“It’s a great lightweight coat that Sage can just shrug on over jeans or whatever. It’ll really suit the L.A. climate. And then she can wear flats or those boots I showed you before.…”
“Amazing collar.” She touches the gray frayed velvet.
“I know,” I say triumphantly. “I found it in this tiny boutique. The label’s new. It’s Danish. Now look at this skirt.”
I produce a minute denim skirt with ribbon edging, but Suze is still surveying the coat, her brow crumpled.
“So you’ve bought this coat for Sage? And all these other things?”
“Exactly! That’s the point of being a stylist. I found the skirt in a vintage shop in Santa Monica,” I add. “The owner customizes all the clothes herself. Look at the buttons!”
Suze doesn’t even seem to see the buttons. She reaches for a T-shirt, which would be perfect for Sage to wear when she’s hanging out at a coffee shop with Jennifer Garner or somebody.
“But, Bex, isn’t all this shopping costing you a lot of money?”
“Shopping?” I echo incredulously. “Suze, it’s not shopping. It’s investing in my job. And I usually get a discount. Sometimes I even get things for free. I just have to tell them that I’m shopping for Sage Seymour, and bingo!”
It’s amazing how excited shop owners get when you mention Sage Seymour. They practically throw clothes at you!
“But you’re not shopping for Sage Seymour,” says Suze flatly.
I stare at her, perplexed. Hasn’t she been following what I’m saying?
“Yes, I am! Of course I am! These things aren’t even my size!”
“But she hasn’t asked you to. She doesn’t even know who you are.”
I feel a twinge of resentment. Suze doesn’t have to remind me. It’s not my fault I have the crappest husband in the world, who refuses to introduce me to his celebrity clients.
“She will know who I am, as soon as Luke introduces us,” I explain patiently. “And then we’ll get chatting, and I’ll have all these looks ready for her and become her personal stylist. Suze, I’m building a whole new career!” I can see Suze is about to raise another objection, so I carry on hurriedly. “And anyway, I’m going to get double the use out of these clothes, because you’re going to wear them and I’m going to take your picture and I’m going to build up a portfolio.”
“Ooh.” Suze perks up. “You want me to be your model?”
“Exactly.”
“Cool!” Suze starts looking at the clothes with more interest and reaches for the coat again. “Let’s start with this.” She puts on the coat and I adjust the collar. Suze is so beautiful and willowy, she looks great in anything, and I feel a fizz of excitement at the thought of building up a library of amazing pictures.
I’ve been totally inspired by reading about Nenita Dietz on the Internet. When she moved to Hollywood twenty years ago, she didn’t know anyone. But she wangled her way onto the set of Love’s Breezing, marched into the office of the head of wardrobe, and wouldn’t leave until he’d looked at her portfolio. He was so impressed, he employed her immediately. And then the star, Mary-Jane Cheney, hired her as a personal stylist, and it all snowballed from there.
Well, I can do that too. I just need to put together a portfolio and get on a film set somehow.
Suze is now wearing the brocade coat, a beret, and a pair of sunglasses, and is posing in front of the mirror.
“You look fab,” I say. “Tomorrow I’ll do your hair and makeup and we’ll have a proper shoot.”
Suze comes back to the bed and starts riffling through a bag of skirts. “These are nice too.” She holds one up against herself and looks at the label. “Oh, they’re by Danny.”
“I phoned his office and they sent a whole bunch over,” I explain. “They’re from the new collection. You know, Sarah Jessica Parker’s assistant asked especially to see a sneak preview?” I add. “Danny told me himself.”
“Ooh, SJP!” Suze’s head pops up. “Is she in L.A.? Have you met her?”
“No,” I say, and Suze sighs.
“Haven’t you met anyone famous?”
This is what everyone has been asking me since I got back. Mum, Dad, our neighbors Janice and Martin, everyone. I’m tired of saying, “No, I haven’t met anyone famous.” And the truth is, I did meet someone famous, didn’t I? I mean, I know I promised to keep it a secret. But Suze is my best friend. Telling a best friend doesn’t count.
“Suze,” I say, lowering my voice. “If I tell you something, you can’t tell a soul. Not Tarkie, not anyone. I’m serious.”
“I promise,” she says, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
“I met Lois Kellerton.”
“Lois Kellerton?” She sits straight up. “Oh my God! You never told me that!”
“I’m telling you now! But I didn’t just meet her.…”
Suze is the best person to share stuff with. As I tell her about seeing Lois Kellerton shoplifting and about chasing her down the street, she gasps and puts her hand to her mouth and says, “No way,” several times.
“… and I promised not to tell anyone,” I conclude.
“Well, I won’t blab,” says Suze at once. “Anyway, who would I tell? The children? The sheep? Tarkie?”
We both start giggling. Tarkie probably has no idea who Lois Kellerton is, even.