“Yes. It’s vague enough and there’s no controversy.” I sipped at the tea, immediately feeling more human. “They’ll speculate why we were meeting in a cheap hotel.”
“Let them speculate. It doesn’t have much substance. This interview…”
“I’ll mention Ryan. Let them know about the photos.”
Jas nodded. “I will do. You ready to start?”
I stood up and smiled, straightening my shoulders. The show went on. It had to.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
We started with the photos. It was editorial in style, which were pretty much the only shoots I’d be asked to do now. That was fine, it fitted in better with the roles I was hunting, wanting to avoid the comedic, easy viewing scripts and be sent meatier characters that I could find a depth with.
They had me wearing three different designers. Long flowing dresses to my ankles, which inevitable got caught while I stood on the windowsill of an arched window through which the London light fell dramatically. I back-bended over an antique chesterfield sofa wearing just a bra that was almost sheer and a maxi-skirt that made me remember ballet lessons when I was seven, and I felt like an effervescent princess.
My favourite part of the shoot was in the hotel’s ballroom, that had been emptied for us, apart from furniture that had been shrouded by sheets, giving an air of a deserted palatial house, and I was its ghost. I got to play my parts wearing clothes I’d think several times about buying, and with a photographer who was as good as any director I’d worked with before.
“You should model,” he said to me before packing away his camera. “And you’ll want some of these photos for your wall. They are stunning.” He held up his hand in an okay sign and left me to the mercy of my interviewer, me still wearing the tiny white dress that made my legs look impossibly long.
We were back in the hotel room with the arched window, the neutral furnishings making it seem like something from an upmarket interior décor catalogue.
Camille, my interviewer, was wearing a black pant suit, the cut of which looked bespoke. Her hair and make-up looked like she’d already spent an hour in the chair this morning, and if she’d done it herself, I was jealous. I said as much as the waitress brought me a pot of tea.
Camille just laughed, and glanced at her tablet, which was probably where she had her notes stored. “It’s a pre-requisite for working for the magazine that we’re always dressed up. I suppose it’s a positive – there aren’t many jobs that give you the opportunity to dress up every day.” She glanced at my dress. “Do you want to get changed?”
I glanced down at me too. I did not want to get changed. I really liked this dress and I was happy to keep it on in the hope that no one would ask for it back. “I’m good. Thank you.”
“It looks fabulous on you. What designers do you like to wear? You have quite a few premieres coming up, and I’m sure there will be a queue of people wanting to dress you.” She was using her tablet as her notebook, a stylus ready in her hand.
“Is this being recorded too?” I was always assuming interviews were; that was the safest thing to do, because a good journalist could lull you into a sense of security and you could give something away that you didn’t mean to.
There was a nod from my interviewer, and a brief smile. “Is that okay?”
“Sure.” Although she should’ve asked for my consent first, something I’d get Jas to offer feedback on. “I’m not sure there will be a queue of people wanting to dress me. It would be nice.”
“You’re becoming one ofthenames to watch, so I’ve already heard that there are four designers desperate to have you wearing them for the Oscars. Who do you usually like to wear?” Camille wasn’t holding back.
I prattled on for a few minutes, entering into a discussion about upcoming British designers, Camille telling me who she’d heard was looking to entice me into wearing one of their dresses for the awards season. I knew there were a thousand more important things in the world right now, but fashion and pretty things were an escape. They would be mocked for being superficial and maybe they were, but if one spent all their life on only things worthwhile, would we find as much pleasure? I always enjoyed a little indulgence.
Which made me think of Ryan.
We’d both indulged, and now we were going to have to pay for some of that.
“Otter, I found out today that you’ve been dating someone for quite a few months.” She sat up straighter, eyes glinting, because she’d know that she was the first person to be able to ask me about this. It was an exclusive, which would’ve been promised to her by Jas, probably agreed by Ryan and his team. “Ryan O’Connell. How did you meet?”
Shit.
Double shit.
We hadn’t discussed what we wanted to tell the media, so I guessed it would be the truth, maybe without the details of the orgasms.
“We were both stuck at Houston Airport when a tropical storm grounded our flights and happened to get chatting. We’ve kept in touch since, although with our schedules, we don’t get to spend a ton of time together.” I gave my sincerest smile. I’d needed more than five quick minutes to get our stories together before this.
Camille’s smile was predatory, and I braced myself for more questions, plastering a relaxed expression on my face and praying that she stuck to what I could answer.
I got to keep the white dress.
The photographer knew the designer well, and he’d sent him a photo of me wearing it. Before I left the hotel, the stylist found me and let me know he’d gifted it to me. I’d had a few outfits gifted in the past, but none I’d coveted this much.
