The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  I switched on the freestanding lamp, the distressed copper one we had bought together from the Brooklyn flea market only three weeks ago, so full of excitement about our own little love nest and the adventure ahead; back when I discovered new things about Rob every day; back when we couldn’t get enough of each other; back when we had sex. Right now I’d do anything to get those days back. I even missed his slightly annoying habits like going to the loo with the door open and leaving his pants drying on the radiator in the front room. It had been so long since I’d had a proper boyfriend. How could I have let this one go? It’s the feather—the bloody feather tattoo, it’s told him to fly away from our nest.

  I sat down on the empty sofa and wondered what to do. Vicky, I was fairly sure, would be holed up with Noah—whatever his sexuality—trying to sleep off a hangover, in some hip Manhattan hotel. But Rob? Who would he turn to when he didn’t want to sleep under the same roof as his girlfriend?

  He must be really mad.

  Still clinging on to the hope that maybe he was having a sleepless night, too, wherever he was, I retrieved my phone from the bedroom and texted him:

  Miss you. Are you coming back? Ax

  * * *

  At seven o’clock, I was woken by a call from Vicky, but I let it ring out. I was too angry and I wanted to gather my thoughts before we spoke. Plus, I was desperate to hear from Rob first. My heart physically ached when I saw there had been no response to my text. After flitting around Instagram for a full hour and obsessing over the accounts belonging to the Angel Wear models, feeling like the saddest frump in the world, I pulled on my cardigan again and decided to bite the bullet and call Vicky. Before she had a chance to speak, it all came spilling out.

  “‘Don’t mess it up with Rob,’ you told me. ‘He’s a keeper,’ you said. Well, I didn’t need to mess it up, did I, because you’re doing a bloody good job for me.” I needed to be standing up to have this conversation, so I strode from the bedroom into the living room, slamming the door behind me for added effect. I’d still not heard a thing from Rob and I blamed Vicky. How dare she just turn up and cause this strain between us. “Just because your relationship is on the rocks doesn’t mean you can come here and ruin things for me and Rob,” I yelled. “We were getting on brilliantly, until you arrived and messed everything up.”

  “Amber, Amber, calm down will you,” she was saying. “I don’t know what you’re on about. Everything seemed great again?”

  “I thought so, too—until you nearly set our apartment on fire.”

  “On fire?” She sounded genuinely bemused.

  “Didn’t Rob leave you a message? You left my bloody straighteners on, on our bed last night and it caught alight. The fire brigade was here.”

  “Oh, shit, honey, are you being serious?”

  “Er, do I sound like I’m joking?”

  “Is everything okay? I mean, they put it out and nothing was harmed, right?”

  “Only our bedding. But that’s not the point. Rob went nuts and understandably so.”

  Silence on the other end, while she took it in. I could hear chinking china in the background; she was having breakfast somewhere.

  “But thank God you weren’t in.”

  “Vicky, if I’d been in, it probably wouldn’t have caught fire, because I’d have turned them off.”

  “Okay, fair point. Where’s Rob now?”

  “Good question. I don’t know. He wouldn’t sleep in the same room as me last night and now he’s gone AWOL. He’s mad, Vicky, thanks to you. I really think he’s had enough of both of us and I’m bloody furious about it.”

  “You’re so angry; try to calm down.”

  “Calm down? Are you having a fucking laugh?”

  “Anger isn’t good for you.”

  “Pah!”

  “What’s happened to you, Amber? You’re not the girl I left in London.”

  “The girl you left behind? No, Vicky, I’m not. I’m the girl you tracked down in New York, remember? The girl who was happily loved up and living in a cozy apartment on an adventure with her boyfriend. And now this girl seems to have lost her boyfriend and, as a result, is really pissed off. I’ll leave your stuff in the hallway.”

  I slammed the phone down. That’s it. If I have to choose between her or Rob, I choose Rob.

  It took me a good ten minutes and a strong cup of tea to calm down after that. When I had remembered that it was Sunday and I didn’t actually have to be anywhere urgently, I decided to run myself a very full steaming-hot bath. I poured in a hefty glug of Rob’s muscle soak and allowed myself to sink down into the water. It felt like heaven. The steam rose all around me and beads of sweat soon began dropping down my face. I lay back further, until my hair and half of my face was submerged, too. Just the tip of my nose remained above water. I closed my eyes and let the water tickle my cheeks. For a moment, I lay very still, holding my breath and thinking dark thoughts: I could just disappear under, get rid of myself. Maybe it would make life easier for Rob if I did.

  Then I felt a sudden rush of heat to my cheeks and sat bolt upright. My phone, which I’d carefully positioned on top of a towel on the lid of the toilet next to me was lit up.

  Text from Rob:

  Hi, I’m at Amy’s. Back soon. Rx

  He’s at Amy’s. Great, he’s probably sat there with her discussing how to dump me. And then he’ll probably start going out with her flatmate, Kate, after having a night of rebound passion with an Angel Wear Icon.

  Suddenly, the bath didn’t feel so warm and comforting anymore. I got out and put on my dressing gown and slippers before rough-drying my hair and padding back out to the kitchenette to make coffee. Caffeine was the only thing to make any sense this morning. My eyes wandered to the fridge door and four photo booth images of Rob and I, held up there by a magnet. I had brought them with us from London and put them there to make the place feel more homely the day we moved in. We were laughing wildly at the wedding of an old uni friend of his last summer, soon after we got together. His arm was wrapped around my neck pulling me close in one, my fascinator sitting at a wonky angle as I jokingly pushed him away in another, and finally there were two kiss shots, the last a full snog, with Rob’s hand dramatically reaching out to cover the lens, as though he was a hounded celebrity lashing out at a paparazzo. I had wondered at the time whether we might be the next couple in his circle to take the plunge. It had only been a few weeks, but I already knew without a doubt that I’d say yes, if he asked. Still would. More than a few times I’ve wished it under my breath, at opportune moments like blowing out candles or putting an eyelash on the back of my hand. But we were yet to have the marriage chat, and today the photos looked like somebody else’s life. It felt as though something amazing was rushing past me at breakneck speed, but my arms were clamped to my sides and I couldn’t make it stop. It felt as though he was passing me by.

  You should have seen this coming, Amber . . . you idiot . . . he was never going to marry you. And then I began the heart-wrenching process of sitting down and methodically scrolling through all of the hundreds of photos of the two of us on my iPhone, going right back to when we first got together after he tracked me down at Selfridges. There were hundreds of them: messing about in his old flat with Pinky; lazy Sundays eating our way around farmers’ markets in various parts of London; the mini-break to Venice; the time he won over my entire family at Mum’s sixtieth party; the time we went glamping in Cornwall and it rained nonstop; a selfie that night at the pub, when we nicked the bugle horn, just before he told me he loved me for the first time. Of course it was easy to look back with rose-tinted glasses, but we really seemed the perfect couple. I wondered whether a host of iPhone photos, not even backed-up to the cloud, would be the sum of our relationship. How could it have gone so wrong?

  * * *

  I hadn’t even managed to get dressed when the key turned in the lock and Rob walked back through the door. I cursed myself for looking like a slob. Should have at least made a bit
of an effort, like brushed my hair.

  “Hey,” he said, head bowed, giving nothing away. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Not really. It was pretty cold,” I replied, searching his face for a clue about what he might say next. “Did you?”

  “Same,” he said, peeling off his coat and hanging it on the overly full coat hooks by the door. “I think Amy’s sofa is even more uncomfortable than ours. Have you spoken to Vicky?”

  “Yes, I gave her a piece of my mind. Said we’d leave her stuff in the corridor.”

  He didn’t respond. “I’m as angry with her as you are, Rob,” I continued. “She had no right to come here and be such a nightmare.”

  “I’ve calmed down a bit now, but I’m glad she’s going,” he replied, heading toward the kitchen area. “At least nothing was damaged. I never really liked that bedspread anyway.”

  “Neither did I.” We exchanged a small, uncertain smile.

  “Anyway, Dan’s decided not to come over; he’s going to try to make it work with Florence,” Rob continued. “Personally, I think he’s insane; but what can I say? It’s his life.”

  “What happened to the guy she was having the affair with?”

  “Obviously, it didn’t work out. She came crawling back a couple of days ago, saying it was all a huge mistake—blaming ‘last-minute wedding nerves.’ It’s such a cliché. But he loves her and, I’m afraid, for some reason my mother loves her, too, even she is encouraging Dan to work through it. They might get some counseling.”

  “Jeez, they’re not even married and already having to work at things. It doesn’t sound promising.”

  “No,” he muttered.

  This time neither of us smiled. We both paused, processing what this meant and if it was relevant to us, too; were we going to have to work at things? I’d walked right into that one. Speaking before I’ve had a chance to think. Aargh. Here we were in a state of unhappiness, looking at each other with new eyes, wondering whether a bunch of photos and fading memories were worth saving.

  “Tea?” he said at last and turned to flick the kettle on. I caught myself scowling at the kettle—our kettle—the one we jointly decided to buy in that tasteless shade of green, the bright lime kettle that had seemed so quirky, cool and, well, fun, when we bought it from Crate&Barrel not more than three weeks ago. The idea of a kettle being “fun” seemed ridiculous right now. I’ll let him have it if it comes to dividing our jointly owned belongings. Everything around me seemed kind of different.

  Before the whole conversation died a death right there, we were saved by a knock at the door. It was Tina.

  “Hey!” she said, all bright and breezy—the polar opposite to the atmosphere in our apartment. She took in our glum expressions. “Everything all right?”

  “Yep,” we both said in unison, suggesting that everything really wasn’t all right.

  “Tea? Or something stronger?” Rob said jovially.

  “I wish,” she smiled coyly. “I’m, er, not drinking at the moment.”

  “Not like you, Tina.” He smirked.

  She smiled. “I’m taking care of myself.”

  “Fair enough.” He failed to pick up the hint. Typical man.

  She turned and winked at me, and I got the impression I wasn’t to mention the “pregnancy” aloud, even in front of Rob.

  “I was wondering if I could borrow you for a sec, Amber,” she said. “I want to show you something at mine.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure. Do you need me dressed, or shall I scare Max with my slobby Sunday getup?”

  She smiled again, before opening the door. “Come slobby, Max’s out anyway. I’ll only steal her for five minutes, Rob. Keep the kettle on.”

  I was relieved to escape for a moment.

  * * *

  Tina and Max’s apartment, although almost the exact mirror image of ours, somehow looked twice as big. Perhaps it was because their kitchen units were a much better design than ours, giving an illusion of more space, or maybe they’d had a spring clean and didn’t have an uninvited lodger cluttering up their lounge with her bits and pieces.

  Tina seemed to register what I was thinking. “Nesting kicking in already. I was up at the crack of dawn this morning cleaning. Can’t get enough of the smell of Pledge. Weird, I know.”

  “Want to come and get another fix at ours? You’re welcome any time. Where’s Max?”

  “He’s gone for a run. This baby thing, it’s had a crazy effect on him already—he’s gone fitness mad, bless him.”

  I chuckled. “Go, Max.” Seeing as I’d rarely seen him without a cigarette or some kind of alcoholic drink in his hand, Max didn’t strike me as the type of guy who was predisposed to a morning run.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I said, reaching out to give her a hug.

  “All natural, too,” she replied, letting me envelop her in a big bear hug. “We were ready to start in vitro next month, but I guess someone was looking down on us.

  “Anyway, I wanted to get your opinion on this dress, being a stylist and all. I’m already busting out of some of my old faithfuls. It’s my boobs more than anything.” She jiggled her bosom for effect. She did have an ample cleavage. “I’m going to look like a house before this pregnancy is out, I know it, but I don’t give a monkey’s. Bring on the Ben & Jerry’s.”

  “Too right. If ever you need a Ben & Jerry’s cohort, you know who to call. Where are you off to anyway?”

  “A wrap party for Max’s latest TV show. A few actor types and the production team. It won’t be nearly so much fun pretending to drink. What are you guys up to?”

  “Nothing much.” I don’t even know if we’ll still be together by this evening.

  “Why don’t you come, too? I’m sure Max would love that, he was just saying he’d like to hang out with Rob more—they can talk cameras and we can talk babies. What do you say?”

  “I’ll ask him.” It possibly wasn’t the wisest decision to become broody when on the brink of breaking up with your boyfriend, but perhaps a night out, at least under the same roof, would do us good. Gladly, I helped Tina style her outfit, before being consumed by a feeling of impending doom as I went back into my own home.

  * * *

  Rob was hunched over the cooker making breakfast. On the outside, it looked like a normal Saturday scene of domestic bliss, but the nervous energy around us told a different story.

  “Do you fancy going out later?” I offered, by means of an olive branch. “Tina and Max are wondering if we want to join them at a party.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said, monosyllabic. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, please.” He knows I can’t drink coffee before eleven in the morning. “I’ll get Vicky’s bits together.”

  “Already done it,” he replied, nodding in the direction of one corner of the room, where Vicky’s suitcase lay flat on the floor; on top he had piled her laptop, toiletries bag, and three pairs of shoes and a coat.

  “Okay, well, I’ll put it all in her case,” I said helpfully, and began stuffing it all in.

  When I was finished I hauled it out into the corridor. It felt cruel to be literally turfing my best friend out of my home, but I had no option. I was doing it to save my relationship.

  The rest of the day felt strained. Rob clearly wasn’t in the mood to discuss “us”; I gathered this by the fact that he was wearing his headphones to watch Game of Thrones on his laptop. So I pottered around, vaguely home-making; fluffing up cushions and arranging mugs in cupboards, until Mickey called me to catch up on Liv’s outfit for the Met.

  “She’s got a few ideas of her own,” he said, before I had a chance to tell him I wasn’t sure I could do the job unless Dana agreed. Thankfully, I had decided to keep the ruby bra a secret, to be revealed at her fitting. “You know Liv—she has very definite ideas about her style.”

  “Yes, I’m aware,” I said, feeling a little sad. I was convinced that whatever Liv had in mind, it couldn’t possibly beat what Maurice had in store; it
ticked all her fashion boxes, including the main prerequisite—that she was only partially clothed. Before I could back out, I found myself agreeing to do a fitting on Monday at Maurice’s home-cum-studio. I’ll worry about Dana after that.

  * * *

  I made an extra effort with my appearance that evening, getting ready long before Rob got around to changing his T-shirt, and spending almost an hour doing my hair and makeup. I layered my eye makeup into a near-perfect smoky, come-hither flutter, and managed to successfully create some beachy curls in my shoulder-length hair. I hadn’t bothered to wear my hair down much these last weeks because I always seemed to be rushing to get out of the door, so it instantly made me look and feel a bit different. I slid into a dainty little red-and-black Marc by Marc Jacobs minidress, a recent “I’ll pay it off once the paychecks come in” credit-card purchase, that I was now unsure I could justify.

  “Nice dress,” Rob said, when I presented myself to him in a slightly pissed off, you-could-have-noticed-the-effort-I-made-earlier fashion, just as I was putting my coat on.

  We got a cab across the Hudson with Max and Tina. No matter how many times I had taken this route, I always found it thrilling to travel over the Brooklyn Bridge and see the spectacular skyline view of Manhattan before me.

  We were dropped off outside a trendy little cocktail bar called Mother’s Ruin in Nolita, and the party was in full swing when we entered. Max was instantly whisked off to the back of the bar by a colleague and the three of us perched beside a table of premade cocktails. Rob and I immediately dug in.

  The atmosphere suddenly became excitable as a couple of actors from the show walked into the bar. Necks craned to see what they were wearing and who they were with. I recognized one guy from a TV detective series.

  Tina whispered in my ear: “Oliver Chester. Such a player, Max says he had a different woman in each hotel during the shoot.”

  “Hmm, not surprising,” I replied. “Totally would.”

  She sniggered. “She must be the latest,” Tina continued, as the top of a mop of curly blond hair came into view just behind Oliver, in the midst of his entourage. If you looked closely, you could see they were lightly touching fingers as he led her through the parting crowds. I noticed a black Phillip Lim bag come into view. How funny, that’s the same bag that—Oh, shit, it’s Poppy.