The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  As Vicky recounted examples of how her successful movie-director boyfriend had neglected her time and again, the tears fell hard and fast. It seemed that the idyllic, showbiz lifestyle she appeared to be living when you viewed it on Facebook couldn’t be further from the truth. I told her everything she needed to hear—and I was telling the truth—that she deserved better, that he was a fool, that there were plenty more guys out there and that she didn’t have to turn herself over to a life of misery and loneliness if it wasn’t making her happy.

  When she had finished venting, the conversation turned to practicalities. Her eyes at last began to properly take in our surroundings; we had made the apartment as cute and cozy as we could, with limited time and resources, but there was no getting around the fact that it was a shoebox. I tried to shake off a feeling of inadequacy—that this humble home was all Rob and I could afford in this city.

  “So, well, I was wondering whether you might have a little corner of a sofa that I could crash on, just for a few days, until I get my shit together and formulate a plan?” she asked.

  I didn’t need to think twice.

  “Of course. Honey, you’re my best friend, there’s no way I’ll let you sleep anywhere else.” We hugged again, and then I looked her in the eye and waggled my finger mischievously. “So you can dust yourself down—there’s no chance of you forgetting who you are around here, I promise you that. It’s not like we have servants to sprinkle chia seeds on your almond-milk bircher muesli every morning, or a gardener to prune your roses. LA is a long way away now, girlfriend. This is more like your old Kensal Rise life, just in Brooklyn, in a much smaller flat. Welcome back!”

  She launched at me for the umpteenth bear hug that morning.

  * * *

  At some point in the late afternoon, I realized I’d better run the “Vicky crashing over” situation past Rob. I had left her in a changing room, racking up a shopping bill on Trey’s credit card—turns out he does have some uses—while I called him.

  “But, baby, what about Dan?” he asked. “I told you he wanted to come over for a bit to get his head together over Florence fuck-for-brains.”

  “Oh, damn, I totally forgot—you hadn’t mentioned it again. When’s Dan meant to be coming?”

  “I’m just waiting for him to let me know his flight details, but he could be arriving as soon as tomorrow. There’s no space for the two of them in our sardine tin. And Dan is my brother at the end of the day—plus, he staked his claim first.”

  “But what am I going to tell—” I faked a smile and nodded approvingly as Vicky came to the shop door and gave me a twirl in a gorgeous little red Prada number. A dress I could only dream of being able to afford brand new.

  “Tell her you made a mistake. Surely her rich Hollywood-director boyfriend can afford to sub her a hotel for a few nights, can’t he?”

  “I suppose. But not tonight, she’s shattered. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” I sighed, looking at Vicky through the shop window, as she gleefully pulled more clothes off the rails in Williamsburg’s most upmarket boutique and threw them over her arm. She is currently displaying the kind of boundless energy I know her for. She’ll be fine.

  * * *

  Late afternoon, back on the sofa in the apartment, bottle of white wine and bowl of crisps in front of us, Vicky was showing me her iPhone snaps. There was Trey’s house—make that mansion—with its electric gates and palatial exterior; the sumptuous living room, all white sofas, modern light installations and contemporary art; a close-up of just one vase, holding more roses than I had probably ever been given in my entire life; a view of the tropical garden taken from their bedroom; a hot guy cleaning the pool; Trey’s bulldog; Vicky’s pedicured feet on a lounger; her bikini briefs showing a bit of tan line; her tits. Her tits?

  “Wait a minute, what was that?” I asked, as the photo was quickly swiped off the screen and replaced by an image of an orchid.

  “Oh, the orchid? The gardener put a new rare breed in the beds a couple of weeks ago,” she muttered quickly.

  “No, the one before it.”

  “My new bikini, I wanted to see how it looked.”

  “No, the one after that—it looked like some tits.”

  She paused.

  “Vicky?”

  I grabbed her phone and swiped to find the image again.

  “These tits—see,” I said, smiling.

  She took a large glug of wine.

  “They’re tits, okay? My tits, as you probably guessed.”

  “Why did you take a photo of your tits? I mean, I know they’re great tits, but do you need to refer to them that often on your phone? Don’t tell me you had a boob job?”

  “No! No boob job, I swear it. Listen, I meant to delete it.” She sat back in the sofa, acting all coy.

  I waited for her to carry on.

  “Okay, so I took a photo of them to send to someone,” she said, after a beat.

  “And why do I get the impression that the lucky someone isn’t Trey?” I asked

  She hung her head.

  “I’m not proud of it, okay.”

  I flung my hand over my mouth, aghast. “I knew it!”

  “You’re so prudish sometimes, Am. Lighten up, you’ve got a pair, too, you know.”

  Yes, I am generally more prudish than Vicky. And, yes, she does have an exceptionally good rack. But, text them to someone—really?

  “So, if not Trey, who did you send them to?”

  She unfurled her legs from underneath herself. “I’m not sure I can tell you.”

  “Sending pics of your tits to someone other than your boyfriend—isn’t that what glamour models do to footballers?” She looked away. “Oh God, don’t tell me you sent them to a footballer . . .”

  “It’s called soccer in America.”

  “Touché. Anyway, don’t change the subject.”

  I could tell by her face that she was now starting to enjoy watching me squirm. In fact, if I wasn’t mistaken, she was trying not to laugh.

  “What, you sent them to a random person then?” I asked, not letting it lie. “Or did you put them on the internet? That’s porn. That’s disgusting.”

  She started openly laughing now. “Oh, Amber. It’s not porn and it’s not disgusting. You sound like a bloody matron. It was an old flame, okay.”

  “Sunday Simon? I thought you hated his guts.”

  “No, someone else.”

  “Are you having an affair, Vicky? I’m not sure if I can condone—”

  She held up her hand before letting out a sigh and looking away, across the kitchenette toward the window.

  “So that’s what all this is about is it?” I was feeling a bit annoyed.

  She turns up here, in tears at the door of my new home, all devastated over Trey, then ridicules me for being prudish and thinks it’s a huge joke that she’s got some other guy on the go. “You’ve met someone else and that’s why you’ve uncoupled, or whatever you’re calling it, with Trey?”

  Finally, she looked me in the eye.

  “No, I’m not having any affair, Amber, I swear it. Okay, so I sent my tits to Jim from the art desk at my old job in London. I was feeling shit about Trey and I was bored. We had been texting that week and it was a spur of the moment thing. It was nothing. And I’m really, really sorry you had to see them, too. So that’s it.”

  We both slouched back into our seats, unsure what to say next. The silence was awkward. Vicky had been here for less than twenty-four hours and now we’d had a kind of argument.

  “I’ll get some bedding ready,” I said finally, standing up and making my way to the bedroom. “Rob will be back soon.” Vicky followed me.

  “Look, I hate arguing with you, Amber, let’s start again. Can we? I’m sorry if you think I’m being a dick. I’ll sort myself out, okay. Now how about we pop out for a proper drink? We haven’t properly toasted being back together yet and you must have some great neighborhood bars around here. Come on, I’m dying to explore some more. I�
��ve only been to New York once and never to Williamsburg.”

  I smiled at my friend. “As long as you don’t get your tits out.”

  “Promise,” she said, giggling.

  No matter how contrary or infuriating Vicky could be, she was still my best friend. I knew every freckle on that face, every crease when she laughed, and she was a comforting sight to see out here.

  “There is a particularly good dive just around the corner, as it happens,” I said. “Let’s do it, before Rob gets back.”

  She was already putting on her new Marc by Marc Jacobs coat, also bought on Trey’s card this afternoon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a few drinks in Williamsburg, we decided to get a cab and hit Manhattan proper. Being a New York nightlife novice, I decided to call Amy for advice on where we should go.

  “No way! Kate and I are in the Meatpacking District right now. Come join us—let’s have an impromptu girls’ night out!”

  I looked toward Vicky and shrugged. “Impromptu girls’ night out in the Meatpacking?”

  “As long as we’re not going to be actually butchering anything, sounds good to me,” she said.

  Amy, of course, picked one of the coolest nightclubs in Manhattan, for the time being at least. It was Le Bain, a rooftop club affiliated to the achingly hip Standard High Line hotel, and for which you had to be on a guest list—or look like Rosie Huntington-Whiteley—to gain entry, where you then mingled with other beautiful people and paid an extortionate amount for cocktails while taking in incredible views. The other thing was that we couldn’t actually go in until past eleven o’clock, which meant I was feeling the effects of I forget how many vodka and tonics in a nearby bar before we even got to the main part of the evening. The door was manned by a bald-headed, deeply tanned, barrel-chested man dressed in a black overcoat and trousers and wearing an earpiece. He looked more like a celebrity bodyguard than a bouncer.

  He beckoned her over with the bearing of a good-natured bruiser as we approached the queue. “Kate, baby—looking hot tonight.” Our party of three fell into line behind her as Kate batted her thickly made-up eyelashes and turned to check we had noted the bouncer speaking to her with such familiarity. A vein bulged on his neck suggesting a seriously muscular physique beneath his coat. Within seconds we were being swept through a heavy curtain and into a lift up to the penthouse level of the hotel. Inside, the club was heaving with bodies, the music was loud, the baseline thudding. I felt a rush of excitement. We headed toward the crowded bar area. On our way we were intercepted by three extraordinarily tall women wearing skintight dresses with plunging necklines leaving little to the imagination. I recognized one of them instantly as an Angel Wear Icon, and the other two had to be models.

  “Hey, Amy!” one of them called. It was Astrid; I’d recognize that perfectly tousled long platinum-blond hair, washboard stomach and legs up to her armpits anywhere. She really was incredible to look at—almost otherworldly, her limbs so slim and skin so golden and flawless, it was as if she had been airbrushed all over. I tried hard to find just one flaw on her perfectly made-up face, but it was impossible. I glanced at Vicky, who was staring fixedly at her, too, her eyes slowly wandering up and down that heavenly body. As I looked around me I noticed most of the club patrons were doing the same. I wonder how much she has her assets insured for.

  Amy was thrilled to have been singled out by the resident celebrity and was chatting animatedly to Astrid and her friends, who turned out to be secondary Angel Wear Icons, sitting on a kind of subs bench, ready to step in if an actual Icon was taken ill or had to pull out of an Angel Wear engagement at short notice. I could only think they didn’t quite make the grade because, if you really scrutinized them for imperfections, one was at least an inch smaller than Astrid, with lips on the thin side, and the other had a marginally wonky nose. In the great scheme of Angel Wear models, they were the misshapen biscuits that didn’t make the deluxe variety pack.

  Amy gestured toward me. “Have you met Amber yet?” she asked.

  Astrid’s vivid-green catlike eyes took in my outfit (a not particularly sexy pair of gray jeggings and black batwing top combo, as I hadn’t realized at the start of the evening—as with so many evenings out with Vicky—that things would take an unexpected turn. Thank God, I thought to fling on some heels). “Amber is Rob’s girlfriend,” Amy continued.

  Astrid looked puzzled. “As in Rob, the director?”

  Finally, a flash of recognition on Astrid’s stunning face. She’s dim! I knew there’d be something—she’s got cotton wool for brains! Hooray!

  “Of course, how cute,” she purred, showing me as much warmth as a person with very little body fat is able to emanate. She held out a dainty hand and I shook it. Her handshake was flimsy and, despite the searing heat in this club, her skin felt cool. However, the fact that Astrid didn’t instantly know who Rob was actually offered me some comfort. I’d been desperately trying to block out feelings of jealousy around the glamazons my boyfriend was spending time with every day, and she had pretty much proven in a few seconds that the only people the models were really interested in were themselves.

  “Have you checked out the pool yet?” Astrid asked.

  “Pool?” I shrugged.

  “Over there, it’s fun—let’s go,” she pointed toward a dimly lit area in one corner of the club, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed an incredible view of Manhattan twinkling beneath us. A huge glitter ball twirled above a plunge pool where the party was just getting started. Four bikini-clad babes sat on one side, their legs dangling into the water. And a group of bare-chested guys sat ogling them from a seating area in front of the windows. As Astrid led the way, her two friends fell into line behind her and as they wound their way through the crowds to the pool area, heads turned and voyeurs whispered behind hands that we were in the presence of an actual Angel Wear Icon. As the evening went on, I soon realized that being one degree of separation from a real-life Icon was a passport into another world. Groups of men found her magnetic and, by association, neither Vicky nor I had to dip into our own purses for drinks for most of the evening.

  We based ourselves in a little cordoned-off area by the side of the pool—presumably prearranged for Astrid so that she didn’t have to constantly pose with the “normal” people asking for selfies. I entertained myself by imagining what would happen if she were to “accidentally” trip on her heels and belly flop into the water. At one point she kicked off a heel and trailed her toes in the pool, teasing the assembled male admirers with the thought that they might be treated to seeing her strip off and actually get in.

  “It’s toasty . . .” She smiled as all the men in the room willed her to slowly peel off her skintight silver dress and dive in. “Dare you, Amy!” she goaded.

  “Are you joking? Babe, it took me a whole hour to get my bangs this straight this evening. No way am I fucking that up for a quick dip. I double dare you.”

  Astrid knocked back a shot of tequila, one of which had somehow found its way into each of our hands from another random admirer of hers.

  “Only if you’ll do it, too,” she cajoled her friends, Brandy and Sophia, who looked as though they probably wouldn’t need much goading.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, a guy jumped up high and hurled himself into the pool with such vigor we all got splashed.

  “It’s hot in here—come and join me!” he shouted at the models as he resurfaced.

  “Fuck it!” Astrid screamed, kicking off her heels and jumping in after him.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” yelled Brandy with the wonky nose and joined her, causing a cheer to go up from the assembled clubbers as more people shed items of clothing, gripped their knees, and bombed into the pool sending waves over the edge.

  “Triple dare you, Amber!” Vicky squealed, giving me a nudge. I recoiled, moving to a safe position further away from the water’s edge.

  “Over my dead body—don’t you—”

  “Amber!” a shrill Ameri
can voice called out. I looked over my shoulder, at first assuming someone else by my name must be drinking nearby. But then a small, soft hand reached for mine, saving me from a near-certain soaking.

  It was Poppy, looking red-hot in a white broderie minidress and next season’s Most Swooned Over shoes—the new studded Chloé black ankle boot. I’d been trying to work out how I could afford them ever since they appeared on Net-a-Porter. She held her arms open to hug me.

  “Wow, you look sensational!” she stole the words right out of my mouth, except I didn’t look half as sensational as she did and she had to know it. The girl-next-door actress with a penchant for micro-pigs who was sitting on my sofa in London just a few weeks ago was gone, and in her place was a fashionista movie star no doubt racking up another appearance on a “Get the Look” page of a fashion magazine with her outfit this evening. But, most importantly—why was she in New York and not at home looking after Pinky?

  The guy minding the entrance to our roped-off pen evidently recognized her, too, and she was ushered through to join us, no questions asked.

  “How come you’re here?” I shouted above the music, which had suddenly got very loud and very Kanye.

  She pulled me close and whispered in my ear. “I’m here for the bag drop. Same as you, I guess?”

  “The what?” I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly above the booming music. What the hell is a “bag drop?” Something to do with lost luggage? But Poppy just touched her nose and winked knowingly. Not wanting to look clueless, I smiled and winked back.

  “How are you getting on with Astrid?” she bellowed. We both turned to look at her in the water. By now there were at least ten practically naked guys buzzing around her like she was their queen bee. How her makeup stays put and her hair still looks glamorous despite being dripping wet, I don’t know.

  “Rob’s getting on okay with them during filming,” I told her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Spending every day with those girls? Tough job, poor lamb. Is Rob here?”