The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  Dana continued: “They’re threatening a lawsuit, Amber, and they will probably win. You were working without a visa, remember. I can’t risk having to shoulder this. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to strike you off my books.” She paused.

  I said nothing. Hot air was building up in my lungs. “Fine!” I stormed, and cut her off.

  * * *

  Pretty soon after, reeling from the aftermath of the shoot, Vicky and I could only think of topping up our alcohol levels and finished the only bottle of wine in the apartment. And then we both dozed off, because the next thing I knew Rob had come home from work. It was close to ten and he looked stressed.

  “Auditions didn’t go well then?” I asked.

  “You can say that again.” He headed straight for the kitchen and looked pissed off when he realized there was no more wine and supper wasn’t on the menu. “Ron was in a terrible mood. Hated everyone we brought in. They’re casting the net wider now.” He paused. “And he keeps mentioning Mona Armstrong.”

  I shuddered. It was incredible how just the mention of her name could still make me go cold.

  Vicky tittered. “Mona, my God. What is the mad bitch up to these days?”

  The last we’d seen of my old boss, self-styled “stylist to the stars” Mona Armstrong, was when she disappeared off into a car in Hawaii with an eloping couple after the showbiz wedding she was supposed to be styling had gone horrifically wrong. It was an exit and a half—and an experience that I wasn’t keen to relive. Not now, not ever.

  “No idea,” I said, honestly. “I don’t want to know, either.”

  “Your name came up again,” Rob said, leaning toward me, looking me in the eye, like he was about to say something very important. “I showed Ron some of the press you got for Liv at Coachella, and he’s asked if you would like to go for the job, Amber. You’ve got bags of experience and with your recent success you could make a name for yourself in the underwear world. Burlesque Boho, Angel Wear lingerie, they’re not a million miles apart?”

  “But I thought Ron wants a big name?” I replied. “I’m hardly that. I’ve only got seven and a half thousand Instagram followers, compared to Lola’s five hundred thousand.”

  “After today, I’m not sure he does,” Rob said. “Everyone we saw was more interested in putting their own stamp on things than working collaboratively with his in-house team. And I can’t see Mona being a breeze, can you? You’re so down-to-earth; plus, you know your stuff—honestly, you’re just what we’re looking for.”

  I sat still, saying nothing because I really wasn’t sure what to say. Although I didn’t see this coming at all, my stomach was beginning to fizz with excitement about the possibility—the dream—that I might have a second stab at this job of styling jobs.

  Vicky’s eyes were shining. “Honey, you’ve got to go for it, this could be the gig of a lifetime!” she enthused. “People eBay bags of air from the Angel Wear show—it doesn’t get any bigger! When I was at Glamour, we’d hold open the issue to get the show pictures in the mag. And a shoot with one of the Icons? Well, that was ‘hold the front cover.’ Amber, you’d be officially classified as insane—in fact, I’ll take you to an asylum myself—if you didn’t go for this. And think how gutted Dana will be when you nab the biggest styling job in the whole of New York City. In the whole of America! The bloody world, probably. You’ve got to go for it!”

  Rob was nodding his head in agreement. “She’s right, baby, you’ve got to take this opportunity. Ron seemed genuinely keen today. You won’t need an agent to broker the deal so we can shave off any commission by sorting it out directly. They’re desperate.”

  I chuckled. “Desperate? Well, at least you’re being honest.”

  “Don’t take it the wrong way, baby. I just mean, this is the right moment—your moment. Besides, what have you got to lose?”

  “He’s right, Am, you said yourself you’re not satisfied styling snotty babies or Park Avenue princesses like Liv every week,” Vicky said. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “Hang on, Liv’s not a Park Avenue princess! And I’m enjoying styling her—I just wish she’d wear a few more clothes. You can have the babies though.” I set down my wine glass and tried to process what they were suggesting. “It’s not exactly an opportunity yet, though, is it?” I said. “I mean, he rejected me before and if Ron didn’t want Lola Jones, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll want me.”

  “Aside from being too strong-minded, Lola’s image wasn’t right for Angel Wear, either,” Rob said. “The shaved head, the piercings and tattoos—it was too harsh for Ron. Now that the preparation for the show is going to be televised it all has to fit with the brand image. She’s not right—anyway, it wasn’t just Ron, it was obvious to all of us once she auditioned. And he hasn’t met you yet, so how do you know?”

  I was silenced. Poor Lola, her shaved head was partly my fault anyway.

  “One pretty mediocre glass shoe changed Cinderella’s life forever, didn’t it?” Vicky suddenly piped up. We both looked at her, unsure where she was going with this analogy. “And you’ve got the opportunity for some pieces of underwear to change yours. You’re streaks ahead of Cinders at the starting block. C’mon, Amber, seriously, if you don’t do this then I’m going to do it for you.”

  I shuffled to the back of the sofa and hugged my knees into my chest. I wasn’t quite sure if the Cinderella analogy was meant to be a compliment, but it resonated somehow. Everything about my styling career so far felt a bit Cinders; from landing my job as Mona Armstrong’s assistant by accidentally putting odd shoes on a shop window dummy, to styling the stars during awards season because Mona was ill or hungover. And now here I was in New York—by virtue of my boyfriend—trying to ignite my career thanks to some social media blunders. I’ve always felt like an opportunist—the ordinary girl accidentally dropped into a fairy tale. Maybe this is my opportunity to break the mold and take my career to the next level.

  “I’ll sleep on it, okay?” It was the best I could offer this evening.

  Rob then suggested we go to bed immediately, before I had time to think about anything else.

  “Well, if you two love birds are having an early night, I may as well go out,” Vicky announced, having found some energy at the bottom of her wine glass. “Amy mentioned some of the guys from the pool party have invited us out. I may as well enjoy the freedom while I can . . .”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rob was already awake when I opened my eyes the next morning. His face was close to mine on the pillow and he was looking right at me. It was as if he’d been staring at me throughout the night, willing me to wake up and give him the answer he wanted.

  “I love watching you come around,” he said, as I wiped away a bit of partially dried up dribble from the side of my chin. “You’re all woozy and cute.”

  “Creep,” I said, embarrassed. “Cute” was not a word that had ever been used to describe my morning face. I scared myself sometimes. I ran a finger under my eyes in an effort to remove any stray eye makeup and traced my eyebrows with my index finger, to straighten them out.

  He smiled. “Seriously, you’re a natural beauty, Amber. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”

  “You didn’t see the dribble then?”

  “Actually, I did,” he said, smiling, licking his thumb and dabbing other areas of my face. “Plus a bit of crust. That’s better.”

  “Hey, Mr. Snores-so-loudly-he-wakes-me-up-most-nights! You’re not exactly a sleeping beauty yourself, you know.” Instinctively, I reached across for my phone.

  “Hang on.” He clasped me around the waist, pulling me back. “Leave the phone a minute. Anyway, I don’t remember saying I was a sleeping beauty. I was trying to pay you a compliment. Maybe I like your crusty bits—I find them endearing.”

  “Endearing? You patronizing old . . .”

  He put a hand over my mouth. “Sexy! I mean I find them sexy!” He was chuckling now. As I tried to squirm free, he
held me tightly and pushed his body against mine.

  “Hmmm, you clearly want something,” I said, itching to check my Instagram account.

  “Only if you want it, too,” he teased, lightly running his fingers down the side of my naked flesh. Last night’s conversation about the Angel Wear job came flooding back.

  “Oh, is that what you want? I thought you had something else on your mind. Something we were discussing last night?”

  “That can wait,” he said, as the caressing became more firm and he began planting little kisses on my lips to silence me. “I was thinking we could maybe enjoy ourselves for at least an hour, before we get on to business talk . . .” He paused. “Provided you’re in such a state of orgasmic euphoria you then give me the answer I’m looking for, Miss Green.” And he rolled himself on top of me.

  “You do, do you, Mr. Walker?” I said, feeling a warm, tingling sensation shoot down my body and stop around the groin. “But what if I don’t give you the answer you want?”

  “Then I’ll have to punish you . . .” He smiled wickedly.

  We were interrupted abruptly by a loud crash from the living room, followed by Vicky screaming, “Fuck!” and then bursting into giggles a moment later. If it wasn’t for the immediate giggling, I might have thought we were being burgled.

  When a muffled, deeper voice began laughing mischievously with her, it became apparent that she was not alone. And I’ll bet it isn’t a burglar.

  “What the . . . ? Who’s in there with Vicky?” Rob whispered. “I don’t remember her mentioning a friend would be staying over.”

  “Hmm, me neither,” I said. “Sounds like it’s a bloke.”

  “Yeah, obviously. And I strongly doubt it’s Trey.”

  There were more clunks from just beyond the door and then it went silent.

  “Oh, man, don’t say she’s making out on our sofa . . .” Rob shuddered.

  “No, she wouldn’t . . . would she?” Yes, she bloody would.

  “It’s not on, I’m going out,” Rob said, pulling on a T-shirt and sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s our morning of passion gone.

  “Leave it,” I ordered. “Please, just for a moment at least.” He stopped and looked across at me. “I want to talk to you about what you were suggesting last night—about me going for the Angel Wear job.” I paused.

  “And?”

  “And, well, I can’t do it, babe.” I hung my head. “I just don’t think I’m experienced enough. Plus, I’m really enjoying what I’ve got going here, with building up my followers and seeing where things go with Maurice. I feel like I’m getting somewhere, and I don’t want to throw all that away.”

  Another clunk and a loud giggle from the other side of the door.

  “For God’s sake!” And he walked toward the door.

  I slithered back under my side of the duvet and pulled it up around my shoulders. It dawned on me that we might once have found the noises funny; perhaps we might even have tried to outdo them on the noise front. At least someone was getting some action. It had been a while since Rob and I had actually had sex; we’d both been so busy with work, we’d been like ships in the night, and now this. He seemed irrationally pissed off about it.

  “Well, at least she’s having some fun,” I mumbled, on behalf of us both.

  Rob turned back but didn’t laugh at my joke. It wasn’t the first time he hadn’t in the last few days. He can be so uptight sometimes.

  “I don’t imagine that Dan thought it was fun when he found out Florence was shagging another guy, either,” he muttered as he opened the door and confronted the scene before him. I hoped his mood wasn’t a sign that something was rumbling away beneath the bedrock of our relationship.

  The door had slammed shut as Rob stormed out to confront Vicky and whoever she was making out with in our living room, so I was only able to hear the gist of their exchange. I made out the words “fucking cheek” and “cheap” from Rob, swiftly followed by “just having fun” and “loosen up” from Vicky. I’d rarely heard Rob so angry and couldn’t help feeling he was overreacting—it wasn’t fair to compare Vicky to cheating Florence. I could only imagine the pressure Rob was under at work was taking its toll and Vicky was unfortunately in his firing line at just the right moment. If you asked me, Vicky was showing pretty stereotypical Vicky behavior, having crossed a continent to escape a failing relationship. I reminded myself that Rob didn’t know my best friend as well as I did.

  Before the point where I would need to brace myself for the sound of smashing crockery, I got out of bed and joined them both. Whoever the man was, he had fled the scene and Vicky was sitting on the sofa, sobbing, a sleeping bag pulled around her naked shoulders, while Rob had his back to her in the kitchenette. Seeing my best friend in tears, my natural reaction was, of course, to run to her.

  “Honey, don’t cry, please,” I said, sitting down, putting an arm around her.

  “Just having fun, what a joke,” Rob muttered scathingly from the kitchen. Our place was so small he hardly had to say it very loudly to have a big effect.

  “Jesus! Give me a fucking break!” Vicky sobbed. “You’d think I’d bumped off his bloody piglet.”

  “Pinky’s not a piglet, he’s a micro-pig,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “For God’s sake, Amber.” Vicky was unamused.

  “And do you think you’d still be in my apartment if you had?” Rob retaliated, not even turning around to face her. The way he had stressed the my made me twitch. Isn’t this my apartment, too?

  For the next thirty minutes, he and Vicky put on a big show of ignoring each other and it started to really annoy me. You’d think we were in an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, as Rob pottered around making himself coffee and toast and muttering little digs under his breath, like, “Don’t mind me, I only pay the rent,” and, “Marvelous, someone’s finished my peanut butter and not bothered to replace it.”

  I didn’t like to admit that it was actually me who had finished off the peanut butter.

  His words were like little daggers flying around Vicky, as if she was a magician’s practice doll that narrowly missed being hit with each throwaway remark.

  But she was getting ready to retaliate, I could sense it.

  Her smile was icy as she finally squared up to him, just after he swiped her damp bath towel from its position hanging over our bedroom door and had made yet another comment about her putting a dirty mug in the sink and not washing it up instantly.

  “Rob, if I’m pissing you off, you may as well tell me to my face,” she said, stonily.

  “Okay—you’re pissing me off!” he shouted. “When are you planning to leave?” I’d rarely seen Rob speak to anyone so bluntly.

  Vicky narrowed her eyes, as if she were practicing her aim. Before it could get out of hand, I stepped in. I smiled at him. “I’ll handle this, Rob.”

  He huffed, “I mean it,” in response and disappeared into our bedroom.

  Not more than ten minutes later, Rob had showered and left the building, requesting that Vicky and I have a think about her plans.

  “I think we can safely say I’ve overstayed my welcome,” she said, as soon as he was out of earshot. “He was crazy angry just then.” She shuddered.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, immediately feeling traitorous toward my boyfriend. I’m really not sure how to mediate this one. “He’s stressed at work right now. Anyway—who the hell was the guy?”

  “White-T-shirt man from Le Bain,” Vicky said, avoiding eye contact. She didn’t seem very happy about it.

  “Do you like him?” I asked.

  “No, he had a fat bum, bad jeans and was boring as hell—to be honest I was wondering how to get him out, but Rob did the job very well for me. Thanks, Rob.”

  Her face finally cracked a smile. “He didn’t seem too happy that I broke a mug though.”

  I registered some pieces of broken black ceramic on the coffee table.

  “Oh, dear, his Dart
h Vader goblet,” I uttered, suddenly understanding why he had sounded so venomous this morning. “It is—was—pretty much his prized possession.”

  “So I’ll get him a new one.”

  “They’re out of production, he watched it for ages on eBay.”

  She hung her head. “Well, I’m sure Trey’s credit card can afford another.”

  “Vic, you’re a nightmare. A certified nightmare.”

  “Listen, I’m not staying where I’m not wanted,” she said, with a serious tone now. “Rob just made it crystal clear he wants me out of here—he never really wanted me here in the first place, let’s face it—so how about I check out some Airbnb’s and you two go out for dinner this evening. The last thing I want is to come between the pair of you. When you get home the place will be spotless. Just one more night, I promise.”

  “But . . .”

  She raised a hand. “Don’t. Please do as I say, Amber. I’ll be fine. Aren’t I always?”

  I had to concede she was.

  I called Rob, leaving him a message that Vicky would be gone the following day and that we should go out for dinner that evening. Throughout the day I checked my phone endlessly but heard not one word back. Nothing. Not even a text message. Earlier, I had posted a photo of the broken Darth Vader cup on Instagram. Filter: X-Pro II; caption: “May the force be with me #darthvader #starwars #heartbreak #stylist #NYC”

  I wondered if perhaps it had annoyed him. Rob could be hard to read sometimes.

  * * *

  Eventually, at nearly three o’clock, he replied “Great,” and in the early evening he and I headed over to Manhattan, to Soho House. A friend of his at work had offered to put our names down, so we could check out one of the city’s coolest members’ bars while spending some quality time together; something we’d been lacking of late. The building was very close to Dana’s office and I considered taking a quick detour and popping in—she always worked late and I wondered if I could talk her around. Without an agent, I was washed up before I’d started my styling career out here. But I bypassed the idea, because Rob had been cool all day—he clearly still needed softening over the Vicky incident. We took the lift up to the bar. It was dimly lit and roomy with a smattering of people sitting at tables. We were led to a table for two by the windows. I looked around hoping to spot a celebrity as we strolled over. Suddenly, a sight I hadn’t expected made me stop in my tracks. A mop of curly hair, a sky-high heel and a cocktail ring the size of a golf ball.