The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe

by Kingsley, Allie

  I lowered my head and walked out of sight, feeling like a chastised puppy who had messed on the living room carpet. Everyone on set stared. I could feel their eyes follow me. What I couldn’t feel was sympathy since they’d all been brainwashed to believe that He was always right. I made my way into the kitchen. The chef handed me a towel, asking, “Sweetener?” I nodded my head.

  Liz pulled me into the hallway. “You okay, darl? Keep your chin up. In a few minutes, he’ll forget what happened. You’re doing a great job!”

  “It sure doesn’t feel that way,” I pouted while wringing out my pant leg.

  Liz pulled a file from the cabinet and removed a document. “This always gives me a laugh. Check it out.”

  It was a copy of Stefano’s passport. “Steven Leper? His last name is a flesh-eating disease?”

  “That’s right, darl. Stefano is off his rocker, but deep down inside he’s just trying to forget where he came from and make something of his life. So, don’t take it personally.”

  “Okay, thanks, Liz.” I gave her a half smile.

  “Change your mind about that mimosa?” she teased.

  “No, thanks.”

  After a twelve-hour shoot, I was exhausted and couldn’t wait to go home and take a bath. True, I had made it on the set, but I didn’t contribute anything. I tried to remain optimistic, seeing that I had made it into the studio and technically onto the set—the natural progression would be in the direction of where I wanted to be. Patience and baby steps, I figured.

  I started up the BMW as Stefano climbed in and we headed back toward the Hills. “What a great shoot! Christina is the best! I love her! Turn right at the next street. We’re meeting her here.”

  “Chateau Marmont? Am I dropping you off?”

  “No. Christina wants to have a late dinner and talk about some ideas for the next video. You have to be there to take notes.” I looked down at my disgusting duds. How could I go anywhere public looking like I did? I wondered if I could run home and change. I didn’t live very far.

  As if reading my mind, he went on. “No time to change. Besides, maybe this will help you remember never to put that poison anywhere near my body. Are you trying to slowly kill me?” He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit up.

  As I pulled up to the valet, the BMW’s custom rims roughly scraped along the curb of the sidewalk. The grinding sound of metal on cement crunched below our feet. I knew that I was done. Dead. He’d had a meltdown when he thought I put artificial sugar in his coffee. He would sure enough tear me to shreds for damaging the $40,000 rims on his brand-new car. I gripped the steering wheel with my clammy, shaking hands, briefly closed my eyes and braced myself for the explosion.

  “Ouch, that’s going to leave a mark. Come on, inside we go.” I opened my eyes as the passenger door shut behind him. That’s it? No explosion? I looked down at the muddied pants and shoes, comparing my attire to that of the glamorous patrons now entering the trendiest hotel in Los Angeles. Talk about humiliation. He was right: I never again forgot to hold the sweetener. Even now I can’t look at a little pink packet without wincing.

  chapter six

  Is There a Cloud Ten?

  “Okay, kids! Presley is pulling up. Is her room ready? Are we ready for her?” Visibly flustered, Roman pushed me out of the office and into the madness. He was decked out to the nines in another colorfully checkered three-piece suit. “Okay, intern, it’s go time. Be sure the makeup room is set up. Presley Dalton is on her way! She’s only an hour late. Usually it’s two, so this is ahead of schedule for her! And we’re not ready!”

  “Ready?” I awaited further instruction.

  A frazzled fairy, Roman threw his arms up in the air, his Bitter Bitch spirit fingers flailing. “As in candles, champagne on ice, magazines, snacks. Whatever! Use your head, intern!” I wondered why he kept using the word “intern” instead of my name, which he undeniably knew after three weeks.

  Liz placed a typed sheet of paper atop the crate of beverages cradled in my arms, never looking up from the phone, where she was engaged in an intense-looking conversation.

  PRESLEY DALTON REQUESTS

  Soy wax–based candles, votives only, gardenia or rose scented

  Dom Perignon champagne

  Premium top-shelf drinking water, room temperature

  Marlboro Lights

  Two white lighters—no matches!

  Cashmere blanket

  Pink roses or white lilies or both—but not mixed!

  Cheetos—in a glass bowl, not bag

  Diet Pepsi

  Skittles—remove all green and yellow

  With my left hand, I studied the ridiculous list in awe. Roman removed the tray of coffee from my right hand and tossed it into the garbage. I took off to inspect the cabinets and closets, where I surprisingly found everything required and displayed it as attractively as I could.

  “Darling! So good to see you again!” Roman’s voice echoed through the studio. An entourage of five followed Presley into the makeup room, knocking me against the wall as they passed. Only then did it hit me that I was sharing air with Presley freaking Dalton! Presley Dalton is one of the most famous women in the world . . . for no apparent reason. She’s famous for being famous. At twenty-two years old—my age—she hasn’t accomplished much of anything. Yet she graces the covers of every fashion magazine and tabloid on the newsstand, and paparazzi follow her every move. Her first album was about to be released and today’s shoot was for its cover. For a second, I considered texting Julie to recount the encounter I had just had—but then I remembered what Sebastian had explained to us when we’d moved to LA. The golden rule of working with celebrities: to act as if completely unfazed. This meant that under no circumstance was I to appear excited or impressed by anyone around me. So, although I was honestly freaking out on the inside, on the exterior all was cool, calm and collected.

  The set was just about ready. A faux prison cell had been built out of fake gold bricks and rolled rows of gold coins for prison bars. Glitter and gems spilled out from money bags strategically placed around the inside of the cell. Photographic kickstands, lights and a tripod were ready. And in the kitchen, a chef and his assistant were setting up a spread fit for a wedding.

  “Put this in there and don’t speak unless spoken to.” Roman handed me an enormous assortment of pink roses in a glass vase. I tiptoed my way into the makeup room, placed the vase in a corner and looked up to find Presley in a plush pink terrycloth robe. I could not help but pause to examine her in the flesh. Her famously long limbs were casually crossed and rested over the makeup counter as she reclined in the chair and chatted on her phone. One woman expertly painted on Presley’s face as another unpacked dozens of shades of powders and creams while a man twirled her golden silk-like hair into hot curlers. Another young man separated the Skittles by color. Presley put one hand over the phone, tilting her head toward me, “Thanks, gorgeous.”

  Presley Dalton is talking . . . to me? I could hardly believe it! Did she just call me “gorgeous”? Did she mean it? I’ve never been called gorgeous before. As strange as it sounds, she wasn’t “real” to me up until that point. I didn’t know what to do or how to react but the words, ”You’re welcome, thank you,” spilled out of my stupid mouth. Why had I thanked Presley Dalton for thanking me? What was that?

  I closed the door behind me and smacked my hand to my forehead when, as if on cue, the music stopped and Roman’s voice echoed through the studio. “Quick! Stefano is a block away. Get ready! Intern, come see me immediately!” I had not seen any other interns so I could only assume that he was referring to me. All the workers rushed around the set to perfect everything before He got there. The chefs stashed anything unsightly under the sink while the photo assistants shot several Polaroids and carefully lined them up on a table.

  I hurried back to the office where Roman handed me Stefano’s iced coffee. I was stunned. Wasn’t I the coffee girl? It then occurred to me that Roman was being nasty be
cause he was back to fetching Stefano’s coffee since I couldn’t be trusted with such a vital task. I had been demoted from Senior Coffee Wench back to Junior Coffee Wench.

  Like a quiet storm, Stefano blew into the studio, followed by Liz. You could feel the mood completely shift every time he entered the room. It was a combination of tension and fear, but at the same time everyone seemed delighted to see him. I too felt all of those things at once. He warily accepted the coffee from me. “This isn’t . . . ?”

  Before I could respond, Roman hollered, “Of course—no sweetener! We know better! Presley’s in the chair . . .” Stefano disappeared into the makeup room as the entourage exited, making a beeline for the culinary creations like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Stefano and Presley holed up in the makeup room for hours. Several times Stefano emerged to critique the set. Resting his hand under his chin, squinting, Stefano said, “The gold is too gold and the pink padlock needs to be pinker,” before disappearing again. I was amused and taken aback by the degree of urgency everyone reacted with after Stefano would make one of these vague, general claims. How did they know how much pinker the pink needed to be? Yet they didn’t question any of his remarks. They just responded by adjusting whatever needed to be adjusted. I paid close attention, taking mental notes because one day that would hopefully be me making the gold “less gold.”

  At 7:00 p.m., an obviously drunk Presley Dalton dramatically entered the set wearing a stunning Alice & Olivia gold sequin dress. She dangerously wobbled in a pair of leopard printed Christian Louboutins. My eyes were transfixed on the striking shoes. Just that morning, I had seen an entire two-page story in InStyle magazine dedicated to the coveted “Maggie” shoes. They listed the names of celebrities who had been waitlisted and showed pictures of the lucky few who had scored. I’d never imagined that I’d be in such close proximity to a pair of shoes that alone could pay my rent. And car insurance. Plus my cell phone bill. They were like a celebrity in their own right. When she raised her arm and pointed at the set, dozens of Noir pyramid bracelets stacked wrist to elbow clanged together. She exclaimed, “That is fucking gorgeous.”

  Stefano clapped his hands and belted out, “Where are the extras? Where are the cops? Come on, people. I don’t have all day and night.” He was oblivious to the fact that he had just kept the crew waiting for more than three hours while he and Ms. Dalton boozed it up in the makeup room.

  “Yeah, and I have this thing in an hour . . .” said the starlet nonchalantly.

  “Are you kidding, Presley? Say you’re kidding.” Stefano whined.

  Presley swung her long blonde curls from her shoulder to her back and laughed, shaking her head from side to side. Giggling, she snorted, “No, really, I have to go soon.”

  Stefano turned around, mouthing “Fucking idiot” to Liz. He then clapped his hands and belted, “Alright! Showtime! I need our cops and one last touch-up on Presley. Lushy, let’s get this party started!”

  The plan for the shoot was to take a photo of Presley looking like she had been arrested and thrown in jail, mocking the lyrics in the title song of her upcoming CD, “Arrest Me Sexy.” Two extras climbed out from behind the dessert table. Wearing blue policemen uniforms and carrying batons, they posed beside Presley and pretended to guard her cell. Presley held the bars and erotically caved her shoulders over her chest, elongating her neck and pouting into the lens from behind the prison bars. It was a moment that I had fantasized about. There I was, standing behind Him—photographing Her—surrounded by these people that I had only dreamed would be my peers, and there they all were. I was jolted back to reality when I bolted to the side to avoid a stool flying right at me. Out of nowhere, Stefano had gone ballistic and kicked his stool backwards. “Why do our police officers look like Goddamn mailmen? Can somebody tell me where the badges are? And where are the handcuffs? Hello? Wardrobe!” Stefano jumped up and down in a childlike tantrum.

  A brave but shaken woman—the stylist—stepped in front of the lights and explained, “We thought the art director would be on that . . .”

  Another man stepped forward. “Are you out of your mind? We build sets, not costumes!”

  “I mean, those are technically props,” she defended.

  “Well, technically you’re retarded,” he blasted back.

  Stefano roared, “Somebody better figure something out. If I have to add it digitally, believe me, it’s both your asses . . . Fuck it. Let’s go . . .” By then, someone had replaced the stool, something Stefano must have expected because he didn’t even check to see that it was there before returning to sit down behind the camera.

  The shoot continued while the art director and stylist stormed off behind closed doors to continue their fight. What could I do to solve this situation? I had to do something. I prayed for divine intervention, an idea that would save the day. I remembered a drugstore near the Starbucks and took off running. It was now late at night but maybe the store was open. My tired feet pounded the pavement as fast as they could. I was hoping the store had a toy policeman set or something. I didn’t have a plan but I just had this instinct that I could solve this and I couldn’t just stand there and observe. I figured it was worth a chance. As I approached the store and noticed the lights were still on inside, I felt a glimmer of hope. But when I made it to the electronic door, I crashed into it at full force. Closed. “Damn!” I screamed aloud.

  As I walked away from the drugstore, I saw two of LA’s Finest sitting at an outdoor table at Starbucks. Without hesitation, I dashed up to the policemen and frantically implored them to help me save the day.

  “Officers, I’m working for Stefano Lepres, the famous photographer. His studio is just up the street. We’re shooting an album cover and forgot to get police badges for our actors. Can you please come with me and let us use yours? Just for thirty minutes? Please, you have no idea what it will do for my career if I save this photo shoot!”

  The officers looked at each other, obviously thinking this was a crazy idea and positively against law enforcement policy.

  “Here’s my bank card and my driver’s license. If you let me borrow your handcuffs and badges, I swear, I’ll return them safely! Or no! Come with me! We have lots of great food and coffee, and you’ll get to see Presley Dalton in person! Please! Please—I beg of you!” I pushed my trembling hands together and gave the officers the best puppy dog eyes that I had in me. The policemen knew they had met their match. How could they say no to my desperate plea? All three of us sprinted back to the set.

  Panting and sweaty, I practically collapsed onto the set, stumbling into the flashing strobe lights and holding up my findings. “Official badges . . . and handcuffs!” It was a risk to step between Stefano and Presley—to disrupt the shoot so dramatically—but it seemed right at the time. Everyone stared at me with wide eyes and waited to see how he would react.

  “What the . . . ? Where did those come from?” Stefano looked at me, shocked, as I pointed across the room to the two cops digging into the chicken parmesan. Stefano jumped up, once again knocking over his stool, and smiled, “Well, throw them up there, Momma!” The crew cheered and patted me on the back. The stylist took the items from me and whispered “thank you” before expertly applying the police paraphernalia to the actors. Stefano hopped over and pulled me into a full bear hug while screaming, “I’m not shooting without this girl ever again!”

  Those words echoed in my mind over and over again. Clinging to my idol, I was elated, shocked and ecstatic. My dream had officially come true.

  chapter seven

  Swimming with . . . Shark?

  Being promoted to Stefano’s personal assistant was no easy feat. I was no longer just picking up coffee and ordering lunch. It had become my responsibility to pick Stefano up in the morning and take him home at the end of the day or, more often, very late at night. Although most of my twenty-four/seven job consisted of personal slave work, I was steadily being given more opportunities to be part of the photo shoots as w
ell. When a shot required wind being blown through the supermodel’s hair, it was I who got to direct the giant fan. Another shot called for leaves to be falling from the tree above, and it was I who was suspended from the top branch, expertly dropping the foliage. If the structure of our company’s totem pole reached the basement, that’s where I was, but I was slowly making my way up the pole and being promoted again into the photo team had to be only a few notches away. I’d do whatever it took to get there.

  “Hey girl, your suit is in the trailer,” the wardrobe stylist’s pretty assistant told me as she hurried past, both arms full of bikini bottoms. Zuma Beach was especially hot that day.

  “Oh, I’m not . . . I’m Stefano’s assistant . . .” I was flattered to be mistaken for an actual model.

  “Yeah I know—he wants you in the shot,” the assistant insisted, smiling.

  Me? In the shot? In a Stefano Lepres photo shoot?! True, I had hoped to do something more technical and photo related on this job, but to be in the shot would be an opportunity of a lifetime! I considered how awesome it was that people would likely hang the finished image on their walls, much like I had with some of my favorites. I would definitely frame it. I didn’t hold back my excitement, skipping into the wardrobe trailer and proudly proclaiming, “I’m Lucy . . . and I’m supposed to find my suit in here?”

  A dozen models dressed in brightly colored bikinis were being prepped. They were each at least six inches taller than me. And tan. And skinny. Just as I considered that maybe there was an element of miscommunication between Stefano and the stylist’s assistant, she reappeared and pushed me past the models and toward the back. Suddenly, it all made sense. Hanging across the rolling rack like an award-winning marlin was a blubbery, rubbery shark suit. “Oh . . . my God,” I uttered. I was prepared to do whatever it took but . . . a shark? A shark suit? I took a deep breath and began disrobing.