The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  I smiled. “Yes, great, just Rob.”

  “C’est de l’amour.” He shrugged.

  I looked over to the mannequin again. Maurice and Bella had worked so hard to create a truly original costume, stitched to Liv’s exact dimensions, that would be bound to attract attention at the Met, even without the leopard. If Mickey and Liv were too stupid to see it, then it was their loss. Armed with this news about my job, I found my confidence and an idea began to develop in my mind.

  “So, I guess we’re done here,” Mickey said after a few more awkward seconds of nobody saying anything. He had put the G-string back into his pocket and was zipping up his leather jacket, evidently keen to get out of the apartment in case the actual leopard has been summoned to turn up.

  “I guess we are,” I said, brightly. “Never mind. Besides, I know Dana mentioned this to you, but she’s not representing me anymore—I’m branching out on my own. And as for the Met, Liv should wear what she feels comfortable in.” I grinned a big fake, cheesy grin. Maurice shot me a puzzled look; even Mickey looked a little miffed that I had taken their snub so well.

  “But—” Maurice began.

  “But-ter wouldn’t melt!” I interjected. “I mean, Liv will look so pure on the red carpet when she becomes Eve. I, for one, can’t wait to see it.” And I began walking toward the doorway, ready to usher them out.

  “We’ll show ourselves,” Mickey said, as keen to leave as I was to see the back of them.

  “I guess I’ll see you around then?” Liv offered me a faint smile.

  “Yep, probably,” I replied, the door half closed. “Good luck. Au revoir for now!”

  When their footsteps had disappeared down the hallway and the main front door had banged shut behind them, I collected myself, ready to begin my next big pitch to Maurice.

  * * *

  “Well, you are a woman full of surprises,” Maurice said when I told him about my new job and the Dana situation. “Seriously, congratulations, chérie Amber, that has to be the most prestigious styling job in Manhattan.”

  “I can’t quite believe it myself.” I blushed. “I’m sure it’s got something to do with the fact my boyfriend is directing the documentary about the show, but I’ll happily take your congratulations. And I’ve had an idea. I’m going in for my first meeting tomorrow and, Maurice, I would love to suggest that you work with me on some show-stoppers for the finale of the Angel Wear catwalk event. The ruby bra—it couldn’t be a more perfect addition to a lingerie show. Thinking about it, it’s far more suitable for this kind of project than the Met Gala—it was clearly wasted on Liv. It’s right up Ron Angel’s street though—it will blow his mind! What do you say? Are you up for it?”

  Maurice thought for a moment.

  “Well, Amber, of course I’m flattered that you would think of me in this way, but surely they already have an in-house design team at Angel Wear?”

  “The lead designer didn’t seem to take much of a shine to me at my interview,” I replied, thinking of Dimitri, and how unfriendly he was when we met. “Anyway, hold the thought, I’ll let you know after my meeting tomorrow. But just don’t pack up the rubies yet.”

  * * *

  When I arrived back at our apartment, Rob was already home. I could smell cooking from the hallway and almost as soon as I entered, I noticed a new addition to the kitchen area—a champagne bucket with a bottle poking out of it.

  “Come here, you,” he said, walking toward me with his arms open. When he reached me, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lowered his head so his lips were hovering just above mine. “I’m so proud of you, you’re going to be amazing,” he said.

  Instead of replying, I lifted my lips to meet his and we kissed. It felt like the first kiss we had shared, on the pavement in London. Although under a year ago, that moment had felt so distant recently, but now the feelings were back with a vengeance, rushing over me, warming me up—like slipping on an old, well-loved winter coat for the first time after the summer.

  “So this is how it feels to be in love,” I whispered as we eventually pulled apart. I hadn’t meant to actually say the words aloud.

  “You what?” he said, as lost in that kiss as me.

  “I love you,” I replied.

  “I love you more, Amber Green,” he said. And although he couldn’t possibly have been right, my heart was filled to the brim.

  * * *

  Dinner was cold when we eventually ate it, on our laps, covered in blankets on the sofa. We hadn’t even made it to the bedroom before our limbs were entwined and we were lost in sex as good and lusty as the early days. Soon afterward I spotted something on my lower neck in the bathroom.

  “You’ve given me a love bite!” I exclaimed, charging back into the living room. “I’ve got my first love bite, on the evening before I start the most important new job I’ve ever had.” I shook my head, slightly disgusted with myself.

  “Polo necks are very this season, aren’t they?” he grinned.

  I frowned.

  “Think of it as a good luck talisman,” he said, winking.

  It was late in the evening and I was in bed when I checked my phone and noticed a text from Vicky:

  Found my stuff. Are you seriously cutting me off? Vx

  I sighed and read it to Rob. We had decided that if things were going to work between us, we needed to share everything.

  “She’s been my closest friend for ten years,” I said, feeling slightly sick about the fallout.

  “She needs to start treating you better then,” he muttered sleepily, before rolling over, suggesting the conversation was closed. He was soon snoring loudly next to me; champagne had never agreed with his sinuses. Even a sharp dig in the ribs wasn’t enough to stop him.

  It was two in the morning the next time I looked at my phone. I’d been lying awake for ages, replaying our sex, thinking about Vicky, and fretting about my new job—there was so much on my mind, it wasn’t surprising I couldn’t sleep. I’d been staring for ages at the shaft of light on the ceiling from the streetlamp outside. After replacing my phone on the bedside table, I noticed the shadow from my hand move across the ceiling and into the light. I spread out my fingers, watching the shadow fan out, creating a gigantic version of my hand. Then I squeezed my forefinger and thumb together in a pincer movement and held up my next two fingers. The shadow now resembled a rabbit. For a second, I was transported back to my bedroom at home and making shadow puppets on the wall with my sister when we shared a room. We couldn’t have been older than twelve and eight. I could almost smell my childhood bed sheets and hear the sound of the ancient bedside lamp wobbling on the little table between us. A pang of homesickness shot through me. It would be coming up to eight in the morning in London now. Little Nora would probably be sitting in her high chair at Lucy’s house throwing blueberries at whoever was nearby; and Mum and Dad would be eating toast with marmalade and sharing a pot of tea in their kitchen. Everything so comfortingly normal.

  I reached for my phone again and scrolled back through my photos to the ones I had taken at Christmastime, when we were all at my parents’ house. I felt embarrassed for my moody behavior, how I hadn’t really wanted to be there because I was thinking about Rob every thirty seconds, texting him instead of engaging with my parents—wishing away the time because I couldn’t wait for it to be Boxing Day when he and I would be reunited. I didn’t know why but I was driven to zoom in on a photo of my mum at the Christmas table. I’d primarily taken the photo to show Rob the size of the turkey, but there was Mum, looking at the lens with such warmth in her eyes: a mother’s love. I could suddenly see myself in her face, especially the shape of her hazel eyes, and, when I stared into them, through the screen I could almost feel our connectedness. Our DNA, the distillation of who we are as humans, linking both of us to our family—it was so reassuring to see. Perhaps I could only see it because I was so far away. I made a silent promise to call Mum for a long chat in the morning. I’d been terrible about replying to h
er messages recently. What a selfish, thoughtless daughter.

  While I stared at the ceiling unable to sleep, my thoughts then turned to Vicky, and how pleased I was to see her familiar face when she first arrived on our doorstep. We had been best friends for so long. I knew her face as well as I knew my mother’s; her brown eyes, my blue eyes. She was like family to me. I can’t let all of that go. I’ll call her tomorrow and sort things out between us. If she has somewhere else to stay, what can possibly go wrong?

  * * *

  I could only have had about five hours of sleep by the time the room was full of daylight and I was woken by Rob singing in the shower.

  “Why are you in such a jovial mood?” I asked, when he had got out and finished singing “Man in the Mirror” at the top of his voice.

  “Eh?” he said, through a mouth full of whirring electric toothbrush, bare chested, bath towel tied around his waist.

  “What’s going on?” I asked suspiciously.

  “It’s your first day in your new job, in case you’d forgotten,” he said, holding the brush down, his mouth still full of toothpaste.

  “Yes, I am aware. It’s probably the reason why I only had a few hours’ sleep last night.” I yawned for added effect.

  “I thought I’d make you breakfast, to set you up.” He looked his sexiest when he’d just got out of the shower.

  “Or we could . . .” I smiled, attempting the best “come-hither” expression I could muster.

  “Yes, we could,” he returned, coming over to sit on the end of the bed. “But then I’d be having filthy thoughts about you all day, and it would be impossible to get any work done.”

  “Won’t you be having those anyway, after last night?” I teased.

  “I’ve just about got those under control,” he retorted, “I’m trying to be professional.”

  “Yes, and so was I, before I had a giant hickey on my neck!”

  “Sorry about that.” He pretended to look sorry for himself. “Tea or coffee?”

  “You know I—”

  “Tea it is then! Jeez, we’ve not set foot in the same office yet and you’re already acting the diva. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you . . .”

  When I had discovered that the one polo-neck jumper I had brought to New York was in the wash, and tried on all other vaguely high-necked tops in my wardrobe, I finally settled on a sheer black blouse from Whistles with a ruffled collar that almost entirely covered the love bite if I remembered not to crane my neck. Not easy when I was going to be spending the next few weeks working with a herd of giraffes. Note to self: stop calling my new aesthetically blessed colleagues giraffes.

  * * *

  Ron Angel smiled generously as I entered his room for the second time in a week—this time as a bona fide employee. There was a whole crowd of people waiting to greet me. Caroline came over straightaway and gave me a hug—a very media one that didn’t involve much skin contact, but nonetheless was warmer than the reception I received from Dimitri who sort of flinched in the corner of the room as Caroline gushed: “I’m sooo happy we’re working together again!”

  “I’d like you to meet my Icons.” Ron smiled, placing a large hand on my back and leading me toward the lineup of extraordinarily tall and beautiful women. There were all five Icons in the flesh, and they were all looking at me, smiling with their perfect, wide mouths.

  Astrid gave me a wink.

  “You know each other?” Ron asked. I got the impression very little escaped his attention when it came to his models.

  “We’ve met once before,” I admitted.

  “If you know Astrid, let me introduce Krystal, Jessica, Roxy and Leonie,” he said, moving down the row and touching each around the waist as he passed. Though I might have objected to my boss touching me in that way, the Icons didn’t seem to mind. I suppose when you’re a professional clotheshorse, you get used to your body becoming public property to an extent. Each one greeted me with a dewy, rosy-lipped peck on the cheek.

  “Hey, let’s do a selfie!” Jessica exclaimed, one of two brunettes; she had an exotic look with enviable olive skin. Before I could protest that I needed to apply more makeup, she was pulling me by the arm into the bosom of their ridiculously good-looking gang.

  And there it was, my return to Instagram for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. I looked like a prissy librarian in my high-necked blouse, next to the tanned skin and glossy faced Icons. Rise filter, caption: “The sixth Angel Wear Icon? #firstday #newjob #AngelWear #stylist”

  After I had spent a couple of minutes exchanging pleasantries with the models and listening to their excited gushing about how we were going to have “so much fun” creating the show—the show that I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to do with. Crap!—at the end of the line was head designer Dimitri.

  He was dressed head to toe in black, save for a small polka-dotted handkerchief poking out from the top pocket of his long trench coat, which ended just above his black boots. His clothes were almost certainly all designer—McQueen, probably. He had heavy dark eyebrows, crease-free tanned skin, black hair in a crew cut and, like Maurice, he was slightly elevated from his natural five foot six-ish height by a Cuban heel. Perhaps he, too, was feeling a little insecure, hanging around statuesque models every day. If there is a day to start wearing heels to work, it’s today. His face showed an expression of faint disappointment as he shook my hand, like a child being forced to make friends at school.

  “I hope you like working hard,” he said. He had a slight Italian accent.

  “Show the girl a little warmth, Dimitri,” Ron chastised, vocalizing what we were all thinking.

  “He can’t, it’s not in his blood. Don’t take it personally, he’s like this with everyone,” Caroline quipped.

  Ron shook his head with an air of amused frustration, and swiftly moved past Dimitri to introduce me to a tall man who had entered the room late. He had ginger hair in a gelled quiff and his arms were covered in tattoos.

  “Sorry, Ron, I was held up stocktaking—we’ve got some rad new spray—even Krystal’s hair won’t move a millimeter in gale force winds.”

  “This is Sonny, our hair maestro,” Ron said. “He can turn a hay bale into a soft wave.”

  Krystal tutted and fluffed up her long, wavy, raven hair, pushing it over both shoulders. She sure has a lot of hair. “What are you trying to say, Ronnie?” she drawled.

  “Nothing, baby girl!” He winked. “Now, as you know, the show is in a week’s time. We’ve got the collection ready for you in the studio, but we still need to work on the finale. I’ll need you to present your vision to me and the board tomorrow at three o’clock. Dimitri and Caroline will show you the ropes. Let’s get to work.” He clapped his hands and everyone scurried out of the room—except Dimitri, who hung back.

  * * *

  “Let’s grab a coffee en route,” Caroline said, putting an arm around my shoulders. Thank God. I thought no one was ever going to mention caffeine. It was nice to have at least one ally in this strange environment, because I was feeling hopelessly out of my depth.

  A brief stop at the in-house canteen, which had miso soup, kale juice, and cucumber wraps on the specials menu—presumably the diet of the Icons—and we were heading to the tenth floor and the Angel Wear Studio, a level so exclusive it required its own entry pass to gain access. Caroline paused before we went through the glass doors.

  “A word of warning,” she whispered. “Watch Dimitri.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the friendliest,” I admitted.

  “For some reason, he didn’t want you to get this job—he was rooting for Lola Jones,” she said. “I thought you needed to know. Watch your back.”

  “Watch your backs, I’m coming through!” a voice behind us said. “Gossiping already, ladies—glad to see it!” Caroline and I both jumped and turned around immediately. Thankfully, it was just Sonny. “Amber, darling, I’m dying to discuss the hair with you. I’ve got some huge ideas.”

>   An image on his forearm caught my eye—a large pair of scissors with a caricature of a naked woman with an abundance of red curly hair lying provocatively between the blades. I was dying to have a guided tour of his artwork.

  “I’m just going to check out the collection and I’m all yours,” I said.

  The main studio was an expansive white space with a colorama roll at one end. Caroline led me over to a room off the main studio filled with rails of clothing—it was an Aladdin’s cave of lingerie.

  “Welcome to your new home!” she declared. “All the prototypes are on this side.” She indicated two rails heaving with all kinds of underwear from rhinestone-encrusted matching bra and knicker sets in a rainbow of colors, to delicate peach negligées and super-sexy black and red lacy items, some of which I couldn’t immediately tell how you might go about wearing.

  “And the entire back catalogue is over on this wall,” she explained, pointing to more rails of clothing reaching the entire length of the studio. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted. If you need me, I’ll be next door in the makeup area. Catch you later.”

  * * *

  I had just begun studying the mood boards on the walls when Rob appeared at the door. “Lunch?”

  “Is it that time already?” I pulled out my phone to check the time: 1.30. The day was flying. I tried not to seem distracted by the fact that my home screen was filled with Instagram notifications, plus four unread text messages.

  “I’ve got so much to do,” I mumbled.

  “Honey, you need to eat. Plus, I need to talk to you about something. It’s pretty urgent.”

  “Give me five minutes,” I said. “Shall I meet you in the canteen?”

  “See you there,” he replied, smiling widely. “Isn’t this cool? Lunch date on the job.”

  I flicked through the unread messages. It seemed news of my new job had traveled fast. My heart wrenched as I saw one from my mum. I hadn’t called her yesterday as I’d promised myself:

  Karen from next door’s daughter says you’ve got a big job. Love you darling. Call me. x

  There was also a message from Shauna at Selfridges: