but the G-Spot’s glory was starting to fade. Although still busy, the crowds were beginning to thin and star sightings were less frequent. Still, I had to admit, I had read so much about the G-Spot in the tabloids that I was excited that Julie had an in where my favorite stars drank and dined.

  Julie had become an excellent server, relishing her conversations with the rich and sometimes famous, even if it was limited to, “Shall we cook that rare, medium or well-done?” After five weeks of delivering minuscule servings of nouvelle cuisine on unnecessarily large plates, Julie was quite pleased with her finances and didn’t even mind paying for both our parts of the rent and groceries, as long as I cooked, cleaned and did our laundry.

  It was around this time that Gi Gi Ramone got caught in a sex tape scandal with her boyfriend of the minute—a rock-musician—and, thanks to the media, the G-Spot underwent a renaissance. Once again it was hot and business was booming. Famous people were making the scene and hordes of paparazzi lingered outside, hoping to get the “money shot.” When the action outside was slow, Benny, the manager, provided the shutterbugs sandwiches and pasta to keep them close by. Yet when escorting a celebrity out of the club to a waiting car, Benny yelled at the paparazzi and called them “rats,” only to wink and nod at them on his way back in.

  Tonight had been an average night for the G-Spot, which was far above average for any other place in town. At eleven thirty in the evening the place was still buzzing with the A- and B-list.

  “You waiting for Julie?” a bartender with movie-star looks questioned me as he flipped a short glass behind his back, caught it and filled it up with water, adding a sliver of lemon before placing it on a napkin in front of me. I pretended to be impressed even though he did this every time I came by to pick up Julie from work.

  “Wow! Thank you! Yes, just waiting as usual.” I knew why he was flirting with me. It was for the same reason that any guy had flirted with me since I was fifteen: Julie. Guys would do nearly anything to get closer to her. I had more dates with wingmen than I care to admit. Or dare to count.

  “You want a cocktail?” he further inquired. I have never been much of a drinker. Even at parties in high school, I would sneak off to the bathroom, pour the beer out of a bottle and fill it with water. I had held the hair back for one too many of the populars puking their Pabst out at a house party. I swore that I would never be “that girl.” I politely declined the beverage and zipped among the crowd in hopes of finding Julie. I stopped and looked around, eyes darting from famous face to famous face, when I felt my feet start to slide and, horrified, realized that I was stepping on the train of Jennifer Lopez’s white silk Marchesa gown! Terrified, I leaped off the fabric. Like a cartoon, I imagined my eyes popping out from my head as they met the black imprint from my filthy footwear soiling the white train. I turned quickly and found myself eye to eye with an amused George Clooney. He raised his cocktail with one hand and put the pointer finger of his other hand to his lips, making a silent shhh motion. I gave him a nervous thumbs-up and immediately made my way to the front. That’s right: a thumbs-up. Why was I acting like such an idiot? How did Julie manage to keep her cool around famous people?

  “Julie! There you are! I have to get out of here. I’m an accident waiting to happen . . .”

  “Yeah, me too. My feet are killing me.” Julie rotated her left ankle. I also couldn’t comprehend how the girls at GiGi’s worked in their required sky-high heels. “Oh my God, I waited on Ryan Reynold’s table tonight, and I have to tell you what he said! . . .” Julie always had the craziest celebrity encounters, which she excitedly shared with me after every shift.

  We pushed open the tall double glass doors and took in a soft breeze. We were barely paying attention, as we almost walked right into two men.

  The first man entered the restaurant, brushing past us without making eye contact, but then the second man opened the door the rest of the way and waited for us to walk out. I looked up to thank him for being so kind, and at that moment everything seemed to go into slow motion. In that split second, that face, his face, only inches from my own, registered in my mind. I couldn’t breathe! As he headed inside and disappeared into the restaurant, I turned to an equally stunned Julie and we both mouthed in unison, “Stefano Lepres!” My knees went weak and I am still not sure if I was breathing at this point. I watched him make his way through the crowd and up the stairs to a table for two overlooking the scene.

  “Go on. Go back in there and talk to him! This is your big chance . . . Go!” commanded Julie.

  “I can’t. I physically can’t move. I can’t do it,” I told her as I started to shake.

  “If you can’t, then I will.” Julie pushed past me and headed back into the restaurant. She slid her purse behind the hostess stand and picked up a cocktail tray from behind the bar.

  I followed behind her, worried about what she might do. “Wait! Julie, stop! What are you doing?” I gasped.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Julie marched right up to table thirteen and took his drink order. I was dying inside, watching her lean over Stefano Lepres. I could see her mouth forming the words, “See that girl over there?” and pointing right at me, frozen like an idiot standing in the entryway. “She’s your biggest fan!” Stefano smiled politely. I remained rooted as Julie headed to the bar. Returning with drinks in hand, she simultaneously removed my purse from my tight grip and replaced it with a serving tray showcasing two dirty martinis, all while literally pushing me toward table thirteen, even as my head was shaking no. “Go!” she commanded.

  I knew damn well that if I didn’t drop the tray, it would only be by the grace of God. Somehow, with one foot following the other, I made my way through the sea of people and toward the man I had only dreamed about. All was going well. At least I hadn’t fainted. Now if only I could find my voice.

  “So, I hear you are my biggest fan.” Nodding, I placed the drinks on the table with shaky hands. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.” Pointing to the man seated next to him he said, “This is my boyfriend, Mathieu.”

  “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Lucy.”

  Now, I don’t exactly remember this, but I fear that I might have curtsied at this point.

  “Have a seat!” He pulled a vacant chair from the table behind him and swung it over beside him. I sat d
own and uncomfortably shifted positions several times. Where had my voice gone?

  “Are you an actress?”

  An actress? Me? Oh yeah, sure!

  “Actually, I am a photographer . . . I majored in fashion photography.”

  “That’s what I majored in!”

  He was talking to me. He was talking to me! I could have peed in my pants. I mean, I might have—but just a little.

  “Yeah, I know,” I responded, smiling down at the table, unable to make eye contact with Him.

  “Have you found any work in LA? Why aren’t you going to New York? That’s where the fashion is at.”

  “Well . . .” I swallowed, noticing that my throat was abnormally dry. Finally, I looked Lepres in the eyes. This was the encounter I had dreamed about. I’d even prepared a speech for when I would meet him. Of course, after years of practice, somehow the words now escaped me. Alas, I continued, “Because you’re here. I’ve been dreaming of working for you basically my whole life.”

  “Get out of here. Work for me?” Lepres started to laugh. Mathieu seemed bored with the entire conversation.

  “Actually, I’ve been to your studio. Your assistant, Dan, promised me an internship. When I got there, he was gone. I thought I . . .”

  “Dan? That guy was a drunk and an idiot. He was probably wasted when he said you could intern . . . He was always doing things like that.” Turning to Mathieu, “Glad he’s long gone. That’s so typical of Dan, don’t you think?” Mathieu shrugged his shoulders and looked away. Pointing to the martini glass, Stefano directed, “We’ll have another couple of these.” It appeared that polite chitchat with the fan was over, and I feared I was blowing my big opportunity.

  In a last-ditch effort to make him understand what he meant to me, I grabbed Lepres’ arm as my eyes welled up with tears. “Mr. Lepres, it is my lifelong dream to work for you . . . I swear, I will work so hard for you. You won’t regret it! Please give me a chance. I’ll do anything to prove myself. I have to work for you.”

  Stefano seemed humbled. “Sweetheart, relax. You really should be going to New York.” Picking up his boyfriend’s martini and washing it down with one gulp, he placed the empty glass on my tray. I felt my heart sink to the bottom of my chest as I released my clammy hands from his biceps. I began to tell myself that the fantasy would stop there and rationalized that it’s okay, at least I got to meet my idol. Not everyone can say that, right? He continued, “But . . . my studio is here in LA. And you start Monday.”

  chapter four

  One Foot in the Dior

  Sebastian and Julie had given me a complete makeover that morning. They flat-ironed my hair and expertly applied neutral makeup. I stepped out of my Jeep where I had parked time and time again. I adjusted the low waist of Julie’s Abercrombie jeans and pressed down on the sides of the flowing light pink Juicy Couture peasant top that I had previously only worn for special occasions. Julie and Sebastian had woken up early with me and put in their best efforts to ensure that I, their dorkiest friend, would fit in with the fashionistas at Lepres’ studio this time around. What would I have done without those two?

  I couldn’t help but be flabbergasted when the buzzer actually granted my entrance. I timidly entered the studio and was immediately blown away. The massive interior was ultra modern. Enormous prints were suspended from the walls and ceiling. In the center of the room was a large, industrial-looking steel table that could easily seat thirty. To the left was a kitchen that would make Wolfgang Puck proud. As I observed the incredible space, I couldn’t help but think, I’m inside . . . I’m actually here. I followed a quiet rumble of commotion to a small office set off to the side.

  A woman was lying facedown on the concrete floor, moaning, “Oooh God, whyyy?” Her teased and tousled black hair extensions obscured her face.

  “Um, hello? I’m here to work for Mr. Lepres?” The woman did not respond. Instead, a pretentious-looking man peeked out from behind a giant MAC screen.

  “Yeah, Lucy, is it? I’m Roman. This is Marc, Ebony and Rio.” A few hands waved in the air, although no one made eye contact with me. I wondered if those were their actual birth names. “The hot mess on the floor is Liz. We call her ‘Lushy Liz,’ and I guess you can see why.” It was Elizabeth from the American Photo article! At the time, I considered her a celebrity. She had, after all, been in a national magazine.

  “Fuck off, Roman.” The woman picked herself up, barely able to make it to her feet. She wrapped her arms around my shoulder and leaned on me. I studied her heavily painted face and tried not to stare at the false eyelash barely hanging on to her left eye. She smelled like she might have taken a bath in perfume. “Hi, darl, I’m Liz. I haven’t slept in four days and, well, if you’re going to work here, you’d better get used to it.” I wasn’t expecting her to have an Australian accent.

  I guessed, “It’s been pretty busy around here, then?” The others let out a chuckle.

  “No, babe. Get used to walking in on me ass up on the linoleum, still legless from the night before.” Everyone laughed and I tried to conceal my astonishment. This isn’t exactly how I imagined Stefano Lepres’ lead producer. She was a curvaceous woman, filling out every inch of the fabric in her Pucci-printed caftan. Liz managed to stand on her own and wobbled toward her desk in a pair of oddly matched Stuart Weitzman Highline boots. Once she had collapsed into her chair, she rested her head on her crossed arms and returned to a comatose state.

  Roman admonished Liz, “Oh that’s great. Scare away the tenth intern this week.” He pulled me out of the office by my elbow. “We have a lot to do today before the chic hits the fan.” Roman was like no other man I had ever seen. His hair was neatly and perfectly parted to the side. He was wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and an argyle-patterned Thom Browne suit. His loud three-button blazer, bow tie and coordinating trousers screamed for attention and respect both at once. His eyes were lined with a rich reddish-chocolate brown liner, and his nails were painted a similar shade. He caught me studying his hands and proudly held them out. “It’s called ‘Bitter Bitch’ and Tom Ford has a waiting list for it longer than Betty Ford, post Emmys.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, and it must have shown in my doe eyes because he just shook his head and continued, “This just happens to be the beginning of an insane week. In just nine days’ time we have eight photo shoots and a music video. But, when you’re hot, you’re hot! Liz and I produce all of Stefano’s shoots, so you report to us. Still, if anyone asks you to do anything, just do it. Stefano is crazy. He knows what he likes and he demands it immediately. Are you following me?” I tried to appear as if I was soaking in all of this knowledge as I eagerly nodded. “Okay now. I suppose the most important thing to know is that Stefano is always right. Got that? Even when you know he’s wrong. Say, for example, he says that hideous pink shirt you have on is green. You know it’s puke pink. In fact, it has the word ‘pink’ written across your . . .” He glanced down at my modest breasts and raised an eyebrow. “Chest. But if he says it’s green, it’s green. Got it? Stick with this simple rule and you should last a few weeks. But really . . . you got it?” I nodded again, while wondering if he was insulting me or actually trying to help. “I mean, that’s just a tip from me to you.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” Best to just nod and smile, I figured.

  “Okay. So, let’s see . . . Oh, a perfect job for you. Stay right here.” Roman buzzed in then out of the office, returning with a half sheet of paper. “Here’s the coffee order and some petty cash. Starbucks is two blocks left, two blocks right, and the Coffee Bean is across the street. I wrote down who gets what and from where.” And with that, he was gone.

  After picking up the insanely complicated order during the morning rush at each coffee shop, I balanced three carry-out cartons of beverages and two bags of scones and low-carb muffins as I eagerly made my way back. Outside the studio, there were three trucks being unloaded of all sorts of crates and equipment. Pop music was pumping out through
the walls of the compound. I got a sudden chill, realizing again that I was entering Stefano Lepres’ set, this time with granted access. The men who were unloading the trucks looked about my age, and most of them were very cute. I pushed my shoulders back and dared to grin at them as I passed. I was an employee of Stefano Lepres too, and I felt that it gave me an edge. I had just caught the eye of one of the gorgeous grip guys when my entire body flung forward as my foot caught itself under the leg of a tripod. If the mochas and chai teas beneath me had been red, it would have looked like a murder had just occurred. I pushed my torso up and peeled a banana nut muffin from my chest. It took a few seconds to register that this had, in fact, just happened. I could not look up to see the reaction of the crew, mostly because I knew that Rio’s whipped cream frappucino had given me a facial. Instead of looking up, I just took off running back down the street. Mortified.

  I stood last in line at Starbucks and pressed away tears with my dampened sleeve. I knew that everyone was gawking at me because I looked like a disaster, but that was not why I was crying. Why would this shit happen to me—today of all days? I tearfully waited in line but was able to not cause a complete scene—that is, until I reached the counter.

  The list. I had lost the fucking list! I emptied every pocket and begged every barista to recall any part of my order without success. My only hope was in the trash, literally. I dove both of my arms into the wastebasket near the counter where I had added “a touch of cream” and “a splash of skim milk” and half a raw sugar and a dash of cinnamon and so on, but all that I could find were wet napkins and pastry wrappers. I continued to the Coffee Bean with the same results.

  “Girl, you have one foot in the Dior—this is no time to fuck around,” Roman reprimanded me upon my failed empty-handed arrival.