by Foster, Zoe
‘No, but in all the Mads drama I forgot to ask what you’re doing tomorrow night?’
It was Friday, her big night in. She was doing nothing.
‘Chels, you know what I do on Friday nights …’
‘When you’re seventy I’ll accept that as a valid excuse. But not when you’re young and hot. You’re coming to dinner at Cirque with Jeremy and some of his friends. Half because I want you to meet him; half because his friends are probably potential husband material.’
Abby sighed. ‘Really?’
‘Really. See you there at eight. I would offer you a lift, but Porsches have only two seats …’
‘You’re such a wanker. Oh shit, you know what, I actually might not be able to get there, I just remember—’
‘Don’t start, Abs …’
‘No, I’m serious, I have a job down at the pier and the girls – there are ten of them – are in full costume, and it’s a new client, and I want to make sure no one’s arses are being pinched.’
‘Don’t you have those thugs for that very purpose?’
‘Yes, but the client is new, and they have about four billion alcohol clients, so it’s worth me sticking my head in for an hour to suck up and check the girls – and the clients – are behaving.’
‘Alright,’ Chelsea sighed petulantly. ‘So what time?’
Abby sighed. Chelsea was factory set to ‘bully’ and there was no point arguing. ‘I’ll come for a drink after, at around, I dunno, ten. Will that suit your highness?’
‘It will have to do. Dress sexy. Kisses!’ And she’d gone. She was such a brat, Abby mused to herself. She knew a lot of her second-tier friends thought Chelsea was a bit of a nightmare, and couldn’t quite place how Abby could be such close friends with her. But Chelsea, like Mads, were as good as sisters to Abby. She forgave them their foibles and they offered her the same courtesy. At thirty-three Abby wasn’t taking applications for new friends, and she knew no one she could be as brutally frank with, and as relaxed and genuine around, as the girls. She loved them. Full stop. No exceptions.
Abby arrived at work to find only Angie, who told Abby the bookers were at lunch; they’d been gone for over an hour and should be back any moment. Abby walked through to her desk and sat down to get to work, an enormous double skinny ‘flatte’ in her hand. Forty-five minutes later Charlotte and Siobhan came into the office, laughing and swinging bags plump with new goods, and complaining they felt sick after that Mars Bar.
Abby sent Angie an instant message.
A, how long have the girls been gone?
not sure, abt 2 hours I think but im not positive
One of their birthdays or anything?
nope
Ok, thanks.
Little shits. They were taking two-hour lunches now, were they? And so ostentatious! Walking in with their loot and laughing as though they haven’t a care in the world, or a lick of work to do, or a boss who was right in front of them, watching it all.
Not one for confrontations, Abby began creating a savage, but subtle email to let them know she was onto them. Abby was about to hit send when she realised their audacity was actually a gift: If they didn’t have much work to do, then there wasn’t enough work. This was a blessing! It would feel a lot more justified laying them off, if there was evidence of scarce work.
What a shame Angie was so young and inexperienced. She had just the kind of work ethic Abby’d need once she moved so much of the business online: diligent, intuitive, conscientious, self-aware … Was she that young? Was age really of that much consequence if she had the smarts and the drive? Was it worth training her up a little? Abby felt like it very much might be. Angie would always need time for her castings and band gigs and frog-catching and whatever new talent she was pursuing that week, but that was okay, as long as she was always near her phone and had a laptop – between Abby and the website, surely that would be enough staff to manage thirty models and, say, five to ten jobs a week.
But then, thought Abby, what about when she wanted to travel for extended periods? She’d need someone she could send along to check on the girls. Someone authoritative, someone who would whip them into line – and the client too – if there was any funny business. Just a few weeks ago four girls had been booked for a corporate boat cruise with the simple expectation they would serve drinks and provide scintillating conversation from 7 to 10 p.m. When Abby got a call from one of the girls saying that it was less of a corporate shindig, and more of a surprise buck’s night – something Abby never allowed the girls to work at – and they were docking at one of the guys’ houses to take the party inside, Abby had needed to be around, sober and in driving distance, to get there and rescue her girls. She would never leave them as sitting ducks where drunk, obnoxious men were concerned. They were on her books; they were her responsibility.
She’d toyed with the idea of providing the girls with a driver to take them home, but often the girls went out after a job, or wanted their boyfriends to pick them up, so it appeared to be a superfluous cost. Like that time she’d bought each of the girls a walkie-talkie the size of a twenty cent piece, with the idea they could wear them while on the job, and contact each other if they needed assistance. Half the girls lost them before they’d even had a chance to wear them, a few who did bother to bring and wear them complained they emitted small zaps, and a handful spent the night making fart noises into them to the amusement of the other girls.
Perhaps she was being overprotective, Abby thought. These girls were all in their twenties, some were in their thirties, even if their passport was the only one brave enough to admit it, and they should be able to look out for themselves and each other. But if things got hard or there was a sniff of something that seemed inappropriate, they called Abby. From bringing the wrong shoes, to outfits that were too slutty and girls who no-showed, there was barely a shift that went flawlessly, and didn’t result in at least one call or text from a model. It was probably her own fault, she realised with chagrin. She’d trained them to think with Abby’s brain, not their own.
Abby placed her elbows on her desk and her head between her hands. Why had she chosen an industry based on pretty girls? They’d spent their whole lives having people wanting to make life easy and enjoyable for them, and now she was doing the same thing. She should’ve become a cake-decorator instead.
13
‘I can’t find my gloves!’
‘Nat, does your dress fit right? Mine’s too big in the tits; think ours got mixed up.’
‘My ass looks YUGE in this. I can’t go out there wearing this … Ohmygod. You can totally see cellulite. Geross.’
‘GIRLS.’ Abby had to bellow to be heard above the high-pitched statements of fictitious body fat and ill-fitting outfits and the band warming up.
‘You all look incredible. That’s why you were chosen for this job, and that’s why you’re here, and that’s why you chose this profession, because you know you’re gorgeous. So shut it. Now, you need to be ready in three minutes, and you need to look perfect. Remember, this is a new client and potentially a very lucrative and long-lasting one, so I need you all at your sparkling best. Use whatever means you must to be that. Mints, energy drinks, water, lollies, nuts and crystal meth are by the door.’
The girls laughed and then went back to applying gloss, bronzer, concealer, perfume and gently scrunching their perfectly rollered curls to keep the bounce. They looked outstanding, Abby thought, very Julie London. All thigh-high splits and sequined gowns, elbow-grazing gloves, costume jewellery, red lipstick and luscious, smooth curls care of a small team of makeup and hair artists … 1940s nightclub singers was a splendid theme. Much better than ‘sexy bunnies’, which is what the event manager had initially requested.
After peering through the curtains for thirty minutes, watching the usual palaver in which sober men tried not to stare at her girls, the same men who would not one hour later be openly ogling them, and then two hours later, brazenly, pitifully trying to chat th
em up, Abby felt a gentle tap on her shoulder.
‘Abby?’
A pretty, small girl with a full fringe, shoulder-length brown hair and a red shift dress was smiling at Abby. She looked like she might be Audrey Tatou’s little sister. With a penchant for earpieces and clipboards.
‘Sorry to scare you, I’m Charlie. Charlie Brewster?’
THIS was Charlie? Abby had assumed it was a male she’d been dealing with all this time. She tried to recall if she’d ever hinted at such in emails …
‘Hi! Charlie, great to meet you. You must be relieved it’s finally here, huh? You’ve been working on this for months …’
‘I’ll be relieved when the clock strikes eleven and we get to kick all these schmucks out.’ Both women laughed.
‘Hey, thanks for all your hard work with the girls and their outfits. They look so cool. At first I wasn’t sold on the glittery Jessica Rabbit evening gowns, just so you know, but your girls look amazing.’
Abby smiled and Charlie smiled back; she had an adorable gap between her front teeth, it added to her cute, quirky French girl appeal.
‘Now, can I get you some relaxation nectar? Ooh, I know: Some Drimms Whisky perhaps?
Abby laughed. ‘I don’t drink brown spirits – flashbacks of being a weepy, spewy mess at teenage parties – but if you have wine I’d love a glass.’
‘Tried whisky, dry and lime? It’s good. Trust me.’ Charlie looked at Abby with her big brown eyes and a mischievous grin, nodding quickly as the clincher in pulling Abby’s decision into the affirmative.
‘I’ll try one on your recommendation. But if I end up in the corner sobbing because Brendan Winter won’t pash me, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.’
‘Ladies and gents, please welcome our newest member to Team Whisky! I’ll be back in twelve seconds.’
Abby watched her slip through the curtains and into the opulence of the party, a little girl among giants. What a dynamo! Abby liked her immediately. She was so cool. And what an impressive event she had produced. Abby was always very supportive of females at the top of their game. There wasn’t nearly enough back-slapping in female business.
As Abby scanned the room again, something in the corner of the bar caught her eye. It was Natasha and Sabrina, looking around furtively as they each quickly slammed a shot of whatever the handsome devil behind the bar had given them. What was their caper? They were supposed to be the eldest, the most responsible, Abby’s Best in Show! Abby watched as they laughed and walked away, laughing into each other with linked arms, playing best friends at high school. Abby’s breath had started flowing through her nostrils, and her hands were jammed tightly into each other across her chest when Charlie returned with two glasses, her clipboard tucked under her arm.
‘Heeeere we go’, she said, passing one to Abby. ‘I’ll bet my bike that you’ll like this. It’s the girliest way you can drink whisky without being beaten up by cowboys— hey, you okay? You look much more likely to throw something than when I left.’
Abby smiled as she took a sip. To her surprise, it was kind of delicious. She took another one, quickly, hoping the alcohol would burn up her fury.
‘Bah, it’s nothing. I just saw two of my girls; the two I would consider my best, slamming shots of something at the bar. They know they’re not allowed to drink on the job. Shits me to tears.’
‘Phillipe. If the guy who served them was the best looking man you’ve ever seen, that’s Phillipe. He’ll butter them up like a dinner roll in five seconds flat. Could make a virgin take the lead role in a porno. Trust me, they’re dealing with means beyond them.’
Abby looked to see if Charlie was kidding, but as she earnestly sipped from her glass and cocked her head to listen to something coming through her headpiece, she looked absolutely normal.
‘What do you mean, exactly, by that?’
‘Girls are powerless against him. It’s well-known in the events industry that Phillipe will brainwash your female staff, woo them, seduce them, make them forget they have a boyfriend and have them in his bed before the dawn. He’s like … I dunno, a sex wizard or something. It’s amazing to watch.’
‘He sounds kind of gross, actually.’
‘No, no, he’s a dish. French accent. Body you’d be stupid to put clothes on. Smart. Plays the guitar. Funny. He doesn’t do any of it deliberately—’
Abby sighed. ‘Alright. I’ll let the girls off. But I might go out and survey how many of them are walking around half shitfaced thanks to ol’ Frenchy.’
Charlie smiled. ‘I’ll see you out there. The client is already pissed and has just told me he wants every guest to leave with a bottle of his best whisky. Which we don’t have. But must find.’ She slurped the last of her drink and placed her glass on the table. ‘Whisky me luck.’
Abby laughed. She liked Charlie. She was ballsy. She must get her number; maybe they could form a work relationship, throwing each other business where possible.
Before she walked out to make sure Phillipe was not drugging any of her girls, Abby checked her makeup in her compact, gently powdered down some shine on her nose, and applied a new layer of nude lipgloss. She’d opted for a bit of a smoked eye tonight, over her usual bare eyes and red lips. She’d mussed up her hair a bit too, it was getting long and wispy and her highlights needed re-doing desperately, but she kind of liked how it had worked out tonight. Add her fitted olive green dress and new nude heels, and she looked pretty good. Chelsea’s Porsche-driving mates would not be disappointed, she nodded smugly to herself.
‘Having fun, ladies?’ Abby sidled up to her shot-skolling jazz singers, close enough that she could pretend to have smelled their breath. ‘Whoa, who’s been drinking?’ Abby threw the question up hoping it wouldn’t get shot and fall back to earth with a blazing gun of denial.
But she’d forgotten who she was dealing with here: Pretty girls. They always had a bloody answer for everything.
‘The guy behind the bar told us it was a mock-shot. It has no alcohol in it,’ said Sabrina, yelling over the music.
‘And you believed him?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. I don’t care if it’s full of rocket fuel or lemonade; you cannot be seen slamming shooters while you’re working. Come on, girls, you know this. And I saw you do it with my own eyes, so don’t deny it. Just be smarter, please? I rely on you two to be a good example to the others.’
Natasha looked sheepish, Sabrina more like she was trying to construct a physical force field of immunity against being in trouble.
‘Okay, you two. Have a good night. No more drinking till you clock off and are out of costume.’
Abby turned around and politely waited while four very drunk men in front of her tormented another drunk man, who apparently had just been brutally rebuffed by one of her girls. Good. She’d taught them well. Finally she was able to sneak past, and scanning the room one last time for all her girls, she made her way to the backstage area. Just as she was about to reach for the black curtain she felt a tap on her left shoulder. Expecting Charlie, she turned around with a wide smile. And was faced with Marcus.
‘Oh, God, I was expecting someone else,’ she said, her hand flying to her heart in shock.
He was wearing a dark maroon velvet suit, with a white shirt, black buttons and a black bow tie. If she didn’t know who he was, she would assume he was in the band, famous or gay.
‘Your fiancé?’
She peered at him to see what his eyes were saying. Was he challenging her to lie? Or was he genuinely asking her? She couldn’t tell. Just as in the meeting the other day, he was terrific at halting any kind of emotion before it could sneak out via his eyes or smile. He’d make a terrific blackjack player.
‘No, a colleague actually.’
‘I thought the sexy jazz birds might have been the workings of Allure,’ he said, nodding his head back to the heaving, loud chaos behind him.
‘Because you’ve studied them on the website? Or because they’re
gorgeous?’
He grinned. ‘Bit of both … Did I stop you from doing something?’ He gestured to the curtain. She could smell the warm scent of whisky on his breath, which was probably true of 100 per cent of the people in this ballroom, staff included.
‘I was just leaving, actually. But I needed to find Charlie first.’
‘Is Charlie your fiancé?’
Abby blinked a few times as she tried to comprehend his bolshiness and the question.
‘Nooo, Charlie is a woman, and she is the event manager. What’s the preoccupation with my fiancé?’
‘Well, mostly … I’d have to say it’s because I don’t think you have one. You’re not wearing any rings for starters, you have a very feminine house and, I don’t know, you just don’t strike me as a philanderer.’
Abby crossed her arms. ‘And why not?’
‘You’re too elegant. And smart. And careful. And pedantic. The guilt would drive you insane.’
Abby tried to cram the smile spreading over her face back into her mouth. He was too smart for a kid. Way too smart. She had an irresistible urge to kiss him. His smiling lips were very attractive all of a sudden.
‘What if I knew he was cheating on ME, and you were a retaliation cheat?’
‘I’d say you should call off the wedding.’
Abby laughed. ‘Alright, Sherlock. You’ve got me. Tell me, did you already know I was lying in your very first email?’
‘Of course. Knew you wouldn’t admit it, though. Too careful, like I said. Figured it was something you said to guys you didn’t want hanging around.’
‘Okay. But riddle me this; how did you know it was me when you got that email?’
‘You told me you owned a brothel called Allure when you were trolleyed the other weekend. Just before you ushered me into a taxi so that no one would see you were “kidnapping” me.’
Abby covered her eyes with one hand in shame. ‘I didn’t. Did I?’
‘You did. Luckily Google quickly led me to your not-brothel website when I was stalking you. You know, after you kicked me out into the street at dawn?’ He grabbed two potent, Long Island Iced Tea looking things off a tray floating past and held one out to her. Abby checked her phone. It was only just nine. She had time for one drink …