by Rosie Nixon
‘She’ll be released from our custody with a ticking off this time, but she’s lucky. Barney’s have decided not to press charges because she has no other theft-related conviction—but things won’t look so good if it happens again. She had some expensive items on her person.’
‘What were they?’
‘Five hundred dollars’ worth of silk lingerie and hosiery,’ the officer informed me. ‘Plus some silicone bra inserts, and something called “Tit tape”. You can pay for them in cash or with any major credit card. Ms Armstrong said that you could make this happen for her.’
Frantically, I gestured for Klara to pass my bag and I rummaged through it to find the brown envelope containing what was left of my portion of the kitty. There had been roughly £500 in cash, which luckily I’d changed into US dollars at the airport. It was just enough to cover the loot, and taxis to and from the police station.
‘I’ll be down within the hour,’ I replied.
‘Thank you for your co-operation, ma’am.’
An image of Mona’s mugshot making an appearance on E! News this evening flashed into my head. If her career wasn’t already over, it would be after that.
We sat in silence for the first five minutes of the journey back to the house. The roads were deserted, the city felt like a ghost town—everyone was either at the Oscars or glued to the ceremony at a viewing party. It would be nearing Jennifer’s moment now and I was itching to watch the TV, which only compounded my frustration with Mona. When I’d got there, Mona hadn’t been in a forthcoming mood. A bashful ‘Does Jennifer know about this?’ was all she said at the station, and since then she had avoided eye contact entirely. Beverly Hills whizzed past the window as I sat quietly fuming next to her. After noticeably staring into his rear-view mirror more times than was necessary to check the empty lanes behind us, the driver eventually broke the silence: ‘Hey, that’s it! Ma’am, aren’t you—’
‘No!’ she snapped, slamming the privacy window shut, sinking down and pulling her collars up. We were over halfway home when she finally spoke again.
‘So, did she wear the Valentino?’ Through big sunglasses I could just make out her eyes, they were focused on the horizon.
‘She did, and it looked incredible,’ I replied, coolly.
‘At least that’s one person who doesn’t hate me,’ she said, presumably referring to the designer. Then there was another lengthy pause, before she sighed. ‘It’s been complete humiliation today.’
‘For you?’ I scoffed. ‘Wasn’t I the idiot wearing a onesie at the Oscars?’
For once she hadn’t even seemed to register my clothing, she was so wrapped up in herself.
‘Full-body search to find the lingerie and implants,’ she continued, bottom lip quivering. ‘I shouldn’t have had to be in that position. Why didn’t you transfer me the money, like I asked?’
‘So it’s my fault you got frisked by the LAPD?’ I turned to face her, fury in my eyes and adrenalin pumping through my veins. ‘I hardly had enough to get myself over here—flights aren’t free for assistants, you know.’
‘I had no choice, Amber—Jennifer was waiting for me.’ Her voice began to tremble. She’s trying to justify shoplifting now? I doubted this would stand up if it ever went to court.
‘You could have asked her to pay for her own underwear, or called some in?’
‘It doesn’t work like that, dear. Not on Oscars day, when everyone’s panicking. Besides, it’s not as if a star like Jennifer carries cash to sub her penniless stylist.’ She paused for a breath as we both considered this.
‘I could have left you in there,’ I muttered, not quietly enough.
‘Perhaps you should have,’ she spat.
‘Oh, for God’s sake—you’re hardly Nelson Mandela!’ I folded my arms and waited, unsure where any of this was going. Finally, as our surroundings began to look more familiar, she took a deep breath and spoke: ‘Anyway, I had a chance to do some thinking when I was … in the cell.’ She turned towards me, and her features appeared to soften. There was a hint of a smile. ‘Oh, don’t look so terrified, babe! There’s no drink or drugs problem. I don’t need rehab, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ She raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Not yet, anyway. But I’ve made a decision—I’m going to get my accounts in shape. I mean it this time.’ She scoured my face for a reaction. I bit my bottom lip.
Against my better judgement, I still clung to an unlikely fantasy that Mona would come round and finally, really, do something about all this mess. Her eyes still on me, she continued: ‘When they said you were coming to get me out, I was so thankful, Amber. Not just because there was money left in the kitty, but because you were there for me. I realised there wasn’t actually anyone else to call—I couldn’t think of a single person. None of the famous people I know would be seen dead walking into a Beverly Hills police station in the middle of the afternoon—let alone Oscars afternoon—to bail me out.’
‘It was pretty hard to top,’ I said, determinedly, when she appeared to have finished. ‘You landed me in it. Jennifer, Nicole, Caroline—they were all going mad. It was bloody lucky I was on the afternoon flight, otherwise I’d have missed the awards, too. And Ana and Klara were so worried—they were phoning around hospitals looking for you. So don’t tell me no one cares.’
She bowed her head. ‘They were?’ She suddenly looked like a child.
‘There is someone who could maybe help you get your accounts in order,’ I offered, after a sufficient pause, ‘my mum.’ Mona let out a grunt. ‘Before you dismiss it, she’s a hotshot lawyer and she has contacts out here. She’s offered to talk to you, offer some advice. For free.’
Mona rested her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. ‘Sweet of you,’ she finally said.
When we reached the house she headed straight upstairs to her room, presumably to turn on the TV to discover, as I soon did, too, that Jennifer had made it an awards-season hat-trick, triumphing at the Oscars and sealing her place in the Hollywood hall of fame with a beautifully choreographed, tearful acceptance speech. I celebrated alone with a glass of flat champagne from the fridge and the news from Ana that an airline representative had picked up the Mothercare woman’s suitcase and mine was still safely at the airport. I couldn’t face a trip there to collect it now—I’d send a courier for it tomorrow and wing it until then. Besides, I consoled myself with the realisation that the one benefit of spending the past twenty-four hours in a onesie was that I was ready to roll straight into bed.
As I nodded off, I was jolted awake by a text from Rob. Despite everything, my heart leapt. Has he forgiven my drunken fiancée-slagging? I read the message with one eye. No mention of fiancée-gate. Phew. He was wondering if I fancied a run in the morning.
A run? Are you joking? I texted back. Maybe this is his way of punishing me for being an arse.
I’m serious—Runyon Canyon.
A run in a canyon? No thanks. Stay firm, Amber, he’s taken, so what is the point of humiliating yourself further.
It’s an LA rite of passage. You’ll be thanking me afterwards.
I’m pretty sure I won’t. Sounds hideous. Plus I don’t have any running gear.
Borrow some.
Do you seriously think Mona runs?
Excuses. I’ll pick you up at 8 a.m.
8 a.m.?
No reply. I supposed the run thing was happening. And I supposed I still needed Rob in my life for professional reasons, so I resolved to start afresh, try desperately hard to push all filthy thoughts to one side and see him as a mate.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Early the next morning, happy to be hangover-free, unlike the rest of Hollywood, I decided to enlist Klara in the hunt for some sportswear that would:
1. Enable me to look vaguely attractive in front of Rob.
2. Give the impression I was reasonably fit.
3. Cope with the tricky terrain of a canyon.
My situation was greatly helped by the fact that Klara, the
dirty stop-out, had not returned all night. Rummaging through her wardrobe, I found a pair of leather-look leggings, some cream Isabel Marant wedge sneakers, and her big ‘Relax Don’t Do It’ T-shirt. The irony wasn’t lost on me. They would have to do.
Rob arrived early. ‘You’re running in those?’ he looked at the shoes.
‘They’re trainers, and more to the point they’re all I’ve got,’ I replied, admiring them. And then we were off, puffing next to each other as we climbed higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills until we reached a dirt track signifying the start of ‘Runyon Canyon’.
‘You spot actors every time you’re up here, normally,’ Rob explained, barely breaking a sweat and, thankfully, without showing a whiff of ill feeling towards me. Maybe he was drunker than I thought that night. ‘Unlikely today, though, being the morning after the Oscars.’
‘Sensible people are probably having a lie-in,’ I panted, desperately trying to regulate my breathing. It was already getting hot.
‘Only mad dogs and English ladies in silly shoes would go out for a run.’ He nudged me playfully as we started a slight ascent. I noticed the wedges were already covered in a layer of brown dust. Meanwhile, Rob had clocked the pained expression on my face.
‘Think of the good it’s doing,’ he encouraged, ‘getting the toxins out and oxygen flowing. Do you ever run at home?’
I was having to concentrate very hard on the rocky gravel path. As it turned out, wedge trainers are almost impossible to run in. I side-glanced at him, ‘What do you think?’ He chuckled in response. ‘It was these or flip-flops. Anyway, I wanted to apologise to you.’ A film of sweat was developing across my face and I was starting to lag behind.
He glanced back. ‘Why?’
‘I was a total idiot to you in London, after the BAFTAs. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You weren’t an idiot at all.’ He considerately slowed the pace to a brisk walk—a huge relief, as I was developing a stitch.
‘I was. I got too drunk and I don’t really remember everything I was saying, but I woke up feeling horrible. I know it was bad,’ I panted, catching him up and trying not to sprain my ankle. He had stopped by the side of the path to survey the scenery beneath us. I dropped my hands to my knees. My inappropriate push-up bra was digging into my ribs, and my knickers were in my bum.
‘Look at this view. It’s worth the climb, right?’
I looked out over the flat, sprawling city: row after row of low-rise grey buildings and long straight roads in a grid pattern, dotted with tall skyscrapers on the horizon. Above it all, a light, hazy smog was being slowly burned away by the morning sun. It looked calm down there, as though the whole of LA was just coming round, nursing a collective hangover after the excitement of the night before. We stood there, next to each other, for a few moments of quiet as we admired the view. Why do I always find myself in perfect snogging settings with Rob? I physically ached to be held in his arms; for him to tell me he was falling in love, too.
‘It’s a concrete jungle, but it’s beautiful.’ He sighed, finally. ‘I love this time of the morning.’
‘Could you live here?’ I asked, allowing myself to contemplate what it might be like if this was our daily run, together, in another life, where I was wearing suitable shoes and displaying a washboard stomach. Oh, and Rob wasn’t engaged to someone else.
‘Maybe,’ he sighed, wistfully. ‘But it won’t happen now.’
‘Why not? You’ve got loads of work out here.’ I paused. ‘And a soon-to-be fiancée who likes travelling. The world’s your oyster, surely?’
He hesitated, as if mulling over whether to tell me something. He paused for the longest time. At last he spoke: ‘It’s not a very baby-friendly city.’ He stretched his arms back behind him and clasped his hands to distract attention from the bomb he’d just dropped. I caught my breath. Slowly, I turned to face him. ‘You have—a baby?’ I raised an eyebrow. How many secrets can one guy have? How can I be so dumb as to not have known this?
‘There’s one on the way.’ He kicked a small rock over the edge. We both watched it go, and heard it bounce once, twice, three times before it stopped.
‘You’re not kidding, are you?’
‘Nope.’ He dropped his hands and dug his heel into the soft rubble at our feet.
‘That’s big news. When is it due?’
‘I’m not sure. Listen, I wasn’t going to tell you, but the truth is I can’t think of anything else and I feel I can trust you, Amber. Can I?’
He had no idea how hard this was to hear. ‘Of course,’ I put a hand on his shoulder and swallowed hard. ‘We’re mates.’
‘Let’s walk and talk,’ he said. I too was glad of the distraction. As Rob talked, I tried to take it all in, pretending he wasn’t cutting me deeper and deeper with every word. Everything began to make sense as he described how his girlfriend of only six months, Emily, had told him the news that her period was late—two whole weeks late—during her work trip. Rob, being the gentleman he was, had decided to do the right thing—get a ring and propose to her on her return, when they’d done the pregnancy test together. The whole thing made me feel sick to the core. Getting engaged was one thing, but a baby? There was no going back from that.
‘You don’t sound too overjoyed about it,’ I said, when he finished. He’d barely looked up from the path the whole time.
He shrugged. ‘We’ve not been together that long. I suppose I hadn’t imagined becoming a dad just yet—we hadn’t had that conversation, you know? But I’ve always thought I would have children, at some point. Maybe now is that point. Got to man up, I guess.’ He half smiled although his body language told a whole different story. We walked in silence for a while, leaving the canyon path for the safety of tarmac roads. My calves could finally relax, but my mind was now in overdrive.
‘Once it sinks in, I bet you’ll be really excited,’ I said at last. ‘You’ll make a great dad. You’ve already “manned up”—whatever that’s supposed to mean.’
‘Jog the last bit?’ He picked up the pace, running backwards facing me and forcing a weak smile. The sun back-lit his movie-star physique. God, he looks handsome, even more so when he’s sweaty and mixed up. Compared to this news, the thought of him buying the engagement ring seemed so small. I could feel tears rushing to my eyes. I breathed deeply and forced a weak smile back.
‘If you insist, Mr Motivator.’
When we reached the house again, he hugged me close on the doorstep. He felt hot and comforting. He smelled of warm washing powder and fresh sweat. I could have stood there, holding him, inhaling him, for ages.
‘Sorry if that got a bit heavy,’ he said, pulling away. ‘Thanks for being a great mate.’ Mate. I hate that word so much.
‘Any time.’ I raised a forced smile of my own.
‘I’ll be back later, to say goodbye before you fly,’ he continued. ‘Fran’s keen to see Mona about the pilot.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Great—see you then.’ Then he was off, jogging down the street and straight to his car without looking back. I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching as he drove off. I didn’t want to move, because in the warm, still air that enveloped me I could still just about smell him. I stood there for a minute or so, my arms folded over my chest, aching for another cuddle like that. I realised it was the first hug I’d had from a man in months—maybe a year. LA Liam hadn’t even tried to cuddle me when we had the bad kiss. How tragic. I replayed the safe, happy feeling the hug gave me over in my mind, fearing it would never happen again. Then my brain caught up, remembering that there was really nothing safe or happy about it at all, because he was going to marry someone else. Someone who was having his baby. His baby! Could I have picked a worse person to fall in love with? As his car vanished around the corner at the foot of the hill, I visualised it coming back, reversing up the street at high speed so that he could carry me off like a caveman and tell me it was all a twisted joke, just his warped sense of humour; that there w
as no fiancée, no baby. I’d forgive him in a second before kissing his gorgeous face off.
As I entered the house, Mona was marching downstairs, wearing a white silk blouse tucked into a tight black leather pencil skirt, and heels, her hair in a neat bun on top of her head, chunky gold chain around her neck, red nails. Pristine and ready for business. But, as it turned out, not for a meeting with an accountant.
‘Fran from 20Twenty called this morning,’ she declared, bright and breezy. ‘They’re coming over to show us an edit of the pilot. Isn’t that fabulous?’ She clapped her hands together, as if the memory of yesterday and her time at the cop shop had been completely wiped. ‘Ana’s setting up the living room and she’s going to make popcorn.’ She stopped in front of the big hallway mirror to admire her reflection. She’d trowelled on make-up this morning and it certainly didn’t look as though she’d lost much sleep last night. Eventually she took in my appearance, fixating on the dusty Marants.
‘Jesus.’ She looked me up and down. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’
‘Exercising,’ I replied, smugly.
‘In those shoes?’
When she had finished briefing me on the returns to be processed and ticked me off for nearly mislaying a suitcase full of borrowed accessories, which a courier was now on its way to pick up from Lost and Found at LAX, thank goodness, I found myself alone in the office, surveying the aftermath of yesterday’s antics.
While the internet was awash with Oscars gossip, and Jennifer’s gown made all the Best Dressed lists, fashion blogs were also buzzing with the story of Mona’s arrest, and increased speculation about the downward spiral of the ‘wayward stylist’. The least flattering of all paparazzi photos of Mona were plastered across gossip sites to illustrate the point. They even knew about the stolen chicken fillets, which, coupled with the rest of her recent behaviour, created a seriously bleak picture. On the Starz website, a ‘source’ was quoted, revealing the lack of remorse she’d shown as she escaped with a ticking off and a fine. It had to have been leaked by our cabbie. My phone was full of text messages; Nicole and Caroline had called and people at home had seen the stories, too. In fact, it seemed as though only Mona was living in a bubble, fingers in her ears, going ‘la, la, la’. On the surface, at least.
