Chapter 3 #2
‘Thank you, I made it.’
‘Really?’ His face lit up. It really was a joyful jumper. ‘I’ll have to get the pattern off you. My girlfriend enjoys a bit of knitting.’
‘It’s a great hobby when passing the time in airports and green rooms,’ I said, smiling as I reached for my phone. ‘Want to be in a TikTok again?’
Charles scoffed but couldn’t hide his grin as he stood from his desk. ‘Only if I don’t have to dance this time.’
‘How about a wave and that dazzling smile?’ I lifted my phone to frame him. ‘Cheese!’ Charles added a playful hip bop for good measure, making me laugh. ‘I appreciate you, Charles,’ I told him, before gesturing to the coffee in my hand. ‘But I’d better get this upstairs.’
‘Of course. Have a good day, Miss Frost!’ He exchanged a wink with Tony, who was smirking in the doorway.
‘It will be your turn next, Tony!’ I called over my shoulder.
I distinctly heard Tony mutter, ‘Not bloody likely.’ As I skipped past the floral display in the foyer, where two florists were meticulously replacing wilting blooms with fresh arrangements. The busboy was patiently waiting by the lift, holding open the door.
‘Onwards and upwards,’ I narrated as I entered.
Pim’s suite was on one of the Savoy’s most exclusive floors, in a room that practically doubled as a luxury flat, with its own living room and a grand wardrobe, which Pim had made a point of filling so it would barely close.
She didn’t have a permanent home, preferring instead to rent storage units in various cities and multiple countries to be able to make a home wherever she landed.
‘A nomad isn’t a nomad if she can’t make a hotel room feel like home,’ she often said.
I opened the door to her suite with my keycard – Pim didn’t answer her own doors, especially this early.
I asked the busboy to hand me the bags, rather than following me just in case he glimpsed Pim without her make-up and hair done – a firing offence if ever there was one – before handing him a ￡20 note and wishing him a Merry Christmas as I wheeled the plate and cutlery inside.
‘And to you, Miss.’
I shut the door. The air was infused with the faint scent of Chanel perfume, and it triggered the return of my hangover. I had to keep those symptoms at bay as long as possible, and the best way to get over a hangover is to get on with it.
Without pause, I pulled open the curtains and hastened to add Pim’s breakfast onto a proper plate.
I moved into her bedroom. She was awake, propped against her mountain of pillows like a queen awaiting an audience.
Her raven-black hair was coiffed to perfection, not a strand out of place.
She wasn’t wearing make-up, but her skin gleamed with the dewy sheen of a ￡300 toner and gold-infused moisturiser, which made me think she had had a shower and blow-dried her hair, before she got back into her nightdress and robe.
She was a beautiful woman, not even for her age but just in general. A cross between Jackie Collins and Kristin Scott Thomas. Buxom, petite, and perfectly symmetrical, with large eyes that could pierce you. Eyes that were staring at me with benign frustration.
‘You’re late,’ she announced.
‘Am I?’ I glanced at the clock. 8.45. I was exactly on time.
‘Apologies,’ I said lightly, bringing her tray to the bed.
Don’t ever disagree with Pim Hardcastle, at least not directly, a lesson I had learned early on in my career.
‘I’ve brought you your breakfast.’ I laid the tray across her legs, and she looked over it for a moment before shrugging in a defeatist if I must way and began to eat.
‘My coffee?’ she asked mid-bite.
I placed the Starbucks cup on a waiting coaster on the side table. She insisted on drinking it straight from the branded cup, a quirk I found amusing. I tidied the room while she sipped her coffee, flipping through the magazines I’d placed at her bedside.
‘What’s on the itinerary today?’ she asked eventually.
‘We have the tech rehearsal at the Southbank in about an hour.’
‘My dry-cleaning?’
‘Hanging up in the dressing room,’ I said, having just finished that task. ‘Would you prefer to wear flats or heels?’
‘Heels, but pack flats. My ankles may revolt.’
I hastily pulled a pair of black ballet flats, which probably cost more than my monthly salary, from the shoe rack and placed them in my bag so I wouldn’t forget. ‘After the rehearsal, you’re having lunch with the BBC producer.’
She complained theatrically. ‘He’s such a bore.’
‘A bore organising the televising of Pim’s O’Clock.’ The name of her one-night event.
‘Who is going to pay for tickets to a one-night event if it’s just going to air on TV?’ she said tetchily, launching into a well-worn debate.
‘It’s more lucrative, and it lets all your fans, more than just the thousand in attendance, be part of it.’
‘Just a thousand,’ she scoffed. ‘One thousand dedicated, obsessive, and intelligent fans. It’s not a small thing.’
‘No, it’s not, but you have a lot more than one thousand dedicated, obsessive, and intelligent fans,’ I reminded her. ‘They’ll love to hear you speak.’
‘They can hear me speak whenever they like. It’s not like I’m a recluse; I’m on TV more than the King of England.’
‘Yes, but not like this. Ninety minutes, just you and your wonderful stories. They’re going to love it,’ I said, leaning into my role as personal cheerleader. Ego stroking should be a LinkedIn skill choice.
Pim waved dismissively and pushed her tray aside in favour of drinking her super-strong coffee. ‘You know I don’t like to talk about myself.’
Here we go. Time to pander to the queen of reality TV who makes her money by talking about herself.
‘I know, but your fans adore you. They want to be a part of your world. They look up to you,’ I said, settling into the chintz armchair by the window. Pim needed a healthy dose of ego stroking before she’d even consider getting out of bed. ‘I love hearing your stories.’
‘Well, you’re in a privileged position. Sworn to secrecy,’ she remarked, her beautiful eyes bulging with the reminder that what happened in her world stayed there. ‘Not that it matters to you any more. You probably don’t even mean it when you say you enjoy my stories.’
I smiled dolefully, lowering my phone with her itinerary into my lap.
‘I’m not leaving because I don’t enjoy my job. I’ve been with you for eight years,’ I reminded her.