The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  “Not tonight!” I yelled back, thinking how much I wished Rob was here and not only because my head was starting to spin—I was concerned that should I end up in the water, I might not actually resurface. I had a realization that school swimming lessons and the seemingly pointless exercise of making floats out of pajamas were clearly designed for situations like this in which you might unexpectedly need to create a life raft from your clothing. Shame my head is too scrambled to remember how to do it.

  “Phew!” she exclaimed, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me tightly into her slender body. “You won’t tell Rob about this, will you? I’d hate him to think I was neglecting his pig. Pinky is perfectly safe around at my friend Charlie’s house. Charlie’s the biggest vegan you’ll meet. And I’ll be back in London next Friday.”

  The fact that this Charlie was unlikely to chop Pinky up into pieces and eat him for dinner didn’t offer me much comfort.

  “Next Friday? That’s a whole ten days away, you know how much Rob adores that pig. Are you sure Pinky’s okay?”

  “Amber, chill out. Pinky is fine. It’s not exactly hard to keep a pig alive. Come to the toilets with me?” I noticed her eyes looked wider than normal, her pupils dilated. Her aggressive tone startled me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to shout, it’s just I’m not up for heavy chats—I’m celebrating tonight,” she continued.

  “I wasn’t trying to be heavy,” I muttered. “Anyway, what are you celebrating?” I shifted myself around awkwardly within her tight grip, wondering where Vicky had got to. I scanned the pool but couldn’t see her frolicking in it. Poppy was chatting away so fast I was finding it hard to keep up.

  “Somehow I’ve managed to get a part in the new Channing Tatum movie. The casting director offered it to me on the spot, today. It was a last-minute audition after Amanda Sykes had to pull out. As we’ve got the same agent, he put me forward immediately. Channing “top-off” Tatum, can you believe it? I can’t! Anyway, about the bag drop, I want to ask you something—in private. Let’s go to the loos.”

  The “bag drop” sounded dodgy as hell and, judging by Poppy’s mannerisms tonight, I could only think it was something to do with drugs. I certainly didn’t want to get involved but, at the same time, Poppy’s presence was making me look fantastic in front of Amy and Kate, who were quietly gawping at me chatting to another celebrity in our growing VIP area. I took Poppy’s hand and we weaved our way through the crowded dance floor to the Ladies’ room. En route, we bumped into Vicky returning from the bar with four tequila shots in test tubes.

  “Oh! I only got four,” she said dismissively, clocking Poppy, whose arm was threaded tightly with mine like she was my BFF and not Vicky.

  “No matter, I can’t do more than two at a time anyway!” Poppy replied animatedly, stealing two and downing them in a flash, one after another. We both looked at her aghast. “Oops,” she hiccuped. “My round next. We’ll be back in a sec.” And she whisked me off leaving Vicky bemused in our wake.

  “Don’t mind me then!” Vicky called after her. I turned back in an effort to tell her with my eyes that this wasn’t my idea—it was Poppy’s—and caught her swigging back the remaining two shots. I got the sense these two were going to clash.

  The toilets were small and busy. An attendant stood by the door tutting as each woman left without crossing her tips bowl with a dollar bill. When we reached the front of the queue, she moodily passed us a folded up tissue each and gestured toward a collection of perfumes, deodorants and hairsprays. Signs on each of the cubicle doors read: ONE PERSON PER CUBICLE.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” squawked Poppy, lifting a can of deodorant and spraying so much under her armpits it turned the room into a foggy cloud of powder and made me sneeze. When the attendant turned to do the same, Poppy yanked me into a cubicle with her.

  “But we’re not—” She silenced me with her finger, closed the toilet lid and sat down on it, lifting her feet off the ground like a pro.

  “Why the need for all this secrecy?” I asked, while she fished around in her oversize clutch bag for something. She pulled out a crumpled brown envelope.

  “It’s about the bag drop. I couldn’t ask you out there, because I don’t want anyone to overhear us,” she whispered. “The guy will be around in less than an hour and—as you’re clearly here for the same reason—I was wondering if you could take this—it’s more cash than you’ll need.”

  I stared suspiciously into her very big and round eyes. I was expecting her to start racking up lines of cocaine on the toilet seat at any moment. How naive does she think I am?

  “Listen, Poppy,” I began, “each to their own, but drugs aren’t my thing—I’ll leave the bag drop, if you don’t mind.”

  She laughed in my face. “What are you on about, silly? I’m after the three-point-one Phillip Lim Pashli satchel in black. You know the one. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop. What are you getting?”

  Now she’s talking to me about It bags. What kind of substance is she on, something far more sinister than cocaine!

  “I’m sorry, Poppy,” I whispered, “but I don’t have a clue what you’re on about. If it’s drugs you’re after, I’m afraid they’re not my thing—you’ll have to sort yourself out, or ask someone else.”

  “Drugs? What do you mean?” she hissed. “Do you really think I’d risk losing my visa for the sake of a bag of coke? Cocaine is so five years ago. Everyone’s talking about the three point one—if you don’t have one, you can’t say you’re in fashion. I’m going on set next week and I need this bag to carry my scripts in.”

  “Well, why don’t you just go and buy one?” I snapped, feeling ridiculous to be having such a pointless, bizarre conversation in a toilet cubicle—especially when my oldest friend was outside, upset and doing tequila shots on her own.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, you moron! Of course I can’t afford the real thing, who can? This is the next best thing. There’s four hundred dollars in the envelope—it shouldn’t cost more than three hundred. But don’t let him peddle you anything else, I need the change.” She winked. “For tequila.”

  Finally, it twigged. “So this ‘bag drop’—you’re talking about some guy selling knock-off designer handbags?”

  “Durr!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you really didn’t know? The third Tuesday bag drop is legendary. The Bag Man comes to this part of town on the third Tuesday night of every month. That’s why you’ll find the fash pack filling out the clubs in the area—it’s no coincidence that half the hottest models in New York are in this club tonight—they all placed their orders days ago. Those girls you see swishing around fashion shows and industry parties with Hermès and Chanels on their arms? Eighty percent of them are fake, and no one will ever know because the Bag Man’s knock-offs are that good.”

  “But they work in fashion or they’re famous, surely they’re falling over designer freebies?” I asked, unconvinced that this wasn’t a front for some kind of drug-mule operation, with kilos of Colombia’s finest hidden inside the latest leatherwear.

  “Not anymore!” Poppy explained. “The fashion houses don’t give out freebies like they used to. And have you seen the price tags for the real things? You have to be a genuine millionaire to live in that world and believe me, most people who work in fashion are not millionaires. You should know. Anyway, there’s no time for this. When it’s your turn, you’ll get a text from the Bag Man—go meet him in the allotted place for the handover. I’ve taken the liberty of texting him your cell number.”

  “You what?”

  “Seriously, Amber, you don’t think I can be seen loitering on a street corner with a brown-paper envelope at this time of night, do you? The paps will have a field day. The gossip mags will be claiming I’m a woman of the night before you can say, Belle du Jour.”

  “So you thought I’d enjoy loitering on a street corner in the freezing cold, instead?” I uttered, feeling incredulous that she’d got me involved in a dodgy deal without my
consent; one that could quite possibly end my career if I got caught. There’s nothing the fashion houses hate more than rip-offs of their signature accessories. I’m sure there’s even a law against selling counterfeit goods. I could probably end up in prison. Rob’s going to hit the roof.

  “Look, if you want Pinky to stay safe and sound while I’m over here, you’ll do this for me, Amber.” She was staring pleadingly at me.

  “Are you trying to blackmail me, Poppy?” I looked her dead in the eye and saw her wince.

  We were cut off by a loud knocking at the cubicle door and the voice of the angry attendant. “Has somebody died in there? Hurry up, lady, there’s a line out here!”

  “Looks like there’s no time to argue about it,” Poppy whispered, flushing the chain, and yelling, “Coming! Dodgy stomach!” before ushering me out. “You distract her with a tip, while I follow.”

  I pulled my mobile out of my bag as we left the loos and, sure enough, there was a text message from an unknown number:

  Meet me behind the Gansevoort Hotel in 20 mins. When you get there don’t text, call me

  It had to be the Bag Man.

  I showed the text to Poppy who nodded sagely, and told me to reply:

  OK, see you then

  Immediately, a response:

  No talking about me in public. No number passing without my clearance. If you fuck up—you get cut off. OK lovely? Big kiss x

  It was the most passive aggressive text I’d ever read. A chill ran down my spine. Who and what am I getting involved with? I still didn’t completely believe that Poppy wasn’t setting me up with the local drug dealer.

  Back in the main club room, I spotted Vicky instantly; she was with Amy and Kate in the VIP area, standing on the seating and throwing shapes at a group of nearby blokes. They all had huge grins on their faces and were laughing hysterically as their “dance off” broke into some vigorous twerking to some heavy hip-hop. I wished I was up there with them having fun rather than getting involved with whatever it was with Poppy. My head was swimming, my heart pounding, and not in a fun way anymore.

  “I’ll get the tequilas in!” Poppy shouted, disappearing off toward the bar.

  I rejoined Vicky.

  “This is hilarious!” she gasped, breathless and dizzy from all the twerking, “Don’t point, but the guy in the white T-shirt at two o’clock, we’ve been eyeing each other up all evening. How fit is he?”

  I tried to zone in on who she might mean.

  “Hey, hands off, he’s been shaking his booty at me!” Amy chimed in. “I’ll fight you for him if I have to.”

  “Ooh, there’ll be murder on the dance floor if I don’t get there first!” squealed Kate as the three of them dissolved into giggles once more and the white-T-shirt man began blowing kisses at all three, clearly reveling in the attention from a trio of gorgeous single-ish girls—the ish being Vicky.

  “Anyway, where were you? I thought you’d got flushed down the loo,” Vicky said.

  “I need to speak to you,” I whispered. “Bloody Poppy, she’s got me involved in something and I need your help.” I grabbed her hand and reluctantly Vicky climbed down from the banquette and followed me. Making our way through the jungle of bodies crushed together, I had no idea where I was leading her, but it didn’t really matter, we just needed to be far away from the bar, so we wouldn’t risk bumping into Poppy. We squeezed past the white-T-shirt man and I’m sure Vicky would have stopped and tried to snog him had I not yanked her past. I could tell she was finding it hard to walk in a straight line. What is everyone on in here?

  Chapter Fourteen

  We shouldn’t do this. We could end up in really deep shit, Amber,” Vicky cautioned, leaning into me as we turned the corner, finding ourselves on a dark and empty narrow street behind the Gansevoort Hotel, not more than five minutes from the nightclub. We had walked most of the way in silence, each considering what on earth we were doing. “It’s so bloody obvious, Am. The Bag Man? Jesus! Poppy is blatantly talking about bags of cocaine, not knock-off Chanels—it’s some kind of code. I wish I’d been there when she was feeding you this Grade A bullshit, Amber. You saw how wired she was. Granted, I’ve not met Poppy before, but her eyes . . . ? She was blatantly on something. How gullible could we be?” This was Vicky being kind—she clearly meant how gullible could I be.

  “But Pinky . . .” I said in a whimper. “I’m doing this for Pinky—Rob will go insane if anything happens to his precious pig. I can’t believe Poppy’s blackmailing me.”

  But Vicky wasn’t listening because it was too late—a suspicious-looking black sports car complete with blacked-out windows was slowly approaching our bit of the pavement, its engine gently purring like a predatory lion. It looked every inch like your archetypal drug dealer’s car.

  I stared at Vicky then turned toward the vehicle. “Well, whatever he is, he’s here now.” She sounded as worried as I felt.

  “It’s fine.” I tried to reassure her, though my face, I’m sure, told a different story. “I grew up in North London. I can handle it and I’m going to see this thing through. We haven’t done anything wrong—remember?” My words belied a panicky feeling starting to sweep over me, sending a chill through my body, sobering me up.

  “You grew up in Zone Five London suburbia, Amber. This is New York,” Vicky pointed out, before snapping, “It’s completely different!”

  We’d stopped under a streetlight—I wanted to be able to see who I was about to get into a strange car with. I lifted the collars on my biker jacket, to try to make my appearance look tougher. Vicky reached out and gave me a firm pat on the back, for good luck. “Take down the number plate, will you,” I whispered quickly, as the car finally came to a halt. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, you can call Rob and call the police at the same time. Call whoever you like—just not my mum.”

  I was shocked to see that Vicky had a look on her face that suggested she was about to burst out laughing.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, babe . . . you know I always want to laugh when I’m nervous.” She was properly giggling to herself as she took out her phone and began punching in the car’s number plate. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” She wouldn’t find it so funny if it was her about to get into a car with someone who could well be Manhattan’s biggest drug baron.

  There was no point delaying the inevitable, so I began tentatively walking the few steps toward the other car, willing the windows to wind down and a friendly, smiling face to appear, putting everyone’s mind at rest. Instead, engine now turned off, the car remained still and dark.

  Giggles just about under control, Vicky suddenly coughed loudly to get my attention. When I turned to see what she wanted, she ushered me back.

  “What is it?” I hissed, already feeling like a bumbling amateur in front of the Bag Man. He was probably laughing his head off in there, watching the two of us all stressed and jittery—if we dallied around much longer we might get reported for suspicious behavior ourselves.

  Vicky coughed again. “Um, just thinking, that if you don’t end up being a drug’s mule and it really is knock-off bags, can you get me anything by Celine, please? Or, failing that, a small monogrammed Saint Laurent?” She thrust some screwed-up notes into my jacket pocket. “There should be enough here.” I hurriedly brushed her hand away, rolling my eyes and turning back toward the car, as she hollered, “In gray!”

  When I reached the side of the car, the door suddenly popped open and a female voice ordered, “Get in,” in a crisp American accent. The fact that it was a woman inside immediately threw me.

  I lowered myself into the passenger seat, painfully aware that I was carrying a large amount of cash, and didn’t have a clue what was going to happen next.

  I stole a glance at the driver—a blond, glossy lady with long, straight hair and legs in shiny black leggings. She looked like a model herself. Although I couldn’t see her feet, I was pretty certain she was wearing heels—designer ones at that. The double bluff that
the Bag Drop Man was actually female wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

  “I’m going to drive around the block,” she began, speaking slowly, not taking her eyes off the road. “There’s a bag on the back seat—pull it onto your lap. Inside that bag is another bag—the three-point-one Phillip Lim Pashli, as requested. Take out that bag and replace it with your envelope of cash. It’s three hundred and fifty dollars for the Lim. Zip it up and replace the bag on the back seat. We’ll be back where we started when you’ve done it and you can get out. Don’t speak of this again. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I replied, my heart beating double time. I was so busy trying to focus on what I was meant to do, I barely had the energy to feel relieved that she wasn’t dealing in drugs after all. But with her not being the friendliest of shop assistants, I wasn’t about to start adding to our order, although I wouldn’t have minded a small Saint Laurent or a Mulberry myself. As I turned and reached behind my chair onto the back seat, I couldn’t see any more designer handbags hanging around waiting to be snapped up anyway. I wondered where she kept them all.

  Quickly, I did as I was told, depositing the right amount of cash into the now-empty black holdall on the back seat.

  As we turned the final corner back to where we had begun, I felt my shoulders relax a little. I inhaled the beautiful scent of genuine leather from the Phillip Lim sitting on my lap. I was dying to look at the Bag Lady properly, but was too scared to stare, so all I got were a few stolen glances. Just a few minutes later, I spotted Vicky pacing around under the lamppost, speaking into her phone.

  “Who’s she talking to?” the lady asked.

  “Um . . . I’m . . . not sure. Sorry,” I stuttered, “but I’m sure it’s nothing to . . . be concerned about though.”

  She grunted before replying: “I hope not. And tell your friend not to talk of this, either. If anything happens, I’ll find you both.”

  The car drew to a halt. “Of course,” I said. “Have a good evening!”