The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  Prada shades back on and a mirror check as she prepared to leave the store, Mona turned to me one last time: ‘Oh, and, Amber? Pack your coolest clothes. Blacks, whites, neutrals are best. I need you to blend into the background. Directional footwear optional.’ She smiled, sunglasses conveniently hiding her facial expression once more, though I would have put money on a wink. ‘Think Blake Lively over K. Middy. We’re talking Los Angeles, babe, it’s a whole different fashion landscape to London. And the weather rarely dips below twenty-five.’ The Stick grimaced.

  The idea of packing my ‘coolest clothes’ was already sending me into a panic, as was the weather. Just what my pasty half-Scottish skin needs. I doubted I had time to fit in a spray tan. ‘There’ll be a lot of running around, so bring flats as well as your killer heels.’ ‘Your killer heels’. Mona Armstrong thinks I’m a stylista who owns killer heels. I’ve really pulled the cashmere over her eyes.

  I pictured my wardrobe at home, wherein hung a cacophony of Zara, H&M and Topshop, plus some precious vintage finds gleaned from eBay (strictly under Vicky’s supervision) and, at the bottom, an overflowing shoe rack stuffed with footwear in all colours and styles, not to mention various states of disrepair. It was a collection that had suited my life perfectly well up until this moment, but I somehow doubted it was up to Mona’s standards. Plus the only understanding of ‘killer heels’ I had right now were the Kirkwoods currently killing my toes.

  ‘But most importantly,’ Mona continued, ‘don’t forget your kit.’ The Stick folded her arms tightly, revelling in the knowledge that not only did I not own a kit, I probably didn’t even know what one was.

  ‘No, babe, I’m not talking about your gym gear.’ Mona smirked, reading my mind. ‘You know—the bits and bobs we need to make it all work.’

  Hmm. I’d heard Tamara mention ‘the kit’ on previous visits to the shop, and had regularly noticed her delve into a well-used leopard-print vanity case, and come up bearing bulldog clips to cinch a dress together at the back. I also thought of Jas’s bottom drawer in the office: a veritable emporium of tit tape, gaffer tape, Sellotape—every kind of tape known to woman—plus plasters, chicken fillets, cotton buds, Party Feet, pop socks, a sewing kit and a host of other goodies that surely kept the Bond Street branch of Superdrug in business.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, glancing at the Stick. And then Mona was off, big sunglasses, bouncy hair and thin, leather-clad legs springing straight into a taxi.

  Now there were just the three of us, plus Big Al, left in the store. Normally, following such a visit, Jas, the Stick and I would all sort of crumple onto the pouffes, kick off our heels, attack the truffles and champagne and erupt into a fevered discussion of what had just gone on. The Stick would dissect Mona’s outfit, generally loving everything about it, and I’d think I should love it, but that most of it was plain weird; Jas would debate why she picked some items and not others, and we would all shriek with laughter. Big Al would feign disinterest, but he’d eventually crack, and chip in with a comment like ‘What that woman needs is a roast dinner.’

  But today, Mona left nothing in her wake but an awkward silence. And it was all my fault.

  Throughout my final exchange with Mona, I had felt the Stick’s eyes drilling holes in the back of my head, correctly sensing she had missed something important while she was queuing for coffee like a work experience flunky. I knew full well it should be her going to LA in the morning. The Stick had the experience, the knowledge, the look—she was born to be Mona’s assistant. She idolised the woman. And then there was Jas—my kind boss, put on the spot like that. Left with no option but to step aside and let a member of her staff be poached before her eyes. I began to wonder if it was really worth it, if I was more cut out to be a traffic warden or a teacher after all. If I should do the honourable thing—step aside and offer the job to the Stick or simply tell Mona it was all a horrible mistake and stay at Smith’s. But something stopped me. Another voice in my head tried to rationalise: this was the Stick’s comeuppance for all the hours I’d spent sweating next to the steamer because she didn’t want to risk her make-up; for the way she looked at me when I thought that Erdem was the name of a Turkish pop star, rather than the hottest designer on the block. I thought of Jas and her look of confusion when she saw the mismatched shoes on the dummies. She must have known it was an accident, but was too polite to embarrass me while I had the camera eyeballing me. And then I threw it back in her face by moonlighting with Mona. I’m going to hell, for certain.

  I pulled myself together, stood taller and took a deep breath. What’s done is done. And besides, perhaps now it was my turn to prove that I could do it, actually; that styling was my calling and Mona the person to nurture my talent; that I could make it in fashion, on my own merit. Yes, I’d show the Stick you don’t need to slink around being too hip for Hoxton and live off pond water to get ahead. Either that, or I’m a fraud—and not only a fraud but a horrible, selfish person.

  If only I’d put opposite shoes on the mannequins on purpose.

  It was beginning to sink in that a) I might not have a job to return to, but b) my prospects for the next fortnight were looking up dramatically. I finally had an opportunity to be excited about—I couldn’t wait to update my Facebook status. It might even be worth joining LinkedIn! I just had to find myself a kit and pull together a suitcase of cool looks that would get me through a fortnight in the entertainment capital of the world, because I, Amber Green of Greater London, was going to Los Angeles in the morning.

  If this had been a film, with Jennifer Lawrence playing me, she would have punched the air when my feet, now comfortably clad in Uggs, hit the street outside the boutique that day. However, because this was not the movies, and because Jas had been uncharacteristically cold and the Stick had spent the rest of the day blanking me—bar the occasional tut—the mood was subdued. She broke the silence in the stockroom, as we layered-up for the cold, by taking the unusual step of suggesting we walk to the tube together. Perhaps she wanted to continue blanking me in the outside world, too. Having spent the entire afternoon fastidiously busying myself with my usual shop duties and doing all I could not to look halfway near as excited as I was beginning to feel, I had been planning to bolt bang on six. My phone was burning a hole in my pocket. I was desperate to call people, to scream, to see Vicky—to make it all real. The last thing I needed was an uncomfortable three-minute walk to Bond Street tube with a furious Stick.

  It soon transpired that far from starting a Dynasty-style bitch fight in the middle of South Molton Street, her tactic was indeed to continue ignoring me. Finally, as we turned the corner into Oxford Street, she spoke.

  ‘Bet you’ve had the best day ever?’

  ‘It’s been unusual, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So, she just told you you were going to LA, just like that?’

  ‘I think she was just desperate to get someone to replace Tamara.’

  ‘And my name didn’t even get mentioned?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, it got mentioned, but you weren’t in the shop.’

  ‘So you went for it while I was out of sight?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Kiki.’

  ‘Didn’t you think you should tell her the shoes were an accident?’

  Pass.

  ‘God, this is such a joke!’ She spat the words out.

  ‘Listen, Kiki, I don’t think it mattered to Mona if it was you or me. She just wanted someone—anyone—to help.’

  ‘Didn’t Jas tell her about me? How much more experience I’ve got? Didn’t she put up a fight?’

  ‘Would you fight Mona Armstrong?’

  ‘If it was worth fighting for, I would.’

  Ouch. I stopped walking. ‘Kiki, I hate this. Shall we grab a coffee and talk about it properly?’

  Kiki marched on, turning only briefly to shout over her shoulder: ‘Coffee? Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. Honestly, Kiki, Jas didn’t have a say in it
. We both know I’ll probably get the sack after a day …’

  But Kiki was more than a bit narked. She was angry.

  ‘It’s fucking ridiculous, that’s what it is. What does she think I am, a bloody skivvy? You should have gone for the coffee.’

  ‘Why—because I am a skivvy? A pointless skivvy who should have listened to your orders and kept her mouth shut the whole time Mona was in the store?’ Now my blood was starting to boil, too. ‘Perhaps, Kiki, just perhaps, Mona sent you for her coffee because she, like me, thinks you’re not a very nice person. A person who’s been so busy putting me down and bossing me around, she’s never actually spared a thought for how I might feel—about anything—until I suddenly got something you want. Until now. Well, you know what? Fuck you, Kiki. You’re a pathetic, skinny Stick Insect and I’m very happy I won’t have to see your thin face, or have to look at your pond water, or clear your stinking lettuce out of the fridge, or steam another piece of fabric because you can’t be bothered, because I’ll be in LA with Mona Armstrong, styling the stars.’ Hah! ‘Oh, and don’t forget, you signed an NDA so none of this can be repeated to anyone. Otherwise you’ll be sued. Hasta la vista, Stick, I’m off home to pack my killer heels.’

  Of course I didn’t actually say that. But it was very real in my head. I’ve never been good at confrontation, so, in real life, I tried to bury the feelings of guilt currently making my stomach churn, and tried a change of tack.

  ‘That guy Rob seemed nice?’

  ‘I preferred the shaggy one.’

  Au contraire.

  We walked the final few steps in another awkward silence, both ranting inwardly. I decided against asking her opinion of what I should pack or if she had a kit I could borrow. The atmosphere between us was eating me alive, so I fibbed.

  ‘I think I’ll get the bus today. I need air.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  She didn’t even look me in the eye.

  ‘I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then.’

  ‘Yeah, if Jas will have you back.’

  And she was gone, skinny jeans and dip-dyed hair lost in a crowd of commuters, probably heading to a Shoreditch pub to break her NDA and slag me off with some East London hipsters. I hope the NDA police are sitting at the next table.

  When I had safely turned off Oxford Street onto Manchester Square—when I could be sure that neither Kiki nor Mona nor any TV cameras were spying on me to see if I was displaying any embarrassing, high-spirited emotions—I did what every twenty-six-year-old in possession of her best job offer ever does: I phoned my mum.

  ‘Are you walking again?’ she asked, before I even said hello.

  For some reason my mother has an aversion to me walking and talking. Probably because I always seem to phone her when I’m in transit.

  ‘I’ve just finished work.’ I stopped in the street and cupped the phone, to block out some of the traffic noise.

  ‘It’d be nice if you phoned, just for a chat, when you weren’t on a noisy street, on your way somewhere, that’s all …’

  ‘I know, Mum. Anyway, guess what?’

  ‘You’re coming to see us this weekend?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘We’re coming to see you this weekend?’

  ‘Afraid not. I’ve got a new job!’

  ‘That’s fantastic news, darling! A proper one?’

  ‘It’s in fashion!’ Quiet on the end of the line. An indication that my mother does not view this as news of a proper job. ‘I’m going to be a celebrity stylist. Well, I’m going to be an assistant to a celebrity stylist—and she’s the celebrity stylist—I’m going to be Mona Armstrong’s number two. Well, I think number two.’ Maybe I’m her number ten? ‘I don’t actually know what my job title is. It’s a two-week thing.’

  ‘I thought for a second you’d decided to do the teacher training course …’

  Not again.

  ‘Darling, there’s not much security there. Jasmine’s happy to let you come back, is she?’

  Why can’t she just be excited for me?

  ‘I’m flying to LA, tomorrow. For the Golden Globes!’

  Another heavy pause.

  ‘Mum? Did you hear that? I’m going to the Golden Globes!’

  ‘Golden Globes, what’s that? Some kind of Californian fruit growing contest? Don’t tell me it’s a beauty contest, you know I …’

  ‘No, Mother. It’s one of the film industry’s biggest awards ceremonies, and I might be dressing some of the winners. I’m probably going to meet Jennifer Astley!’

  Was I really saying those magic words?

  ‘Jennifer who?’

  Being a lawyer, my mother doesn’t pander to the ins and outs of celebrity culture or the awards-season calendar, let alone share my enthusiasm for what dresses the stars might or might not wear during it. Instead, most conversations with her involve her checking I have the relevant paperwork for something.

  ‘Does this Rhona have insurance? You’ve got travel insurance, have you, sweetheart?’

  ‘Yes, I think I have insurance.’

  ‘Think, darling? You need to have it for sure.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘And you’ll definitely have a job when you get back, will you? Rent doesn’t pay itself, and you can’t leave poor Victoria in the lurch.’ You’d never have guessed this person had the eccentricity to name her child after a traffic light, would you? Once upon a time my mother must have had a sense of humour.

  ‘I know, I know, anyway, I need to get myself sorted out. Just wanted to let you know. I’ll call from the airport if I have time.’

  ‘Good luck, sweetheart, I’m proud of you. Just be safe, okay?’ Though my mother rarely gives me any praise for my achievements—and granted they have been limited so far—for some reason I continue to seek her approval, because somewhere deep down it really matters. I tried to ignore a slight pang in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t face telling her the real circumstances and risk her disappointment in me, too.

  ‘A fortnight you’re going for, did you say? That means you’ll miss Nora’s performance next week,’ she continued. ‘Well, take care, and beware the Hollywood prima donnas. Remember, this fame thing—it’s all smoke and mirrors. Keep your feet on the ground. And please check you’ve got insurance. Your father will sort it out if you haven’t. Promise me, Amber?’

  ‘Promise. Give Nora a squeeze from me. Love you. And Dad.’

  Nora is my older sister’s overachieving five-year-old, who is already the best in her ballet class and seems to have a recital of some kind almost every week. If we were an American family, she would probably resemble one of those scary over-made-up, disco-dancing, grown-up-looking kids you often see on freaky cable documentaries, their hair pulled back into such a tight bun they can barely blink. Poor Nora. There are already far too many performance photos of her in existence.

  ‘I love you, too, sweetheart. Check your insurance.’

  I hung up. Straight after I called Vicky, my flatmate and oldest, bestest friend since we bonded aged five at ballet class.

  ‘I’ve got a job!’

  ‘What? You’ve already got a job?’

  ‘A proper one! Well, a temporary one. Actually a two-week one. But a possible career one! You’re not going to believe the day I’ve had. It’s been mad.’

  It was so great to tell Vic the story—I was like a pressure cooker of exploding excitement, at last able to let it all out. I couldn’t stop talking. When I finally paused, out of breath, her response was the one I’d been waiting to hear all day.

  ‘Are you serious? That’s bloody amazing, honey! You lucky cow! Oh my God, I’m so jealous I can’t bear it. I feel sick! What was she like? Was she not a bitch, then? What was she wearing? Is she pretty? How much better looking than SJP on a scale of one to ten?’

  This is why we’re best friends.

  ‘She was actually really nice, well, kind of nice, in a stand-offish, scary way, and tiny, so much smaller in the flesh. B
ut actually really pretty. She had on these tight leather leggings and a T-shirt, Chloé, and these amazing black shoe-boots, tons of bracelets. And this ring, it was huge and turquoise, new-season YSL.’ Vicky was gobsmacked, taking it all in. For once I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. Perhaps I can do this after all.

  ‘And guess where I’m going in the morning?’

  ‘Not Mona’s house—don’t tell me she’s got a miniature dog she wants you to walk?’

  ‘Nope. Well, yes, I am going to Mona’s house—but not the one in London, the one in Los Angeles, baby! I’m going to the US of A because I am Mona Armstrong’s assistant for the Golden bloody Globes!’

  I had decided that Los Angeles sounded more grown-up and glamorous than LA. And I couldn’t help wanting Vicky to be wowed by my new high-flying fashion status. It was generally her going to cool events and fashion shoots in exotic locations, so for once it was nice to share some fabulous news of my own. Cue screaming.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s too much! I’m going to faint!’ I love Vic. ‘Come home immediately—we need to discuss this in great detail.’

  ‘Just getting on the tube. See you in half an hour.’

  ‘Oh, and did you pinch my Mulberry? Either you’ve got it or we’ve been burgled, I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’

  ‘Er, yeah, sorry about that … I needed to look good today. The Stick noticed it.’ Before she wanted to kill me. ‘I’ll bring it home safely now.’

  As I hung up, my elation was tinged by the return of a deep nagging sensation. I couldn’t even admit to Vicky the exact circumstances in which I got my break.

  Just before I walked down the escalator at Baker Street, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Mona’s PA? I hesitated for a moment and decided to let it ring to answerphone, thinking I’d call back at the other end, when I might be able to detect from her message whether the PA sounded like an uber-bitch or not. And then a much more exciting thought popped into my head. Maybe it’s Rob? He’s looked up my number from the NDA. He wants to do some additional filming with me—take me to Selfridges to choose a few outfits for LA … Too late. Missed Call.