The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  ‘So Mona’s still alive after the other night? There’ve been all kinds of things written about her …’

  ‘I know, I saw some of it and then couldn’t look any more. I can’t work her out, Vicky, she’s so lovely sometimes, and then she’s so out of control at others. Maybe it was food poisoning that made her collapse.’

  ‘Why, what else could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know … drink problem, addiction to painkillers, depression, she’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Anyway, why are you so hungover?’

  ‘Oh, you know, I met up with Chloe and one drink led to another …’

  ‘No Simon Sunday?’

  ‘No, hoping to see him later. Anyway, why are you still up so late? Don’t tell me you’ve been partying with Jen and you’re calling to tell me I’m dumped because she’s your NBF?’

  ‘Ha, no way! I drank too much coffee …’

  ‘Coffee? I thought it was Dom Pérignon all the way for you out there?’

  ‘Well, it was, but then Rob and I went to get some food and had a stupid amount of caffeine, so now I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Rob? And why don’t I know about him?’

  ‘He’s assistant director for the TV pilot they’re making. He’s a sweetheart …’

  ‘And … have you kissed his sweet face off?’ It sounded as though she’d stopped attempting to jog.

  ‘No! It’s not like that.’

  ‘Well, next time I want a snog, so make sure you keep me posted. Listen, hate to cut you off but I’ve got to go, I’m at the tube now and I’m already late.’

  ‘Love you, honey.’

  ‘When do you get back?’

  ‘I land Wednesday at seven. Can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘Until then, amigo. Love ya more. And kiss Rob!’

  I hung up. There hadn’t been enough time to tell her about the texts from Liam. He’d sent one text late in the evening, asking if I was having a good time, but it had gone unanswered—I’d been busy. He was my most likely chance of a snog out here but it was beginning to bug me that he hadn’t actually asked me out. I could barely remember what he looked like or the sound of his voice. In fact, the more I tried to conjure his features, the more blurred he became. I read Rob’s text a few more times until I eventually fell asleep, phone next to me just in case Liam decided to actually ring. Pathetic, I know.

  Next morning, my phone showed one new message from Liam, asking how my ‘pretty self’ was feeling. If only he could see how un-pretty I look right now. But no matter how bad the hangover, it was never a chore to wake up in this beautiful bedroom—and this was my second-to-last morning of doing so. It was nearly time to leave LA, and I had no idea if I would ever be back. I had a few days left working for Mona in London, as she prepped for the BAFTAs, before I was going back to Smith’s.

  I was dreading the shop already. It felt like the start of a new term at school, as though I could barely remember the person I was when I left, and I didn’t even have a new pencil case to show for it. My eyes had been opened to a new world over here, and I didn’t want to slip straight back into my old one—besides, I didn’t even know if I had a job to return to. I was nervous about seeing Jas again, but the thought of seeing the Stick made me physically shudder. Without a doubt she would have spent a lot of time plotting how bad she was going to make my life.

  As I opened my bedroom door to head downstairs, I accidentally trod on a small box lying on the floor. A piece of folded-up paper lay next to it. At first I thought some jewellery from the suite must have fallen out of a bag somewhere along the way and Ana had put it there for me, but when I opened the paper it said, in swirly handwriting: ‘You’re a stylist now. M x’. I undid the box, and inside was a sweet little gold necklace with the letter ‘S’ on it. S for Stylist. I warmed the metal between my fingers, a huge smile on my face. It was classic Mona—she pushed me to the edge of despair, but gave enough to make me come running back. Unclasping the delicate gold catch, I put it on immediately, and admired myself in the bathroom mirror. It really was adorable. I read the note again, and then noticed something scribbled on the other side: ‘Does have to be returned when the PR asks for it, but yours to borrow until then’. Ah well. It’s the thought that counts.

  ‘Thank you, darling, you’re so organised,’ Mona said as I ended the call to British Airways, having confirmed our return flights to London. Compared with Mona, I suppose I was organised to a degree—you only had to look at the state of her filing and the whole array of hotel desk pads and Post-it notes she used as diaries to realise the concept was entirely foreign to her. And, this morning, she couldn’t find her wallet.

  ‘I’m sure I left it in the suite—it’s bound to be there, it was such a rush to leave for the premiere party and I’ve barely left the house since. Unless someone swiped it when I was, um, incapacitated.’ She tipped out the python bag to check for the umpteenth time that it wasn’t in there. Meanwhile, I had to pay for our flights, which weren’t cheap considering the last minute–ness of it all and the fact Mona refused to fly in any class inferior to Club.

  ‘And if it’s not in the suite tomorrow, I’ll call the bank,’ she continued, still rifling through travel-sized beauty products, hair clips, bangles, cigarette packets and other bits and bobs from the bag. ‘At the same time, I’ll add the flights onto your wages for the two weeks.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I was about wiping out my entire overdraft. My rent was due at home at the end of next week, and I certainly didn’t have enough to cover both. It had been a hectic morning, coordinating couriers to criss-cross through Beverly Hills, collecting gowns from clients and returning them to PRs or the W Hotel, where we’d finish the returns process before packing up and flying home to London. I wondered if it was time to broach the loans company message on Mona’s answerphone, but another text from Liam put paid to that. He’d been texting me audition updates all morning.

  ‘Jesus, it’s like Kim and Kanye over there,’ Mona said, mistakenly assuming I was reading a message from Rob. Having slept off her twenty-four-hour ‘food poisoning’ attack, she was, thankfully, now back to her punchy self. She seemed pleased I’d had a night out, and even more impressed that I’d spent it partying with someone as ‘cute’ as Rob. Her outlook was further improved when Caroline called to explain what had happened with Jennifer’s gown yesterday. Mona put her on speakerphone in the office.

  ‘Honestly, Mona, it was beyond stressful,’ Caroline said. ‘The driver had arrived and we were all set. She looked incredible in the Valentino, and I mean absolutely stunning. We were all ready to go and then Tamara popped a bottle of champagne so we could all toast Jen’s big night, but she was standing too close and the fucking fizz went right down Jennifer’s front.’

  I whipped my hand to my mouth and pressed down hard, afraid that loud, hysterical laughter might burst out. Mona gritted her teeth, seemingly also trying to stifle a snort.

  ‘All over her front, it flew. Totally ruined the gown, and you know as well as I do there is no way you take a hairdryer to a fabric that delicate. Thank God Amber had left us with the Oscar de la Renta, because I don’t know what we would have done otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, babe, that is awful! Tamara never should have done such a thing.’ Mona was enjoying the chance to lay in to her ex-assistant. ‘It’s in every rule book—don’t pop a cork close to a star, let alone a star in a Valentino gown. Jesus Christ, what was she thinking?’

  ‘I know—and believe me, she won’t be coming close to Jen in a gown again. Or Jen in anything, for that matter,’ Caroline continued. ‘She was livid, and you know Jen—she’s so nice. But we’re so grateful to Amber—she handled the situation with such grace yesterday, and we’re so thankful she had the foresight to leave the de la Renta, just in case. She’s a clever chick. Organised, too.’ I smiled with pride. Mona turned and gave me a wink, clocking that I was wearing the necklace. I stroked the smooth letter. My lucky talisman?
<
br />   Next morning, I arrived at LAX feeling all kinds of fabulous, pulling a large suitcase of dazzling fashion around the Tom Bradley International Terminal. Although no one who saw me would suspect it, the case was pulsating with a smorgasbord of silk, lace, satin and sequin-adorned gowns, crystal-encrusted shoes, exotic handbags and some seriously heavy-duty jewellery. Mona had sashayed off to check herself in at the Club desk, leaving me alone to negotiate the trauma of whether my huge cargo was over the twenty-three kilo allowance for World Traveller passengers.

  Approaching the bag drop area, I suddenly felt irrationally nervous—my palms became sweaty and my eyes darted around the check-in desks like an illegal immigrant making a bid for a better life as I tried to identify who looked like the friendliest steward. The warning signs on each desk left no doubt that there would be excess charges if luggage was over the allowance, and I had no idea what mine weighed. If I had to pay for the excess my card would almost certainly be declined, and, of course, Mona was nowhere to be seen. There’s nothing I can take out of this case. It all has to come with me. In my panicked state, I decided that if I was over the limit, I’d have no choice but to take some stuff out and wear it. The embellished Dolce & Gabbana and Chanel bags, a textured-leather Burberry jacket and the Cavalli jewellery were probably the heaviest items. Yes, I was fully prepared to resemble Elizabeth Taylor risen from the dead on board this flight, if necessity demanded. It was ironic really, considering the weight would be exactly the same on board the plane, but this was no time for clever remarks about airport baggage policies. I held my breath as the case was weighed and let it out slowly in relief as the nice woman on the desk slapped on a big, eye-catching orange ‘HEAVY’ sticker and pushed it through. As it disappeared into darkness on the conveyor belt, I prayed we would be safely reunited on the other side. Is Mona insured? I decided not to dwell on the thought as the case vanished into the ether. Thank God my mother isn’t here.

  Despite my increasingly stiff neck, a puncture in my scratchy neck pillow and the man next to me constantly flopping his head onto my shoulder, the flight passed reasonably quickly. Three mini-bottles of white wine and one of Mona’s horse-tranquilliser tablets helped me to achieve a few hours of broken sleep. When I woke, we were flying over the Thames—it snaked through the toy town beneath us like a long grey worm. The EastEnders theme tune played in my head and a warm feeling rippled through me. Home, sweet home. I’d be reunited with Vicky in a matter of hours and there was so much to discuss. I planned to see Mum and Dad tomorrow, and, if I asked really nicely and gave them some duty-free gin, they might cook a roast in the evening and I would savour every single mouthful, in between filling them in on my glamorous working holiday that might one day turn into a lucrative career. Mona certainly seemed to enjoy a high-flying lifestyle. Anyway, let’s face it, it was the only career development I’d had in a long while. Just as the seat-belt sign went on Mona appeared, her timing impeccable.

  ‘Get any sleep, babe?’ she asked. A black satin eye mask rested on top of her head, her lipstick was freshly applied—presumably because you never knew who you might bump into, wandering through Club en route to the cheap seats—and there was the usual strong waft of her pheromone-reactive scent.

  ‘A little. You?’

  ‘Eight hours—don’t you just love it when that happens?’ I grunted, as did most of the cattle-class passengers around me. ‘Just wanted to give you a heads-up that tomorrow’s going to be busy,’ she continued. ‘I caught up on a few emails and Wonderland Artists Agency have been in touch. Clive needs some help with an artist—an image change.’ She looked around the cabin, giving my fellow passengers a blatant once-over to deduce whether any of them were cool enough to care about what she was about to say. I leaned in closer as Mona whispered loudly, ‘It’s Miss P. She’s not cutting it in the charts since she won the show, and a new look is all part of the overhaul to turn her into a credible actress. She needs to go to the BAFTAs and make a splash.’

  An air hostess appeared behind Mona: ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but you need to return to your seat now please.’

  ‘Just a second.’ Mona flicked her away with a brusque hand gesture.

  ‘Ms Armstrong, the pilot has put on the seat-belt sign, so you must—’

  ‘There’s a studio booked on Sunday for a styling session ahead of the awards,’ Mona continued, ignoring the steward completely, ‘so we’ll need to do the ring rounds tomorrow. We’ll call some designers and pop to Selfridges to pick up some bits. No rest for the wicked!’

  ‘Ms Armstrong, I need you to return to your seat right now,’ said the air hostess with increasing sternness. ‘Please don’t make me ask you again.’

  Sixty pairs of tired, bloodshot eyes stared at Mona, who briefly held the hostess’s stony glare before realising there was little point in resisting. I’d already learned that the one thing Mona hated more than a badly made caffè macchiato was authority, especially wielded by someone sporting green eyeliner and wearing top-to-toe uniform polyester. As she was frogmarched down the plane, the Swarovski crystals on the back of her tracksuit caught the early-morning sun above the clouds, sending shafts of light around the cabin. My foggy brain tried to process what she had just said.

  I knew instantly who Clive was—a well-known music mogul and host of a highly successful TV music reality show—and Miss P was his winner and prodigy from last year. But … Miss P, a serious actress? It seemed unlikely. She had failed to set the music world alight so far and the BAFTAs was a serious event; not somewhere you’d expect to find a failed music reality show contestant. More pressing than that, though, all I could immediately think was: Bang goes my roast dinner.

  Part Three: London, The BAFTAs

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Vicky!

  ‘Vicky!’ I had been yelling through the letter box for the past five minutes.

  ‘Viiic-ky! Pleeease wake up, it’s bloody freezing out here!’ I’d almost forgotten how cold it was back home, and I was still dressed for LA. It was bright, though—the sky was almost cloudless—and the street had the crisp, metallic, unmistakable taste of London. I love this city. I hammered on the door again, harder. It was Wednesday, it was nearly 8:30 a.m.; she should be awake by now. She should be getting ready for work. Naturally, my phone had no power and I had buried my door keys somewhere within her giant suitcase, which I sure as hell wasn’t going to risk opening in the middle of the pavement at this time of the morning on a Kensal Rise backstreet. An opportunist would be peddling the lot on Portobello Market before you could say, ‘Call the fashion police.’

  ‘Vic? It’s not a nutter, it’s me. It’s Amber! Open up!’

  After what seemed an age a groggy Vicky came to the door. Her hair was a mess, and she looked a bit like a cave-woman.

  ‘You look as rough as I feel.’

  ‘Hungover, okay. Why so early? Thought your plane got in at seven,’ she said, wiping her sleep-filled eyes with the back of a finger and blinking like a newborn bat that had accidentally rolled out of its nest and into the sun.

  ‘Yes, seven in the morning. I’ve come straight from the airport,’ I gave her dishevelled appearance the once-over again. ‘I probably smell as bad as you do.’

  The pile of letters, unwanted leaflets and junk mail littering the communal hallway seemed even higher than when I’d left. I was suddenly seeing my life through new eyes. Vicky was barefoot, wearing her American Apparel tracksuit bottoms and a baggy white T-shirt. Halfway up our dusty stairs that hadn’t seen a Hoover in the whole two years we’d lived here—in fact, it was only just possible to tell the carpet had once been pink—she turned and looked at me as though she wanted to say something and then decided against it. She looked like she still had last night’s make-up on, but she still looked pretty—something only Vicky could get away with.

  ‘Bad hangover?’ I asked, despite the answer being plain as the day.

  ‘Bleurgh,’ she confirmed. ‘But so good to see your face, I’ve missed you
so much. I can’t believe it’s only been just over a week—it feels like forever. Come here.’ She stopped on the mini-landing and turned around, arms open. I dragged the heavy suitcase up behind me and set it down as she reached around my shoulders and engulfed me in a big, warm, slightly smelly bear hug.

  ‘Love you, honey,’ I said.

  ‘Love you, too. Best friends forever.’ She paused. ‘Urn …’ Her hand rested on our shabby front door. I noticed it was being held ajar by an Adidas trainer. It had a serious hinge on it, that door; I’d lost count of the number of times one of us had been locked out when it slammed shut. She lowered her voice to a quiet whisper. ‘There, um, don’t kill me, because my head can’t take it, but there, er, there might be someone else in here.’ She pulled a cringe expression and studied my face.

  ‘Might? Or definitely is?’ I said, clocking that the trainer in the doorway looked too big for Vicky’s size-five feet.

  ‘Er, pretty definitely.’

  ‘How come something tells me you’re not going to say you bought us a kitten?’

  ‘I wish that was it,’ she replied. ‘But I didn’t think you liked kittens. We could still get one if you like—you know I’d love one. But this thing, it’s, um, he’s, quite a lot bigger than a kitten.’ My jaw dropped open. ‘And before you say it—it’s not Simon.’

  Something had already told me it wasn’t Simon. Vicky was never this unkempt around Simon.

  ‘Vicky! You minx! What the—’ She shhhed me down to a quiet whisper again. ‘And on a school night?’

  ‘I had a few drinks with work people in Soho, and then a few of us ended up in The Shadow Lounge. It was such a laugh. And Jim from the art desk was there … and some of the guys in the club thought he was gay and were pestering him, so, well, we kind of snogged to show he wasn’t.’ She gripped my hand and came closer. I could smell the alcohol, still. ‘And it felt so good, we kind of carried on snogging, and he ended up here …’