The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

“But what if everyone wants a sabbatical?” he asked, looking around us to check no one was eavesdropping. We were sitting at a table in the Selfridges food hall. “It won’t be easy to find cover for that amount of time. What if Shauna wants one, too—what then? I’ll have to speak to Jeff, find out what the company policy is.”

  “But it’s not a no?”

  “Not yet,” he smiled. “Listen, babe, I’ll see what I can do, because I’d like to keep you, but you’d better come back, and don’t tell anyone, for now.”

  “I will, I promise. Let me buy you a Krispy Kreme Deluxe Donut as a thank you—in advance.”

  And I got up before he could change his mind.

  * * *

  I was looking forward to spending time with Rob’s mum, but for some reason I was even more excited about meeting Dan’s fiancée, the infamous Florence. On Boxing Day evening, Rob had moaned about how his mother, Marian, was like a lap dog around Florence—she thought she was the best thing not just to happen to Dan, but to their entire family.

  “She hasn’t met you yet, though,” he qualified, though he had polished off a number of glasses of mulled wine.

  From what I could glean, without turning into an A grade stalker, Florence was a high-flying PR executive for a boutique agency in London with a roster of clients across the luxury world—from London’s hottest restaurants and spas to art galleries and high-end fashion and beauty launches; Rob gave the impression she knew everyone worth knowing in the whole of London. Unfortunately, her Instagram account was locked, so I couldn’t carry out the full extent of my desired snooping, but hopefully, after we’d met, we’d be tagging each other in photos from fashion parties and I’d be on her VIP guest list. In my role as a window designer for Selfridges, I hoped she would see me as someone worth knowing in London, too.

  Rob had decided we should break the news about New York to his mum together, the thought of which was making me feel sick with nerves as the day drew closer.

  “Are you sure this won’t make me come across as the girlfriend who’s stealing her precious son?” I quizzed Rob on the phone on Sunday morning. “I’ll be like, ‘Hi, I’m Rob’s new girlfriend—by the way, we’re off to America, so you won’t be seeing him for a while. Thanks for dinner!’”

  “Course not. I think our delivery will be a bit more tactful than that. Anyway, it’s no biggie—besides, Mum loves to travel, we’ll invite her to visit—she’ll be thrilled.”

  “Have you told Dan yet?”

  “No, we’ll tell them together and it will be fine. Dan will support us, and I bet Florence will think it’s the coolest thing. Mum will go along with whatever Florence thinks anyway. Relax.”

  Relax, I tried. I ironed a silky blue Zara dress bought especially for the occasion, had a long soak in the bath and then, in a move I hoped would make me feel empowered for this family meeting of meetings, I decided to try out a new method of curling my hair. It involved heated rollers borrowed from Vicky’s room and an upside down blow-drying technique I’d seen on a YouTube video. What could go wrong?

  Plenty. The resulting hairstyle—Scary Spice, electrocuted, times ten—was so terrifying my eyes nearly burst when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There was no way of relaxing it so I had to take another shower. Consequently, I was running late for dinner and there were sweat patches on the silky dress.

  I jumped off the bus and headed down Westbourne Grove, half walking, half running, feeling far too hot. Plus, a strap broke on my bag and I was clutching it in an ungainly fashion under my arm, trying not to let the contents fall out. I was carrying all my overnight stuff for staying at Rob’s and didn’t particularly want my best knickers to end up in a puddle. As I dashed past the shops—Heidi Klein, Tom’s Deli, Joseph—I thought how much I loved this part of London, just walking the streets felt like being in a Richard Curtis film. Perhaps Rob and I might get a place around here one day.

  I turned left off the main road and reached Rob’s mum’s house. Glancing at my phone I realized I was a whole forty-five minutes late. Rob had texted: You OK? x. I needed to turn on a full charm offensive this evening.

  It was a tall, impressive, white-fronted family house, complete with black metal railings and well-tended geraniums on the steps. The epitome of Notting Hill chic. Walking back a couple of paces to be out of sight, I swapped my flats for some new black, shiny Kurt Geiger heels, panic bought in the store on Friday to wear with my dress. My staff discount was burning a hole in my pocket recently and the shoes were blatantly for Florence’s benefit more than anyone else’s. My toes were crushed after walking up the steps. Rob opened the door and gave me a big hug.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said, making me light up inside and out. There was classical music playing, candles flickering on a side table, and a delicious smell of home-cooking.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I lifted my head for a kiss.

  He took my face in his hands and kissed me softly.

  When we parted, I paused to take in my surroundings: everything was cream, white, and glossy—it was a well-looked-after, tasteful home. “Nice pad. I can’t wait to see all the embarrassing photos of you growing up.” I scoured the hall table.

  “Quick update,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder. “Dan’s here, but Florence isn’t. Not quite sure why, but I don’t think things are going well right now. He doesn’t want to talk about it—not around Mum, anyway. If she starts to dig, we’ll change the subject. She used to be a therapist, remember. Mum loves relationship problems—if there is a problem, I’m not even sure. Anyway, families, hey? Go with the flow, like you always do . . . Do you mind taking off your shoes? Mum’s got a thing about shoes indoors.”

  * * *

  It was great to see Dan again, he was such a friendly, easygoing guy who instantly made me feel at ease, and the brothers were sweet and attentive to their mum. They loved her to bits, it was clear to see, and Marian was the kind of woman who relished the attention from her “two beautiful boys.” It was heart-warming to witness such stability compared with the uneven keel I felt between my sister and me, in my parents’ eyes. She being the perfect one and I being the one who worked in fashion and was, therefore, certifiably “bonkers.” Marian was well groomed, with blow-dried brown hair, good makeup, and what looked like a very real Chanel twinset. I felt glad I’d made an effort with my appearance, though she wasn’t the kind to compliment me on it.

  Maybe it was because Marian had never had a daughter, or perhaps it was just the way she was, but it quickly became clear that she found it hard to relax around her son’s girlfriends—this one in particular. She eyed me with the kind of cynicism of a Gogglebox family watching TV.

  “So, tell me about your work, Amber—it might not be worthy, but it sounds terribly thrilling, from what I’ve heard. You style celebrities, right?”

  I was taken aback by the “not worthy” dig. Would she prefer me to work for Christian Aid?

  Rob gave me a look that said “let it go.”

  “Well, I did work with famous people,” I replied. “But these days I style dummies for the shop windows at Selfridges, and to be honest, the fact they can’t answer back suits me better.” Her crestfallen face indicated that I should have gone along with the celebrity line.

  “Right. But you must have met some huge names when you were out in LA—you know, when you and Rob were working on the show together?” She glanced at her son. He’d obviously filled her in on our backstory.

  “Oh, you mean with Mona Armstrong?” I looked to Rob for help. “That was certainly an interesting time in my career—we worked a lot with Jennifer Astley.” Her eyes widened. Everyone loves a celebrity encounter, evidently even those who might claim to be “worthy.” From then on I caved in and gave her what she wanted—an embellished list of the famous names I’d been in fairly close proximity to at the BAFTAs and the Oscars, giving her plenty to regale her friends with, and—hopefully—pass on to Florence.

  My career done, she then moved on
to family. “So, what do your parents do, love?” she asked, oblivious to the fact I was dying to get the subject off myself.

  I dunked a hefty piece of ciabatta in olive oil and chewed it for a few seconds, giving myself a moment to think.

  “Mum was a hot-shot lawyer, she worked for years at a firm in the city handling litigation cases mainly, and now she’s semi-retired she still works freelance for them but can take or leave cases as she likes. And Dad was a stay-at-home dad, he did all the school runs while Mum was working and did some work as a handy man. There’s nothing dad can’t fix.”

  She gave me a stare that felt like she was trying to read my soul.

  “Keep the hubby at home, clever woman,” she remarked finally, a wry smile across her face. “How delightful.”

  When my five minutes of grilling from Marian was finally over, she proceeded to spend ten minutes telling us about Florence’s latest work projects—including a campaign for a new London art gallery filled with paintings created by children with behavioral problems, and a charity project sending makeup products to women in remote African villages.

  “All fantastically worthy,” Marian gushed. She had a wicked glint in her eye.

  Noticing my puffed-out chest and reddening cheeks, Rob placed a firm hand on my knee.

  “Let’s take out the plates,” he said. Dan looked as though he wanted to slide under the table. Marian looked at her watch. I was clearly dull as ditch water compared to Florence.

  * * *

  “Mum adores you, it’s obvious,” Rob said in the kitchen as I placed two empty plates on the kitchen counter. He had wound his arms around my waist and was peppering my neck with little kisses.

  “Have we just been in the same room?” I asked. “I feel like I’ve been in front of a firing squad. She’s infinitely more excited about how Florence is saving the world than anything I have to say.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Please, Amber, don’t take it personally. Mum’s just testing you, she likes a woman who can stick up for herself, it was the same when Florence first came around. I know when Mum likes someone and she likes you. You passed.”

  “I passed?” It’s a weird kind of test. “Anyway, when are we going to—” I stopped abruptly as Marian joined us and leaned against the work top.

  “To what?” she asked, and we both averted our eyes. “I’m worried about Dan,” she continued, looking earnest. “He’s not himself at all this evening and he’s stepped out to make yet another call—to Florence, I’m sure—but he won’t let on if anything’s wrong. He barely said a thing over dinner, and he didn’t even finish his lamb. That’s a first. Has he said anything to you, Robert darling? I just want to be sure he’s all right.”

  Sensing a mother-and-son private moment, I excused myself for the loo.

  I locked myself in the downstairs toilet and sat down, breathing a huge sigh. My eyes wandered around the tiny room; there was a super-cute photo of Rob and Dan in a paddling pool on the wall—I imagined it was taken in the garden of this very house. I guessed they were aged about four and six, with grubby hands, freckled faces and huge smiles. Rob looked a cheeky blond scallywag and Dan more serious and dark haired. It must have been captured not long before their father left. Rob had told me a little about what happened, but not much detail.

  “It was the biggest cliché in the book,” he had said. “Dad went off with his young PA and broke Mum’s heart. I don’t think she’s ever got over it. After going to some counseling sessions she decided to train as a relationship therapist herself. What is it they say about therapists? They’re the most messed-up people out there.” I knew that Rob now had a fractured relationship with his father, who went on to have three more children with the PA. They saw each other maybe once a year. It was sad, really. Knowing this made me feel a little more sympathetic about the dig Marian had made about my dad’s job over dinner and perhaps helped explain why she hadn’t exactly been warm to me so far. She clearly had a deep mistrust of other women around her men. Unless they’re Florence.

  And then my gaze fixed on another photo; this one looked very recent. It showed Dan on a white sandy beach holding an attractive, bikini-clad blond woman in his arms; she was flaunting what appeared to be a big diamond engagement ring. It had to be Florence; all big bouncy platinum curls and an innocent smile.

  * * *

  “Quick loo break, that’s better.” I smiled, joining them all in the kitchen.

  Rob smiled quizzically. “Thanks for the update, Amber.”

  “Dessert will be another five minutes, let’s go back through.” Marian ushered us, rapidly putting an end to whatever they had been discussing. She placed a hand on my arm to guide me through first, an indication that I wasn’t completely repulsive to her.

  Rob poured us all another large glass of white wine and I gulped down half of mine immediately. Thank God for wine, I mean, seriously, what would I do without wine? Judging by the speed with which Rob finished his glass and then refilled us both, I knew the moment had arrived.

  “So, Mum, Dan, there is something Amber and I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”

  Marian clutched Dan’s arm. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re getting married,” she squealed, horrified.

  I shuffled to the back of my chair. She really knows how to make me feel welcome.

  “No, Mum, it’s more of a short-term plan. We, er, Amber and I are going to be moving to New York for a few months. I’ve been offered a filming job out there and we thought it would be a great adventure if we both went together.”

  He paused to take in their expressions. Marian looked like she’d been turned to stone.

  “Mum? You’ve always said I should seize opportunities—isn’t it great?”

  “Sounds bloody exciting. Congrats, man,” Dan piped up, filling the silence from Marian. He held his hand out across the table to Rob and then he shook my hand. “Got space in your suitcase for me?”

  “Always got a sofa for you, come and visit. You, too, Mum, it’s only for an initial three months, so you’d better take advantage of the cheap accommodation.”

  Marian forced her mouth into a kind of tight smile. “Super, darling, I suppose it sounds great fun,” she said, before looking me right between the eyes. “You must be pleased.” I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d then hissed. You’d think I’d just told her I was taking him to Helmand Province.

  “Yes, I’m excited, too,” I offered, “and it’s not for long, you know, we’ll be back.”

  “Lovely. When do you go?” she asked, arms folded across her chest defensively.

  “In a few weeks. We’re just looking into our tickets and visa and we have to sort out living arrangements and then we’ll be off.”

  “A few weeks? Just like that,” she said.

  “Just like that,” Dan repeated, impersonating Tommy Cooper. Rob and I both sniggered.

  * * *

  We were wrenched out of some awkward small talk about journey times to New York by a strange smell emanating from the kitchen. Rob noticed it first.

  “That’s smoke,” he got to his feet. “Mum, I think something’s burning.”

  We all lifted our noses to the air.

  “God, yes, and your smoke alarm’s not working,” said Dan, sounding animated for the first time all evening as he leapt up to join Rob on his way to the kitchen.

  Marian jumped to her feet, too, calling after them. “Oh Lord, it’s the sticky pudding, I forgot all about the bloody pudding. It’ll be ruined.” She looked stricken.

  I pushed my chair away from the table and joined them.

  In the kitchen, the three of them were staring at a smoking layer of melted plastic mixed with a toasted toffee pudding. Marian’s eyes had gone glassy and I was afraid she might cry.

  “Left the damn plastic film on it, didn’t I.” She swallowed, her voice trembling. “Some lids you pierce, others you don’t, it’s so bloody confusing.”

  “Bang goes pretending it was homemade,” Rob remar
ked, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.

  “Well, perfect end to a pretty disastrous evening wouldn’t you say?” Marian remarked finally, once the backdoor had been opened and the pudding placed out of sight on the patio. I didn’t know where to look. “Both of my boys are having early mid-life crises and then I nearly set the house on fire.”

  “Come on, Mum, it’s not that bad.” Dan put a hand on her arm. I noticed he didn’t try to deny the crisis part. She covered her face with her hands and began sobbing into them. Half of me wanted to put my arms around her, too, and join the group hug, as I’d do if she was my mum, but I had no idea how that might go down. Instead I watched as Rob and Dan enveloped her and the three stood there for a few seconds, hugging. I wondered whether to grab my coat and disappear, but I’d promised Rob I’d stay at his flat tonight; besides, I was wearing new underwear. Instead I comforted myself with a realization: Maybe my own family is not so dysfunctional after all.

  Chapter Three

  How bad would you say it was on a scale of one to ten?” I asked Rob, when we finally made it into bed at his place that evening. We were cuddled up in our usual position, legs entwined, my face pressed into his chest.

  “I’d give it a seven,” he said eventually.

  “Seven?” I gasped, lifting my head to look at his. “What the hell would a two evening be like?”

  “There’s been worse,” he whispered nonchalantly, not even opening his eyes. “Mum means well, and she does like you, I promise. Now can we go to sleep?”

  I lay there for a few minutes, my head too full for sleep. Finally, I rolled over and lifted my phone from the bedside table. I texted Vicky:

  Met Rob’s mum—she hates me.

  In the morning there was a response from Vicky:

  How could anyone hate you? Anyway, is he going to New York?

  By that evening, I had filled her in on the whole situation. To say she was excited about the move was an understatement. She did a lap of her garden, singing, “Rule Britannia!” at the top of her voice, while I was still on the phone. She didn’t even seem to mind that I would have to move her stuff out of our flat. The fact we were to be a mere six-hour plane ride away from one another made up for everything. It was just the enthusiasm I needed to make the whole thing feel real. We spent the next thirty minutes discussing all the things we could do together when she came to visit, which included a weekend in the Hamptons, jogging in Central Park, and munching our way through stacks of blueberry pancakes.