Talk to Me (14 page)

Daniel stamped his foot on the accelerator and swerved into the fast lane, his jaw tight with concentration. Sometimes his brother didn’t deserve a response. He took everything back. The little shit was shallower than a puddle in the Sahara.

Fifteen minutes passed before Sebastian piped up again. Daniel had tuned out his presence focusing on the drive time show on Radio 5.

‘So, what’s the deal tonight? Who’s the boss? Emily or Olivia?’

Daniel’s mouth turned down. Good question. Whenever he had spoken to Emily this week he’d had an earful of her woes. He sympathised to an extent, he could understand that Emily felt disappointed that she hadn’t got the promotion and felt she’d been a victim of office politics, but, he sighed out loud, after a while you just had to get on with it.

‘Whatever you do, don’t make a big deal of it. Emily’s still a bit sore that Olivia got promoted instead of her. Officially Olivia is the boss … and God knows she’s good at the organisation stuff, I saw the brief she sent over for you, talk about detailed. Just don’t let either of them down or I’ll never hear the end of it. Emily’s desperate to make a good impression with this Miranda woman.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Miranda’s hot … high maintenance, but I can handle that.’

‘So’s Olivia these days.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, sounds like the promotion … has gone to her head a bit.’ Daniel shrugged. ‘Been giving Emily a really hard time at work. Undermining her, giving orders. And then at home, she’s been a bit of a cow, borrowing Emily’s stuff without asking.’

Sebastian shrugged. ‘And again … it’s not your problem. You’ve got too much of a damsel in distress complex. Want to rescue them all. You want to look after Emily. Rescue Olivia from herself. You need to ease back, mate.’

Daniel glared at him, knowing he was probably right.

Sebastian gave him a rueful smile. ‘But … I know you. Why don’t you just talk to Olivia? Say something to her. Com-muuun-iiicate. Talk to her.’ He held up his hands in speech marks. ‘Tell her you think she’s bang out of order.’

‘I want to. Feel I ought to, except I’m not supposed to know.’ Even as he said it, Daniel felt like kicking himself. He sounded pathetic.

With a curl of his lips, Sebastian said, ‘Tough shit. You do know. You either say something or stop whingeing.’

‘Put up or shut up,’ said Daniel with a wry smile.

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘You know for a total idiot you occasionally talk sense.’

He would talk to Olivia. The first chance he got. Have a chat with her. Hell, he had nothing to lose.

‘Emily. Stop it,’ I said, giggling.

‘Can’t help it. It’s so exciting. Everyone thinks we’re famous. Shall I wind down the window and wave?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ I said. Even though I was trying to be blasé about driving through the West End in a chauffeur driven car, Emily’s mood was infectious. We were like a pair of overexcited five-year-olds on our way to our first party. Frank, our driver, politely ignored the giggles that erupted every time we caught sight of someone trying to peer in the tinted windows.

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 than
EastEnders
. From the moment Caroline whipped her tape measure 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 I 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 ice cool
froideur
that 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 in
Hello!
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 career girl, 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 flow haranguing the poor stylist, Nikki. My arrival did nothing to interrupt her.

Astounded, I stared around the room, which was full of boxes overflowing with every accessory imaginable. Handbags and shoes spilt from one, while jewelled hairslides, satin gloves, watches and even things that looked suspiciously like nipple tassels were piled in others. With that lot I could have opened a bijou boutique on Kensington High Street.

Nikki, the stylist, had come highly recommended, so I wasn’t too worried about her ability to hold her own with Miranda. When I’d booked her she sounded eminently sensible and experienced. The other option, suggested by Emily, had been a girl by the name of Flissy Fotherington-Flyde – instinct told me not to pursue that one.

Miranda was holding a pair of the sheerest tights I’d ever seen. They were so amazing they could have been made of fairy wings. However, from the wrinkled moue marring her lips, you’d have thought they were cheesy socks.

‘I never wear tights,’ she enunciated with great distaste. ‘I have to have stockings.’ Behind her back Nikki was looking mulish and I wasn’t surprised, those tights cost more than I earn in a day.

‘They are silk,’ urged Nikki, valiantly ignoring Miranda’s rudeness.

‘I don’t care. I am not wearing tights. Find me some stockings.’

‘I’m sure we can sort something out,’ I said smoothly, taking control and looking at Nikki.

She turned away and I could just hear a muttered, ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Well, you’ll have to,’ snapped Miranda pettishly.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll get some,’ I said, deliberately dropping my voice lower into what I hoped was a reassuring tone. There was no way that this evening was going to unravel over a pair of damn tights.

‘Not some,’ drawled Miranda. ‘They have to be five denier.’ The stylist winced.

I didn’t even know you could get five denier stockings. Judging from the look on Nikki’s face, dodo feathers would have been easier to find.

‘I’m not leaving this room until I have stockings. Do I make myself clear?’

I almost laughed out loud. That last part was definitely a line from one of her scripts. Trying hard not to laugh, I kept up my professional facade by locking my back teeth.

‘Apart from that, is everything all right?’ I asked in my best smooth tone. It was a bloody stupid thing to ask.

The list was endless and to cap it all her horoscope for the day was an ‘utter disaster’. Thank God for that brief stint in a nursery when I was a student. I’d dealt with worse. A room full of four-year olds on e-numbers took some beating. At least Miranda’s whinges weren’t chemically enhanced. Her body, she’d told me, was a temple to healthy living – that or she’d been told cocaine has calories in it.

During this Nikki had disappeared through to the other room, probably to kick something. Looking round to make sure she was out of earshot, Miranda pulled me over to her side and whispered urgently.

‘Look, I really can’t wear tights. I get horrendous thrush but I couldn’t say that in front of her. Just imagine if it got into the papers. I can trust you.’

I looked down into her earnest blue eyes. For a brief second I felt a connection. Underneath it all she wasn’t so different from me, there was a human being in there. I patted her tiny hand. She was so little that I felt like her elephant grandmother.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go myself as soon as we’ve got everything sorted – just in case there’s anything else you need.’ To take her mind off her nether regions, I added. ‘You’re going to look absolutely gorgeous in that dress, it really is beautiful.’

‘Thanks, Olivia.’

I did a double take. It was the first time she’d ever called me by my name. She gave me a smile, the warmth of which disappeared as Nikki reappeared.

Sounding more business-like, Miranda turned to Nikki. ‘Right, so what have we got to go with my dress?’

She embraced the magic box of shoes with enthusiasm. Although I’m not surprised, it contained some of the most expensive shoes I’d ever seen. Unfortunately they were all size three.

With a mixture of cajolery, flattery and some downright exaggeration, Nikki persuaded Miranda away from the royal blue Manolo Blahnik shoes. ‘Yes, Miranda. They are divine but that style is renowned for creating varicose veins. These, however, are perfect. See how slim your ankles look.’

‘Wow, they do. Now I like that necklace.’

‘Great taste Miranda but …’