Fortunately this seems to stump my sister. Without saying a word, she turns away from me, looking out the window as I continue to forage through my bag. Finally I find a scruffy-looking tube of lip gloss and smear some on my chapped lips.
“I spoke to Shauna and Luis at the airport,” Fran tells me. “They’ll meet us at the hotel and we should have plenty of time to work you over before our next shoot so that you’ll be perfectly presentable.”
“Thanks.” I run a hand through my messy bed-head hair and sigh. “It’s nice to know that someone in the show cares.”
“Okay, girls,” Fran begins in a firm voice. “This is a reality show. We do want you to be yourselves, including sisterly squabbles if necessary, but you also need to bear in mind we have a number of shows to film in London. That means everyone does their part to make them a success. Right, Paige?”
Paige turns to us with what seems a pleasant expression, except that I can see a glint of mean in those big blue eyes. “Of course. You know I always deliver my very best for the show.”
Fran nods. “Yes. I just wanted to be sure we were all on the same page now.”
“Meaning no more surprises?” I aim this to Paige and she smiles like she’s got all kinds of clever things tucked up those designer sleeves.
“Oh, there should always be some surprises,” she says in a catty tone. “What would be the fun if there weren’t?”
Fran chuckles and I look out the window, taking in the British scenery and hoping there will be time to shoot some photos myself. As we drive, Fran points out some places of interest, including several museums. “And that’s Harrods,” she points out my window.
“What’s Harrods?” I ask as I peer out on what looks like a castle.
“What’s Harrods?” Paige repeats sarcastically as she leans over to see better. “Just the most magnificent department store in the world.” She sighs. “We are going there, right?”
“Yes, definitely. It’s on the schedule.”
I blink in disbelief at the huge castle-like structure. “That is a department store?”
“Nearly five acres of lovely shopping all under one amazing roof.” Paige looks smitten. “Oh, it’ll be like dying and going to heaven.”
I make a face. “I sure hope heaven is better than a humungous department store.” I shake my head. “How can one store be nearly five acres? That’s just crazy.”
“Crazy good.” Paige sighs again and I wonder if she’s about to swoon.
A few minutes pass and Fran is pointing out where Hyde Park is and then explaining how we are now on Piccadilly and coming into the fashion district. “If this were actually Fashion Week,” she says, “it would be packed. As it is, we were able to get a pretty great suite with adjoining rooms in the May Fair Hotel.”
“Will we be able to stay there during the next London Fashion Week too?” Paige asks hopefully.
“Leah is working on it.” Fran checks her phone now. “Fortunately September is still a ways off. Let’s just focus on this London trip, okay?” She points to the right. “That’s Green Park,” she tells us. “Buckingham Palace Gardens are just beyond.”
“So is Buckingham Palace there too?”
“No,” Paige tells me in her most sarcastic voice. “They only have a garden, Erin. No palace. The queen has to camp out there when she’s in town.”
Fran laughs while I roll my eyes and wonder if Paige took mean pills this morning. A drizzly rain is starting to fall as our driver meanders through the heavy traffic, but it’s coming down hard by the time Fran points out the hotel down the street.
“I thought you said this wasn’t the busy time of year,” I say to Fran as our limo pulls onto the end of a fairly long line of cars, which are dropping guests off at the front entrance.
“Well, there are a few fashion shows this week,” she admits. “I suppose that might account for the traffic. That and the weather. Everyone probably wants to be dropped off at the door.”
I stare at the non-moving line of cars ahead of us. “This looks like it could take awhile. Do you think we should just get out and make a run for it?”
“Seeing that we’re due at Burberry at two thirty and we still need to get you through hair, makeup, and wardrobe—that’s not a bad idea.” Fran turns to Paige. “I suppose you can ride on up to the front door if you want to make a queenly entrance and stay dry, but Erin and I will hoof it. I wish I had taken my umbrella out of my suitcase.”
Paige frowns. “You’re going out in the rain?”
“The entrance is like fifty feet from here,” I tell her as I scramble to grab my purse and carry-on. Fran shoots the driver some instructions for dropping off our luggage and picking us up at one o’clock, and then pops out and starts running toward the entrance.
“Okay,” Paige says reluctantly. “I guess I’ll come with you too.”
I wait for Paige to gather her things and then we both spurt out of the limo, dashing through the rain until we reach the protection of the portico, which is crowded with other guests trying to emerge from cars and gather bags as they avoid the wet weather. Fran seems to have already made her way inside.
“There’s Paige Forrester,” someone calls out, and the next thing we know several people, as well as some cameras, are clamoring around us. I cannot believe the British paparazzi are here—or that they even know who my sister is. Naturally, Paige’s eyes light up and, in one movement, she gives her head a quick shake and fluffs her damp hair to instant perfection, breaking out into a smile so sunny I almost expect the clouds to part.
“I’m Claire Kelly of London Star Watch.” A pretty dark-haired woman hands Paige a card. “Do you have a moment for a quick interview for tonight’s show?”
“Certainly.” Paige nods congenially. She doesn’t even look surprised and I almost wonder if she might’ve been the one to tip off the press. But why should they care?
“I understand you’re here to appear on Britain’s Got Style,” Claire says to Paige. As her camera guy begins filming, several others draw in closer, snapping photos or holding up mics like this is the story of the year. It must be a slow day for the London press if these people have no more-newsworthy items to cover.
“That’s right,” Paige tells her. “Our show On the Runway was invited to participate in a Britain’s Got Style episode, and I am honored to assist as a judge.”
“And what qualifies you, a relatively young American girl, to judge British style?” a middle-aged woman asks in a snooty tone.
Paige lets out a tinkle of a laugh. “Oh, that’s a great question. I realize I am rather young, but I seem to have an innate sense of style that our American viewers can relate to. Our show has experienced a growing popularity both in the States and abroad.” She ignites her most engaging smile. “I guess it’s hard to explain … je ne sais quoie.”
“How long will your show be in London, Paige?” Claire asks pleasantly, as if she wants to apologize for the other woman.
“We expect to wrap up—”
“Never mind that,” a man behind Claire interrupts. “What Brits really want to know is—are you and Benjamin Kross in a relationship?”
“Benjamin and I are friends and I’ve—”
“But isn’t it true that you were seen shopping for wedding gowns?” another woman calls out. “Are you planning to marry Benjamin Kross?”
“What about the criminal charges against Benjamin Kross?” the earlier guy persists like a bulldog. “Isn’t he going to go to prison for the murder of Mia Renwick, his deceased costar from Malibu Beach?”
“The charges against Benjamin have been dropped,” Paige says in a stiff voice that’s quickly losing its warmth. “The investigation revealed that a number of factors contributed to the—uh—the automobile accident.”
“And there’s been a settlement.” I offer this morsel of information to relieve a bit of the pressure from Paige and hopefully to get us out of here. “Mia Renwick’s family agreed to drop the civil charges. I’m surp
rised you haven’t heard about this by now. A special Malibu Beach episode aired recently with Benjamin explaining what actually happened that night.” I’m tugging on Paige’s arm, trying to move us toward the entrance and out of this British media feeding frenzy.
“That’s the younger sister,” someone else says and—great—the cameras are all pointing at me now.
“We need to go prepare for a show,” I say loudly. “Please, excuse—”
“So what about those wedding plans?” The bulldog guy steps in front of Paige. “Are you and Benjamin planning to marry now that Mia is out of the picture?”
“Yes, please tell us why you were trying on wedding gowns!” a female voice calls out.
“Seems a bit hasty to be tying the knot with a young man barely cleared of murder charges,” someone comments.
Without answering, Paige looks at me with worried eyes, like she’s blanking out or about to have some kind of panic attack. So, still holding on to her arm, I go ahead and field this question too.
“We tried on wedding gowns for an upcoming episode of our show,” I yell above the crowd that’s getting noisier, tugging on Paige’s arm, which is futile since we’re enclosed on all sides now. “The show will air in early June and—”
“I want a word with Paige Forrester,” a short man with a dark beard yells as he muscles his way through the crowd. He steps up and shakes a newspaper at Paige. “So you’re the Yank who thinks she’s going to tell us Brits how to have style?” He holds up what appears to be a British tabloid. “Have you seen this? It’s hot off the press and something that should interest everyone here.”
I stare at the grainy photograph, which appears to be of me and Paige, but I cannot for the life of me remember when or where it was taken. In the picture I’m standing by a white baby crib, holding a teddy bear, and Paige is on the other side of the crib with a startled expression on her face. The headline reads: “A Pregnant Paige Forrester Arrives in London to Teach Brits about Style.”
“Pregnant?” I turn and stare at Paige.
Her face pales and she slowly shakes her head. “That’s not true.”
“Who’s the father?” a woman calls out. “Benjamin Kross?”
“That baby should be some looker then,” someone comments with laughter. “Paige Forrester and Benjamin Kross having a baby together! There’ll be good money for whoever captures those baby pictures.”
I grab the tabloid and stare closely at the photo. Something about it is familiar, but then I realize it’s not what it seems. “This photo has been tampered with,” I yell out over the new flood of baby comments and questions. “Yes, that’s me standing next to a baby crib, but I was shopping with a friend—not Paige. I was with my friend who actually is pregnant. But someone must have taken a photo of Paige and stuck it on right here to make it look like a big story.” I shove the paper back at the man now. “Why anyone believes this kind of trash—or spends money on it—is beyond me.”
“I am not pregnant,” Paige says stiffly.
“You heard her,” I yell at them. “Now, please, excuse us before I call for security. Thank you for this very warm British welcome and this very lovely press conference!” And, with my hand still wrapped around Paige’s arm, I drag her along behind me as I push my way through the crowd and into the hotel where Fran is standing in the middle of the lobby just shaking her head.
“Good grief,” she tells us. “I thought I was going to have to call for backup. How did you manage to get caught by that group of media thugs?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” I turn to look at Paige who still looks fairly rattled.
Fran’s looking at Paige too. “Do you have any idea where they came from or how they knew you were staying at this hotel?”
“Well… it is the May Fair Hotel,” Paige says meekly as we proceed through the lobby. “The fashion hot spot.”
“Yes, but it’s not the only hotel in this neighborhood.” Fran looks suspicious. “How did they know what time you were arriving?”
Paige looks nervously over her shoulder as we wait for the elevator. “I … uh … I thought a little publicity … might be good.”
“You really did set that up?” I ask as we step inside.
“Not exactly.” She sighs.
“What do you mean not exactly?” I persist.
“Well, I suppose it kind of leaked out onto one of the social networks.”
“You mean you announced to the whole world what time we were arriving in London? And where we were staying?” I stare at my sister in wonder.
She gives me a blank look that says it all.
“No more giving out specific information,” Fran says as we ride up.
“But I thought publicity would be a good thing,” Paige says as we emerge on our floor.
“Tabloids saying that you’re pregnant with Benjamin Kross’s baby and picking out wedding gowns?” I demand. “That’s a good thing?”
“What?” Fran looks at Paige with a shocked expression.
Paige holds up her hands in a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know they would take that direction … or go that far. I didn’t know they would make up vicious lies about me!”
“Don’t you get it?” I ask her. “Paparazzi and tabloid reporters are like a runaway train—why would you even want to get on board?”
“Maybe I don’t … not anymore.” Paige makes a weak smile. “Let me off at the next stop, please.”
“It might be too late to get off.” Fran hands us our room keys. As I go into my room, which adjoins Paige’s, I think Fran might be right. This train has left the station. Hopefully we’re not heading for a serious wreck.
Chapter
13
The May Fair is a very fashionable and contemporary hotel. Quite posh, as Brits might say. Now some people might think “posh” simply means stylish. And people might assume it’s thanks to Victoria Beckham, who went by Posh back in her Spice Girl days. But I looked up the meaning of posh and was surprised to learn the word originated in the early 1900s. The initials P.O.S.H. were used on ships traveling between India and England, standing for “Portside Out and Starboard Home,” and this would be stamped onto the first class passengers’ luggage so that their luggage could be switched to the appropriate side of the boat … because first class passengers always occupied the shady side of the ship. If the story is true, this must mean that regular folks like me got to bake in the sun. But when I told Lionel my piece of trivia, he laughed and told me the story was an urban legend. True or not, I still like it.
Anyway, I’m completely pleased with my swanky hotel room and thankful I’m not sharing it with Paige. Of course, when I see Paige’s digs—a large comfortable suite—I do feel a tiny twinge of jealousy. I remind myself, however, that she is the star of On the Runway, and I agreed to let her stay that way. After her grilling downstairs, I think she’s paying dearly for her fancy accommodations.
It’s not long before Luis and Shauna show up and go to work on me while Paige changes her clothes and picks out an outfit for me to wear today. Meanwhile Fran has ordered room service and when we get the chance, we take turns getting a bite to eat. Finally, I change into the somewhat conservative outfit of a khaki wool skirt and black cashmere sweater and black ankle boots. Actually, I’m pleased with the outfit, but I’m surprised Paige was okay with it since we’re shooting today. Even the accessories are fairly low-key. Just a silver chain necklace, stud earrings, and a simple clasp bracelet.
“Here,” she says as she hands me a khaki Burberry trench coat, complete with their trademark plaid lining.
“You look nice,” I tell her as I slip on the new coat. “Is that Burberry too?” She has on a pale gray jacket and pencil skirt with a pink silk scarf tied loosely around her neck, as well as perfect accessories that, as usual, make a bit more of a statement than mine. And her shoes, gray suede ankle boots, are very chic.
She smiles and strikes a pose, then slips on a really gorgeous pale gray trench co
at. “All thanks to Christopher Bailey.”
“Who’s that?”
“Just the reason Burberry is selling a lot more than raincoats these days.”
“Well, we picked a good day to go to Burberry,” I say as Fran hands us our umbrellas. Mine is plaid and Paige’s is that same soft gray.
As we go down the elevator, Paige dons her oversized Gucci sunglasses and even rearranges her pale pink scarf to cover her hair, like she thinks she’s disguising herself. If anything, it makes her even more striking as we walk through the lobby and I notice that a lot of heads turn to watch as she strides toward the entrance. Fortunately the throng of media freaks has disappeared, probably off to torture some other unsuspecting celeb. And, because our car is waiting, we don’t even need our umbrellas.
“Chris Bailey started with Gucci,” Paige informs us as we drive through town. “He’s been with Burberry about ten years. He’s taken some heat too.”
“Taken some heat?” I question.
“Several years ago, Chris’s designs, particularly the ones with the Burberry plaid, became so popular that knock-off companies started reproducing them. For some reason British gangs and street kids couldn’t get enough. Their designs became part of what was called ‘chav’ culture, and Chris had to scramble to protect the Burberry image.”
“How did he do that?” I ask as I watch London scenery flashing by. I want to ask Fran if she knows what we’re passing, but Paige seems to be on a roll and I think it’s probably going to help her to get into gear for this next interview.
“Mostly he had to pull way back on the plaid,” she says as she checks something on her phone. “In fact, Burberry threatened to sue some automaker for producing a car that was painted in the plaid.”
Spotlight Page 11