I Heart Vegas

  A couple of minutes later we were pulling into what looked like giant chunks of glass sprouting up from the ground. It was as though Superman had fallen on hard times and flogged the Fortress of Solitude to a Las Vegas developer and said developer had filled the fortress with everything that was great and good in the world. And by that, I meant shops. Wonderful, wonderful shops.

  ‘So this is the Crystals,’ Jenny explained, taking my hand and patting it reassuringly. ‘You should prepare yourself. Shit’s about to get real.’

  ‘How did you know about this?’ I asked, trying not to give myself whiplash as we entered the complex. Gucci, Lanvin, Tom Ford, Marni. ‘This is insane.’

  ‘I came here a couple of times when I was in LA. Heaps of styling work in Vegas.’ Bulgari, Dior, Versace, Bottega Veneta. ‘Damn city is full of reality TV girls who don’t know how to dress themselves. And Erin is talking to some guy who is opening a boutique here, so really we’re working today.’

  ‘Amazing.’ I held my battered Marc Jacobs satchel close to my body to shield its eyes from all the pretty things in the windows. At least I didn’t need to worry about my credit limit. There wasn’t a single thing in a single store I could afford. ‘Only, I daren’t touch anything.’

  ‘And that’s why we have a personal shopper.’ She took my arm and led me through the beautiful, beautiful window displays and through a frosted glass door until the Beautiful Things were safely behind us.

  And in front of us was a man. A man so pretty I had to wipe my palms on the arse of my jeans before I even stepped towards him. It was impossible to process how beautiful he actually was without looking away to clear out your eyes and then looking back, just to confirm it. Easily over six foot, broad shoulders, thick sandy blond hair styled into the perfect Don Draper and clad in an exquisite suit I assumed he had sold his soul for, he did a double-take and sparked into life. His perfect features broke into a wide crooked smile and his suit ruched up as he opened his arms into what would become an all-consuming hug. For Jenny.

  ‘Jenny Lopez! I saw your name in the diary and I thought it was the other one! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What the hell?’

  Apparently, Jenny knew this gentleman.

  ‘It was all kind of last minute.’ Jenny untangled herself from the hug and took several steps back until she was parallel with my jaw. Which was on the floor. She wrapped her own slender arms around herself and gave him her biggest, fakest smile.

  Huh.

  ‘This is my friend, Angie.’ She cocked her head towards me. ‘And she needs the full Vegas.’

  ‘The famous Angie.’ He was on me in one stride. Jenny leapt away and coiled up on a couch quicker than a scalded cat. Double-huh. ‘I’m Ben, and it looks like I am your stylist for the day.’

  ‘Hello, Ben.’ I reciprocated his double kisses. It wouldn’t do to be impolite, would it? ‘So, you know Jenny?’

  ‘We worked together,’ she explained before he could, although I could tell by his raised eyebrow that ‘worked together’ was apparently a fun new euphemism Jenny was using for ‘we shagged each other senseless on at least one occasion’.

  ‘We did,’ he confirmed, hands on my shoulders. ‘Now, let me take a look at you.’

  I was perfectly happy for him to look all day long. And if he needed to touch a little bit, that was fine. Alex would completely understand. This man was so beautiful, I dare say he might even want a quick touch himself. He could make any man alive ask himself some questions. I actually couldn’t think of a man straight enough to turn him down.

  ‘And I get to give you a Vegas makeover? Oh, this is going to be fun,’ he promised. ‘Let’s go into the dressing room.’

  I followed him happily while Jenny lagged behind. I wasn’t too carried away to notice the moment between the two of them when she passed by as Ben held the door open. It was exciting to see sexual tension between pretty people. Like watching a live action movie. As long as it didn’t turn into a live action porno, we were good. Although I did have a credit card and some time to kill if Ben ever decided to go into adult entertainment.

  The dressing room was, like everything else, super-plush. Giant cream couches, champagne on ice, fizzy pop, olives, cheese, everything. A giant TV showed E! entertainment, there was a Mac connected to Facebook in one corner of the room, and in the other corner a frosted-glass shower stall. Clearly some people were spending a lot of time in here.

  ‘So, I have my brief, I have your measurements, you ladies relax in your dressing room and I’m gonna go pick out some pieces. You know the drill, Lopez. Don’t cause me any trouble.’ Ben gave us a stern look that elicited the girliest giggle I have ever had the shame to produce. I coughed, blushed and looked at my feet.

  I waited the requisite fifteen seconds after the door had closed before spinning around to demand answers. Plus details.

  ‘Before you even start –’ Jenny pushed the sunglasses she had been wearing throughout onto the top of her head and glared at me – ‘Yes, we did. But it was for like five seconds when I was out here one weekend, and then nothing happened.’

  I pressed my lips into a thin line and tried to ratchet my eyebrows back down my forehead.

  ‘We’re not even Facebook friends.’

  So she was serious.

  ‘Jenny, he’s beautiful.’ I picked up a silver cocktail ring and twisted it onto my right hand.

  ‘And he’s effed every girl in Vegas. This is not something I’m proud of. Let’s just not, OK?’

  I would have been proud. I would have put it on a T-shirt.

  ‘How does he have my sizes?’ I asked. ‘Is he sure he doesn’t need to measure me?’

  ‘He has your measurements because he’s effed every girl in Vegas,’ Jenny repeated. ‘That’s his party piece, guessing bra sizes. He’s pretty good.’

  ‘Fine, I believe you, he’s an arsehole.’ I plopped onto the sofa beside her. ‘Besides, he’s still not as good looking as Sigge. Or as nice.’

  ‘No.’ She stretched her arms over her head, shaking the last of her hangover away. ‘He’s not. It’s all surface. All smoke and mirrors.’

  I stretched my legs and shook off the thought of smoke and mirrored ceilings. ‘But he’s such a good stylist, we had to come and see him?’

  ‘He’s good,’ she said. ‘But the other girl who works here is a bitch. And you know, he’s super-hot. So, happy Christmas.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s very nice.’ I stood on a raised dais in the middle of a room of mirrors, examining myself from every angle in a very, very tight black Bottega Veneta leather shift dress. I was regretting eating all of the food now. ‘I just don’t know if it’s me?’

  ‘It’s so you.’ Ben ran his hands down my silhouette. ‘It’s the autumn-winter–eleven-fetish you. It’s the high-fashion you.’

  Hmm. I was far more comfortable with the Forever 21 me. And much more comfortable when he didn’t have his hands on me. Turns out Jenny was right, Ben was a bit of a sleaze. And no matter how pretty a man was, if he couldn’t keep his hands off your arse when they hadn’t been invited, it was off-putting.

  ‘I can see you don’t love it.’ He turned away with a flourish and headed back into a rail of outfits. ‘Take it off.’

  Since he’d come behind the screen and seen me in my knickers twice already, I didn’t see a lot of point in bothering again and so I struggled out of the sticky leather right there in the middle of the room. Jenny, nose deep in a copy of Us Weeklyand sipping a champagne flute full of the finest hair of the dog, did not comment.

  ‘This one next.’ He held out a gorgeous sapphire-blue gown that looked much more workable. ‘Alice and Olivia. Cute but still sexy. I’ll find some shoes.’

  I slipped into the one-shouldered minidress, rolling down its Grecian ruching until everything was approximately where it was supposed to go.

  ‘Jenny?’ I liked this one. The careful pleating and folds hid my bagel b
loating, but the single shoulder and super-short skirt made it look appropriately festive. As in, just the right side of slutty.

  Jenny looked up from her magazine, gave me the once-over and then gave it a thumbs-up. ‘Shout me when he’s got the shoes,’ she commented.

  Yay. She liked it! I hadn’t picked it and couldn’t really take any credit, but she liked it! Ben reappeared clutching a pair of silver strappy sandals and a pair of chunky suede black and silver peep-toe booties.

  ‘What does your heart say?’ he asked. Melodramatic? A bit. But my heart did have an answer. I’d seen a pair of strappy silver sandals like that once before and they’d been wrapped around my ex-boyfriend’s waist. I had no interest in taking them out for a spin.

  ‘Pass me the boots.’ I held out a hand and ignored the bile in my throat. Stupid Gina and their stupid core collection. I’d thought how versatile they were at the time. Wonderful taste in shoes, terrible taste in men, that girl.

  ‘Miu Miu,’ Ben said as I slipped my foot into the gorgeous stacked suede boot, my hot pink pedicure peeping out at the front. The silver sparkle lifted the look, and the weight of the boot against the lightness of the dress created the perfect clash. I knew I’d done well. ‘Gorgeous. There’s just a couple more things I want you to try.’

  ‘Wow, Angie.’ Jenny actually put her magazine down. ‘You look so good. When I’ve done your make-up …’

  It was a compliment. In a way.

  ‘Wait until Alex sees you in that shit.’

  ‘Actually, can you check my phone and see if he’s called?’ I reluctantly slipped off the booties and unzipped the dress. Come hell or high water, it was coming home with me. ‘I said I’d check in.’

  ‘Boyfriend think you’ve run off to the Little Chapel without him?’ Ben asked, passing me a sliver of spangly black fabric. I looked at it, puzzled as to how I was supposed to put it on, for two seconds too long before he grabbed it back and signalled for me to hold my hands above my head.

  ‘Probably more worried that Jenny’s got me working in a strip club.’ I blew a strand of hair out of my face while this grown man dressed me. ‘Or that I’m locked in the boot of someone’s car in the desert somewhere.’

  ‘She means trunk,’ Jenny translated automatically. ‘Is that Dolce?’

  This time the magazine was on the couch. The champagne was on the counter. We had her full attention.

  ‘Yes. And I want you in these boots.’

  He handed me two giant slivers of buttery soft black leather.

  ‘Are they Zanotti?’

  Jenny was giving it the full meerkat on the sofa.

  I did as I was told.

  ‘Holy shit.’ Jenny stood up.

  ‘And we’re done.’ Ben took two steps back.

  I stared into the mirror and gulped. The dress was a second skin of spider-like black lace, scattered with bright silver stars. Long sleeves and a high neckline were counteracted by a delicate hemline that barely covered my knickers, its brevity emphasized by the fact that the high-heeled boots Ben was zipping up stopped only three inches short of meeting it. The effect was arresting. In that it would get me arrested.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jenny asked, reading my face. ‘Too tight? Too short?’

  ‘A little from column A, a little from column B,’ I stuttered. ‘I can’t go out looking like this. Besides, I can’t afford it.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m letting you leave this room without this outfit.’ Ben folded his arms and went to stand next to Jenny. They formed a wall of agreement. ‘And all this stuff is on loan. Don’t sweat it.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it or don’t sweat in it?’ I frowned and looked back in the mirror. It was amazing and shockingly flattering. I just wouldn’t be able to bend down. Or sit down. Or stand up for too long.

  ‘So we’re doing this and we’re doing the Alice and Olivia with the Miu Miu?’ Ben asked Jenny. Clearly my opinion was no longer required. ‘And I have something for you too.’

  With an almost shy smile, he handed Jenny a garment bag. She took it, looking a little shocked, and unzipped it carefully, facing away from me.

  ‘What is it?’ I whined like a little girl. Damn these heels, I couldn’t move fast enough to get a good look.

  ‘Ben …’ Jenny turned back towards us, her hand pressed against her heart. ‘This is insane.’

  ‘It never looked better on anyone than it did on you,’ he told the floor. ‘Take it, OK?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She reached out and touched his hand.

  I stood in the middle of the two of them, the world’s most overdressed gooseberry.

  ‘I’ll leave you two ladies alone …’ Ben coughed and backed out of the room, leaving Jenny standing holding the garment bag, me holding my breath.

  ‘Oh my God. Drama?’

  I turned to see Jenny still clutching the dress, her face completely impassive.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘Is there actually a horse’s head in there? Is it the prom dress from Carrie?’

  ‘It’s just something I wore one time, is all,’ she said, throwing it down on the sofa as though it were nothing at all. ‘The dude is an asshat.’

  ‘Asshat,’ I agreed merrily. ‘Going around giving girls free clothes. Who does he think he is? Can I see it?’

  ‘Whatever.’ She could pretend all she liked, but I knew there was something amazing in that bag. And if it was big enough, I was borrowing it.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God.’

  There were feathers. There were ruffles. There was a black leather obi belt. It was strapless, it fell to the floor and it was gold. And there was no way on Earth it would fit me.

  ‘Did you suddenly become religious?’ Jenny asked. ‘Or is it just Christmas that’s bringing on the blasphemy?’

  ‘Christmas,’ I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the dress. ‘I am a devout believer in Christmas. And Easter, because, you know, the bunny. Jenny, this is amazing.’

  ‘Lhuillier,’ she replied, a little sadness in her voice. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I ever wore.’

  ‘And when did we wear this? I don’t remember seeing you at the Oscars.’

  ‘Just on a date.’ She pulled the dress gently out of my hands. ‘The dress is beautiful, Ben is an asshat. That’s really all there is to it.’

  ‘I would be prepared to accept quite a lot of asshattery for a dress like that.’

  ‘Women like you are holding us back as a gender,’ Jenny replied sternly. ‘You are the glass ceiling.’

  ‘Yep,’ I said, eyes still full of feathers. ‘I’d give back the vote for that dress. Chain me to the sink, fill me full of babies, just let me wear that bad boy while I’m cooking you dinner.’

  ‘You’re hilarious.’ Jenny zipped the garment bag with a sharp pull, breaking the gown’s spell, and passed me my phone. ‘You have a text from your boyfriend-slash-proponent of the patriarchal agenda.’

  My boyfriend! I had one of those! The dress had almost made me forget. The Lhuillier was the kind of dress that could make you forget everything. I clicked on the text; he was spoken for until the evening, when they were going to some club in their hotel and could I meet him there? Hmm. I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to get away as lightly as I had the night before, but surely there was some way to get a quick fix without having to expose Jenny to the Jeffstravaganza.

  I clicked over to my email quickly while Jenny was distracted with her own text messages. At least she was smiling now. I assumed Sigge and asked no questions. Sex texts were only ever meant to be shared between two people, contrary to what Jenny thought. The last time we’d been out for drinks I’d been shown a picture text that really put the cock into cocktail (the tail as well, really, if we’re being fair), and I hadn’t been able to look at Sigge the same way ever since.

  My inbox was heaving, in no small part due to the fact I had subscribed to every single Christmas-related newsletter in the United States of America. I knew where every market, Santa’s grotto, pop-up i
ce rink and seasonal peppermint hot chocolate could be found within a fifteen-mile radius of wherever I was. But in between the e-shots from DailyCandy, Time Out New Yorkand UrbanDaddy, there were assorted Facebook messages, e-cards (evil, lazy people) and then several more emails from editors. Every single one of them was a rejection. And then the real kicker.

  Hi Angela,

  Hope you’re feeling festive, ho-ho-ho!

  Anyway, we need to talk about your column. Having a rejig of the mag in the new year and we’re thinking it’s time to go in another direction. Give me a call when you get this. Maybe I can help you find something else?

  Sara x

  Not only had every single one of my ideas been rejected by every single editor I’d written to, my UK column had been killed. That was it. I was buggered. I would give her ho-ho-fucking-ho. On the upside, it turned out I could sit down in the crazy short dress, a fact I became aware of when I realized I was cross-legged on the floor and no longer standing up.

  ‘Dollface, what’s wrong?’ Jenny took the phone I held out to her and scrolled quickly. ‘So? It’s just a few. You’ve got loads of these out there, right?’

  ‘That’s all of them,’ I said, feeling simultaneously very sick and completely empty. ‘That’s every single one.’

  ‘So we go to plan B.’ Jenny crouched down beside me. ‘Don’t do this, Angela. Don’t. We will figure this out.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sniffed hard, looking Jenny in her fiercely determined eyes. ‘We will. I know.’

  ‘We will. Now, dress off, jeans on and, man alive, we deserve a drink.’

  I did not point out that it was only two in the afternoon and she’d already had three glasses of champagne. Didn’t seem worth it. Instead, I yanked off the dress, kicked out of the boots and got my clothes on in record time.