Over the last few weeks, Ella had not gotten easier to stomach. She had, however, gotten easier to predict.
For example, I’d learned by the end of the second day working with her to always check her outfits before she was allowed outside. It was extraordinarily inconvenient for myself, of course. Having to get up a full hour earlier every day (making it somewhere around four), just so I could get dressed, check all the major papers for press, and then head over to her apartment to make sure that she wasn’t taking this ‘playboy barbie’ routine of hers too literally.
I couldn’t even begin to describe half the things she pulled out of her closet. Sequins of every size and color. Enough spandex to paper the Upper East Side. Something I literally thought was a child’s sweater before she tried to stuff it over her breasts and walk outside.
And wardrobe was not the only struggle with Miss Ella Campbell. Bless her heart, at some point between the farms of Oklahoma and the slick streets of New York, the little Southern bell had decided that she was going to have opinions.
It didn’t really matter what they were about, or whether or not she even understood what was being said to her. She was going to have an opinion about it. And she was going to say that opinion loud. Really fucking loud.
I’d learned to keep her in front of the cameras, and away from the microphones.
She was actually pretty good in print. One I removed some of the layers of makeup and dressed her up in some of New York’s finest, she looked the part. A bit extreme, perhaps. But over the years, Nick had certainly dated worse.
She never actually stopped talking, of course. I could see from the pained grimace on Nick’s face in some of the photos I edited out, that she was still going full speed. Whispering in his ear as she pressed herself up against him for the cameras.
But the pictures themselves were good. About a month in, I actually got a text message from Mitchell himself saying, he didn’t know how I was doing it, but to keep up the good work. I printed out a screenshot of it, and framed it up on my wall.
Nick and I never talked about that night in my apartment. Just like we never talked about our random shopping spree and the Dior bag still tucked safely beneath my bed. We kept going as if it never happened—eyes fixed on our four-month finish line. Both firmly committed to perpetuating our little scheme. Both for our own, personal reasons.
And so, it was with a decided spring in my step, that I headed to Ella’s apartment early one Tuesday morning. It was going to be a busy day. First a brunch, then a lunch, then a ‘tea’ at the golf club, followed by a late-night dinner with pictures back at the Solay.
After a few well-placed bribes, followed by a personal call to the manager by Mitchell Hunter himself, Nick and Ella were officially allowed back into the restaurant. The incident with the flaming dessert was graciously forgotten contingent upon the solemn oath that the both of them never order anything flammable again. (It was a promise that Nick had no trouble making.)
I waved cheerfully at the doorman, and headed up to the third floor. It was a nice flat in a nice building in a nice part of town. Far more than someone like Ella deserved. But for one of Nick’s women, real or not, it looked the part. He was also, of course, paying for the entire thing.
“Ella?” I called as I rang the bell. “Open up—we’ve got a lot to do today, and we’re already running a little late.” I rang again. “Ella?”
Still nothing. I switched to knocking.
“Ella—come on, wake up! We’ve got to get a move on!”
If it was any other client, I would have assumed they were passed out drunk in the bathroom, but Ella didn’t drink. If it was any other client, I’d also just whip out my key and let myself in. But the first day I’d tried to make a copy—Ella had refused.
“Ella?” I lowered my voice, and pressed my ear up to the door. “Are you okay in there?”
No response.
I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. I considered climbing up the fire escape from the outside, but there was a fresh layer of ice on the ground.
Out of ideas, I decided to head over to Nick’s instead. There was a chance that she had simply gotten up early and gone to meet him by herself. That would mean I’d have to do my daily wardrobe swap at his place—but it wouldn’t be a problem. Not with all Gemma’s clothes.
I tried calling him on the way as well, but again, there was no answer. I hung up without leaving a message, frowning out the window of my cab.
That was far more troublesome.
I couldn’t remember a time in the last few years that Nick had failed to take my call. On one memorable occasion, he had actually been in the middle of a lunch with the Prime Minister of England—who he’d asked to wait a moment so he could answer.
What the hell is going on?
As it turned out, I wasn’t going to have to wait long to find out.
The s
econd I arrived at Nick’s building, I saw the crowd. Gathered around something in a tight circle. Some looking up. Some staring down. As always, the flashing lights of the paparazzi were never far behind, and from the looks of things, a press van was already pulling up outside.
“Oh shit...”
My cabbie pulled over and glanced back in the partition.