Chapter 71.5: The Devils Wear Prada

Chapter 71.5: The Devils Wear Prada

Anita’s Hacienda, LA. January 2012.

“Your other foot please, Mr Rhys.” Swapping my freshly pedicured hoof for the other one, my usual beautician from Win-Nguyen Situation nail salon slotted the purple foam separator between my toes. I reflexively wiggled them as she began her reflexology. 

“Fwoo-fwoo.” Fedex’s gentle, cooling breath wafted the scent of steaming Belgian cocoa at me with each blow. “Another sip, Bas?” 

Carefully tilting my jaw to prevent my goopy green face mask from contaminating my special blend, my lips perched on the mug rim. I slurped as obnoxiously as possible while Fedex literally hand-fed me. 

“In celebrity news: movie star, model, and recent country singer Garret Hedlund has reportedly suffered a freak corn hole accident. The injury to his pelvis while on his family farm has left him hobbling for the next two wee-!” I’d even been updating my industry insight via E! until Anita irritatedly powered the tele off before I could discover whatever latest media circus I’d initiated. 

“This… has to be… the single most pathetic display I’ve seen in all my days with you, Bas.” What the hell, Anita?

Can’t a man lounge in peace without being so brutally insulted? “Why you gotta rip me to shreds for? Is it illegal for me to have a spa session before I’m imprisoned in a gym for the next few months to get ripped and shredded? Everybody needs a cheat day.”

“No, Bas. What you need is a father figure!” 

In times past, I’d have been inconsolable at the targeted reminder of my orphan-hood, but not anymore. Anita’s jab at my jugular could no longer pierce my thick skin–it was partially why I’d ordered the full-body scrub for later. 

“You’re right, it’s true. Fatherlessness is a curse I’ve been afflicted with my entire life. Yet, being bereft of said influence has taught me its own intimate lessons; knowledge which I’ve made my mission to thrust upon those of whom share my issue.” I spoke with zen, with conviction, and with a sincerity that only comes with earned experience. Emotions fluttered across Anita’s face; from her earlier indignation to something softer and sorrier. My words had embarrassed her. Despite, or because of, the discomfort it was causing her, though, I still had a final pearl of paternal wisdom. “That’s why so many ladies love to call me daddy.”

Forgive me, father. For I have sinned!

“Jesus Christ, Bas…” Her eyebrows hit her hairline, and her mouth fell to the floor. “And here I thought that there might’ve been too much feminine energy in our life.” She stabbed an accusatory finger at my face mask, my chocolatey beverage, and foot massage. Behaviour learned courtesy of Emma, Cadbury, and Anita, respectively. So, her point was valid; even if she’d never acknowledge her own fingerprints. “Guess your pervy ass proved me wrong.”

Certainly did! Slouched on my favourite divan, enthroned by the wall of movie posters emblazoned with my beautiful face, and with a woman on either wing servicing me. I was a monument to masculinity. 

“Still, you could do with more testosterone. If any of those so-called ‘ladies’ saw you now–pussy’d run away. Far, far away, babe. Just like this, for example.” Tossing a final taunt, Anita spun around and strutted out the door. “Try to make yourself productive while I’m out. Unlike you, some of us need to work for a living.” 

“And some of us,” I sassily snapped my finger, “just need to work it!” Anita’s exit meant I could mercifully resume relaxing. But, right as I was being lulled to sleep by Fedex feeding me another sip, and a sturdy pair of knuckles digging the stress out from my arches, my phone rang.

Groaning, I palmed my cell and was about to decline the call–though, changed my finger’s trajectory to accept when I spied who wanted to video chat. 

[Swedey-Pie is requesting to Facetime] 

A cutesy nickname I’d saved her contact with to signify who she was, and what I wanted to do to her. 

“Have you decided when and where our second date is to happen yet, Ba–? What is that substance on your face?” Elsa Hosk, my potential new paramour and I, had kept in constant contact since our Victoria’s secret mushu feast.

Although, keeping in touch was metaphorical since the actual state of our relationship was a tad long-distance. She was chilling on a dusk-skied Italian veranda, which meant this was very much a Rome-ing call. “Same thing that’s slathered on yours, I reckon.” Her face goop was white instead of green, though. Wait… Had Anita been right about me? “As for our date, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re done gallivanting in Milan, or if Cali still gotta pine for your return.”

“Hmm…” In lieu of a sigh, Elsa inhaled a deep drag of her cigarette. Each word she uttered billowed out was laced with bitter, acrid smoke. “I wish it was so. However, my Prada residency will not be finished for many more weeks. Can you imagine it, Bas? Such a historied and romantic city, and the only walking I have done is on a runway. My dinners are all frozen in spite of the wonderful local cuisine.” She dipped her hand into a wine glass full of ice chips. “As for the people? Well, so far I have met no colleague who does not see camaraderie as veiled competition. The men like to flirt, and love to touch moreso. It is lonely.”

Her last wistful whisper might’ve had most men careening for the next flight out to Milan, but my ears were a bit more discerning. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you? There’s more straightforward ways of sending out an invite or asking for favours.”

She broke eye contact with the camera, then languidly stubbed her cigarette on an ashtray. It was just enough out of reach that she had to stretch her arm out fully and lean forward to do so. The action caused the hem of her satin robe to slip precariously off her shoulder, revealing a flash of white and pink that she was visibly slow to reorient. “I do not understand your meaning, Bas.” Elsa smirked facetiously; my own grin was feral. Cheeky mix knew exactly what she was doing, and I was loving it! “My intentions were pure; to share the troubles of my stay–of which there are many.”

“Too many fancy threads to wear?” 

“You make the jokes, but yes, you are correct. Our lead designer has a lot in their catalogue, but not enough bodies to display them. We have an upcoming show for the men’s line, but it is in crisis. One of the several celebrities hired as special guests had to bow out due to some silly injury. Only a week is left until curtains without an appropriate replacement in sight. Believe me, the designer is not the only person stressed because of it, even us models are feeling the sting.” 

“Shaky hands make for poor needlework, I’m guessing.” The conversation fell into a brief hush at my observation. No doubt Elsa was expecting me to pick up the unsubtle hints she’d dropped. “Am I to assume this is your way of asking me to fill in as a replacement?”

“Do not be so cynical, Bas dear. I would never be so brazen! However, if my beau is offering…” Yeah, right. Maybe it was her proximity to Vatican city, but Elsa was about as innocent as a priest in a pre-school. 

Still, Anita had demanded I be productive, among other things. “Fine, fine, you’ll have me on the runway–on one condition, though. I get to bring a buddy along.” 

“Excellent, and yes, bring whatever famous friend you wish! I shall inform the team so they can begin preparations. Now, ciao! I need my beauty sleep, as I suspect I will get very little of it once you arrive.” Else blew me a rapid series of kisses, then hung up before I could change my mind.

Which was well enough, since it allowed me to immediately dial the next number I needed to fulfil my promise. “You catch all that, Fed? We’re on the next flight out to your motherland.” 

“I shall arrange it. We will have to avoid Sicily. That will be ok, no?” …Probably for the best I don’t ask. The women around me really were so wicked, weren’t they? Perfect reason to spend time with some men.

–

Milan, Italy, January 2012.

Flights and fees should’ve realistically required more than a couple days to finalise, but a fair amount of coaxing by me, and a lot of proverbial cock-sucking on Prada’s end, expedited the whole process. 

Ultimately, my partner and I landed without issue and with enough time to spare for a few dress rehearsals.

We weren’t the only ones here, either.

“What in blazes are you two doing here? This isn’t anywhere near Leavesden, and neither do I remember signing up for another instalment of Potter.” Gary Oldman, consummate thespian that he was, completed his surprised performance by wiping his specs clean on his shirt.

How could I not play along? “Mummy says I’m not allowed to cross the street without daddy holding my hand.” Snaking my arm down Alan Rickman’s, I cooked our fingers together.

“Unhand me, you infernal child!” Alan aggressively shook me off, but couldn’t resist keeping his hands to himself for too long. 

Thwap! His palm smacking the back of my head echoed across the cavernous warehouse we were in, drawing the attention of the rest of our celebrity cadre. 

High ceilings made for great acoustics.

Including Alan, Gary, and I, there were a few big names in the Hollywood antagonist sphere milling about, now headed our way.

“Good, you’re finally here. This better be the whole gang. Maybe we can pick up the pace now.” Tim Roth, pulp icon, and fictional abomination, was the first to march over with a handshake greeting. “Been literal decades, Rick. You’re looking healthy.”

“Gotta be honest, though, wasn’t expecting headliners to fill in that other guy’s Prada pumps. I was sorta hoping to be at the forefront of this thing.” Adrian Brody’s sinister schnoz was next in line. 

“Still, pretty cool way to get acquainted. Beats making awkward small talk on set. Hell of a complete roster we have here, too. Fall-winter fashion title for the show’s about to get usurped and called the walk of villains, by my estimation.” Despite his craggy voice, Willem Dafoe’s warm welcoming tone already had me internally referring to him as Willem dafriend.

Brevity was the better part of valour, though. So, I tactfully settled for his clapping high-five instead. “Couldn’t agree more. Quite the convoy of criminals we’ve got here! Actually, speaking of, this is a rather lucky chance for me. I’ve got this upcoming bad guy role with Marvel. I don’t think there’s a better collection of actors I can seek advice for that anywhere else in the world, at the moment. None of you would mind me picking your brains, yeah?”

“Sure, kid. That’s cool with me. We’re stuck walking. May as well talk while we’re at it. Pick away!” The rest magnanimously agreed with Willem. 

Except Alan, of course. I wasn’t giving him a choice.

But the lead designer rushed over before we could all get too cosy sharing advice–or, you know, plotting global domination. “Bellissimo! Come, come everybody. The clock is ticking. We must tailor your outfits and complete the photoshoot. Most importantly, we must practice your steps. Especially you, signor Tim; please remember to slow down!”

“Uh-huh, heard you the first ten times.” Considering the designer’s frustrated yelp as Tim stomped away, Tim’s impatience would remain impenetrable. “Let’s get going, already. Daylight’s wasting.”

I held Alan back beside me a moment, even as the rest shuffled off. The apparent time constraint meant it was best I get the mushy stuff out of the way while I still had time, notably out of anyone else’s earshot. “Hey, by the way, seriously thanks for doing this–especially on such short notice.”

Both the right side of his lip and left eyebrow pricked up. “My, my. How very unlike you to be so… earnest, Bas. Don’t say you’re going soft on me.”

“Hard, actually. Won’t lie that this is super important to me, or anything. I’m mostly doing this for my amusement and to chase some tail.

“Why… Am I not surprised in the least?” Alan pinched both his delivery and nose.

“Figured it was also the perfect opportunity to bother you a bit, too. So, again, thanks. I’m grateful.” I kept my voice hunched. No one could ever be allowed to hear me like this.

“Don’t feel too indentured. Frankly, my primary incentive for my attendance has very little to do with fashion, and everything to do with you. We’ve been apart a while, and telephone calls are hardly sufficient to get a true measure of your progress.” He raised his hand to pat my cheek, but his slap came out tighter than I anticipated. “Penchant for pussy notwithstanding, I’ll not have my mentorship squandered.”

It was terribly fortuitous that make-up hadn’t applied my mascara yet. With how blurry my vision suddenly was, I doubted the guy-liner wouldn’t have run. “You really are too cruel.” I almost bawled.

To which Alan merely drawled. “Ob…viously.”

–

A couple days of tolerating flurried fashionistas had us all stiff-necked. Although, that could also be blamed on the clothes we were stuffed inside.

Heavy cuts and fabrics layered and draped over our bodies with pristine precision. Worse, in order to ensure nothing shifted out of place, extremely generous doses of starch had preserved us into barely moveable mannequins.

Our uniforms were straight out of the bond villain handbook. Banded collars, faux fur trims, vibrant accessories, and swooping coats. 

My all-white ensemble was by far the most breathable. At least I only donned an ornate half-cloak, while the unadorned lapel had been pulled back to reveal my defined clavicle slathered to a sheen with oil. But the gloves and Mandarin collar were still suffocating.

Better than Alan, though. In stark contrast to me, his full-black outfit highlighted by his totally white hair presented him as a modern-aged, dignified version of Snape. 

No use complaining; we’d be rid of it soon enough. “No, signor Tim is rushing again!” Apparently, Tim Roth and his ridiculous gait were a tad too much in agreement. 

My turn was next, so I patted the distressed designer and suggested a solution. “If you’d like, how about I slow it down?” Alan and I were bringing in the rear, as the show’s finale; so I turned to him and asked if he’d like to participate alongside me. “Wanna join in?”

He didn’t even think about it. Alan just curled his flowing cloak over his forearm and drew himself vampirish-ly. “Of course. Been a while since we’ve shared a scene. Let’s see how you’ve improved.”

“Grazi! Yes, please–you’re up.” 

Slipping off my pleased smirk, I schooled my face into a scowl, and swanned out. 

My grand entry onto the massive red square was met by awed applause, an ominous soundtrack, and shuttering cameras.

I refused to smile, however. Instead, chose to glower intermittently at the triple-tiered bleachers as I swept through my route. Every step of my powerful stride and purposeful swing of my arms had my neurons firing for a sufficiently dramatic event. 

No matter what I improvised, I had full confidence that Alan would easily acclimate. 

My idea came to me when I spotted Elsa in the crowd. 

Bang in the front row, a little further than halfway down the walkway. She had her legs smugly crossed one over the other, nose in the air, preening as if she was the mastermind behind this entire shindig. 

Target acquired.

Her arrogant gaze followed me, which quickly transformed into concern when I stopped dead in front of her. 

I didn’t say a word, just cast an appreciative, but borderline lewd, leer across her svelte form. She held herself together well, but the gossiping and the increasingly deafening racket of flashing lenses had a blush spilling across her neck and exposed cleavage, betraying her otherwise stoic expression. 

She didn’t have to bear embarrassment for too long, though. “Ahem!” Alan appeared. He’d made his way around while I’d stalled. 

For a good minute, we were nearly nose-to-nose, glaring in challenge at each other. 

The stare-down continued to a chorus of ratcheting murmurs and excitement. ‘Til Alan stabbed two fingers an inch from my chest. An aggrieved flick of his wrist had me pivoting to the side, allowing him to swish his cloak as he sauntered beyond me. 

I completed our cute little skit by reaching down to grab Elsa’s trembling hand and callously yanking her up to her feet. 

Like any good dastardly baddie, I’d kidnapped a hottie. But the damsel I’d abducted didn’t miss a single step despite her perilously tall heels as she sharply sidled beside me.

We archly strutted down the final stretch of the concourse in fashionable tandem. “As you said: ‘laying it on a bit thick’, are you not?” 

“Oh, I’ll be laying something, alright!”