I start to screech and scream; a full-throttle orgasm now. Scott grins at my excitement. His vaguely jaded expression dissolves into something much more expectant. ‘Think that will be good?’
‘Immense!’ I yell, sounding not unlike my young nephew. ‘Utterly, totally and properly immense!’
46. Fern
Scott makes a few more calls to put Saadi and her team on red alert, and so the moment Barry pulls up outside Scott’s mansion I am pounced upon by a gang of hysterical women. I know the beautician, Joy, I see her almost daily now. Although I tell you Joy’s mum was being ironic when she named her; the face on that girl – she is always tripping up on it. She sighs and huffs and puffs with exasperation as she pulls me up the stairs. Linda Di Marcello and Natalie Pennant, the women with healing hands, are there too, as are a hair stylist and a fashion stylist, Saadi and two of her assistants.
‘There’s so much to be done and so little time,’ says Joy in despair. I start to giggle. Honestly, modesty aside, I’ve never looked better. As luck would have it, I had a spray-on tan applied yesterday and my hair is professionally blow-dried every morning. OK, maybe I’m not red-carpet perfection right this moment. After six hours of aggressive shopping my hair is no longer coiffed to be camera-ready – there are countless dangly stray bits and a few sticky-up stray bits too – but they ought to have seen the state of me on some of my dates with Adam. He knew I’d made an effort if I changed my T-shirt.
For the next hour I’m cast adrift in an ocean of novelties such as industrial-strength girdles, fake hair and emergency skin treatments – one for the ‘blemishes’ on my
Saadi’s assistants continually mutter the words ‘seamless and bumpless’ as though it were a catechism. They wrestle me into Spanx bodyshaper underwear that starts under my boobs and stretches all the way past my knees. I have to wonder. While these garments do dissolve love handles, muffin tops and even hide cellulite, as promised, what is the point? Even if the results do drive a girl’s
The stylist (a new addition to my entourage, and I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch her name in all the haste) informs me that ‘Breasts have their own set of needs.’
I’m very aware of this. Plus I’m aware that my little babies aren’t seeing as much action as they’d like, but before I can discuss the matter at length the stylist starts to chatter about Flex Body Bras, which are made of adhesive-backed silicone cups that fit separately over each boob, sort of self-sticking bras. I can only imagine the agony of taking those off, I feel squeamish with pain when peeling off elastoplasts.
‘Designed for busty beauties who want to wear a backless gown,’ she explains. She stares (almost pityingly) at my
‘It’s a backless dress,’ she points out. ‘Be grateful for the silicone versions, they are undetectable under dresses. We weren’t always so fortunate. It wasn’t long ago that we had to put cotton balls on clients and fasten with Scotch tape.’ It sounds like something out of a Blue Peter creative project. I nod, trying to meet her level of gravity and demonstrate my respect for her craft rather than hoot and express my astonishment. ‘Although you should never underestimate the importance of Scotch tape, especially the double-sided stuff. It can be wrapped beneath the breasts, squashing them together to create cleavage, used to hold spaghetti straps in place, or to keep loose dresses close to the skin and, importantly, prevent plunging necklines from becoming pornographic.’
‘Thank God for sticky tape,’ I mutter, just a little cheekily. She doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Amen,’ she says seriously. ‘Do you sweat much?’ Not unusually so but recently my palms seem to be constantly clammy; I’m not sure if this is something I want to share. Before I stutter any reply the stylist says, ‘It’s too late for paralysing the glands with Botox. We could try Drysol, a prescription treatment that dries up the sweat glands.’
Lovely.
I want to ask them all to leave. I can zip up my own dress and daub a bit of Rimmel Lash Maxxx. I’ve always managed to dress myself in the past and no one has actually thrown stones when I emerged in public. But I don’t ask them to go. For a start there are eight of them and one of me and I feel feeble. I’m pretty sure Saadi will just remind me that this is part of my job now. My first big, glam night out with Scott is bound to draw press attention; it’s my duty to look the part. And besides, I know the results they’ll achieve will be… well… better. I’m unlikely to be recognizable.
The hair stylist clips on a mane of sleek blonde hair to my head; this finally makes me find my voice and I insist that she takes it off again. I once read this article about poor little girls in underdeveloped countries having to sell their hair to feed their family – I wouldn’t have a nice night knowing that some eight-year-old is running around looking like Kojak so that I can look like the woman from the Timotei advert. Saadi’s first assistant argues that the kid would not eat at all if people like me didn’t buy her hair. I firmly tell her to send the five hundred dollars that she spent on the hair to some charity committed to providing kids with an education. I’m quite chuffed with that. I’ll have to think of a more regular and sustained way I can ‘do more’. In the meantime we settle on an up-do and Joy says that maybe I’ll bump into Angelina Jolie tonight and get some charity tips. The way she pronounces
Despite the constant stream of gloom and despondency at the prospect of making me red-carpet-worthy, we do manage to get me ready in time and I look, let’s face it, fabulous. I glide down the stairs into the atrium where Scott is waiting for me, the very picture of gallantry and perfection in a midnight blue jacket with mandarin collar and skinny jeans. Obviously he resisted wearing a tux, social death for a rock star. I’m a little envious because I bet it took him ten minutes to get dressed and I doubt anyone stuck silicone to his bits.
‘You are breathtaking,’ he mutters, his eyes wide with desire and appreciation.
My nipples push against the tiddlywinks and my groin aches with lust and longing. Suddenly I’m certain all the effort, all the teasing, spraying, brushing, pummelling, poking, prodding, pruning, was worth it. To get that response from Scott Taylor I’d walk on hot coals.
47. Fern
The grand opening of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, in Hollywood Boulevard, took place on 18 May 1927. It was the most spectacular theatre opening in motion picture history. Thousands of people lined the streets and a riot broke out as fans tried to catch a glimpse of the movie stars and other celebs as they arrived for the opening. Authorization had to be obtained from the US government to import temple bells, pagodas, stone heaven dogs and other artefacts from China to construct the ornate and opulent theatre. Film director Moon Quon supervised Chinese artisans as they created elaborate pieces of statuary that still decorate the flamboyant and lavish interior of the theatre today. Protected by its forty-foot-high curved walls and copper-topped turrets, the theatre’s legendary forecourt serves as an oasis to the stars of yesterday and today. Ten-foot-tall lotus-shaped fountains and intricate artistry flank the footprints of some of Hollywood’s most elite and welcome its visitors into the magical world of fantasy and whim known as Hollywood.
All of this I knew before I arrived at the premiere – I’d read it in my guidebook when Scott and I visited last week – and yet nothing could have prepared me for this spectacle.
New movies open every week in Hollywood, of course,
George Clooney and James McAvoy, undisputed sex gods, are clearly worth queueing for (even in a
