I Never Signed an NDA, page 5
No, Belinda screamed inside while smiling and nodding yes.
“It doesn’t seem very you, but if you really do like it! Thanks, Bel! And you can borrow it back anytime!” She threw Belinda’s mini bag on the emerald velvet couch and skipped lightly to the door to answer a tentative knock.
“Well, hello, ladies! Sorry for the delay. The car is parked on Mars,” Jasper gasped, wheeling in a porter’s cart stuffed with garment bags and two large, battered suitcases, his handsome face cerise and sweaty.
“Wow, all of this for two Bebe Klein looks?” Chloe glanced quizzically at Belinda, tucking her other boob back under the robe.
“No, Chloe, it’s just one from Bebe. I sent you the image of the dress Jerome approved for the premiere. It’s pretty cool. I managed to negotiate us out of the milkmaid mini they previously favored. But you can wear another designer for the junkets and The Late Show.”
“I’m doing Colbert? Oh, I don’t think I knew that. I should read my emails sometimes. But what about the contract? The two pages of forbidden labels? Alma grudgingly said she would try to get it reduced and then just responded ‘$6 MILLION’ any time I brought it up, so I concluded she hadn’t succeeded and gave up. Sorry guys,” she added guiltily, “I tried to read the contract but got bored. I’m terrible at that stuff. You looked, though?”
“Oh yes, it was my bedtime reading last week,” said Jasper. “You’ll be happy to know that a mere 67 brands aren’t allowed on your person.”
Seeing Chloe’s face fall, Belinda interjected, “But all is not lost; there’s still a few good ones! We have Dries Van Noten, Rosie Assoulin, Off-White, Alliette, Simone Rocha, Molly Goddard…” She trailed off as Chloe, indifferent, floated towards the kitchen.
Jasper pulled the suitcases of shoes off the cart, wondering how much griping about a six-million-dollar payday was too much, but out loud asking, “Where should I set up?”
“Oh, right where you are.”
Jasper surveyed the minimalist, Parisian-inspired lounge: stark white walls and original rickety wooden flooring covered by a faded pink Turkish rug. An uncomfortable mid-century velvet couch with mis-matched cushions and a faux art-deco bronzed glass coffee table covered in annotated scripts.
“There’s enough room, right? Ed’s sleeping in the bedroom.”
“Oh god, Chloe, I didn’t realize he was here. Sorry, are we being too loud?” asked Belinda, concerned about Chloe’s country singer/songwriter husband.
“Oh no! He sleeps like a rock. Lucky bastard. He’s only here from Nashville for a few days—recording at night. The babies that never sleep are in the apartment next door with my mom and are probably on their second breakfast already. I haven’t seen them yet. Can I get you guys coffee? There’s a machine in this très chic kitchen.”
“YESSSS! Oh, yes, please,” yelped Belinda excitedly. “Thank you.”
“Bels, come and chat while Jasper sets up.” Belinda followed her into the compact, black-and-white Art Deco kitchen. She sat down at a small round marble table, watching Chloe wrestle comedically with a basic Nespresso machine, both boobs now fully exposed.
“How are you feeling about the Bebe Klein contract now? Better?”
“Oh, it’s alright. I don’t love the clothes, but the money was too much to turn down, and I know people will make it work. The campaign pictures came back okay. Better than expected. It was weird not having my stylist or publicity team there though. I probably should have asked to include for both of you to be in the contract, but you know how bad I am at making waves.” She quickly moved on from the uncomfortable thought. “Now, Bels, tell me, are you okay? How is the dreadful Lara White? I heard she’s presenting at the Oscars. Did you see Alma about your Janie Jones contract? Sorry, I didn’t have time to text back any advice.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I probably shouldn’t have asked you—I was in a panic. Honestly, it was a shocking meeting, the long and short of which is that I’m not sure I can afford to stay with Janie. Losing money is not really the point of working.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Alma is a terror. I almost left her years ago, but thankfully, I got some strict advice from an A-lister friend, who told me I could never leave, or she would destroy my career, Mafia-style, as she did with Chris Jackson. Once in, there is no out.”
“Oh my god. Really? I’ve lost count of the number of articles I’ve seen about Chris Jackson and his spectacular downfall, but I don’t think I once heard a mention of Alma?” They both shook their heads nervously, thinking of her.
“Why do you think I’m still at AARDA? Thankfully, I don’t see her very much. It feels like Dustin is my agent at this point. I like the quotes he pretends she sends me. Listen to this one from yesterday.” She pulled out her phone, scrolled down her emails, and pronounced dramatically: “If life were predictable, it would cease to be life and be without flavor – Eleanor Roosevelt.” She turned back to the coffee machine. “Oh shit, Belinda, I don’t know how to use this thing. I only drink matcha. Can Jasper make the coffee?”
firethestylist.com
FIRE THE STYLIST
Dishing Daily Doses of Fashion Justice
★
JULIET HUNT leaving KOI Restaurant, West Hollywood.
Posted February 23, 2018
Pretty Woman. Minus Richard Gere,’Nuff Said.
Side note—is Juliet Hunt ILL? 37-year-old #JHUNT is so WHITE. Where is her fabulous golden hue? Maybe she should borrow yet another private jet and take herself off to the now infamous yacht in Croatia, get a tan, and also tan the hide off her naughty, lady-loving BF?
What do you guys think? Should she HIRE a stylist?
As always, leave a comment below!
(To review our community guidelines, please click here)
@jonesisfire She’s amazing. You guys are just jealous bitches.
@mama2boyz This Woman’s Rainbow Foundation does so much for charity. Who cares what she wears? Get a real job
@loveislove69 It took me a few mins—had to look up Pretty Woman AND Richard Gere. LOL. Cool ref to an ancient classic movie! YOU NAILED IT! ♥
@nonamerequired what’s wrong with simple form-fitting style? And how old are you guys? For that matter, who are you? How well would you hold up to your scrutiny? Interesting that you snark and snipe others but hide from judgment #hypocrites
@delilahdoesthings THIRSTY and EXTRA
“I had to slug my way up in a town called Hollywood where people love to trample you to death. I don’t relax because I don’t know how.”
—Susan Hayward
Tits & Terms
Police Witness Interview: Belinda Grant
Her home. 9:45 am
Belinda, ashen-faced, marched anxiously up and down her lounge—iPhone at her ear—praying out loud, “Pick up Jasper. Please pick up.”
“My god, lady. Do you realize you have called me three times in a row? Is your phone malfunctioning? I just dropped you off like ten minutes ago—can’t a gay get a second to himself—”
“Alma’s dead, Jas.” Belinda cut him off. “Did you hear?”
“WHAT THE FUCK? Oh my god. Like dead dead? Not shocked in a good way, dead?”
“Dead, dead. Apparently, it happened last night.”
“And how would I have heard?”
“Oh, come on, you hear everything.”
“Well, this doesn’t technically come under the usual celeb/fashion gossip umbrella, now does it? Hang on. You didn’t kill her, did you? I know she wasn’t your favorite, but that’s a tad extreme.”
“Jasper. STOP. I’m freaking out here.”
“Sorry, too soon. I’ll get a grip. How did you find out?”
“I just got off the phone with the cops. They left me a bunch of messages when we were with Chloe, which I ignored because I didn’t recognize the number. They are coming over in a bit.”
“Shit, gurl. Do you want me to come back? Moral support?”
Belinda sighed, sitting down on the couch. “I asked if they needed to talk to you, but no. Go have your breakfast break. I’ll be okay. I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“How did she die?”
“They didn’t say. Just that they believe I was the last person to see her.”
“Well, the cost of some bras and a few hundy a month raise can’t be considered a motive now, can it.”
“Jasper! Fuck off and eat. I’m going to tell Rose the cops are coming. Man, she’ll be pissed if they interrupt our lunch.”
“Can’t win no matter who you kill! Byeeeee.”
Belinda laughed despite herself and, dropping the phone beside her, called out for her daughter.
★ ★ ★
An hour later Rose, not missing a beat of her TikTok dance, yelled, “Mom, the door!”
“Thanks, baby. Can you take the iPad and go to your room?
“This lady who died, did you say she’s the one who works with Lara? Will Lara still be in movies without her?”
“Yes, my darling.”
“Oh YAY! Thank god! I love Lara!” Visibly relieved, Rose twirled around in her tie-dye tracksuit, adding, “But I don’t like her poopy, biting dog; it ruined my life. Did you tell her never ever to bring it here again?” Not waiting for an answer, she slid her indignant 10-year-old body down the hallway into her room, only pausing to blow a kiss at her framed dad.
“Hi, detective,” said Belinda, opening the door nervously, “please come in. C-can I get you coffee? Juice? Water?”
“Good morning, Ms. Grant, I’m Detective Hall, call me Cheryl, and that’s my partner Detective Ortiz.” She pointed at the figure pacing the cul-de-sac, yelling into her phone, “The fuck you will, Pedro!”
“Hmm, she might be a while. Let’s just start. I don’t need a drink, thank you. But where should we sit?”
“The couch is good?” asked Belinda, looking across the open-plan room at the worn teak dining room table entirely covered by a rainbow of clutches in every proportion and style. “Sorry about the mess, it’s overspill from my office. Things are crazy this week.”
“Yes, I gathered it’s Oscar week. Which is kinda like Christmas week elsewhere? Is everything that happens this week blamed on Oscar week? So far, I’ve heard traffic, street closures, people’s availability, and sanity. I’m just here from Boston, so it’s all new. Anyways, let’s sit. The couch is great.”
“Ah, yes. We have our own unique calendar, detective. Oscar week, awards season, SAG awards, Critics Choice awards, pilot season, TCAs—Television Critics’ Awards,” Belinda added helpfully as they sat. “A new language for you to learn, like I once did,” Belinda shook her head ruefully. “It was all terrifying and thrilling at first.”
“Yes, it does feel a bit like I’ve landed on a different planet,” agreed Cheryl. “Hopefully, these events won’t be rife with crime, which brings me back to the case. Can you tell me everything you recall about your meeting with Alma Astley on Friday?”
★ ★ ★
FLASHBACK
Alma’s office
Friday 23rd February. 5:40 pm
“Belinda. You are early! I said 6 pm!” Alma, standing by the corner of her desk sealing a large embossed Smythson envelope, was irritated. “Did you not get the message? Can you or your people not read emails?”
Belinda wavered in the doorway, smiling nervously. “Oh no, I-I-I didn’t. I’m so terribly sorry, Alma. Oscar week is nuts, as you—well—obviously know. I will talk to my agent, Devon. Can I come back? S-s-should I wait outside?”
“No!” Alma set the envelope on the empty desk, walked around to her oversized white egg chair, and sat down. “You are here now. Just sit while I check my email.” Crossing her gazelle-like legs, Alma spun around out of sight.
Belinda, frozen by the arctic air conditioning, perched awkwardly on a metal art piece that doubled as a chair, mesmerized by the view of Alma’s extraordinary breasts, as she was surely meant to be. Why else would that gigantic image be positioned there? Mind you, she mused enviously, if I had those tits, I’d wallpaper my house with them too. She briefly recalled stumbling into an early 2000s party Juergen Teller had thrown at a stripped-bare townhouse in London. Each of the four floors was fly-posted with his images of naked supermodels and the makeshift bar in the basement, was two claw footed bathtubs filled with sponsored vodka and ice.
Forcing herself back to the torturous present, she sat nervously rearranging her hands for what felt like a lifetime until, overcome by the piercing silence, she blurted out, “I l-l-love your office, Alma; it looks like an art gallery.”
“Yes, Astrid Beyer did it.” Alma’s words rose, crisply audible from behind the chair. “You know her? Probably not. She did the Bick Gallery and Franck Zeger in New York. And once I found out that she put a drive-in car elevator in that building on 11th Avenue, I simply had to have her. It wasn’t easy, but everyone has a price, and hers was Jeopardy. She, Alex, and I had dinner after one of the shows. Marvelous woman. Though she couldn’t put a drive-in for me, damn Beverly Hills and their tiresome regulations. But I did, at least, get my mezzanine area with a private elevator down to my parking spot, so it wasn’t a complete bust.”
Belinda, enjoying this unexpected intimacy with the back of Alma’s chair, turned and looked admiringly at the sculptural raw concrete staircase, edged with an anthracite spiral rail that wound to the upper level. Alma spun back around, fixing her unblinking charcoal-rimmed eyes on Belinda, her narrow crimson mouth stern. “Now, let’s get this over with.” Annnnd she’s terrifying, Belinda squealed inwardly, reflexively crossing her fingers and wondering if she too could rock a dirty, smudged eye reminiscent of Kate Moss at 3 am.
Tapping her nude-manicured nails on the desk, Alma spoke in her clipped hybrid British accent, “Janie is uncomfortable with you bringing up money with her. She feels it was inappropriate of you to put her on the spot.” Softening, she added, “Now I, my dear, understand this is your profession, and of course, you should be remunerated according to your worth, but the question is, what are you worth? More appropriately, perhaps, what is your market worth? Sell yourself to me, Belinda.”
“Um, well, um, I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand?” Belinda stumbled over her words. An atrocious negotiator at the best of times, she sat silenced by her tongue pretzeled to the roof of her mouth before eventually forcing out, “Um, well, Janie already agreed to a one thousand a month raise? I th-th-thought we were only discussing, you know, additional expenses?”
“Well, you are talking to ME now, Belinda, so humor me. We can get to expenses later.”
“Okay, well, I asked for a raise on my retainer because it’s been the same for seven years. The workload has quadrupled, and Janie doesn’t pay for out-of-pocket expenses, which include tailoring, assistants, gas, dry cleaning, etc. Often, she needs red-carpet outfits twice a week. Occasionally, there’s a studio or designer paying, but mostly not. She lives a two-hour round trip from Hollywood, and my assistant Jasper almost lives in Calabasas some weeks—between fittings and getting her ready. I’m losing money at this point and—”
“Belinda,” Alma cut her off, “I asked you to sell yourself to me, not whine. Why do you deserve a raise? There must be so many others waiting in line behind you. My god, some would do it for free and be thrilled to have Janie on their resume. She does ad campaigns occasionally. Why, she has that limp dick one this month. You make money then, don’t you? What have you brought to her career that any other fashion-obsessed person couldn’t?” Alma fluttered her hands dismissively.
“Well, to be f-f-f-fair,” Belinda stuttered, shocked at the blatant contempt for her career, “aside from all the hours it takes, I … I … I’ve curated a whole image for her for years. She is now an established red-carpet and street-style presence, which she was not before. The media impressions alone must be worth—”
“Media impressions!” Alma snorted dismissively. “Oh puh-lease, that’s utter drivel.” She paused to read something on her phone, which was pinging incessantly, her face darkening further until it became as frigid as the environment she presided over. “This week needs to end,” she muttered, eyeing her brass Howard Miller grandfather clock.
“Well, Belinda, I’ve wasted seven minutes on your trivial matter.” She paused and pressed a number on speed dial before scooping up her purse and walking briskly to the staircase, where she stopped and said urgently to the unknown person on the phone, “They’re okay? Right, wait, please.” She turned to Belinda. “At any rate, it’s already been decided. Janie will give you a $500 raise per month. She is not willing to pay expenses. You decide. We need the contract signed ASAP. This one includes a nondisclosure. Dustin will facilitate.” And with that, she disappeared up the concrete spiral stairs, leaving Belinda in silence, save for the receding sound of Alma’s aggrieved voice and clacking Louboutins.
★ ★ ★
Belinda trembled at the memory and protectively hugged herself. “I was so shocked I ran out of her office and was waiting for the elevator when I realized I’d forgotten the contract. I saw it on the desk when I arrived. Dustin had stressed beforehand that it was there—and I was to take it—to remind her if necessary. I texted my assistant, Jasper, because he’s friendly with Dustin—they used to bartend together at The Cock in WeHo. He got in touch with him, Dustin even answers his phone at Barry’s Boot camp, who knew that was allowed? I was instructed to go back very quietly, grab it, and go.” She started searching through her phone. “I’ve never done anything faster in my life, let me tell you. It’s ludicrous to be 41 years old and that terrified of a work colleague. Here’s the text conversation.” She showed it to Cheryl. “I can screenshot and text it to you?”
Cheryl nodded and recited her number. “Thank you.”
“Do you want to see the contract? It’s in one of my tote bags. I’m not sure where it is—might still be in the car. I haven’t had a day off for 23, possibly 24, days and I’m losing my mind.”
