The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  And I bolted out of the car to join Vicky, before anything else could happen, thinking that Pinky owed me, big time.

  When we got back home it was nearly four in the morning. Rob had left a sleeping bag and a spare pillow folded up on the sofa, so he couldn’t have been too annoyed that Vicky was staying the night. He stirred as I quietly got into bed and snuggled up behind his warm, naked body. I inhaled his back; I’d never been happier to be safely back home and in bed with him.

  “What time is it?” he asked sleepily.

  “Don’t ask,” I whispered. “But it’s so good to see Vicky. Thanks for letting her stay.”

  He babbled something in response, but I didn’t take it in because I was already drifting off to sleep.

  * * *

  “I had a really vivid dream about Pinky last night,” Rob muttered, shortly after his alarm abruptly woke us up just before eight o’clock. “It’s ridiculous, but I miss that little creature. I hope he’s okay.”

  As I roused myself and realized what he was saying, I wondered whether to tell him that Poppy was actually right here in New York, not at home with his beloved pet. But although I hated the fact she had succeeded in making me lie to my boyfriend, my raging hangover couldn’t deal with the fallout that would follow.

  “Me too,” I replied quietly.

  Rob looked utterly bereft for a little while, staring off into the middle distance, lost in the belief that a miniature pig was scuttling around Poppy’s London flat, hundreds of miles away from us—only he had no idea that Pinky was actually scuttling around at some stranger called Charlie’s home.

  “I hope he doesn’t know he’s been left behind,” Rob said eventually.

  “I’m sure Poppy’s got things under control.” I tried to push aside the memory of last night. On top of the fact that she’d palmed off Pinky without asking us, Rob would be livid to know about the bag drop. I’d done something that could have cost me my job; it could have even got me deported. Jeez, I feel nauseous.

  Keen to change the subject, I reached over to grab my phone and began my usual scroll through social media, going from Instagram to Snapchat to Facebook to Twitter and back, a few times in rotation, my heart picking up each time I clocked my total followers. I looked at Liv’s Instagram page and sat up as I admired the photos of her taking Coachella by storm in a series of sexy burlesque outfits. Then I opened vogue.com and an even greater feeling of excitement washed over me. The fashion reports from Coachella were amazing and Liv appeared in the Top Ten Best Dressed list for the first time in years.

  They even had a quote from her, as she praised her stylist for putting together her festival looks. “My stylist, Amber Green, has saved me from myself,” she told the Vogue reporter, and it had been picked up and quoted everywhere from elle.com to Women’s Wear Daily. I smiled to myself. Your stylist saved the world from seeing your naked body, more like. There was even a small photo of Liv in The Times newspaper back home as a notable fashion columnist discussed the rise of a new trend, epitomized by Liv, which they christened “Burlesque Boho.” I was glowing with pride.

  “I’ve got to call Maurice,” I said, showing the reports to Rob, adrenaline pumping. There was nothing like this to blast away a hangover.

  * * *

  “Marianne will be doing the cancan in the sky!” Maurice exclaimed when I told him the news. “Amber, I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity. ‘Burlesque Boho.’ C’est magnifique! Who’d have thought we could create a whole new trend while we were at it?”

  I beamed. “I know—Liv has texted me this morning. Mickey will drop off Marianne’s items tonight and she’s keen to keep riding this fashion wave when she gets home. What do you say to me introducing you? I’m sure there’s so much more we could all do together.”

  He paused.

  “You are so kind, ma chérie, but let me think about it. To launch myself back into the fashion world is a big decision for me. Timing is everything and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

  “Oh, but surely the time is now?” I reasoned. “You and Liv—you’re so similar in many ways, both staging a comeback, both keen to reinvent your image. I’m sure we could manage this brilliantly, if we plan it carefully. Will you think about it? I could get my agent involved to help us, if you like?”

  “No—no agents,” he said forcefully. “Like I said, je vais y réfléchir.”

  And the conversation was closed, for now.

  No sooner had I hung up than Dana rang, sounding stressed.

  “Amber, I’ve been trying to get through for ages. Sorry for the early call, but I’ve been dropped in it by a stylist. She’s sick and has had to pull out of a shoot and they desperately need someone at short notice. Are you free today?”

  “Um.” I sat up straight and scratched my ear. “Well, I had a bit of a—”

  “Fantastic, I told them you’d be happy to help. It’s baby wear. Don’t panic, the client’s providing all the looks, all you’ve got to do is turn up and make a few gorgeous little people look even cuter. They’re all from an agency so they know what they’re doing. Easy.”

  Easy? From my limited experience of babysitting Nora, babies and small children do not equal “easy.” And they definitely don’t “know what they’re doing.”

  “The good news is, I can pay you for this one,” Dana added, sweetening things. “I spoke with our lawyer and your visa application is looking good so we can call this an advance.”

  Rob was looking at me quizzically.

  “Can you give me two minutes to think about it?” I asked.

  “Sorry, I don’t have two minutes, sugar. What are you worrying about?”

  “Well, I’ve got a friend who’s just arrived in town,” I stuttered, desperate not to have to let on that lack of sleep and a monster hangover were my main motivations not to work today.

  “Great—bring her, too,” Dana pushed me.

  “You’re not taking No for an answer, are you?”

  “No, sweet cheeks. I’ll email you the call sheet—you’re needed from midday.”

  I looked at my phone. There was still enough time to get a bit of extra sleep so I didn’t give the babies nightmares.

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you! Mwah mwah!” And she was gone before I could change my mind.

  “Sounds like someone just got their first paid work as a Manhattan stylist,” Rob said, going to high-five me. “Nice one, Am.”

  Before I had time to really appreciate what this meant for my future, Vicky popped her head around our door. It startled us both—I’d almost forgotten she was here.

  “Excellent, you’re awake!” she announced, looking far too eager on not more than four hours’ sleep. “I’ve been awake for ages—jet lag—so I’ve booked us into SoulCycle.”

  “You what?”

  “SoulCycle. You can’t live in New York and not know about SoulCycle.”

  “She can,” Rob mumbled under his breath, unamused.

  “I wasn’t asking you,” Vicky responded, flashing him a smile. “Class starts at nine thirty. I booked online and we’re lucky to get a place. So you’d better get your butt out of bed, Miss Green . . . before I do it for you!”

  “There’s no time, I’m working today,” I protested.

  “When?”

  “Midday.”

  “Great, plenty of time then. SoulCycle will get your creative juices flowing.” Damn, should have lied.

  “I’m so dehydrated this morning I doubt I’ve got any juice to flow.”

  Vicky smirked and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Put on your best Lycra, we leave in ten minutes.”

  SoulCycle. Sounds inoffensive enough.

  “Just as bossy as ever, I see.” Rob moodily threw back the duvet and clambered out of our warm bed.

  “Heard that,” Vicky remarked as she disappeared behind the door.

  * * *

  After squeezing myself into some tighter-than-I-remembered activewear—unworn so far
in New York—Vicky and I were rushing to the subway, ready to head across the water to the SoulCycle studio at Union Square. Once again there were some breakdancers on our train carriage. Vicky frantically found her phone and began videoing them, but I barely glanced at them—by now this was normal for me. I even knew the route to Union Square without having to look at a subway map. It made me realize how much had changed since I arrived here just a few weeks ago. New York finally felt as though it could become my home—maybe even long term. There was something about the city that was endlessly exciting—and there was still so much to explore—we had barely had time to take in any of the main tourist sights and I was still desperate to visit the Statue of Liberty and see the view from the top of the Empire State Building.

  When we entered the SoulCycle studio it looked harmless—a room full of static exercise bikes, with the SoulCycle etiquette written across one wall. Number three was headed LAUNDRY: WE RIDE CLOSE TOGETHER SO WE CAN FEEL EACH OTHER’S ENERGY. THAT BEING SAID, YOUR NEIGHBOR DOES NOT WANT TO FEED OFF YOUR ODOR. I shuddered. The bikes couldn’t be packed in more closely and no one, not even Vicky, deserved to feel the dubious energy, never mind alcohol fumes that I was no doubt emitting after last night.

  As the room began filling up, I realized that my classmates were not your average aerobics aficionados—most had model looks and were dressed as though they’d just stepped out of a sportswear shoot. Hair knotted on heads, neon trainers, T-shirts emblazoned with right-on slogans like CUP OF CHIA? and SOUL MAMA. I realized that they were all clutching liter bottles of mineral water, whereas Vicky and I didn’t have any. Ah, well, how dehydrating can something forty-five minutes long possibly be?

  It turned out that SoulCycle involved hard-core spinning plus positive affirmations.

  “Experience the ritual!” the teacher called out as the lights were dimmed. Her bike was surrounded by candles, and she had abs that looked painted on, they were so good. “Dedicate this moment to being the best you can be!” Then the music was turned up and we all had to get out of our saddles to begin a hard-core series of handlebar push-ups and chest presses in time to the pumping beat.

  Where is the gentle cruising the name conjures up? And why are we standing on our bikes when there’s a perfectly comfy padded seat?

  Initially, I wanted to laugh, and I looked around the room at my fellow cyclists for assurance that this was totally barmy. But they were staring dead ahead, buttocks like iron, forearms solid, eyes focused on the instructor, as though she’d just told them the first past the post could have a free venti eggnog latte with cream and the calories wouldn’t count. Except this bunch probably only drinks kale juice. And I’ve got a whole forty-five minutes of this torture!

  I soon found myself adopting the cheat’s position of not turning up the resistance on my bike when we were instructed to. Feeling I was fooling the instructor at least gave me some power back in this masochistic ritual. I really needed a swig of water. I kept staring at people happily taking a moment to glug back some mineral water in the unlikely hope that they might kindly offer their bottle to me; and when I wasn’t doing that, I was daydreaming of waterfalls. After twenty minutes of manic pedaling, I was sweating profusely. I then became paranoid about body odor—being encouraged to fling my arms up and down the whole time was doing nothing to help—nor was the fact that the woman on the bike next to me bore more than a passing resemblance to Victoria Beckham. I tried to mouth her name to Vicky when she stole a glance at me in between pumps, presumably to check I was still alive.

  “VB!” I mouthed, indicating to my right.

  “Eh?” She shrugged. Vicky seemed annoyingly good at this pretend cycling lark; her daily Pilates sessions in LA had clearly paid off.

  “VB! Look right,” I whispered more loudly, wagging my head vigorously to my right.

  And then, in a flash, my sweaty palms lost their grip of the handlebars. I felt my slippery, sweaty body slide from the saddle and pull sideways and downward until I landed in an ungainly heap on the floor sandwiched between Victoria Beckham’s bike and my own. To finish things off, I somehow managed to knock her water bottle out of its holder on my descent and it bounced off my head before landing next to me.

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?” Victoria Beckham was now off her bike and staring down at me, concerned. She didn’t seem to have a single bead of sweat on her forehead, whereas I looked like I’d just got out of the shower. Even my eyelashes were sweating. And it got worse. The whole class had now stopped and were staring at me. Vicky had disembarked, too, and came around to help lift me out of this awkward space. I felt like a clumsy elephant.

  “It’s fine! I’m fine!” I yelled, my already puce face turning a very deep purple color. “I’m getting back on! No problem!”

  I pulled myself up and back onto my bike quickly, trying to ignore a shooting pain at the top of my thigh, where I had scraped myself on my pedal on the way down. Thank God, it hasn’t actually ripped my leggings or drawn blood. Oh, it has. It was as if everyone in the class noticed the gash on my knee at the same time. Blood was running down my leggings.

  “Doesn’t hurt. Just a graze!” I exclaimed, dabbing at it with my finger.

  The teacher was off her bike now, too, heading my way. Oh, God, oh, God, please don’t come and humiliate me. I wanted my bike to break free from its shackles and cycle right through the glass walls and out of here, E.T.-style. And where’s Bradley Wiggins when I need a backie?

  “Keep going with your personal affirmations,” she encouraged the rest of the class. “Feel the strength.”

  I lifted myself off my saddle again and began pedaling as fast as I could, willing the teacher to go back to her bike and do the same.

  “Hey, slow down,” she said, placing a cool hand on my arm. How the hell is she so cool? Does she actually have a pulse? “What’s your name? I’ve not seen you in this class before.”

  I slowed my pace slightly to steady my breathing so that I might actually be able to speak.

  “Thanks, it’s Amber. And, yes, um, this is my first time,” I admitted, praying that Victoria Beckham couldn’t hear. “Honestly, I’m fine, it’s only a scratch.”

  A trickle of blood was working its way down my calf.

  “Listen, Amber, I think you should call it a day for this session,” she said gently.

  Vicky was looking at me, concerned, too. “Why don’t you take a moment on the couch just out there?” she indicated a sofa in the reception area, visible beyond the glass wall.

  “I-I’m fine now, honestly,” I protested, smiling as best I could and picking up the pace again. I even twiddled with my resistance, to prove the point.

  “I’m sure you are, but I’d really like you to just take some time out, please,” she said again, more forcefully, turning down my resistance as she did.

  “I think it’s a good idea, Am,” Vicky chimed in. Whose side is she on?

  Victoria Beckham was thoughtfully not looking at me.

  Not wanting to cause more of a scene by getting forcibly ejected from my saddle, I very carefully got off the bike again. My thigh was killing me and my knee had started stinging, plus from nowhere I was hit by a raging headache.

  “Yeah, a bit of time out—I think you’re right, good idea,” I muttered as I left the room, desperate to win some dignity back. “I’ve been crazy busy recently. It, er, probably caught up with me. But I’ll be back soon! Loved it! Thanks for the class.”

  I smiled pathetically at the instructor and at Victoria as I left.

  Vicky mouthed, “Go to the bathroom—I’ll meet you by the sofa afterward.”

  Go to the fricking bathroom? Is she trying to suggest I’ve wet myself, too, now? This can’t be happening. As I exited the studio, the teacher must have given some kind of signal to the pretty girl on reception, because she came rushing straight over to me with a pile of tissues, a glass of water, and an ice pack.

  “Poor you,” she tutted. “Anyone would think you’d been on an actua
l ride. The Ladies’ room is just that way.”

  All I could do was hobble off in the general direction she indicated.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sat fiddling with my phone on the SoulCycle sofa with a Band-Aid on my knee and the ice pack held on my forehead as I endured the final humiliation of having the whole class file out of the studio and past me. Some made little “Ouchy!” expressions as they took in my obvious injuries. All this and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock. I felt sure a sip of water could have saved me from falling off the bike and somehow blamed Vicky for not thinking that we might need to bring a bottle each; water might well have stopped me ending up with a giant egg on my forehead, an egg that would certainly scare the children at the photo shoot. Some water might have enabled me to smash the class and become a SoulCycle regular, in fact water might have made Victoria Beckham my cycling buddy. Why did she not tell me I needed water?

  I only looked up once, and that was when Victoria passed—only, now we were in daylight, away from the ambient studio lighting, I could see she wasn’t the real Victoria Beckham, just a loosely passable lookalike. Great, so I was hallucinating a Beckham in there as well. On balance, I supposed this was a good thing, although “Just bumped into Victoria Beckham at SoulCycle!” was a fantastic line to put out on social media—no one need know the actual context. In the end, however, I decided to keep this little incident private; it didn’t really work pictorially, however hard I might try to filter my bruised head.

  During the class I’d been sent the call sheet for the shoot plus a text from Mickey asking me to call him urgently about Liv. The egg on my head was throbbing, and I was hideously aware that this look was far from ideal for my first paid shoot. As if my hangover isn’t enough to deal with today. The last thing I needed was Mickey wanting to see me, too; surely the great press Liv had received from Coachella was enough to buoy his mood today.

  * * *

  “That could only happen to you,” Rob chortled when I told him what had happened. Vicky and I had cabbed it back to the apartment to change to get ready for the shoot and Rob was on his laptop working from home.