Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 61
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“Ow! You trod on my hand!” cries out a woman.
“Don’t step on the earring!” exclaims another.
“Did someone find the earring?”
“What earring?” He’s at the end of his tether. “What the hell is going on?”
“Now,” I whisper in Suze’s ear. “Run!”
Before I can think twice, we’re both careering up the maroon carpet, past the unattended velvet-rope checkpoint, and onto the red carpet—I can’t help laughing out loud with glee. We’re there! On the actual, proper red carpet! Suze is pretty exhilarated too.
“We did it!” she says. “Now, that’s what I call red.”
I look around, getting my bearings, whilst trying to stand properly and smile. The carpet’s definitely red. It also feels quite big and empty, which is maybe because all the photographers have turned away. As Suze and I move slowly along, we’re doing our best Hollywood poses, elbows out and everything. But not one cameraman is taking a picture. Some of them are still clustered round the young guy with spiky hair, and the others are chatting or on the phone.
I mean, I know we’re not exactly famous, but still. I feel quite aggrieved on behalf of Suze, who looks absolutely gorgeous.
“Suze, do that bendy-back pose where you peek over your shoulder,” I say, and then hurry over to a photographer with dark hair and a denim jacket who’s leaning on the barrier, yawning. Yawning!
“Hey, take her photo,” I say, pointing at Suze. “She’s gorgeous!”
“Who is she?” he retorts.
“Don’t you recognize her?” I try to sound incredulous. “You’re going to lose your job! She’s the latest thing.”
The photographer seems unimpressed. “Who is she?” he repeats.
“Suze Cleath-Stuart. She’s British. Really, really hot.”
“Who?” He leafs through a printed crib sheet with faces and names of celebrities. “Nope. Don’t think so.” He puts the crib sheet away, then takes out his phone and starts sending a text.
“Oh, take her photo,” I beg, all pretense gone. “Go on! Just for fun.”
The photographer looks at me as though for the first time. “How did you get on the red carpet?”
“We sneaked on,” I admit. “We’re visitors to L.A. And if I was a Hollywood photographer, I’d take pictures of normal people as well as celebrities.”
A tiny, reluctant smile tweaks at the photographer’s mouth. “Oh, you would?”
“Yes!”
He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.” He lifts his camera and focuses it on Suze. Yessss!
“Me too!” I squeak, and skitter over the red carpet to join her. OK, quick. Elbow out. Legs crossed. It’s actually happening! We’re actually having our photo taken, in Hollywood, on the red carpet! I smile at the lens, trying to look natural, waiting for the flash …
“Meryl! Meryl! MERYL!”
In a blink, the lens vanishes from sight. Like stampeding wildebeest, every single photographer, including our guy in the denim jacket, has charged to the far side of the red carpet. I don’t think he took a single shot of us, and now he’s in the thick of the paparazzi, yelling and screaming.
“OVER HERE, MERYL! MERYL! HERE!”
The flashes are like strobe lighting. The clamor is extraordinary. And all because Meryl Streep has arrived.
Well, OK. Fair enough. No one can compete with Meryl Streep.
We both watch in awe and fascination as she makes her way graciously along the red carpet, surrounded by several flunkies.
“Meryl!” calls Suze boldly as she comes near. “Love your work!”
“Me too!” I chime in.
Meryl Streep turns her head and gives us a slightly bewildered smile.
Yes! We networked with Meryl Streep on the red carpet! Wait till I tell Mum.
As we enter the ballroom where the benefit is happening, I’m still on a high. Never mind if no one took our picture, this is exactly what I imagined Hollywood would be like. Lots of people in amazing dresses, and Meryl Streep, and a band playing smooth jazz, and delicious citrusy cocktails.
The whole place is decorated in pale gray and pink, and there’s a stage on which some dancers are already performing and a dance floor and loads of circular tables. And I can see a goody bag on each chair! My head is swiveling around as I try to catch sight of all the celebs, and Suze’s is doing the same.
I notice Luke by the bar, and Suze, Tarkie, and I hurry over. He’s standing with Aran and a couple I don’t recognize. He introduces them as Ken and Davina Kerrow, and I remember him telling me about them last week. They’re both producers, and they’re making a film about the Crimean War. Luke and Aran are jockeying to get Sage considered for the part of Florence Nightingale. Apparently, Sage needs a “change of direction” and “rebranding,” and being Florence Nightingale will achieve that.
“Don’t step on the earring!” exclaims another.
“Did someone find the earring?”
“What earring?” He’s at the end of his tether. “What the hell is going on?”
“Now,” I whisper in Suze’s ear. “Run!”
Before I can think twice, we’re both careering up the maroon carpet, past the unattended velvet-rope checkpoint, and onto the red carpet—I can’t help laughing out loud with glee. We’re there! On the actual, proper red carpet! Suze is pretty exhilarated too.
“We did it!” she says. “Now, that’s what I call red.”
I look around, getting my bearings, whilst trying to stand properly and smile. The carpet’s definitely red. It also feels quite big and empty, which is maybe because all the photographers have turned away. As Suze and I move slowly along, we’re doing our best Hollywood poses, elbows out and everything. But not one cameraman is taking a picture. Some of them are still clustered round the young guy with spiky hair, and the others are chatting or on the phone.
I mean, I know we’re not exactly famous, but still. I feel quite aggrieved on behalf of Suze, who looks absolutely gorgeous.
“Suze, do that bendy-back pose where you peek over your shoulder,” I say, and then hurry over to a photographer with dark hair and a denim jacket who’s leaning on the barrier, yawning. Yawning!
“Hey, take her photo,” I say, pointing at Suze. “She’s gorgeous!”
“Who is she?” he retorts.
“Don’t you recognize her?” I try to sound incredulous. “You’re going to lose your job! She’s the latest thing.”
The photographer seems unimpressed. “Who is she?” he repeats.
“Suze Cleath-Stuart. She’s British. Really, really hot.”
“Who?” He leafs through a printed crib sheet with faces and names of celebrities. “Nope. Don’t think so.” He puts the crib sheet away, then takes out his phone and starts sending a text.
“Oh, take her photo,” I beg, all pretense gone. “Go on! Just for fun.”
The photographer looks at me as though for the first time. “How did you get on the red carpet?”
“We sneaked on,” I admit. “We’re visitors to L.A. And if I was a Hollywood photographer, I’d take pictures of normal people as well as celebrities.”
A tiny, reluctant smile tweaks at the photographer’s mouth. “Oh, you would?”
“Yes!”
He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.” He lifts his camera and focuses it on Suze. Yessss!
“Me too!” I squeak, and skitter over the red carpet to join her. OK, quick. Elbow out. Legs crossed. It’s actually happening! We’re actually having our photo taken, in Hollywood, on the red carpet! I smile at the lens, trying to look natural, waiting for the flash …
“Meryl! Meryl! MERYL!”
In a blink, the lens vanishes from sight. Like stampeding wildebeest, every single photographer, including our guy in the denim jacket, has charged to the far side of the red carpet. I don’t think he took a single shot of us, and now he’s in the thick of the paparazzi, yelling and screaming.
“OVER HERE, MERYL! MERYL! HERE!”
The flashes are like strobe lighting. The clamor is extraordinary. And all because Meryl Streep has arrived.
Well, OK. Fair enough. No one can compete with Meryl Streep.
We both watch in awe and fascination as she makes her way graciously along the red carpet, surrounded by several flunkies.
“Meryl!” calls Suze boldly as she comes near. “Love your work!”
“Me too!” I chime in.
Meryl Streep turns her head and gives us a slightly bewildered smile.
Yes! We networked with Meryl Streep on the red carpet! Wait till I tell Mum.
As we enter the ballroom where the benefit is happening, I’m still on a high. Never mind if no one took our picture, this is exactly what I imagined Hollywood would be like. Lots of people in amazing dresses, and Meryl Streep, and a band playing smooth jazz, and delicious citrusy cocktails.
The whole place is decorated in pale gray and pink, and there’s a stage on which some dancers are already performing and a dance floor and loads of circular tables. And I can see a goody bag on each chair! My head is swiveling around as I try to catch sight of all the celebs, and Suze’s is doing the same.
I notice Luke by the bar, and Suze, Tarkie, and I hurry over. He’s standing with Aran and a couple I don’t recognize. He introduces them as Ken and Davina Kerrow, and I remember him telling me about them last week. They’re both producers, and they’re making a film about the Crimean War. Luke and Aran are jockeying to get Sage considered for the part of Florence Nightingale. Apparently, Sage needs a “change of direction” and “rebranding,” and being Florence Nightingale will achieve that.
