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  Amid this cornucopia, there was one that instantly appealed to me; a beautifully romantic, scarlet satin Valentino number, figure-hugging, oozing class. It might as well have had an Oscar pinned to it as an accessory. I ran my hand over the material, cool and silky-smooth to the touch. I wonder what it feels like to wear a dress like that.

  ‘Red-carpet evening wear on the left, low-key daywear on the right,’ Mona informed me, though I failed to see anything ‘low-key’ about the entire collection. ‘It’ll be obvious straight away who’s looking for what.’

  I really hoped it would. A fug I assumed was jet lag was starting to surround me. I stopped myself thinking that, eight hours ahead of us in the UK, I’d probably be in my cosy bed after an evening on the sofa with Vic, eating pitta and hummus and watching Graham Norton. At five to five, the front desk alerted us that the TV crew were making their way up, so I locked myself in the posh cream marble bathroom and rummaged through the stash of free miniature products, attempting a quick freshen up. I splashed water on my face, rubbed silky moisturiser into my arms, neck and chest—so at least I was vaguely fragrant—and re-scraped my hair back into a ponytail. It would have to do.

  Today’s TV crew was similar to the one we’d entertained in Smith’s not much more than twenty-four hours ago, only this time, another shaggy-haired cameraman was joining Fran with the bob and Rob. This one was American and called Lyle, but I christened him Shaggy, too. Fran with the bob shook my hand and Rob planted a peck on my cheek.

  ‘Amber, good to see you again.’

  It was great to see a friendly face. In a crisp white T-shirt, jeans and Pumas, Rob looked fresh, like he’d actually managed to shower since disembarking the plane. The place where he’d planted the kiss was burning up. He had Mona and I sign more release forms. Then, no sooner had the camera been set up and we’d necked another coffee, there was a ring at the door. Our suite has its own doorbell! I opened it to reveal a man mountain, dressed like a nightclub bouncer in a black suit, white shirt and skinny black tie, his hair crew cut, a small earpiece tucked inside his right ear.

  ‘Hey, Mona, good to see you again. I’m here with Miss Belle—should we come in now?’ He looked straight through me. I fizzed with excitement, jet lag suddenly forgotten. I was about to meet Beau Belle, star of so many chick flicks. Vicky would die.

  ‘Not looking after Miley any more, AJ?’

  ‘No, Trey Jones, but his fiancée, Beau here, has got me run off my feet,’ said the Hulk, bending his thick neck to speak into a discreet radio microphone pinned to his collar. ‘Just finding out how long filming will take. Keep her close at heel until I say.’ How odd, they’re talking about her as if she’s a chihuahua.

  ‘The filming won’t take long,’ said Mona. ‘We’ll pick a few pieces together, a few twirls for the camera and we’ll wrap. Right, kids?’ Rob nodded and Fran with the bob smiled through gritted teeth. It seemed that Mona couldn’t help patronising everyone she met.

  ‘Do you have any food? She and Pinky haven’t had time to break all day,’ said AJ.

  ‘Pinky?’ Rob mouthed at Fran, who shrugged in response.

  ‘My assistant, Amber here, has it covered. Water, coffee, fruit, snacks, whatever she—they—want.’ Mona was in full-on charm mode, although she clearly had no idea about Pinky, either.

  AJ spoke into his mic again. ‘We’re ready. Bring them in.’

  The camera was trained on the door, and I stepped back, hopefully out of shot. As Fran with the bob signalled, ‘Action!’ a small grunt made all of us look at the floor. A petite, pink micro-pig, dressed in a black leather biker jacket, made its entrance, inquisitively rushing into the room and stopping in the centre of it to check us all out. Its short curly tail lifted eagerly. Mona was trying not to frown, which wasn’t all that difficult. I was by now aware that her forehead barely moved.

  Vicky would be wetting herself.

  ‘Pinky, baby, wait for Mommy!’ a shrill, recognisable voice called out.

  And in tottered Beau Belle, an image so familiar from the Daily Mail Online, yet strangely different in the flesh—in fact, she looked like a cartoon character. A torrent of molten gold curls hung loose around her shoulders, a floppy black hat perched on top of her head and an oversized black faux-fur waistcoat hung over pale grey skinny jeans, finished with high, black, suede-fringed ankle boots. Seventies hippie meets Texan cowgirl, with a sprinkling of Barbie. She was not unlike a smaller, younger and—we all knew it—prettier version of Mona. A second bodyguard entered behind her, rooting himself immediately next to the door.

  ‘Mona, honey! So good to see you!’ shrieked Beau, dropping her Burberry Blaze bag on the floor and launching herself into Mona’s open arms to exchange air kisses. ‘What do you think of Pinky? Isn’t he the cutest? I wanted a Pomeranian, but I couldn’t get one because of my fur allergy, so Trey got me the next best thing. Do you love?’

  ‘Adorable!’ Mona wasn’t good at lying. What her face couldn’t express, her body language screamed as she nervously fixated on the pig’s wet snout. Pinky trotted straight towards Mona’s perfectly laid out highway of immaculate designer heels. She looked at the two beefy guards, jerking her head towards the pig, but neither seemed bothered about Pinky. Instinctively, I rushed over to the clothes rail and scooped the longest gowns off the floor, out of the slobbery snout’s reach.

  ‘Perhaps, um, my assistant, Amber, could take little Porky for a play on the terrace?’ Mona suggested, indicating for me to get the pig outside immediately. Beau turned her attention to me and looked me up and down, visibly unimpressed.

  ‘Just arrived today,’ I muttered, by way of an apology. ‘I love pigs.’

  Another lie. I had absolutely no experience of pigs, other than a weakness for the M&S ones called Percy. Picking up Pinky’s lead from the floor, I cringed as I felt the camera follow the pig, my bottom and my pasty legs to the patio before panning back to Mona and Beau. Carefully lifting Pinky onto the clean patio seating next to me, I loosened his studded leather coat and looked into his small, dark, watery eyes.

  ‘Are you thirsty, little piggy?’ Admittedly, he was quite cute. And he smelled fresher than I did. ‘Want some food? It’s not as if anyone else is going to eat much.’

  I poured some milk into a saucer and set it down on the floor. The pig began lapping it up enthusiastically. Then I took a couple of fig rolls, broke them in half and put them on another saucer. He chowed them down loudly. I ate one, too. Then another. Then I stabbed a few berries with a fork and quickly scoffed them, as well. I offered a handful of blueberries to Pinky and he ate hungrily, tickling my palm as he bolted them down.

  ‘Aw, Mommy not fed you lunch today?’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting Beau’s neglectful?’ a voice boomed above me. AJ was closing the terrace door behind him; a prime example of LA beefcake, completely devoid of a sense of humour.

  ‘Not at all—just making conversation.’

  ‘It’s a pig.’

  ‘You’re not an animal lover, AJ?’

  ‘Mona’s asked for you. I’ll take over from here.’

  I handed him the lead and headed back inside, where an area had been lit with a bright, free-standing light and the camera was trained on Mona and Beau going through the rail.

  ‘You can afford to go more cocktail for the pre-events,’ Mona was advising, holding up a cute on-trend floral cocktail dress from Oscar de la Renta, ‘but you still want to make an impact.’

  ‘Hmmm, I know it’s very now, but florals are not the new me, Mona, I’m trying to get more serious roles. Do you have anything sexier or edgier, maybe?’

  Beau had taken off her hat and fur now and you could see just how slight she was—the human version of her teacup pig.

  ‘The camera adds ten pounds, you know—everyone will be thin beyond belief,’ Mona had warned me earlier, when I remarked on how miniature all the clothes appeared. ‘No one in Hollywood is larger than a size two sample.’

  ‘There’s
this sexy Dolce & Gabbana,’ Mona said, pulling out a glamorous leopard-print, stretch-silk dress. ‘I’ve got the perfect Dolce cuff and clutch to go with it. Trey will go wild!’

  ‘Sold! I love it!’ Beau exclaimed, holding it to her chest and turning on that million-dollar smile for the camera.

  ‘Why don’t you try it on, along with the Oscar de la Renta, just for comparison? Amber will help you.’

  Mona directed her towards the bedroom door and beckoned me over to the accessories table, to load up with suitable ‘finishing touches’—a thick, studded gold cuff and matching clutch, plus some black Jimmy Choos with buckles around the ankle and a delicate pair of high gold sandals. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to try them on first, knowing full well that my size seven sausages wouldn’t have a hope in hell of squeezing into those delicate beauties. The film crew headed to the terrace for a break and I noticed Rob tickle Pinky under the chin en route, muttering, ‘All right, mate?’ The movement made the muscles flex in his upper arm. I quickly looked away, scuttling across the living area to the bedroom.

  After tentatively knocking on the door, I was ushered in by a semi-naked Beau, the leopard dress at her svelte hips, revealing her ample bust encased in a turquoise lace bra. She had big boobs for a girl so slight; I wondered if they were fake. That was something Vicky would have been able to deduce instantly—one of her favourite hobbies was pointing out boob jobs. Beau wriggled as she pulled the dress up around her shoulders.

  ‘Give me a hand with the zip, would you?’

  I struggled slightly to do it up, it was skintight even on her bony frame.

  ‘There we go. Oh wow …’

  She surveyed her perfect physique in the wardrobe’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, flicking her luscious locks, and turning left to right and back again. I undid the buckles on the Choos, ready for her petite feet to slip into them like Cinderella. Then a loud twinkling sound emanated from her bag, lying on the hotel bed.

  ‘Chuck me my Burberry, would you, babe?’

  I stretched across to retrieve it, thinking how surreal this all was. She delved into the bag to grab her iPhone and looked at it in silence for a moment; then she slumped down and sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Shit.’ She fixated on the phone, reading the message again, then whispered: ‘You absolute shit.’ And then she buried her head in her hands and burst into tears. I looked away, feeling uncomfortable. Has she not got a part? Maybe the casting agents don’t think she’s cut out for ‘edgy’ after all? She began pumping air out of her mouth in short, sharp breaths, like a woman in labour. Perhaps it was helping her fight back the tears. Has someone died? Talk about #awkward. Then, phone still in her hand, she appeared to steady herself and stood up decisively, smoothing the dress over her washboard stomach and miniature hips, and resumed admiring herself in the mirror. Seconds later, her phone rang. She lifted it to see the caller’s identity, then threw the handset down, hard, on the duvet behind her.

  ‘Fucking asshole!’ She hurled herself onto the bed after it, crumpling the dress and letting out a shriek not unlike the sound Pinky might make if you accidentally stood on his trotter. Then she buried her head in the pillow and began to wail.

  I looked up from the corner of the room, where I had been pretending to busy myself straightening a curtain. A noise like that meant I couldn’t ignore her any longer. Cautiously, I inched closer.

  ‘Um, is everything okay?’

  She thumped the duvet. ‘No, it is not!’ she screeched, turning onto her side to face me, as I stood, hesitantly, by the side of the bed. Her eyes were red, make-up smudged, and the ivory pillowcase now sported two charcoal grey blotches and a dab of cherry lip gloss. Was this a prima donna hissy fit because she was last on the waiting list for the new Chanel bag? Such things did actually happen … A loud thud made us both look at the door.

  ‘Is everything all right in there, Beau?’

  Her big blue eyes fixed on my own and, in them, I saw genuine fear. She waved her arm at the door, signalling she didn’t want AJ to intervene.

  ‘Yes, we’re fine, thanks, AJ!’ I shouted back. ‘Just a stiff zip!’

  ‘All good!’ she seconded. At least he’d know I hadn’t murdered her or anything.

  ‘Okay, well, we’ll see you out here.’ I heard him move away.

  ‘Thanks, honey, you’re a babe.’ Her pretty eyes were wet with tears.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Well, if you want to talk about it …’ I perched on the edge of the bed. She seemed to want me there.

  ‘Really?’ she snivelled, as though no one had ever offered her support before.

  ‘Really. Er—a problem shared …’

  I put an uncertain hand onto her thin, childlike shoulder, wondering if there was a law against making physical contact with a vulnerable, crying, miniature celebrity. It wouldn’t have surprised me if AJ had her wired.

  Chapter Six

  We were suddenly interrupted by another knock on the door and Mona’s head appeared around it.

  ‘Just me, darlings!’ she announced, as she clocked the scene—me looking worried, and Beau dishevelled. ‘Jesus, has someone died? Do you hate the dresses, Beau? Seriously, honey, if you don’t like the Dolce, there’s plenty more on the rails.’

  Beau played along brilliantly. ‘To be honest, Mona, I’m having a fat day,’ she wiped smudged mascara from under her eyes. ‘Amber’s been trying to talk me into the Dolce & Gabbana, but nothing feels right, you know?’ She squeezed a non-existent love handle for added effect. Mona nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Do we have to do the filming today?’ Beau continued. ‘I’m just thinking—if I skip dinner, get a colonic and wear Spanx, it’ll look much better in the morning.’

  ‘Little sparrow, there’s nothing of you as it is!’ Mona said truthfully. ‘But I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t feel comfortable with. The important thing is that we look after you! The TV people will have to understand.’

  I stood up and crept towards the door, guessing that I’d be in the unenviable position of having to tell the 20Twenty crew they’d made a wasted trip.

  ‘But can Amber stay with me, please?’ Beau asked, intercepting me. I was shocked that she had remembered my name. ‘I’m feeling a bit sick, too. I just need to sit quietly in here for a little while. With Amber.’

  Looking perturbed that Beau had chosen me as her confidante, Mona pursed her lips and forced a smile. ‘Sure.’

  Left alone in the room once more, Beau was suddenly much more forthcoming.

  ‘The truth is, Amber, I’m being stalked.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Someone, a man, is stalking me.’ She gripped my hand. ‘And I’m scared.’

  She welled up again, her breathing becoming short and irregular. This was either really good acting, or the red blotches and the tears were real—I suddenly felt like we were at a high school pyjama party gone wrong. I dashed to the bathroom to grab her a handful of tissues and took a moment to gather my thoughts. What am I supposed to do now? I remembered hearing a story about a stalker being caught hiding on a shelf in Simon Cowell’s walk-in wardrobe, and hoped the windows in this suite were locked.

  ‘Maybe we should get AJ after all?’ I asked, returning to the room and handing over a stack of tissues. Beau was sitting up on the bed now, her back against the wall, knees tucked into her chest as she clasped a tissue in each hand.

  ‘No need for AJ, I can handle it,’ she insisted.

  ‘Might the, um—stalker—be near us now?’ I asked. Beau subsided into sniffles.

  ‘It started on Twitter, about a week ago,’ she began. ‘He was so nice to me at first, this guy, I thought he was a fan, telling me he liked my movies and he thought I was a good actor and pretty and stuff. It was just innocent banter. But then he kept on asking me about Jason—you know, Jason Slater, my co-star in the movie I’ve just wrapped?’ />
  I nodded. Everyone knew Jason Slater. He was a big-name actor, chiselled, single, with legions of female fans—he’d broken onto the Hollywood scene with a slew of popular rom-coms, and Beau and Jason had co-starred in the soon-to-premiere chick flick Summer’s Not Over. (The pile of magazines stored under the counter at Smith’s, and the Stick’s constant drip feed of Hollywood news from various online sources, meant I was well up to speed with my celebrity news.)

  ‘Well, this guy kept asking whether me and Jason were more than work buddies. He just wouldn’t let it go,’ she explained, blowing her delicate nose.

  ‘Perhaps he’s just a troll?’ I suggested.

  ‘I thought so, too, but it’s got worse than that now,’ she said. ‘I blocked him, but somehow he got hold of my personal cell number, and he’s been texting and phoning me non-stop ever since.’

  I sat there, racking my brain. ‘Are you sure it’s the same person?’

  ‘Positive, because he asks the same thing—always about Jason. The way he keeps going on—it’s not right, you know? It’s so obvious he’s trying to trip me up, trying to get me to say something that isn’t true. He’s trying to intimidate me, Amber, and I don’t know what he’ll do next. He’s sent me about ten texts already today and I’ve had as many missed calls.’ Her eyes started to well up with emotion again. ‘That was him, earlier. He’s stalking me and I don’t know what to do.’