6
The next week or so was a blur. It’s not often you find yourself smack bang in the middle of your dreams coming true, and so far I was giving the experience a solid ten out of ten. We’d managed to keep the news well under wraps externally, but keeping the rumours in check at the office proved a little harder. Tom eventually took things into his own hands and planted a story on the office grapevine that I’d be resurrecting ‘Alex @ Night’, which at least gave me a decent excuse to roam the halls occasionally. With two weeks to go until the show launch, the PR team had been called in to figure out the best way to announce Goldie’s departure and my debut. Goldie had been insistent that the announcements were made together, which I was grateful for. As far as I was concerned, it gave less time for people to speculate about who her replacement would be, and then be shocked/disappointed/angry when they found out it was little old me. It also meant that Goldie could control the narrative, which I assumed was the bigger motivation at play.
Every big PR campaign starts with a photoshoot, and every photoshoot begins with an outfit. The stylist had pulled a full rack of designer looks for me to try, and I squealed with utter glee that my first choice, a stunning Jacquemus blazer with matching pants in lilac, fitted like a glove. When teamed with the insanely high Louboutin stilettos I’d brought from home, my legs looked far longer than they ever deserved to. This was one act of deceit I would happily be complicit in. Once my outfit was locked in, I headed towards hair and make-up where Carla was waiting for me.
Carla was five foot three, Spanish, and the biggest rock and roller I knew. She’d started out her make-up career as a teenager working in music TV, and twenty-five years later was a treasure trove of insane stories, adventures and wisdom. On her first day of work experience as a fifteen-year-old, she met Dave Grohl. He remembered her two years later. That was the kind of effect she had. She rocked a jet-black mullet and a nose piercing like nobody’s business. She took zero shit from anyone and was completely unfazed by the world of celebrity (which is probably why so many celebrities wanted to party with her). We hit it off the day we met, and she’d taken me under her wing early on. Five years later and she was like my big sister. My big sister who was really, really, really good at hair and make-up.
I lay back for what felt like twelve hours (probably closer to two) while Carla worked her magic. I’d heard somewhere that Kim Kardashian spent two hours every single morning ‘in glam’, and wondered if she ever regretted all the time spent sitting in a chair, but then again I probably spent the same amount of time scrolling Instagram every day, and that had made me neither a sex symbol nor a billionaire.
Carla and I chatted while she worked, and I happily outlined every detail of my escapades on the island. And then, as was her custom, she encouraged me to close my eyes and meditate while she finished off my hair. This last ten minutes of quiet was a tradition she’d started with me early on, and it meant that I was always calm and focused by the time we finished and I was whisked off to perform whatever duties lay ahead. I loved Carla for it. I loved her even more when I opened my eyes and saw how hot I looked when she was done.
Once I was dressed, I took a couple of selfies in the mirror and sent them straight to Vanessa, which is what every self-respecting girl does when she knows she looks insanely good. Her response was to tell me to put my new-found face to good use, go out tonight and get laid. But, if I’m honest, that would have felt a little like catfishing.
Now, no woman likes being upstaged at her own party, but when Goldie walked on set five minutes later looking cooler and more beautiful than any woman her age (or twenty years younger) has ever looked in the history of the universe, I couldn’t help but clap. She was radiant. And she knew it.
For the next twenty minutes, we sat side by side on a chaise longue under bright lights, with Goldie at the forefront and me off to her left, while a team of photographers, stylists and make-up artists fussed about in our orbit. I hoped to God that my armpits weren’t sweating onto the borrowed blazer, and was halfway through a subtle pit check when I noticed Leo silently observing me from the shadows, arms crossed. The photography studio was on the same side of the building as his office so it wasn’t altogether surprising to see him there, and even less surprising that he was yet again wearing the same outfit. Did he have multiple pairs of those jeans or was he wearing the same ones every day? Would it kill him to mix it up a little?
Goldie clocked him at the same time as I did. ‘So how are things with the two of you? A little less icy than they were last week, I hope?’ she whispered in between camera flashes.
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘That doesn’t exactly answer my question, my dear. But I’ll take your word for it.’ She paused, as if she were thinking. ‘You know, I’d never set you up to fail.’
‘I know. Like I said, I promise we’ll be fine!’
‘But?’
‘Well. There is just one thing. And I hope you don’t mind me asking.’ I moved closer towards her and lowered my voice to a whisper. Goldie leaned in. ‘You see, when I first saw him at the bar, he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. And the next day he was. I just—’
Goldie pulled away and put her right index finger in the air as if to hush me, her piercing blue eyes looking directly into mine. ‘Are you asking me whether he’s a cheating, lying bastard?’
My face was deadpan. ‘Well, to be fair, this industry is full of them.’
Goldie raised her eyebrows knowingly. ‘True. But Leo Billings is not one of them. You have my word. I think in time you’ll find a perfectly reasonable explanation. In the meantime, I wouldn’t make any more assumptions.’
My heart sank. I felt like an idiot for bringing it up.
‘Right. Sorry, Goldie, I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘None of that, my dear. Now let’s hurry these clowns along. My armpits are three flashes away from sweating through the Valentino silk.’
Minutes later we gathered around the monitor as the photographer’s assistant scrolled through hundreds and hundreds of images, any of which I would gladly have printed on my tombstone. Goldie picked her favourites, I agreed, and we were done.
As I began the retreat back to my dressing room, Leo emerged from his spot in the corner and whispered something to Goldie. A moment later he was jogging towards me to catch up.
‘Alex, can I grab you for a second?’
‘Of course.’
‘Great. We can do a West Wing walk and talk,’ he replied.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him know that The West Wing was my all-time favourite show (thanks to Uncle Billy forcing me to binge it with him one Christmas when I was twenty). Bonding over a favourite show was something you told someone you wanted to be friends with, and despite Goldie assuring me in a roundabout way that he wasn’t a horrible person, I wasn’t ready to be friends with the guy.
‘What’s up?’
‘A trip to London. This week. For an exclusive with Tilly Roy. We’ll air it during show launch week.’
I nonchalantly pulled out my phone and scanned my calendar app. ‘Hmm, I’ve got quite a bit on this weekend, so I think I’ll have to pass. But thanks for the offer.’
Leo stared at me in silence. I tried my best to look as serious as possible as I held his gaze, but it only took a moment for him to realise I was pulling his leg. This time I squealed twice as long and twice as loud as I did when the Jacquemus blazer fitted perfectly and without thinking threw my arms around him, squeezing him in a bear hug as I jumped up and down gleefully. I quickly remembered the twelve litres of foundation that had been applied to my face, and also the fact that he was my boss (who I had just decided not to be friends with), and let him go.
‘London is my favourite city on the planet and I love Tilly with unending passion. And if you need some entertainment, you can come with me to see Tom’s reaction when we tell him. He does this really elaborate fake pass-out thing, which always goes down a treat.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Just so it’s all clear in your mind, the Goldie announcement will be made to press tomorrow at 9 am, so it’s going to be a big day. You’ll have a lot of press calls, which the PR girls will sit in on. Then we fly the following evening. We arrive Wednesday night local time, and the interview isn’t until the following night so we’ve a bit of time to settle in and prepare.’
We? Did he mean he was … coming with us? I took a step back, surprised.
‘Leo, this isn’t my first Tilly Roy interview. And Tom and I have done dozens of these trips … it’s nothing new.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not coming to babysit. I’ve got some network business to attend to anyway, the timing was just lucky.’
I gave him a quizzical, disbelieving look. ‘Sure, Leo. Well, I can assure you I’m not going to ditch Tilly Roy and go on a thirty-six-hour ketamine bender with some randoms I meet in Soho. I’m a pro.’
He furrowed his brow, still trying to figure me out. The ketamine call may have been a step too far. ‘I promise I won’t get in your way. I’ll just be … there if you need me,’ he replied, his forced casualness both obvious and awkward. Like a parent chaperoning a Year 12 formal.
‘Which I’m sure we won’t,’ I quipped matter-of-factly.
‘Even better. Hey, Goldie also mentioned you had some sort of a friendship with Finley Stark? Might not hurt to see if you can tee up something there too?’
‘Of course. I’ll shoot him a text once I scrub all this off,’ I replied breathlessly, pointing to my face.
‘Yep, good idea.’
I looked back at him, puzzled.
‘I mean, you look good. I just can’t imagine it feels nice to have all that stuff on your face.’
I continued to stare. He was looking more stressed by the second.
‘I’m going to stop talking and head back to my office. The photos of you and Goldie look great.’
I decided to ignore the implication that I was an ogre who’d been magically transformed into something more palatable, instead making a beeline for Tom’s desk, where half the office was treated to one of his best fake pass outs yet.
That afternoon, I sat at Tom’s desk mentally planning my London wardrobe. He sat next to me booking tickets to West End musicals and loudly serenaded us all with his rendition of the Dear Evan Hansen soundtrack, complete with original choreography. An email appeared in my inbox from a somewhat familiar name. Intrigued, I opened it straight away.
Hi Alex!
You absolutely don’t know me, and I hope to God this email isn’t weird BUT I’m Georgia Jones. I’m a senior producer on Darren’s show. (I know. Stick with me!)
I won’t beat around the bush. If the rumours are true about you coming back then I want in. I don’t care if I need to be the coffee-run girl in order to make that happen. Which would be a massive waste of my talent but a demotion I would gladly take if it means working with you (badass, talented woman) instead of He-who-is-none-of-those-things.
I know it ain’t kosher to email talent directly, but in this instance, I figured I’d shoot my shot.
Tell me what I gotta do and I’ll do it!
Again, hope this isn’t weird.
x Georgia (the brunette with the sharp bangs who sits by the window)
I tapped Tom on the shoulder, beckoning him to come and read the email. He scanned it quickly.
‘I mean it’s gutsy. I’ll give her that,’ he said, slightly amused.
Another email notification appeared on my screen. Georgia had emailed me again.
PS: Yesterday I caught Darren searching his own name on ‘celebrity foot finder’.
‘Hire that bitch or I’m quitting,’ Tom proclaimed, before returning to his showtunes. Famously impossible to please, his instant acceptance was an encouraging sign. He’d once had someone moved to another show because their perfume ‘smelled too cheap’.
I raised my head above the cubicle and scanned the room in search of a brunette sitting near a window. I caught Georgia’s eye straight away. She looked unsure. It had been a risky move. A risky move that was about to pay off.
Georgia. Gutsy move. Give me twenty-four hours.
Alex York, 2:33 pm: Remember that time we went to London and I got so drunk I fell in the gap at the tube station?
Vanessa Blake, 2:50 pm: LOLLLLLLL. And you spewed all over BOTH our beds.
Alex York, 2:51 pm: I’m going there for work this week. Come! You can bunk in at my hotel!
Vanessa Blake, 2:52 pm: Ugh. My boss is away so I’m running the dive school for the next fortnight. Lame. What’s in London?
Alex York, 3:00 pm: Tilly Roy.
Vanessa Blake, 3:01 pm: Your fucken life, man. Speaking of bosses—is Leo coming?
Alex York, 3:05 pm: Yep.
Vanessa Blake, 3:0 pm: Boo. Don’t spew on his bed.
Alex York, 3:0 pm: We were nineteen! My tastes are far more refined now.