Tease (15 page)

As Rex grilled Lance about his last night’s mischievous exploits, Sienna’s eyes darted around the restaurant, becoming aware of one, no two … no three, slightly nervous-looking young girls sitting bolt upright at their respective tables. Each of them wore very new looking outfits, and were fervently scribbling notes as their bosses held court with their clients. One of the girls on a neighbouring table looked up from her pad. Her big brown eyes locked with Sienna’s for a moment. They both smiled tentatively, recognising a fellow assistant when they saw one, before looking away again awkwardly. Sienna began
to wonder how many Juniors like her – and like the other three Junior Girls in the restaurant – had passed through Rex’s office … not to mention his bed, over the years. She shuddered involuntarily.

‘Got those details down, Sienna?’ asked Rex.

‘Yes of course! Erm, how do you spell that?’ Sienna knew she’d been caught daydreaming again. Rex shot her a look, and wrote the name ‘Bob’ on her notepad, very slowly. Sienna flushed immediately, and was relieved that the waiter had arrived to unload three tall Bloody Marys from his tray. She braced herself and gulped the slippery cold tomato concoction before her anxiously.

‘We were just talking about Bob Bell, from the “News of the Screws”,’ explained Lance kindly for Sienna’s benefit, as he scribbled a phone number on her pad. ‘Bob asked me to pass Rex his private number last night when we were out on a social. He’s taken over from Camilla Walker as editor you see, so the next time one of Rex’s footballing clients gets caught using a mobile phone as a gay sex toy …’ Lance paused for a comedy wink at Rex, before continuing, ‘He has a direct lifeline to Bob so he has a chance to stop the story – or maybe even do a trade off for a better one.’ Sienna smiled weakly, aware of an intense burning sensation in her throat.

‘Don’t look so shocked, Sienna, you’ll get to learn everything about this sordid little business very soon, don’t you worry!’ laughed Lance.

‘Er, actually, I think I just got your extra hot Bloody
Mary,’ rasped Sienna, trying not to cough. Lance and Rex guffawed, and Sienna felt Rex’s foot kick her under the table. He winked at her. Sienna relaxed in her chair a little.

‘Okay, hand that over,’ said Lance with a smile, reaching across to swap the drinks. Sienna wondered if he actually had a rather charming side underneath his intimidating exterior. She gave him a swift once over as he reached for her drink.

‘Nice watch,’ she suddenly remarked, sucking her breath after catching a flash of Lance’s wrist as he swapped the glasses across the table. ‘Rolex Daytona. Nice.’

‘Wow, you notice everything, lady,’ Lance smiled, uncomfortably pulling his shirt cuff down.

‘Oh yes, I know the real thing when I see it. It’s the most expensive and legendary model. Rex honey, didn’t you buy one like that recently?’ asked Sienna proudly. Finally she had a brownie point. Observant. Yeah, Rex would appreciate that, she thought to herself. Only her darling Rex wasn’t smiling.

‘Mate, not being funny, but may I?’ Rex motioned over at Lance’s watch. He grabbed Lance’s wrist and peered at the watch face.

‘Hmm. Exactly the same as mine. Ten points to Sienna – well done. So, Lance, when did you, err, buy this?’

‘Uh … let’s see … about a year ago.’

‘You bought it?’

‘Yeah. You buy yours?’

‘Yeah. Few weeks ago.’

Lance and Rex stared at each other intently. Sienna felt the air turn hostile. She glanced from Lance to Rex and back, waiting for one of them to start laughing. Their expressions remained inscrutable. Sienna nervously took another slug of her thick, slimy Bloody Mary as she puzzled over what had just happened. She felt faintly lightheaded as the vodka coursed through her bloodstream.

Rex was the first to break the silence.

‘So, you have the mark of the Tiger. You kept that quiet for some time.’

‘Touché,’ replied Lance smoothly.

‘It was just business.’

‘Natch.’

‘Now I understand the shitty features,’ said Rex, breaking into laughter, ‘I can’t believe I didn’t suss that one out, I’d have thought it would be too much of a cliché. Mate, she must have chewed you up and spat you out.’

‘Nah, she’s just a pussycat. Anyway, all in the past.’

‘Yeah, sure. She said something about “trouble in paradise” about a year ago now I think of it. She was all over the place for about a week. Couldn’t get her to concentrate on anything. That was you? Mate, I reckon she got to you baaaad! Now I tot up all your swipes, and those snide remarks you wrote in …’ Rex tailed off, suddenly aware of Sienna’s eyes boring a hole through him.

‘So anyway, what a coincidence, we bought the same Rolex. Sienna babes, what do you do when you birds wear the same dress to a party, eh? Does one of you have to
leave? Or do you fight it out?’ Rex was left talking to Sienna’s back as she stalked from the table and sped off towards the restrooms.

Safely in a cubicle, Sienna locked the door behind her and plonked herself on the toilet seat lid, biting her lip to stop herself from unleashing a torrent of foul curses. She leaned forward with her head in her hands, trying to clear her thoughts after the barely veiled revelation back there. She racked her brains, trying to work out when Tiger could have seduced Rex. Her mind reeled. She concluded that Tiger must have taken him for sport, knowing that Sienna was already in love with him. Had Sienna really made it that obvious? When had Tiger found out? Had she actually gone all the way with Rex? Ugh, the thought was too much. Tiger would have to pay somehow. Why couldn’t she just stick to the celebrities and millionaires she had falling at her feet? Why go for darling Rex of all people? Sienna sat in her cubicle, burning in resentment. Tiger would have to pay somehow.

Angry thoughts spilled over as she remembered how Tiger was always too busy flitting round the world and building her precious career to rescue her own little sister from horrible boarding school with its nuns and stodgy dinners and cold showers. Then when Mum and Dad died a couple of years ago in the car crash, oh, then Tiger was all over her like a rash. Paying for Sienna to stay on for sixth form, taking an interest in her grades, wanting to come to parents’ evenings, reading her reports, even sticking
her nose into her romantic affairs! Not that there were many. She’d even wanted to have Sienna come live with her and Blue – play happy families – but Sienna was having none of it. Blue? What was he going to be, her fairy godmother? No, she’d persuaded Tiger to pay the rent on her own flat instead.

All Sienna knew now was that she had to pretend she had fallen for Rex’s barely coded talk back there. Sienna Starr was on her way up and nothing was going to stop her, she just had to force herself to look upon this as a little bit of sand in the suntan lotion of life. She would see to it that dear sister Tiger paid for her actions somehow. Suddenly Sienna missed her mum and craved a hug. Feeling her eyes well up, she took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of her nose, sniffed, and waltzed out of the cubicle with a flourish.

There stood Junior Girl with the big brown eyes from earlier, digging around in her obviously fake Louis Vuitton as she stood in front of the mirror. She pulled out a hairbrush and smiled over at Sienna.

‘Wow, I was admiring your dress earlier. I saw you come through the restaurant. It looks amazing on you. Who’s it by?’

‘Moschino,’ replied Sienna, tightly.

‘Oh. I guessed it looked expensive,’ said Junior Girl, looking crestfallen at the imagined price tag.

‘Well … actually my sister bought it for me.’

‘Oh my. Lucky you, I wish I had a sister like yours!’

‘No, you don’t. She’s a bitch.’

Sienna swept from the restroom on her long legs, leaving Junior Girl open mouthed and flustered, hairbrush mid air.

Blue stood back as the small bright blue wooden door buzzed open. As he climbed the near-vertical set of narrow stairs, he could hear his art director Hartley barking orders above the thudding beat of the radio that ricocheted through the small building. Blue stuck his head round the door as he reached the first floor, to see ten or so teenage-looking girls and boys arranged around a huge mound of crinolines splayed out on the uneven wooden floor, surrounded by hundreds of glass bowls full of small square mirror pieces. All along the walls sewing tables reared up, interspersed with dressmaking dummies upon which were pinned various biro-marked
toiles
. The work team kept their heads down in concentration as they applied the mirror pieces to the crinolines, a couple of them grunting in time to the music. The air was thick with the familiar singed smell of hot glue guns mixed with the spicy cedar aroma of moth deterrent.

Hartley sprang forward to greet Blue warmly with flamboyant air kisses. ‘Oh Blue, it’s a hive of activity in here,’ he puffed, scooping up yards of fabric in his arms and looking harassed. ‘We’re already halfway through the mirrorball skirts, twenty down, twenty to go!’ He motioned towards the students.

‘So I see!’ said Blue. ‘Looks promising, you’ve got a lovely shape on them, they look just like my drawings. How long did the crinoline cages take?’

‘Got through about two a day.’

‘Mid thigh?’

‘Of course, I know you need them saucy. I had that Georgia bird in for the
toile
fitting. The design works beautifully, a perfect half-sphere crini, and with the bumless mini bloomers underneath they look cute as hell, especially with Georgia’s long pins. You could see her butt cheeks when she bent over.’

‘Well there’s a revelation. I didn’t know the bony bitch actually had an arse. So have you started on the bustiers?’

‘No, the skirts are taking a lot longer than we planned. The mirrorball panels were pinging off after the glue had set, so we had to make the crinis again with a coarser fabric. Don’t worry, we factored in some contingency. We’ll still have them done to deadline.’

‘Can’t you bring more staff in?’ asked Blue, looking fidgety.

‘Blue, they’re fashion students. Gimme a break. They all think they’re bloody Dolce and Gabbana already. Glueing five billion pieces of mirror to chorus-line costumes isn’t their idea of the giddy heights of
haute couture
. They weren’t exactly banging the doors down to do this one.’

‘Students, huh? Well, boys and girls, you should all be so lucky to be working on this gig at all,’ shouted Blue,
addressing the room theatrically, ‘Erté would be creaming himself at these artworks. Oh, Hartley, I knew we should have given it all to Valerie again.’

‘Blue, she’s working her way through three hundred thousand rhinestones for Tiger’s costume right now. She’s slam up against it. I can assure you she hasn’t got time for mirrorballs. Go upstairs and see for yourself,’ said Hartley, suddenly looking worn and creased.

‘Okay, babe,’ replied Blue. ‘Sorry, I do trust you. It’s just that – well – my bits are really on the chopping block here.’

‘It’s cool, I know this is an important one. Just leave the worrying to me.’

‘Thanks, Hartley, appreciate that. C’mon then, let’s go and say hi to Valerie.’

‘No, it’s fine, you go ahead, I gotta sit here and go through the glitterball prop specs on the phone with the sculptor. We need the prototype delivered for this Monday presentation thing of Tiger’s. You go up, Val will be thrilled to see you, she’s on good form. Oh, and Blue? I meant it when I said not to worry. It’s all in capable hands. Have we ever let you guys down?’

Blue secretly loved the fact that Hartley was such a dependable rock in the sprint for the finishing line. While Blue spent time whipping himself into an artistic frenzy when he created something new for a show, Hartley could always be relied upon to be working steadily in the background, seeing to it that the rest of the production wasn’t
falling apart at the seams, quite literally. As a team they were like coffee and cream, or gin and tonic as Hartley fondly liked to think of it.

Of course, some of the costumes Tiger and Blue dreamt up between them needed a qualification in advanced engineering to construct, and combining the artistic vision with the practical workings was Hartley’s area of expertise. He had overseen whole set designs that were less complicated to resolve than Tiger’s costumes and props. He once joked that Howard Hughes would be left scratching his head if he saw some of the wire-work cages underneath Tiger’s enormous feathers, all to give them the impression of being floaty and light. People were often surprised if they picked up one of Tiger’s gowns and realised how heavy they were with all the layers upon layers of fabric, crystals, feathers, underwiring and steel stays. In fact, Tiger often judged her costumes on a scale of naked to Liberace. If the costume wasn’t big enough to warrant counterbalances in her heels like Liberace famously used to have, then it wasn’t deemed elaborate enough.

Blue was now puffing and panting his way up the second set of even narrower stairs, having bid his farewells to Hartley, who could be heard faintly from the other room, barking down his mobile at the sculptor. Blue clung to the rope fixed along the wall for safety as he hoisted himself towards Valerie’s private studio. That was the problem with these ancient mews houses – charming though they were – they were built for a generation of people who used to
be half the size, certainly half of Blue’s proportions, at any rate.

‘Valerie’s Art House’ was now legendary; for over fifty years she had been sewing her fingers to the bone in this amazing little building. It was as though every thread and stitch was infused with the atmosphere of ancient Soho. Valerie had personally clothed entire operas, classical ballets, drag shows, Hollywood movies and musicals. Most of all, she loved a showgirl; she worshipped Tiger, and regarded every item she made for her as ‘a piece’. Never ‘a costume’, but ‘a piece’, in the way a work of art was ‘a piece’. Valerie didn’t stitch for just anyone, and she would simply ignore a potential new client if, god forbid, they made the fatal mistake of asking for ‘an outfit’ to be made.

Blue knew the new piece must be a real humdinger for Valerie to be up and working in the daytime; she was a nocturnal creature by habit, and would usually wait until dusk before opening up the blinds and the big skylight to let the light of the twinkling stars into the top floor of her studio. She once said that the sounds from the old knocking shops at night back in the 1950s used to give her a good rhythm to stitch to during the night. Those days were long gone of course. Soho had cleaned up, and was now full of production companies, coffee shops and vintage boutiques. Against all the odds, Valerie’s Art House had withstood the redevelopers, and remained nestled in Soho’s backstreets; a beacon of glorious history in a newly
Starbucked district. As Blue got to the top of the rickety wooden stairs he rapped loudly on Valerie’s door.