I was tempted to tuck into one of the bottles of Cristal champagne in the limo’s drinks cabinet. I certainly deserved it but I didn’t dare. It didn’t bear thinking about if a single drop got spilt on Miranda’s outfit.
Between us lay the £10,000 Caroline Crammond dress like an elaborate wedding cake.
Fashion philistine that I was, even I had to admit that the finished design was quite simply stunning. Made from blindingly white silk it was covered in six large, coloured lip prints, all of which were the same size, apart from one over the bottom which was twice as big. The strapless style was floor length and created to wrap around Miranda’s perfectly proportioned figure like an elegant glove.
It was unbelievable the amount of angst that had gone into all that simplicity. Should the silk be white, champagne or cream? How many lip prints should be hand-painted onto the fabric? Where should they go? Was the large one over the bum too suggestive or too vulgar? And as for the time it had taken to agree the colours! Should we go for muted shades? Should they all be bright? Coral Kiss, Minx Red, Candy Capers or Peach Pudding — the discussions were endless.
Colourful was definitely the way to describe the dress fittings, whether it was blue for Caroline’s language or red for Miranda’s temper, I’m not sure. Those sessions were better thanEastenders. From the moment Caroline whipped her tapemeasure around Miranda’s waist and uttered the words, ‘My, you’re deceptively thin’, war was declared.
Miranda was absolutely tiny; she made me feel like Gulliver which wasn’t helped by Caroline’s constant needle-like jibes. ‘You’ll need to breathe in more to be a size 6.’ They constantly tried to outdo each other, name dropping all the celebrities they allegedly knew. Their little black books must have been encyclopaedic.
* * *
The gilt-buttoned doorman snapped to attention the minute the Mercedes pulled up outside The Grayville. He was at the door fractionally before the car slid to a halt. Emily, completely forgetting herself, gave him her hand regally and, to his credit, he didn’t bat an eyelid as he pulled her from the car. It was left to Frank and me to manoeuvre the dress out of the back seat without marring its pristine surface.
Shuffling carefully into reception, Frank at one end of the dress and me at the other, we looked as though we were carrying a body. Emily was at the desk, key card already in hand, a man in a white Nehru jacket and impassive face waiting with her bag.
With its pale wood floors, brilliant white walls and sheer voile drapes, the hotel lobby looked more like an art gallery. Instead of upholstered armchairs and sofas, there were small white leather cubes dotted about in between elongated swirls of aqua-blue glass mounted on marble plinths. The whole effect, although chic, was cold and stark.
‘There you are, Olivia. We’re in room 201,’ said Emily coolly, in front of the ice-maiden reception staff, two almost identical blondes of exactly the same height, with neat, stylish chignons. They looked as if they’d been hand-picked to ensure that they matched the décor. However, when they assured me with icecoolfroideurthat they would ensure the dress was delivered to Miranda’s suite, I had every faith in their efficiency.
‘Miranda’s here. She’s already in the suite,’ Emily whispered in an excited undertone.
I checked the time. There was a twinge of pain as I twisted my arm to look at the tiny face of my dress watch. Phew, that was a good start. We were due to meet Miranda in her suite along with the stylist, make-up artist and hairdresser at half past five.
Miranda’s agent, who at the last minute had turned into a human being, had advised us in weary tones to ignore any temper tantrums and stand for no nonsense.
Emily, bouncing up and down beside me as we made our way to the lift, was asking for the fiftieth time that day, ‘Do you think the make-up lady will do my eyes for me?’ I was ready to throttle her.
Pulling this evening together over the last two weeks, I’d realised that incompetent didn’t begin to describe Emily. At home, in the flat, it didn’t matter so much. Forgetting to buy milk and toilet rolls was hardly life threatening.
Unfortunately, being scatty at work was a definite hindrance. I’d given up expecting anything useful from her tonight. As we got in the lift and I slotted in the key card to take us up to the penthouse floor, I decided it would be more useful if I got rid of her for a while.
‘Why don’t you go and find our room? Start getting ready while I go on up to the suite and see Miranda.’
Uncertainty flitted across Emily’s face. I could see she was torn. Should she make the most of the time to get ready? After all, it wasn’t everyday she got the chance to mingle with celebrities. Or should she maximise the potential of furthering a friendship with Miranda? They’d become quite chummy on the phone.
‘Mind you,’ I said with a sigh, chewing my lip and looking at my watch. ‘It’s going to be tight. Once I’ve seen to Miranda there won’t be that much time to change and tart myself up.’
Emily was out of that lift so fast I could see Road Runner-style trails of dust following her. She was probably picturing herself inHello!with the type of photo caption that read, ‘Emily Mortimer chatting with George Clooney at last month’s A-list premiere’.
Once she was gone, I breathed a small sigh of relief, relishing the quiet of the lift as it slid up to the top floor. The doors opened. This was no man’s land — only the rich and famous came this high. Up here the carpet was plush, the deep pile almost drowning my shoes as the heels sank in soundlessly. It was like a layer of snow absorbing any sound. I almost expected a large omnipresent voice to boom, ‘And what are you doing here, young lady?’
How stupid. I was a professional woman, doing my job. I could carry off being on Millionaire’s Row. Squaring my shoulders, I raised my chin a centimetre and walked with a long, confident stride. On the outside, in my best work suit, I looked the part.
Despite the length of the corridor, there were very few doors. The rooms must have been enormous.
I stopped and tapped firmly on one of them, without needing to check the name on the brass plate beside the door.
From inside the room I could hear Miranda, her trademark breathy voice replaced by a fishwife’s bark.
Bugger. It was too much to hope that this evening would be plain sailing. I drew myself up — I wasn’t going to be intimidated by Miranda. My extra inches serve me well in situations like this. The door was thrown open by the diminutive starlet.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she snapped, turning her back and walking away without even inviting me in. She was still in full flowharanguing the poor stylist. My arrival did nothing to interrupt her. I suspected it was going to be a very long evening.
Chapter Eleven
Is it possible to register dismay and delight on your face at the same time? My cheeks must have looked as if they were practising for rigor mortis. Daniel was the last person I expected or, in my frazzled state, wanted to see. There he was standing in our hotel room beside Emily, next to who I looked like a bag lady.
