The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  Are you okay? We’re worried about you, darling, Mum texted.

  Don’t be. I’ll be home tomorrow x, I replied.

  Tried to call her about the accountant, but no response, she texted back. It didn’t surprise me at all.

  Text from Vicky: Mona—shoplifting!?! And will you be back for Tuesday? xx

  Jas: Is Mona okay? Are you? x

  I shut my phone down. Maybe, if I ignored the outside world, too, the Mona problem would simply go away. I only had twenty-four hours to get through, sorting out the returns, and then I was free.

  Fran and Rob arrived and set about linking their laptop to the big TV. Mona had asked Klara and Ana to join us—she’d even mentioned it to the pool cleaner—anything to maximise the audience for her star turn. Klara had rocked up from her twenty-four-hour Oscars bender not long before; she clattered through the front door, slightly dishevelled, with a mischievous smile on her face. She looked as though she’d just rolled out of someone’s bed.

  ‘Okay?’ I mouthed. She winked in response, confirming my suspicion, not even clocking that I was wearing her clothes. As Ana passed round bowls of warm popcorn, Klara appeared to drift off, her eyes glazing over as her mind wandered, presumably back to an X-rated scene from the night before. The only thing pulling her out of it was some text tennis, presumably with last night’s conquest, as there was a soppy grin on her face with every beep from her phone.

  As the TV screen came to life, the volume grew loud and we all giggled as Miss P’s new single pumped out during the opening credits—a hint of the flashing incident that was surely to come. Then the camera panned across rails of glamorous gowns and rows of shoes, peered inside a treasure chest of gleaming jewels and came to rest on an image of Mona, dressed in her trademark leather leggings and tank top. Stacks of bangles on her arm, iPad on her lap and phone to her ear, she looked every inch the workaholic international super-stylist. Mona dragged her chair closer, eyes glued to the screen—captivated by her own image. The opening scenes showed her at the first appointment in Smith’s, rifling through the racks with Jas. I squirmed when the camera caught my flushed cheeks. Mona described Tamara leaving her ‘right up shit creek. The silly bitch handed in her notice this morning. I go for the bloody Globes tomorrow! Oh, I’ll do it, all right.’ She peered menacingly into the camera lens. ‘Nothing comes between me and my superstars.’ How incongruous her words seemed now. And there I was, a rabbit in the headlights, barely able to walk in my borrowed shoes as I was plucked from obscurity to become Mona’s assistant. You couldn’t help but notice the scowl across Kiki’s face.

  ‘Look at you! So cute!’ Mona turned and squeezed my knee. I realised I was clutching the sides of my face tightly, my eyes half-closed in a giant cringe as the camera zoomed in on my blotchy red face while the mix-up over the monochrome shoes in the shop window played out. Then we were magically transported to LA. ‘The land of palm trees, limos, A-list stars and the start of awards season,’ intoned the narrator, who sounded suspiciously like Fran and not Joanna Lumley, who had been promised at one point. The W suite looked like a dazzling boudoir, awash with the finest fashions in Tinseltown. In came Pinky, and in tottered Beau Belle, looking even more like a mad, pneumatic Barbie than she did in the flesh. Pinky’s miniature leather jacket looked ridiculous—it was as though someone had pressed the ‘exaggerate’ button, but it was all painfully true. There was a comedy moment when Pinky took a shine to a pair of glittery Jimmy Choos, nuzzling them gently with his snout until Mona kicked him off with more than a little force. The moment she saw the camera on her, she smiled broadly and bent down to pat the pig, ‘Dear Porky, there’s a good boy!’

  Then the mood of the programme seemed to change. The narrator cut in to explain that while Mona was feeling unwell in the bathroom, it fell to her new assistant, Amber Green, to finish the dress fittings with Beau. There I was, in my gothic black shirt dress, make-up forgotten, the beginnings of sweat patches under my arms and wearing a strained expression, presenting the scarlet Valentino dress to Beau. When she returned from trying it on we all sighed collectively, then stifled our giggles as she exclaimed: ‘And she’s even easy to pee in!’ And then I was on camera, full frame, discussing the Valentino gown: ‘It’s the ultimate fairy-tale dress. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it—I think any girl would.’ As I continued to answer Fran’s questions, I was surprised by how authoritative I sounded. Mona started to get twitchy.

  ‘A little too much Amber in that scene, don’t you think, Fran?’ she announced, twisting around. Fran kept her eyes silently trained on the TV, which was now showing Mona holding us hostage during the fire alarm at the W.

  Next we were whisked off to the red carpet on Golden Globes night. I hadn’t even registered that Rob was filming for the pilot as well as the breakfast show that evening. I breathed a sigh of relief that my fainting episode at the premiere the night before had not been captured. Instead, the story focused on the fact that Beau had gone for Dolce & Gabbana over the Valentino and Jennifer Astley had opted for the Oscar de la Renta, despite Mona being nowhere to be seen, as she was ‘recovering from a bout of food poisoning picked up at a premiere party the evening before’.

  The film continued at a cracking pace, criss-crossing the Atlantic and chronicling Mona’s escalating blunders as she failed to style her biggest client on the most important nights of her career. A dressing-gown-clad Vicky made a hilarious cameo, her startled face darting in and out of Jennifer’s bathroom at the Dorchester as I tried to stop Fran shoving a microphone into my face through the doorway, I looked a bit like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It was so embarrassing I wanted to laugh hysterically—either that or bawl. And I’ve signed several release forms for all of this. There’s no way out. I glanced over towards Rob, who had his head in his hands, too.

  But my starring moment really came on the BAFTAs red carpet, when images of Jennifer in her fashion-forward British ensemble made all the Best Dressed lists around the world. The camera had caught me crouched at the side of the carpet, watching every move like her shadow. A strange grunting noise emanated from Mona as some swirling newspaper and social media cuttings showed the contrast between the international coverage of Jennifer’s sartorial success and Miss P’s indecent exposure on the red carpet.

  ‘Should never have got that Kiki girl involved,’ Mona muttered frostily, shunning all responsibility. But when the narrator informed viewers that Mona was once again absent from the red carpet, this time due to contracting the Norovirus, she really lost the plot.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong, you know.’ She stood up, blocking the front of the screen. ‘Why aren’t you showing the appointments to stores, the calls, the hundreds of emails—the stress I’m under during awards season? Whoever edited this pathetic piece of film has no idea.’

  We all sank back into our seats, afraid to speak.

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ said Fran bravely.

  The filming then turned to a collection of short vignettes to camera from some of Mona’s clients and contacts. Jas talked with great warmth about Mona’s flair for making the most high-fashion trends accessible to the general public purely through celebrity placement.

  ‘Thank you, Jasmine. See that? A class act,’ Mona said approvingly, turning round to ensure we’d all taken it in. Then it was Jennifer Astley’s turn to speak to the camera, giving another Oscar-worthy performance, her face drawn with concern:

  ‘Dear Mona, I’m worried about you. If you let me in, I can help you. I know an amazing spiritual guru who deals with reversing bad energy. I’d love to put you in touch. You’ll get through this, Mona, and be stronger for it. You can do this.’ She looked earnestly into the camera. ‘You’re so lucky to have found an assistant like Amber. She’s one in a million—an awesome stylist with an incredible eye for detail. She saved my awards season. Thank you, Amber.’ And she blew a kiss out of the screen. But it didn’t give me the warm feeling that she intended.

  ‘Oh, how cosy,�
�� spat Mona. ‘Saved my awards season? Do me a favour!’ She turned to look at me, scowling. I felt hideously conspicuous; my cheeks reddened and I wanted to melt into the chair. ‘How could you do this to me?’ she continued. I looked around for support, but everyone else seemed to be looking at the floor, their fingernails, a lampshade—anything but me. ‘You, whose life I transformed. You couldn’t wait to steal the spotlight from me, could you?’

  My mind raced with all the things I wanted to say back. I’d often imagined the moment when I would give Mona a piece of my mind; tell her how selfish she was, how everyone was sick of her irrational behaviour. But now the moment had arrived, I didn’t have the energy to do it. So I said nothing. Instead, stray, angry tears began falling from my eyes. I tried desperately to wipe them away with my sleeve before anyone noticed, but it was a losing battle. More than anything, I wanted to run out of the house, down the street and get as far away as I could from this poisonous woman, these mad people and this horribly self-indulgent world.

  The pilot continued to play, showing Miss P, looking no better than a Soho hooker, with tears streaming down her face as she was led away from the BAFTAs after-party, supported by Clive. ‘How could you let this happen, Mona?’ He scowled into the camera. ‘Total balls-up. Last time I count on you to do anything.’ Things didn’t get any better as the footage drew closer to the Oscars and the narrator told the sorry story of Mona’s arrest for shoplifting. And then Tamara’s face appeared. ‘I tried to help you so many times, Mona, but frankly, I got sick of doing all the work. You were never around!’

  ‘This is a witch hunt!’ Mona screamed, drowning out the voice of her former assistant. She was really on the warpath now, standing up in front of us all, eyes narrow. ‘Why are you all trying to ruin me? What did I do to you?’

  ‘I had to tell the true story, Mona,’ Fran reasoned with her. ‘I’ve only shown what I saw. We agreed to make a documentary, not a work of fiction, remember?’ Her words hung in the air long after their sound had melted away.

  ‘Well, it’s defamation of character.’ Mona’s voice finally cut into the silence. ‘I’m going to call my lawyer.’

  ‘How can it be defamation, Mona?’ Fran snapped, also on her feet. Oh God. The last time I’d seen two women so close to physically fighting was over a reduced Chloé bag during the Boxing Day sale at Smith’s. ‘I saw it all first-hand—everything is caught on camera, these are first person accounts, and it’s all been legalled. You signed the release forms for all of this, and besides, you can’t afford a lawyer!’

  It was the final straw. Mona had had enough. She fled the room as quickly as her tight pencil skirt would allow, looking like a famished penguin trying to chase a fish across a frozen lake. Perhaps she was in a hurry to hide her tears; perhaps she really meant to call a lawyer. Please say she’s not going to ring my mum. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed loudly. The five of us were left shell-shocked. I found the only dry patch on my jumper sleeve and wiped my nose.

  ‘Wow,’ Rob sighed at last, looking around.

  ‘She should have seen it coming,’ Fran said defiantly, turning off the screen. ‘I mean, what did she think we were going to show, Little House on the Prairie?’

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Ana.

  ‘I’ll show myself out,’ Fran said, heading for the door, ‘Are you coming, Rob?’

  ‘I’ll catch you up at the hotel,’ he replied, hanging back.

  ‘This has done nothing for my hangover,’ announced Klara, pushing her extra big sunglasses back onto her face and skulking out of the room.

  Rob and I were suddenly alone. There was what seemed like an endless silence.

  ‘Well, that was intense,’ he said at last. ‘I honestly didn’t know Fran was going to make it that harsh.’ He bowed his head.

  ‘To be honest, I’m glad,’ I confessed. My tears had almost dried now, my breathing more steady. With my finger I wiped a landslip of mascara from under my eyes. ‘Let’s see if any of it will make a difference.’

  ‘I won’t be holding my breath.’ He squeezed my shoulder. ‘You okay?’

  ‘She’s just so evil sometimes,’ I said.

  ‘She’s a class-A bitch, Amber. She’s out of control. She shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. What now?’ Rob asked, as I mentally pulled myself together. ‘Perhaps a glittering arrival at an ashram? Big sunglasses, silk dressing gown and a carefully managed press conference where she makes a tearful pledge to sort herself out and dedicate her life to helping others?’ He smiled wryly.

  I tried to smile back. ‘Perhaps we should stage an intervention? Isn’t that what people do for wayward stars?’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ He was looking at me like I was mad. Perhaps I am.

  ‘Well, obviously it’s the last thing I feel like doing. Anyway, she doesn’t need an ashram—or rehab—she told me that herself yesterday. It might help her reputation right now, though. Have you seen the internet? She’s become a joke.’

  ‘What Mona needs is to stop being so lazy. Jennifer’s right—you saved her awards season and she knows it. You put gowns on backs while she was hungover, pulling a sickie or busy nicking things. She deserved to see the truth today. The only person who can help Mona Armstrong is herself.’

  We were interrupted by the doorbell—a courier, and he wasn’t delivering my suitcase, but the biggest white box I’d ever seen. I was pretty sure Mona hadn’t ordered a new fridge-freezer, and even if she had, I doubted it would have come packaged with a big elaborate bow on the top. Rob leapt up to help Ana and together they set it down on the kitchen top. The box was big enough to make a house for Klara.

  ‘For Mona,’ Ana informed us. ‘Another gift, happens every year after the Oscars.’

  ‘Should be addressed to you,’ Rob muttered under his breath, as we walked back into the living room together.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ I said, turning to face him. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m really tired, but I’m going home tomorrow, and soon this will all be a distant memory.’ I felt uncomfortable—I couldn’t get this morning’s conversation off my mind. But half of me also wanted to pull him in for another hug. I’d never needed one so badly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Rob said, retrieving his bag from the other side of the room, ‘I may have just been upstaged by the world’s biggest box, but there’s something I wanted to give you before you go.’ He lifted out a small cream paper box.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, my heart already sinking. A matching pair of earrings to go with the diamond ring for your baby-mother? Could today get any more depressing?

  He smiled at me. ‘Open it.’

  Inside, wrapped up in tissue paper, was a tiny silver chain with the word ‘Hollywood’ hanging across it. I lifted it out.

  I held it in my palm, my fingers curled around it.

  ‘Fran chose it,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I just wanted to say thanks for your advice. It’s been great working with you these last few weeks, I’ve had so much fun, and I, well, we, saw it soon after you’d helped me with the ring, and I …’ He trailed off. Is he blushing, too? ‘I thought of your “S” necklace and how it was only on loan from Mona.’

  I was flabbergasted that a guy could be so thoughtful. I looked at it again. ‘It’s so pretty. I love it. Thank you.’

  It was time to take off the ‘S’, anyway. I’d never felt completely comfortable with my borrowed piece of jewellery—it had started to feel more like a ball and chain than a fashion accessory. This meant so much more. He might not be my boyfriend or have any intention of becoming my boyfriend in the future, but perhaps it didn’t matter. Maybe I could be Rob’s friend instead. It felt really nice that he’d got me something so thoughtful, for no particular reason. In my limited experience, actual boyfriends rarely did that.

  ‘Hopefully see you in London soon,’ he said, shuffling now, slightly embarrassed. ‘I very much doubt the Mona Armstrong show is going to get commissioned after this, so at least we might be able to go out a
nd talk about something else.’

  ‘I’d love that,’ I replied, sort of meaning it. ‘Good luck, with—everything. You’ll be great.’

  And then, before things could get any more awkward in this house today, we were saved by a courier arriving with my suitcase. As he closed the door, my entire world felt emptier.

  Thankfully, there was plenty to busy myself with for the rest of the day. I unloaded my suitcase of its shimmering wares and sorted out the last of the Oscars returns, dealing with a potentially sticky moment regarding a misplaced pair of Jimmy Choos, which thankfully turned up in the ladies’ loos at Cecconi’s. Then I had a hot bath and packed up the bits and pieces in my room. Mona surfaced only once, to inspect the big white box. Cautiously I joined her in the kitchen, curious about the contents. After endless sheets of tissue paper had been cast aside, inside was a stunning, pillar-box-red studded tote. My Smith’s training meant I knew this bag was worth well over a thousand pounds.

  ‘It’s from Valentino,’ she announced curtly, pushing it towards where I stood across the breakfast bar. ‘Have it.’

  ‘I couldn’t, Mona. He sent it to you.’ I pushed it back.

  ‘I insist,’ she retorted, nudging it towards me once more. It had to be the most stunning bag I’d ever laid eyes on.

  ‘I don’t want it!’ I exclaimed, my voice much louder than I had intended. Ana at once scurried out of the room, and Klara poked her head round the corner before quickly retracting it.

  ‘Why are you so ungrateful and so angry, Amber?’ Mona’s strident tone made me see red.

  ‘I’m angry because of the way you treated me earlier, Mona,’ I fumed, ‘in front of everyone. But not only about earlier, since you ask. I’m also angry about the countless times I’ve had to make excuses and pick up the pieces for you in the last few weeks. You’ve spent most of the time treating me like a speck of dirt on your clothes. And then you wonder why I’m ungrateful?’ Fury was taking me over.