Chapter 24
As expected, the day of Pim’s event was hectic.
Pim had been in a near-constant state of a nervous breakdown since the moment I arrived. The grand suite, which had once felt spacious, now seemed impossibly small – crammed with stylists, make-up artists, assistants, and various hangers-on, who all seemed to be talking over each other.
‘What if I forget everything I prepared?’ she kept asking, pacing about the room barefoot on the plush carpet, as the stylists tried desperately to get her to stand still long enough to finish her contour or zip up her gown.
We were still a few hours away from the show, but with the travel and time it took to get Pim ready, it was better to get her initial make-up and dressing done now before she got to the theatre.
‘You’ve got all your notes and Emily won’t let you slip.
’ Emily was currently sitting in her own suite going over talking points with her publicist, like a true pro.
She was calm, professional, and, unlike Pim, not currently causing a make-up artist to silently beg the heavens for patience.
‘Both of you have rehearsed this to the nines. It’ll be great. ’
‘It’s just muscle memory,’ a stylist said, somewhat desperately, as she held onto Pim by a zip, trying not to let it slip so that Pim was left standing in only her knickers and nipple covers.
‘I’m too old for this sort of dress,’ Pim said suddenly, batting at the stylist, so that I had to step in.
‘You look amazing,’ I said, standing in front of her so she had nowhere to go, and the stylist could finally zip her up and stand straight again. We all heard her back crack under the strain. ‘Just like a star.’
‘Not like a Met Gala freakazoid?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to look like I’m attending Heidi Klum’s Halloween party.’
‘You look like you’re going to Elton John’s Oscar after-party,’ I countered, gently pulling up the sleeveless gown at the sides so that it hugged in all the right places.
She looked amazing, and not just ‘for her age’, as the press would no doubt say, but just in general.
Her reflection in the full-length mirror was a study in elegance: navy silk clung to her curves, silver embroidery along the seams catching the morning light, making her look almost ethereal. But Pim wasn’t seeing that.
‘I look like Delia Smith.’
‘More like Nigella, if we’re going down the chef comparisons.’
‘So long as it’s not Jamie Oliver, I suppose it will do,’ Pim said, somewhat dejected, as she slumped back into her make-up chair and allowed the make-up artist to finish off her contouring as the stylist quickly whipped over a cape to protect the dress.
Taking a rare moment to myself, I stepped back, leaning against the cool marble wall, listening to the room as it hummed on; steam rising from a curling iron, the quiet snip of scissors, as someone made final adjustments to a hem, the spray of perfume and calls to ‘blot’ as Pim’s lipstick was applied.
A manicurist, waiting for her turn with Pim, joined me.
‘What are we going to do without you?’ she said kindly. ‘We wouldn’t even get a quarter of the way through the prep work if not for you.’
I smiled. ‘Oh, Alison will do a great job.’
‘Maybe eventually, but I don’t envy her the first few weeks.’
I crossed my arms, getting comfortable. ‘It’s something you pick up quickly, when you’re thrown in at the deep end. You either sink or swim.’
The manicurist hummed knowingly. ‘I doubt Pim was throwing many lifelines your way?’
I released a quiet laugh. ‘She’s not too bad when it’s just day-to-day. It’s only at events like these when she’s a bit tougher to handle. The trick is to be prepared for anything.’
As if summoned by my words, Pim suddenly cried out, ‘Evie!’ She was lifting her arm to wave me over, even though I was barely a cushion’s throw away.
‘I’m here,’ I said, appearing automatically at her side.
‘Is my bag packed?’
‘For the show?’ I asked. She nodded, irritated that I had to ask. ‘Yes. I’ve got your clutch for the stage, so you’ll have everything you need with you.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘A tissue, a breath strip, a soluble paracetamol, a nail file, all your notecards.’
‘Right, right,’ she said, clearly straining through her memory in case I missed anything. ‘And for after the show?’
‘Your larger clutch with room for your lipstick, extra tissues, hand sanitiser, chewing gum, standard paracetamol, blister plasters, foldable flats, a jade roller, and a small can of espresso martini.’
‘Right, right,’ she repeated, this time shutting her eyes and rubbing the space between them. Her make-up artist barely suppressed a groan as she undid twenty minutes of work with that one thoughtless gesture.
Then, to my surprise, Pim reached for my hand.
The room, sensing the shift in mood, instinctively scattered. Assistants busied themselves elsewhere, the manicurist pretended to be absorbed in her polish selection, and the stylists found clothes bags that suddenly needed attention.
‘You’ll be backstage?’ Pim asked quietly.
Her grip on my hand was firmer than I had expected, but I noticed the slight tremor, and squeezed it gently.
‘Of course,’ I replied.
She exhaled sharply, staring out of the window.
‘I feel like something is going to go wrong.’ Her voice was softer now, almost vulnerable, wound with nerves that were unlike any I’d seen Pim experience before.
Usually she’d be over-energetic, practically bouncing, unable to sit still.
But she was quiet and whispering, as if she didn’t want her nerves to know she was nervous. She only wanted me to know.
‘Nothing is going to go wrong,’ I said, desperately trying to reassure her as I stroked her knuckles with my thumb.
This wasn’t about tripping up on stage or missing a cue, it was about wanting it to matter.
She wanted to matter again. And I wanted her to know that she did matter, especially to me.
And that made me really want to make her smile.
‘The only thing that can go wrong is if I don’t get you to the theatre on time. ’
Pim’s lips quivered in an almost smile.
‘That’s still your job, for now, I suppose.’
I paused, still stroking her hand as I felt the tremors subside. I moved to stand in front of Pim’s chair.
‘I’m very pleased to do it,’ I told her sincerely. ‘You know, my leaving is not because I was unhappy, Pim.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You know every employee who leaves says that but never means it.’
Screw it, I thought. What have I got to lose in this moment.
‘You drive me crazy,’ I told her. ‘You’re incredibly bossy, entitled, sometimes irritatingly particular – but you never made me unhappy.’
I did my best to ignore the widening eyes and shocked glances from the make-up artists and manicurist as I continued.
‘I do wish I could get more sleep and didn’t have to clean up your dog’s poop or sneak in snacks to night shoots because production won’t allow assistants to eat at craft services.
I sometimes get annoyed at ordering three things from a menu for you to try, only to eat cold takeaway for my dinner.
And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bug me that after a long-haul flight, you get whisked straight into a taxi while I’m left waiting for the luggage and cramming it all onto a bus. ’
I let out a sarcastic laugh at the memory.
‘But… I love that you include me on set and ask for my opinion when no one else even acknowledges me. I love your runaway commentary of TV shows and having afternoon tea and dinners with you all over the world. I love that you have a wicked sense of humour and an adventurous streak – and that you always drag me along for the ride.’
I paused, feeling a warmth spread through me as I realised just how much these past years had meant.
‘Most of all, I’m grateful for all the opportunities you’ve given me over the last eight years.’
By the time I finished, I realised I was beaming – lost in the memories, in all the chaos, the frustrations, and the unexpected joy.
‘It’s time for me to move on and settle down,’ I said finally. ‘But I’ve never been unhappy.’
There was a gaping pause as I stood up, straightening my back, still smiling at Pim, who seemed frozen in one spot. ‘You’re going to do great tonight,’ I added, trying to bring her back round to herself.
She started to nod minutely, and then more actively.
‘Yes, I am,’ she said, looking around briefly. ‘Am I ever going to get my nails done, though?’
And just like that, the make-up artist, stylist, and manicurist flew back into action.
I wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t verbalised a response, or even so much as acknowledged my monologue of thanks.
That was hardly the Pim way. But, as the room filled with movement again, I found myself feeling a euphoric release.
I had said my piece, and somehow it seemed to have settled her, and me at the same time.
She now knew how I felt, even if she didn’t mark the moment in words. She didn’t need to.
The relief came quickly, settling physically somewhere near my diaphragm, as I watched her refocus on the task at hand. Whatever happened next, I could release any guilt I held for leaving my job – as it was a job – but in the knowledge that Pim could be my friend as well.
Even though I knew she’d never say it aloud. Or text me. Ever.
I’d know that deep down she cared that I cared, and that was more than enough.
Straightening as the feeling in my chest deepened, I said, ‘I’ve got a few errands to run’ to the team, though no one was really paying me that much attention now. ‘But I’ll see you at the venue.’
‘Are you not coming with us?’ a stylist asked suddenly, slightly out of desperation.
‘I won’t fit in the car,’ I pointed out, since all three of them would likely travel with Pim to the venue for final touches. ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Don’t forget to drop off my bags!’ Pim cried from her chair, my little outburst about my time with her already forgotten.
‘One of my errands!’ I called back, gathering the large travel bag I had already packed for the venue. The other errands were of a more personal nature.