Читать книгу JENNY LOPEZ HAS A BAD WEEK: AN I HEART SHORT STORY - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 9

‘Oh god,’ I groaned when my alarm rang the next morning. ‘Just no.’

Even though I’d only had three drinks the night before, my brain was rattling around inside my skull as if I’d taken it out and freeze-dried it before bed when, in fact, I had actually cleansed, toned and moisturized. Score one for Lopez. Although, I probably lost any points gained due to my intense desire to vomit. Maybe I wouldn’t be running an extra mile that morning. Instead of lacing up my running shoes, I ran a bath, summer time be damned. There were times when only a bath would do.

I was so disappointed in myself. Old Jenny would never have suffered the trials and tribulations I’d endured this week. My gaydar was totally down, my asshole-recognition software was corrupted and I’d got drunk the night before an important job. Clearly I needed a kick up the ass. And a bloody mary. As soon as I was out the bath, skin moisturized, teeth cleaned and flossed, hair tied back in a practical pony, I turned to my wardrobe. If anything had the power to calm me, it was my closet. I’d spent five years in LA working as a stylist, but I’d spent thirty years living as a fashion addict. When I was broke, I would scour the newspapers for sample sales, hunt down every last designer thread in New York’s finest – and shittiest – thrift stores. No semi-precious stone was left unturned. As soon as I had a real job and real pay-check, I stepped up my game. I started saving, I started splurging, I started my collection.

The Union had been an awesome stepping-stone job to make connections. As head concierge, I’d had to meet the needs of a lot of persnickety celebs, and that meant hooking them up with ensembles on demand. Within weeks I had every one of the city’s top PRs, fashion houses and department stores on speed-dial and made it my business for them to love me. It wasn’t just my job that depended on it, it was something way more precious. Employee discount. Thanks to secret online checkout codes and special handshakes used in downtown boutiques, my wardrobe had swelled to mammoth proportions. And it was beautiful. Nothing hurt me more than the condition of Angie’s Marc Jacobs satchel. That thing was archive, totally irreplaceable, but it was a mess. I couldn’t even bear to look at the torn lining. Once, it had been a thing of wonder, but as far as I was concerned, it was approaching sad.

Today’s ensemble needed to be practical, stylish but not too flashy and, above all else, cute. One thing I’d learned working in LA was that no one who was professionally hot wanted to hang around with someone they considered to be gross. You couldn’t be hotter than them, but you had to make some kind of an effort. I settled on skinny black James Jeans pants and a black-and-white striped Rag and Bone tank top with my comfy black YSL Tribute 90 pumps. I was useless in flats. Throwing my Balenciaga motorcycle bag (a well-deserved gift I treated myself to from my old LA roommate’s collection) over my shoulder, I looked myself over in the mirror, gave myself an approving nod and moved over to my dressing table. And so to the make-up.

Sadie’s driver buzzed my cell just as I was walking through a light spritz of Gucci Guilty.

‘I’m coming,’ I said out loud. One more look in the mirror and I was out of the door. The sparkling black town car whisked me through the streets of Manhattan, all the way uptown. Erin was holding her event at The Union but Sadie was staying at The Hudson.

‘First time you’ve worked with Sadie?’ the driver asked me as we rounded the corner of 57th Street.

‘Yep.’ I checked my tasteful make-up in my powder compact and pressed my lips together to refresh my gloss. ‘I hear she’s a handful.’