I tied my hair up in a topknot and had a quick check through my phone. Three missed calls from Sara, six likes on Hinge (or unhinged as Chris called it) and one recurring name coming through on WhatsApp.
Pete:Hey Abi, not sure if you’re getting my messages, but I’m back at The Langham for a few days. I’d love to see you again.
Four messages in a row, none of which I’d replied to. He was keen. My mind flashed back to that night I’d met him in the sauna. The hiss of the coals as he’d doused them with water. The air, almost too hot to bear, as we’d accidentally touched and then somehow started kissing. TheLes Misérablescrew had bought me a spa day at The Langham, and I’d bumped into him there – quite literally – on my way back to the changing rooms. It was nearly closing time and I’d decided on one last sauna before I went home – little did I know I’d find a big, handsome,nakedman in there, lying legs akimbo on the bottom shelf.
‘Oh my… God! I’m so sorry…’ I’d said, frozen to the spot, as he leapt up and covered his nethers with a towel.
‘No, no, my fault entirely, I thought I was the only one down here.’ He spoke with an American twang. ‘We sauna naked in Arizona, so I was making the most of it. Don’t leave on my account – I’ll make myself decent.’
I decided to stay.
‘Peter Freeman… call me Pete,’ he’d said, with a sexy smile.
It had been nearly a month of no replies, but the messages kept coming. It was time to nip it in the bud.
Me:Hey Pete, back so soon! I’m in Ibiza for the next couple of weeks, sorry to miss you. Maybe see you next time you’re in town? Ax
That should do it.
The taxi pulled into my road, and I was glad to be back.
‘Thanks,’ I said, jumping out and digging around for my keys. I ran up the path as my fifty-something neighbour burst through the front door in his running gear. He jogged on the spot, as I swept straight past him.
‘Morning, Ned!’ I called, catching the door before it clicked shut.
‘Good night was it?’ he shouted after me as I ran up the stairs.
I laughed. ‘Up early this time, not out late.’Cheeky git.
The familiar smell of orange blossom welcomed me home as I wrestled my way inside with all my bags – there was no nicer feeling than walking into a freshly-cleaned flat. The black and white lino in the hallway was like a chessboard through to my small, neat lounge, with its bay window, fluffy rug, and IKEA sofa bed. And my oversized disco ball twinkled hello as I unzipped my boots, gave them a quick buff, and put them back on the shoe rack. The flat had cost me everything I had, in more ways than one, and it sometimes felt bittersweet to look around the place I now called home. I’d never have been able to afford even this tiny shoebox without Josh, so in a way, he was still here looking after me and keeping me safe. I threw a load of washing on and jumped in the shower to get ready for the party. Conditioning my hair and shaving my legs, then slapping on a load of moisturiser. I gave the shower a quick clean on the way out and balled up all the hairs that had wiggled out onto the floor. There was no one to unclog the drain if it got blocked up, and prevention was better than cure.
Ned had the right idea, but my daily 5k would have to wait. I put on my sparkly dress and put the kettle on to make myself a green tea. I spotted a couple of smears on the kitchen counter as I waited, so I whipped out my rubber gloves to give it a quick clean, rearranging the photos on the fridge and kissing the big one of Josh in the middle, like I always did when I got home. The latest postcard from Holly was stuck on with a magnetic bottle opener – a photo of her and her boyfriend Xavier, toasting me from their restaurant. She’d been living in Italy for two years now, and while they’d flown by for her, it had felt like forever to me. I missed her terribly. A fleeting visit back to London at Christmas wasn’t nearly enough time together, and having my best friend in Tuscany was great for easy holidays – not that I ever took any – but not so great when I needed a shoulder to cry on, an ear to bend or a plus-one for a wedding.
My phone started bouncing around the coffee table like a jumping bean as I buffed up the fridge with my Minky. I reversed out of my rubber gloves and flopped them into the sink, running over to snatch it up.
‘Hi, Phoebe!’
‘Alright, sweets? This is your pre-job courtesy call.’
‘Standard,’ I replied. Phoebe was my brilliant agent and a force of nature when it came to her clients. And I was no exception.
‘I know it’s Sunday, but just checking you’re ready for tomorrow?’
I felt a tingle of excitement that my first ever day on a film set was just one more sleep away. Phoebe had landed me my most exciting job to date and we were bothbesideourselves. Transitioning from theatreland to Hollywood had been on our collective wish list for a while now, but neither of us had been completely convinced it would ever happen.
‘Yes, Fairy Godmother, I’ve sharpened all my pencils, and my bag is packed. In fact, I’m so ready, my make-up trolley has been sitting by the front door for the past three days.’
I’d been working as a make-up artist for eight years now, and desperately trying to find a way to crack into the world of film, having done pretty much every West End show as well as the TV circuit. But this was my big break. I could feel it in my bones. LATV were filming their new blockbuster in London this summer –Moonmen– and they’d needed a make-up assistant at short notice. The girl who had been booked had broken her arm, and Phoebe had managed to get me in. I’d half-wondered if Phoebe had broken the poor girl’s arm herself, she’d been that keen to land me the job. I’d be assisting the person getting the actors into their moon heads. Part make-up, part wardrobe. And who better than the person who had done that exact job onPhantom,WickedandShrek. AKA me. I could turn anyone into anything, and I loved watching the transformation each time. Finally, a chance to get on the Hollywood make-up map.
‘They’ve got an army of make-up artists as you can imagine, but only the two of you getting the Moonmen into their heads,’ Phoebe said.
‘Any idea who I’ll be working with?’ I asked.
‘Yes… I’ve got it written down here somewhere.’ There was a clatter as Phoebe dropped her phone, ferreting around for her notes. ‘She’s called Lizzie or Lily... no, here it is – Lucy. Lucy Rowan. Doesn’t ring any bells. You?’
‘No, never heard of her,’ I said, feeling nervous. I hoped she’d like me.
‘Well, you’ll meet her tomorrow. In fact, you’ll meet everyone tomorrow as it’s an all-cast day. Even Blake Thomas, you lucky cow.’
