The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  IN HOLLYWOOD ONLY ONE THING MATTERS … STYLE!

  When exclusive London boutique employee Amber Green is mistakenly offered a job as assistant to infamous ‘stylist to the stars’ Mona Armstrong, she hits the ground running, helping to dress some of Hollywood’s hottest (and craziest) starlets. Awards season turns Amber’s life upside down as dazzling designer gowns are paraded on red carpets in Los Angeles, London and back.

  Suddenly Amber’s catching the attention of two very different suitors, TV producer Rob and Hollywood bad boy rising star Liam.

  How will Amber keep her head? Which man will she chose? And what the hell will everyone wear?

  The Stylist is a fast-paced, fun-packed rummage through the ultimate dressing up box.

  ROSIE NIXON lives in London and is joint Editor of HELLO! magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines including Grazia, Glamour and Red. Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has undoubtedly enabled her to write her debut novel, The Stylist.

  THE STYLIST

  Rosie Nixon

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For Callum and Heath

  Acknowledgements

  I must thank a few people without whom Amber Green and Mona Armstrong would almost certainly not have been brought to life.

  My brilliant sister in law and agent, Jenny Savill, thank you for your ideas, encouragement and guidance, your faith in me made it possible and I admire you in so many indescribable ways; to Jill/Ruby Dawson for sharing your expertise – it was fate that we met in Marrakech, you are a true inspiration.

  Thunderous applause to the team at Mira, especially Anna Baggaley for believing in The Stylist from the beginning and Alison Lindsay and Sophie Ransom for your enthusiasm and marketing and PR wizardry. You have all been a dream to work with and I am so grateful.

  To my amazing husband Callum for not complaining when I spent hours at my screen during any free time and for appearing interested in red carpet fashion; to my incredible mum, for your endless support and holding the baby – literally – so I could get this book finished; to my wonderful friends for all the adventures we have shared which have without doubt inspired some of the situations in this novel. Especially to Chrissie, Mel and Michael, without whom I would have no understanding of what it is like to be monstrously hungover the day after The Oscars. And finally to my beautiful son, Heath, for arriving two weeks late so I could finish writing The Stylist and for being such a good boy as I tweaked it during your first year. There was nothing like the deadline of your arrival to get things done.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three: London, The BAFTAs

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Four: Los Angeles, The Oscars

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Five: Hawaii, The Wedding

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The car door swings open and bright white lights flash before my eyes, blinding me for a few long seconds. Flash! Flash! Flash! Like a firework has been let off at close range. I wait inside the car while she makes her big entrance. Getting out of a blacked-out limousine in an exquisite, glittering gown complete with vertiginous heels is no easy task, even for a seasoned pro. Knees together, swivel hips, feet on the ground, smoothly push up, rise gracefully, and straighten gown and SMILE! A thunderous cheer erupts around us as she emerges—Ta da!—a Hollywood goddess in the flesh. Then come the voices.

  ‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’

  She is under siege. Paparazzi shoot off hundreds of high-resolution frames, their faces hidden behind the long, prying lenses of their black state-of-the-art DSLR cameras. When they get too close to this tall, willowy, shimmering beauty, the minders rush in to hold them at bay.

  ‘Hey, Jennifer!’

  ‘This way!’

  ‘Give us a smile!’

  When the flashes subside, I tumble out of the car, dart hastily round it and slip through the entrance, flashing my invitation pass. I crouch down at the side of the red carpet, beside the cold metal crowd-control railings, and sink into the shadows, desperate to keep out of sight. But I’ve been rumbled. An autograph hunter taps me on the head and shoves a glossy photo in my face.

  ‘Hey! Can you get this signed by Jennifer?’

  Another pleads in my ear: ‘Ma’am, ma’am, do you know her? Can you get her to come over?’

  ‘Yeah, you got out of her car, get her to come here! ‘Others join in, like a chorus of extras in a low-budget film. I pretend not to hear, taking my eyes off her for only a few seconds; time enough to readjust the zip and pull down the hood of my grey towelling sleep suit. I’m breaking into a sweat. I look down at myself, in my deeply inappropriate, stale outfit, and then back at Jennifer in her stunning gown, all clean and super gorgeous. I’m so tired and embarrassed I almost want to laugh. It’s rarely cold in Los Angeles, even on a February evening, and the Oscars—the biggest night in the entertainment calendar—is no place for a pasty British girl in a baggy onesie, flashing her saggy bottom at unsuspecting fans, never mind the world’s paparazzi, who might snap an unexpected exclusive. Inside, I’m seething. Bloody Mona!

  Jennifer makes her way along the carpet, spreading pneumatic glamour wherever she goes, thrilling the crowds of fans with high fives and making a point of waving to those at the back standing on their tiptoes, camera phones lifted skywards, straining to catch a glimpse of their idol. She stops to pose for a few photos with admirers, all of them less aesthetically blessed than she is, and an explosion of air kisses ensues. They have to be air kisses, they can’t make actual contact with her skin—she can’t risk a germ and she certainly can’t mess up the immaculate, dewy make-up that took two hours for the steady hand of a leading make-up artist to apply. She signs a handful of autographs, using the black permanent marker pen I have learned to keep in my kit for such occasions.

  Soon we are being ushered along the red gauntlet by her bossy publicist, brandishing a clipboard and a firm perma-smile, to reach the main bank of paparazzi. Time to make my move. Pouncing out of the shadows like a leopard stalking its prey, I’m suddenly visible under the bright lights. I dash to the corners of her skirt, pulling down layer upon delicate layer of pure silk scarlet organza, embellished with shimmering beads and tiny sequins that catch the lights, sending sparkles in every direction. It is breathtakingly elegant.

  ‘Jennifer! This way!’

  ‘Over here, Jennifer!’

  The cries are more urgent now. This is the main photo opportunity.

  The paps are penned at least five deep, some standing on stepladders to get the view from above. She takes her time, moving elegantly this way and that,
adjusting and tweaking her pose ever so slightly with almost every click. It’s second nature now: right hip lifted, left foot crossed over right, enhancing the natural curve of her body; right shoulder pushed back, chest out, but not too far; left arm on her left hip bone, right arm hanging behind to create a slender profile. Head held high to elongate the neck, face turned slightly to the right to present her best side, chin raised just so for a youthful jawline, belying her forty-something years (she stopped counting at thirty-nine). She is textbook perfect.

  ‘That’s it, love, nice big smile for the camera!’

  ‘This way, once more!’

  ‘Beautiful!’

  I look up. Both hands are on her hips now, slender silhouette perfectly shaped by the structured internal corset. Not so tight that she can’t breathe properly, but plenty tight enough. A hint of crystal embellishment on satin sandals peeping out from beneath the gown at the front. Elaborate diamond-drop earrings, worth ten times the gown itself. It’s such a timeless, romantic, pure Hollywood look. Just perfect. I glance back to check the security guard is still with us. He winks back in acknowledgement, earpiece and discreet microphone on the lapel of his slick black suit, ready for action should we run into any trouble. The fine jewellery houses don’t take any risks with a loan this expensive. She moves on, floating down the carpet now, enjoying the attention, gliding gracefully, a beautiful swan. With her honey skin, wide smile and dewy eyes, she bewitches everyone in her path. She’s so mesmerising, it’s actually a little overpowering. How incredible to put a spell on so many people, purely by turning up. On to the bank of waiting press and TV crews. I shuffle back against the railings into the shadows cast by the hazy early-evening sun.

  ‘Mind out, you’re standing on my cables!’ a small angry American man shouts to my right.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ I inch out of the way. Then I lose my footing, stumbling backwards, and a Japanese woman elbows me in the ribs.

  ‘Hey! Watch it, miss. You almost lost my sound!’

  Aargh, jet lag. I should be asleep by now. More bright lights. This time microphones are being thrust in her face, a barrage of questions thrown from all sides. The faces of the entertainment reporters are so familiar to me now.

  ‘Jennifer, you look stunning tonight! Who are you wearing?’

  ‘Is it couture?’

  ‘Did Mona Armstrong style you?’

  ‘Can you twirl so we can see the back?’

  ‘How much are the earrings worth?’

  ‘Can we get a close-up of your shoes?’

  ‘Were you influenced by the style of your character in the film?’

  ‘Do you feel confident about tonight?’

  And repeat. Over and over again, for entertainment shows from Boston to Beijing and everywhere in between. Finally we reach the entrance to the Dolby Theatre—and my phone vibrates in my pocket. But it’s not the person I’m aching for it to be, and I’m disappointed. One text from him and this would all be exciting again—another crazy night in la-la land to chew over and laugh about later on. The onesie would give him plenty of ammunition. And though I’d protest, really, I’d love every minute. Instead, it’s from Mona: Are you with Jennifer? Seriously? Bit late now. But I’ve learned it’s best not to reply when I feel like I do right now.

  As Jennifer is swept into the auditorium to deafening applause, thousands more flashbulbs and some ear-splitting whoops, I discreetly make my exit wondering how I ended up in this circus, in a slightly smelly onesie. Oh, if only this was just a bad dream …

  Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season

  Chapter One

  We gathered on white stools around the cash desk as Jas, our boss, delivered the news.

  ‘It’s about Mona Armstrong.’

  Kiki’s eyes lit up. This sounded infinitely more interesting than a discussion about who was responsible for the smelly lettuce in the fridge. And her short attention span, after years of social media abuse, meant she really needed to concentrate.

  ‘I’ve had a call from an assistant director at 20Twenty, the production company,’ Jas explained.

  Her motley crew—the staff of Smith’s boutique, consisting of Alan the security guard and the store assistants, Kiki and I—listened intently.

  ‘They’re making a pilot episode for a reality show about Mona,’ she continued. Kiki flashed me a told-you-so look, but I pretended not to notice, willing her to topple off the stool.

  ‘The working title is Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Stars, but for now they’re calling it The Stylist.’

  Big Alan was the only one of us who blatantly wasn’t bothered about this news. But it didn’t come as a complete surprise to Kiki or me—style bloggers had been buzzing about the pilot for several weeks, and Kiki had been monitoring the situation closely. Her latest bulletin, gleaned from various fashion blogs and breathlessly delivered over her daily litre of Super Greens, had informed me the show was ‘rumoured to be airing on an American network in the coming months’.

  Mona was one of the few things Kiki and I bonded over. You see, Mona Armstrong was not just any old stylist, like the ones you saw on daytime TV turning Sharon from Wolverhampton into a sort of Sharon Stone. She was Britain’s most famous—make that infamous—celebrity stylist; a personality in her own right, thanks to her minuscule frame, achingly hip, self-coined ‘boho riche’ dress sense, and close friendships with most of the names in Tatler’s Little Black Book.

  Now, just a few hours later, it had suddenly become a reality. My reality. Little did I know today’s news was about to change my life, forever.

  ‘The TV guy—Rob, I think—asked if we can keep it to ourselves for now,’ Jas went on, the American twang to her English accent a reminder of her two decades working as a top New York model. ‘That means no Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, nothing—they need to keep it under wraps until the network has confirmed.’

  But that wasn’t the half of it. ‘Oh, and the 20Twenty crew want to come to the store tomorrow to do some filming, with Mona, as she prepares for awards season,’ Jas said, ‘so it’s highly likely we’ll appear in the pilot, too.’

  Kiki and I looked at each other. I stifled a giggle—laughing was my default when I didn’t know how to react. Kiki’s jaw had dropped so low it looked like it needed a stool of its own. Jas carried on, ignoring the mounting hysteria emanating from her staff.

  ‘We’ll each have to sign a release form, in case we’re in a shot the TV people want to use, and a non-disclosure agreement—an NDA.’

  Kiki surreptitiously pulled her iPhone from the back pocket of her tight grey Acne jeans and held it in her lap, her finger hovering over the blue bird icon.

  ‘Release forms and NDAs are legally binding,’ Jas added, pointedly.

  Sucking in her cheeks, Kiki turned the iPhone over. Updating her followers would just have to wait. But this was big news for both of us. In fashion circles, Mona Armstrong was a legend. AKA a #Ledge.

  ‘The Stylist crew will be here to set up at eleven tomorrow, and Mona will arrive soon after,’ Jas continued, already off her stool and itching to get to work. ‘So we need to get this place looking camera-ready. Amber, can you refresh the windows—let’s go monochrome. And Kiki, work with me in store.’

  We nodded as the enormity of the situation began to sink in. This visit to the boutique, on a Tuesday morning in late January, was to be Mona’s first this season, just before awards season kicked off in Los Angeles with the Golden Globes. Mona’s visits were always an ‘event’, even without TV cameras rolling, so this was set to be off the scale. Kiki, visibly about to burst at the seams of her skinny jeans, couldn’t hold it together any longer.

  ‘Oh. My. God. A camera crew! What the hell are we going to wear?’

  We both cracked up. Kiki and I were both obsessed with Mona, though for different reasons—Kiki from a bona fide fashion perspective (she would regularly study the minutiae of Mona’s outfits, to an extent bordering on OCD). For me, it was more of a morbid fascination. I
wondered how she could function on a seemingly liquid diet of Starbucks, water and champagne. (There were no paparazzi photos in existence that showed her eating. Fact.) But what could not be denied was that Mona’s celebrity power was off the scale. Practically a celeb in her own right, the careers of the stars she counted as friends were built on column inches secured through the clothes she’d put on their skinny backs. For up-and-coming fashion designers, she was a ‘dress trafficker’, able to kick-start a label simply by placing their creations on the model of the moment. Yes, in our world, Mona was massive news, so it wasn’t surprising that today we were bordering on hysterical. What will we be like tomorrow?

  On the morning of Mona’s visit, Smith’s was a flurry of activity as we vacuumed, steamed, straightened, dusted and generally tarted the place up. In the centre of the shop was a loosely set noughts-and-crosses board of square leather pouffes and two small glass-topped tables holding Diptyque candles and mineral water—though a glass of champagne was offered to those who looked like they had money to burn. This was one world where you mostly could judge a book by its cover. You could spot our customers a mile off: latest It bag hanging off her arm, rarely wearing a warm coat (who needed one when you cab-hopped around town?), sunglasses whatever the weather, breezing around in a delicious cloud of expensive perfume. Some of our best clients, many of whom were old friends of Jas’s from her catwalk days, frequently stayed in the shop for hours at a time, chatting, gossiping and, of course, buying clothes, especially once the champagne flowed. One regular recently bought the entire Chloé collection on a whim following four glasses of Perrier-Jouët rosé.

  ‘Her head will be aching tomorrow,’ Jas commented, as the woman left the store with eight immaculate shiny white Smith’s bags tied with bows. ‘But she won’t bring anything back. She’d rather die.’

  Smith’s did that to women who were usually highly self-controlled. The thought of spending nearly two thousand pounds on a few items of clothing, in one shopping trip? It made my eyes water. I still couldn’t comprehend what it must be like to inhabit a world where a cheap bag cost three hundred pounds. That was almost half my rent for a month! But working at Smith’s, it had begun to feel like we were ringing Monopoly money through the tills.