Page 42 of Bad Influence
I had one ear trained on Julie-Ann, and could hear every word she was saying as she peered over Mart’s shoulder to see thumbnails from the shoot as they appeared on a laptop in real time.
‘The styling is adisaster,’ she quipped. ‘Britain is not going to bond with this brash American, who has not won the right to hole up in one of our most historic homes. This is a mess.’ It made my insides tighten and a prickly heat rose through my body.
The styling is a disaster.Five words no stylist ever wants to hear. Five words that could end a photoshoot. A job. A career. A bonus.
I was standing to the side of the bedroom, a soft brown cashmere rollneck dress laid carefully over my left arm, as I cautiously suggested a compromise – keeping the snake-print boots, but teaming them with the cashmere dress, rather than the skin-tight, scoop-neck, python-printmini dress from her own wardrobe that she was currently sporting.
‘Where are the body chains?’ Mandy snapped at me, her scowl broadcasting her disdain at my choice of clothing once again. ‘Fashion is all about putting on an act, grabbing attention, creating moments that will stop the scrollers in their tracks. You’ve got to fake it ’til you make it. C’mon, girl! Where’s the glamour?’
I felt humiliated and looked across the room in desperation, trying to get Blair’s attention with my eyes, then scanning right to Lola, who was standing a couple of feet away, to Jimi in the wings, and then across to Julie-Ann and Mart by the laptop station. They all looked away, suddenly busy with something.Why was no one backing me up?
Surely, they knew what Mandy was like, and could see what was going on. She was manipulating me – going against everything I had been briefed and that we had previously discussed. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the right clothes for Mandy, it was that she didn’t want to wear them. I felt hopelessly alone as they all avoided eye contact.No one knows how to handle her.
‘OK.’ I smiled, taking a deep breath.
I can either give up or stand up for myself.
There was nothing for it, but to be relentlessly positive.
I took a breath. ‘What about looking at this another way?’ I began. ‘What if we stop letting the clothes do the talking, andyoubecome the star of the photos? I’d like to see you steal the scene here, Mandy – and I’m pretty sureI’m talking on behalf of not just everyone in this room – but all of your British fans. I’d like to see therealyou.’
Mandy was quiet for a moment, like she was at least listening. I held my breath as I waited for her response. The silence seemed to grip the whole room. Half of me wanted to crumble like a dry sandcastle, but deep down I was proud I had stood up to her. My stomach was in a knot.
Slowly and silently, Mandy sat up on the bed on which she had been posing seductively just a few seconds ago. She shimmied until her legs were hanging over the edge, then she leant forward, reached for the heel of one of the boots which she firmly tugged and pulled off, throwing it onto the floor. The second one quickly followed. Then the corners of her mouth rose upwards, and she threw her head back. ‘Therealme?’ she roared. Then she began laughing.
The tiny dress rode up her legs, revealing a large expanse of puckered skin on her ample thigh. It was pale in comparison with the lower section of her leg which had seen a hefty amount of instant tanning lotion applied to it by Lola.
‘Cellulite, muffin top, belly fat? Oh, I’ve got plenty of that!’ she exclaimed, prodding her side. ‘You think people really want to see this?’
‘You look fantastic,’ I replied. ‘Don’t be ashamed of who you are.’
I looked around me and noticed that Julie-Ann had a sceptical look on her face.
‘Don’t you think this will lose me followers rather than gain them?’ she continued. ‘This is absurd.’
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘Fashion is changing. I mean it’s always been about making someone look their best but, for maximum appeal, that best must now be real – it should be raw, unfiltered, authentic. Show them you’re as vulnerable as the rest of us.’
Her eyes laser-focused on me, like I was a strange specimen she hadn’t seen before, and she couldn’t work out whether I was friend or enemy. But she seemed to be listening at least.
‘But what isreal?’ she asked.
‘Well, who are you, Mandy?’ I continued. ‘And I don’t mean your profession, your wealth, or your personal status as a wife and celebrity. Whoareyou?’
The question seemed to flick a switch inside her.
Mandy turned her head and looked out of the window. It was a simple question, but it demanded deep consideration.
After a pause which felt like an eternity, she whispered, ‘I don’t know.’
She hung her head. This felt like a private moment, except the room was full of people.
‘Think back to the past, if it’s easier,’ I probed, gently. ‘What comes to mind?’
Mandy looked upwards, I could almost hear her brain ticking.
‘I guess if I think of myself as a little girl,’ she began, ‘I remember the self-confidence I had. I used to disco dance and I would wear this kind of all-in-one leotard. I loved the whole performance aspect of it. I was so blissfully unaware of how I looked and what people might think of me. It was so freeing.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
