“Whoo!” shout a couple of assistants. “Go, Sage! Awesome!”
“Let me call Lois. Hey, babe,” she says as soon as she’s put through. “We’re on again. Becky’s here. We’re going to watch it.” She high-fives me as she speaks, and I notice a tongue stud, which wasn’t there before. Is that her new thing?
“Come!” Sage beckons me to her enormous white squashy sofa. “Relax!”
“OK!” I surreptitiously glance at my watch. It’ll be fine. We’ll watch the show and then we’ll get to work.
Except we don’t just watch it once, we watch it four times.
Each time, Sage keeps up a running commentary, saying things like, “See how I really nail the emotion here?” and “Lois looks so good from that angle,” and once, “Where did Camberly have her boobs done? They’re pretty great.” Whereupon a young assistant leaps up and says, “I’m on it,” and immediately starts tapping at his BlackBerry.
By the fourth go-round I’m numb with boredom. The weird thing is that if I could see myself, I’d be mad with jealousy. I mean, look at me! Lounging on a squashy white sofa with a movie star … sipping smoothies … listening to her little in-jokes … You’d think it would be paradise. But all I really want to do is go home and see Suze.
I can’t, though, because we still haven’t got to the clothes. Every time I mention them, Sage says, “Sure,” and absently waves a hand at me. I’ve told her about fifty times that I’ll need to go and pick up Minnie from preschool soon and I don’t have all day, but she doesn’t seem to have registered that.
“OK, let’s go have our nails done!” Sage suddenly gets up from the sofa. “We have to get to the spa. We all have reservations, right?”
“Right!” says an assistant. “We have the cars waiting outside.”
“Cool!” Sage starts searching around the coffee table. “Where are my shoes? Did they slide under the sofa? Christopher, find my shoes,” she says prettily to the most handsome of her assistants, and he instantly starts groveling on the floor.
I’m not following any of this. How can she be going off to a spa?
“Sage?” I try to get her attention. “Aren’t we going to decide on your look for tonight? You were going to try on the dresses?”
“Oh, sure,” says Sage vaguely. “We’ll do that too. We’ll talk about it at the spa.”
“I can’t come to the spa,” I say as patiently as I can. “I have to pick up my daughter from her class trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art.”
“Her kid is so sweet,” Sage announces to her assistants, and they all croon back, “Oh, cuuuute!” “Adorable!”
“So what about the dresses?”
“Oh, I’ll try them on myself.” She suddenly seems to focus. “I don’t need you to be there. You did a great job, Becky, thanks! And thank you, Christopher angel!” She slides her pumps on.
She doesn’t need me? I feel like she’s slapped me in the face.
“But I haven’t explained each look yet,” I say, bewildered. “I was going to try them on with you, talk you through the accessories, see if we need to alter anything.…”
“I’ll figure it out.” She spritzes herself with scent, then catches my eye. “Go! Have fun with your daughter!”
“But …”
If I don’t help her create her look, then I’m not a stylist at all. I’m a delivery girl.
“Your car will take you, right? See you tonight!” Before I can say anything else, she’s skipped out of the door. I can hear a roar from the paparazzi outside, and the sound of engines, and the general mayhem that surrounds Sage.
I’m alone, apart from a housekeeper, who walks silently around, picking up bowls and brushing popcorn off the sofa. And just for an instant I feel totally deflated. This isn’t how I pictured it at all. I had so many ideas I wanted to share with Sage, yet she doesn’t even seem interested in the clothes.
But as I pull out my phone and dial Jeff’s number, I force myself to look on the positive side. Come on. It’s all still good. I’ve still been to her house; I’ve still given her the bones of her outfit. When people ask who styled her, she’ll say, “Becky Brandon.” It’s still my big chance. I have to hold on to this. Whatever else is going on, this is still my big Hollywood chance.
As we approach the house, Lon is still hanging around outside the gates, and he gesticulates wildly at the car. He’s wearing a lime bandanna today and thigh boots.
“Pirate!” cries Minnie, who is clutching the “Rothko-inspired” painting she did at the museum. (It’s really good. I’m going to put it in a frame.) “See pirate!”
“Becky!” I can hear him shouting as we drive past. “Becky, wait! Listen! Guess what?”
The thing about me is I’m a total sucker for anyone who says, “Guess what?”
“Hey, Jeff,” I say, as the gates start opening for us. “Stop a minute.”
“Stop a minute?”
“I want to talk to Lon. That guy.” I point.
Jeff halts the car and turns round in his seat. He’s got his “disappointed” face on.
“Rebecca, we’ve talked about street interactions,” he says. “I do not recommend that you get out of the vehicle at this time.”
“Jeff, honestly.” I roll my eyes. “It’s Lon. He’s a fashion student! I mean, it’s not like he’s hiding a gun.”