I Never Signed an NDA, page 23
“Can I just get the back for the atelier? Those buttons took them days.”
“No. And in fact, I will have Kelly help me take this off. Wait here for her to bring it back to you.” Lara stomped across the room and up the stairs, leaving Belinda and Jasper wincing at the sound of crystals smashing against the walls.
“It takes two to speak the truth, one to speak, and another to hear.”
—Henry David Thoreau
Fashion Fighting
Riding in Cars with Stylists
Leaving Lara. 1:15 pm
“For fuck’s sake, Jasper. I told you specifically not to mention the press conference!” Sliding into her seat, Belinda slammed the car door, her face livid.
“Well, excuse me for FUCKING DEFENDING YOU,” Jasper yelled, slamming his door. “I am not a fucking ROBOT. I hate how that bitch abuses us. And YOU, you’re so controlling. Do this Jasper, do that Jasper, but don’t do it that way Jasper. Say that Jasper, don’t say that Jasper. Be everywhere Jasper, but don’t be seen.”
He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “Make sure the five million things that need to be done every fucking day are done. Who cares about sleep, Jasper? Who cares about your husband, Jasper? I haven’t fucking slept a full night in like six years.”
“NO, that’s not fucking fair, Jasper,” Belinda’s voice cracked. “I’m always telling you to turn off your phone and go home. And I do ask about Bobby.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Tell me when you’ve mentioned him even once this week. You can’t answer that because you haven’t.” He started the car, blasting up the heat. “AND who ends up in the shit if I don’t get things done? Who is it the publicists call and give shit? ME, that’s fucking who. You, they keep sweet, with me they fucking let rip…” He paused, thinking. “Except for Eve, that one lets it rip 360.”
Cooling down a little, he continued. “I’ve been doing this for eight years, Bel. You can’t still be micromanaging the shit outta me. Lara is the devil, and she is making it hell on earth this week. It doesn’t just affect you; it affects me too.”
Belinda nodded, suppressing tears and listening silently.
“Bels, I’m so fucking tired of this red-carpet-lined hamster wheel. Same shit, same sexism, same power struggles, same people year in and year out.” He inhaled and, on a roll, kept going. “Same rigged game: Oooh, look, she’s wearing new season Bebe Klein, so she’s cooler than you. Her stylist must be better than yours. FEMME magazine claims she’s best dressed. For fuck’s sake. It’s all bullshit. An A-list famous person, in an A-list designer outfit, is featured in an A-list magazine because said magazine makes massive ad revenue from the aforementioned A-list designer”—he took a hit of his vape—“It’s a fucking commodified racket: a stone-cold, women-hating business, controlled almost entirely by men. Men who cynically propel the fantasy of Hollywood to perpetuate unachievable dreams and sell billions of dollars of perfume and lipstick.”
Belinda, wincing, continued listening.
“And all the talk of empowerment? Empowered my ass. The day they can turn up on a red carpet in whatever the fuck they want, that will be empowerment. The day they can proudly announce, ‘I got paid $250k to wear this. I am, in fact, an advertising space, and I fucking own that.’ Now, THAT would actually be empowered and honest.”
“You are right. I—” Belinda whimpered.
“Let’s not even start on the tabloid sites and their followers who get high on eviscerating us and our clients. We are clickbait for the bitter, jealous, and mean.”
He looked at Belinda as the anger drained from his voice. “Jesus, Bel, I’m so tired of living in constant fear, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I started with such excitement, thinking it was gonna be so creative. My dream job—but in reality, I’m nothing more than an underpaid, insomnia-afflicted lackey with a probable Xanax addiction. It wouldn’t surprise me if my husband took off. I’m no fucking fun, and neither are you.” He had tears in his eyes. “I know I’m preaching to the converted, but this is no way to live, Bels.”
“I know, Jas. I know.” She wiped her nose on her designer sleeve. “But you’re not a lackey. You are the reason that everything works. And the thrill of the climb was real. But the clients got bigger, we got bigger and busier, the stakes got higher and everyone’s thirst for power and money, including ours—mine—squashed the joy. We couldn’t have known that back then. How could we? Like everyone else, we started out assuming that proximity to celebrity—and therefore the best in fashion—was a golden ticket. I really miss that naivety, don’t you? Jesus, with my first A-list client, I thought I could just point at any dress on any model and they would jump off the runway to loan it to me. So stupid.”
Jasper leaned in to embrace her. “And I’m sorry, Jas.” She sniffed. “Thank you for defending me to Lara. How fucked is it that I got mad? I don’t want to ruin your life or your marriage. I sure didn’t help mine.”
“Oh, babe. You did nothing to destroy yours; that absent narcissistic prick did that all by himself.” Handing her a tissue, they blew their noses in tandem.
“Ow,” his face contorted as he stubbed his injured toe on the brake.
“Let’s stop by urgent care for your foot, Jas.”
“No time. I’ve got a spare.”
“Clothes make the man.
Naked people have little or no influence on society.”
—Mark Twain
Pay for Play
Emily De Vries Fitting
Bebe Klein VIP suite, Rodeo Drive. 4 pm
Emily and Belinda hugged before accepting crystal glasses of sparkling water and turning to Ines, Bebe Klein’s VP of VIP, a permanently scowling, blonde Parisienne of indeterminate age, wafer-thin in a black leather sheath and mesh biker boots. She stood in the center of the room, her style perfectly in sync with the luxury white and chrome suite. Situated on the store’s top floor, it was two thousand square feet of rarely used, stark opulence, exclusively reserved for couture customers and celebrities.
“Emily, we are ’appy you can join us tomorrow. Jerome is insisting you sit with them, bien sur. They are fascinated by your brain, and, of course, so few wear clothes like you, with such chic purpose.” She harrumphed to indicate her disgust with the world.
“Well, thank you, Ines,” Emily replied politely. “Should we look at some clothes? I know Belinda doesn’t have much time.”
“Oui. We have put a selection of unworn samples in the dressing room for you. Come this way.” She ushered them towards a front corner, stopping briefly to pick up a remote and turn down the Leonard Cohen track. “Just so you know, amongst others, the finale gown from last season is included. It might seem over the top, but many of our other guests have opted for black tie. It’s simply stunning, even without the train, and Jerome adores it for you. Particularly with this season’s boot.” She looked down at her feet. “Très moderne.”
Nodding in bemused agreement, Belinda and Emily also stared down at her feet.
“As you can see, we also have a 360 mirror out here, with excellent lighting for photographs if you feel comfortable in public. Or, if not, the dressing closet is mirrored, of course. Jerome only requests that I send photos. They are still awake.”
“But it’s 1 am in Paris?”
“Yes, but Jerome is so excited you are attending. They cannot wait until the morning! And they leave early to get on the jet.”
“Oh, I see. We’ll be quick so he, I mean they, can sleep.”
Closing the dressing room door, Emily turned to Belinda, laughing. “Why do brands always act like it’s a personal invite or something? Not one person will reference in any way that I’m getting paid to do this.”
“Dirty fashion money,” Belinda quipped.
“Guns off the streets money. They should be shouting it from the rooftops … Now, what should I try? Assuming we’re on the same page about the gown? No one in the current climate needs to see me eating $100 spaghetti in a $40,000 hand-beaded dress, train or no train.”
Rifling through the rack, Belinda pulled out two items. “How about a cream silk sweatshirt tucked into gold lame cargo pants?”
“Done!”
“Great, you put them on. I’ll quickly go and seek out accessories in the store. Keep control freak Jerome at bay.”
“Sleep! Ha! We all know they are almost definitely wasted in a club.” Emily giggled and pulled off her leather pants.
Thirty minutes later, Belinda left the sanctuary of Emily’s company—her outfit sorted and photographed—and walked back out into madness. She tapped anxiously on her almost dead phone as she hurried down Rodeo Drive.
“Belinda!” A tall, sophisticated man with dark-cropped hair and gleaming teeth bounded over to her on the corner of Rodeo Drive and Brighton Way. “What an absolute joy to bump into you! Feels like we’ve been rescheduling drinks for two years!”
“Oh my god, Luke! You are a sight for tired fashion eyes. You just missed Emily. We were at Bebe doing a fitting.” Excited, she hugged him, adding, “Our schedules never align!”
“Oh, sorry to miss her, of course, but what are you doing now?”
“Amazingly, I have about 30 minutes. Jasper was coming to grab me but is currently waiting in line to pick up diamonds at Star PR. It’s a Mad Friday Oscars rush. You don’t have a phone charger by any chance?”
“I do! Let’s swerve into Coffee Bean, madame! Or something stronger elsewhere?” Luke took her arm, and they strolled along contentedly.
“Oh, I wish! I only stop working to sleep briefly this weekend. We’ll have to make do with a coffee break this time. How are you, Luke? Enjoying LA? Who are you dressing on Sunday?”
“Love the weather, New York is glacial. But getting a dress placement this weekend has been BRUTAL. I love it at Henri LeRoque, but when you had your start at Chanel, it’s well—”
“Uh-huh, I get it. But change is good! It hasn’t been long. You’ll turn it around—you are one of the best PR’s out there!”
“Speaking of which. Off the record, I have a couple of custom dresses Henri designed for award shows. One of them is awful, but try telling him that. The other is pretty great. If there was a way you could get it on the back of one of your A-list ladies this weekend, I could make it very worth your while.”
“Oh, you know I always want to help you, Luke, but I don’t know about that. They are pretty set—”
“$30,000 to be un-set?”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, I need it pretty bad. If it’s a private, no reps involved deal, I might even be able to stretch further. I just don’t have two hundred grand to pay talent. Look, I’ll send you an image of the dress and think about it, yeah? For me? I can bring it to you any time of the day or night.”
Filler
Text to Belinda from Eve (Janie’s publicist)
7 pm
Janie is confirmed as a presenter. Zoe Jacobson dropped out. Apparently, she’s at the ER with pneumonia, although I will never understand why she doesn’t get a shot and power through. Anyway, her hypochondria is our gain. Make sure you kill it, okay, Belinda? No room for error here. I’ve seen pictures of some of our other clients’ dresses, and they are magnificent. I’m praying you can finally rise to the occasion.
Got it. We will do our best.
Best? Perhaps try for better than that. I’ve called in a few extra dresses to our offices. Have your assistant pick them up first thing? Don’t bother Janie tonight. She’s at the emergency plastic surgeon.”
Saturday 3rd March 2018
Last Minute Looks
Text to Belinda from Tabitha
Saturday 11:30 am
Hey B. Decided I will go to Oscars tomorrow w. Jonny. Need something to wear obv. Going into a pole dancing class for an hour—will call you after.
PS I don’t want to buy anything and don’t want ANYTHING BORING (like a gown)
Love ya!
“It is not possible for a man to be elegant without a touch of femininity.”
—Vivienne Westwood
Matchy-Matchy
Jonny Evans Dress Rehearsal
Chinese Theatre. 2 pm
Jonny walked into room 14 in the basement of the Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Blvd, where Belinda and Jasper sat waiting on dirty plastic foldaway seats. His three tailored Henri LeRoque suits and shirts were hanging, steamed, on the solo wobbly rack pushed up against the back wall, two pairs of Oxfords balanced on the bar beneath them.
“Fucking hell, guys, what a shit show to get in here! I must have shown my ID about six times. I should have taken them up on the driver, but I couldn’t resist driving my new Ferrari. It’s silver and killer. By that, I mean hard not to kill someone with how fast you have to race it. Don, my manager, texted he’s also having problems. He’s gone walkabout on Hollywood Boulevard for some reason, probably still drunk from last night. And he continues to be a dag.” Jonny laughed affectionately, looking around. “Mate, who knew down here would be this fucking ugly? My guys decorate all the backstage areas in my venues before I get there. They did leopard print, fake fur, and stinky musk candles for the last tour. It was like a fucking fragrant safari vomited everywhere. Tab’s creative direction, as if you couldn’t guess, I forced her to keep the Space Invader and Pac-Man games, so she wallpapered the sides to match. Never did come off.” He sighed. “And yes, before you say it, I am a spoilt bastard!” Still bemused by the decor, he glanced around at the bare, grubby white room again, throwing his keys and tattered silver blazer onto the solo table. Slumping down onto a third fold-up chair beside it, he absently toyed with a diamond cufflink from the velvet tray displaying his jewelry choices. Uninterested, he softly rolled it back Vegas style and turned to them.
“Did you see the purple walls outside? Purple? Gross. Let’s not do selfies out there. Mind you, the blue metallic suit could look weird and cool against it… Oh shit, I forgot. Tab wants to wear my spare suit tomorrow. She said she likes the blue one best?”
“No, Jonny, Henri LeRoque would lose their mind,” Belinda rebutted, unusually aggressive. “Not to mention, the performance lighting is structured around it. She can take the white one or the black one, though. You can wear the other on the arrivals carpet and change back after you perform, before they announce the winner of your category.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” He looked deflated. “Can you tell her? She’s gonna spit the dummy. I can’t cope with that drama today. I’m hungover as fuck as it is. She wanted me to tell you to get a matching blue suit for her so we could be the same on the carpet even though I told her, ‘fuck off, Tab, I’m not that much of a pussy.’”
“Yeah, well, that suit is custom in every sense, down to the thread, so that wouldn’t have been an option anyway. You won’t have a back-up suit if Tabitha takes one, Jonny. I’m just putting that out there, okay? It might be safer, stain-wise, for you if she wears the white. Does it even fit her?” Belinda tried to keep the frustration out of her voice.
“Yeah. We’re the same size. Except for the tits, though I could buy some of those too, of course.” He grinned and pulled off his t-shirt, revealing his spray-tanned, sinewy six-pack. “Let’s get that suit on so I can soundcheck and be done.” He removed a hip flask from his back pocket and swigged. “God bless tequila. I just need a tiny bump from Don, and I’ll be right as rain. Jasper, can you go quickly find him while I get dressed?”
Jasper nodded, grabbed his phone, and exited the room.
“Bels, do you reckon I could get a helicopter to the carpet tomorrow?”
firethestylist.com
FIRE THE STYLIST
Dishing Daily Doses of Fashion Justice
★
TABITHA EVANS Sullen at Coffee Bean.
Posted on 3rd March, 2018
Well, Firers, we are all fired up about Jonny Evans potentially winning an Oscar for his incredible original song for the movie ‘Driving with Dogs’ and even more fired up for his performance. Maybe his raw sexual vibes can bring some, ahem, heat to this traditional broadcast…
Not evidently excited, however, is his current wife, lingerie model Tabitha Evans (25); why do these women all take his name? Seen here yelling at their cute dog outside Coffee Bean in Hidden Hills, wearing what appears to be Jonny’s faded striped pajamas with Vivienne Westwood’ Pirate’ boots. (We haven’t seen those dusted off in a while!) Now, much as we are still fans of the nightwear-as-daywear trend, this perhaps literally takes things too far. Not helping, of course, is her greasy top knot and, evidently, last night’s makeup.
What do you think, Firers? Does she need a shower?
As always, leave comments below!
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@laceyjacey maybe if you get to f**k him every day, you never bother getting dressed. Lucky bitch.
@fashunisfukked they probably all take his name to try and get more cash when they split. From him OR the tabloids
@loveyourmuffintop that POOR BABY. Someone should rescue that delicious fur muffin from this monster.
@crystalstar she might be channeling Pirates of the Caribbean, but her vibe is giving all is not well in Rock Paradise. Is she on her way out?
“Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.”
—Emily Dickinson
Clueless
Chloe ‘Night Before’ Dinner Glam
Villa Carlotta, Hollywood. 5 pm
“Oh, hi Bels. Um, I didn’t realize you were coming—” Chloe glanced in the mirror at Belinda’s reflection as Richard removed rollers from her red hair. “How’s it going? Are you still sane? You must be nuts before tomorrow, right? I thought you’d be with Lara or Ava-Lily tonight. I didn’t think you would come…” Her low voice trailed off awkwardly.
