The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  Maurice seemed exhausted when we had finished. It had clearly been an emotional process for him—as much about laying his great-aunt’s life to rest and moving on as helping me with a styling job. I glanced at a pretty carriage clock on Marianne’s bedside table—it was gone six o’clock, and Rob would be home from work soon and wondering where I was.

  * * *

  When I got through the door, I could instantly tell something was wrong. The door wasn’t double-locked, which meant Rob was home, but there were no lights on. I gently put down my bag in our poor excuse for a hallway (it lasted approximately two steps before you were into the living-cum-dining-cum-kitchen area) and padded around the corner. Rob was sitting on the sofa, an open bottle of red wine on the coffee table in front of him, and a nearly empty glass in his hand. A packet of cigarettes lay on the sofa. He barely registered I was there.

  “Bad day?” I stated the obvious.

  “Just slightly,” he muttered. “Did try calling you several times to see if you could meet me.”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket. I’d been so fixated on wondering when Mickey would next ring back, I had barely registered the three missed calls from Rob earlier in the afternoon.

  “Sorry, I was with Maurice, going through his aunt’s wardrobe, would you believe. It was hard to speak.” He refilled his glass. “Anyway, talk to me—what’s happened?”

  I grabbed a wine glass and sat down next to him, putting my arm around his neck and coercing him into turning to face me. I’d never seen Rob look this depressed before.

  “It’s Dan,” he finally said, swigging another half glass of wine, before filling us both up from the nearly empty bottle.

  “Oh God, your brother—don’t tell me something terrible has happened?” Now it was my turn to freeze up.

  “He’s okay. I mean he’s not had an accident or anything, but it’s all off with Florence. He was in bits, Amber.” He turned to face me. “He called me earlier at work and I’ve never heard him so done in. You won’t believe what happened today—he had to pop back home for something and caught her in bed with another guy, in their bed! In his bed, rather. He’s the one who paid for everything in that Notting Hill show apartment. It’s such a cliché.”

  “Oh Jesus.” I took a large swig of wine. “That’s awful. Poor Dan. What did he do?”

  “He slammed the door and walked out, of course,” Rob said. “That’s when he phoned me. I think he was still in shock. He’s furious. She’s made a fool out of him.”

  I shook my head. “Does he know the guy?”

  “Dan thinks he’s the boss of the PR agency she works for. To make things even worse, he’s married with three children. So she’s not only ruined her own engagement, she’s a marriage wrecker, too. God knows how long it’s been going on for.”

  “Oh man, I’m so sorry.” I cradled him in a big bear hug. “Poor, poor Dan.”

  “And then, as if my day wasn’t shit enough,” Rob continued, “then the bloody main stylist for the Angel Wear show we’re supposed to be filming had an almighty hissy-fit, culminating in a stand-up shouting match with the owner, Ron, in front of everyone at the studio. A difference in opinion over ‘artistic direction,’ apparently. I mean how many ways can you wear a bra and some knickers? Anyway, now Ron says the show is off. He can’t see how we could pull it together credibly in the time left. I mean, he’s fuming with this stroppy stylist.”

  “So what does this mean for you—and the filming?” I asked.

  “It means the whole thing is in jeopardy.” He sighed. “If there’s no big show, there’s no TV program to be made about it. We’ve all been given tomorrow off and there’s going to be a crisis meeting on Monday, once everyone’s calmed down, to find out what’s going to happen.”

  I breathed out deeply. “That’s a tough day.” Then I finished the remaining wine in my glass. “No wonder you needed a drink.”

  It also dawned on me that this had big implications for me, too—no TV show meant no New York for Rob, which in turn meant the end of the Big Apple dream for me—just when things were starting to kick off. My mind was racing. “Do you think I could help, with the styling, maybe?” It just came out before I’d had time to think it through.

  He looked grimly at the empty bottle and then a little of the familiar Rob sparkle came back into his features.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he said, after a beat. “You could be just what we need. I’ll text Ron now.”

  And before I could say, “Hold your horses, John Wayne! I’m not sure I’m up to this!” he had sent a text to his boss.

  Seconds later, his phone beeped.

  “Bring her in,” Rob read straight from the screen.

  “So what do we do now?” I muttered, unsure if I felt excited or petrified.

  “We get drunk?”

  “Great!” I replied.

  He reached out and turned my face toward his. “I love you, Amber Green. But let’s not get too drunk, because you’re coming to meet Ron, tomorrow. You also need to tell me about this Maurice what’s-his-name? and how you’ve single-handedly instigated his return to the scene.”

  “Well, it’s quite a story . . .” And we left the apartment for our local dive bar.

  * * *

  The next morning, we both woke feeling as though we had swallowed the entire contents of a liquor store. My head was banging. Rob was already out of bed and lying in the bath, presumably hoping that the hot steam might tease out the remains of the alcohol we’d consumed last night. But judging by his blotchy red skin and sweaty forehead, it was having the opposite effect.

  “Not working,” he grimaced, as I slowly made my way toward him and perched unsteadily on the side of the bath. I had a feeling of foreboding that I should not be in this state ahead of a meeting with a new potential employer.

  “I’ll bet Dan’s doing the same thing right about now,” I replied. “So, although we’re not there with him, at least we are feeling his pain.”

  “I spoke to him while you were still sleeping,” Rob said. “He’s at Mum’s and has told Florence to get out of the flat by the end of the weekend. And if she’s not, I wouldn’t bet on Mum not heading over there to drag her out by her blow-dry.”

  “I bet he doesn’t know what to do with himself,” I said, trailing my hand in the warm water, as I contemplated whether joining Rob in the bath was a good idea or not.

  “Well, he was wondering about getting on a plane and coming out here,” Rob said, looking at me expectantly. His eyelashes were stuck together with water. He looked gorgeous even in spite of his bloodshot eyes and blotchy skin. “How would you feel if Dan crashed over here for a few nights, just to get his head straight?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t mind at all,” I assured him. “He’s your brother, baby. God knows, I’d feel the same if this happened to Lucy.”

  For a few moments, I thought of my sister, of Rory and little Nora back home. My own family had barely crossed my mind in the few weeks I’d been out here, I’d been so consumed by social media and Maurice Chan. Thinking of home also made me think of our other little family member currently on the other side of the Atlantic.

  “I wonder how Pinky’s doing,” I said, a soppy warm feeling washing over me as I visualized his dark little eyes and rounded pink belly.

  “Aah, Pinky, I miss him,” Rob said quietly. “But judging by Poppy’s Instagram account, he’s having a fantastic time. Have you not seen the pics? He was having lunch at the Ivy Chelsea Garden a couple of days ago, and getting his trotters cleaned at some pet spa in Knightsbridge the day before that. He’s a real ‘man about town.’ He might not want us back.”

  “Anyway, I guess I’d better start downing coffee and ironing a dress. What time is Ron expecting us?”

  “Oh, sorry!” he replied. “Forgot to tell you, he’s asked to rearrange. I’ll get on to him first thing, so keep your phone on.”

  I breathed a hefty sigh, thinking, Thank God for that, and headed back into th
e bedroom to retrieve my phone for a scroll. As if telepathically, there was a missed call from Mum.

  Once I’d assured my mother that I was working hard to earn my keep out here, and my headache had finally begun abating, I called Mickey to arrange the final fitting for Liv before she headed off to Coachella the following day. He asked me to meet them at a suite at the Soho Grand Hotel in Manhattan.

  * * *

  Fortunately, given my deathly pallor, the hotel was trendily dimly lit, the spring sunshine locked outside, when I arrived shortly after midday. Mickey met me in the lobby. I felt like a shifty sex industry salesperson carrying my suitcase filled with burlesque pieces from Marianne’s wardrobe.

  “At last!” he said, taking the case from my hand and heading straight for the lifts. “Liv’s been getting her knickers in a twist about this styling business.” I know he means it literally. “It’s going to be scorching in the desert so she’s been in the gym all hours honing that cute little ass.” God, he makes my skin crawl. “We absolutely have to make a mark these next few days, her career depends on it.”

  I resisted the urge to mention the fact that, at present, Liv didn’t exactly have a career to speak of.

  When we reached the private sixteenth floor, we took a left and followed the corridor to the end, where Liv was holed up in one of the luxury suites. At least she was supposed to be, but inside she was nowhere to be seen. Mickey set the suitcase down on the California king–size bed and unzipped it. He didn’t seem concerned that his client had clearly done a runner. The windows revealed stunning views of Manhattan.

  “Amber’s here, babe,” he called, finally, toward a closed door off the bedroom.

  When there came no response, he gently pushed it open. A fug of steam whooshed out. “Jesus H— you’ll be a prune by now! C’mon honey-pie, Amber’s got some rad gear for you to try on.” Rad?

  “I’m so cozy in here, I don’t want to get out yet,” a voice trilled in response. “Come in, I can talk to Amber from here.”

  Following a nod from Mickey, unconfidently, I made my way toward the bathroom.

  Liv was stretched out in the ample bathtub, her wet hair held in a top knot by a scrunchie, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the water, and her face free of makeup. She had beautifully clear, alabaster skin. Fortunately, the bath was full of foam, and it covered the essential areas, hiding my modesty as well as hers.

  “Great to see you, Amber, come in.” Liv gestured with a shiny wet arm. “Sorry to be a slob but, this bath—man, it’s the greatest bath I’ve ever lain in. Want to join me?”

  Mickey sniggered.

  “Um, I’m okay, thanks,” I mumbled, wondering what I’d entered into. Surely she’s not a swinger as well as a nudist? Nothing would have surprised me at this moment. “I brought your Coachella looks,” I pressed on. “I was thinking you’d want to try some of them on and then I can help you put your wardrobe together, if you like?” Hopefully, I looked over to Mickey for some support, but he seemed more interested in ogling Liv in the bath.

  She lifted one foot out of the water, nimbly wrapping the chain around her big toe and giving it a gentle yank to release the plug. There was a gurgling noise as the water began emptying out.

  “Of course. So tell me, what did you bring?” she asked. “You know I don’t want to look like every other rich Beverly Hills hipster at a festival. And the last person I want to emulate is that Kendall Jenner. Ugh, such a stereotype.”

  Less water meant fewer bubbles, which very quickly meant more Liv and within seconds she was fully naked before us. I didn’t dare look at Mickey. As she held on to the side of the bath and lifted herself up, I averted my eyes and began backing out of the room.

  “Don’t be shy, Amber, I’ve only got what you’ve got. Anyway—the LA clone girls, I can’t bear that look. That’s why I’m going for the less is more approach.”

  She put her hands on her hips and jiggled her bits, to emphasize the point.

  Thankfully, Mickey chose that moment to bring her a towel.

  Now rubbing herself dry, Liv continued. “I just feel that stripping off is a way of expressing purity of emotion,” she said, authoritatively, and completely unaware at how awkward I was feeling right now, as I couldn’t help my eyes from wandering to the most perfectly trimmed muff I’d ever seen in the flesh. “And I want to be memorable,” she declared. “Everyone’s waiting to see what I do next and I want it to be shocking. I want to get people talking. I mean, why not?” It was a perfectly reasonable question for a person addicted to fame. But why naked? I wanted to ask. But at this precise juncture, more shocking than seeing Liv totally in the buff was the unsettling feeling I had witnessing this display of crude nudity alongside Mickey. Somehow it made me more uneasy that he wasn’t even pretending to look away—and he was still wearing his un-ironic eighties-style leather jacket—it made this clean and pure young woman look so vulnerable; it felt horribly voyeuristic. As she finished drying herself and flung the towel on the bathroom floor, instinctively I pulled a fluffy white bathrobe from the back of the door and threw it over the side of the bath next to her.

  “I hear you,” I said, deciding to act professionally, despite the fact that the heat in here had made my hangover return with a vengeance. This was the second steaming-hot bath I’d witnessed so far this day and I hadn’t even had time for a soak myself. “I just think that with a few choice items, you can have people remember you for a whole host of cool reasons, and not just your body,” I told her as assertively as I could. “Anyway, I’ve totally gone for the ‘less is more’ approach—I think you’ll like what I’ve got planned.”

  Liv seemed to take the hint and pulled the robe around her slender body as she followed me out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the cream carpet behind her. Mickey had gone ahead and already opened the suitcase. He was posing, holding a feathered wing over his crotch area, in what was supposed to be a joke, but made me wince. I brushed him aside and the stylist in me sprang into action.

  * * *

  As I unveiled piece after piece of rare vintage burlesque wear, straight from the wardrobe of one of Paris’s most famous muses, Liv’s eyes grew wider and wider. As she tried the items on, I kept one eye on my phone, in case Rob had left a message about another time for me to meet Ron. The idea of styling the Angel Wear show was starting to have big appeal—especially if the alternative was to force clothes on a reluctant client.

  It had to be said Liv looked incredible in the bustiers, and the long fringed belt made her slim legs look sensational; a seriously sexy black negligée cut so low it showed her belly button at the front, teamed with some studded Saint Laurent leather biker boots, created a truly original, cool festival look for the evening that she managed to pull off perfectly. As well as a killer body, Liv had bucket-loads of confidence.

  I could see it all hanging together beautifully as a cool festival ensemble—one that would stand out from the cardboard cut-out Coachella crowd. After over an hour of trying on and picking her favorite pieces, both Liv and Mickey seemed thrilled with the results.

  “Now, all I ask,” I commanded—as she was jumping around the room nymph-like, flapping the ostrich-feather fans, screaming “J’adore! J’adore!”—“is that you take great care of all of these items I’m lending you. They’ve come straight from the wardrobe of someone very special—she was one of the original dancers for the Crazy Horse in Paris.” Liv ooooh-ed in response. “These items are the real deal and their present owner will have me strung if they don’t all return in the same condition.”

  Pausing, she looked at me earnestly. “I’m so grateful to you, Amber. Don’t panic! I promise I’ll have it all back to you in mint condition. Isn’t that what you Brits say?”

  Chapter Eleven

  With still no word from Ron, Saturday rolled around and I gave myself the day off work to get ready for the fancy-dress party. Rob and I felt we had earned ourselves some fun in this city and tonight was the night.

/>   Looking at ourselves in the bathroom mirror, we had to concede we looked fantastic as Britain’s most famous couple—HM Queen Elizabeth II and her dashing husband, HRH the Duke of Edinburgh. Tina and Max swung by the apartment for a drink and a laugh at our outfits before we left.

  “Honestly, those are the best outfits I have ever seen!” Tina gushed when I opened the door and invited them in with a royal wave. “You don’t even look like yourselves. I frickin’ love it!”

  “The dress is a 1950s original by the dressmaker to the Queen himself, don’t you know,” I proudly informed her, a tiny bit miffed that I pulled off ninety-plus with such ease.

  “Honey, you are so styling me next time we get invited to a costume party. Now, let me take your picture.”

  I uploaded the image of Rob and I, arm in arm, corgi tucked between us, as the regal couple, just before we set off in a taxi to the party: Juno filter; caption: “By Royal appointment—dressed up and ready to rock as the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh #Royal #RuleBritannia #NYC #Fashion #HardyAmies #Corgi #Party #OOTN”

  * * *

  The party was in Amy’s loft apartment in a trendy area of Brooklyn. You could tell just by looking at the building that it was going to be at least five times the size of our sardine tin. We’d spent so much time drinking wine with Tina and Max, the party was in full swing when we arrived.

  “Hey, guys!” Amy said, opening the door, her face swiftly turning to a look of shocked amusement as she clocked our outfits. “Loving the costumes, um, to what do we owe this honor, er, Your Highnesses?” She bowed her head and curtsied, before putting a hand across her mouth to stifle a full-blown laugh. “It’s not Halloween is it? Come in, the others have got to see this!”