The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  ‘What do you think I should do?’ I asked a few minutes later, as we left the cafe and headed back towards the shop, the Stick staring intently into the white, plastic lid on top of her coffee.

  ‘Do whatever you feel is right.’ Then she stopped and turned to me. ‘I just have to say, what you did to me wasn’t fair, Amber. The shoes in the window were blatantly a mistake. And you don’t care about fashion like I do. You don’t even own a McQueen skull scarf, for God’s sake. You should have stepped aside and offered me the job. I taught you everything you know about fashion.’

  For a few seconds, nagging guilt washed through me. Maybe I should just step aside now? But something made me resist. Besides, Vicky had got me into fashion way before I even met the Stick.

  ‘The shoes weren’t a mistake, actually,’ I said. My skin prickled, but didn’t give anything away. ‘Listen, if Mona needs an extra pair of hands while we’re in London, I’ll put your name forward,’ I offered. ‘That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘How generous,’ she huffed, before pulling up her hood, signalling she didn’t want to discuss it any more.

  Thankfully we had picked the closest coffee place to the shop, so we didn’t have to endure any more time in each other’s company and I didn’t have to tell any more lies. Kiki stopped by the newsagent to pick up Jas’s magazine.

  ‘I’ll see you back, can’t give Mona tepid coffee.’

  As I entered Smith’s, Mona and Jas came up from conversation. I noticed the full rail between them; there were some very sheer gowns I assumed had been selected for Miss P.

  ‘Loving this, Amber,’ Mona said, holding up a daring, barely there black creation that had more cutaway panels than actual fabric—only a couple of swirls covered the essential areas.

  ‘Mona’s just been telling me how brilliant you were with Jennifer Astley last weekend,’ Jas said, ever the thoughtful boss.

  ‘It was luck, really.’ I smiled, secretly wishing the Stick was hearing this.

  ‘Anyway, haven’t you got a date to be getting to, babe?’ Mona said, winking at Jas. ‘Love bloomed in LA for this one, you know.’

  I squirmed. Jas laughed in disbelief. ‘For Amber? Well, I never. I thought you looked glowing!’

  ‘Oh, she’s glowing all right,’ Mona added, elbowing me.

  This was like being humiliated by two extremely well-dressed, crazy aunts.

  ‘You go meet lover boy,’ Mona ordered, now holding the door open for me.

  ‘He’s not my—well, as I haven’t taken my coat off yet …’ I smiled. I was itching to get going.

  ‘Meet me in Soho House later on, I’ll text when I’m there,’ she continued. ‘Bye now. Go!’

  Just as I looped my scarf around my neck again, the Stick came back through the open door.

  ‘I’ll call you, Jas,’ I promised, and left them to it, my heart racing at the prospect of meeting Rob and clearing things up over Liam. Discussing Mona’s offer with Jas would just have to wait.

  There he was, in the window of Pret A Manger. I took a few paces back, snatching a look at my reflection in a shop window and hurriedly running my fingers through my hair to swish it up. It was really good to see him again, just the two of us. I’d known Rob for less than a fortnight, but being in LA together made it feel that we’d shared so much. Spotting me, he seemed a little agitated, jumping off a stool and dusting some bits of croissant off the one next to him, before motioning for me to sit down. I felt fresh embarrassment for the bad kiss he’d witnessed.

  ‘I ordered us both a hot chocolate, hope that’s okay.’ He nudged a paper cup towards me. This wasn’t exactly the most thrilling location for our reunion, but it would do. ‘And thanks for this,’ he said, as though I was doing him a big favour just by turning up. His tone puzzled me slightly.

  ‘It’s fine, it’s great to see you. Thanks for the drink.’ I thought of the twinkles text again. I wondered if he remembered that evening as vividly as I did. It seemed funny that out there we were drinking Bellinis at amazing parties and here we were, back in the real world, sipping hot chocolate in Pret.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ he continued, his voice faltering. ‘It’s just that I wanted to get your opinion, your being a stylist and everything.’ He delved into his pocket for something. Why was he acting so nervy? He was making me feel on edge, too.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been hitting the Primark sales,’ I teased. ‘Have you bought some really bad-taste jumpers you want me to tell you have to go back?’

  ‘Ha—not quite.’

  ‘A bargain’s not a bargain if you don’t actually like it in the first place,’ I said.

  I caught sight of a slightly crumpled pale turquoise bag peeking out of his deep coat pocket. Typical boy—not wanting to be seen carrying around anything so dainty and pretty. Some shop bags are almost as precious as their contents, and this was one of them. Yes, this bag was easily recognisable by its colour alone. It was a Tiffany bag, the holy grail of special-occasion jewellery. I watched in confusion as he hurriedly untied the pretty matching ribbon and pulled out a small box from inside. Why is he showing me a beautiful little Tiffany box? He’s not proposing to me in Pret, is he? He saw me snogging another guy and now he wants to put a ring on my finger? Surely not. I felt breathless, slightly panicked, yet strangely elated at the same time.

  He looked around to check we weren’t being overlooked, and then he slowly, carefully, teased open the box. There, between us, twinkling brightly as the shop lights caught its perfectly cut edges, was the most beautiful sparkling diamond engagement ring I had ever seen in my life—well, ever since my sister showed me hers seven years ago and it reduced me to tears. The brilliant stone was cradled in a tapered platinum band. It was exquisite in its simplicity. A huge lump rose to my throat. I felt sick.

  ‘Wow,’ was all I could muster. Then I looked up at him, and in a heartbeat I realised that he was definitely not proposing to me.

  ‘So you like it?’ he asked, his expression intensely earnest. My stomach flipped as he searched my face for a response.

  ‘You mean, will she like it?’ I said, trying as hard as I could to stop my voice from trembling.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s the idea.’ His shoulders dropped. ‘I’m not proposing to a man, Amber. I thought we’d cleared that up.’

  I made a pathetic attempt at a grin.

  ‘She’ll love it,’ I finally managed to gasp, in as normal a voice as I could muster, trying to pretend that I didn’t really want to get off this chair and run away. How could I have not known he has a girlfriend—a serious girlfriend that he’s planning to propose to? How could I have been so stupid? So bloody stupid?

  ‘It’s not too simple?’ he asked. ‘Or too obvious? I felt like such a cliché in there.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s beautiful—a classic.’ I looked at it again. The sick feeling had returned with a vengeance. My physical response startled me. This was the kind of ring I would choose for myself, if I was ever able to. Half of me wanted to swipe it out of its stupid, perfect little box and throw it across Pret. Perhaps a homeless person would find it—someone who really needed it. Tears began to build up behind my eyes. I excused myself for the loo.

  As I washed my hands I took a moment to stare at my pathetic, crestfallen face in the mirror—it was one of those fake mirrors that made your head appear contorted. Holding my hands to my cheeks, I looked a bit like Edvard Munch’s The Scream, and screaming was exactly what I felt like doing. I wondered why they put these unhelpful fake mirrors in public toilets. To stop suicide attempts?

  It hit me all at once: I felt strongly for this guy, this bloke I’d only known for a short space of time but with whom I’d shared so much. Vicky could see it, even someone as self-obsessed as Mona could see it. So why couldn’t I? I guess a little part of me had hoped that he might make a move on me; tell me that I was the person he’d been searching for and create a Hollywood-style happy ending for us. Of course I would have reciprocated if he
’d tried to kiss me on that terrace on Golden Globes night. But no, the Tinseltown fairy tale was well and truly shattered into a billion little pieces now.

  Things started falling into place; Rob was just being friendly when he invited me out on Globes night. He’d never really answered the ‘girlfriend’ question, so I couldn’t complain he’d led me on. The ‘twinkles’ text was just his way of being matey. And when he saw me with Liam in Starbucks? It didn’t bother him in that way at all. He probably found it as funny as Fran and Shaggy clearly did. In fact he probably thinks that’s how I normally kiss! I felt such a gargantuan fool for letting a little part of myself dare to imagine I might mean anything more to Rob. It felt as though I’d taken a bullet to the heart.

  I shook my head and the ugly reflection did the same. Why are you so rubbish with boys, Amber Green? A ‘car crash’ when it comes to relationships, as Vicky had once helpfully pointed out, congratulating herself on yet another name-based pun at my expense. But the label had stuck in my mind. It was no coincidence my mother bought me a double electric blanket for Christmas, considerately pointing out that it was ‘perfect for you, Amber, because it has an energy-saving facility—you can turn one side off’. Thanks, Mum. I’m destined to sleep in a single bed forever.

  I’d been in the loo for five minutes now and the last thing I wanted was to give Rob the impression something was wrong, or that I had a dicky tummy. I took a deep breath and mentally pulled myself together. I’m going to go out there and congratulate him properly, like a good ‘mate’ should. I even spared a thought for whether Hallmark made cards to mark this kind of occasion—‘Good luck with the proposal! Hope she says no!’ I wondered what Rob’s imminent fiancée might be like—was she Cambridge-educated, fashionable, blessed with a cute button nose, dainty feet and a high metabolism? I decided my best tactic was to act not bothered.

  ‘So how are the BAFTAs shaping up?’ he asked when I returned, seemingly also keen to change the subject, and thank God he didn’t move it onto Liam.

  ‘Quiet,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit worried about it, but Mona seems confident things always happen at the last minute.’ I’d wondered if we were feeling the repercussions of sick-gate—if the stylist had become more infamous than her clothes. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go and meet her at Soho House now. She’s just asked me to work with her until after the Oscars.’

  ‘Do it! I’ll be out there, too, we’ll have some fun,’ he said, eyes shining—the eyes that I had a crushing feeling I was falling in love with. ‘If you thought the Globes were mad, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’

  ‘Will you be filming Mona still?’ I asked, knowing my boss was unlikely to give me any details until the last minute.

  ‘It’s up for discussion.’ Rob fiddled with the rim of his cardboard cup. ‘I’ll be with Tim, mostly. But it’ll be much more fun working with her again if you’re there—you made it all happen in LA.’ He was beginning to relax into the old Rob again—I didn’t like the nervous, nearly engaged version. But the thought of LA already felt infinitely less fun knowing that Rob would be there, clearly marked ‘taken’. LA Liam was a poor substitute, though I did momentarily wonder if it was possible to find previously deleted contacts on an iPhone. Perhaps the distraction will do me good. Then a hideous thought crept into my mind. Next, Rob will be asking for my advice about what he should wear to get married. Even worse, maybe she’ll be in LA, too, the Tiffany ring on her slender finger, smiling smugly, like the luckiest girl on the fucking planet. I definitely wasn’t going to send him a friend request now. It would be far, far too painful.

  ‘Anyway, when are you planning to do the deed?’ I asked, trying my best to look sincere.

  ‘Not sure—when the time feels right. I might wait a few weeks. We’ll see. So you’ve got to keep it a secret, okay?’

  ‘Safe with me!’ I faked a smile and put my scarf on again. I needed fresh air.

  As I walked to Soho House to meet Mona, I called my mum, desperate to hear a comforting voice.

  ‘Darling! Dad and I were just talking about you, in fact—hold on a minute—Richard!’ I had to move the phone away from my ear. I’d forgotten what a piercingly loud shout my mother had.

  ‘Amber?’ Dad picked up another receiver. I hated three-way calls.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘I’m still here, too!’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘We were wondering if you’d got back safely, and what was going on with that Rhona woman?’

  ‘It’s Mona.’

  ‘Nora’s concert was so sweet last night—honestly, your sister and I could barely hold it together when she did her solo!’

  ‘Like gibbering wrecks they were, snivelling into their sleeves,’ Dad laughed. ‘But anyway, tell us about your trip. Did you meet Michael Caine? He won something, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did indeed, Dad, good skills, but no, afraid I didn’t get to meet him. I didn’t actually go to the awards—we watched them on TV.’

  ‘You flew all the way to Los Angeles to watch an awards ceremony on television?’ Mum sounded flabbergasted. ‘I’ve told the whole of the firm you were there!’

  ‘What Mona does is more behind-the-scenes—dressing people for the red carpet,’ I explained. There was silence on the other end while they took this in.

  ‘Can’t they dress themselves?’ Dad asked eventually. ‘Honestly, do these people have someone to do everything for them? Do they never have to think for themselves?’

  ‘I don’t expect you to get it, Dad, but there’s a lot more to it than putting someone’s head through a jumper.’

  ‘Yes, Richard, it’s high fashion,’ said Mum.

  ‘But it went really well, and Mona’s asked me to stay on with her for a bit longer to help her through the BAFTAs and the Oscars, too.’

  The conversation swung to the inevitable. ‘Well, I hope she’s paying you handsomely for all this jetting about?’

  ‘Not sure yet—I’m about to meet her to talk through the logistics.’

  ‘Well, don’t sell yourself short, girl, or she’ll have me to answer to.’

  ‘Okay, Mum, I’ll let you know. Listen, I’d better go, I’m nearly there.’

  ‘All right, darling, but when will we see you?’

  ‘Hopefully this week, once the BAFTAs are over, I’ll come round. Can we have a roast?’

  ‘I’ll get your dad on to it.’ The words felt as good as a hug.

  ‘Amazing, love you.’

  ‘Love you, too,’ they both said in unison.

  ‘Oh and Nora’s got a recital next Wednesday, perhaps you’ll make it this time?’ Mum added.

  ‘I’ll try. Bye.’

  When I reached Soho House, I felt frozen to the bone. The Christmas glitz had been stripped from the streets, and now it was just cold, grey and on the verge of snowing. Only this wouldn’t be the lovely fluffy white stuff that falls in the countryside—it would be the London snow that turns into grey sludge as soon as it lands, bringing the public transport system to an immediate halt. Snow doesn’t have any benefits at all in London, unless, of course, you live near Primrose Hill and have time to Instagram photos of yourself making snow angels all day long. It was getting colder, seemingly by the second. The thought of the warm LA breeze was definitely appealing.

  Mona had secured a spot in the Circle Bar and there were two glasses of champagne on the table in front of her, one nearly drained. A candle burned enticingly. It was cosy, warm and conducive to celebration.

  ‘So, how was cute Rob, babe—has he made a lunge for you yet?’ she asked, direct as usual, as I pulled off my layers and laid them down on an empty part of the bench seat next to us. I felt glad that she hadn’t witnessed the lunge event a couple of days ago. I’d never live it down.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said, reaching for my drink. Alcohol was exactly what I needed right now.

  ‘Well, have you lunged for him, then?’

  ‘Not after today,’ I sighed, necking a healthy glug.

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t tell me he’s gay—what a waste!’

  ‘Worse,’ I replied. ‘He’s about to get engaged. He showed me the Tiffany ring he’s bought her.’

  ‘Tiffany? For the love of Lanvin, how obvious,’ she scoffed. ‘The poor girl.’ Sometimes I had to love Mona. On this occasion she managed to say exactly what I needed to hear. A waitress passed and Mona ordered a bottle of champagne.

  ‘I thought we’d celebrate tonight,’ she declared, taking me aback.

  ‘Did Jennifer come good for the BAFTAs?’

  ‘She did indeed.’ She smiled, as the waitress plonked two fresh glasses on the table. ‘Caroline called this afternoon. She’s flying in tomorrow and wants to wear the Valentino, easy-peasy. I’ve said you’ll swing by the Dorchester on Sunday morning to see what we can do accessories-wise.’

  ‘This is great news!’ It also meant that there would surely be cash coming in—money was playing heavily on my mind. ‘But what about Miss P? I thought you needed me to assist with her on Sunday?’

  ‘Leave her to me,’ she instructed. ‘Anyway—there’s something else we need to toast this evening.’ Bang on cue, the waitress filled our glasses with fizzing cold champagne. I lifted mine in anticipation. ‘I had a little chat with Jas, after you left,’ she continued. ‘And she said she’d be more than happy for you to continue on with me for the next few weeks. It’ll all be done in just over a fortnight and you can go back to your little London life. Isn’t that great news?’

  I was horrified she’d gone behind my back. I didn’t know what to say as she lifted her glass to meet mine. I felt furious she’d taken the decision for me, leaving me with no control over my own life. What if I’d decided against it? And what about my money?

  ‘But I thought we were going to talk about it some more?’ I said, feeling my cheeks sizzle. I hated confrontation, especially with someone as up and down as Mona.