The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  “When, erm, are you going to be putting on your costume?” I asked her, my voice small and weak. It had to be said, she looked stunning in a slinky red Vivienne Westwood cocktail dress. She didn’t even have to open the door very wide for us to immediately realize, to my horror, that no one else was in fancy dress.

  Here I was, painted on wrinkles, powdery white bouffant, demure apricot-colored dress and coat, pearl necklace, glittering crown, white gloves, sensible black shoes, matching handbag and a cuddly corgi—that cost a bomb to be sent by Air Mail from Hamleys in London—nestled in my arms. At my first hip Brooklyn roof party.

  Amy’s flatmate, Kate, had joined her in the hallway, to take in the full spectacle of the unpaid entertainment.

  “Oh, wow!” she exclaimed “You look ah-mazing!” I didn’t flinch, I couldn’t bear to, this outfit was so scratchy.

  “I’m so sorry, guys,” Amy said, trying desperately hard to look sincere, despite every muscle in her face wanting to crack up. “When we said ‘fancy dress,’ we meant ‘dress, fancy.’ I thought everyone knew a fancy-dress party is called a costume party in America?”

  “Evidently not,” I muttered, feeling more ridiculous by the second. I looked to Rob for help. He only had to take off his top hat and tails, wipe off some of the wrinkles I had painted onto his face and he looked perfectly “fancy” in his white shirt and dress trousers. There was no hope for me. The girls sensed we needed a minute alone to work out our position, that and to neck a strong drink.

  “I thought you checked what Amy was wearing?” I said, snapping at Rob. I needed to blame someone for this humiliation and he was by far the best candidate.

  “I did! I asked what she was wearing and she said Westwood—I told you that. We both jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  “But wasn’t everyone talking about their costumes at work?” I said, pursuing the topic. “You must have noticed they weren’t?”

  “It’s rather stressful at work right now, as you might have noticed,” he retorted. “Besides, you were having such a great time sourcing everything—you said yourself you wanted to surprise everyone—so I didn’t feel the need to go into it at work, too. Come on, Amber, it was a genuine mistake. Anyway, we’re here now, and the way I see it, we have two options.” He pulled me further into a corner, downing one of the miscellaneous very strong cocktails put into our hands by Kate. “We can either have a complete sense-of-humor failure and leave. Or embrace the situation and get drunk. Very drunk. What’s it going to be?”

  I tried to ignore the prickly feeling building up behind my eyes.

  “You know how much I hate fancy-dress parties—I knew it would be a disaster,” I protested, feeling angry now, as well as humiliated. A few party-goers moved past us in the corridor, commenting on my “royal great-grandma” outfit, not even trying to hide their sniggers. Let’s face it, the only place I would have blended in would have been the actual Buckingham Palace balcony. I looked away from them and back at Rob, taking a deep breath and a large swig of the cocktail, which was basically neat vodka. I absolutely must not cry or I’ll look even more ridiculous. I must rise above this. I must do what the Queen would do.

  The terrace was already full by the time we made our way upstairs. Some hot guy with a tattoo sleeve put a mojito in my hand, and someone else led everyone into a sing-song of the British national anthem as I found myself being cajoled toward the center of the terrace. I lifted my gloved hand and began twirling it regally, as a cheer went up around me. People stood up, offering me their seats, drinks and cigarettes were thrust toward me from every direction—along with flashing camera phones. Despite how horribly conspicuous I felt at first, the drinks helped take off the edge, and I soon saw the funny side, getting into character and embracing my role as Her Majesty Queen Amber of England.

  As the hours passed, I had to admit I was having fun. I chatted to so many people—everyone was super friendly and nice. I had such a scream with a gay couple, Pierre and Peter, who, it turned out, lived just around the corner from us in Williamsburg, and we were soon plotting to get together again—they even invited Rob and me to their holiday home in Long Island. Rob gave me his undivided attention all evening, stealing me off for tipsy snogs and whispering, “I’m so proud of you, baby,” and, “You’re the sexiest queen I’ve ever seen. Just wait ’til I get you back to the palace,” whenever we were pressed together, which was often. The corgi became the second most popular person at the party, being passed around and used for a never-ending stream of selfies.

  I posted a photo of myself, crown at a jaunty angle, surrounded by all my new mates—my courtiers, as I was calling them by the end of the evening—on Instagram later that night: Lark filter; caption: “Rule Britannia in Brooklyn! #stylist #NYC #GodSaveTheQueen”

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure what time we made it to bed that night, but by the state of the regal paraphernalia dotted around the apartment the next morning, we were feeling very amorous. I’d even gone so far as sourcing myself an ironic “Crown Jewels” diamond-studded G-string (spotted in a SoHo sex shop as I hunted down nipple tassels for Liv) as a surprise for Rob, and this morning it was slung over the lamp by the TV.

  As I lay in bed with a dry mouth and a sore head, the memories of the evening before slowly began to return. I grabbed my phone to scroll back through the photos, chuckling as they appeared on the screen. Rob was still asleep, mouth open, lying naked and mostly uncovered next to me. I’d taken close to thirty photos throughout the evening and they were so funny, my hangover was almost forgotten. And then I opened Instagram.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “Oh. My. God.” I repeated the words, even louder.

  “What?” muttered Rob, waking with a start. “What’s happened?”

  He hoisted himself over, wiping the sleep away from his eyes.

  “The Queen photos got over a thousand hits between them! My followers have gone above six thousand overnight!”

  Rob lifted himself up onto his elbows, running a finger through his messed-up, slightly crusty “Prince Philip” hair.

  “Queen Elizabeth of England, tell me, what were we drinking last night? My head feels like a blender with the top off.”

  I was sitting bolt upright now, scrolling in disbelief through some of the comments under the image of me in full Queen regalia. Under the images, people had said things like:

  “You rule!”

  “Fashion Royalty.”

  “Where did you find the suit?”

  “I want a corgi like that!” under the images.

  Everything was positive and fun; not a troll in sight. Hundreds of hearts, crowns, fist pumps and Union Jack emoticons littered the page. Rob had snuggled up to my side now, for a look at the screen, his body still hot and clammy from sleep.

  “It looks like Liv saw the photo and reposted it on her page—tagging me as her stylist! And then Hailey Baldwin picked it up from her, and now it’s pretty much gone viral!” I exclaimed, as another thirty likes appeared just in the time I was looking at the screen.

  “Are you an internet sensation, baby?” Rob asked, sarcastically, kissing my bare shoulder.

  “Well, I’m certainly upping my online presence. If this is what Dana wants, she’s got it.”

  “Glad we didn’t leave in a sulk last night then?” he asked, prodding me in the side. “Oh, hater of fancy-dress parties.”

  “Maybe. And, d’oh! They’re called costume parties in America,” I said, smiling, before throwing the handset onto the floor and pulling the duvet over us both as we disappeared under it and enjoyed a long, sexy snogging session.

  Almost as good as being the star of a party was the lack of a major comedown, so buoyed was I by the steady stream of likes, comments and views of my page throughout the day. Likewise, my phone buzzed with texts and WhatsApp messages from my new friends. I barely remembered giving my number out to so many new people.

  Later that day, Dana sent me a message, too. “Hey, sugar, just seen
your Insta—go girl!—loving the Queen getup!”

  It was funny how not even working had done more for my career than I ever imagined.

  Late morning, I got a text from Pierre and Peter, inviting us to brunch at a nearby coffeehouse. We put on comfy clothes and joined them for a big American breakfast—pancakes with berries, crispy bacon, avocado, eggs—basically as many sides as the menu would allow—drenched in puddles of maple syrup.

  “Now this is living in New York City,” Rob remarked, squeezing me close as we devoured it all, alongside a never-ending stream of coffee.

  All I managed was a contented nod.

  “And then it’s back to bed to sleep it all off,” Pierre instructed. “That’s my Sunday recipe for success.”

  * * *

  Thankfully, any trace of a hangover—food- or alcohol-related—had finally passed by Monday morning, and things were looking up by eleven o’clock, when Rob called to tell me the news that Ron had decided to keep the Angel Wear TV production going. I breathed a sigh of relief. Over the weekend, I had managed to bury the nagging worry that our New York dream could be cut short, as it was completely out of our hands.

  “So we’re stuck with the sardine tin for the next few months after all,” he said. I sensed a but was coming. “There is something else, though,” he continued, his tone more subdued, confirming my fear. “Instead of canning the TV show, we’re going to make his search for a new stylist part of the filming.”

  “Great . . .” I breathed heavily. “So—does he want to see me?”

  “I’m really sorry, but he’s asked to pass. I really tried, Amber, but he and Dimitri, the lead designer on the show, didn’t want to waste your time.”

  I hung my head. While I wasn’t entirely surprised—it was such a huge job for someone just starting out over here—the rejection still stung.

  “Do you have any leads on who the new stylist will be?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat.

  “Well, I hate to say it, but Mona Armstrong’s name got mooted in the meeting,” he revealed, making me bristle. I still hadn’t come to terms with some truly hideous memories of carrying the can while she was either drunk, hungover or in police custody when I was her awards season assistant.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Don’t panic, I told everyone what a nightmare she is,” he explained. “They won’t choose her. And then your mate Lola Jones came up.”

  “Ah, baldy.” I sighed.

  “They want a big name to draw in the column inches,” he said. “If you have any ideas, let me know. There are a couple of others coming to an audition tomorrow, as we need to get them in place by the end of the week. A few months isn’t very long to pull together a world-class stage show. Ron’s got the jitters about it already. Anyway, I’ve got to go, I just wanted to let you know, and to tell you that we don’t need to repack our suitcases after all.”

  * * *

  What with the Maurice mayhem and then the fancy-dress frenzy, I had barely allowed myself to dare to imagine I might be in with a chance of the Angel Wear job, but now that it was out of my grasp, I felt completely flat. It would have been such a coup; something worth calling home about and enough to cause a genuine stir among my social media followers.

  I hadn’t been able to look at Lola Jones’s Instagram account since the fateful “alopecia incident,” for fear that she had mounted a campaign to have me hunted down and publicly humiliated, but an hour later, I was still glued to social media. Just this morning, Lola had posted an image of herself, head shaved in a defiant skinhead, rocking scarlet lips and an ear full of studs, on the cover of New York magazine. BEYOND THE WIG: LOLA COMES CLEAN ran the headline. As I read the accompanying interview, she actually thanked “British fashion blogger and stylist Amber Green” for finally giving her a platform to tell the truth about her debilitating alopecia—brought on by the stress of her job, combined with a secret eating disorder—in the hope that it gave hope to others suffering, too.

  “Fashion blogger and stylist!” I raved to Rob when he returned home that evening. “Not only does Lola Jones know my name, but she’s made me a bona fide stylist and my name is printed in New York magazine!”

  Rob leaned across and planted a kiss on my shoulder.

  He smiled. “That’s great, baby.”

  “It’s going to make me!” I exclaimed, a little perturbed that he didn’t seem more genuinely excited about this pivotal moment in my career. It was a situation like this that could literally launch me onto the world stage.

  “Seriously, I’m chuffed for you,” he said. “Now, isn’t it your turn to make dinner, or are we going out again?”

  “In a minute.” I barely heard him. “Oh, and my followers have gone up by another few hundred today—and I haven’t even posted anything. I’m nearly over seven K!”

  “Seven K. Fantastic.” I detected a note of sarcasm in his voice. “Now, isn’t it time you showed me some affection, rather than being all misty-eyed about seven thousand strangers?”

  * * *

  The following morning, no sooner had I wriggled out of bed at seven o’clock to check social media—I always got an influx overnight, the UK being ahead of us—and then wiggled my way back in again to tell Rob of the hundreds more followers I’d picked up, than I was sliding out again, to see who was buzzing at our front door.

  “Jesus, you’re like a jack-in-the-box this morning. Leave it,” he mumbled, reaching for my wrist but missing.

  “But what if it’s Maurice?” I said, already throwing the duvet back.

  “Why would Maurice be knocking for you this early on a Tuesday?” he mumbled. “And, anyway, how does Maurice know where you live? It’s probably just the postman.”

  “He could have asked Patti Rose and she could have asked Dana—I’m sure there are a million ways someone can find someone’s address in this city if they really want to,” I replied, pulling down my oversize T-shirt on the way to the intercom.

  “And how do you know he really wants to . . . ?” Rob shouted after me. But I was already pressing the button.

  “Hello?”

  “Amber?” said a small female voice at the other end. The accent was immediately detectable as English, so at first I assumed it was Amy, come to pick up Rob on the way to work perhaps.

  “Is that you, Amy?”

  “No, it’s, um—” The voice stopped, as if it was having second thoughts. I know that voice. “It’s Vicky.”

  “Vicky?” I caught my breath. There is only one Vicky. “My Vicky?” I said, already knowing that it was her. “What the . . . ?”

  “Yes, babe, it’s me. Let me in, it’s f-ing freezing out here.”

  I buzzed her in and ran back to the bedroom to grab a sweater and my big fluffy slipper socks, before screaming, “It’s Vicky! On our doorstep!” to a bemused Rob, and flying out of the front door.

  I took the stairs two at a time, although I needn’t have been in such a rush, because someone had let her in through the communal door.

  “Vicky!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sorry, I pressed a few wrong buzzers before I found you,” Vicky said softly. When she looked up her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

  “Honey, what’s happened?”

  She set the suitcase down and launched at me for a big bear hug. I pulled her in close, feeling suddenly maternal toward my oldest friend in the world.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe,” I whispered into her ear as she began sobbing on my shoulder. “Whatever it is, we can sort it together, just like we always do. It’s going to be okay.”

  When we pulled away I took in the extent of her red-stained eyes and slipped makeup. Her normally groomed, glossy hair looked unkempt and she wasn’t wearing her usual layer of immaculately applied flicky eyeliner. This wasn’t the Vicky I knew.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I thought I’d got it together in the cab, but it was seeing you. I couldn’t help it.”

  “Come on, you never need
to put on a front for me. Let me give you a hand with that case.” And we hauled it up the stairs together.

  Rob met us halfway and took over suitcase duties. He and I exchanged a puzzled look as he took in Vicky’s blotchy face. When we reached the top, he considerately disappeared into the shower to give us some space. And when I had put steaming big mugs of tea into our hands and we sat down on the sofa, Vicky began to explain what the hell was going on.

  “I’ve told Trey we need to consciously uncouple for a while,” she said, her breathing a little less erratic now. “I mean, I hope we’ll re-couple, when I get back, I’m sure we will, but I just need a bit of time to remember who I am again.”

  I looked at her blankly. “But tell me you’re not actually using that phrase in real life?” She shrugged in response. “Consciously uncouple? I don’t think the world’s big enough for two Gwyneth Paltrows.” I tried to lighten the atmosphere before conceding that she wasn’t in the mood. “So what actually happened with Trey?” I probed gently.

  Vicky remained mute for a while. Every now and again, she looked as though she was going to speak, but it was as though she was forming sentences in her mind, and then couldn’t let them out. Eventually, on her third cup of tea, she visibly seemed to relax. “Sorry, I sounded like a dick just then. It’s great to be here with my bestie. Believe me, all I want right now is to have my old life back.”

  I pulled her in for another hug, like the old friends we were. Over the next two hours, save for breaking briefly to wave Rob off to work, we were locked in conversation about how the honeymoon with Trey had basically ended a couple of months ago.

  “He literally works every hour known to man,” she complained. “And there are only so many Pilates and yoga classes I could make myself go to, plus solo trips to coffee shops. Honestly, I have more chat with the servers in Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard during the week than with my actual so-called boyfriend. LA can be a lonely place when you don’t have any real friends,” she lamented. “I was honestly starting to feel like an alien out there. Trey’s doing nothing for my self-confidence.”