Luke sighs. “Well, then, of course I’ll help. I’ll ask around for some contacts, see what I can fix up—”
“I don’t need your help!” I retort.
“Becky, don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly,” I shoot back, feeling outraged. “I don’t want to rely on my husband. I’m an independent woman, you know.”
“But—”
“What, you think I can’t break in to Hollywood on my own? You just watch. Katharine Hepburn,” I add.
We walk on for a while in silence, not even bothering to say the names anymore, and gradually I simmer down. Actually, Luke’s help would have been quite useful. In fact, really useful. But it’s too late now; I’ve said it. I’ll have to find a way to do it on my own and show him.
My mind starts working hard. Sage is still my most obvious way in. I’m bound to meet her soon. And meanwhile I can plan a few outfits for her. Maybe I’ll even buy her an accessory or two, just like a personal stylist would. Yes. Brilliant. And if Sage doesn’t work out … well, I have other contacts, don’t I?
“You know, Luke, I do have my own resources,” I say grandly. “I have worked at Barneys, remember. I am a bit connected, remember. In fact I think you’ll find I’m even better connected than you.”
And it’s true! I met loads of Hollywood people when I worked at Barneys. At least three producers and a music consultant and a casting director. I’ll contact all of them, and someone will be able to give me an entrée, and then—
Ooh, Lassie!
From: Laird, Nick
To: Brandon, Rebecca
Subject: Hi, Melanie, how are you?!
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
I am replying to your email to Melanie Young. I’m sure that Melanie does remember you from her shopping appointments at Barneys and am glad you still recall “how fab she looked in that Moschino pencil skirt.”
Unfortunately, Melanie has recently given up producing, moved to a commune in Arkansas, and, according to her farewell speech, “never wants to hear the word ‘movie’ again.” She will therefore be unable to help you launch yourself as a celebrity stylist or introduce you to Sarah Jessica Parker.
I wish you every luck with your endeavors in Hollywood.
Nick Laird
Head of Development
ABJ Pictures
From: Quinn, Sandi
To: Brandon, Rebecca
Subject: Hi, Rosaline, how are you?!
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
I am replying to your email on behalf of Rosaline DuFoy, in my role as Rosaline’s counselor.
Rosaline does indeed remember you from her shopping appointments at Barneys and recalls well the “amazingly slimming pantsuit” you found for her sister’s wedding.
Unfortunately, during the toasts at that wedding, her husband came out as gay. Rosaline has always—rightly or wrongly—blamed her “androgynous clothes” for his switch in sexuality and is currently penning an autobiography entitled If Only I’d Worn a F***ing Dress. As the memories are still raw and painful, she would rather not meet with you.
However, I wish you every success in Hollywood.
Best,
Sandi Quinn
Director
Quinn Clinic for Marital Therapy
How can Hollywood people all be so flaky? How?
As soon as I got back to the UK, I looked up all my old contacts and sent off a stack of emails. But I haven’t got anything out of it: not a lunch, not a meeting, not a phone number. Every single one of my former customers who worked in film seems to have moved jobs or had a nervous breakdown or something. The only one left was Genna Douglas, who was a customer of mine at Barneys and had the hugest collection of backless dresses. But after getting no reply, I Googled her, and it turns out she left her job at Universal a year ago to start a beauty salon. She’s invented some treatment involving electric currents and honey and has been sued twice by disgruntled clients but is actively seeking investors. Hmm. Don’t think I’ll be pursuing that one.
I’m so disappointed. I thought I’d be swimming in contacts. I thought I’d be fixing up lunches at Spago and meetings with producers and saying to Luke casually, Oh, are you going to be on the Paramount lot this afternoon? I’ll see you there.
Anyway. On the plus side, I still have Sage. A genuine, copper-bottomed, A-list contact. And I haven’t been sitting around doing nothing. I’ve started working on some looks for her, and I really feel I’m tuning in to her personality. Her world.
“So, look.” I spread a pale-blue brocade coat out on the bed for Suze to see. “Isn’t this fab?”
Suze is my oldest friend in the world, and we’re lolling on her bed in Hampshire with gossip magazines, just like we used to in the old days when we shared a flat in Fulham. Except that in those days, it meant lolling on an old Indian bedspread covered in cigarette burns and smelling of joss sticks. Whereas today we’re lolling on a massive, ancient four-poster bed, with silk drapes and tapestry and wooden paneling that apparently Charles I carved his name in once. Or do I mean Charles II? Some Charles or other anyway.
Suze is eye-wateringly posh. She lives in a stately home, and ever since her grandfather-in-law died, she’s called Lady Cleath-Stuart, which sounds quite terrifyingly grown-up to me. “Lady Cleath-Stuart” sounds like a ninety-year-old battle-ax swishing at people with a riding crop and barking, What? What? Not that I would ever tell Suze this. Anyway, she’s pretty much the opposite of that. She’s tall and leggy with long blond hair, which she’s now chewing in an absent kind of way.
“Lovely!” she says, fingering the coat. “Really gorgeous.”