The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  “I just wondered, that’s all. It’s not like I’m even wanting to have children right now—God, we haven’t even had that conversation yet. Oh, forget it.” I clicked the light off and shuffled down under the duvet. Terrible timing, Amber.

  “No, sorry,” he said, clicking the light on again. “Let’s not forget it. In answer to your questions, no, I haven’t got anyone pregnant before—that I’m aware of anyway—because I generally practice safe sex, as you should know by now. And, yes, I do imagine having children sometime in the future. But, as I’m only just thirty, I’m not really thinking about the family thing just yet. And, finally, for the record . . .”

  I held my breath.

  “. . . I–I think you’d make a fantastic mum.” He paused.

  “Really?” I asked quietly, a smile spreading across my face. I hadn’t expected such an amazing compliment. He folded me into his arms and held me close, telling me the answer in one big bear hug.

  “Though your timing regarding big conversations leaves a lot to be desired,” he added. “Oh, and you’ll have to improve your baking skills. Those were home-baked pretzels Tina brought around, you know.”

  “You cheeky, sexist—” He cut me off with a big, long kiss.

  “Now, is the third degree over and can I get some sleep, before this hangover really kicks in?” he asked when we came up for air.

  “Yes, my gorgeous man, you can,” I said, my heart swelling. “And I think you’ll make a great dad someday, too.” I blushed.

  He clicked the light off again.

  * * *

  The first thing I did when I woke up the following morning was check my Instagram account. Expecting to see a few more regrams of the fateful Lola Jones photo, I was surprised to see I had somehow attracted another two and a half thousand followers. Either the Lola Jones photo has really gone global, or someone is fiddling my numbers? But this time it wasn’t Lola Jones that was causing all the fuss. To my surprise, the photo of the foot-fetish man and me in Rose’s was generating a lot of interest. There were hundreds of likes and reposts, plus a whole stream of comments underneath it. Feverishly, I began reading through them all, a feeling of panic growing as I did. Most centered around one topic:

  “Is that who I think it is??”

  “OMG back from the dead!”

  Further down the thread a name began to emerge, until it was being repeated over and over again by everyone leaving a comment:

  “It’s Maurice Chan! #legend”

  “THE Maurice Chan”

  “No way, Maurice Chan, back again!”

  Maurice Chan. The name sounded familiar to me. But, not far beneath this, some, more negative, comments made their entrance:

  “He’s got a nerve showing his face around town #fashionoutcast”

  “About time he faced the music #MauriceChan”

  “Nazi #MauriceChan”

  Soon the Maurice Chan hashtag, along with a Nazi hashtag, was flying around Instagram, sparking its own stream of photos and discussion.

  Rob stirred as I shifted the pillows behind my back and googled Maurice Chan. As I did so, the penny dropped for me, too. I remembered my old boss at Smith’s boutique in London once going through some of his clothes that had been withdrawn from the shop floor some years before. There were a million stories about him online, many telling of a “fallen designer forced to retire from fashion following Nazi allegations.”

  I barely noticed Rob place gentle kisses up my arm as I continued to read article after article about the disgraced designer, once the creative director of a huge brand, who had also run his own eponymous label, and his dramatic fall from grace after a misguided decision to put “Hitler-style moustaches” on male models for his Paris runway show ten years ago. It didn’t help that the venue for the show—a former World War II air-raid shelter beneath the Paris Metro—was taken over by the Germans during the Nazi Occupation. I felt sick to my stomach as the gravity of what I had done continued to incessantly blink away on my handset.

  Stories told of a “strained” French designer, forced to make a public apology, but the moustache debacle had already ended his career. In his one and only interview with a big American news channel shortly after the furor, he spoke of his “struggle to cope with the pressures of fame” as his label went from strength to strength, and how he had “sought refuge in drink and drugs to escape the pressure,” which he believed had somehow led to making the “gross misjudgment”—that the moustaches were a tribute to Charlie Chaplin, rather than Adolf Hitler. “I was foolish, I followed some bad advice, and it is a decision I will regret for the rest of my life,” he had said.

  When I had finished reading, I shuddered and sat back against the pillows, ignoring the gentle prods that could quite easily lead to morning sex from my woozy boyfriend.

  “So what’s going on?” he muttered sleepily, conceding that he was getting nowhere with me right now. He lifted himself into an upright position.

  “It’s Maurice Chan,” I muttered. “Who’d have thought it. That guy I met at the Whitney on our first day. The shoe perv, remember?”

  “Yes, the one you couldn’t wait to get away from.” He wiped the sleep from his eyes and peered over my shoulder at the screen.

  “Well, he’s the Maurice Chan—the famous, or rather once famous, fashion designer.”

  “Maurice who?” Though he tried, the limit of Rob’s fashion knowledge right now was of footage of scantily clad Angel Wear models.

  I returned to Instagram to read more of the comments now that I understood Maurice’s backstory. The mixture of emotions felt toward him was shocking—some thought he had paid his dues and should be forgiven, while others branded him an “anti-Semit” who should never show his face again. I didn’t know what to believe.

  I began to feel guilty; whatever the truth, it wasn’t as if Maurice had staged this comeback himself—rather he was mistakenly outed by an Instagram rookie. Just like Lola Jones. Jesus, what have I done? I looked at my fingers accusingly.

  Back on Instagram, photos of the former fashion designer, including his collections and catwalk shows, began circulating in threads of their own. I noticed one blogger had mentioned a small retrospective of his work being shown at a back-room gallery in Chelsea the following week, marking the fifth anniversary of his retirement from the fashion scene. Hurriedly, I looked up the details online, wondering whether he would be planning to attend. One thing was for sure, he could hardly do it incognito now.

  “I need to find Maurice again,” I said aloud. “Seriously, I can’t believe how stupid I was not to ask his name or even get his number yesterday. I’m such an idiot—trying to make contacts without actually getting their contact details? I bet he’s livid with me for putting him back in the spotlight like this. No wonder he wanted a disguise.” I sunk back down into the duvet.

  “You didn’t out him on purpose, baby,” Rob sympathized. “I just think you need to maybe watch those little digits of yours, because they’re getting a bit trigger happy. And it’s a dangerous game to play.” He laced his fingers with mine.

  “I know,” I said, squirming out of his grip. “I’m a prize klutz for doing this twice in a matter of days. But how am I going to find him? I need to get to Maurice as quickly as possible, and then hopefully, I can explain before he disappears all over again.”

  “You also need to discover whether the guy you think is Maurice is actually him,” Rob advised me. “Social media is not the oracle, you know. Some eager fashionistas could have got it all wrong—that’s how rumors spread.”

  I stopped to ponder this. But really, in my mind, there was no doubt. I was itching to track him down, to find out the truth and apologize. I began furiously googling, to see whether I could find anything that might lead me to Maurice. But all I drew was stories about his collections and his fall from grace.

  “Wait a minute,” Rob said, more awake now. “Didn’t this,” he began, then, adopting an OTT French accent for his name, “Maurice
Chan give you his card, when we were at the Whitney? Though whether you kept it is another thing—seeing as you were quick to dismiss him as a dirty old perv . . .”

  “Yes! You’re right!” I exclaimed, now returning his advances with a peck on the lips. “I knew there was a reason I decided to go out with you.”

  I flew out of bed, narrowly missing tripping over my Michael Kors heels, still strewn on the floor, and dived into the rickety wardrobe to try to locate the jacket I had been wearing that first day.

  When Rob had cajoled me back to bed, keen to take advantage of my elated mood, after retrieving the business card from my jacket pocket, I slipped it under my pillow. For a while, Maurice Chan was forgotten as Rob smiled the smile that made my tummy somersault and pinned my hands above my head. Suddenly, his soft skin was melded with mine and I lost myself in his long, searching kisses. He’s so good in bed. My delectable boyfriend.

  When we were finished, Rob rolled over and began softly snoring, but my mind was still racing. I retrieved my iPad from the floor and noticed a number of direct messages waiting to be read.

  One of them was from the editor of Vogue online: “Hey @BritStylistTakingManhattan we’d love to speak to you about Maurice Chan. What number can I reach you on? Vanessa”

  Another was from the Daily Mail: “@BritStylistTaking Manhattan Love to talk to you about Maurice Chan, can you call Maria on this number please? 212 937 6547. Thank you.”

  The story had hit the mainstream press.

  I pulled the business card from under my pillow and read the wording again. All it said, in an italicized scroll font, was: “MC. New York,” and then there was a cell number and an email address. It was enough for me. Without thinking too hard, I jumped out of bed, went into the living room and dialed.

  Chapter Nine

  Rob! Rob!” I shouted toward the bathroom; this apartment was so small it was impossible to get any privacy, even when on the loo. “I’ve just spoken to Maurice Chan!”

  I pushed open the door; the room was full of steam.

  “Last night you were on about making babies, and now we’re at the stage where it’s acceptable to storm in on your boyfriend taking a naked, post-shower dump, is it?” he asked.

  “I just had a great chat with the Maurice Chan.”

  “Okay, I heard you.” He pushed the door closed with his foot.

  I sat on the edge of our bed and talked to the door. “From what I can make out, it turns out Maurice had to go into hiding after the Hitler moustaches scandal at Paris Fashion Week. But, according to Vogue, he’s been quietly planning a comeback—hence, he was in Rose’s yesterday doing research. He said there’s much more to his story than was ever reported and he’s ready to reconnect with the fashion world. Apparently—strictly off the record—Anna Wintour is a personal friend. Babe, don’t you know what this means?” I pushed the door open again. Rob had stood up and was brushing his teeth now. He looked at me blankly. “This means I should try to work with him. And quickly. If anyone’s going to grab attention and get me noticed in this city, it’s Maurice Chan!”

  “Whoa, whoa! Calm down, honey, just take a breath for a minute.” Rob peeled my iPhone from my tight grip and laid it down on the side of the sink, before clamping my arms to my sides so I couldn’t escape. “This all sounds terribly exciting, but just think for a moment about what you could be getting yourself involved with. Becoming cozy with a Nazi sympathizer who you hardly know doesn’t sound like something you should rush into. Surely your agent would agree. Have you run any of this past Dana? I think maybe you should, that’s what agents are for, after all. After two social media explosions within twenty-four hours, you might want to tread a little carefully.” He acknowledged my crestfallen face and cupped my head with his hands. “Baby, I’m not trying to be downbeat, I’m just saying be cautious—okay?”

  I stared him out, feeling like a sugar-high kid being reprimanded by their dad.

  “I hear you,” I mumbled, “but he sounded really nice on the phone, even a little relieved that his identity had been revealed. Anyway, he’s not a Nazi sympathizer—all Maurice wants to do is set the record straight and he thinks the time is now. He wants to meet up for a coffee, to explain. Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance? Or at least a fair hearing? He really seems to want to talk to me.”

  “It depends,” Rob said, letting my head go and taking my hand to lead me back into the bedroom so he could get dressed. “Listen, you know I’ll always support you, but call Dana before you meet him. For me?”

  I nodded my head solemnly.

  “But now I have to get to work. We’re going to be filming late tonight, the girls are doing a photo-call at an opening event for the new store in the Meatpacking District and then I think there’s some kind of after party we’ll want footage of, too. I love you.”

  * * *

  As Rob left, his words were still ringing in my ears: Call Dana, call Dana. Although my natural instinct was to call Vicky instead, I knew he was right.

  “Honey, you sure know how to make an impact!” Dana guffawed down the phone. “I was glued to your Instagram all evening. First, Lola, now, Maurice—is there anyone in New York City who’s safe from Amber Green?” She laughed throatily.

  “Well, you did tell me to up my online presence,” I quietly replied. “Though even I didn’t expect it to happen so fast. What’s your take on Maurice, anyway?”

  “He was a tour de force for many years,” she said, sighing, “the toast of Paris, New York, you name it. His clothes were exquisite. But such a fall. No one would go near him after the Nazi episode. I’m mean, it was shocking. It’s no excuse but, by all accounts, he was in a terrible state when it happened. Rumors were flying about in-fighting at his label. His cocaine dealer must have been set up for life, judging by the amount he was reportedly shoveling up his nose during those dark days. Sad, so sad. Anyway, how did you come to be playing dress up with him in Rose’s in the first place?”

  I paused, as I briefly considered whether to pretend I was aware of who I’d been mixing with in Rose’s. But lying has never been my forte.

  “Honestly? I had no idea it was him, Dana. I actually met the guy in the queue for the Whitney Museum on our first day in town, completely by chance. And then I bumped into him again at Rose’s as I was sourcing clothes for Liv. It was my followers who recognized him.”

  “Oh, doll face, you and your newfound followers. But the big question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Maurice has asked me for a coffee—he says there’s more to the Nazi story than people know and he’s ready to face the world again. Do you think I should meet him?”

  “Hell, yes! Honey, this could set your career skyrocketing! Keep me posted.”

  And she rang off.

  Set my career skyrocketing. Surely the words that anyone trying to build their profile in a competitive industry, in a new country, wants to hear? Good old Dana had said exactly what I wanted to hear. I called Maurice back and arranged to meet him at a low-key joint in Williamsburg the following morning.

  For the rest of the day, my mission was to get more keys cut—including a spare set to leave with Max and Tina; after yesterday, I didn’t fancy having to call upon Bart again—and to find some more pieces for Liv. Nipple tassels? I mean, was Mickey serious? How the hell are nipple tassels going to get her onto the Coachella Best Dressed lists? She’ll be a laughingstock and, as her stylist, so will I.

  * * *

  When I made it home at last, later that afternoon, my feet were throbbing from pounding the entire length of Broadway, familiarizing myself with American fashion stores and picking up underwear. I spent an hour inside the flagship Angel Wear shop in uptown Manhattan, choosing thongs and doing a bit of research on exactly who my boyfriend was currently filming all day long. I soon wished I hadn’t. Emblazoned on the walls were five full-length photographs of the Angel Wear “Icons”—Krystal, Jessica, Roxy, Leonie and Astrid—all stat
uesque models with out-of-this-world bodies, supremely talented at showing them off in provocative poses. Surely it wasn’t natural to be born that way. I found myself staring at Leonie’s unbelievably pert bottom—barely covered by a rhinestone G-string—for so long that a security guard came over and asked if I was feeling okay. Although I nodded and shuffled off, I definitely was not feeling okay.

  I moved on to the endless units full of lacy briefs and racy bras, running my fingers through the multicolored soft fabrics; I spent a while spraying myself with eau de parfums called things like Tender is the Night and You Inside Me, trying to decide which scent was the favorite of each Icon, and then whether Rob had a favorite Icon. I left the shop feeling a little subdued and slightly sick. In other words, suffering from a condition more commonly known as jealousy.

  How come Rob had barely mentioned these goddesses to me? Did he favor one of them? Did he fancy them all? I mean, show me a man who’d be fussy. I tortured myself by gazing up at their bottoms again.

  I’d been so wrapped up in trying to forge a career for myself that I had barely paid any attention to the long days and late nights Rob had been putting in at work—with them.

  * * *

  My head was still buzzing as I made my way to SoHo, figuring some of the more upscale sex boutiques would probably be the best place to look for extra bits for Liv. Once I had decided that, despite singling out some tasteful lingerie by Stella McCartney and Agent Provocateur, it was basically impossible to find anything that wouldn’t make her look like a stripper crossed with a hooker, I felt a lot better about things. But a hooker at a cool music festival? The whole thing was sitting very badly with me.

  I called Mickey to deliver the news that I needed to delay the final fitting.

  He sounded out of breath as he answered the phone and two seconds later Liv was on the end of the line, sounding equally flustered.