Kendall Jenner and Poppy Delevingne had given me an insight into Coachella festival chic – and it was a million miles away from the mud-soaked Hunter-welly, waterproof-poncho practicalities of Glastonbury.
Coachella was the annual fash-pack pilgrimage to the Californian desert. It involved rock music, hot boys, even hotter weather and lashings of suede fringing, frayed denim, cropped tops, crochet, gladiators and flower garlands. The biggest decision for the rich kids in attendance was whether to go kaftan or cut-offs.
‘Who’s the celebrity?’
‘Liv Ramone – you might remember her name. She was a big shot in the late noughties, but lost her way a bit. Well, now she’s coming back with a bang. If you get this right, you could have a regular client,’ Dana said while briefing me. ‘I’ll bet most of her wardrobe is funded by the Bank of Mum and Dad – her flip-flops have a price tag of three hundred dollars – but she doesn’t have a clue how to put it all together. Liv’s manager says she’s really into accessories at the moment, so be sure to pull plenty of fun jewellery too. Good luck!’
Liv’s arrival was promising. She bounded over to me like an excitable puppy. She had incredible long, red, wavy hair, lithe limbs, big grey eyes and a sparkling smile – all qualities a stylist falls in love with at first sight. Plus, she had an immediately endearing demeanour, which was unusual for a former child star, who – so Dana had warned – were usually the worst divas of all. When she came closer she smelt of strong musky perfume, hairspray, and one too many cigarettes. When she opened her mouth, you could see the gum. She arrived at Milk Studios, where Dana had given me a corner to work from, piggybacking another photo-shoot due to start later that day. Her manager was a large, puff-chested man called Mickey, who had whiter-than-white teeth and obviously dyed-black hair.
‘I’m so glad to meet you, Amber!’ She launched at me, arms open, embracing me with a hug so big you’d think we were long-lost relatives. ‘Dana told me you used to assist Mona Armstrong.’ I smiled in acknowledgement. ‘I mean, wow!’
‘Even a guy like me has heard of Mona,’ Mickey added, ‘Liv’s brought you a gift.’ He gestured to the neat little pink bag she was holding and she handed it over, presenting it alongside another hug; this time the hug went on a little longer than was strictly necessary. The gift made me instantly suspicious.
‘That’s so sweet of you!’ I gushed, mustering up all the American enthusiasm I could. Inside the bag was a white square box, heavy with the weight of its contents. I looked at the sleeve – it was a luxury candle; the scent matched the heady perfume Liv was wearing and was described on the packaging as ‘Sensual Sunset’. On it was a black-and-white photographic image of Liv lying seductively – Oh God, she’s naked – on a shag-pile rug in front of a fake-looking sunset. Because of her model-perfect proportions and attention-grabbing hair, it was a gnat’s whisker on the passable side of soft porn.
‘The candle line comes out next month,’ Mickey informed me. ‘I took care of the production and styling, in case you were wondering.’ He winked, sleazily. ‘It’s the first step in launching Liv’s new lifestyle range. The candles are calming as well as deeply erotic; they help with anxiety too. Liv has ten burning away at one time in her house. The calming effect is better than any drug. Let’s light it while we work, yeah?’ Just the thought of ten candles releasing that overpowering scent was enough to give me a migraine. And, ah yes, the drugs. Following some online research, I had discovered that, unfortunately, Liv did a little too much Liv-ing during her late teen years when she shot to fame with the lead role in a hit film about an off-the-rails teenager on the run from her parents. It was a case of reality mimicking fiction, because Liv too left her nice, wealthy, suburban roots and moved in with a bunch of new friends in a hip enclave of LA. For a few years she ran with a fast-paced, heavy partying crowd, who thought nothing of staying up for three days in a row, cleaning out hotel minibars, setting up a pharmaceutical counter as good as any private hospital, getting naked on balconies and waking up in bed with strangers – all on what they considered a ‘little bender’.
Throw in a drink-driving rap, an ill-fated twenty-one-day marriage to a guy she met and married within twenty-four hours in Las Vegas, and numerous community-service appointments, and you could see how she earned a rep for being a wild child. Three stints at top rehab centres and, five years later, at the age of twenty-four, she was a cleaned-up act, ready to unleash the new Liv on the American public.
Mickey took a lighter from his pocket and lit the candle.
‘Get your nose into that,’ he said, holding it in front of my face as though it contained a stash of cocaine. A strong, heady, musky scent much stronger than Liv’s perfume wafted out.
‘Oh, yeah, got it – that’s… unmistakable,’ I uttered, before sneezing uncontrollably for a few seconds.
‘I’m so happy you love it!’ Liv screeched, lunging at me for the third time in a matter of minutes. She then turned to high five Mickey and back to high five me. I raised a limp hand to hers, before sneezing again.
Candle lit, lights dimmed (by Mickey, not me – I could barely make out the clothes) and, sneezing subsided, I showed her to a rail of seventies flared jeans. Thankfully, Dana had introduced me to a friend of hers – Patti Rose, owner of Rose’s Fashion Emporium, the biggest fashion rental house in New York – and she’d kindly put me on the books of ‘trusted lenders’ as a favour to Dana, in advance of my getting any paid work. It was already becoming obvious that Dana had a lot of industry influence.
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