Nick laughed as he continued to open the envelop
e. “Has anyone told you that you have an overactive imagination?”
“Dude, I’m not the one getting mysterious packages delivered to my best friend’s house!” Colin said, taking a few steps back.
* * *
* Cantonese for “shit-eating bastard.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
28 CLUNY PARK ROAD, SINGAPORE
Nigel Barker had photographed some of the most famous and beautiful women in the world, from Iman to Taylor Swift. But he’d never had a subject fly him halfway around the world in their personal Boeing 747-81 VIP before, and he had never gotten a lymphatic drainage massage and a seaweed exfoliating body wrap in a private spa on a private jet. Naturally, when he arrived at Kitty Bing’s gracious heritage bungalow on 28 Cluny Park Road with his team of four photo assistants, there was yet another never-before-witnessed drama unfolding.
A Chinese man wearing a deconstructed black Moroccan djellaba was standing on the front driveway, screaming, “CHUAAAAAAAAAAN! Where the fuck did you put the Oscar de la Renta? If you didn’t pack it, I’m going to fucking skin you alive! CHUAAAAAAAAAN!” As he yelled, he bounced several inches off the ground, looking like a deranged Jedi.
Twenty feet from the main house, a huge tent had been set up, and Nigel could see dozens of fashion assistants in white lab coats rushing from the house to the tent with various bits of clothing, while another set of assistants within the tent were going through the rolling racks filled with hundreds of ball gowns straight from the Paris catwalks. A guy in a white denim zip-up jumpsuit came running out of the tent. “We’re still steaming it! It just arrived from New York thirty minutes ago!”
“Ka ni nah! I need the dress now, you good-for-nothing goondu!”*
Nigel approached the ranting Jedi warily. “I’m assuming this is the location for the Tattle photo shoot?”
“Wah laooooo!” The man gasped, putting his hands to his mouth. He suddenly stood ramrod straight, his face went from manic to Zen in a nanosecond, and his speech took on a pseudo-English-meets-Eurotrash accent. “Nigel Barker, it’s really you! Merde! You are even more dashing in person! How is that possible? I’m Patric, the couture consultant. I’m styling the shoot today.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Nigel replied in a real English accent.
Patric kept staring Nigel up and down. “It’s an honor to be working with you! I’ve worked with Mert and Marcus, Ines and Vinoodh, Bruce and Nan, Alexis and Tico, I’ve worked with them all! Now come with me. We’re having a minicrisis at the moment, but I think your presence will help calm things down!”
They entered the house, which was filled with more staffers rushing around frantically at full speed. “As you know, Mrs. Bing has spared no expense on this shoot. Oliver T’sien flew in the top hairstylist from New York, the top makeup artist from London, and the top set designers from Italy for this shoot. Everyone’s a top, and we’re having to compete for space with all these tops. It’s not how I usually like to work,” Patric said with an arched eyebrow. Climbing up the beautiful Arts and Crafts–style wooden staircase, he led Nigel to the door of the library.
“Brace yourself,” Patric warned as he cracked open the door slowly.
Inside, Nigel could see a woman seated in a hairdresser’s chair in front of a bank of lighted mirrors, her face streaked in tears, surrounded by half a dozen stylists.
“Kitty…Kitty…I have a little treat for you…” Patric cooed.
Kitty looked in the mirror and saw them approaching. “Nigel! Nigel Barker! Oh no, this isn’t how I wanted you to meet me for the first time. Look at my hair! Look what they’ve done! It looks terrible, doesn’t it?”
Nigel glanced at the floor quickly and saw that they had lopped off about ninety percent of her hair. Kitty now had a pixie hairstyle that actually looked incredibly chic. “Kitty, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and I think you look wonderful.”
“See? We wanted a radical change, and this is a terrific look for you. It’s very gamine,” Oliver tried to reassure her in a calm voice.
“You look like Emma Watson. Wait till we do the color,” Jo the hairstylist said.
“No, no, I’m not desirable anymore. I look like…a mother! Nigel, what do you think? Would you ever want to make love to me looking like this?” Kitty swiveled her chair around dramatically and gave him a piercing stare.
Nigel hesitated for a moment.
“Now, don’t make things awkward for Nigel! He’s a married man,” said a blond woman with a British accent.
“Hello, Charlotte, I didn’t know you’d be here,” Nigel said, giving the makeup artist a quick hug.
Patric continued to reassure her. “Kitty, by the time Jo Blackwell-Preston is done with your hair color, Charlotte Tilbury is done with your makeup, I’m done pouring you into an amazing gown, and Nigel works his magic, you will look like the very definition of MILF! All the husbands and teenage boys who see you in these photos will want to take the magazine into the bathroom with them, trust me.”
“Kitty, remember what we discussed,” Oliver said. “The entire point of this photo shoot is to reposition your image. You’re not supposed to look like a high-fashion temptress anymore. You’re going to look like a supremely elegant hostess who’s not trying too hard to impress. A cultural force and a rising civic leader. Charlotte, think of those photos by Skrebneski of Jacqueline de Ribes in her Paris apartment. Or C. Z. Guest bending down to pet her poodle. Or Marina Rust on her wedding day. We want young, regal, comme il faut.”
“Ollie, we’re going to comme-il-faut the hell out of her! Kitty, dry your tears. We need to give your face one of my emergency hyaluronic acid boosters right now, before it gets too puffy,” Charlotte commanded.