The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  “So when are you coming over, Amber?” she cooed. “How about tomorrow afternoon? I go to Coachella in four days’ time, so it doesn’t give me much time to pack.”

  Not that it will take very long to pack a few daisy chains and some thongs.

  “Give me another day. I just need to go to a few more stores,” I said, floundering. “Message me your address and I’ll come to you.”

  * * *

  After his comments about my gladiators, on two occasions, I took a lot more care over my appearance as I got ready to meet Maurice on Wednesday morning. Teaming a pair of plain black trusty Topshop loafers with cropped black trousers and a white shirt, I decided that “sharp and classic” was the safest bet for meeting someone with fashion credentials as off the scale as him.

  He asked to meet at the Black Cat coffeehouse in Williamsburg, which was fortunately in walking distance from our apartment so I wasn’t in danger of getting lost and being late. Nevertheless, I meticulously plotted my route the night before.

  When I arrived, Maurice was sitting at a corner table, tucked away at the side of the window away from the door. He was wearing a battered black fedora pulled down low so half of his face was in shadow. His hair was tied back in his trademark bun underneath. If you didn’t know better, you might mistake him for an aging hipster or someone who’d fallen on hard times. I supposed both were actually true.

  Maurice was already nursing a cup of coffee, an intense look on his face as he stirred it slowly and steadily as if searching for something in the liquid within. He didn’t look up as I approached, he was so deep in thought. I had loudly pulled out my chair, coughed, and was beginning to question if this was actually him, when he finally acknowledged my presence.

  “Amber, chérie, excuse me, I was lost in thought. Please, sit down.”

  As I sat a waitress approached and he ordered us both flat whites.

  “You don’t strike me as a decaf type,” he said, and smiled. “The flat white here is the best in Brooklyn.”

  “Great, and, yes, I’m more of your full-roast double-shot type,” I replied.

  “You must think this is very unusual,” he commented, sinking back into his seat and tilting the hat slightly so a little more of one eye was visible. He really had the most striking, sparkling green eyes, like marbles. “I mean, it’s not what I imagined either but, well, suddenly people are asking questions again. And I’m not quite sure how to handle it.”

  “I feel responsible,” I said, hanging my head. “But, honestly, I want you to know I had no idea who you were at the time. I mean, of course I do now, Mr. Chan, and I’m so honored to be sitting here with you. Seriously, I’m pinching myself, but I want you to know I didn’t mean to thrust you back into the limelight like that. Especially if it’s not somewhere you want to be. I really need to watch what I post—this isn’t the first mistake I’ve made on Instagram recently—and I should have got your name when we were in Rose’s. I’m so—” I stopped, realizing that I now had verbal diarrhea and Maurice was looking into his coffee again.

  “I’ll shut up. Can we start again?”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” he uttered calmly. “You’re a good person, Amber, I could see that from the moment we met. Do you have anywhere to rush off to?”

  “Not until later this afternoon,” I replied, my heart sinking as I thought of trudging the streets, looking for nipple tassels.

  * * *

  And so it came to be that fabled fashion designer Maurice Chan lifted the lid on the truth about his rise to the top and then his catastrophic fall, in a Williamsburg coffee shop, to little old me. Once he got into his stride, he didn’t stop talking—it was as if a dam had burst and years of pent-up frustration and sadness came tumbling out. He told his story with great passion and eloquence, stopping at opportune moments to dab a tear from his eye or signal another coffee from the waitress. It transpired that Maurice had been the victim of an overly ambitious assistant, a man who had once been his lover, until Maurice “wasn’t a good fit” for his career, who had completely stitched him up by plotting the Hitler moustache debacle behind his back. And when it all blew up for Maurice, the assistant distanced himself from his former boyfriend and mentor, even stealing copies of original sketches for his upcoming collection, and landed himself a top position in a rival design house within a matter of weeks.

  Two hours passed in a heartbeat and, when he had finally finished telling the story, Maurice slumped back into his seat, drained and emotional.

  “But why did you take the fall for him?” I asked. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He hung his head. “I was his boss, not to mention his ex-lover, the label was in my name and I should have had tighter control over my business, so in that sense it was completely my fault—and I paid the ultimate price. I lost everything.” His French accent became even more pronounced as he talked. He paused, as his eyes became moist with emotion and he struggled to keep his black eyeliner in place with his index finger. Instinctively, I leaned across and placed my hand gently on his forearm.

  “So where did you go?” I probed, sensing there was more to come.

  “The damage was done immediately. I’m no Nazi sympathizer—I swear to you.” He gripped my hands tightly with both of his and looked me dead in the eye. “It brought shame not only on me, but my family, too. And that was hard to take. The press were camping outside my mother’s house in Bordeaux. It almost finished her off—she has a weak heart as it is. I fell into a deep depression, barely leaving my apartment in Paris for six months. And then I was invited to move to New York by an elderly great-aunt. I decided that I could make myself useful looking after her and start over again, in a city where I was less likely to be recognized every time I left the house.”

  “Do you still live with your aunt?” I asked.

  “Sadly she passed away last year.” He looked out of the window, wistfully.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  “It was a tough time. But she left the apartment and all her belongings to me.” He smiled. “Marianne was her name. She was a real fashionista in her day—a known face around town at all the most glamorous parties. She had made her name as a burlesque dancer in the top clubs in Paris—the Moulin Rouge, Les Folies Bergère, she performed at them all—before she moved to New York to chase her dream to become an actress. A few risqué stage roles followed, but it was on the social scene that she really sparkled. She never married, but she had a few long-term relationships and incredibly exciting liaisons with a handful of famous actors and millionaires—her photograph collection is to die for. And her clothes, well, they are something else. I haven’t done a thing to her wardrobe, it’s exactly as she left it, down to the very last outfit she wore—a genuine 1920s silk kimono, hanging over one of the doors. She was glamour personified, right until the end.” He stopped to sip his coffee. “So the truth is, fashion is in my blood. Maybe it sounds bizarre, but I see life in clothes. I remember exactly what I was wearing when I was backstage at that fateful show, I remember the outfit I wore when I told my mother I was gay, and when I felt the flushes of true love for the first time. I notice the clothes on every person I pass on the street. Nothing excites me more than fashion and the choices people make when they get dressed in the morning. It is all I think about.” For a moment he seemed to drift off somewhere. I looked down at my white shirt, trousers and loafers wondering what he made of my clothes today, but stayed mute, giving him the space to continue.

  “That’s why I spoke to you that morning at the Whitney,” he continued. “I could tell you cared, too—just by looking at your shoes and your vintage Cavalli scarf. I could tell you were cold, but you still decided to wear those things because they looked and made you feel good.”

  “You spotted the Cavalli?” I had to admit I was chuffed.

  “Of course. We are like-minded, Amber. Do you think these boots are the most comfortable footwear I could choose?” He lifted a Cuban heel off the floor and we
both peered at it. “Of course they’re not. But they make me feel invincible. They are my armor. Oh, chérie, I feel so inspired right now. I’ve designed my new collection ten times over in my head.” He stopped again, averting his eyes from mine as tears sprung into them once more. I felt mine prickle, too. It seemed so unfair that this man, clearly such a talent and so passionate about his art, was now washed up. The waitress stopped by, offering us more coffee and as we both accepted—by this point we were flying on caffeine—an idea began to form in my mind.

  “I think I can help you,” I said earnestly when our refills had arrived. He looked up and held my gaze, and for the first time all morning a hint of possibility shone in his eyes. “I’m working with Liv Ramone at the moment. You might remember her, she was a fairly successful actress a few years ago and then it all went pear-shaped when she fell in with the wrong crowd and went off the rails. She’s now a self-styled ‘cleaned-up Hollywood wild child’ wanting to relaunch her career.”

  “I know how she feels,” he muttered.

  “But there’s a problem,” I continued. “Quite a big problem. The thing is, she prefers to be nude rather than clothed, but it’s doing nothing for building her image—let alone mine as her stylist. She’s going to Coachella in four days’ time and, so far, I’ve got a few negligées, a daisy chain and some nipple tassels for her to take with her to wear. It’s a disaster and I’m struggling to know what to do about it. What if you could design some cool lingerie pieces for her, to smooth the transition back into clothing? You could do it anonymously if you like. It would really help me out. I’m finding it impossible to source anything that doesn’t look tacky. What do you say? Could you do it in time?”

  He sucked in his cheeks. “Ooh, la la. I wasn’t expecting to receive a commission today. Four days, though . . . that is nothing, Amber, darling. I would like to help you, I would be honored; in fact, I would love nothing more—but four days?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid, ma chérie, it is impossible.”

  Now it was my turn to feel deflated. I looked at my phone; it was nearly three o’clock, we had completely missed lunch and I needed to get back to my reconnaissance mission for Liv’s nonexistent festival wardrobe.

  “Don’t worry, it was silly of me to ask,” I said. “Really, it’s fine.” I stirred a lump of sugar into my umpteenth coffee. I was starting to feel a little agitated; it wouldn’t be long before Mickey would be back on my case wanting to arrange her next fitting and I had nothing else to show. Suddenly, Maurice gripped my arm.

  “Wait!” he exclaimed, taking me aback at first. I looked over my shoulder, wondering for a second if someone had spotted him. “I’ve just had a brainwave! Why didn’t I think of it before? Quatre days you say?” I nodded sagely. “Four days is plenty, for I already have a whole wardrobe of incredible vintage pieces fit for the fieriest burlesque star in Paris. Marianne’s wardrobe! You know, my aunt. Her wardrobe is full of the most exquisite corsets, stockings, negligees and boas—I’m talking classy, not trashy, the real deal—proper Parisian burlesque. Darling M never put a fashion foot wrong. And I’m sure she will be high-kicking in heaven right now, to think her beloved clothes could be brought back to life on an ingénue of the moment.”

  “More enfant terrible than ingénue,” I mumbled, “but if you really are sure, this could be the answer to my prayers.”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I would be honored, my darling—as would Marianne. It’s as if you are my guardian angel, sent over from London to help me. This was written in the stars. Come on, let me show you the wardrobe.”

  We grinned gleefully at each other and asked for the bill.

  Chapter Ten

  Maurice and I jumped into a taxi and reached his apartment on the Upper East Side twenty minutes later. I had to pinch myself several times as we crisscrossed through lanes of traffic, Maurice staring out of the window. Though my index finger hovered over the miniature camera, the little blue bird and the tempting blue “F” icon on my phone, I resisted the urge to post anything on social media. I was too scared about the storm that might follow. Rob will be pleased.

  When we exited the cab, I looked up at the tall, elegant, brownstone building in front of us, right in the heart of expensive, old-money Manhattan. It was a home from a film set: black metal railings, cute metal post box affixed to the gate.

  “We’re on the top floor,” Maurice informed me as we climbed the steps to his shiny black front door. Inside, we went through a second wooden door and entered a beautiful hallway with a wooden staircase to the right, the steps covered in a bottle green runner, and there were smart black and white tiles on the hallway floor to the left. The smell of furniture polish and hoovered carpet hung in the air—there was something old-fashioned but deliciously chic about it all.

  Maurice smiled, indicating the staircase. “I’ve only walked up once the whole time I’ve been here.” I gazed upward to see it spiral majestically across several floors above us. The ceiling was so high it made his voice echo. We took the lift to the fifth floor, me feeling as though I was in Pretty Woman, only Maurice wasn’t exactly my Richard Gere. He was barely taller than my five foot six, even in heels. His little gray bun bobbed down the hallway ahead of me.

  When we reached the top floor, he turned his key in the lock and it was as though we had entered a Parisian apartment from a time gone by. If I wasn’t mistaken there was birdsong playing. I half expected Edith Piaf to appear from behind a door and start singing to us. The walls in the hallway were painted deep red and crammed full of framed photos. Most were black-and-white, depicting curvy women, their bodies strapped into corsets or posing for the camera wearing jeweled bra tops, feathered wings and boas covering their modesty, with jaunty miniature top hats and feathered headpieces finishing off the look. There were a few framed posters and flyers for burlesque and cabaret clubs—including the Moulin Rouge and Le Crazy Horse Saloon—a number of them featuring the name MARIANNE. Just one word, like Madonna. So cool. She must have been a huge star in her day. One face appeared in nearly all the images, so it had to be her. She had striking black curly hair sitting just above her shoulders, painted lips, big eyes and an hourglass figure. One image stood out in particular: her hot-pants-clad body on display, her breasts covered by an exquisite, intricate bra made of jewels cut into the shape of petals. She wasn’t looking into the lens seductively this time, she was staring off into the middle distance and she looked a little sad.

  “Are these all images of your great-aunt?” I asked, lagging behind Maurice, desperate to take them all in.

  “Mostly,” he replied over his shoulder. “She was photographed by all the top names of her day.”

  “She was beautiful,” I declared. “Especially in this one.”

  Maurice had got bored of waiting for me further down the corridor.

  “Ah, I love that one, too.” He smiled, joining me. “She was brokenhearted that day, her latest millionaire boyfriend had given her that bra. It was an incredible piece, made from the finest rubies, but when the photo was taken he had just called off their relationship. She thought she might die of a broken heart, she told me once—she really thought he could be The One. You can see the pain all over her face, yet it is so beautiful at the same time. She returned the bra to him that very evening. He was called Clark Claybourne. She told me never to forget his name—he must be well into his nineties by now, as she would be. God rest her delicate soul.”

  We both stared at it for a moment longer, engulfed by her sorrow.

  The spell was broken by my mobile ringing loudly. I looked at the name flashing before me: Mickey.

  “Drat, it’s Liv’s manager. He’s going to hassle me about her next fitting,” I thought out loud, before cutting him off.

  “Her bedroom is this way.” Maurice beckoned me. We stopped outside the third door on the left-hand side. As I moved down the hallway, I gazed right, where a giant archway opened up into a large sitting room, with a highly polished wooden floor c
overed in antique pieces of furniture; the same dark-red coloring was on the walls and black picture rails and skirting boards gave it a formal air. In the far corner of the room by the window stood a large ornate birdcage with four little canaries inside. So that’s where the chirping is coming from.

  Maurice was waiting for me.

  “You’ve spotted my girls,” he proclaimed as I gawped at the room before me. “Meet Brigitte, Catherine, Ines and Edith—the most faithful friends a guy could have. They know all my darkest secrets.” He winked. He seemed so much more relaxed safely at home, away from the outside world.

  “They’re beautiful. It’s all beautiful,” I uttered, transfixed by the place.

  “Come, let’s get styling.” He chivvied me back down the hallway behind him.

  Instantly, I knew that Maurice was not exaggerating: the room was indeed a shrine to his beloved departed great-aunt. Her makeup was still laid out on the dressing table and her four-poster bed was still made. Adjacent to it stood a huge walnut wardrobe, taking up most of one wall; one door was closed, the other flung open with a sky blue silk kimono with a gold dragon on the back draped over it, just as he had described.

  I sighed, itching to rummage through the wardrobe. “It’s a stunning room.”

  Maurice had stopped by my side; I hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts.

  “So how should we do this?” I asked cautiously.

  * * *

  Nearly two hours later, we had unlocked a treasure trove of incredible vintage burlesque costumes: glittery sequins and seductive fringing over skintight dancer’s leotards, a fabulous long gold fringe belt with rhinestone detailing to show off feminine curves but still leave something to the imagination, a couple of stunning satin form-fitting corsets in pale feminine colors with layers of cheeky feathers around the bottom and then, the pièce de résistance, a pair of sky-blue theatrical ostrich feather fans, just asking to be teased apart by their saucy wearer. At last I had found what I’d been searching for—a bit of theater and glamour to add to Liv’s “barely there” approach to festival fashion. There was nothing tacky about it—Marianne’s burlesque wardrobe oozed sex appeal from a time gone by. With a few of this season’s designer accessories, it would make an original look, worthy of the pages of Vogue. I couldn’t wait to see Liv try it all on. When Mickey called again soon after, I could truthfully tell him his star’s Coachella wardrobe was “sorted.”