Foreign Exposure

by Lauren Mechling

  Lily shrugged and put a finger to her lips. “Don’t let anyone hear you ask that,” she whispered back, “or you’ll be accused of being ‘American,’ which is almost as bad as ‘suburban.’” In an even quieter tone, she said, “It’s eighteen, but don’t worry—I don’t think ‘card’ is even a verb here.”

  “Cool,” I said, and ordered not a half but a whole pint with my meal, as casually as I could manage. I didn’t want anyone to see how grown-up and sophisticated I felt.

  Once the waiter left, I sat back and listened as Imogen and Tooney talked, seeming to forget they were sharing a table with two other people. They weren’t rude exactly, just a little self-absorbed. As Imogen talked, I couldn’t help but think how like her mother she was. Like Pippa, she was charismatic and uninhibited and somewhat schizoid as she skirted from topic to topic, and I could tell that she, too, found life rather easy.

  It was only after the food arrived on basic white plates that Imogen addressed me directly for the first time. “I’m so sorry,” she said abruptly, without even a glance at the oversize mushroom sandwich in front of her. “You must think we’re such twats for nattering on like that. Do tell us a bit about yourself before Tooney and I go off again.”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” I said, flattered by her sudden attention. “Well, I used to live in Texas, and then last year I moved to New—”

  “Yes, but in London,” Imogen interrupted. “What do you plan on doing here? Mum tells me you met with Uncle Charlie this morning?”

  “I did,” I said, assuming she was referring to my new boss. I briefly told everyone about my job interview and subsequent homework assignment. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing there, but I have a very cute office trainer.” I blushed, remembering Anthony and the Xerox machine incident.

  “Oh, brilliant,” Tunisia said. “A bit of slap and tickle always livens up the workplace, I find. And I am such a fan of that magazine. If you dig up any dirt on Cressida, you must promise to fill us in.”

  “I will, definitely,” I said, pleased that I actually knew who she was talking about. Cressida—no last name—was a gigantic-breasted starlet who had met her sitcom-actor husband on a reality show in the South Pacific and had recently published a “tell-all memoir” about the behind-the-scenes rivalries on Stranded’s set. As far as I could tell, Cressida was neither an actress nor a singer, just an all-purpose A-lister with her own perfume, underwear line, and yoga video.

  Before too long, Tunisia and Imogen resumed talking about themselves, while Lily and I settled back into our eavesdropping role. The lifelong best friends—they’d met in Regent’s Park, where their nannies took them every morning as infants—had just graduated from the private boarding school in Kent that they’d attended since the age of nine. They were now brimming with plans for the future: Tunisia was starting at Sussex University in the fall, while Imogen was taking a “gap year,” which she explained was a common thing to do. “A lot of the girls I know are going to India or Australia, but I’m dreadfully bored with travel at tHe moment,” she said. “So I’ve decided to stay in London. There are a few weddings I absolutely can’t skip this autumn, and perhaps I can even finish my play. I’ve been working on it for ages, and Dad’s got t:his mate who’s just stonking rich, and he’s agreed to produce it on the West End if it’s up to standard!”

  “I’m impressed!” I said, and told them about the scene I had to write for my creative writing class at Baldwin. “Getting characters to sound like real people is so hard. And you’re almost done?”

  “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” Imogen said, mindlessly playing with a pimple on her chin. “I’m finished with the outline. I haven’t actually started the dialogue yet, but it’s going to be completely brilliant.”

  “Everything Imo does is completely brilliant,” Tunisia assured us.

  The Curious Incident Chez Scissors Thompson

  WITHOUT INTENDING IT, I DRANK SEVERAL PINTS of beer at the gastropub, and the next morning I woke up feeling fuzzy in the head and bloated everywhere else. With no time to fine-tune my outfit, I threw on some navy thrift store pants and a white tank top, then wrapped an old men’s dress shirt around my waist. The Katharine Hepburn look, I told myself. Or at least Katharine Hepburn playing a street person.

  On the long commute out to Canary Wharf, I found myself almost looking forward to Anthony quizzing me on my vastly expanded knowledge of British celebrities. But when I reached the office, it wasn’t Anthony Palfrey who was waiting for me in the reception area. It was Rebecca Bridgewater, decked out in a bandeau halter-top thingie that no woman over age eighteen should be allowed to wear.

  After minimal small talk, she briskly outlined my assignment for the morning and showed me to a crowded cubicle. “These are the contact details for the cast of Lonsdale,” she said, handing me a list of mostly unfamiliar names, each followed by five phone numbers labeled “home,” “mobile,” “publicist,” “agent” and “PA.” “You’ll be polling them about their favorite ready-made meals at M and S,” she said. “A few might get a bit shirty when they hear your accent, but we haven’t given you any A-listers, so for the most part they’ll be thrilled at the chance of a chat with the U.K.’s top celebrity magazine. Oh, and here you are: I’ve typed up a little script for you, so it should be fairly straightforward. Just read it verbatim and jot down the replies. Any questions?”

  She didn’t ask this in the most encouraging tone of voice, but I couldn’t help myself. “M and S? That means . . . ?”

  “Oh, but you have just fallen off the turnip truck, haven’t you?” Rebecca said with a wry little laugh. She gave a little tug at her halter. “It’s shorthand for Marks and Spencer. It’s sort of an upscale Woolworth’s—an all-purpose grocery store and clothing shop. Fully one-third of the women in the United Kingdom buy their knickers there, nowhere better.”

  Rebecca parked me inside the cubicle of a member of the advertising department named Penny, who was on an extended maternity leave. “It’s your desk for the time being,” Rebecca said, “but do just try to keep it tidy.”

  With that vaguely accusatory order, she left. I spent the next few minutes surreptitiously examining those seated around me, trying to pick out potential friends. The rows of cubicles were buzzing with people hard at work, tapping on their computers and either timidly whispering or violently shouting into the telephone. The photo editor—Decca, I learned from the masthead—was as big and loud as an elephant. “I said the pictures are on spec!” she was shouting. “Nobody pays upfront these days!”

  The two middle-aged women closest to me, with their ash-colored hair and frowsy clothing, looked alike enough to be twins. The two girls facing them seemed more promising lunchtime companions: a pixielike brunette with colorful barrettes in her hair and a pink-faced girl with glitter eye shadow who glanced up from her monitor to smile at me. Then a straight-arrow guy, or “young man” as my mom would call him, bopped over to introduce himself as Nicholas. He shook my hand and invited me to refer any office questions to him. Before I could think of any, however, his cell phone rang and he ran off.

  Next I turned my attention to Penny’s disorganized cubicle. Wadded-up Kleenexes and Cadbury wrappers littered the surface of the desk, and next to her telephone were two fuzzy hippopotamus figures with spring-mounted heads. I pushed the heads up and down a few times before making my first phone call.

  “Hello,” I said, following the tidy script Rebecca had given me: “I’m calling from A-ha! magazine, and for next week’s issue, we’re doing a special feature on celebs and food, and here’s what Britain wants to know: What’s your favorite Marks and Spencer Ready Meal?”

  Though I thought the question sounded pretty stupid, the first star I reached, Sooty Lewison, seemed to feel otherwise. “Oh, how clever!” she cried. “Can you bear with me one instant? I’m at home now. Let’s have a look-see.” There were footsteps, then the sound of Sooty whispering, “It’s A-ha!” to someone on the other end. “Hmm, let’
s see what we have here,” she said when at last she reached the fridge. “Tagliatelle with ham and mushroom—mmm, that one’s scrummy. . . . Not so keen on the chicken tikka masala—that one’s been in here for ages, it must’ve gone off by now. . . . Oh, and here’s liver and bacon, that one’s quite nice, and the Cumberland pies as well. . . . And the smoked haddock rarebit is absolutely brilliant—yes, that’s it, you’ll have to put me down for the rarebit.”

  Sooty set the upbeat tone for the rest of that morning’s interviews. Rebecca had been right: bottom-feeder celebrities truly were thrilled to hear from A-ha! By the end of the morning, I had a list of twelve Lonsdale stars’ favorite Marks & Spencer Ready Meals, ranging from braised steak and something nasty-sounding called “kedgeree” to prawn biriyani with four-cheese banana fritters.

  Just as I was about to call Gavin Scott-Palmer, the next actor on my list, Penny’s phone beeped, and—though I knew I should’ve let voice mail take it—I impulsively picked it up. “Penny’s desk,” I said in my best official voice.

  “Mimi, it’s Palfrey here.” Anthony’s voice. Smooth, cocksure, adorable Anthony. “See you in the lobby for two?”

  “For two what?”

  “Two o’clock, you ninny. Or better yet, come fetch me at my desk. I’m covering an exceptionally grim event in Essex this afternoon, and you’re obligated to accompany me. Consider it part of your training.”

  I’d met the boy yesterday, and he was already inviting me on day trips? Was this cosmic reward for suffering through Boris’s detour to Frankfurt? I told him that sounded fine, provided Charlie Lappin didn’t object.

  “Object?” Anthony’s laugh echoed across the office. “But darling, you won’t be skiving—it was entirely his idea.”

  With no idea what he’d just said, I went back to my calls. Five successful phone interviews later, when it was almost two, I took my notes to Rebecca Bridgewater. She had me wait outside her office while she reviewed the results. “You had seventeen interviews, did you?” she asked with a trace of suspicion. “Well, I suppose that’s that, then. Tomorrow we’ll be starting work on a spread about bikini horror stories; I’ll prepare the same sort of script for you.”

  After she dismissed me, I zigzagged the office for several minutes in search of Anthony’s cubicle. I found him at a desk no larger than Penny’s, with his head flopped over his keyboard. I hesitated an instant. “Anthony?”

  Very slowly he pulled himself up and swiveled to face me. “Bloody hell, what time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “I thought you said we were leaving at two.”

  “I did, but that was before you interrupted the nice little kip I was having. Christ, can you remind me why I stayed out doing vodka shots with the tech crew from Cressington Embers?”

  I had no reply ready, so I just hovered over his cubicle as he stayed seated, yawning, stretching, and mussing his hair. This aerial position gave me plenty of opportunity to study him at close range. Today’s outfit was somewhat more normal: navy corduroys, a pale pink button-down shirt, and red socks.

  On the long cab ride to the train station, Anthony was busy clutching his forehead and groaning something about “the hair of the dog.” He remained taciturn as we walked inside the enormous, sparkling Liverpool Street station. Still unclear on why we were going to Essex (or where, for that matter, Essex was), I waited by a pick-and-mix candy stand called Sweet Chariot while Anthony bought our tickets.

  “What sort of rubbish have you got into?” he asked several minutes later of the huge bag of chocolate-covered pretzels I’d bought. “Toss them in the bin. Now. The cardinal rule of celebrity journalism,” he explained, “is that one always arrives at these functions on an empty stomach. Filling up on freebies is ninety percent of the point.”

  I asked him what the other ten percent was.

  “Still a great mystery. I’m hoping it will reveal itself one of these days.”

  It was funny how much I liked Anthony already. I usually fixate on boys I can talk circles around, like the brooding Max Roth or the enigmatic Boris. But Anthony was gossipy and almost hyperactively chatty. When he excitedly described the party we were about to attend, I could barely get a word in. Apparently, stylist to the stars Simon “Scissors” Thompson—whose flagship London salon was a tourist destination—was launching a new product line and opening a dozen new signature salons across the country. At the kickoff party for the new Essex Scissors, Anthony and I would be “profiling” the celebs in attendance. “Only the most desperate D-lister-saddos will bother to show, but who knows?” Anthony said. “Perhaps they’ll supply us with a few good tidbits.”

  “You make everyone sound so lame,” I told him as we sat down in a second-class car. I was feeling a little more collected. “It is a party after all. Why wouldn’t good people attend?”

  “Love, any proper celeb with a sentient publicist is invited to hundreds of rubbish events a week. You don’t trek all the way to Essex in the middle of the bloody afternoon unless you’re absolutely desperate to get papped.”

  “Papped? And where is Essex, by the way?”

  “Photographed by the paparazzi. And Essex is a dreadful middle-class suburb about three-quarters of an hour to the east of London.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, my next question already prepared. “If it’s so pathetic of the stars to go to these events, doesn’t that make us pathetic for going to them, too?”

  “Certainly not! We’re just doing our jobs. No crime in that.”

  Satisfied with his briefing, Anthony rolled his sweater into a ball, stuck it behind the crook of his neck, and almost immediately fell into a deep slumber, his eyelids fluttering behind his glasses.

  As the train plowed east, I gazed happily out the window at the unbroken cityscape of apartment blocks and TV antennae. I still couldn’t believe I was in England, where even buying an unfamiliar flavor of potato chips or crossing a street with cars driving on the wrong side of the road made me tingle. Anthony—buoyant, eccentric, articulate Anthony—would’ve made me tingle even if he were from suburban Dallas. Of course, no one from suburban Dallas would have such a tingly accent.

  When the train pulled into our station, Anthony pushed his glasses back in place and sprang to his feet as if he’d been awake the whole time. “Hop to it,” he said smoothly. “One of our photographers, a bloke called Ian Cassidy, will be collecting us here. In case you didn’t know, in the pecking order of the gossip biz, the monkeys—that’s what we call the photogs—are right up there with God. They make gobs of money and spend the majority of their energy taking the piss out of lowly reporters. You’ll see.”

  Ian Cassidy was waiting for us on the platform, and I instantly recognized him as the man who’d accepted payment for the cupid cardigan from the A-ha! receptionist the previous day. He was overweight and underheight and sallow, with coarse black hair and bright red ears. But though he was similar in appearance to most of the British men on the train with us, his fashion sense was entirely his own. He was decked out head to toe in camouflage, with a thick and possibly bulletproof vest with about one hundred zippers. An improbable number of press passes hung from his neck, and camera parts were strapped all over his body like armor. He looked as if he were about to go on safari.

  After a cursory introduction, Ian took us to the salon a few blocks south of the station. He and Anthony made an interesting pair, I thought. Whereas Anthony was the ultimate dandy, Ian was unpretentious, almost grizzled. And Anthony was a master banterer, while Ian grunted most of his commentary. Still, the two seemed to get along pretty well. On the walk over, I trailed behind as Anthony brought Ian up to speed on the goings-on in the office.

  “All the usual chaos,” Anthony said. “Ogilvy’s buyout went south, and all the adverts got pulled.”

  “Blimey!” Ian responded.

  “Oh, and you’ll love this: Nigel’s gained two stone and is talking of converting to Hinduism.”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s been threatening th
at for ages. What else is new?” Ian sounded unimpressed. “How about Nicholas—what’s happening with him?”

  “There’s a good one for you—he’s threatening to quit if Jon doesn’t get the sack.”

  “Always at sixes and sevens, those two.”

  A few minutes into this lopsided dialogue, we rounded a corner and came to the salon: a three-storied hair village with an enormous statue of scissors out front. A group of kids was testing it out to see if the hinge worked. It did.

  Once inside, Ian got to work. His brow grew dark and pensive as he removed different-size lenses from his safari suit to snap pictures of the guests. Even though he was even more Underdressed than I, Ian seemed comfortable in this setting, like a fish released back into the ocean. Anthony, too, appeared perfectly at ease in the sea of high-pitched laughter and overstyled personalities.

  I felt exactly the opposite, like an unwieldy piece of luggage left on the baggage carousel. Anthony had instructed me to shadow him, but I was uncomfortable watching him flirt with stars old enough to be his mother. I excused myself when he told the woman who played the football player’s mother on Rosedale Crescent that she looked “ravishing” and asked if she’d enjoyed any plastic surgery lately.

  I wound up in the least populated corner of the room, over by the hair-washing stations. The food had been designed to resemble different hair types, ranging from straight lines to curlicues. I served myself a plate of spiral noodles, ladled on extra Alfredo sauce, and got to work. When I looked up midway, Anthony caught my eye. Keeping his expression serious, he put his finger behind his ear and made his glasses wiggle up and down his forehead. I scrunched my nose at him in response.

  The only guest I recognized was Thom Thorpe, the “television presenter” I’d read about who was recently implicated in a gay sex scandal involving a guard at the Tate Modern. He had a buzz cut and the top of his head was bald and shiny. His complexion was unattractively pockmarked arid his nose was round and wet, like a pug’s. His saving grace was a pair of beautiful green eyes with the longest lashes. As a representative of A-ha! I knew I should accost him—“chat him up,” as Anthony would say—and so, in an act of great professionalism, I left my plate on a chair and walked over to Thom.