The Stylist

by Rosie Nixon

  My memory from then on is patchy. I remember it feeling good to get some air—the night-time breeze was much cooler now, sobering. I ambled down a pathway towards the beach, with a few more ‘Alohas’ to Four Seasons staff en route, who looked bemused as they took in my outfit. I’d almost forgotten I was wearing a wedding dress. More than anything I wanted Rob to be here with me. My fake hubbie! My hand hovered on my phone, but I stopped myself; he would be too wasted to pick up, anyway. Instead, a few hundred yards from the back of the reception, I was distracted by a grunting noise near the catering tent. I struggled to see in the darkness. The grunting turned into a rampant snorting as I approached the side of the open tent and pulled back the canvas.

  ‘Pinky!’

  Beau and Trey’s once-stunning five-tiered artisan chocolate-truffle wedding cake had been left on a table just inside a corner of the tent. Well, until Pinky had toppled it over and sat in the middle of the demolished dark chocolate sponge, happily munching away, his pink skin now a delicious shade of cocoa. I looked down at my pee-stained gown and laughed. Sitting down beside him, I scooped up a handful of the gooey mix from the untouched top tier, and started stuffing it into my mouth. Man, I’m hungry.

  ‘Looks like it’s just you and me now, my little friend,’ I said aloud. ‘What a day.’

  Grinning, I thought of the hundreds of photos of Pinky in a giant shell, but no celebrity bride or groom, that would be landing on the servers of newspapers and magazines around the globe this evening. There’d be a lot of confused picture editors before the real story was eventually pieced together by a hack with a contact on the inside.

  ‘What a drama you’ve caused, little piggy,’ I teased. Pinky snorted in response. ‘Tell you what, I’ll adopt you if you like. It wasn’t very nice of that evil owner of yours to just abandon you like that, was it? And I don’t think you’d want to live with Mona—she wasn’t really a pig person, was she?’ I stroked his soft, warm body, not caring that I was coating myself—and the Wang—in chocolate, too. ‘I think you’d like England—it’s much colder than LA and Hawaii, but we’ve got lots of mud there and acorns, and I’ll treat you to some truffles if you like. Maybe chocolate ones, rather than the posh ones though—you seem to like those best.’ Pinky had an incredible appetite for an animal so small. ‘I could make you a little pen in my bedroom and Vicky and I could take you to the pub with us—it’d be fun!’ I chuckled as I used Beau’s favourite catchphrase. Then I thought of my flat back home, the piles of junk mail in the hallway, eating hummus in front of the telly, going to The Chamberlayne with Vicky, my old clothes, my job at Smith’s, getting the tube to work, even enduring one of Nora’s recitals. I craved it all so badly.

  I looked up, suddenly sensing I was being watched. There was Rob, walking towards us, slightly unsteady on his feet. I gazed blearily at him. When he reached our chocolatey corner, he stopped and lowered himself to the floor, sitting straight on top of a mountain of melted icing and ruining the Tom Ford suit.

  ‘You know, I might have to fight you for adoption rights,’ he joked, prodding Pinky, who looked kind of dazed, drunk on chocolate.

  ‘See you in court, then.’ I smiled.

  ‘How’s the cake?’

  ‘Delicious.’ I offered him a handful and he took a mouthful straight from my palm.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Mona?’ he asked between bites.

  ‘Nothing. And I don’t expect to, after all this. Besides, she’s not my boss any more.’

  ‘Probably for the best. Look at us.’ He sniggered, gesturing to the chocolate around us and all over our clothes. ‘What a mess. In every sense.’ He tenderly brushed my jawline with his thumb, then he turned my face towards his bloodshot eyes. He had tequila breath and there was chocolate cake stuck to his lip.

  ‘Do you remember that time, just before the BAFTAs when you were snogging the face off that American in Starbucks? You know, Poldark on steroids.’

  I squirmed, chocolate squelched underneath me.

  ‘Don’t remind me. Worst kiss I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Worst kiss I ever had to watch,’ he remarked.

  I turned to look at him, unsure what he meant. ‘Did it look that bad from the outside, too?’

  ‘I just hated seeing you with someone else.’

  My heart leapt.

  He pulled me a little bit closer, his green eyes now fixed on mine. He’s trying to kiss me. Oh my God, he really is. A searing sobriety cut through the haze.

  ‘Not like this,’ I said, gently pushing his hand away, though I felt like my heart was shattering into little pieces.

  He recoiled. ‘I’m sorry.’ We sat together as an awkward silence descended. My mind spun as the full impact hit me. Rob just tried to kiss me. My Rob. And I said no. For Christ’s sake, Amber. Oblivious to it all, Pinky finally stopped munching and snuggled sleepily between us, burying himself in my ginormous chocolate and wee-stained skirt. Seconds later Rob’s head drooped and rested on my shoulder. I sniffed the top of his head; his brown hair still smelled clean despite the hours of tequila drinking. Half of me wanted to wake him up and turn back the clock. But I knew it wasn’t right. Besides, he might not even remember when he wakes up. Before long, I had drifted off, too.

  Epilogue

  London, five months later

  The windows were hot this afternoon. I knew I should have got in earlier to finish tweaking, before the sun peaked over the top of the buildings opposite and shone down, bouncing off metal and glass to heat up the window space like a greenhouse. We were enjoying a boiling-hot early July. I peeled off my cardigan. At least dummies can’t sweat. I smiled, as I remembered how celebrities and their ratty publicists complained constantly about conditions—the rain, the cold, the temperature of their water.

  The looks were coming together well; I was pleased. As I stood back to admire my handiwork, I thought how lucky I was to have scooped a job I loved so much: Selfridges Window Designer. It’s been three months and I’m still not tired of the sound of it. Finally, a job without the word ‘assistant’ in the title, a job to make my mum proud. I was now in the fortuitous position of being able to pay not only half of the rent for the flat I once shared with Vicky, but for a cleaner, too. Since she moved out two months ago, Trey Jones had continued paying her half of the rent, so they had a London ‘bolt hole’ and I had continued living there alone, though I was still entertaining the idea of getting a kitten. God, I miss Vicky. Nostalgia hit me for a moment as I remembered the crazy times we had shared together as flatmates. Since she moved to LA to make a go of it with Trey, our weekly Skype chats weren’t quite the same. I greatly admired her spontaneity, though. She was always one to follow her heart.

  I surveyed the mannequins again. My job situation could have been so much worse. Imagine if I’d stuck with Mona? I’d probably be in a rehab centre somewhere near Phoenix right about now, having treatment for my nervous breakdown. I laughed to myself—then I thought of her for a few moments. I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s happy. It’s amazing what some distance can do. The last I’d seen of Mona was just last week, in the pages of a glossy magazine, appearing in a world exclusive photo album of Beau Belle and Jason Slater’s wedding, bride and groom deliriously happy, their newborn daughter Rainbeau Slater cradled in Beau’s arms on the cover. I had pored over the glossy thirty-page feature and spotted Mona standing on her tiptoes in ankle-breakers, her head arched to catch the camera, desperate to be seen, towards the back of a number of stellar line-ups, and later hitting the dance floor with a man half her age. It meant that Beau had been over four months pregnant at the time she was supposed to be marrying Trey in Hawaii. What a mess.

  A knock at the window made me turn around. It happens sometimes; kids think it’s funny to knock on the window and run off. Sometimes Japanese tourists or fashion students do it and snap my photo, before sending it into cyber space. Everyone loves the Selfridges windows—they’re a destination in their own right. But this time, when I turned
around, there was nobody there. I continued pinning an exquisite embroidered Prada dress to one of the dummies. I’d been working on the ‘La Dolce Vita’ creative for weeks: full-on fantastical Italian glamour set amongst the attractions of Rome, with models licking polystyrene ice-cream, reclining decadently against the Spanish Steps, power-dressed in Moschino, Armani and Versace, and wearing huge Prada sunglasses. In the next window, the Trevi Fountain flowed with a cascade of jewels from Gucci and Cavalli, while dummies dressed to kill in Fendi and Dolce & Gabbana trailed their fingers in the gold. It was all in celebration of Milan Fashion Week, of course. You can’t be outrageous enough—the windows have to grab attention, even at a glance from the number 10 bus. It was such a buzz seeing it all come together—the creative director was going to be pleased.

  The noise came again, this time lower on the glass. I spun back round, faster, and caught a glimpse of—no, it can’t be. Maybe I drank more white plonk than I thought last night? A bad date and a bottle of appalling wine to get through it. But then it appeared again: a little pink pig trotted over and came to a halt in front of the window. It was wearing a smart brown leather harness, not a silly leather biker jacket like the miniature ones Beau Belle used to dress poor Pinky up in. I looked closer—that wet nose, tiny curly tail, brown patches around one eye and in the middle of his back. It can’t be, surely? The pig made a grunting noise—whoever was holding the end of its lead was out of sight, beyond my line of vision. I watched it trot away from the window once more. Perhaps the Dolce & Gabbana I’d been pinning earlier today had put Beau into my mind—the label still reminded me of her. Perhaps she’s in town? I knuckled my eyes. I’m losing the plot, my imagination’s running away with me. But within seconds, there it was again. I crouched down. It is, it’s Pinky!

  I dropped to my knees and touched the window. The pig’s snout brushed it on the other side, leaving a wet mark on the freshly cleaned glass. Pinky! I touched the window again and the little pig nuzzled it, against my hand. My heart sped up as I tried to fathom what this meant. Beau hadn’t been photographed with her once-beloved pet at all in the past six months, and now Vicky was all loved-up with Trey, I knew he didn’t have the micro-pig, so who did that leave? Not Mona, she hated the creature—unless she’d had a personality transplant? How bizarre—I was only just thinking of her. A familiar panicky sensation began to wash over me, starting in my stomach and slowly spreading upwards. Mona’s come back to haunt me; she’s prepping for London Fashion Week and she’s coming to get me! I was tempted to hide out the back until nightfall. Mona meant drama—no question.

  Then Pinky’s lead began to shorten and a shadow fell on the pavement—suddenly the person holding the lead was there, right in front of the window, smiling at me. He waved. My stomach lurched. Oh my God. Rob. Three pins fell from my fingers, and I heard them land.

  ‘Hi,’ he mouthed. ‘Surprise!’ He bent down and scooped up Pinky into his arms, holding his right trotter and making it wave. The only thing cuter than a man holding a baby or a puppy is a man holding a miniature pig, believe me. I couldn’t help but beam.

  I stood there for a few seconds, feeling paralysed. He looked just as I remembered him: floppy hair, open face, green eyes, gorgeous, warm smile. I suddenly felt as conspicuous as the half-naked mannequin standing next to me. My breath felt short. My cheeks reddened. I hadn’t dared to imagine it might be Rob out there. Damn him for still having this effect on me.

  Rob wasn’t moving, he mouthed: ‘Pinky wants to see you!’

  I froze. What do I do with my limbs?

  He beckoned to me, and mouthed again: ‘Come on!’

  I couldn’t believe it was Rob. It’d been months since I last saw him, at Kona Airport, following the disastrous wedding where he’d tried to kiss me in a pile of chocolate cake. At least I think that’s what happened. I’d played that day over so many times in my mind, it had all got a bit hazy. I cringed. He must have known I fancied him. What a car crash I’d been, chasing a taken man. He’s probably married now, with a baby.

  Maybe I shouldn’t go. I’m busy. Anyway, it’s not fair of him to put me on the spot like this. I feared his rejection all over again, before it even happened, trying to pull me back and suck me under. I didn’t want to go through that again. I’d done a really good job of getting him out of my system these past six months, dating lots, although I was still hunting for the One. I momentarily considered borrowing a ring from the window display and pretending I was engaged. It would be so much easier if I had a fiancé to rave about. But here I was—the same, single, Amber Green.

  I looked back out of the window. By now, a few people had gathered around to admire the pig—Pinky always was an attention-stealer. Rob bent down so a little girl could pat the pig’s soft pink belly.

  How did Pinky end up with Rob? I was only joking when I’d mentioned adopting him. Has Rob actually gone through with it?

  I pulled myself together. I had questions that needed answering; he owed me that, at least. Think of him like an old work colleague, Amber—that’s all he ever really was. I put my cardie back on and ducked out of the window, grabbing my bag and coat from the cupboard next door. When I emerged through the shop doors, Jas from Smith’s was standing on the pavement, too, and so was Big Al. Even Kiki was out there, along with a small crowd of shoppers, rubbernecking, wondering what all the fuss was about. After Kiki had recovered from the Miss P debacle and I’d told her the full story about what a nightmare boss Mona turned out to be over a lot of wine one evening, we’d wound up as friends again. She had even tried to set me up on a date with a mate of her current boyfriend. I eyed them all suspiciously. Why is everyone staring at me?

  ‘What are you all doing here?’ I asked Big Al.

  ‘We just fancied a bit of air,’ he teased, nudging Jas.

  ‘A certain pig popped into Smith’s earlier, looking for you,’ Jas explained, indicating Rob and Pinky.

  ‘You’d better go and see what he wants,’ added Kiki, wearing a leopard faux-fur gilet, despite the temperature. ‘We’ve only put up the “Back in Five Minutes” sign and I’m starving.’ Well, that was a first.

  For a couple of seconds Rob and I stood opposite each other in the street, just looking, before he pulled me close into a big bear hug, Pinky’s warm body squashed between us. That smell: clean washing powder, aftershave with notes of cedar—plus a light whiff of pig. It all came flooding back. Rob was looking me straight in the eye, I mean really looking, like he had never seen anything so intriguing before. And then we both smiled at the same time, a big, proper, cheesy grin like a focused ray of light. Aargh, so corny! But neither of us could help it.

  Then it was as if the world and all the people around us suddenly stopped what they were doing and were quiet and calm.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, you know, Amber Green.’ He used his free hand to move a strand of hair from my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. I looked away, suddenly embarrassed. Stop looking, people! Carry on shopping!

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed—it’s true.’ When I peeked back to check, he was still doing the looking thing.

  There were a trillion things I wanted to say. I had a sick-making flashback to the beautiful, glimmering diamond ring he had shown me just around the corner from here. It hurt then, and it still hurt now.

  ‘I took the ring back,’ he said, reading my mind. ‘It wasn’t the right fit.’

  I looked perplexed. ‘Oh, I don’t mean size,’ he qualified. ‘I mean the person.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘So you’re not married?’

  ‘No, and I’m not a dad, either. Turned out to be a false alarm, thank goodness.’ He glanced down at the little face between us, and Pinky’s small, dark eyes looked back, innocently. ‘I became a miniature pig’s dad, instead.’

  ‘You seriously adopted Pinky?’

  ‘It takes forever to bring a pig from America, believe me.’ He smiled, stooping momentarily to place Pinky on the ground, his lead wound tightly around one hand.


  ‘Well, you always had a good rapport with him,’ I teased. ‘But why are you here, Rob?’

  ‘I had to get some things straight. And then it wasn’t hard to find you,’ he replied, looking over to Jas and the Smith’s crew. ‘I had some help. And I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more than I want to kiss you right now.’

  Everything went into a sort of candyfloss mist as his free hand gently held my face and we smiled into each other’s lips, melting into one another, right there, in the middle of Oxford Street. A delicious calm washed straight through me, from the back of my eyelids to the tips of my toes, as we shared the best kiss I had ever known; it was the most natural thing in the world.

  A cheer went up from the assembled onlookers and when we came up for air we were still beaming. If I wasn’t mistaken, Big Al wiped a tear from his eye. Even Kiki was smiling broadly. A bigger crowd had gathered by now, but all I cared about was him.

  ‘You’re not a bad kisser, Mr Walker,’ I said.

  ‘Not bad? I’ll have to improve on that.’ He tenderly brushed my cheek with his thumb—then his hand dropped and instinctively found mine, our fingers lacing together tightly. As Pinky lay down at our feet for an impromptu snooze, my heart swelled with happiness.

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  ISBN: 9781489214416

  TITLE: THE STYLIST

  First Australian Publication 2016

  Copyright © 2016 Rosie Nixon

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises (Australia) Pty Ltd, Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney, N.S.W., Australia 2000.