The next day looms with A-list television actress with a temper (AWT). She swans in surrounded by a team of hair and makeup who are quite the divas themselves. Without makeup on I genuinely would not have recognized her save for the entourage. To my horror I see her tiny feet and hear that she’s a size 4 and not a 6 as we were originally told. I speed off to a nearby PR company to pick up some sky high heels in her size. Return to find the local fashion assistant standing outside the bar pouring in sweat and blinded by the sun. Diva photographer has asked him to wait outside for the jewelry, even though we’ve told him it’s not arriving until 10:30 when the safe opens. It’s now 10am, and the assistant has been standing outside in the sun for a full hour to greet security guards that haven’t even left their office yet.
It’s time to change AWT into her next look. We’re squeezed into a tiny bathroom getting her dressed, and I accidentally nip her skin as I’m zipping her up. She squeals then shouts “The arm holes in this dress are so effing tiny! Who in the world has smaller arms than ME??” Before I get the chance to name a whole list of people who have skinnier arms she barges out onto set. Spies a box of Chanel which has arrived, and instructs me to open it. She starts shouting about how tight the dress is, how hot she is, how slowly I’m opening the package and anything else she could possibly complain about. The yelling startles me as I’m hacking into the box and I jump and accidentally slit my wrists. Literally there is blood everywhere, she’s still yelling and I am on the verge of passing out. Production take me outside for some fresh air and a bandage, which didn’t help much in the long run as I still have the scar…
I go to the bathroom to wipe the blood off my shirt and something catches my eye in the mirror. Twinkling in the toilet is a $100,000 + couture gown that I had transported specially in its own tissue lined bag inside a suitcase. She has tried it on, grown frustrated, and thrown it over the toilet. Pulling it out of the bowl my heart sinks as I see beads and sequins floating in the water below. Hand it to the local assistant to take outside to dry in the sun, but we’re interrupted by AWT. She wants us to take photos on her Blackberry of her posing in one of the largest ballgowns. Not once, not twice, but 10 different angles. Thankfully we’re out of time at the location and I don’t get the chance to take the Blackberry and hammer it through her skull.
When the issue finally came out months later with our two diva actresses smiling gleefully, readers would never have known the hell I went through.