The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  ‘Yeah, let me know about the after-party.’

  With Klara off to a party—all dressed up in a borrowed white Roland Mouret number, after changing her mind at the last minute—and Mona’s phone eventually calming its incessant bleeping, I got a cab back to the house to watch the main event from the sofa. I hoped Mona might be in a more communicative state now, seeing as it was almost awards time and she had been asleep for most of the day. Returning to the house to watch the awards on TV while I waited for Rob to text about the party felt like something of an anticlimax after the build-up during the week. I wasn’t sure what I was going to see on the red carpet, having come to the realisation that basically no one has a clue what anyone is actually going to wear on awards night until the star is physically there, bathed in the glow of a thousand flashes. I wondered if I should go and change out of my dress, just to join in.

  As quietly as possible, I turned the key in the lock and crept in, slipping my flats off at the door. The house was eerily silent. I put my head into the kitchen and then the lounge; both rooms were immaculate and empty, just as Ana would have left them, giving me the impression that Mona had not ventured downstairs in a while. I put my head around the doors to the laundry room, cinema room and downstairs bathroom. No sign of Mona anywhere. I tiptoed upstairs towards the master bedroom—fortunately, the door was slightly ajar. Heart pounding, lest she slept with one eye open—I’m not joking, it’s possible—I slowly nudged open the door to Mona’s bedroom and peered round it. The white duvet on her huge emperor-size bed was awash with the flotsam and jetsam of a stylist on the edge—last night’s flesh-coloured tights which now resembled the wizened legs of a melted-down model; the python bag with most of its former contents emptied around it; a pile of tissues; a large, half-empty bottle of water; an open box of painkillers; a packet of cigarettes; an iPad with a cracked screen. On one side of the bed was the shape of a small body under the duvet and a mop of curls on the pillow. I placed her iPhone back amongst the wreckage and crept out, sadness in my stomach, resigned to watching the red carpet alone. There seemed little point in a change of clothes, unless Rob got in touch about the after-party or Liam texted again and wanted to meet.

  The build-up on E! was as good as any new feature film—Ryan Seacrest in position on the red carpet at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, Kelly Osbourne primed to discuss the glittering gowns. I suddenly realised I was beginning to feel excited. My heart was actually pounding as the first few C-listers made their way onto the carpet and appeared on-screen, all white teeth, golden tans and blow-out perfection, ready to have their outfits dissected and give their opinion on who would be walking away with a statuette. Then my trance was broken by movement in the doorway: Mona had appeared. Dressed in a grey T-shirt and combat trousers, she was a notch up from the gaping kaftan of this morning, but seriously scruffy for her. She slumped onto the other end of the sofa making a loud, dramatic sigh as she did so.

  Ordinarily, I would ask if she needed a coffee. But not this time. Instead I sat perfectly still and continued watching. Mona clearly found the lack of attention infuriating. She loudly readjusted her position on the sofa several times.

  ‘Has anyone interesting turned up yet?’ she asked, finally, forcing the words out, like a little rich kid in a huff because she didn’t get the new Barbie Luxury Yacht for her birthday.

  ‘Kelly Osbourne looks nice.’ I didn’t move my eyes from the screen. Mona acknowledged Kelly’s pretty mint-green Zac Posen gown with an approving grunt.

  ‘So Jennifer didn’t need you for the red carpet, I take it?’ she asked, after another awkward silence.

  ‘Caroline’s with her,’ I replied. Two can play the disgruntled child game.

  ‘Did Beau get off in the Valentino okay?’

  ‘No, she changed her mind and went for something else.’

  ‘She what?’ Mona sat upright now.

  ‘She’s wearing Dolce & Gabbana. Stefano gifted it to her.’ Which you would know if you’d been capable of listening to any of your voicemails.

  ‘But that’s not possible—Valentino was aware she would be wearing it.’

  ‘Until Jennifer Astley decided to wear it.’

  ‘Jennifer? But she’s in the Oscar de la Renta!’

  ‘Not any more. It’s all changed. Tamara dressed her.’

  ‘She—what?’

  A vein in my neck that I never knew I had suddenly started pulsing.

  ‘Tamara—she dressed Jennifer in the end.’ I stayed very still, waiting for her to throw a fit. Mona had the ability to scare me on a deep, primal level, like spiders.

  ‘That can’t have happened,’ she said after a long pause, shooting dagger-eyes at me.

  ‘Caroline had been trying to reach you all morning,’ I said, voice quivering.

  ‘I can’t watch this.’ She rose unsteadily from the sofa and stood up, presumably to go upstairs for a showdown with her iPhone, which she clearly hadn’t bothered looking at since she’d woken up.

  ‘I had to get Klara to bring me your phone so I could work out what was going on.’

  She stared blankly into space. I wondered what was going through her mind.

  ‘But we narrowly avoided both Beau and Jennifer wearing the same Valentino this evening,’ I said. ‘How bad would that be?’

  ‘More importantly, Amber, how bad is this going to look with the designers? When the house of Oscar de la Renta finds out I didn’t actually put their gown on Jennifer, and Valentino discovers the mishap with the scarlet gown, they may never lend to me again. I can’t have the designers thinking I only actually dressed D-listers for the Golden Globes this year. This is a disaster! How could you have messed it up so catastrophically today?’

  Don’t bother thanking me, then.

  ‘Well, it’s better than a clash, isn’t it? The one thing you told me we couldn’t have was a clash.’ The vein was throbbing so hard now, I thought it might burst. But Mona didn’t want to listen any more. Before we had even glimpsed Beau, Jennifer—or any of the D-list stars we had managed to successfully dress for this evening—she swept out of the room, loudly slamming the door as she went. Ryan Seacrest’s voice continued in the background. ‘And the excitement is mounting here on the red carpet as we await some of the big stars of the night. It won’t be long now before the nomin—Nicole Richie! I see Nicole and she’s coming our way! Oh wow … Hey, Nicole! Nicole! Do you look va-va-voom this evening! Tell us about your gown …’

  And so it began. The floodgates were suddenly flattened by a celebrity stampede, and I was captivated by the steady parade of stars sweeping down the carpet, one after another, in ascending order of box office pull. It was exhilarating to watch and I felt a ripple of excitement flow through me as Beau Belle arrived on-screen, rocking her fur stole and Dolce & Gabbana gown. She looked a true Hollywood siren, and Trey seemed genuinely proud to be at her side. They made a magnetic couple, laughing and posing as Ryan went through Beau’s look and Kelly awarded it a ten out of ten for ‘star quality’.

  ‘Hey, Mona!’ I shouted, calling into the hallway for her to witness this, just as Beau was lifting up her skirt to show off the glittering Jimmy Choo sandals I had taken to her from the suite. ‘Beau looks amazing—she’s wearing our accessories!’ There was no movement upstairs, but I thought I could hear the muffled sound of another TV playing E! simultaneously—Mona must be watching in her room. I felt a bit forlorn that we couldn’t enjoy the frenzy together. And then amongst the final flurry of A-list stars to arrive, Jennifer Astley came into view. I almost didn’t recognise her at first because—could it really? No, wait a minute … Is that definitely her? It is! Oh. My. God. It is!

  ‘Moooo-na!’ I paused the TV and ran into the hallway, just as the door to Mona’s room flew open and she bounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Please, please don’t let her trip, I can’t bear dealing with a night in hospital, too. Miraculously, she displayed more energy than I’d seen in days.

  ‘She’s wearing
the Oscar de la Renta!’ she cried, throwing her arms around my neck, hugging and kissing my startled face on both cheeks. ‘You were joking with me, you silly cow! She’s wearing the bloody de la Renta!’

  All I could do was hug, kiss and high-five her back as we laughed together like schoolgirls. I had absolutely no idea what had gone on behind the heavy closed door of the Chateau Marmont penthouse suite after I had left, but Jennifer was definitely not wearing the scarlet Valentino gown now. Nobody was.

  Jennifer’s turn on the red carpet was like a faultless, choreographed dance. She knew every pose to pull, her smile was bewitching, and the fans and media went wild for her, the cheers deafening as she lifted a slender arm to wave at her admirers. The dress tightly hugged her every curve, making her body look sensational. I spotted Caroline in the background, torch in hand, stepping forwards every now and again to fluff up the feathers on the small train. It really was an exquisite dress, and it suited her perfectly. But I was more than a little confused about what, in Valentino’s name, had happened to his scarlet showstopper? Mona disappeared into the kitchen and returned brandishing a chilled bottle of Perrier-Jouët rosé, two glasses and, to my huge pleasure, a large bag of crisps. Yes! This is more how I imagined awards night to be.

  ‘To us!’ she exclaimed thrusting a full glass into my hand.

  ‘To us!’ I said, as we toasted the gown. We collapsed into another fit of giggles and backslapping as we spotted a few more of Mona’s clients, in dresses we had put on them, gliding towards the venue.

  As the drama of the red carpet arrivals came to an end and most of the stars had teetered into the auditorium for the ceremony in their too-high heels, we both sank into the sofa to watch the actual awards. They were almost an anticlimax after the dress parade. It was over halfway through when Jennifer’s Best Supporting Actress category was finally up. We both fixated on the screen as the presenter cranked up the tension, taking his time to reveal that the ‘Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress, goes to … Jennifer Astley!’

  On our feet again, we shrieked in unison and watched, awestruck, as Jennifer turned to hug the man sitting on her left, before gracefully rising from her seat in the auditorium.

  ‘Hold on a minute—that man—isn’t that Beau’s fiancé, Trey?’

  ‘You’re getting good, honey. Yes, he directed the movie. Look at the exquisite way the dress moves with her body—she made the right choice, babe, no doubt about it.’

  ‘How come he’s not sitting with Beau?’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be a few rows further back—only the nominees sit at the front tables. It’s all about your “movie family” on awards night. Oh, and the earrings, Amber! Look how they catch the light! Divine.’

  The camera panned around the elated audience, many of whom were on their feet clapping Jennifer’s win, as she elegantly weaved her way to the stage through an assault course of chairs and tables occupied by Hollywood luminaries. All were elated, except for Beau, who the camera picked out looking distinctly unimpressed with the show of affection between her husband-to-be and his leading lady. It really would have been the most catastrophic clanger if they had both been wearing the same gown. Mona held her breath as Jennifer glided up the steps towards the stage, the feathered dress gently rippling as she moved, then sighed with relief as the star was greeted by the hosts.

  ‘She made it, thank God. Remember Jennifer Lawrence’s trip up the steps? That would be disaster, for both me and Oscar de la Renta, God rest his soul.’

  Jennifer graciously accepted her award, thanking the cast and crew, but most especially the director, Trey Jones, in a well-rehearsed speech. As her eyes glistened with emotion, she then thanked her make-up artist for ensuring she’d worn waterproof mascara tonight. As the crowd made an appreciative, ‘Aww’, I noticed Mona was on the edge of her seat. Was she waiting to see if Jennifer might extend her thank you list to include her stylist, perhaps? There was to be no special mention tonight. Instead, Jennifer swept off the stage, Golden Globe in hand, million-dollar smile blazing and gown flowing beautifully with every dainty step.

  The rest of the awards came and went and our bottle of champagne was drained. I turned to see that Mona had sunk so deeply into the sofa, it looked like it had swallowed her.

  ‘So, you’ve done your first ceremony. What do you think?’ She turned to me as the credits rolled and the camera filmed a few of the stars entering the after-party.

  ‘I think my nerves are in tatters,’ I said. It was true, I felt as though I’d just done four consecutive rides on Oblivion at Alton Towers. ‘Is it like this every time?’ Maybe that was why Mona had been so unwell last night. Could it have been pre-awards nerves? Perhaps I’d have felt the same if I’d known what we were in for this evening.

  ‘Not easy, is it.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘You can never tell what’s going to happen until the client is actually there, physically at the event, wearing the clothes. And even then, I’ve known stars do a quick change in the Ladies’ on the way in.’ She clearly relished the fact I’d had to learn the hard way.

  ‘It’s so difficult to keep track of everything,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Missing your old job, babe?’

  ‘This is way more exciting,’ I answered truthfully.

  I reached into my bag for my phone, looking at it for the first time in hours. A message from Liam, saying that Beau looked great. And also a text from Rob, and it wasn’t about filming: So, how was it for you? Got a couple of +1s to the after-party if you and Klara fancy it? x

  This definitely warranted a change of clothes, and Mona still owed me a blow-out.

  What time and where? x, I replied.

  Come to think of it, after today, she owes me a dress loan and a taxi, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As I approached the queue for the InStyle and Warner Brothers party at the Beverly Hilton, Klara texted to say she’d been waylaid at Soho House. Apparently a newly single Orlando Bloom had just turned up. Hollywood seemed to be crawling with celebrities this evening—even the atmosphere in the queue was electric.

  ‘Kendall Jenner at a quarter to three,’ a wide-eyed partygoer behind me whispered to her friend. She spoke through gritted teeth, barely moving her lips. Apparently that’s how you have to talk about megastars in an area where every other person is famous and you’re trying not to seem star-struck.

  ‘Tom Hanks left, Charlize Theron just going in,’ noted another.

  My insides were churning. Being around stars is such a buzz! It also helped that, for once, I felt reasonably well put together. Though there hadn’t been time for a blow-out, Mona had loaned me a gorgeous little black dress by Burberry and some gold Charlotte Olympia sandals, all infinitely more comfortable than my ensemble from the other night. I absolutely loved the LBD—it was skintight, but because I’d almost certainly dropped a few pounds over the past few days due to lack of food, I had to admit I felt great in it. I texted Rob as I neared the entrance:

  Nearly at the front—how do I get in? x

  A red carpet and ‘step and repeat’ boards with various sponsors logos emblazoned across them stood to the left of the doors, marking the VIP entrance. Vanessa Hudgens had just arrived, seamlessly transferring from car to red carpet where a bank of paparazzi were calling her name and capturing her from every angle, showing off the very low, bottom-skimming back on her stunning crystal-adorned gown. It fell into a delicate mini-train at the back, which I noticed a woman crouched at her heels discreetly tweaking into place. Must be her stylist. A comrade! As she entered the party, a few more people from the queue of ‘normal’ partygoers, in which I stood, hurried up the steps and were ushered towards the guest-list desk. I frantically searched for Rob’s face amongst the throng inside and seconds later he appeared, on the other side of the red rope.

  ‘Amber! You’re on Tim Parker’s list!’ he shouted. I felt his eyes look me up and down appreciatively. Ooh. I was secretly pleased Klara wasn’t here to steal my moment
with her attention-grabbing looks and confidence.

  ‘So where’s the tan man?’ I asked as we got through the clipboard-wielding door sergeants, who seemed to be taking great pleasure in turning people away.

  ‘You won’t believe the number of liggers tonight,’ one tutted into a radio handset as I shuffled past. ‘We need more security.’ I guessed I fell into the ‘ligger’ category, too. Once in, paper lanterns twinkled and lit the way down to the pool area. The party was warm and inviting, and the soft lighting made everyone look even more beautiful and even more expensive than they already were. Rob looked dashing in black tie.

  ‘You mean Tim? He got a great chat with Keira Knightley on the red carpet,’ he said, stopping in a less crowded area, ‘so he’s happy. He’s gone with the editor to knock it into shape for the breakfast show—it’s a twenty-four-hour operation out here on awards night.’

  ‘Blimey, that’s not much fun,’ I said, finding it hard to look him straight in the eye. ‘I thought he’d be partying the night away with George Clooney—that’s the impression he gives on Morning Glory.’

  ‘He wishes! I think he once crashed a party at Madonna’s house, along with the rest of the British media, and he once got let into the Vanity Fair party by accident because the door Nazi thought he was someone else, but other than that, he struggles as much as the rest of us. Hollywood isn’t very accepting of the British media—they think we’re all after the dirt.’

  ‘Well, he sorted us out this evening. Thank you, Tim!’ I raised my glass to toast our absent friend.

  ‘He has his uses. Why do you think he wears so much fake tan?’ Rob smiled, his gaze seeming to settle on me for a little longer than usual. ‘It’s just to look awake. He’s up half the night, sorting out his reports for Morning Glory. Dread to think how pale and knackered he’d be without the old Touche Éclat and St Tropez.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about make-up.’ I smiled.

  ‘Too much working in light entertainment—it’s all anyone talks about.’