The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  I tugged on Rob’s jumper.

  “Stop!” I whispered. “We can’t go over there!” He turned around to look at me, a confused expression on his face.

  “Sorry, what are you talking about?” he said, as the waitress spun around to see why we had stopped.

  I spoke through gritted teeth. “We have to leave—now!”

  “Amber, what is going on?” he asked again.

  “Don’t make it obvious, but over there,” I whispered into his ear, indicating another table by the windows, just next to the one we were about to be seated at. “Look who’s sitting there.”

  He took in the couple at the table, locked in conversation, their arms entwined, the woman talking so close to the man’s lips, it looked as though she was seconds away from chewing his face off. Then she threw her head back, laughing, as he ran a gentle finger up and down her bare forearm.

  “Oh fuck.” Rob turned away again quickly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Everything all right, sir, ma’am?” asked the waitress, as we quickly and quietly retreated to the entrance.

  “Fine,” I told her through the back of my head.

  When we reached the lobby, I stopped to catch my breath.

  “Change of plan, I’m sorry,” Rob told the confused hostess. And we left the building as fast as we could.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe Ron Angel is involved with Mona Armstrong!” Rob exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief when we were safely outside.

  “You can’t?” I laughed throatily. “I bloody well can. Didn’t you mention there’s currently a vacancy for New York’s top styling job?”

  “Hmmm. You think she’s trying to get her claws into Ron so she can style the show?”

  “Of course, Rob, don’t you remember? She’s a schemer. I wouldn’t put it past Mona to try to sleep her way into that job.”

  “But Ron wouldn’t be so stupid,” he said.

  “She’s dangerous,” I reminded him.

  Just the sight of Mona had brought memories flooding back—and they weren’t any less painful. It had been in Soho House in London that Mona had virtually broken down on me, sobbing into her champagne flute as she confessed she was bankrupt. I had been her shoulder to cry on that evening and came up with a plan to help her, only to end up being used and abused, just like her many assistants before me, so I wasn’t feeling much warmth toward her today.

  We decided to head to Balthazar in SoHo, on Amy’s recommendation.

  “There’s no way I’m going for the stylist job now,” I said to Rob as we walked east. “I can’t bear to give Mona the satisfaction of winning it over me. Besides, it’s not as if I’d be given a fair audition now. And I bet she had a hand in him not wanting to see me in the first place.”

  Rob paused for a moment before replying. “Sorry, I disagree. I brought you up again today, as it happens, and Ron is really keen to meet you. I couldn’t have set you up any better.”

  “But wasn’t that before we knew he was shagging Mona?” I said, finding it bizarre that Rob was even entertaining the thought that I was in with a serious chance of getting the gig.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Rob? Surely you can see it’s pointless me going for it now?”

  He seemed to be thinking hard about what to say.

  “Rob?”

  “I heard you,” he snapped at last. “I’m just trying to find a way to word what I want to say.”

  “Come on—this is me,” I urged.

  Another lengthy pause, until: “What I want to ask is this: Since when have you let someone like Mona defeat you, Amber? I thought you were a fighter—it’s one of the things that first attracted me to you—you weren’t a pushover. And now you’re willing to walk away and hand her this amazing opportunity on a plate?” I felt my cheeks redden. “Besides, Ron’s no mug,” he continued. “I don’t think he’s the type to mix business with pleasure, so Mona’s an even greater fool if she thinks she can forward her career by getting him in the sack. Ron’s not short of offers, either, believe me.” He smirked. “I strongly doubt he’d just hand Mona such an important position even if there was something romantic going on—which I find very unlikely, by the way.”

  Now it was my turn to remain quiet as we completed the journey to Balthazar, his words, “I thought you were a fighter,” ringing in my ears. But I just don’t know if I can face the battle again.

  * * *

  Rob could be very persuasive when he wanted but, once at the restaurant, we made a pact to stop talking about Mona before she ruined our entire evening. When our food arrived, I noticed he was taking forever to break into his fries; he then proceeded to prod his steak for at least fifteen minutes, as if to check whether it was still alive. Normally, he’d be guzzling down his favorite meal while making appreciative mmm sounds, but I was over halfway through mine before he’d even had a mouthful, and I’d been doing nearly all the talking since we got here—updating him on my growing social media presence. Just this evening, I’d been direct-messaged by a huge Miami-based fashion blogger who was interested in meeting me next time she was in New York. Plus, a cool handbag brand wanted to gift me a clutch personalized with my initials, in the hope that I’d Instagram it; and a hip online fashion site wanted to interview me about how I sourced my Queen outfit for a piece on “cool costume-party looks.”

  “I think I’m really taking off, babe,” I bragged. “All these people want to know me!”

  I then updated Rob on the stats for each of my accounts, individually, before telling him about a locked Pinterest board I was going to set up for Liv, so we could discuss her looks for upcoming events quickly and easily in private. It reminded me that I hadn’t got around to calling Mickey back and he’d left another message on my phone while we were hurrying out of Soho House. “Dana said I was the most resourceful newcomer she’d seen in years . . . before she sacked me.” I told him.

  As I paused for breath, Rob set down his fork, looked at his watch, then at me.

  “Before she sacked you,” he repeated, slowly, not smiling.

  I stopped in my tracks, literally biting my tongue because I was dying to tell him that I’d Instagrammed a photo of my dinner in Balthazar (filter: Lo-fi, because it’s the best for food; caption: “Dinner of champions #steak #frites #BalthazarNYC #foodporn #datenight”) and the official Balthazar Instagram account had reposted it, resulting in fifty more followers within seconds!

  “What is it, babe?” I wondered if he’d cracked a tooth he’d been so slow to eat anything.

  He sighed, as if he could barely be bothered to reply. Then he took a deep breath. “If you must know, the way you’re talking, you’re becoming a real protégé of Mona Armstrong,” he said. “Look at yourself—all you talk about is your growing fan base. But you don’t even know any of these followers on Instagram that you’re so obsessed with impressing. Meanwhile, you’re neglecting the people who do know you and care about you the most. You’re not living in the moment, Amber. Do you even realize you’ve checked your iPhone every ten seconds since we’ve been out? This evening is meant to be about you and me hanging out and chatting like we used to. You have a better relationship with your notifications center than me.” He stopped for a moment and nudged his steak again. “You don’t seem bothered that we haven’t spent any decent quality time together for ages.”

  I felt as though a golf ball was lodged in my throat. Then he looked straight at me with those green eyes of his—the ones I found so bewitching the first time we met—as he said, “You’re not the Amber I fell in love with in London right now. And I’m not sure I know who this new person is.”

  I sat back in my seat, totally floored. And then the golf ball plunged deep down inside my body, like it was made of lead, and stopped with a thud in the pit of my stomach. I was unable to swallow or speak; my food was instantly unappealing. Wasn’t this the same guy who was trying to have sex with me only this morning? I tried to pull myself together, but I co
uldn’t think straight. At last, all I could muster was a feeble, “What?”

  Suddenly, nothing in the world mattered but him. I half expected—hoped—that his face would break into a smile, revealing that this was just a joke to test my reaction, to see if I loved him as much as he loved me. But his expression remained stony.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, “of course I’m the same person.” He averted his eyes. “Baby, what’s happening?” I continued, feeling panicky now. “Is this to do with the Angel Wear job, or Vicky? Are you really that pissed about the Darth Vader cup?”

  “Do me a favor,” he scoffed. “It was before Vicky.”

  Before Vicky? How far before? There was a tension between us that I had never felt before.

  Inwardly, I tried to process what could be going through his mind and how I could respond. I’m only trying to earn my keep out here. I’m trying to build my career, and having a social media presence is a part of that. I haven’t gone on about it that much, have I? And then I began to feel angry. Jesus, if he’s hanging out with gorgeous models all day, what am I meant to do, laze around at home eating Hershey’s Kisses in a onesie? I’m only telling him about my followers because he’s my boyfriend and I want him to be proud of me. Is that such a crime?

  I’d been metaphorically talking to myself for a couple of minutes before I managed to vocalize: “Well, you’re hanging out with models all day.”

  He tutted in response. It was a cheap retaliation and we both knew it. I deeply suspected my Instagram account wasn’t at the heart of this horrible conversation. And then an ugly thought crossed my mind that perhaps he had fallen for one of the Icons and was trying to find a reason to break up with me so they could be together. For a while, sitting opposite, we looked at each other with new eyes. Looking into his soul, I knew there wasn’t anyone else. And I knew I wanted him more than anything in the world.

  Rob clearly wanted something else though, because he ordered another bottle of red wine. And, at some point after that, it all became a bit of a blur.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I woke up, my mobile phone told me it was four in the morning. A siren blared outside and the streetlight, so inconveniently positioned directly outside our bedroom window, cast its orange glow into the room. For a moment, the shadows on the wall looked as though a man was standing there, watching me; my heart flipped as I thought it might be Rob. But, as the orange light blinked on again, there was nothing there. A shiver ran down my spine and I pulled the duvet tightly around me. My head was pounding and my mouth was dry. I had a vague memory of slurping, slurring and slapping the table as I shouted important things at Rob and he shouted things back—things I couldn’t remember now. I knew it was bad, even my bones knew it was bad. And judging by the fact that he was currently sleeping on the floor with just a thin blanket partially covering him, Rob’s bones knew it, too. Suddenly the building felt very cold and dark. Rob was within an arm’s reach of me, but he felt a million miles away. The feather tattoo on his upper arm was visible each time the light blinked on. Please don’t fly off and leave me, Rob. Please don’t. I closed my eyes, repeating the words over and over, like a prayer. Even though my eyelids were pressed tightly shut, a tear still broke free. I wished for a moment that I had never left London.

  About an hour later, I peered over the side of the bed again. Half of me had been confident he’d have a change of heart in the middle of the night and come and join me up here. I sat up on my elbows and studied him, expecting him to wake up and wonder what on earth he was doing down there. Rob was deeply asleep, his breathing slow and even. He looked beautiful. Probably too beautiful for me.

  “I love you,” I whispered to his sleeping body before shutting my eyes, tears building up again. To stop myself from crying, while he couldn’t see me, I quickly, guiltily, checked my phone. There was the regular stream of Instagram likes, retweets, and a large number of +1s. Bizarrely, it seemed that an image of a broken Darth Vader goblet was good for followers. At least it’s good for something.

  * * *

  It was seven o’clock when I next found myself gazing at Rob on the floor again. More than anything I wanted him to wake up and wrap his arms around me, like he used to do so readily. So readily that I took it for granted? Right now there was nothing I needed more than a big Rob bear hug. I ached for his touch. But he just lay there, sleeping, like he didn’t have a care in the world. My mind started racing, trying to piece together the rest of the evening. I had a nagging feeling that somewhere along the way I’d agreed to interview for the Angel Wear stylist job. Rob would definitely hold me to it. Every time he stirred, I fluctuated between worrying what he was going to say when he woke up—and being terrified that if I opened my mouth I’d say something so wrong, he would leave me. Maybe it won’t be so bad to go for the interview, even if I fail it miserably, Rob can’t then accuse me of not trying. I just lay there, thoughts circling, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to rouse and break the icy shield around us. Only he didn’t; he carried on sleeping peacefully for the next two hours.

  I heard Vicky stirring in the room next door and when I joined her I found an immaculately clean and tidy apartment. There were even fresh-cut flowers in a vase on the coffee table and the scent of furniture polish filled the air. She’d been working hard to make amends, but she only had to take a look at my face to know our date night hadn’t gone well.

  “Jesus, Amber, I’m so sorry,” she said, once I’d told her in a hushed voice what I could remember about the evening. “I feel partly responsible.”

  I still felt shocked by it all. The last thing I had expected was an argument with Rob. My Rob. Perfect Rob. How could I have not seen this coming?

  “By the way,” she added, sensing correctly that I was on the verge of tears, “some guy called Mickey tried to get hold of you last night. He came to the door.”

  “Damn, I’ll call him back now,” I said, glad of the distraction. The fact that I couldn’t remember half of what was said between Rob and me last night wasn’t helping my state of hangover-induced anxiety.

  “Amber, what took you so long?” Mickey snapped when he answered his cell phone minutes later. I didn’t bother filling him in on the truth, not that he gave me time. “I’ve been desperate to reach you to tell you some fantastic news—Liv’s been invited to the Met Gala! The invitation came from Anna Wintour herself. She’s a late addition and we need to get her paired up with a fashion designer quick smart. They want to know who will be dressing her. I wondered about the burlesque guy—do you think he’d do it?”

  Even my scrambled brain knew this was huge for Liv—the Met Gala was the biggest, most prestigious night in the fashion calendar, when New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art’s red carpet becomes awash with A-list stars dressed in incredible one-off creations by the world’s top designers. Colorful, daring and glamorous are the buzz words of the evening as celebrities try to outdo each other with their eye-catching attire. Plus, you have to be personally invited by American Vogue editor Anna Wintour to attend—it simply doesn’t get any bigger.

  “Oh, my God, amazing!” I shrieked, causing Vicky to jump up and stare at me agog.

  “We need to get together to talk about it as soon as possible,” Mickey continued. “Dana has said she’s not repping you anymore, so I’m keen to deal direct. But Liv’s schedule is insane. She’s co-hosting a charity auction tonight and I wondered if you could sort her a dress for that? And I’ve got a spare couple of tickets, so you can catch up with her there.”

  “Well, yes, I’m sure I can make that work,” I replied, my mind already racing. “I’ll have some gowns sent over. What time does the auction start?”

  “Seven o’clock. Great, I’ll have the tickets biked over and we’ll see you there. Later.”

  And he was gone.

  “Wow,” I muttered, placing my phone on the coffee table and sinking into the sofa as I took in the news and resisted the urge to immediately post something about
it on Twitter. I had a haunting feeling that I’d promised Rob I would try to be less obsessed with impressing a host of strangers with my every thought. It’s going to take some weaning-off.

  “What is it?” Vicky joined me, brandishing two steaming mugs of tea. “Dare I offer one to Rob?” She glanced in the direction of our bedroom door.

  “Still asleep,” I replied, not particularly keen for Vicky to see him snoozing next to our bed rather than in it.

  “Anna Wintour has only invited Liv to the Met Gala—and Mickey wants me to style her for it. The Gala is just a week away though and designers will have been working up their costumes for months. She can’t afford to mess this up. Anyway, he’s invited me to a charity auction Liv’s hosting tonight to talk about it. I’m going to have a selection of gowns from Rose’s sent over for her to choose what to wear for that.”

  Vicky’s eyes widened. “The Met? That’s incred! Go, Amber—that means Anna Wintour herself was taking note of her Coachella outfits, as styled by you! If Liv’s invited to the Met Gala, she could turn up in a black bin bag and it would be lauded around the globe—she’s won fashion immunity, and it’s all down to you.”

  “And Maurice Chan,” I corrected her. “He lent her all the clothes. In fact, you’ve hit the nail on the head—I’ll ask him to design her something for the event.”

  “I’m sure he’d cut some holes in a bin bag with his typical je ne sais quoi,” she said, giggling.