The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Page 13

  “Yes, I am.”

  The woman raised her brows and folded her arms across her Birkin bag without taking her eyes off me. The receptionist requested my driver’s license and left to make a photocopy. The mothers behind me were all whispering to one another behind my back. I didn’t know what they were saying and I didn’t care. I’m sure it had something to do with Vanessa Benshaw’s nanny picking the kids up early from school, or something equally as stupid. The lady returned with my license and a sticker that read The Academy: Visitor. “Please wear this while you are on the campus, dear, and wait right here for the children.” When I sat down in the only free chair, the group of mothers stood up and left the room with their offspring. Maybe they were too good to sit with the help.

  Nearly twenty minutes later, William Jr. and Willa arrived. They were six and seven and absolutely adorable. Each had on a tiny backpack with the same scripted B that was all over the Bentley. I knelt down to their level. I forgot how much I loved little kids! “Hi, guys! Your mom asked me to come get you from school today. My name is Lucy and we’re going to meet up with her right now, sound good?” The little ones nodded their heads and each took my hands. We headed out into the parking lot, still holding hands. I wanted to engage them, make them feel comfortable. “Do you guys like music? We can listen to whatever you want in the car! Do you have a favorite song?”

  Willa perked up. “I like Ky Zavala!” she beamed. Ugh, Ky Zavala.

  William Jr. sassed, “That’s not a song, dummy.”

  “Uh oh, that’s not a nice . . .” Our brief bonding time came to a halt as strangers started charging us from every direction! Startled, I froze, and both kids tightened their grips on my hands as they buried their little faces into my sides. We were all scared. Who were they? They were all yelling and pushing and shoving each other, quickly surrounding us. What the hell was happening?

  “Hey, nanny! How’s the job going?” yelled one of the attackers. “Yeah, tell us what are the perks like.” They all started laughing and heckling. I estimate that there were ten, maybe fifteen of them, and they all had huge cameras. Paparazzi, of course. I had to get the kids out of there. I secured them each in a booster seat, entered the driver’s side, and locked all the doors before turning around in my seat.

  “Are you okay?” I asked them while starting the engine. They looked like they were about to cry. I crawled into the back and closed the curtains on their windows, which made much more sense now. “It’s okay, we’re going to go see your mommy right away.” A huge thud was heard from the trunk. I peeked from the curtain and one of the paparazzi had shoved another into the car. Willa started crying for her momma. I crawled back into the front seat. Cameramen had their lenses nearly up against the windows, taking shots of the kids, of me. I knew that they were only cameras and not a true danger, but for some reason it felt like they were shooting us with weapons. These people, mostly men, were acting unruly and tyrannical—not caring at all that they were terrifying us. I put the car into reverse and slowly backed out of the spot. They continued to swarm us as I rolled out of the lot. I moved with trepidation because I was afraid of hitting somebody—not because I cared about those vermin, but because of the damage one might do to the car. What a relief to get on the open road! My phone began to ring and it was my parents. I would return their call once back at Stefano’s. Then the car phone began to ring and the screen read “VB MOBILE” across the dash. “Um, how do I . . . answer this thing? Umm . . .” I fumbled while trying to drive and figure out the phone.

  William piped, “The gween! Push the gween!”

  “The what? I don’t understand, buddy . . .” The car phone stopped ringing. My phone began ringing again and, without checking who it was, assuming it was Vanessa, I answered. “Hello?” I tried to sound calm.

  “Lucy, it’s Mom. Where are you?” Shit.

  “Mom, I am still handling this work thing. I have to call you back, things are a little . . . crazy.” In my rearview mirror, I saw two black SUVs peel out from a red light and another turn a corner—I knew it was the paparazzi from the parking lot and they were headed for us. I stepped on the gas.

  My mother continued, “Are we still on for GiGi’s? Because your father is starving, so we’d like to go for a late lunch rather than an early dinner . . .” One of the cars pulled up along my side and a photographer leaned out of the passenger window, snapping shots of me. What did he want with me? I am nobody! I sped up once more and cut off their car. “Sure, Mom, just go now! I’ll meet you there. Julie’s working, she’ll take care of you! I gotta go!” I threw the phone into the console and put both hands on the wheel.

  The car started ringing again: VB MOBILE . . . “The gween one, Woosy!” William screamed.

  Willa translated, “The green one, Lucy!” Oh!

  I pressed the flashing green light on the touchscreen. “Vanessa?” I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. I didn’t want to freak her out too. The second SUV was on the other side of us now, snapping away—while the other two circled us. I slowed down and figured it wasn’t worth getting into an accident. Heaven forbid! Sure it was scary and invasive and unnerving, but they were only cameras, not guns. The kids didn’t have the same thought process. They screamed and cried for their mom. I’m not going to lie, I kind of wanted mine too.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” I could hear the worry in her voice.

  “There were paparazzi at the school and they’re following us in the car right now but we’re on our way . . .”

  I heard her repeat what I said to Stefano and I assume he took the phone from her because we were then talking. “Don’t let them follow you here! Can you lose them—safely?”

  “I . . . I don’t think that I can.” He didn’t live in a gated community and at this point they were orbiting us like the sun. There had to be somewhere we could go. Somewhere with a back door and security and other adults to help me protect these kids . . . My cell phone began ringing and I quickly glanced at it: Julie. “Stefano, I’m taking them to GiGi’s.”

  “G-Spot, Lucy? I hardly think that’s appropriate . . .” He thought I was nuts.

  “My best friend works there, she can have security meet us in the back, escort us in . . . It’s the only place I know!” I defended.

  I heard him repeat my words to Vanessa, who I assume took the phone from him because she confirmed with me, “That’s perfect. My husband and I will be there, but please don’t tell anyone we are coming!” Who would I tell? I asked myself.

  I called Julie back and she answered by saying, “Did you really ditch your parents with the dinosaurs?” Without time for explanation, I cut right to the chase. “Julie—I need you to help me and I can’t explain everything right now . . .”

  She sighed. “I know—your parents are almost here, get them a table and entertain them while you dodge flying objects thrown by your deluded boss . . .”

  I was too focused on not killing everyone on 101 Freeway, including myself, to let her remark get to me. “No, actually—another favor. I need you to have security meet me at the back door in fifteen minutes, with someone from valet waiting in the back.”

  “Excuse me, has hanging with the Hiltons gone to your head? I don’t think so, Lucy.”

  “It’s not for me! Just trust me, please,” I pleaded. “I’m in a white Bentley. Fifteen minutes!”

  “Okay, okay—I got it . . .” I don’t know who hung up on who, but I tossed my phone to the side and reverted my attention to the kids—and the road, and the killer-bee-like vehicles racing along within inches of our own.

  I’d never felt so relieved to see that fucking restaurant. Julie was in the back and she pointed us out to the valet, who had thoughtfully shut the gate to the parking lot. They had opened it just for us and closed it off to the others. As this happened, cameramen jumped out of their cars to get one last shot. You would have thought Mariah Carey was with us. Naked.

  As promised, there was a security guard waiting
. I pulled up to the back door and handed the keys to the valet. Before I could address anyone else, I climbed into the backseat between the kids and faced them. I rubbed their little legs. “We’re going to get something to eat and your mom and dad are going to meet us here okay?” They unbuckled their own harnessed seats.

  Willa pouted. “No more papomoddees?”

  I gently touched her reddened cheek. “No more paparazzi. They went away.”

  Julie held the door for us, pouncing on me the second we got inside. “Lucy, whose car is that and—whose kids are these? Your parents are here and they seem kinda pissed.” I kept walking toward the dining room, not responding because my mind was still in overdrive. “Lucy!” She grabbed my shoulder.

  “What?” I turned around. She gave me “the look.”

  “They’re Vanessa and William Benshaw’s kids. I had to pick them up from school and the paparazzi were chasing us off the road, so I had to come here. Vanessa is coming to get them soon.” She gasped and looked down at the kids. “Thank you for helping me—I didn’t know what else to do!”

  “Is she coming with her husband?” Julie inquired.

  “I don’t know—I think so. Maybe.” What did it matter, I wondered. When I saw my parents sitting there, I scrambled mentally, knowing that I hadn’t thought this through completely. I’d have to wing it. The looks on their faces said it all. They love kids—but didn’t expect them or understand why I had brought two to lunch. “Hey, um, Mom, Dad . . . These are my friends, William and Willa!” I told the kids, “This is my mommy and daddy.” I assisted them in sliding into the vacant side of the booth and I sat down on the outside. Julie stood at the head of the table, hands on her hips, waiting to see how I would pull this one off.

  My parents said hello to the children. In a falsely cheery voice, my mother said, “They’re adorable. Who are they?”

  I could do this. “Stefano’s friend’s kids . . .”

  They leaned in, waiting for me to give them more information. I grabbed my mother’s water and began chugging it instead.

  “Is that what you were doing all afternoon? Babysitting?” my dad asked.

  I shook my head no while continuing to drink the water. I felt safe with my face planted in the glass. It seemed like a reasonable excuse not to speak.

  “Is her husband coming with her?” Julie asked again. I shrugged my shoulders, keeping my face in the nearly empty glass. What was with Julie? She isn’t even into sports. Why wouldn’t she let off about Mr. Benshaw?

  Julie leaned in so the other patrons couldn’t hear and spelled out certain words so the kids couldn’t understand. “Everyone is talking about how she caught him having an a-f-f-a-i-r with the n-a-n-n-y . . .” I spit out the last sip of water that was in my mouth. The kids thought it was hilarious.

  “You didn’t know? Don’t you watch the news?”

  “Not E! News!” Why would I?

  “Maybe you should, since it’s their world you’re living in.” She had a point.

  I looked over at my parents. My dad tuned out, as he did with most girl talk. My mom, on the other hand, wanted in on the gossip. “Who are you talking about?”

  Suddenly the rush of paparazzi made perfect sense. “Oh my God. Julie, I told a mom at their school that I was the nanny . . . The nanny. Oh my God. That’s why . . . they . . . Oh no.”

  My dad checked back in. “I’m sorry. You’re whose nanny—?”

  My mother cut him off. “You’re having an a-f-f-a-i-r? With their f-a-t-h-e-r?”

  “No! Dad, I’m not a nanny. Mom, I’m not having . . . one of those. Their mother is friends with my boss and she couldn’t pick them up from school, so I did. And I brought them here because it got . . . complicated. So their parents are picking them up any minute. Okay?”

  “Why you? You’re his photo assistant—I don’t understand how that’s your responsibility?” Dad wasn’t buying it.

  “So they are both coming?” Julie was fascinated and wouldn’t let up.

  “Who?” Both parents burst out. They were fed up with this game.

  The kids jumped up in their seats and hopped up and down with glee. “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!” they sang out. I stood up so they could get out and Vanessa, now wrapped in a vintage trench and still wearing the silk turban and shades, met me with a huge hug. William picked up both kids and kissed their bellies, which made them giggle and squirm.

  Vanessa turned to my parents and introduced herself and her husband before unknowingly, completely selling me out. “Your daughter saved us today and we are so grateful. You should be very proud of her. Lucy, if Stefano ever loses you, you come find me because you are above and beyond the most wonderful personal assistant I’ve ever met!” Vanessa opened up her Prada hobo and stuffed a wad of cash in my hand. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Stefano is so lucky to have you!” She kissed my cheek and said good-bye before leaving with her family.

  I sat down and faced my stunned parents. Julie swiped the wad of cash and counted it out on the table.

  My mother sternly said, “Personal assistant? You have so much explaining to do.”

  “Six . . . hundred . . . dollars? Six hundred dollars!” Julie squealed.

  My father gulped down large sips of the scotch that he would ordinarily nurse.

  “So I guess . . . dinner’s on me?” I tried to be cute but my charm didn’t faze them.

  “Yeah, don’t forget to tip your waitress,” Julie said before walking away.

  chapter seventeen

  Oh My Gaultier!

  After an exhilarating mini Vegas vaycay with Bella, followed by an exasperating weekend with my parents, culminating in being hunted down in a freeway car chase, I was very much looking forward to resuming work at the studio. I walked with a renewed spring in my step. I, Lucy Butler, felt a sense of confidence that I had never experienced before. I wasn’t sure if it was the new wardrobe or the experiences I’d had, but I felt like a new girl. I mentally recited Bella’s words of advice from our return flight. I had to stop being a part of the background and demand recognition. In addition to my hard work, I would dress and act the part of someone worthy of a real job in the studio. I had to act like I was part of the artsy family that I saw in American Photo. My own reflection in front of the studio’s blacked-out window stopped me in my tracks. The frazzled art student geek had definitely died, and this new and improved version had been born. My curly hair was pinned up into a messy yet chic chignon that emphasized the asymmetric neckline on my Roland Mouret black sheath dress. “It’s a cardinal sin to throw coffee on couture,” Bella jokingly assured me when she insisted on buying me several “power dresses” for work. I smoothed out the structured fabric tugging at my hips and pointed my toe to admire the new Tory Burch ballet flats as well. I beamed and bounced into the studio.

  “Oh my Gaultier! Is that a Vuitton? Good lord, child, let me touch.” Roman held his arms out as if for an infant, slid the signature tote over his arm and sashayed to a mirror. The classic purse contrasted sharply with Roman’s matched red and baby blue checkered shorts and cropped jacket. Striking several poses, he examined himself from behind while making kissy faces.

  Liz spun me around. “You look beautiful, darl! How was your time off? By the looks of it, I suspect things went well!”

  “It was fantastic! How was your weekend?” I couldn’t help but gloat just a little bit. I was emitting joy.

  “Girl, you are glowing! Are you . . . ya know . . . baking a pain au lait in that oven?” Liz squinted her eyes and leaned into me. An intoxicating mix of Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds and vodka overwhelmed my senses.

  “A who?” I leaned back, holding my breath.

  “Roman! Look at this!” Liz cupped my face in her hands and spun me around.

  Roman folded his arms, popping out a hip. “Tell me you didn’t sign up for nine months of sobriety!” The two circled around me like juvenile hawks, poking at my belly, not allowing me to get a word in. Stefano stormed by.
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br />   “She’s not knocked up, you dimwits . . . She was in Vegas with Bella Blackstone.” I wanted to add that I had been with my parents, too—but that would have sounded less cool.

  Roman and Liz stopped dancing around me and stepped back. “Oh child, then you are most likely preggers by osmosis.” Roman held his hands up and made an ick face as I gave him the evil eye.

  Liz added, “It’s true, babe. That woman has had more ‘seamen’ than the SS Saratoga.”

  I put my hands on my hips and defended Bella. “I’ll have you both know there wasn’t a guy in sight the entire weekend, and not only is Isabella the nicest person I’ve met since—”

  Liz put her arm around Roman and mock whispered, “I liked her better when she was pregnant.”

  Heading back toward the offices, Roman added, “No men? Sounds like a horrible weekend to me!” I dismissed my covetous coworkers and set off in search of Stefano.

  Today was an exciting day on the set. Stefano had been hired to shoot the cover for the anniversary issue of Vanity Fair. The issue was a celebration of “Young Hollywood” and would feature interviews with several intriguing and influential stars under thirty.

  First to arrive was Paige Sheedy, an eighteen-year-old who had already scored her first Oscar. Her glossy dark hair and cocoa eyes enhanced her feline appearance. Paige was low-key. She did not make a scene or command attention. Instead, she quietly followed Liz and her assistants to the largest makeup room. Brett Berkeley’s camp arrived next, and he was escorted to the room adjacent to Paige’s. At twenty-two, Brett was the most pursued male model in the world. Brett had multimillion-dollar contracts with Burberry and Tommy Hilfiger, with H&M showcasing his new namesake clothing line. A rising country singer, Brooke Sands made an entrance with a ten-person entourage that included her mother. Lisa was only twenty years older than her daughter and, with the assistance of multiple plastic surgeries, looked anything but maternal. They were known as “The Sands Sisters” and often were photographed on the party scene, sharing good times and bad men. Brooke’s breakout album had gone triple platinum and had transformed her from a self-described “country bumpkin” to a bona fide diva overnight. The shoot would have been incomplete without a rock-and-roll lothario, and they had snagged the crème de la crème—Jax Phoenix. For the past year, he and his British rock band, Phoenix Rising, had dominated the airwaves and Billboard charts. His shaggy dark hair, chiseled features and liquid eyes mesmerized females of every age.