The Spotlight

by Roxy Jacenko

  It’s a sign of the times that it’s now harder to get into a gym than it is to get into the VIP area of Mahiki when Prince Harry is in the nightclub. But despite the super-tight security, hotel guests got a free pass. They must assume that, if you can afford to stay there, you’re not a ragamuffin or a troublemaker.

  So Shelley and I grabbed our gym kit and made our way to the elevator for the gym, which was constantly manned by a security guard with a gun-shaped bulge in his jacket.

  The fitness centre was split into two sections: a large area filled with shiny machines, and a smaller room with one-way mirrored glass. ‘What’s in there?’ I asked the gym instructor on duty, pointing to the closed door of the small room.

  ‘Oh, that’s the personal training room,’ he replied, handing me a bottle of water. ‘It’s also where we train guests who need a little more . . . privacy.’

  Ah, so that’s where all the high-profilers sweat. Shelley and I exchanged intrigued glances. She knew what I was thinking. Imagine who could be behind that very door right now, being put through their paces on the elliptical trainer.

  ‘Can we have a tour?’ asked Shelley. ‘I’m interested in booking a personal training session and would like to see if the equipment is . . . adequate.’

  The instructor looked shifty. ‘Sorry, madam, but that room is currently occupied with a special guest. Usually I would say yes but they have asked not to be disturbed.’

  This was the worst thing he could have said around someone with an imagination like mine. There was no way I was moving until I knew who was inside there. My mind went into overdrive, running through a list of the Brit-pack: Pippa Middleton, Kate Winslet, Keira Knightley? I could do with signing a British A-lister to The Talent Hive. That would really elevate us to another level.

  On the very rare occasion that I visit the gym I usually get bored within ten minutes and slink off to the sauna. But after positioning myself on a treadmill facing the door of the VIP room, I then embarked on the longest workout of my life. There was no way I was moving until I saw who was in there. There was only one door out . . . and I’d be waiting on the other side of it.

  After seventy minutes of fast walking (I do not run), my leg muscles were screaming and I was covered in sweat. The gym instructor was starting to shoot me worried looks. ‘Um, madam, maybe we should swap to the mats and do some gentle stretching?’

  But the stretching area was hidden behind a screen. I wasn’t going to interrupt my view now. And then, finally, the handle of the VIP door shook and it creaked open. Yes, YES! My marathon walking session had been worth it. I had out-exercised the celebrity.

  The first person out of the room was a personal trainer, a long-limbed girl with a swinging ponytail, carrying a clipboard. And behind her walked the celebrity . . . Oh, bloody hell, you must be kidding me.

  It was Rumi Neely from Fashion Toast, dressed in a Mary Katrantzou psychedelic sweater and Acne shorts (even her gym kit was mega stylish). The very special person who couldn’t possibly share a gym with mere mortals was a freaking fashion blogger. Was there no escaping them?

  As Rumi sashayed past me, I hit the stop button on my treadmill and hobbled after her to the changing room. When she was in the shower I slipped my business card into her gym bag. I didn’t really need – or want – another fashionista for The Talent Hive, but I’m also never one to let an opportunity pass me by.

  Like them or loathe them, right now bloggers had the power.

  16

  From the moment Savannah arrived on the photo shoot I knew she was going to cause trouble. Well, I should say from the moment Savannah almost didn’t arrive. The call time was 5 am, because we had to drive for three hours from London to a property in Oxford where the shoot was taking place. Although it was a Glastonbury-themed shoot, it wasn’t actually taking place at Glasto because we hadn’t been able to get permission. This was probably a good thing anyway, as trying to get the perfect shot when you’re surrounded by thousands of chemically enhanced revellers is not the easiest situation (I’d learned this the hard way after a disastrous shoot with a girl band at Coachella).

  The plan was for the crew to meet at 5 am outside the Bulgari; from there, we’d drive out into the countryside in convoy. Savannah was also staying at our hotel, although our paths hadn’t crossed since she’d flown in the previous morning. I’d had an early night to prepare for getting up with the birds, but from Savannah’s Instagram page she’d gone with the opposite strategy. At 2 am she posted an Instagram video showing her in Annabel’s nightclub in Mayfair, dancing with the British aristocrat Arthur Landon (Prince Harry’s bestie who was in Las Vegas during the notorious naked-video incident). At the same time Savannah also sent me a text: ‘Babes, I won’t be seeing you at 5 am. I’ll see you at 7 am instead. Thanks babes. See yas.’

  Luckily I sleep with my iPhone in my right hand like a comfort blanket (it’s a habit Michael hates), so I was woken up by the vibrations. Um, no Savannah, that is not okay. The call time was 5 am and it was immovable. We had an entire team – photographer, stylists, makeup artist and three assistants – meeting then because we had a huge day ahead of us. Who did she think she was – Kate Moss?

  ‘Sorry, Savannah, but the call time can’t be any later than 5 o’clock,’ I texted back. ‘We need all the time we can get as we have ten looks to shoot while the light is good. See ya bright and early.’

  My volatile model didn’t reply – she was probably too busy downing Arthur’s favourite drink, the Christian’s Cannon cocktail, a mix of rum, Guinness, maple syrup and a bottle of champagne served in a lit cannon. It made my stomach churn even to think about it.

  A lot of top models work hard and party even harder. That’s why a makeup artist’s kit always contains Nurofen, Berocca, and perfumed hairspray to hide the booze smell. Their hangovers are overlooked, and red eyes are Photoshopped out, because it’s seen as a trait of the profession. But it isn’t okay to hold up an entire shoot because you’ve missed your bedtime.

  I was not going to let Savannah lie down (or lie in) on the job. I called down to reception and ordered her a wakeup call for 4.40, 4.45, 4.50 and 4.55. That should do it. I just hoped that Savannah would make it back to her bedroom that night and not have a spontaneous sleepover with a Sloaney. I know how charming those boys from Eton can be with their chat-up lines: ‘Do you want to come back to my dorm room and see my rowing boat . . . ?’

  The rest of the night I tossed and turned, imagining the fallout from Stitched if Savannah didn’t appear and we missed our window. We only had one day to shoot Savannah before Glastonbury began. After that, she wasn’t contractually our responsibility and could go off the rails as much as she wanted.

  To my relief, Savannah did make it back to her own bed – but she proved almost impossible to pry out of it. In the end I had to send the driver to knock on her door (for ten minutes). I figured a seven-foot chauffeur would be far more intimidating than a petite publicist – even if my morning face is pretty scary.

  When Savannah finally crawled into the car eighty minutes late, she clearly didn’t recognise me, even though we’d had a two-hour meeting when I’d signed her to The Talent Hive. I assure you I hadn’t changed my appearance since then, or in the past decade (if it ain’t broke then don’t fix it). As the fashion blogger slumped in the back seat, slugging on a bottle of Lucozade Max, she peered at me from under her baseball cap. Her eyes were sunken and she had a cold sore we’d have to Photoshop out. Her mood was as fiery as her complexion. ‘Who are YOU?’ she snapped. ‘Are you the one who brought the clothing?’

  She was right in a sense. I had lugged four suitcases of Stitched samples onto the plane with me. Thank god I have friends in high places and could flout the baggage allowance (I was like a smuggler of sweaters). From that moment on, Savannah assumed I was a fashion assistant. In her eyes, I was just a low-level flunky and therefore her personal slave for the day.

  Before I could correct her (I’m your publicity manager,
remember?), she pulled out her iPod, jammed in her earphones and spent the next three hours staring out the window. She only broke her silence to call her boyfriend, who didn’t seem to be able to get a word in. The one-sided conversation went like this: ‘Did you see my latest Instagram pics, babes? Did you like my hair? Did you like my shoes? Doesn’t my new spray tan make my hair pop!’

  I’d met her boyfriend Scott once before, when we’d been seated together at a David Jones fashion show where Savannah had been given backstage access to write about the new collection. We’d only spent forty-five minutes together, but in that time I decided he was the nicest guy I’d ever met, polite, sweet and humble. He works in IT and seemed so out of place in the fashion scene – which I mean as a compliment. He was a stark contrast to Savannah. I felt sorry for him, especially if the rumours about her sleeping with a string of male photographers behind his back were true. It’s a cliché, but photographers get no shortage of nooky. Something about having a camera around their neck seems to transform any man into a sex symbol in the eyes of a model.

  It was funny that Savannah didn’t recognise me – because the photographer and stylist didn’t recognise her either. Here’s the thing, if you look on Savannah’s Instagram feed she appears practically anorexic. In every photograph her legs come up to her armpits and you could wrap your hands around her waist. Her figure is very London Fashion Week, which was one of the reasons why Stitched was so interested in hiring her. When we were preparing for the photo shoot, she’d emailed over her measurements (waist: 24, hips: 32, bust: 28, dress size: 4). And the week before the trip, she’d posted a photograph on Instagram of a line of juice bottles, labelled one to six: ‘Countdown to Glastonbury begins with a detox. #cleanse.’

  Well, maybe the long-haul flight had made her retain water or maybe she balloons when she’s on her period. Or maybe she’s just a liar. Because when Savannah arrived she was . . . well, not fat, but not skinny either. There was absolutely no way she was going to fit the samples Stitched had sent over.

  I discovered later that Savannah uses an app called Liquify, which lets you slim down your social media photos. It’s like Instagram liposuction, and lets you push, pull, plump or thin any area of an image. That’s why she’s always standing sideways in her Instagram shots, because that’s the easiest angle to stretch without looking fake.

  Whatever she does in her free time is her business, and I don’t want to judge, but the problem was that Savannah had dreams of moving into modelling. She kept pushing me to line up photo shoots with brands like Stitched – which meant her body was her currency. Did she not understand she’d be caught out as soon as we saw her in the flesh . . . and realised there was more of it than we’d thought?

  ‘Um, is that really Savannah?’ whispered the photographer, Bryony Gilbert. We were very lucky to have her. The street styler extraordinaire is a modern-day Helmut Newton, having shot everyone from Naomi Campbell to George Clooney and Michelle Obama. As a favour to me, Bryony had flown in from New York (she’d recently moved there from Melbourne). And how did I repay her? With a chubby model with an attitude problem. I pulled an apologetic face. We were just going to have to make the most of it.

  Our base camp for the day was Hadlow Manor in Kent, owned by Lord and Lady Hadlow, and set in the grounds of a huge country estate (you might recognise it from Downton Abbey). We’d set up a makeshift dressing room in the library, where I erected a hanging rail and set about steaming the creases out of the samples. This only added to the impression that I was just a fashion assistant, which meant that Savannah didn’t try to hide her bad attitude from me.

  I couldn’t believe the way she spoke to the stylist, especially when the realisation dawned that she wasn’t going to be able to fit into any of the clothes provided. Rather than admitting that she may have underestimated her measurements, she blamed Stitched for sending the wrong sizes. ‘I can’t believe they did this. What a FUCK-UP.’ She also hated all the clothes. ‘I am not wearing THAT or THAT. I want to wear my OWN jeans and my OWN trainers.’

  The poor stylist had to patiently explain that the point of a photo shoot is to promote a label’s clothes, and that wearing her old, wornout Genetics would not go down too well with Stitched. It turned into a colossal argument, but in the end Savannah admitted defeat and put on the outfits we’d chosen. First, though, the stylist had to fetch a pair of scissors and cut down the back of all the shorts, so she could squeeze into them.

  When she was in hair and makeup her mood didn’t get any better. ‘I WANT hair extensions!’ she yelled at Elise, the makeup artist. ‘And give me false lashes. No, bigger than those . . . I said BIGGER.’

  She was texting frantically the entire time, holding her phone in front of her face, which made Elise’s job even harder. Then she looked up and caught my eye. ‘I’m hungry. You, fashion assistant, can you get me some M&Ms?’

  I was itching to point out that she probably should lay off the candy when her shorts were already held together with safety pins, but instead I fetched the bowl of sweets from the catering table.

  I couldn’t quite believe what happened next. Savannah proceeded to open her mouth and tilt back her head. She wanted me to hand-feed her! What’s more, I did it. What can I say, I’m an accommodator. Also, I didn’t want to rock the boat. I just wanted to get the job done and get out of there. She could think I was the fashion assistant for all I cared; my ego could handle it.

  You couldn’t make this shit up. There was Savannah, sitting in the makeup chair with two free hands, having her hair brushed by Elise, while the most prestigious publicist in Sydney placed M&Ms on her tongue. I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to move her jaw up and down. Chewing is such an effort!

  I wish I could say the day got easier from there, but it didn’t. When Savannah had been complaining about the 5 am wakeup call, she’d argued that we couldn’t possibly need a full day to do the job. ‘Oh, babes, I shoot things so quickly,’ she’d boasted. ‘We’ll have this wrapped up by lunchtime. I’m a one-take wonder.’

  Well, we were still shooting at ten o’clock at night. In front of a camera, Savannah had all the charisma of a pork chop. On Instagram she looks like a professional poser, but that must be because she just sticks to her most flattering angle. The photographer and I exchanged glances as she repeated the same pose again and again (side on, looking over her shoulder). When I tried to suggest that she mix it up a little, she barked, ‘You’re just the fashion assistant, what do you know?’

  She also thought I was her social media officer, and expected me to take all her behind-the-scenes photographs for Instagram. I emailed one of the photographs to my contact at Stitched so they could promote the shoot on their own Instagram page. When Savannah was tagged in their photograph, she went ballistic. ‘Who the fuck is posting photographs of me on social media without my permission? This is meant to be a closed shoot. What stalker is spying on me?’

  I wanted to kick her at this moment. That stalker is the client, you freaking idiot. We wasted so much time that day, stopping intermittently for Savannah to throw her temper tantrums. When working with models, you can usually put their mood swings down to malnourishment, but Savannah’s constant food demands put paid to that theory. ‘Babes, can you fetch me some activated almonds? Can you peel me an orange? Can you get a straw for my cola, and hold it to my mouth for me? I don’t want to smudge my lip gloss.’

  By the final look we were all utterly exhausted. Unusually for Britain, it had been a steady thirty degrees all day and there hadn’t been any shade. The crew and I were tired, hungry and sunburnt. I’d been up since 4 am. I’d been Savannah’s assistant and her skivvy; fed her sweeties and cut her shorts so she could fit her fat arse into them. I was starting to lose my patience.

  For the last shot, Savannah had to recline on the bonnet of a vintage open-backed truck, dressed in frayed denim shorts, a checked shirt and an elaborate Indian headdress. The look was ‘Daisy Duke goes to Glasto’. It was my favourite ou
tfit of the day, but Savannah had a face like thunder.

  At one stage, she thumped the bonnet of the truck with her fist. ‘I’m sooo parched, I’m dehydrating. Someone needs to get me some water.’

  The rest of the crew had their hands full with cameras and lighting, so I volunteered to run back to the house and get some refreshments. When I returned and handed Savannah a bottle of water, she took a huge gulp, then her eyes bulged . . . and she spat it back out all over me. The water sprayed all over the front of my Givency t-shirt, ran down the front of my jeans and all over my shoes. The crew’s mouths fell open in shock.

  ‘This water is HOT!’ screamed Alexa. ‘I asked for COLD water. If I wanted warm water I’d have PISSED in a BOTTLE.’ If only her 500,000 Instagram fans could have seen her now, ranting and raving like a fishwife.

  That was the moment I hit my limit – as did the photographer, who called it a wrap. Maybe I should have pulled Savannah up on her behaviour but I was too stunned. Also, her behaviour was so erratic that it was actually quite funny. She hadn’t won any friends among the crew. She’d had the opportunity to work with the most talented photographer in the UK, and had made herself look like an idiot.

  If we didn’t get the shots for Stitched then Savannah would just have to lose the contract. It would serve her right for being a total nightmare. I couldn’t stand to be around her for another minute. Luckily, at lunchtime I’d made a sneaky call to the car-hire firm and asked them to send another vehicle so that Savannah could be driven back to London on her own.

  The drivers were running ten minutes late, so the crew and I had time to clear up after ourselves, wash the dishes and straighten the furniture. It’s always good etiquette when you borrow someone’s house for a shoot to leave it exactly as you found it. I always send flowers to the homeowner the next morning too. It’s these little touches that make Queen Bee stand out from the crowd.