Bipster.’ Her laugh turned into a yawn. ‘Seriously, I’m freaking dying here. Email me the details, what you’re doing when you get there and I’ll send some stuff over. And I’m sure I must know someone in Paris. I’m on it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Angie, it’s like, totally what I do. Now let me go back to sleep.’
‘Like, totally go back to sleep.’ I laughed. ‘You’ve gone totally LA on me, Lopez.’
‘Like, rilly. Screw you, Clark.’ She yawned again. ‘Go buy Belle, let the intimidation build a little more. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Or at least, I’d thought that I loved Jenny until the three giant DHL packages arrived the next morning. It turned out, I really hadn’t known what love was. Love was one box labelled ‘evening’, one box labelled ‘day’ and one box labelled ‘I don’t know when the fuck you’ll wear these, but they’re awesome’. I hacked into them desperately, using my keys to slit the package tape and carefully pull out one beautiful outfit after another. In each box was a manila envelope with handwritten (well, scribbled) notes along with gorgeous sketches of how each ensemble was supposed to go together. The Joe Jeans with the Tory Burch flats and Elizabeth and James blazer. The DVF royal blue silk romper with the YSL wedges. The beaded Balenciaga flapper dress with the Giuseppe Zanotti platforms. The Miu Miu purse with everything. After an hour and a half of playing dress up, I perched on the edge of the sofa in a pale blue silk Lanvin number, flustered, redfaced and grinning maniacally. At the very bottom of the ‘Fuck Knows’ box, under the Kenneth Jay Lane pendants and bangles, was a note from Jenny.
I know you said not to go to too much trouble, but you’re going to Paris. For Belle. And people know you know me so there’s no way I’m letting you head over to the fashion capital of the world, head-to-toe in American Apparel – don’t tell me you weren’t wearing it when you opened the box, even if you’re in the Narciso Rodriguez jumpsuit by now—
I paused to look at all the outfits on the sofa, there was a jumpsuit? Had I missed it?
—because it’s awesome. You’re going to be amazing at this, Angie, I’m so proud of you. Just take the clothes, wear them, rock them, take photos and BRING THEM BACK, preferably in one piece and without ketchup all over them.
Love you, JLo xxx
It was only eight in LA, four hours before I was legally permitted to call Jenny without it going on her ‘you’re dead to me’ list. Three strikes and you were out and I already had one from the time she caught me ironing the collar of a Thomas Pink shirt I had borrowed from her with my hair straighteners. Apparently, she had never done it. I did not believe her. What I did believe was that the collection of clothes, currently acting as a very expensive throw on my sofa, was a) amazing b) worth more than my apartment and c) going to make me the best dressed bargain hunter in all of Paris.
I tapped out a text to let her know that the package had arrived and that I would love and cherish the clothes as though they were my firstborn child. Which I would be more than happy to trade to keep this stuff for ever. Clutching a pair of pale blue Stella McCartney widelegged trousers to my heart, I stared at the assembled selection of swag. Truly, it was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever had the honour to behold. How was Paris supposed to compare?
While the actual being-on-an-aeroplane part of flying had never been a problem for me, I really, really hated airports. The thrill of Duty Free wore off in approximately fourteen minutes when I remembered I was broke and the fact that I was left alone, slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair scarfing a soggy McDonalds while Alex was already up, up and away, didn’t make me feel any better. Cici swore she had tried to book us on to the same flight, but his was already full. Even though his manager booked his flights on the exact same day she tried to book mine.
So instead of joining the mile high club with my boyfriend, I had a nine-hour flight sandwiched in between complete strangers to look forward to. Ramming a fistful of chips down my throat, I checked my (newly reinstated) Spencer Media-sponsored BlackBerry again only to see another message from Esme. Joy. I’d managed to avoid any further face time with the delightful people at Belle magazine, but there was nowhere to hide from Donna and Esme’s terse, borderline bullying emails. And brilliant, here was another.
Angela.
French Belle magazine are sending an assistant to keep you on brief. Be in your hotel lobby to meet Virginie at ten-thirty.
Esme.
Oh dear God, no. They were ‘sending me’ a super cool, super hot French fashionista to make me feel inadequate. Mary had been right, the girls at Belle were really not happy at all with my being foisted on them by Bob, but I was determined to prove myself. I was a real journo girl with a real talent and I deserved this opportunity. My boyfriend said so.
And it wasn’t as if everyone at Spencer Media was against me. Since everything about my assignment was a little bit last-minute, Cici had magnanimously stepped in and offered to help sort out my travel details. Even when she couldn’t get me on Alex’s flight, she did say she would ask a friend that worked for my airline to try and get me upgraded and she had couriered over a package with my BlackBerry, a corporate credit card, a map of Paris and even a DVD of Funny Face. And if that weren’t scary enough, she had signed off the accompanying note ‘xoxo Cici’. Either she had undergone some sort of complete personality transplant or Grandpa Bob had some serious influence on that girl.
Obviously, Grandpa Bob had some serious influence everywhere at Spencer. I’d had email after email from Donna Gregory checking on my research progress, reminding me time and time again what it was that she did not want from this piece. But next to no detail on what she did want. Not so helpful. I’d spent all week researching, but really, I couldn’t wait to get to Paris, to really get stuck in. I couldn’t help, but feel that this was my big break. I mean, I’d thought the blog was my big break and I suppose it kind of was, it had got me the James Jacobs interview. And then I’d thought that the James Jacobs interview would be my big break, but that turned out to be a traumatic, potentially liferuining pain in my arse instead. Although it had sort of lead to this. A piece for Belle. And a new Marc Jacobs handbag, so I suppose it hadn’t been all bad. But this was definitely it. I could feel it in my waters. Whatever that meant. Actually, that was a bit gross, wasn’t it? Hmm.
I waited impatiently to be called to board, flicking through the pages of the newest issue of Icon for the millionth time, wishing I’d left my Paris guidebooks and notes in my hand luggage so I could work on them on the plane. There was no way I’d be able to sleep on the flight, I was full of butterflies. Nervous about the article, nervous about not being able to speak French, nervous about getting to the hotel on my own and, for some reason, nervous about spending almost a straight week in another country with Alex. Good nervous, I was pretty sure, but still definitely nervous. Not as nervous as Alex however, who had spent the previous three days becoming increasingly uncommunicative and turning an attractive shade of pale green. He had explained that he didn’t like flying at least twenty times and no matter how many times Graham and Craig, the bassist and drummer in his band, Stills, slapped him on the back and offered to get him shitfaced before they boarded, he never seemed to look any better.
I looked around for any telltale patches of puke at the boarding gate to show he’d been there, but it was clean as a whistle. But then, JFK airport probably sorted that kind of thing out
