The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  I got to Kensal Rise quickly. A year of taking the tube twice a day had made me an expert commuter, adept at standing behind the yellow lines on the platform at exactly the right spot to match the doors when the tube arrives, and then standing on the correct side of the carriage to be the first off again. During the journey I mulled over the packing situation. It was a major worry. But Vic would be able to help. She didn’t get the fashion assistant position at Glamour under false pretences. I have always been in awe of how quickly Vicky can put together an outfit and look like the chicest person in the room. ‘Naturally stylish,’ Jas regularly comments, surveying her fondly, whenever Vicky comes to meet me from work, and it’s been that way since we were at school together; she even made train tracks and a tight perm look good. I don’t think anyone has ever said those words about me. I’ve come to accept that, for me, looking fashionable will be more of an effort. I hereby vow to make dressing myself part of my job.

  When I reached our flat, circumnavigating the build-up of junk mail and spare rolls of recycling bags in the communal hallway, Vicky was standing in the living room, straining to see over her shoulder into the mirror to admire her near-perfect rear in a pair of eye-wateringly tight pale blue jeans.

  ‘Do they look ridiculous, hon? Can you see my love handles over the top? I fell in love with them in the fashion cupboard, but now I’m worried. I wonder what happens if circulation to your arse actually stops?’

  ‘You get a numb bum. They look amazing, honey, really. You’re probably the only person I know who could get away with jeans that tight. Honestly, you look sensational.’

  ‘You would say that.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. By the way, someone called for you. A man.’

  My heart did a little leap.

  ‘I didn’t get his name, but he said he was Mona’s PA and when he said that I was too dumbstruck and embarrassed to ask for his name again. He sounded really camp. He asked me to take down your flight reference number for the morning and to say you’re on the 9:45 from Heathrow Terminal Five. Mona will meet you through security. He’s texting you her number.’

  She stuck a yellow Post-it onto my parka.

  ‘But anyway, I think you deserve a drink, don’t you?’

  ‘Too bloody right!’

  ‘And I need to hear more about Mona. Come on, I’m in these things now and I might never get them on again, so let’s pop to The Chamberlayne and have one to celebrate. Are you really going tomorrow?’

  Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes

  Chapter Four

  Through scared, aching eyes, I observed my alarm clock the next morning. Six o’clock.

  My mouth was dry, my head pounding. I was still wearing my make-up but cuddling a pack of cleansing wipes. For a moment I couldn’t remember what I was doing on this strange, unfamiliar planet. And then it all came flashing back: one quick drink at the pub had turned into several drinks and then a bottle of white wine back at ours. It had all culminated in our dizzily turning my bedroom upside down to find my passport and then emptying the entire contents of my wardrobe into a jumble sale heap on my bed. From this fabric mountain, Vic and I lumped all the black things into one pile, white into another, and anything with a vaguely designer-y label—we decided Stella McCartney for Adidas and an Anya Hindmarch protective cotton dust bag counted—into a third, before I passed out in a boob tube, in the middle of it all.

  ‘Is that my case?’ Vicky muttered, as I popped my head around her door and shouted goodbye half an hour later, having lumped it all into the first suitcase I could lay my hands on.

  ‘Sorry, hon. You’ll have it back in a fortnight … if I come back. Wish me luck?’

  ‘Luck? You’ll need it. Can’t wait to hear the stories. Take care. But not too much care. Neck some Nurofen on the way. Love you!’

  And I was off—head hurting, stomach rumbling, badly put together, but excited as hell.

  It wasn’t hard to spot Mona in the Harrods concession at Terminal Five. She was wrapped in a large, brightly coloured scarf, striking poses in front of a full-length mirror. Two boxes of Marlboro Lights stood to attention in a clear plastic bag by her feet; a Venti Starbucks cup with coral lipstick all over the lid perched on a shelf nearby. Smoke and mirrors indeed, Mum was right. Make that smoke, mirrors and caffeine. Mona saw me in the reflection.

  ‘Amber! Babe! I was beginning to get worried. What do you think? The canary yellow or bubble-gum pink? Don’t you just love them? They are so LA.’

  ‘Oh wow, divine.’ Did I just say ‘divine’? Thank God Vicky can’t hear me.

  ‘These little beauties are going to go down a storm for the daytime events. Get on to the Cavalli PR and have them sent over as soon as we land.’ Get on to the Cavalli PR. Have them sent over. I felt queasy again. I hadn’t actually had time to consider the work that was going to be involved with this job: the PRs whose numbers I didn’t have, the requests I didn’t know how to make, the sending over I didn’t know how to go about.

  ‘Right, I’ll get on to it straight away.’ My efficient tone belied my internal panic.

  ‘I’ve put you down for the lounge—they should let you in. I’ll meet you in there when I’ve finished shopping.’

  ‘Right, boss, I’ll see if they’ve got Wi-Fi so I can make a start.’ Has she noticed I’m wearing yesterday’s make-up? My shaky hands?

  ‘They will, babe. And if I don’t come up to the lounge, I’ll see you at the gate.’

  I hoped she wouldn’t come up. What I really needed was some time to get my head together. One person who would definitely know the PR for Cavalli was the Stick, but I couldn’t go there, so I texted Vicky as I looked for the lounge: First panic of the day—you don’t happen to know the PR for Cavalli, do you? xx

  A phone number was buzzed back a minute later, along with the words, Get hold of her Fashion Monitor, babe. It’s the Bible. How I wish Vicky was hiding in my suitcase.

  And then another text: How’s your head? Mine’s killing! Love ya xxx

  I then spent the next thirty minutes in Boots buying Nurofen and Berocca for my hangover, emergency deodorant for my armpits, plus a large ironically garish cosmetics bag which I filled with an assortment of goodies from every aisle—chicken fillets, pop socks, Party Feet, plasters, breath fresheners, bull dog clips, cotton buds, medical tape—as much as I could stuff in.

  When I eventually entered the British Airways Club Lounge, it was like entering a seventh heaven. Smartly dressed travellers sat on swivel stools at high white benches, working on laptops and iPads, and there were dimly lit seating areas with comfy chairs and lamps on coffee tables. I gravitated towards the darkest, most deserted corner I could find. A lady dressed like a pristine air stewardess pointed out the hot and cold buffet and advised me of the full drinks service on offer. Best of all, everything was free! Had I known about this before, I’d have dragged my sorry self out of bed even earlier. I headed straight for the brunch buffet and filled up a plate with croissants, scrambled eggs and bacon, all the while looking over my shoulder. The last thing I needed was for Mona to witness me gorging on breakfast like a normal human being. If Vicky had been with me I’m sure we’d have washed it down with a Buck’s Fizz, but I decided to stick to a sensible skinny latte.

  At last I felt some colour return to my cheeks. After eating, I managed to call a really nice, friendly lady called Jane in the Cavalli press office. She didn’t seem pretentious or too fashiony at all, but promised to call their LA office, ‘as soon as they wake up’, and have a selection of scarves biked over to Mona’s suite at the W Hotel in West Hollywood to arrive ahead of us that day. It actually hadn’t been as difficult as I thought.

  If use of the lounge had gone to my head, I was swiftly parachuted back to reality when we reached the aircraft’s door. Of course I was directed to the right and Mona sashayed left, dumping her shopping and Louis Vuitton tote on an air steward, who offered a saccharine smile in re
sponse.

  ‘Lovely to see you on board again, Ms Armstrong.’

  I’m sure she gave me a knowing look straight after.

  Mona reappeared some time after the meal—a hangover-friendly cheesy pasta. She popped out from behind the coveted curtain, waved a black Juicy cashmere tracksuit–clad arm in my direction, put her palms into a prayer position and then motioned a sleep sign. I mouthed ‘Sleep well’ back; another sweaty pea-head among the Economy passengers, knowing we were unlikely to get much, if any, shut-eye during the remaining eleven hours to LAX. When she turned back towards the curtain, you couldn’t miss the words ‘The Stylist’ written across the back of her black velour hooded top in Swarovski crystals.

  ‘Should I know who she is?’ asked a Northern man sitting next to me, craning his neck for a better look.

  No sooner had Mona gone than she reappeared like a magician’s glamorous assistant, brandishing a little white tablet which she dramatically thrust into my hand, wafting a large dose of her pheromone-reactive Molecule 01 fragrance through the stale cabin. In a loud whisper, she told me: ‘Melatonin, babe. Best sleeping pill there is. Everyone in America uses it. Drop it now and you’re guaranteed a few hours.’

  Unfurling my fingers, I looked at the small round pill. It didn’t look too alarming, but I decided to snap it in half, just in case. I’d always been told it was unwise to accept drugs from relative strangers—especially ones you suspected were of dubious sanity. And then I thought sod it and swallowed both halves. After she had left us again, the man next to me shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Did you see that camel toe?’

  I chuckled. He had a point.

  ‘And that melatonin shit—they don’t sell it in the UK, you know. Made from sheep’s brains.’

  ‘Too late.’

  Sheep’s brains or no sheep’s brains, I was going to Tinseltown, and there was a guy who bore more than a passing resemblance to Robert Pattinson a few rows in front. For all the Hermès in Harrods I wouldn’t swap places with anyone right now.

  The one benefit of having a monstrous hangover on a flight was the ability it conferred to glaze over and, as it turned out, sleep. Maybe it was the melatonin, but I managed to nod off for a few hours. Arriving in LA—Mona in her third outfit of the day, a cool, cream Marni shirt dress and ballet pumps, and me still in my first outfit—skinny jeans, ankle boots, black American Apparel sweater (which Mona eyed disapprovingly and I was paranoid was starting to smell)—we made it through immigration without difficulty. This was ‘a bloody miracle’, according to Mona, who had given me strict instructions to bat my eyelids, smile and pretend to be dim, should I be asked any difficult questions, like what I was doing in the United States of America. I wouldn’t be lying if I responded, ‘I’m not entirely sure ‘.

  ‘They nearly always question the excess baggage,’ she explained, as I pushed a heavy trolley piled high with the rest of her Louis Vuitton luggage, Vicky’s battered suitcase, plus two huge, smart, hard black cases full of clothes for the suite, towards the car-rental centre.

  We were soon in the mid-afternoon sunshine, top down on the hired, fashionably eco-conscious Toyota Prius convertible, whizzing up La Cienega and heading towards Mona’s second home in the Hollywood Hills. The warm breeze licked at my face and whisked my hair high into a Mr Whippy before throwing it down again to lash against my cheeks. With Vicky’s Ray-Bans on—she won’t even know, it’s winter at home—and a slick of lip gloss hastily applied in the airport loo, I was feeling surprisingly good. As we cruised up wide, palm tree–lined roads, a cheesy Ronald McDonald smile spread right across my face. The sight would have made Mona wince, but she was too busy shouting at the in-car phone, which was failing to acknowledge any of her instructions. I crossed my arms on top of the door, leaned out and breathed it all in. The air smelled sweet and biscuity. I love it here already.

  A trio of honey-skinned girls, who looked as though they’d stepped straight off the set of the latest Abercrombie & Fitch ad shoot, pulled alongside us in a convertible jeep. I wondered if they were the kind of women I’d soon be hanging out with at the W Hotel. They were intimidatingly pretty, all golden Californian perfection. Wait a minute, wasn’t one of them a Kardashian? Could be. Probably is. I can’t wait to tell Vic about this. I caught myself staring. And then a wave of panic rippled through me: Will I be able to fit in here? Suddenly I felt like my teenage self again, the slightly overweight girl with spots and home-dyed hair, denim dungarees and plastic clip-on earrings, who ate her dinner without removing her CD-Man. I bet none of the Abercrombie girls have had bad hair or been overweight in their lives. I bet they were allowed to get their ears pierced as soon as they could talk. The car screeched as we sped around a right turn, on a red light.

  ‘Mona! Didn’t we just—’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re so funny. This is America, remember? It’s perfectly legal to go right on a red.’ I sunk back into the seat, not convinced. ‘Chill out! No need to call the traffic police, Amber Green.’ She laughed to herself and I gripped my seat belt, saying a silent prayer that we would make it to her house alive.

  Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, another, more pressing thought dawned on me: I may have packed very badly. I realised all at once that I was beyond boiling in my outfit. And I had a nasty feeling that, thanks to my hungover packing, I’d forgotten to chuck the white pile into the suitcase. My heart rate quickened, and my body felt clammier still. This meant I had brought with me an almost exclusively black, winter, working wardrobe—a look better suited to the role of a Black Sabbath roadie about to embark on a tour of Siberia than a cutting-edge stylist preparing for awards season.

  I glanced back at the Abercrombie girls. None of them were wearing black. They were wearing spaghetti-strap candy-coloured vest tops and light denim, with delicate, layered gold necklaces to enhance their tans. They looked cool and clean, everything I currently was not.

  Finally, we crossed Sunset Boulevard and followed a winding road, climbing steeply into the hills. The words to ‘Sunset Boulevard’ played over in my head. The Lord knew I’d listened to the soundtrack enough times, always in the car with Dad tunelessly singing along. Oh, how apt they seemed today.

  Sunset Boulevard, twisting boulevard,

  Secretive and rich, a little scary.

  Sunset Boulevard, tempting boulevard,

  Waiting there to swallow the unwary.

  Mona began pointing things out: ‘That house over there, behind those gates, that’s Keanu Reeves’s. We used to share a gardener. And that one is Jennifer Aniston’s old place, before she moved in with Justin. She hasn’t sold yet—maybe she’s hedging her bets. Moby’s got an architectural house way up there and if you keep going down that road, eventually you reach the Playboy Mansion.’ I ooohed and aaahed in all the right places, not even having to feign excitement. It was just like being on a film set as we glided past Mulholland Drive and spied beautiful mansions nestled in the nooks of the winding hillside roads. I imagined Hollywood heavyweights like Sylvester Stallone and Bette Midler tucked away behind the security gates, wearing silk dressing gowns, reading scripts or dictating updates to their autobiographies in sumptuous living rooms.

  ‘Up there—’ I craned my neck skywards ‘—is Madonna’s house. I’ve been to parties there. Insane.’

  ‘What happened?’ I attempted to make conversation, but Mona ignored me. I was learning fast that any chit-chat was strictly on her terms. Idly, I wondered how old Mona was and where she was born. I knew so little about this woman currently driving me off into the Hills to stay in her home. I guesstimated mid-to-late forties. Birthplace? I had assumed London, because of her English accent, but now I wasn’t entirely sure.

  She was on a roll. ‘Christina Applegate walks her dog around here every day, and see that tree? That’s where Lindsay Lohan crashed her car. And before you ask, no, the Hollywood sign is not near here, it’s the other side of Hollywood Heights. So touristy, though—you won’t want to do that.’ Oh. I’d
been quite looking forward to posting that particular photo of myself on Facebook.

  Eventually we pulled up on Mona’s driveway, in front of a magnificent, large Mediterranean-style house with terracotta tiles on its whitewashed walls. It was the kind of house I’d own in my fantasy life. Beneath us was the most incredible view of the sprawling city and the smog cloud above it. It was out of this world. I felt speechless.

  ‘Amazing view, hey, babe?’

  I breathed it all in. Beats the sight of Scrubs Lane from my window at home.

  ‘It’s incredible.’

  Inside Mona’s house we were greeted by a zebra skin rug. I hesitated.

  ‘Don’t panic, babe, no need to Tweet the WWF, it’s fake.’

  A wisp of a girl wandered into view. She had long, thin brown hair and was wearing a pale yellow bikini under an oversized white T-shirt with the words ‘Relax Don’t Do It’ emblazoned across the front in shouting black capitals.

  ‘Amber, this is Klara. She’s staying here while she takes over the modelling world. Isn’t that right, Klara, babe?’

  The girl smiled. She was a natural beauty, her face completely bare of make-up. She was younger than me, maybe twenty maximum. And she was thin, so thin. Her pale legs seemed to go on forever. She was like a kind of miniature giraffe.

  ‘Thanks, Mona,’ she replied softly, in an English accent, before slinking off again through some large glass doors at the end of the open lounge area onto a patio, and was that a swimming pool behind? It is! My insides did the Macarena.

  ‘The great thing about having models as tenants is they hardly eat anything,’ Mona revealed, the girl out of earshot as we made our way into the heart of the house, which opened up into a large living area.

  ‘All I do is stock up on peanut butter and rice cakes, leave some fresh coffee and grapes in the fridge and they’re happy. They don’t even need milk for coffee. Klara’s been over from London staying the last six months, on and off, and I’ve not seen her eat anything but rice cakes and grapes the whole time.’