I thought about getting in Suzanne’s car and driving away. I thought about the plane taking off and flying me halfway around the world. I thought about logging on to my computer on Monday morning and trying to write hilarious and heartfelt captions for British Sandwichweek all while Ren existed on the other side of the planet, hiking and bird watching and doing any number of things that didn’t include ever kissing me again.
‘That’s what I thought.’
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.
Myrna looked to the make-up artist, who was still cowering at her elbow. ‘This will do.’
‘So glad you like it,’ the make-up artist whispered as she reached for her cane and rose out of the chair.
Wrapped in her robe and wearing more jewels than Thanos, Myrna was a sight to behold. It all made sense. Wally never stood a chance against her. I gulped as she fixed me with a gimlet eye and just for a moment, I felt as though we were in one of her pictures. The colour seeped out of the room and there she stood in black and white, all the more formidable for it.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Did you ever hear the saying, it’s the fate of glass to break?’
‘No,’ I replied as I took my turn in the make-up chair, half-expecting a man in a trilby and a trench coat to burst through the door with a pistol in his hand. ‘What does it mean?’
She pointed at the vanity in front of me. ‘I’ve had that mirror for more than sixty years but one day, perhaps today, perhaps a hundred years from now, it will shatter into a million pieces. What might be unthinkable now is inevitable.’
‘What if I roll it up in bubble wrap and never, ever move it?’ I countered. ‘Should be pretty safe then.’
‘What’s the use of a mirror if you can’t look into it?’ she countered. ‘You can’t fight fate, Phoebe, darling. There’s only ever one winner in that bout.’
Right on cue, she spun around and with a dramatic flourish, disappeared into her walk-in closet, leaving me with many more questions and absolutely no answers, staring at myself in the unbroken mirror.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘Is that really my little sister?’
Suzanne took a step back and applauded as I descended Myrna’s staircase an hour later. My red gown fluttered as I moved, the silk sliding against my skin with the softest whisper, and I vowed never to wear my scratchy Primark tracksuit bottoms ever again as long as I lived. Or at least until I had no other clean clothes and couldn’t be bothered to put a wash on. The make-up artist had worked wonders on my face. I looked like the sort of woman who never stayed up eating Cheetos and watching Architectural Digest house tours until 3 a.m. but slept eight hours every night and drank gallons of the fifteen-dollar celery juice I made Suzanne put back in the supermarket.
‘When I got changed, I realized I had my knickers on inside out,’ I told her, accepting a delicate kiss on the cheek. ‘So yes.’
‘Well, you look incredible. Rachel Leigh Cook in the red dress inShe’s All Thatincredible and also before that because she was always gorgeous.’
‘And you’re hotter than post-makeover Anne Hathaway inThe Devil Wears PradaandThe Princess Diaries,’ I said as I doffed an invisible cap.
She tutted loudly. ‘There’s no wonder women feel so shit about themselves. Anne Hathaway did not need a makeover in either film.’
‘I don’t think we need to feel too bad for her, but you can always go and offer your condolences in person if you want.’ I pointed at a tall, gorgeous brunette across the room. ‘But that really is a killer dress.’
‘This old thing?’ Suze smoothed the figure-hugging black velvet of her strapless dress over her hips, her shoulders shining in the artfully designed low light of the lobby. ‘I bought it for some work charity event a couple of years ago and quite frankly it was wasted on them. Never attempt to dress up for a middle-aged man who wears the same hoodie seven days a week.’
Even though everyone had told me no one turned up to anything on time in Los Angeles, it was only just after eight and guests were already streaming through the doors, beautiful car after beautiful car pulling up to the front of the house and dropping off people I only ever expected to see on movie screens. Thanks to the security guards prowling the street, no one had managed to climb over the wall (today), but I could see the flashbulbs popping in the distance, trying to see through the tinted windows of the limos. It was a strange feeling, being surrounded by so many familiar strangers. I knew them but they didn’t have a clue about me.
A waiter hovered in front of us with a full tray of champagne coupes. Suzanne, ever the big sister, carefully picked two glasses and took a sip from each.
‘They’re very full,’ she said before handing one to me. ‘Don’t go spilling it on that dress.’
I rolled my eyes but accepted the drink, turning back to the entrance right as one of our favourite divas tottered in, head to toe in silver sequins, white fur stole slung low on her arms. Suzanne grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly without saying a word.
‘I know, I see her,’ I whispered. ‘Do you think she’ll sing?’
‘I’m not even sure she can breathe in that frock,’ she replied as the chanteuse teetered forward on vertiginous heels. ‘But I wouldn’t bet against it, especially if Myrna asks. I thinkI’dsing if she told me to, and let’s not forget I’m the only person who has ever been asked to stop mid-song on karaoke night at Popworld.’
‘“Someone Like You” is a very difficult song,’ I offered with great diplomacy.
‘It’s getting crowded in here,’ Suzanne said, wafting herself with her evening bag as another Oscar winning actor arrived and tripped up Myrna’s stairs. He was shorter than I’d imagined. They all were. We were leaving this party with a lifetime’s supply of celebrity anecdotes. Or at least one or two stories to submit to DeuxMoi. ‘Shall we have a look around?’
‘Let’s go out to the gardens,’ I suggested. ‘You’ve got to see them before it all starts popping off.’
