Bea Boston’s birthday. THE Bea Boston. I was not prepared.
Thanks to Ezra’s unfortunate incident with my beloved MY PVC BOX BAG: CLICK-IT, Jess needed a plus-one. Ezra was still recovering from whatever sambuca-fuelled demon took him down, so I got the golden ticket. Small wins, I guess.
I settled on a black slip dress, layered with an oversized vintage blazer and chunky boots. A slicked-back bun, Pat McGrath’s Lip Fetish in “Clear” for gloss, and a touch of Charlotte Tilbury’s Hollywood Flawless Filter. Understated but intentional. I hoped.
Outside Soho House, Jess stood leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone. She looked effortlessly cool in a mesh top and tailored trousers, her dark hair tucked behind her ears. “Relax,” she said, reading my mind. “Ezra did you a favour.”
Inside, the low hum of exclusivity wrapped around us. Vintage rugs, dim sconces, and the sound of ice clinking in cut crystal. I clocked Isla Laurent—the Isla Laurent—by the bar, laughing with a group of models. Isla was known for her signature dewy skin and perfectly smudged liner, and seeing her in person felt like spotting a unicorn.
Bea, shimmering in vintage Jean Paul Gaultier, air-kissed Jess. Then her gaze landed on me.
“Jess’s plus-one?” Bea’s brows lifted.
I opened my mouth—no words. Just a breathy, “Hi.”
Bea’s dark eyes flicked over me. “You did Sienna’s makeup, right? Luca posted the shots. Effortless.” She smiled, sharp and knowing. “I need that for a campaign next week, if you’re available?”
Jess shot me a look of excitement. I tried (and failed) to stay cool as I blurted out, “ABSOLUTELY.”
