The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, my head reeling. Surely someone would have heard if anything really bad had happened? ‘I’ll keep trying her, too. There’s got to be a simple explanation, maybe, maybe she’s just run out of juice and she’ll turn up any second?’

  ‘Please, Amber, call me back straight away. I mean it.’

  When I finally looked up I found myself staring into the cold, hard eyes of a customs officer, asking me for the second time where I had travelled from today. For a few long seconds I couldn’t actually remember. I half-hoped he’d drag me aside for further questioning, forcing me to escape the soap opera my life had become. With no response from Mona’s number when I tried it several times in a row, and nothing on email, instant messenger or any form of social media, I found myself getting into a taxi and burning up La Cienega to the Chateau Marmont, to help Jennifer into the Valentino gown. Wearing my onesie.

  It felt like Groundhog Day as Nicole came to the door of the penthouse suite, her face a scary shade of stern.

  ‘Your boss …’ She shook her head. ‘I swear to you, she is never going to work in this town—or any other town, come to think of it—after today. It’s totally unprofessional. Has she no idea how important today is to Jennifer? To all of us? It would be a joke, if only it was the slightest bit funny.’ Then she noticed my outfit, and pulled a face like she’d eaten something rotten.

  ‘I agree with you, Nicole,’ I said, trying to keep my temper under control. I didn’t want to get into an argument, but I couldn’t let her walk all over me for something that was not at all my fault. I’d just about had it with Mona and her dramas, too. ‘With all due respect, I wasn’t meant to be working today, so I’m only here—straight off a flight, as you may have noticed—to help you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to get changed and then I don’t think we’ve got a lot of time.’ I stormed past her, dragging my suitcase and trying my damnedest to look both dignified and pissed off, wearing a slightly smelly onesie.

  I set the suitcase down on the bathroom floor. Funny, the zips were in a different position to how I remembered them. As I peeled them open, a cold panicky sensation washed through me. I flipped open the top and the horrible truth hit me straight away. This is not my suitcase. Shit shit shit! I slammed the foam lid down and bit my lip so hard I almost drew blood. Then I tried to calm myself and opened it again. Perhaps I’m hallucinating. I peeked inside. It still wasn’t my case. Could today get any worse? My mind raced. There was no way I had time to get back to the airport in hope that my case was still there for a straight swap. Now I had to add calling Lost Luggage to my ever-expanding ‘to do’ list. Maybe there’s something in here I can borrow, anyway … just for a couple of hours … I checked that the door was locked, and began peeling off the top layer of items—a blanket, a baby’s changing mat, more blankets. Surely there are some clothes in here? What kind of person travels without clothes? I finally reached some garments, but when I pulled them out they were all miniature—a host of onesies, vests and other outfits in a range of sizes suitable from newborn to age five. Everything was more than twenty years too small for me. I looked at the luggage tag: behind clear plastic was a business card: Sarah-Louise Moore, Head Buyer, Mothercare. I slumped back onto my heels and breathed out deeply. I looked down at myself, at my outfit that was, ironically, basically a giant Babygro. Looks like you and me are together for the long haul. I decided to hold my head high and make like it was all planned.

  Thankfully the weather conditions outside were LA perfect and the strapless, scarlet Valentino gown looked breathtaking on Jennifer. She had been gifted some incredible sparkling Christian Louboutin heels, and any crisis over suitable lingerie seemed to have gone away. The PR from Chopard had sent over a pair of stunning white-gold, twelve-carat diamond-drop earrings and two vintage diamond bracelets, complete with their own bodyguard, to accessorise it. A security guard was positioned in the hallway outside Jennifer’s bedroom, looking like an Oscar nominee himself in an immaculate black suit. Jennifer’s hair was in a beautiful, soft updo, a diamond clip, also from the fabled jewellery house, glinting at the back. Everything about her look was a notch higher in the glamour stakes than it had been for the BAFTAs and Golden Globes. She was Hollywood romance personified.

  With still no news from Mona, we finally left the Chateau for the short drive to the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood. As we neared the foot of the red carpet, fashionably late (but not too late, so Jennifer was sure to arrive in the throng of the excitement along with the night’s other big names), we joined a long queue of limos with blacked-out windows. The roar of the crowds grew louder as we crept closer to the venue. I wondered who was in the cars in front and behind us. Brad and Angelina, perhaps? Catherine and Michael? The atmosphere in the car was tense. We were all lost in our own worlds, concentrating on the job we each had to do on Hollywood’s biggest night; plus I had the additional worry about my lost suitcase and how I was going to explain to Mona that thousands of pounds worth of borrowed shoes and accessories were currently missing without trace. If Mona is still alive that is.

  Sensing the unease among us, Caroline flicked on the TV in the back of the limo so we could watch the red-carpet arrivals whilst we queued. Ryan Seacrest, all tanned face and cheesy grin, enthusiastically addressed us: ‘Tonight, back by popular demand, E! has our 360-degree fashion camera here on the red carpet to give you a detailed view of all the grand fête fashions from the star-studded red carpet. E! is here to bring you every buzzworthy moment!’ His head kept twitching, eyes excitedly darting around the setting behind him, awash with instantly recognisable faces. ‘And I can see some of this evening’s nominees for the big categories arriving now—don’t go anywhere!’ he shrieked. I swallowed hard. Talk about pressure.

  When at last we reached the entrance; the car doors were suddenly flung open and men in black suits helped us out. The roar of the crowds reverberated around my head and my heart pounded harder. The scale of it all was so much bigger than I had imagined. It was like a giant film set, complete with lighting rigs, stadium-style stands for the public and the widest red carpet I’d ever seen, buzzing with the ultimate cast. We all hung back so that Jennifer could make her entrance. One long leg after the other unfurled from the limo, and she rose up like an Amazonian goddess. Her crystal-adorned sandals—complete with a personal message of good luck from the designer on the soles—sparkled in the early-evening sunshine. The air turned electric as she raised a hand and waved at her fans. Her name was chanted by the public, twenty people deep:

  ‘Jennifer! Jennifer! We love you!’

  The security guard was next out of the car, followed by Nicole and Caroline. Finally I emerged, taking up the rear and hoping for anonymity in my baggy onesie. Unfortunately, against all the glamour around me, I hardly blended in. A rush of adrenalin propelled me to straighten her skirt where it met the ground, and then I dashed to the safety of the sidelines where I crouched down beneath the autograph hunters, my eyes trained on Jennifer. All around me the public shrieked for her attention. The screams are so much louder over here. Nicole was leading her gently towards the first set of paparazzi, the security guard never more than a few paces behind them. I watched in awe from the shadows as the dazzling dress put in an Oscar-worthy performance of its own. This was exactly what Valentino must have imagined as he designed it.

  She made her way towards the TV crews, and I automatically strained to see Rob’s face among them. The line was infinitely more crowded, and twice as long as it had been in London. My eyes skimmed over the logos of CNN, Sky, Fox News, ABC, and E!, but I couldn’t see Rob or Tim in the jumble of wires, cameras and bodies. As Jennifer moved on to the main bank of paparazzi I stepped forwards again, briefly, to gently pull down the delicate layers of pure silk organza. The tiny, shimmering beads and sequins sewn into the gown glinted exquisitely. She looked like a fairy-tale princess. As I stepped back to admire my handiwork, I noticed Trey and Beau, arm in arm, approaching Jennifer. It had to be said th
at Beau looked smouldering in a shimmering low-cut silver Dolce & Gabbana gown with floral embellishments. I recognised it from the rails in our suite at the W Hotel—Mona must have given it to her before she went missing. Beau winked at me in recognition; as I backed off I prayed Trey hadn’t noticed me, too. That batty British producer—in her Uggs at the BAFTAs and now in a grubby onesie at the Oscars. But he seemed transfixed by Jennifer, a vision of ethereal beauty.

  ‘You look incredible,’ he whispered, squeezing her arm, as Beau cattily surveyed her outfit and latched on to him even more tightly. ‘Tonight’s the big one, good luck!’

  ‘Hey, Jennifer! Trey! We’ve come all the way from London—can we get ten seconds about the movie, for the BBC?’ A microphone was thrust between them.

  ‘Go on, then, as you have such a charming accent,’ Jennifer replied, threading her arm through Trey’s and gently peeling him away from his disgruntled fiancée.

  Ducking out of sight, I moved back to the sidelines, and was shocked to see Beau follow.

  ‘Amber, babe! So good to see you! What’s with the onesie? I mean, I love the statement, but—aren’t you hot?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ I shrugged. ‘Mona’s gone missing and I had to go straight from the airport to Jennifer.’

  Beau motioned towards a larger than life gleaming gold Oscar statue, intimating that we should stand in its shadow, half hidden, lest I tarnish her image with my shoddy appearance.

  ‘Missing? Where is she?’ she stage-whispered.

  ‘Good question. Call me if you find out.’

  ‘She wore my Valentino, then.’ She looked over her shoulder and gazed at Jennifer, her nemesis. ‘It looks—okay.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, babe, I’m so glad I ran into you—I’ve been wanting to ask you something.’ She looked around to check no one was close enough to overhear. Not easy on the world’s stage like this. I felt my body go rigid as I remembered what happened last time Beau needed a favour.

  ‘I wanted to ask if you would style me for my wedding day?’ she asked, speaking behind her hand. ‘We brought the date forward and I really need to look amazing. I’ve chosen the dress, I just need you there to do me up, tweak the bridesmaids and check my garter doesn’t slip—the usual stuff. I can’t do it without you. Besides, it’ll be fun! Pinky can’t wait to see you! Dolce & Gabbana have made him a tiny white tuxedo—it’s sooo cute. Please say yes—please?’ There was desperation in her eyes.

  ‘But what about—’

  ‘Mona? Oh, she’ll be there, too, natch, but you know what she’s like—I can’t rely on her. You saw her at my premiere party, you’ve read all the stories. I’ve invited her to my bachelorette, but I’m nervous about the wedding, and the magazine is, too. And I saw what you did for Jennifer in London—she rocked it. The venue’s in Hawaii, the Four Seasons. Oh my God, Amber, it’s incred—total tropical paradise—everyone says “Aloha!” everywhere you go, it’s so cool!’ She paused to study my face. I was teetering. ‘But there’s not much time. I really need you on board. Mona needs you on board. We all need you. Oh, go on, Amber, please?’ She fixed me with those puppy-dog eyes. ‘Pleeease?’

  I glanced back towards Jennifer and Trey, who were now talking animatedly into a CNN microphone.

  ‘But what about Trey? He thinks I’m someone else, Beau—Annie, your producer, remember? How am I going to explain that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about him. You can be at the wedding as Annie—I wasn’t planning on inviting the real one, she’s a bitch—and every now and again you can just pop to check I haven’t got the dress tucked in my panties. Trey won’t notice a thing. He’ll be too wowed by how amazing I look. I’ll make sure you’re invisible to him, I promise.’ I undid the onesie zip a bit further—Jesus, it was hot. Trey turned around briefly to check on Beau’s whereabouts. She clocked him and blew a kiss, just as I darted out of sight behind a handily placed large gentleman. Harvey what’s-his-name again?

  ‘But, Beau, I hate lying—you know I hated it in the first place.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll get you Club Class flights, an ocean-view suite—I’ll cover all your expenses.’ She was speaking quickly now, keen to wrap things up, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  ‘When is it, anyway?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Next week?’Talk about putting me on the spot.

  ‘Trey wanted to bring it forward, to stop all the stupid rumours and we didn’t want the magazine to pull the deal, so …’

  ‘I’ll be back in London in my old job then, Beau, I won’t be working for Mona any more. I …’

  From the corner of my eye I noticed Trey turn around again, eyes scanning the red carpet to spot his wife-to-be amongst the growing throng of famous people. We were out of time—I couldn’t face pretending to be Annie in front of him again.

  ‘I can’t do it, Beau. I’m sorry.’ I was painfully aware that this was probably the first time in her entire pampered life anyone had ever said ‘no’ to her.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She raised her chin in the air and spun on her spiked heel. ‘Don’t say I didn’t give you an amazing opportunity.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I called after her. But for once I have to do something for myself. I had to know when to leave the party before I became a casualty, too. Besides, I couldn’t handle another fiasco with Mona—she’d have to find herself another crutch. I watched Beau rejoin Trey, hiding any sign of disappointment, all smiles for the flashing cameras. And then I scuttled off to lie in wait for Jennifer behind another huge golden man, feeling quietly confident I had done the right thing.

  The paps flinched as I darted past. Even they had noticed my ridiculous outfit. Is this this year’s red carpet fashion turkey; the Bjork in a swan dress? But then they carried on jostling for the best spot before the inevitable moment when all the major stars walked past at once and it was a mad scramble, each paparazzo driven by the possibility that one exclusive could set them up for early retirement: a ‘Julia Roberts with hairy armpits’ moment. I waited beside the railings, my kit poised ready to offer anything Jennifer might need before she entered the ceremony. At one point Nicole came over and asked for my spare permanent marker for Jennifer to sign autographs.

  It was intoxicating observing the steady parade of big names glide past me, offering plenty of photo-perfect moments en route to the entrance to the theatre, embracing each other along the way, and stopping to talk to some of the younger nominees in their fancy ball gowns, just as wowed by the whole surreal experience as I was. No matter how many times you do it, the red carpet at a major event is such a buzz. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I hoped it might be Rob. Or the airline calling about my case. Rob’s friendly face would be welcome right about now, if he forgave me for my drunken tirade in London. He would be bound to see the funny side of my ridiculous appearance.

  Instead it was a text from Mona: Are you with Jennifer?

  No explanation of where she was, or anything else. I was livid. It was tempting to reply ‘No,’ followed by ‘I quit’, but there was little point. Instead I replaced the phone in my pocket. I’ll deal with her later.

  With Jennifer safely deposited outside the grand art deco facade of the theatre ready to make her entrance, Caroline and I shared a cab back to the Chateau to retrieve our things, relieved and happy that the carpet had gone smoothly. I called the airline and was emailed a lost-luggage form to fill out; meanwhile, I was informed that someone would be round to return Sarah-Louise Moore of Mothercare’s suitcase to its rightful owner. Somehow this all made me feel like a thief. When I eventually arrived at Mona’s, the jet lag was really starting to take hold. The exhilaration of the evening was wearing off, my eyelids felt heavy and my mood was suddenly flat. Even the mansion didn’t look as spectacular as it had the first time I’d laid eyes on it, barely a fortnight before. Ana met me at the door, tea towel in hand.

  ‘Any sign of Miss Armstrong?’ she asked, concern etched across her face.

  ‘One text,’ I replied. ‘S
he’s not dead, but I don’t know any more than that.’

  ‘Nothing here,’ Klara said. ‘We even called a few hospitals, just in case, but nothing.’

  I pulled out my phone, realising I hadn’t checked it in a while. I had three missed calls from Mona, soon after the text.

  ‘She’s been ringing,’ I informed the others and almost immediately, it vibrated again. Mona’s name flashed up. I shouted into the phone: ‘Where on earth have—’

  A male voice interrupted me. ‘Is this Miss Amber Green?’ He sounded serious.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘My name is Officer Lyle, from the LAPD in Beverly Hills. I’m calling about Ms Armstrong—yours was the last-dialled number in her cell and she thought you would be the best person for us to contact.’

  ‘The police?’ I whispered, stumbling backwards to sit on a chair. Ana and Klara stared at me wide-eyed, then huddled close.

  ‘We have Ms Armstrong here with us. She’s been detained, following an incident this afternoon.’

  ‘Detained?’ I looked at Ana and Klara in disbelief.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am—she was shoplifting,’ the officer continued.

  ‘Shoplifting?’ I repeated the word aloud, as if repeating it might make it go away. Ana put one hand to her mouth and crossed herself with the other.

  ‘She was caught by the in-store detective outside Barney’s Co-op, Rodeo Drive, at approximately midday.’

  ‘So, what’s happening to her?’ I asked after a lengthy pause. Jet lag wasn’t helping me process the situation.