The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  ‘Not the sexy Jim? The one you’ve mentioned before?’

  ‘Yes, he’s really sexy, Am.’ She knocked the shoe out of the way and poked her head around the door, just in case a half-naked sexy Jim was lurking in earshot. ‘But I didn’t actually mean for him to end up here. We shared a cab and then I remembered I had a bottle of fizz in the fridge.’

  ‘Ahem—don’t you mean I had a bottle of fizz in the fridge?’

  ‘Oh God, yes, probably, sorry, babe, I’ll get you another one. But it went down so well—and he’s such a great kisser.’ If I’d had a pound for every time I’ve heard Vicky say those immortal words.

  ‘And now you’re wearing his T-shirt.’

  ‘It smells so nice—he’s the one who wears that aftershave I love!’ She held it out to me invitingly and I backed away.

  ‘No, thanks. So it’s the aftershave’s fault?’

  ‘Totally, the aftershave and the cocktails, along with everyone in Shadow Lounge,’

  ‘I think it was also a full moon?’ I added.

  ‘Yes! Did you see it from the plane?’ We both giggled and she smiled her big contagious smile. ‘That, plus the fact you basically have to be borderline alcoholic to be single.’ She wiped at the smudged mascara again.

  ‘But you’re not single—are you?’ I replied, confused. ‘What about Simon?’

  She looked over her shoulder to check we weren’t being overheard.

  ‘It’s been the week from hell. He basically blew me out last Tuesday when I wanted to see him after the launch party—said I was too drunk—and then he wasn’t around on Wednesday, didn’t call me back all day, and on Thursday he was too busy to have the headspace to think about anything other than a new film segment he’s trying to get on the radio. And then he didn’t seem to want to make plans for our normal Sunday session—and he cancelled the other night, hence … Oh, I don’t know, Am, he’s either met someone else or he’s gone off me. He’s made it pretty clear, wouldn’t you say? I guess I wanted to press the self-destruct button last night. I did try to call you about it …’ She finally stopped for air, worry etched across her pretty brow. I remembered the three missed calls on my phone just after I’d fainted at the premiere. That last sentence hurt.

  ‘Honey, I’m sorry, I was so caught up in everything over there—I thought you’d pocket-dialled me because it was so late. I was actually trying to pull myself together after having a minor fainting episode at Beau Belle’s premiere, and then I guess I forgot, I’m sorry.’

  ‘A “minor fainting episode”, at a premiere?’ She sniggered loudly. ‘Amber, I do love you—we’ve got sooo much to catch up on!’ We both laughed. ‘I could really do without having to go to work today. I just want to drink tea and eat toast with you.’

  ‘Give us another hug.’

  There was something about my best friend that meant however stinky and messy she was, however annoyed I might be that she and a random bloke had drunk the bottle of Verve Clicquot I’d been saving for a special occasion; however heinous it was, I couldn’t be angry with her for long. And anyway, I’d never particularly liked Simon. To him, I was the shop girl who wasn’t worth a proper conversation because I didn’t know much about the works of Pedro Almodovar or the existential qualities of American Beauty. Ha! If only he knew about my burgeoning friendship with Trey Jones, that would have him taking notice. And though she had never actually admitted it, I sensed this bloke, who was meant to be Vicky’s boyfriend, seemed to make her feel insecure, too. I’d previously put it down to the age-old tension between best friend and best friend’s boyfriend, but perhaps now was the time to finally tell Vicky what I thought of know-it-all Simon, the Barry Norman wannabe who took himself way too seriously and was nowhere near good enough for my best mate. Just then, a clattering noise came from inside the flat.

  ‘Must be the kitten knocking over a vase,’ I said, and we both creased up.

  After some slightly awkward chit-chat with Jim from the art desk (who was definitely sexier than Simon, but not as good-looking as Liam, or Rob, come to think of it), plus a big mug of tea, I made it into my bedroom. I heaved the suitcase onto my still-unmade bed and emptied it. Within seconds, it looked as though a bomb had gone off in Harvey Nics. Having seen sexy Jim off with a snog and strict instructions to go to work perpetuating the story that she was suffering from food poisoning and wouldn’t be in today, Vicky joined me. Laying her eyes on the treasures before us, she was actually lost for words. Only momentarily, because she was soon screaming, ‘Let’s play dress-up!’, before coming up with the genius idea that we should go out for brunch wearing some of my haul. We both knew, of course, that it was actually a load of expensive clothes belonging to a series of PR companies, not mine (or, come to think of it, Mona’s) at all. However …

  We headed out of the flat looking like a cross between Eddy and Patsy from Ab Fab and two actual fashion editors during London Fashion Week. I was wearing a black Stella McCartney jumpsuit, accessorised with some gigantic Cavalli jewellery, including a panther bracelet and necklace set that I had taken more than a small shine to in real life, a Pucci scarf over my head and some sky-high Saint Laurent two-tone ankle boots. Vicky opted for a high-fashion hooker look: a Burberry oxblood-latex trench coat over a tiny body-con dress and some round Chanel sunglasses, even though there was hardly any sun, finished off with a killer pair of metallic gold Alexander McQueen stiletto boots. In other words, we looked ridiculous. We decided to go to the Electric Diner for brunch. Snuggled in the heart of Portobello Road, next to the Electric Cinema, this was probably the place that would be most accepting of our outfits.

  Brunch somehow demanded to be washed down with a Bloody Mary, and somehow one turned into three Bloody Marys, just to get the level of hot spice right, and that was followed by a tipsy stroll around the antique markets where I bought a maraca and Vicky bought a vintage gold necklace, and then we ended up in the Portobello Gold having a bottle of red wine and two bowls of nuts for lunch. All in all, minus the crazy clothes, it was a pretty typical Portobello day for us. I told her all about Rob and how that last night in LA was one of my best nights ever.

  ‘Have you stalked Rob on Facebook yet?’ she enquired.

  When I said no, Vicky looked aghast.

  ‘Well, I did look, but his profile is locked and I didn’t want to seem like an actual stalker,’ I admitted.

  ‘But you must stalk him—it’s a given. Send him a friend request!’ I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass. ‘I know your password, I’ll do it myself otherwise.’

  ‘You know my password? That’s a violation of my privacy!’

  ‘Privacy? But you are not permitted to have a life that is private from me, Amber Green—especially in situations when you’re really not helping yourself.’

  ‘And how exactly am I not helping myself?’

  ‘Well, do you know if he has a girlfriend? That’s the first thing you’d find out on Facebook.’

  ‘I don’t care if he has a girlfriend!’ I exclaimed. ‘Anyway, he hasn’t mentioned anyone, I think it would have come up.’ It hadn’t really crossed my mind that Rob might have a girlfriend—he hadn’t given that impression. Besides, it wasn’t any of my business, anyway.

  We turned our attention to Sunday Simon and LA Liam. Throughout the day Liam continued to update me with a series of text messages, each one I read to Vicky.

  ‘He’s so into you,’ she enthused.

  ‘But why hasn’t he actually asked me out?’

  She shrugged. ‘Why don’t you ask him on a date?’

  ‘But I can barely remember what he looks like.’

  ‘Maybe you can at least use him to get Rob’s attention. You blatantly fancy this Rob and once a guy thinks he could lose you, he soon ups his game.’

  ‘Vicky, I don’t fancy Rob!’

  ‘Whatever.’

  She was having none of it. Regardless, we both decided that Vicky was much better off without stupid Simon, and though sexy Jim from the art
desk probably wasn’t going to be suitable long-term, he was a fantastic distraction for now, helping to create some interest at work and fuzz the edges of the break-up. Then the conversation moved on to Mona.

  ‘She’s just so hard to work out, the way she blows hot and cold,’ I explained. ‘Like—she gave me this gold necklace to wear after the Globes, which was so lovely and thoughtful, but she’s so out of control at other times, getting sick in the middle of a huge industry event and then turning her phone off on the day of the awards. I mean, you can’t do that, can you?’

  ‘Clearly you can if you’re Mona Armstrong.’

  ‘It’s like there’s something else going on. I found a stack of unopened bills in her office and there was a message from a loans company on her phone the other day. Add that to the puking and the not showing up, and it’s like she’s avoiding facing up to something.’

  ‘She sounds stressed out. Maybe she’s in debt? Or having a breakdown? People have breakdowns as often as getting their roots done over there. It’s la-la land, remember?’

  ‘But she’s got mansion houses in LA and London, she travels Club Class, she only wears designer clothes, her make-up bag alone is worth more than my entire belongings. She’s like a celebrity herself … It doesn’t make sense.’

  I suddenly remembered the state of my own bank account and my looming rent. Mona had made no mention of when I’d actually see the funds in my account and I’d have to broach the subject with Vicky soon.

  ‘Have you tried to ask her about it?’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘It would be scary,’ Vicky continued. ‘But maybe she’ll open up to you.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I’m just the lowly—highly sackable—assistant. Likely soon to be joining the pile of former assistants.’

  ‘More like the assistant who has saved her butt numerous times in just over a week.’ She gave me a look. ‘Does she have any good girlfriends or a boyfriend you could speak to, in confidence?’

  ‘That’s the other thing. I don’t think she actually has anyone—other than her housekeeper and a bunch of celebrities, who certainly weren’t there for her when she nearly puked in her bag. I think she must be lonely, too. And she’s kind of asexual. I can’t imagine her with a man, or a woman, for that matter.’

  ‘Well, then, there’s only one person for it—you.’

  I shrank back into my seat. ‘I’ll try to broach it this week, while we’re in London. Everything feels more normal over here.’

  Vicky high-fived me across the table. After a brief silence, she asked me: ‘Do you think you’d ever want to live in LA?’ Her question was impressively nonchalant, but I could tell she’d been working up to it. She stared at me in a moment of sobriety.

  ‘Nah. Everyone’s too self-obsessed,’ I replied quickly, and saw Vicky visibly relax. I had told her what she wanted to hear—and I was pretty sure it was the truth. I paused briefly to consider what I’d do if Mona offered me a permanent job, which would need me to be based in LA. My mind wandered: me, Liam, sunshine, a Cadillac, the Pacific Coast Highway. Who knew what the future might hold.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get back,’ I said, breaking off the daydream. I had momentarily forgotten about the outfits we were wearing, and suddenly felt ridiculous amongst the appropriately dressed after-work drinkers. ‘I’ve got all this to pack up again before the morning—we’ve got to prep for Miss P tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re styling Miss P? I thought she’d disappeared!’

  ‘Mona’s planning to bring her back with a fashion bang at the BAFTAs.’

  ‘Awesome! I wouldn’t mind being your assistant one day, Amber Green—stylist to the staaaars! One for the road?’

  Four for the road later, I finally staggered into my freezing cold bed, feet once again aching from being squashed into ill-fitting shoes. Needing some attention, I texted Liam to let him know I was home safely, as requested. He replied: I wish my head was resting on your pillow too x. Hazily I Instagrammed the pillow, tagging him in it. Naturally, I spent a good fifteen minutes styling it, lighting a candle on my bedside table, making a delicate head-shaped indentation and setting it up so the light fell on it in the right way and it looked as enticing as any pillow could.

  I’d like to meet that pillow x, came the immediate response, giving me goosebumps. I went to sleep wondering if he ever would.

  Next morning I was rudely awoken by my phone ringing. Rob—he had to be back in the UK by now? LA Liam? Shit, I still haven’t called Mum. No—Mona. ‘Meet me near Selfridges at 10:00 a.m. I’m seeing the personal shopper to get the bits for Miss P.’ No chance to get over my jet lag today, let alone make it out to Zone Five on the tube to see my folks or sleep off this hangover. Aargh, my head! When will I learn that spending time with Vicky, even for brunch, never turns out to be just a simple outing involving eggs and coffee? It always turns into something we later refer to as ‘messy ‘. My head was killing me, far worse than any hangover I’d had in … let’s see … just over a week, since I last went out with Vicky.

  In the shower, my thoughts returned to LA Liam. Communications with him had crossed the Atlantic and we’d swapped surely a hundred messages. I reflected on his American accent. He did have an American accent, didn’t he? Somehow I couldn’t quite hear it in my head. I mulled over his mega-watt smile, curly hair and the way he’d made my heart race that night at Soho House, but the more I thought about it, the more cloudy the image became in my mind. Like a misted, sepia photograph of a celluloid heartthrob, he was in danger of becoming a movie-perfect moment forever lost in time. Yet over the past week he had forged his way into my world.

  Even in the busy surroundings of Starbucks on Oxford Street, Mona was easy to spot. Dark glasses, a tumble of chocolate curls with highlights like caramel ribbons, skintight leather leggings, a cotton tee, her favourite Isabel Marant leather jacket and Jimmy Choo biker boots. A big, impossible-to-miss cherry-tomato Anya Hindmarch tote was plonked on the table in front of her, along with two Venti cups of strong caffè macchiato—enough to power a small school. She was talking loudly on the phone, but that didn’t stop her standing up to aggressively wave me over, a jangle of bangles making customers turn. Uh-oh, she doesn’t look happy. Mona didn’t blend in, even amongst cosmopolitan London shoppers.

  ‘Fear not, Clive, I hear you loud and clear,’ she was saying. ‘What she needs is a “wow” moment. Miss P will make an impact at the BAFTAs. She’ll be the front page of all the red tops on Monday morning. I’ll make sure of it.’

  Two girls sitting at the table next to Mona tried and failed to discreetly take her photo, and she shot them a dirty look. Perhaps the jet lag had caught up with her after all. I had forgotten Mona was probably more famous in London than she was in LA, thanks to the buzz about the pilot show and the fashion blogging scene. She seemed somewhat stressed.

  ‘You’re late,’ she stated before I’d reached the table, loud enough for the adjacent customers to know I was being told off by my boss.

  When I reached the table and sat down, she ushered me in close, casting more dirty looks at the two girls who were now desperately trying not to laugh. I was pretty sure a badly taken snap of Mona had already made its way onto Instagram.

  ‘What I’m thinking is a gown with guts, preferably sheer cutaway panels revealing just enough side boob and side bum to get people talking,’ she announced, causing a businessman on a neighbouring table to look over his copy of the Times. ‘We need some serious flesh on display to secure the front pages.’ She stretched out her arm to reveal a very new-looking, chunky rose-gold Michael Kors watch. ‘Shit, Amber! Now you’ve made me late for the appointment.’

  I was still taking in the side-boob-and-side-bum brief—or rather, lack of briefs—as she stood up. I had a flashback to Rita Ora once flinging off her undies to pull off the see-through side bum look at an Oscars after-party. It was definitely daring. ‘Do you think Miss P will be up for it?’ I asked nervously, picturing the five-foot-three si
nger, with legs half the length of Rita’s.

  ‘She’ll have to be. That’s why they’ve asked me to do it—I get results.’ She produced her iPad from the tote and handed it over. ‘You hold the fort here, catch up on returns and manage appointments for the BAFTAs, and I’ll be back in an hour.’

  ‘You got it, boss.’

  The girls on the next table had stopped bothering to hide their iPhones now, and snapped away, recording Mona’s look from behind as she sashayed out of the cafe, sunglasses on, persona firmly in place.

  ‘So cool,’ said one.

  ‘Total bitch, though,’ said the other. A part of me wanted to pull up a chair at their table and let it all out.

  As I waited for Mona to emerge from Selfridges, weighed down with eye-popping gowns, my mobile phone rang on my makeshift Starbucks desk. Instead of an irate PR chasing the return of their precious gown or questioning why it had come back hacked off below the thigh—Mona had told me that Beau once took a pair of scissors to an Armani because she wanted it to look ‘sexier’ halfway through a party, much to the dismay of the designer—I almost choked on my second coffee when I saw LA Liam’s name lit up. He had actually called! That means his voice is at the other end. And I am expected to speak to him. It was such a shock, I bottled picking up, but listened to his voicemail three times in a row. He sounded slightly husky, American all right and mischievous, sexy. LA Liam had arrived in London, too. And he wanted to meet up. A cool half hour later—it was painful to wait that long, but I didn’t want to appear over-keen—I rang him back. And half an hour after that, he was sitting opposite me in Starbucks.

  ‘My very own Eliza Doolittle,’ he said, pulling up a seat. ‘You look so … English today.’

  My mind boggled—was this a compliment? Judging by the fact he was leaning so close he could almost certainly smell my coffee breath, I supposed it was.

  ‘Hello, Henry ‘iggins,’ I replied, blushing. He looked puzzled, clearly his understanding of My Fair Lady only stretched to Eliza.