The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  ‘Thank God for that, we thought you had maybe collapsed or something. Mona’s ready to go. She wants to know if you’ve got the dress on yet …’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nine … The driver’s waiting.’

  ‘Oh no! Tell her I’ll be literally two minutes …’

  I emerged from the car all flowing, flicky, glossy hair. Clouds parted across the sky in my wake. The sun shone a spotlight over my head. The clip-clop of my towering heels made a satisfying sound as I strode confidently towards the red carpet at the glittering entrance of Soho House. I felt like the most powerful, magnetic woman to stride this Earth. Well, that’s how I wanted to feel. In reality, I exited the Prius in an underground car park and walked between Mona and Klara towards a small, dimly-lit reception desk, feeling drowsy, hot and uncomfortable, squeezed into the beautiful Dolce & Gabbana dress—unfortunately a small sample size, for my non-sample-size body. My hair was pepped up with a generous spray of dry shampoo. I hate myself for falling asleep. Yet, as we gave our names to be ticked off an extensive list, there were still bubbles of excitement in my stomach. I was about to enter the legendary Soho House lifts and an actual top Hollywood event.

  Taking in my surroundings, I realised that the underground car park didn’t look unlike the one in the paparazzi photos of Beau and Jason ‘rehearsing’. In fact, it looked identical. The building at 9200 Sunset Boulevard resembled a nondescript office block from the outside (not the kind of place you would expect to run into Leo DiCaprio), but when we reached the top floor, the Soho House level, its 180-degree views of the city of Los Angeles below took my breath away.

  A red carpet led the way towards two huge gold urns, beautiful white roses spilling over the top, marking the entrance to a large entertaining space at the end of a passage. The group of photographers standing at the edge of the carpet knew Mona by name and she lapped up their attention, twisting and turning her slender frame in a jaw-dropping gold and silver short fringed dress, resembling a flapper on heat as they captured her. She looked sensational this evening. She’d obviously fitted in a blow-out and applied plenty of Touche Éclat, and there seemed to be no trace of the migraine.

  After a minute or two, the paps lost interest and began craning their necks.

  ‘Klara, darling—come join me!’ Mona called, her voice raised. ‘Hey, guys, get a few shots of this beautiful creature—Klara Sands—the next big thing from London, remember her name, okay!’

  I’d never seen Mona as animated as when she was in front of a bank of cameras. She literally sparkled. Klara trotted into the photography area, taking immense care not to roll her ankle in her super-high platform shoes and new season Henry Holland skintight dress, also on loan from Mona for the evening. I was sure that Klara would be checking vogue.com later, to see if her photo had made the grade. I was aware of my exclusion from the photo opp, but I was content with my Z-list status. Especially as the dress was beginning to chafe.

  After being guided into the throng by a hostess who looked like a supermodel in a slick white trouser suit, we were given chilled glasses of rosé champagne and I desperately tried to stifle a grin, wishing Vicky was here so we could ‘cheers’ and appreciate the free fizz together. It tasted delicious.

  ‘Nothing tastes as good as free champagne,’ Klara whispered in my ear, reading my mind.

  Then I began to take in my surroundings. The room heaved with glamorous guests, dressed in every 1920s fashion item you could possibly imagine: a hypnotic ensemble of beaded drop-waist dresses, fur stoles, peacock feathers, pearls, low backs, high T-bar heels, smooth bobs and chic waves sporting glitzy barrettes. The air was filled with the rich scent of a hundred different fragrances all mixed together to form a strong, heady musk. It was intoxicating. Klara and I looked at each other, in our modern, on-trend designer threads that bore absolutely no semblance to the twenties glamour all around us. We may as well have been two Essex girls gatecrashing a high-society wedding.

  ‘Um, did we miss the dress-code memo?’ whispered Klara as we squeezed past a group of men dressed in three-piece suits with pocket squares.

  ‘Thanks for that, Mona,’ I muttered, just as my boss air-kissed someone wearing exquisite chandelier earrings who looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Sensational dress, Mona!’

  ‘Vintage number I’ve had for forever. Thanks, sweetie!’

  Wandering through the party, I witnessed first-hand how having Mona for a boss was a carte blanche into another world. I caught the odd smile of admiration from fashionable women, in recognition of my new season Dolce & Gabbana (poorly though it fitted). I even chinked glasses with one important-looking older man, possibly Harvey Weinstein himself; presumably he’d mistaken me for someone he’d actually invited. I devoured some melt-in-the-mouth king prawn skewers—and turned down a Parmesan pyramid after Mona scoffed: ‘Pure cheese in batter? Are you serious?’

  I was suddenly snapped from my canapé coma by a crowd-parting moment—a narrow tunnel of empty floor space opened up directly ahead of me, and there at the end of it was Rob, leaning against the bar, it was almost as though he was illuminated.

  ‘Hey, there’s Rob!’ I exclaimed, embarrassingly enthusiastically.

  Fortunately, Mona was busy noticing that her ex-assistant, Tamara, had just arrived at the party with the actress Poppy Drew (an ex-client and, I assumed, the reason for Tamara’s sudden departure). The paparazzi went wild for Poppy, lighting up the area for everyone to see. But I was more interested in the pathway towards the bar. Over a finger of melon and prosciutto, Rob’s eyes met mine. Jay Gatsby, in his dandy suit with crisp white shirt. He obviously got the dress code memo.

  ‘Who’s Rob, then?’ asked Klara.

  ‘Oh, just someone on the TV crew we’ve been filming with this week.’ I tried to play it down. ‘He’s the assistant director.’ Surely such low status wouldn’t be of interest to Klara. She followed my line of vision.

  ‘Why don’t we go over?’

  ‘Why don’t we have a Parmesan pyramid first?’

  I grabbed two from a tray as it whizzed past. Klara gave hers a gentle squeeze, looked at it disdainfully and then passed it back to me. They were warm and gooey and delicious—two of them slipped down far too easily. I had spent most of my time in LA so far feeling hungry. I glanced back up to see if Rob was still looking, but he was now locked in conversation with a very short, very bronzed man.

  ‘Hey, he’s with that guy Tim Parker, from breakfast TV.’ Klara read my mind.

  ‘Oh yes, I think I recognise him, he does all the red-carpet reports for Morning Glory at home.’

  ‘That’s him. Mr Perma Tan. I met him once,’ Klara continued. ‘He’s fun. Let’s go say hi.’

  Before I could protest, she grabbed my wrist and we headed in Rob’s direction.

  ‘Hey, Amber—you made it,’ Rob said as we approached. ‘Have you met Tim before?’

  Tim was wearing an ill-fitting purple suit, and a pale lime shirt with pointed collars—more seventies throwback than twenties gent.

  ‘Tim, this is Amber Green, we were filming together earlier today.’

  The very bronzed man held out his very orange hand. When he smiled I couldn’t help but notice he had the most dazzling bright white teeth I had ever seen. Maybe it was just the contrast with the putty-coloured skin that made them look so radioactive.

  ‘Eh up. Pleasure’s all mine,’ Tim said, in a strange Midlands-meets-California accent. ‘And who’s this beauty—I know your face, don’t I?’

  They both gazed at Klara. To be fair, Klara all dolled up was a mesmerising sight. I felt a horrible twinge of jealousy in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Klara,’ she replied, ‘we met at the American Idol launch party a few weeks back.’

  ‘That’s it. You were with that scary stylist.’

  ‘Mona Armstrong. Yeah, I’m living at her house at the moment while I’m modelling out here.’

  ‘You seem able to handle Mona okay, Am
ber,’ Rob said, thoughtfully drawing me back into the conversation. ‘Tim, Amber is Mona’s new assistant.’

  I glanced around to check Mona wasn’t within earshot.

  ‘I’ve only been working with her for four days.’

  ‘Brave lass!’ said Tango Tim.

  ‘She’s all right,’ I said, diplomatically, wary of who might be eavesdropping.

  ‘Loving the suit—did you get it made specially?’ Klara leaned across and pretended to flick a bit of dust from Rob’s lapel. She had him in her sights, I could tell. Were it to come to a showdown, I already knew who would win.

  ‘Luckily our cameraman is into vintage fashion, so he lent me this,’ Rob explained, smiling. ‘Had to get the trousers taken up at the hotel, but I quite like the old-school look.’

  ‘Suits you, too.’ Klara held his gaze for a little too long.

  ‘What do you think, Amber?’ he said. ‘You’re the stylist.’ I’m blushing. I’m blushing and I have absolutely no idea why.

  ‘We, er, didn’t actually realise it was fancy dress. Mona forgot to …’

  ‘Forgot to what, darling?’ Mona’s voice rang loudly in my ear as she joined our group and fixed me with one of her fearsome stares.

  ‘Forgot to …’ I repeated, unsure what would come out of my mouth next.

  ‘Forgot to let you know we’ll be back to film again in the morning,’ Rob interjected, saving me.

  ‘Yes!’ Mona cried. ‘Tomorrow’s the big day. In fact, girls, that’s exactly why we’ve got to go home now.’ She looked over her shoulder as if looking for someone.

  Klara and I both turned our heads, following Mona’s gaze, to see Tamara and Poppy Drew staring straight back at us. My heart sank. But I don’t want to go home yet!

  ‘I think that silly girl has now realised she made a huge mistake,’ Mona continued, as we huddled together, our group against Tamara’s. ‘I’ve told her I’ve got Jennifer Astley coming to the suite tomorrow, plus the cameras, and I want to be fresh. We’re off.’ She made a bad attempt at hiding her horror at the state of Tim Parker, with his Oompa Loompa tan, spray-dyed hair and dangerous teeth. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘No, it’s Tim, actually.’

  I giggled as Mona spun around, anticipating correctly that Klara and I would follow. The beaded fringing on her dress fanned theatrically outwards.

  ‘Girls, let’s go. Now, Amber.’ We fell into line in her wake, Mona Armstrong’s army of two.

  ‘Bye, guys!’ Klara called, excited by the drama.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said to Rob, gutted that our evening had been cut short. And I’d only managed to neck four canapés. ‘Nice to meet you, Tim.’

  ‘Au revoir, ladies … Until we meet again!’

  ‘Hopefully never,’ Mona replied under her breath. I imagined he was quite possibly the most unstylish person she had ever laid eyes on.

  As we made our way back to the entrance, I glanced over my shoulder one final time and noticed Tamara still looking in our direction. For a brief couple of seconds our eyes connected: Mona’s old and new assistants. She looked away first to whisper something to Poppy, probably about my too-tight dress. As I turned around again, my heart leapt into my throat—Mona was air-kissing Beau Belle, bright flashes from cameras popping in the air around her like a meteorite shower. And then Mona greeted the man next to her.

  Oh shi—it’s Trey!

  Without thinking about it, I dropped to the floor and froze, like a crouching tiger. Or, in reality, more like a lost frog. A few seconds passed before Klara looked down and saw my frightened eyes looking up into hers.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘My shoe!’ I exclaimed, pretending to adjust a non-existent buckle. ‘Won’t be a sec.’

  Shit. Now what? It was an interesting world, down here at the roots of the party, an emporium of well-heeled feet, silky-smooth legs and millions of dollars’ worth of fancy frocks. I scanned the area, picking out Mona’s sparkling sandals and next to them, a pair of exuberant white platforms that had to be Beau’s. Very close to them, some polished brogues probably belonging to Trey. Suddenly, through the forest of legs, a pair of familiar dark eyes stared right into mine: Pinky. His slobbery snout made a beeline for a discarded spring roll on the floor between us—then his lead was yanked and he scuttled off in the direction of the white platforms, his curly tail lifted in the air. I continued fiddling with my shoe a moment longer.

  ‘Amber, seriously, what are you doing down there?’

  ‘Still sorting out my shoe, done in a sec!’

  There was no way I could risk Trey calling me Annie in front of Mona and Klara. I had no choice but to sit it out until the coast was clear. But this looked weird, and my thighs were beginning to ache. I slipped one shoe off my foot and held it up for added effect, but not for long enough for Klara to see that there was actually nothing wrong with it.

  ‘Heel’s bust. I’m going to the Ladies’ to try and repair it. I’ll see you back in the car park.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hi to Beau, seeing as you’re best mates with her piggy?’ Klara asked, looking irritated.

  ‘Say hi for me. See you in a mo!’ I hopped off in the opposite direction, stooped over, so as to keep my face well hidden. I had no idea where the ladies’ toilets actually were, but when I reached the windows at the other side of the party, as far from Beau and Trey and the growing crowd around them as I could possibly get, I finally stood up straight, reunited my shoe with the floor and wiggled my foot back into it.

  ‘Breaking in new heels?’ asked a male voice next to me.

  I turned and looked over the man’s shoulder, checking whether Beau and Trey were anywhere nearby. He turned around, too, following my eye line and revealing the back view of his thick, black mop of curly hair and a nicely tanned neck.

  ‘Or maybe avoiding somebody?’ This time he also offered a slightly wonky, but attractively broad smile.

  ‘Something like that,’ I replied, attempting to smooth down my messed-up hair by pulling it back into a ponytail shape and then letting it fall around my shoulders. As he held out a hand, I found myself sucking in my stomach.

  ‘I’m Liam. And you are …’

  I thought for a moment too long. Amber or Annie?

  ‘Are you on the run or something?’ he asked, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘No, it’s all fine now,’ I said.

  ‘But you are avoiding someone?’ He had a lovely American accent.

  I laughed nervously. ‘I think I’ve safely avoided them now. Hi, I’m Amber.’

  We shook. Electricity crackled.

  ‘Well, Amber, if I need to watch out for an angry ex-boyfriend, just say,’ he said, chocolate-brown eyes shining, glancing back again theatrically.

  ‘Don’t panic, there’s no psycho ex,’ I replied. ‘Just someone I wasn’t prepared to see this evening, that’s all.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  I desperately wanted to carry on chatting, but I was painfully aware that Mona and Klara would probably have left the party by now and I didn’t want to risk Mona’s bad mood if I kept her waiting in the car park. Underground car parks were absolutely not Mona’s scene.

  ‘My friends are waiting for me,’ I said, reluctantly.

  ‘Leaving already? The party’s only just beginning … and you have the most beautiful English accent.’

  I blushed. Liam reached into his inside suit pocket and pulled out a business card. Then he asked if he could take down my number. ‘Just in case you need to be rescued again.’ Gleefully I let him punch it into his phone.

  ‘If you’re here in LA for a while, look me up. Maybe we can grab a cocktail together … if you’re not still on the run, that is,’ he added. I’m actually being chatted up, at Soho House, by a real-life American!

  ‘Thanks—that would be lovely.’

  Holding the card in the palm of my hand, I closed my fingers tightly around it, squishing it in half. Then I skirted around the edges of the thro
ng back towards the exit, giving the area in the middle a wide berth as a fountain of flashbulbs exploded once more and I imagined Beau and Trey right in the centre, probably air-kissing Leonardo DiCaprio. When I reached the car park Mona was waiting, beating her thumbs on the wheel. She scowled as I opened the door.

  ‘Sorry, long queue in the Ladies’,’ I muttered, diving in a millisecond before she slammed her foot down and we sped off. I don’t think she’d have worried unduly if I’d been dragged along the concrete. In the back of the car, once I’d regained my breath, I unfurled my fingers from around the crumpled card. I studied the writing on one side of it:

  Liam Anderson

  Actor

  Los Angeles • New York • London

  And on the reverse, two mobile phone numbers—one American, one British—and an email address. I slipped it into my clutch bag before Klara could get a look. Liam Anderson. Should I know that name, or recognise the face? I pulled out my phone, desperate to Google him. Another text message from Mum was stacked up behind four others asking if I’d arrived okay, if I was getting on with Mona okay, if I was eating okay, and finally, if I was still alive. I quickly typed a response: Sorry mum! It’s been mad busy. But everything’s fine, having a great time and will call you tomorrow, I promise. Love you A x. She responded straight away: Great, got a pension scheme I need to talk to you about. And Nora was brilliant in her play!

  When we arrived back at Mona’s, I was glad of the bag of Reese’s Pieces I’d bought in the pharmacy, which became my late dinner. I really don’t understand how Mona and Klara can call three canapés supper. As I tucked myself into the giant bed just before midnight, I felt disappointed that my first celebrity party had been less roaring, more snoring twenties. Then I studied Liam Anderson’s business card again and placed it carefully on the bedside table.

  Chapter Nine

  By the next morning—the day before the Golden Globes—I’d got into the swing of things. My regime was simple: get up, put on my too-hot black uniform, suffer Mona’s disappointment as she scanned my outfit, endure the white-knuckle ride to the suite and assist my boss by drip-feeding her coffee and being on hand with my kit, as LA’s hottest women processed through our doors, tried things on and took them off again. The only difference was that today I found myself taking a little longer to apply my make-up. We were going to welcome serious Hollywood royalty in the form of America’s sweetheart, actress Jennifer Astley, to the suite today to make her final choice of gown for the awards. Almost as excitingly, I’d woken up to a text message from Liam Anderson: Great to meet you, English girl. See you soon? x