Confessions of a Fashionista: International Diva

From Daily Mail:

Confessions of a fashionista: Working for a celebrity isn't all a free ride.

My make-up artist has been moaning about the international diva popstar she works for. The problem with this singer and part time actress, is she has no understanding of real life. 

International Diva believes her own hype. Artists undertake a Faustian pact when they work for a celebrity. Being a member of a pop star's glamour squad means you earn a lot of money, but you're expected to be more than just a worker who clocks off at 5pm. 

Celebrities are used to being adored. In order to survive you must pretend to be the celebrity's adoring friend, because employees are sacked by volatile egomaniac celebs, adoring friends are not. 

'I can't do it anymore. She's driving me insane!' My make-up artist hisses into her mobile from the concert venue toilets.

‘I'm sure it's not that bad. What's she done now?’

Please don't quit!  The money you make from International Diva pays your mortgage...and the commission pays a hefty chunk of mine.

'She invited me to a party, I didn't want to go, but you know what it's like. I suspected she wanted me to do her make-up before we went.'

Ah the freebie - what all popstars expect.  Free clothes, bags, make up, and now free make-up artists to prepare them for a party.

'She instructed me to pick her up in my taxi on the way. Never mind that I was going to get the tube.'

International Diva is so used to other people organising her transport I often wonder if she'd know how to book a cab.

'I'm in this taxi outside her place, I call her up on her mobile and tell her I'm waiting downstairs, and do you know what she says?'

No, what? I'm interested now, annoyingly.

'She says, "Wait there, I'm just getting in the shower." After she told me what time to pick her up!  I sat there for 45 minutes, with the meter running the whole time, before she finally deigns to get in the car. 

When we got to the wretched party she just flounced out and posed for the photographers, leaving me to pay the fare. It was nearly two hundred quid. I haven't got that kind of money. I had to pay on my credit card.'

I can't believe she didn't offer to pay.

'She's like the queen, she never carries cash.'

Too used to getting things for free.

'Are you going to hand your notice in?

Please don't.

She sighs. 'I can't quit. I need the money to pay off my credit card bill now.'

Celebrity catch-22.

Confessions of a Fashionista: Spoilt Snapper

From the Daily Mail:


Confessions of a fashionista: How spoilt little rich kids in the fashion industry get away with MURDER (and I have to help them)

Working as an agent in the fashion industry I'm expected to go above and beyond my normal job description in order to help my artists out.  My job is to make their lives run smoother.  

Even artists who are represented by other agents in my agency ask for help.  And it is more than my job is worth to say no. 

Here is the perfect example. 

'I need you to do something for me?’ Spoilt Snapper sidles up to me. 

She's a petulant photographer who skipped studying photography and the assisting stage because her Dad is a hotshot advertising mogul. Instead of working her way to the top of the fashion pack, she rode up on Daddy's little black book.  

 Private clubs like East London's Shoreditch House boast rooftop pools - but expect those using them to behave with decorum

She's not usually my problem, so what does she want?  I manage a friendly smile. 

‘I hear you're good at writing?’

In an industry where people use the phrases 'totes' and 'amazeballs' without irony, this is not a difficult thing. I ask her what she needs.

‘I want you to write a letter of complaint to my private members' club,’ she says. 

'Did they make your cocktail wrong?,' I wonder silently.  ‘What is the nature of the complaint,' I ask her politely. 

Spoilt Snapper helps herself to the emery board I keep on my desk and starts filing her nails. 'They've barred me.  It's outrageous, I have never been treated like this in my life.' 

I bet you haven't. 'How awful, what happened?'  I may as well get the gossip, while I'm here.

'Someone tampered with my drink, so I was a bit tipsy.'

You mean you'd been drinking all day, again?

'And because I was under the influence, my friend the very famous supermodel...'

Name dropper.

'... joked I should jump in the pool.  So I did.'  She shrugs her shoulders.  'They've completely overreacted.'

'I thought the pool was open to all members?'

'Exactly!'

 A Private Members' Club on Stephen's Green, Dublin

I'm confused. 'So, what is the problem? That you were drunk...  Er, I mean you had your drink spiked so you were under the influence?'

'No, it was 1.30 in the morning and I had my clothes on.'

The penny drops like a drunken photographer into the pool.  'Oh.'

'It is totes outrageous, right?' Spoilt Snapper huffs.

You were drunk and dive-bombed into a pool in the early hours of the morning. It sounds stupid and dangerous, no wonder they barred you.  

'Yes, dreadful.'

'They have banned me for three months.  Three months!  Where am I going to go to eat?'

Home? It's called a kitchen, ever heard of it? 'I'll see what I can do.'

I wrote a grovelling apology to the club and signed it off from Spoilt Snapper.  

The ban was reduced to a month.  

Spoilt Snapper complained to my boss that I hadn't tried hard enough. Gratitude is not her strength.

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