Authors: Alison Kervin
We're back at the wardrobe . . . again. Now I love clothes, like most girls, but this utter obsession with them is something entirely new. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, and I think Elody's amazing when it comes to styling, but I just don't feel that I need a 'glove draw' or someone to come in and organise my jewellery collection. I want to go and sit in the Rose Garden and dream about Rufus but I can't. There's no escape from the dreaded mistress of the wardrobe. She says we have to address the issue of my 'severe clothing deficit' as a matter of absolute urgency, as if we're talking about child poverty or a threat to national security.
'Did you never go out before?' asks Elody, pulling out my lovely little white dress (one of my very best). 'I mean, this is stuff you would not want to be seen wearing in public; let's be honest. Perhaps you were burgled and all your nice clothes were stolen.'
'I do have nice things, and I love that dress,' I say. I can feel tears burning in the backs of my eyes. Why does everything have to be so brutal? She takes clothes so seriously. I guess that's her job, but honestly, they're just clothes. If I happen to like different ones to her, why does that matter?
She's fiddling with that gorgeous necklace of hers as she speaks, clinking the two large diamond-covered stars together. There's always trouble when she's wearing that; it's like her war paint.
'Listen, you wanna sexy white dress, babe, you'll have the sexiest white dress that money can buy, but it'll be one made of the finest materials that will hug you and flatter you.
No
more Topshop shit for you, lady. It's all designer dressing from here on in.'
'There's nothing wrong with Topshop,' I say. I'm slightly reluctant to take on Elody when it comes to matters of a sartorial nature, but some of the best-dressed people wear Topshop clothes and some of their stuff 's quite cutting edge. Christ, half of it was designed by Kate Moss, and you don't get much better dressed than her, do you? I just can't imagine going into a designer shop and have snobby sales assistants look me up and down and declare there's nothing in there that's suitable for me.
'All I'm saying is that you can do better, and I will help you do better,' says Elody, sinking onto the chaise longue next to the vast wardrobe. 'There is nothing to fear; I will teach you everything. In fact, I will teach you everything today.' She looks up suddenly and I expect a light bulb to appear above her head. 'Let's go shopping now.'
The prospect of getting out of the house is very appealing, and I would like to learn as much as I can from Elody before Rufus comes back, but I made half a plan to meet Jan and Isabella for coffee. Perhaps if I text them, and suggest meeting later, say 6 pm, at mine, then I can do the shopping trip and an enjoyable girly chat after. Ideal!
'OK,' I say. 'I'll just get my coat.'
'You'll do more than get your coat. You need to dress to shop. If you want the assistants to take you seriously, you need to be properly attired; you need to be better dressed than they could ever be, only then will you be taken seriously.'
Oh Lord. This is hard work. She spends an hour dressing me up and making me look like a film star before I'm allowed to leave home. She slips large black sunglasses onto the end of my nose, in case the paparazzi are out in force, and we're off. 'Head up, shoulders back,' she orders as we march out to the car. She'll be making me salute her next.
I have to say that shopping with Elody is a fantastic experience. When we walk in through the doors of shops that I was scared even to look through the window of before, she is greeted as if she were Princess Diana risen for one last trip to the boutiques of West London.
'My God!!!' they exclaim. 'Wow. It's you. But. Wow. Come in. Come in.'
They treat me like I'm a supermodel, too, telling me how beautiful I am, rushing around to get me a seat and showing me all the latest clothes. Elody is desperately rude to them, but it seems the ruder she is, the more these women dote on her and seem to want to help her. 'Diva rules' as Elody calls it.
'Have you not been shopping at all since you moved in?' asks Elody.
'Yes,' I say. 'I went out and bought loads of plants and flowers to put into the snug to make it beautiful.'
'No, not that – clothes shopping.'
'Oh, no. I haven't had the time yet,' I explain.
'There is always
always
the time for clothes shopping,' she insists, giving me an almighty hug.
I must admit that before this moment, I was really going off Elody. I thought she behaved appallingly at the party last night, and her dismissive departure was awful; she made up some story about us having so many other parties to go to, but we didn't have any other parties at all. I thought it was odd; for all her talk, all her fame and Hollywood connections, Elody does not have people running around desperate to invite her to parties. Instead, we went home, and Elody went onto the internet and looked through the websites, howling with laughter at the catwalk items on sale. 'Look, look, look,' she cried. 'They've chosen the blue shift dress. How funny is that? Blue!!! This season??? Crazy!'
This morning, though, I'm seeing her through different eyes as we wind our way through the streets of Richmond, tearing past the shops I'd normally go into, and heading straight for the ludicrously expensive ones. I buy a terrifying amount of stuff egged on by Elody at every turn, of course, and thus I blame her entirely for my excesses. The clothes are all given to me at half price or less. Despite the hefty reductions bestowed on us, I still manage to spend more money on clothes than I have in my life before. I hand over my credit card sheepishly, convinced that it will be rejected every time.
'What will Rufus say?' I ask Elody. 'Won't he be cross?'
'You can't spend enough to make him cross,' she says. 'He'll make more every time he smiles in this new film than you could spend in a lifetime. Lady, you're going out with one of the richest men in the world; enjoy it, for God's sake.'
She has a point. I decide to enjoy it. When I get home, I'll go through the bags and take back any clothes that are too expensive. I don't want Rufus to think I'm taking advantage of him. I'd hate it so much if he thought that.
'OK, I've got an idea,' says Elody, looking at me quizzically. 'What are you like at gambling?'
'Gambling? I've never been gambling in my life before.'
'Well then, today's your lucky day. I'm going to introduce you to the best sort of fun you can have with your clothes on. Follow me.'
Elody leads me up Richmond Hill a little way, towards a small lane on the left. I've been here before; there's a bar at the end called The Anglers where we went with Sebastian for a drink when he first joined the theatre. I'd never noticed before that, halfway down the lane, there's a discrete black door with a large brass knocker. Elody knocks it twice, and a man in a tuxedo answers and greets her warmly. I'm desperately nervous. What am I doing here? I'm just not the gambling type.
'Elody, I don't think this is my thing,' I say.
'Coat over there,' she responds, indicating the cloakroom.
'I don't want to stay.'
'You'll love it,' she insists. 'I promise you. It's fantastic fun. You're going to totally adore it. No question. Coat over there and follow me.'
To be fair to Elody, we do have a fantastic time, tearing through the place, clutching handfuls of brightly coloured chips as we bet on a random collection of games. I fall hopelessly in love with the roulette wheel, while Elody is far more taken with poker.
'Try it, you'll love it,' she insists, but it seems all too hard-core for me. You have to actually think about it and, if I'm going to have to think about things, I'd rather save myself for work or reading newspapers. Instead, I settle myself in at roulette, avoiding the eyes of the men who circle round me, looking me up and down and trying to engage me in conversation.
'A drink, perhaps, pretty lady?' asks one man. He's twice my age and looks way too much like Jimmy Lapdance for me to take seriously, with that pitted skin that comes from spending too much time indoors clutching a glass of whisky, and not enough time in the fresh air. I hold up my hand in a rather juvenile fashion as if to say 'talk to the hand'. It's a gesture he seems familiar with, as he nods and backs away. I look up and see Elody looking over at me. 'OK?' she mouths, thoughtfully. 'Fine,' I reply, with a smile, feeling an unexpected warmth that she's been paying so much attention to me, and looking out for me. Things happen from time to time to remind me that she's actually a very good person, even though there are occasions when she's mortifyingly embarrassing. I guess everyone's like that. I'm sure I say and do things all the time to cause embarrassment.
I've decided to throw myself wholly behind the number 29 on the roulette wheel, because it's come to represent so much to Rufus and me. The day we met . . . the day we moved in together . . . it means everything. I stuck just one chip on the first time, prompting the croupier to give me a rather patronising smile. I decide that if I am to disabuse him of the notion that I don't have a clue what I'm doing, I'll have to play big-time. I've got £200's worth of chips in my hand. (Elody has £2000 but she's way out of my league; I feel bad enough spending a tenth of that!) I push all the chips along the green carpet-style covering, towards the number 29.
The croupier nods and hurls the ball into the wheel so it clatters around, spinning, ducking and diving its way through the numbers. There are two people gambling alongside me. One is a woman who I would guess to be in her mid-forties. She looks like a housewife who's escaped from the kitchen for the day, but plays like a pro. She's full of confidence, speaking to the croupier in language he understands, chatting about 'the rake' and 'comps'. There's a man the other side of me who's much older, painfully thin and looks as if he doesn't go for too long without a cigarette between his fingers. His hands are stained yellow and they shake and quiver as he leans over to place his bet. No one has bet as much as I have.
'Go on number 29,' I say, as the ball dances across the wheel. 'Go on.'
'It's not horse racing, sweetheart.' Elody has appeared at my side, and is watching in amazement at the fact that I've thrown all my chips on one throw, literally.
'I never had you down as a gambler,' she says, hugging me affectionately. 'Turns out you're a natural.'
The ball slows down. 'Go on, go on.' Eventually it stops, nestling in the number 29 position.
'Yeeeeeessss,' I shriek, throwing my arms up into the air like a goal-scoring footballer, and running around the room in jubilation. Elody is jumping up and down and squealing, while I clap my hands and join her – the two of us bounding on our invisible trampoline while everyone else looks on coldly, emotionless and miserable.
'That was such enormous fun,' I say to Elody, as we emerge from the casino like burrowing creatures coming up for light. 'I don't remember it being this bright outside when we went in,' I say, while Elody smiles to herself.
'Why are you grinning so much?' I ask. The woman lost most of the £2000 she gambled; it seems to me that she has precious little to grin about.
'I'm smiling because I think you're fab,' she says. 'You know that, don't you?'
I look at her and feel filled with delight that she likes me. I hope she tells Rufus that she thinks I'm fab. I'm almost tempted to suggest it to her but fear that might change her view of me entirely.
'Come on,' she says. 'We absolutely have to get you this season's "must have" handbag.'
I'm dragged, screaming and kicking, into Matches (OK, maybe not screaming and kicking, but certainly protesting mildly), where we're treated to the best kind of service that money can buy. I now have the latest handbag from the Chloe range, eight dresses, three pairs of trousers, countless tops and a collection of shoes that would not disgrace Imelda Marcos, but it's clearly not enough.
'Outerwear,' she instructs, as we walk down the concrete steps outside Matches and descend onto the pavement below. 'But first, we need to stop shopping for a while and talk.'
This is a most unusual state of affairs. All morning it's been me stopping her and saying, 'Do I really need another sparkly top? I now have more sparkly tops than the average girl band. Is that not enough?' But now it is she who is calling a temporary halt to the shopping.
'There's something I've been meaning to say,' she utters, ominously.
'What is it?' I ask her, fearing it has something to do with the paparazzi. We had to dive into Caroline Charles, the gorgeous little shop near the hill, when the paparazzi spotted us earlier. The staff in there were great, thank heavens. They helped us through the rows of exquisite garments and bundled us out of the back door before the photographers could work out where we were.
'I'm going to be frank,' she says, adding (alarmingly): 'There's no way to dress this up. It's something I have to tell you for your own good.'
Inside I'm thinking, 'Nooooo . . .' because we all know that when Elody is frank, she might as well just belt you with a really big stick . . . She's brutal!
'Sure. Be frank,' I say confidently, then I feel like putting on a helmet and jumping in an armoured tank.
'When we were at the dinner at Rufus's house, one of the girls said that you had a face like
Baywatch
and a body like
Crimewatch
. Don't take it the wrong way, but that's what they said. I think they're right.'
Don't take it the wrong way? What's the right way to take it?
'It's just that you are really quite fat,' she continues.
'Oh.' The thing is, I thought I'd lost weight. I thought I was looking slimmer and better than ever. 'I'm a size 12,' I say with real pride.
'Size 12!' she exclaims, her eyes wider than any eyes have a right to go. 'My God, it's so much worse than I thought! Are you really a size 12? I thought we'd been buying you size 10 dresses in the shops; that was embarrassing enough. Size 12!
Zut alors
! That's terrible. You have to let me help you or you'll never win Rufus back.'