by Rosie Nixon
‘It’s not Burberry, Roland Mouret, Victoria Beckham, or any designer you will have heard of,’ Vicky continued, before anyone could ask. ‘But, here in London, we consider ourselves fashion-forward—we like to be trendsetters on the red carpet—and, in all honesty, Amber, myself and—’ her voice faltered, but she held it together ‘—Mona, we all thought you couldn’t do better than to wear an emerging London label like Star-Crossed to the awards tonight.’ She stopped and stood there, like a model striking a pose on the runway. We all looked her up and down again.
I felt as though a blood vessel might be about to burst on the side of my head. You couldn’t deny it was an exquisitely tailored dress, clingy in all the right places; it was sexy but demure, too, hanging just below the knee. It was classic, but with subtle details to create some interest. And best of all, the black crepe fabric would be sure to withstand the most torrential downpour the heavens could throw. There would be no foam or water damage with this little baby. Still nobody said anything.
‘I’ve brought a wide selection of the most stunning accessories to set it off perfectly,’ I offered, feeling the need to fill the silence and support my friend. After all, Vicky had provided my only life raft. ‘I think we should keep it all British—perhaps some gem earrings to add a pop of colour, and a playful Lulu Guinness clutch perhaps. We’ve some stunning Nicholas Kirkwood sandals—so many options, in fact …’ We both stood before the trio, wide-eyed, like two young birds trying not to fall out of the nest. Jennifer’s eyes were still glued to Vicky. All of us held our breath.
‘Do you know what,’ Jennifer began, her expression softening ever so slightly, ‘it’s not something I would have immediately been drawn to, but I hear exactly what you’re saying. London is a very different fashion landscape to Los Angeles. Isn’t that right, Caroline?’
Caroline stepped forward and spoke: ‘And the dress is stunning, I noticed it when I first saw you. I think the girls are onto something, Jen—the British are so patriotic, they love nothing more than shouting about their own. I think it would go down well if you were to wear an emerging Brit to the BAFTAs.’ Go, Caroline! That’s three against one.
We fixed on Nicole, who was standing very still, a finger on her lips as she took her turn to appraise the dress. My phone vibrated from inside my pocket, distracting me. I ignored it, but it rang back immediately. A text from Rob followed: In reception, let me know when’s good to come up? x. In reception? My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Has he tracked me down and come to tell me that the engagement ring was a terrible mistake and he and whatever-her-name-is have split up because he’s realised he’s fallen in love with me …? Another text: PS. Fran’s getting impatient!
Great. Mona had gone and arranged for the film crew to come and not bothered to tell me—or, more importantly, to tell them filming was off because she was ‘sick’.
‘What’s up?’ Vicky whispered, noticing the panic working its way across my already stressed-out face.
‘Even from her sickbed, Mona’s managed to cock things up,’ I whispered back. ‘Rob’s downstairs, with the bloody film crew.’
Finally Nicole gave her seal of approval to the dress on Vicky’s back. ‘I think it could work, too,’ she said, stepping forwards to rub some of the peplum fabric between her fingers. ‘And this means you could save the Valentino for the big one, Jen. The Oscars are infinitely more dressy than the BAFTAs. And the weather will be better.’
‘It will work beautifully with the updo, as well,’ Caroline added, gently spraying down a stray strand of hair with the large can of Elnett permanently in her hand.
And so it was decided. Vicky would offer up the actual clothes on her back in the name of saving Jennifer Astley’s red-carpet moment.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Chapter Nineteen
I felt a hot flush flow through my body. Standing behind the door was Rob, Fran with the bob and Shaggy, two cases of camera equipment in his hands.
‘I’ve been trying to call, thought you must have your phone on silent,’ Rob said. Damn him for being so good-looking, and damn my flushed cheeks.
‘Hold on,’ I whispered loudly, ‘it’s just, Mona didn’t tell me any filming was planned for today, plus she’s not actually here, so we weren’t expecting you. And I’m not sure there’s going to be time.’
‘Psst, Amber!’ Vicky’s head popped around the bathroom door in the hallway, making the four of us look in her direction. At the end of her bare arm, held in a pincer grip, was the black dress. ‘Can you take it to Jennifer, please? I’m kind of—not very decent right now.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Fran, her foot in the door. ‘Seems like the perfect opportunity to shoot some footage.’
‘Oh—hi,’ said Vicky from behind the bathroom door, as she clocked Rob for the first time and clearly liked what she saw. She offered a limp wave with a bare arm, no doubt practically naked from the neck down. Suddenly Fran was barging past me, into the suite. Thankfully, Nicole came scuttling down the corridor to intercept her before she got anywhere near Jennifer.
‘Hey, hey, lady! What’re you doing in here? This is a private suite.’
I swallowed a dry lump of nothing and whisked the dress from Vicky to take it to Jennifer. I really did not want this caught on camera. When I returned from presenting her with a dress still warm from Vicky’s body, Nicole had exercised her pushy publicist powers to the full and the camera crew were back out in the corridor, chain pulled against the slightly ajar door to keep them at bay. Shaggy was sitting on the floor, Rob was pacing and Fran was furiously holding her phone to her ear—no doubt trying to contact Mona.
‘This is so unprofessional,’ she muttered as I removed the chain to speak to her, like a prison guard. ‘Rob said everything was set with Mona—and now we’ve wasted nearly two hours getting here and waiting around for nothing.’
‘Listen, Jennifer just wants to get ready in peace this afternoon, as there’s not much time. But I could ask Mona if you can pop in on Miss P, who we’re also styling for the awards? I’m heading there after this and it’s only round the corner.’ It was the best I could offer, and I didn’t want to land Rob in trouble for the mix-up. She and Rob glanced at each other.
‘Sounds good, Amber, let’s do it,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the van out front, so we can all go together?’
‘Give me ten minutes to finish up with Jennifer and call Mona and I’ll be out. See you downstairs.’
Returning to the lounge, I tried Mona’s mobile but it went straight to answerphone—quelle surprise. My eye was drawn to the pouffe where a copy of Heat sat, Beau Belle’s name and face jumping out from the top right-hand corner in a bright pink, shouty font. As I covertly read the headline: ‘Beau Belle and Trey Jones latest: Is the wedding off?’, I was relieved to find Caroline and Nicole making appreciative noises at Jennifer, who was admiring herself in the full-length mirror positioned close to the natural light.
‘Wow,’ said Nicole.
‘You look beautiful,’ Caroline agreed.
‘It fits like a glove,’ sighed Jennifer, contentedly.
I stepped forwards to do the stylist thing, remembering everything I had seen Mona do, securing a delicate clasp above the zip, gently tucking in the label and fluffing out the peplum. Without time to lay out all the accessories and shoes in their perfect columns as we had done in LA, I had set the case down on the floor. I knelt down next to it and began pulling pieces out like a children’s entertainer with a suitcase full of props. Luckily I had brought plenty of options. I fished out a pair of black pointed high courts with a thin gold heel by Nicholas Kirkwood.
‘He’s the man of the moment in the British shoe scene,’ I said, glad I could impart something that made me sound more experienced than I was. ‘Or if you want to make more of a statement, which I think you can with this dress, these are really special.’ I held up another pair of Kirkwoods, a pair of laser-cut black sandals with iridescent appliqué.
Jennifer perched on the sofa to try them on. I felt my palms grow clammy with excitement, as she stood up and moved towards the mirror. They were spot on.
‘Stunning!’ she declared. ‘And I can actually walk in them. What about jewellery?’ I was one step ahead now, sifting through the carefully packaged boxes and little bags, passing over some pretty designs by Oscar de la Renta and Carolina Bucci because they didn’t have the British association, and finally settling on a python cuff by Burberry. I felt like a presenter on QVC as I showed it to Jennifer.
‘Love it!’ she exclaimed, stealing the piece from my hands.
Caroline helped her put it on and we all gazed at the vision of hip home-grown style before us. She looked classy and chic—the embodiment of her signature style—but it was also an outfit that packed a punch and would not fall foul of any flooding.
‘And then we just need to keep the clutch simple and cool,’ I added, relieved to be on the home straight as I pulled out a silver purse by Anya Hindmarch. ‘Voila.’
I handed it to Jennifer, who held it expertly, striking a well-honed pose in front of the mirror once more.
‘Perfect. Thank you so much, Amber.’ She turned and gave me a kiss, in the air just above each cheek, which I took to mean she was pleased. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
‘Right, time for some touch-ups,’ declared Nicole, clapping her hands together, as Jennifer was whisked off into the makeshift beauty salon by Caroline. ‘And, Amber, you’ll be on the carpet, won’t you? Just to ensure everything’s in place? I’m going to be super-busy handling the media and it’s Caroline’s wedding anniversary today, so she can’t hang around.’
I hesitated and looked down at my jeans, inappropriately dressed yet again for a glamorous event. ‘Of course—whatever I can do to help.’
‘Great, come and jump in the car with us—we’ll be ready to leave at five-thirty.’
‘See you then.’
As I repacked the suitcase and zipped it up, I pinched the copy of Heat and stuffed it in, too. It didn’t seem like Jennifer’s kind of reading material and I was desperate to know what was going on with Beau. And then it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Vicky in a while.
Lurking in the corridor just outside the bathroom was Vicky, looking like a posh flasher in a white towelling Dorchester dressing gown and her Steve Maddens. I couldn’t help but giggle.
‘Well, what else was I supposed to do?’ she said, through gritted teeth and a fake grin as Nicole crossed the corridor and did a double take.
‘Keep your gob shut and pretend it’s all part of the plan,’ I muttered, giving Nicole a wave. All fine here! ‘And a bloody great plan it was. You saved me today, honey. Big time. Seriously, thank you so, so much.’
‘You owe me one.’ She softened.
‘I owe you times a million and I know it. I would say I’ll get you a drink, if you were drinking. Do you want to wear my coat?’
‘I can’t believe we’re smuggling you out of the Dorchester in a stolen bathrobe,’ I whispered as Vicky legged it out of the lift back into reception and we scarpered through one of the side doors to a few raised eyebrows, but mainly unnoticed, thanks to the arrival of Joan Collins out front. With just over an hour before the public pens would be filled to capacity and the BAFTAs red carpet at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden declared open, we all jumped in the production van and darted round the corner to pop in on Miss P.
Inside a discreet apartment-block entrance, a block down from the Grosvenor House Hotel, was a rabbit warren of corridors and sleek black doors to expensive suites, used mostly for short-term lets to the wealthy. I rang the doorbell, feeling like a travelling salesman with my trusty suitcase beside me. Vicky had started to shiver and I wondered how I was going to explain her lack of clothes to Miss P’s management team within. Heavy dubstep was blaring from a sound system and a cool-looking girl barely out of her teens, with short neon-pink hair, opened the door.
‘Hi,’ I shouted above the racket. ‘I’m Amber, assistant to Mona Armstrong.’
The girl looked at me blankly. Is she stoned?
‘Miss P’s stylist?’ I shouted.
‘Yeah?’ replied the girl, sucking in her cheeks, one of which was pierced.
‘I’ve come to see that everything’s okay.’
‘Okay? With what?’ she replied. It would help if you turned the sound down.
‘The dress! Has Miss P chosen her dress from the selection we sent over?’
Fran made an impatient tut behind me. The girl opened the door a little wider and I clocked a familiar bottle of green pond water on a sideboard just inside. It was busy in there, more like a Brits after-party than preparation for the BAFTAs.
‘Someone’s here for the stylist!’ she called out over her shoulder, begrudgingly ushering us in. A few people turned around, and at the end of a large room I got a glimpse of Miss P, in a very revealing dress. She looked even shorter than I’d imagined. From within the room, between a multitude of people standing around, a familiar face began making its way towards me. No, it can’t be.
‘Bloody hell, isn’t that the Stick?’ said Vicky, chin on my shoulder, trying to hide her outfit. The Stick strutted towards me as if she owned the place; she was more elaborately dressed than the talent, clearly in her element. Aren’t those the Balenciaga spiked heels she’d been coveting in Smith’s? And the next season Marc Jacobs I spied in the stockroom?
‘Oh my God, what is she wearing?’ the Stick said, staring at Vicky’s spa guest-cum-hooker outfit. Defiantly, Vicky pulled on her towelling belt and stood up straighter.
‘More to the point—what are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘Mona asked me, and I was happy to help,’ she replied, all sweetness and light. ‘I might have known it wasn’t you who put me forward.’
‘Kiki’s here!’ I shouted into the phone, far enough down the corridor to be able to hear myself think.
‘I had no choice,’ Mona blasted back, with the venom usually reserved for her sacked members of staff—a select rank it suddenly seemed very appealing to join. ‘You’re looking after Jennifer, so I had to ask Jas to loan me Kiki for the day. It was my only option. It’s Sunday—she didn’t mind.’ I’m not worried about Jas’s staffing issues.
‘Fine,’ I muttered into the phone, loud enough for the Stick to hear, ‘I’ll leave it to her, then. To be honest, I’ve had enough for today.’ I was incredulous. After the revelation at Soho House and now today, I was sick of Mona’s games. And there seemed to be no trace of the Norovirus in her voice now. Maybe the Stick is more suited to this life, anyway. Perhaps we should trade places after all. I really wasn’t sure about the idea of a barely there side-boob gown on Miss P, anyway. It just didn’t seem respectful at a prestigious awards ceremony like the BAFTAs.
‘Oh, and don’t let the film crew anywhere near our clients today,’ Mona barked down the phone.
‘Bit late, Mona, they’re already here.’ I glanced over my shoulder at Fran’s pinched face.
‘Well, get them out. Clive will go nuts if Miss P appears on any show other than his own. Seriously, Amber, use your brain.’
The Stick approached and stopped right in front of my face: ‘Listen, hate to do this to you, but management is getting twitchy about too many hangers-on in the suite.’ She ran a hand through her freshly blow-dried hair, Marc Jacobs bangles rattling next to my ear. ‘So I think it’s best if you leave.’ She looked across at our motley crew, just as I noticed Shaggy holding his camera, red light blinking, indicating he was filming us. ‘All of you.’
The gormless girl with the pink hair was still holding the door open.
‘The dress fits okay?’ I asked, peering inside, clinging on to a shred of professionalism.
‘Yes, I’ve got it all sorted—she looks in-cred. Goi
ng to blow the boring gowns out of the water—just you wait.’
Defeated, I put my arm through Vicky’s, turned on my Uggs and stormed down the corridor, our entourage of Fran, Rob and Shaggy in tow.
‘Bitch,’ mumbled Vicky as we left.
Outside the apartment block, Vicky belted the dressing gown even tighter and pulled its shallow collar up around her ears, though it did little to protect her from the biting cold.
‘Well, she seemed pleased to see us,’ she said.
‘What a cow,’ I muttered. ‘But I can’t be bothered to let her get to me any more.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Vicky, digging me in the ribs. ‘At least you weren’t the one looking like a dick in a dressing gown. It’s difficult to be hard when you’re wearing fluffy white towelling.’
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Rob, joining our group. ‘The not letting her get to you bit, I mean. I’m loving the outfit—is it Helmut Lang?’ he asked Vicky.
‘No, cheeky, Dorchester Collection, actually,’ she replied, smiling.
Fran with the bob rolled her eyes. ‘Well, if we’re not going to be getting anything done today, I’m off,’ she declared, to our relief.
‘Sounds like pub-o’clock,’ said Shaggy, putting the cases back into the van. ‘Leave you with the wheels.’ He handed the keys to Rob.
‘Catch you all tomorrow, then,’ Rob said. Despite myself, I was pleased the others were leaving.
‘This is Rob from the documentary, as you might have guessed,’ I said, turning to Vicky. It felt as though I should make a proper introduction. ‘And, Rob—Vicky, my flatmate.’
‘I’ve heard lots about you,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t hear about your unusual taste in clothes …’
