There’s a click at the door as someone steps in. The floor shakes in response and we involuntarily shift in our seats. This happens each time someone enters or exits the vanity van through the front door. We’re busy discussing the cost, comfort and utility of such makeshift celebrity homes when the door to the tiny extension where we are seated is opened. First comes a burly fellow with a stern face, who inspects the room. Then another short man lugging a heavy, black suitcase enters, informing us that “Madam is here.” He is followed by a young woman in ripped jeans, who is carrying two bags from which heavily sequined costumes peek out.