Authors: Aita Ighodaro
‘Wow!’ Claude rose from his deckchair and clasped her hands in his. Then, taking a step back, he looked her up and down. His rheumy eyes were filled with such devotion that Natalya
feared he might fall, sobbing, at her feet.
Natalya winced imperceptibly at his Speedos. They were tight, red and far too small for him, and to her utter horror a thicket of long, wiry grey pubic hair curled from beneath them and stalked
down the insides of his upper thighs. His belly paunched over the top of the elasticated waistband, making the Speedos seem even smaller. When he was clothed Natalya could concentrate on his face,
which might once have been handsome, but in Speedos there was no escaping the truth. As her resolve wavered she closed her eyes and visualized the squat she’d grown up in. Then she opened her
eyes and took in the vast swimming pool, shimmering in the afternoon sun, and the Ruinart champagne cooling in an engraved silver ice bucket beside it. She could learn to love him.
The first party guests were due to arrive at 9 p.m. Staff had spent the day preparing a feast of fresh seafood, gourmet salads and beluga caviar. Fifty-eight tables clad in
brilliant white linen and set with gleaming silver were scattered around the pool. An immaculately turned-out string quartet were busy tuning their instruments, positioned beside the main entrance
in readiness to greet the first guests. Upstairs, Natalya was watching from the window of her marble bathroom, which was almost as big as her entire flat in London. Butterflies danced in the pit of
her stomach. Claude had invited tycoons, celebrated actors and actresses, European royalty, powerful politicians, and even one head of state, and although he maintained that this evening was in her
honour, she knew from her research that he regularly entertained at his homes around the world.
Claude wanted Natalya in position early to welcome the very first arrivals at his side.
‘You are a princess.’ Claude’s voice was hoarse and his eyes misted over when she emerged, dressed in a floor-length emerald gown. Natalya was pleased she’d decided to
shun her sexy mini-dress, and even more pleased to see that Claude, now in black tie and no longer sweating, looked a lot more presentable than he had earlier by the pool.
‘Come, I have something for you. Remember I told you on the phone that I have a gift for you. Well here it is.’
Natalya flushed. ‘You meant it! I thought you were teasing me. Thenk you.’
She unwrapped the small box Claude handed her. Inside was a pair of sparkling diamond-drop earrings. It was the single most exquisite gift she had ever been given. Short of words, she kissed
Claude’s cheek as tears streamed silently down her own.
‘My pleasure. Oh it is my pleasure,’ Claude soothed. He hugged her tight to him and kissed her tears. He slid his hand up and down her exposed back and over her tight
schoolboy’s bottom, where he let it rest. Then he took her face in his two hands and planted a cold, wet kiss squarely on her scarlet lips.
‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Ambassador De La Fontaine, welcome to my home. So good to see you both. Please meet Natalya Ozolin, perhaps you know of her from the fashionable pages of the
papers?’
Claude thrust Natalya forward to be admired and then left her with the ambassador’s wife while he led the ambassador aside for a quiet word.
‘Yes, I have certainly seen your work before,’ said the ambassador’s polite wife.
‘Thenk you. Claude has been greatly looking forward to welcoming you, and, er, your husband, to his home.’ Natalya attempted to make small talk and was relieved when Claude quickly
returned and handed the woman back her husband in readiness to receive the next guest.
Natalya couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so important. Couple by couple the distinguished guests arrived and Claude introduced her to each one as ‘the accomplished
Natalya, a top model and brilliant linguist’. She had not, by any means, reached the top of her profession as a model, neither did she consider herself a linguist. But she had been speaking
broken French with Claude, a language she had picked up from spending time in Monaco and the South of France. She could converse in Italian because of ex-boyfriends who had not known English. She
had taught herself German almost purely though Mozart’s opera’s. She had not found Russian difficult to learn, and her English, as well as her Latvian of course, was fluent. On
reflection, maybe Claude was right about her linguistic ability. For the first time, Natalya felt special, more than just a hired body. By Claude’s side she was really someone.
An elegant couple in their late fifties wandered past, champagne glasses in hand, and she watched as the man, who had been carrying his wife’s silk shawl, now wrapped it around her thin
shoulders as the night closed in and the sea air began to cool. Natalya was struck by the tenderness of the gesture. She continued watching as the woman looked up and smiled at her husband; a true,
loving smile of thanks. Her eyes creased and twinkled, shining as brightly as the diamonds at her neck.
‘Oh, Madame Perren,’ the woman turned away from her husband to face Natalya, just as Claude appeared behind her, ‘what a breathtaking gown! You have wonderful style.’ She
delighted in Natalya’s appearance with a motherly warmth. ‘We’re summering on the Italian Riviera this year – you and Claude
must
come and stay with us on the
boat.’
‘We would love to, Your Grace,’ cut in Claude, pressing a proprietorial hand on Natalya’s shoulder and closing it in a vice-like grip.
****
Sarah took a deep breath and looked herself over in the mirror. For her first day at Willy Eckhardt Productions she had opted for a smart and conservative knee-length cream
dress she’d bought specially from Zara and plain brown shoes with a small heel. She was a little worried about how the others in the office might receive her, knowing that Willy had offered
her the job over dinner. She needed to look elegant and presentable, but not as though she’d flirted her way into the role. As she made her way to the tube station she tried to control her
nerves by breathing deeply. It wouldn’t do to throw up on her first day at her new job.
And then there was Willy. What a joy it would be to work so closely with Willy. Even though she hadn’t spoken to him since their dinner at the Wolseley a month ago, she felt sure she was
going to like being his assistant. She just hoped she could do a good job.
Sarah arrived at 10.25. She took a minute in the street to smooth down her dress and hair, then marched into the office and introduced herself to the receptionist.
‘Good morning. I’m Sarah Hunter, Willy Eckhardt’s new assistant.’
‘Oh, hi Sarah, nice to meet you. I’m Linda. If you’d like to take a seat I’ll buzz Gloria. She’ll be looking after you this morning until Willy gets in. He tends
not to arrive till much later.’
‘OK, great.’ Sarah sat and surveyed the reception area. The balance sheet of this production company must be very healthy indeed. The furniture was new and expensive. The offices
themselves, in the heart of Mayfair, must surely be costing a bomb.
‘Lovely premises, aren’t they,’ she said to Linda. ‘How long have you been up and running? I understand this started up long before Willy himself arrived in the UK. It
must be doing well already. I mean, wow!’
‘No, not long at all actually. The company was set up ten months ago, specifically to produce
Britain’s Next Musical Megastar
. Before that Willy was still tied up with all the
songwriting stuff. Excuse me a moment— Goooood morning, Willy Eckhardt Productions, Linda speaking, how may I help?’
‘Ah hah. The talented Ms Hunter.’
Gloria’s voice thundered through the reception area, causing Sarah to jump from her seat, spilling the cup of coffee that Linda had handed her on arrival. Sarah groaned as she watched a
dark mark form on her cream dress. What a way to start the day. Red-faced, she extended a hand to meet Gloria’s outstretched one. Just as she had on the phone, Gloria really
did
sound
like a man – and indeed looked like one too. Gloria pressed her sturdy fingers around Sarah’s and shook her hand so vigorously that her entire body shuddered with each rise and fall of
the arm.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Gloria boomed, moving her stocky hand to pat the wet patch at Sarah’s crotch. ‘It’ll dry in no time.’
She handed Sarah a print-out.
‘Here’s your itinerary for the next couple of days. Are you familiar with editing pictures? Good. I have a selection of photographs that will go out to the press but I need you to go
though them all and make Willy’s teeth whiter in each one. Then there’s a phone conference with Simon Cowell you’ll need to arrange, which takes us to one o’clock, when
you’ll have lunch with Willy.’
Sarah nodded eagerly.
‘Tomorrow you’ll go to Willy’s recording studio and meet with executives from his record label, and then you may be required at a dinner with Rupert Murdoch in the evening, to
promote the show. Does that all sound fine to you?’
‘Oh goodness, it’s more than fine. It sounds amazing!’ Thinking back to her first days at the sleepy
Wimbledon Gazette
, she almost laughed out loud. She felt as though
she’d been transported to a different universe.
‘I’m glad. It’s hard work too though. It might all sound fun and glamorous, but our job is to make sure that it stays that way for Willy. Just always remember that
he
is
the performer, not you, and you’ll be fine. But you look as though you’ve a good sound head on those shoulders.’
Sarah was so filled with gratitude that she didn’t even mind Gloria’s manhandling. The statuesque publicist was now guiding her to an office, resting a hand on the small of her back
to steer her through the door. She took in Gloria’s outfit. Slouchy trousers and a white shirt with a navy blue suit jacket. Her shoes were flat Italian loafers like the ones Sarah’s
dad wore. She was robust but not fat and her hair was already a distinguished grey, which complemented her air of no-nonsense efficiency.
‘You’ll also need to get yourself a smart new wardrobe. We’ve a number of big events coming up, and Willy tends to attract a lot of press attention, so he likes his whole team
to look sharp. I’ve booked a stylist for you this afternoon.’
Oh God, thought Sarah, envisioning a wardrobe of tight Jane Norman pencil skirts. But when she met up with Tulip at the MAC cosmetics counter in Selfridges, it was clear Willy’s stylist
had other ideas.
‘Darling,
hi,
I’m Tulip,’ announced a striking, stick-thin fashionista with jet-black hair, alabaster skin, kohl-rimmed eyes and blood-red lips. She looked like Snow
White on heroin. ‘OK, now, stay right there, no, no, no, noooo, don’t
move
, just let me
look
at you!’
Sarah stood awkwardly on the spot while Tulip looked her up and down.
‘Do I meet with your approval?’ she asked nervously.
‘Darling, you’re fabulous!’ exclaimed Tulip before signalling to a staff member for assistance.
‘Oh yes, hi, I’ll need some
very
heavy-duty contouring bronzer, I need to create cheekbones in a fat face—’
‘“Fat face!”’ Sarah spluttered.
‘Oh no, darling, you’re fabulous, don’t you know, people with round faces look so much
younger
– just age
wonderfully
.’ Turning back to the shop
assistant, Tulip added dark eye make-up to the list. Worried that without make-up Willy’s colleagues wouldn’t take her seriously, Sarah made no objections.
With make-up sorted they headed to the women’s designer-wear floor and talked briefly about the ‘look’ Sarah was going for. She stuttered, not entirely sure herself, that she
was after a few different looks.
‘I’ll tell you what
I
think,’ drawled Tulip as Sarah steeled herself for humiliation. ‘I’m thinking a little bit edgy but still sophisticated and most of all
capable, after all you
are
a secretary and you
do
have an office job to do.’
‘Well, I’m a personal assistant for now but I—’
‘Oh whatever, darling, the main thing is you’re fabulous! Now come and try this on for me sweetheart, it’s Westwood – simply di-
vine
.’
Sporting a pair of cut-off hot pants over lurex leggings, chunky high heels, a baggy gold top and a bowler hat – the sum total of which was £3500 – Sarah laughed at her
reflection then stepped out of the changing room.
Tulip frowned. ‘OK, so at least now we know the edgy look doesn’t quite
work
for you darling – that’s absolutely fine. And we won’t do legs – legs
don’t quite
work
for you either. Who was it who put larger girls on the catwalk last season? Was it Mark Fast? Let’s go for fitted longer dresses, let’s do cleavage; that
works
better on … on girls like you.’
‘I’m a size ten to twelve thanks, I don’t have to buy two seats on a plane
just
yet!’ Sarah spluttered.
‘Oh no darling you’re
wonderful
, gorgeous, of course you are – you have a fabulous hourglass figure and lovely natural tan. Let’s make the most of that!’
Sarah was tentative at first. Used to buying clothes on the high street, and relying on ethnic trinkets found on her travels to lend outfits originality, she didn’t know where to start
when faced with several floors of different designers, about whom she knew nothing other than that their prices were stratospheric.
She picked out a white-and-blue Moschino knee-length dress that looked exactly like one she’d bought a couple of years ago at Gap for £30. This one was £700 so she tried it on
just to prove a point. As soon as the zip was up, though, Sarah had to admit defeat. The dress worked like a corset, streamlining her entire silhouette and emphasizing her firm waist, which
appeared smaller than it actually was. When she added a push-up bra, her breasts seemed triple their usual size. She stood on tiptoes to imagine herself in high heels. The dress fell marginally
below the knee and was just the right side of slutty. Tulip suggested she get it in black too because it was such a versatile colour.