The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  “No way, Amber!” she trilled, before I had time to consider the fact that I really didn’t want Rob to know I knew Poppy was in New York. “We must stop bumping into each other like this!”

  “Yeah, I mean, how come you’re over here?” I stuttered, trying to fudge it so Rob might not click. Surely she’ll get it, she’s the one who didn’t want Rob to know she wasn’t Pinky-sitting anymore.

  “What are you on about? I told you the other night. I got the part! Hey, how gorge does the bag look?” She stroked her soft leather three-point-one tote; the bag that could easily have cost me my visa and my career. And then she clocked Rob, standing next to me, looking confused. “Oh, Rob!” she exclaimed, like she’d seen a ghost.

  “Poppy,” he said, unamused. “I thought you were in London?”

  “Er, obviously not,” she replied, eyes doing anything but look directly into his, because she knew what was coming next.

  “So where’s Pinky?” he continued, looking properly moody.

  “Um . . .” she glanced toward me for help.

  I stayed silent.

  “I trusted you with one of my most precious possessions, Poppy.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about a wild animal as a possession,” she quipped.

  “Pinky’s hardly wild,” I jumped in, “and Rob has a right to know.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell him then, Amber?” she said, before turning to face Rob. “Look, he’s with a friend of mine in London, he’s fine. I’m going back next week anyway. You can FaceTime him then if you like.”

  “Are you getting hassled here?” Oliver had turned to see why Poppy had stopped. He puffed up his chest and fronted up to Rob like he was willing to give him a kick where it hurt.

  “No, babe, it’s cool, just some old mates from London. Shall we get a drink?” Poppy purred. She laced her arm into his and he led them off to be seated in a nearby reserved booth.

  “‘We must stop bumping into each other?’” Rob repeated to the space they left as they disappeared into the crowd. I knew full well that he was aiming the comment at me—and he was within his rights to be cross.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and looked at the floor. There wasn’t much I could say to get out of this one. “I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.”

  “Didn’t you think I’d want to know that Pinky had been re-homed?” I looked up but didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what I could possibly say. “I’m over this party,” he continued, turning on his heel. “I’ll see you at home later.” And he went to leave.

  Tina grabbed my arm. “What’s got his goat this evening?”

  “Me,” I replied.

  “Well—don’t just watch him leave,” she said, giving me a gentle shove. “Go after him!” She didn’t need to say it again. I hung back as I watched Rob collect his coat from the cloakroom and then I followed him out of the bar. A cacophony of tooting horns greeted us in the street—the perennial soundtrack of Manhattan—a noise that I found almost comforting now; it helped take the edge off the fact that I felt as though I barely knew the person I was striding behind. Rob was walking fast, heading for the subway at Prince Street. Despite the people all around us, I’d recognize his walk anywhere, slightly right leaning, with a lightness of step. I could almost smell him, too—warm washing powder and a light aftershave, the scent that had drawn me to him from one of the first moments we met. Right now, my love for him felt all-consuming. I didn’t take my eyes off the back of his head as we pounded up Spring Street. A couple of times I opened my mouth to shout out his name, but each time something stopped me. I can’t let us break up. I can’t.

  * * *

  When Rob approached the top of the subway steps, I could almost have reached out to touch him, but again I stopped myself. I was beginning to feel like his stalker now and worried that it would seem strange for him to know I had trailed him all the way from the bar without calling out. He went to glance behind only once, but I ducked out of sight. He jogged down the steps into the subway and instinctively I followed him, passing my ticket through the gates and expecting him to walk down toward the N line, heading downtown, on our route back to Bedford Street. But instead he took the R line heading uptown.

  My heart began to pound in my chest as I questioned why he wasn’t taking the quickest route back to Brooklyn. What was it he had said in the bar? “I’ll see you at home later.” By that I assumed he meant he was on his way there. Where would he be going if not home? My mind was in overdrive. “You can keep an eye on me,” he had said, when he was encouraging me to go for the Angel Wear job. Well, maybe he didn’t say it in jest, maybe he is seeing an Icon after all and she’s got some posh Upper East Side apartment. Adrenaline was rushing through me now, as I made a decision to keep following him. I felt as though I was in a film as I ducked and dived out of sight any time I thought he might turn around. Skillfully, I managed to board the same train, in an adjoining carriage. Luckily, it was busy on the subway on a Saturday night, so there were enough bodies to keep me hidden, but still able to keep sight of the back of Rob’s jacket and the top of his sandy hair.

  He got off the train at Fifty-ninth Street. I followed suit and, despite one moment when I thought I’d lost him as I hung back to let him leave the station barriers ahead of me, I was just a few people behind as he came up to street level.

  I hadn’t yet had the time to explore this far uptown and it instantly felt very different to our cozy neighborhood in Williamsburg. The buildings were bigger and grander, there were huge high-street chain stores on either side of the road, and impressive-looking hotels. Rob continued to head northward until he reached the entrance to Central Park at Fifty-ninth and Fifth Avenue. Here he slowed his pace. It was nearly ten at night, and dark, but the path ahead was lit up and joggers, couples, and tourists were still going about their business, making the pathways barely less busy than during the day.

  I let him walk for a minute or so down the path. And then it happened—he did turn around and, before I had a chance to do anything but stop dead in my tracks, he had clapped eyes on me, immediately in his wake. He stared at me, clearly puzzled, but saying nothing; he didn’t need to, he was trying to fathom what it meant that I was here, standing right in front of him, just inside the entrance to Central Park.

  “Amber, what are you doing here?” he said at last.

  I was almost breathless, a mixture of walking so fast to keep up with him and nerves. My heart was beating hard and despite the cold I felt hot and clammy.

  “I followed you,” I said, equally unsure about what on earth I was doing here. It didn’t seem such a good idea anymore. It sounded creepy. “I was going to catch you up to go home . . . and then I saw you weren’t going home.”

  “And you wondered where I was going?”

  “Well, yes, I did wonder,” I said, almost defiantly, waiting to catch him out. When he said nothing my eyes grew bigger and my hands more sweaty. “Well?”

  “Well, I needed a bit of space,” he replied after what seemed like a never-ending pause. “I didn’t want to go back to an empty flat, so I decided to come to Central Park for a walk, to clear my head.”

  “On your own?”

  “On my own, Amber. Why, who would I be walking with?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, now feeling a little silly for being jealous. “But why turn around?”

  We both stopped again, momentarily lost in our own thoughts, but this time we didn’t take our eyes off each other. He looked as though he was searching for a way to phrase something. After a few seconds his expression seemed to soften.

  “If you must know, I had just changed my mind about a cold walk through the park, on my own, among all these loved-up couples.” Just to illustrate the point, at that moment a romantic couple holding hands and giggling walked past. “So I was actually about to head back home, hoping you might be there, too.” He paused. “But, as you’re here now, would you like to walk with me?”

  I could tell from his fac
e that he was telling the truth.

  “I’d love that,” I said quietly. He put his left hand in his pocket and held out his arm for me to interlock mine with his. Quietly, I sighed with relief. An arm lock had to be a good sign.

  We started walking down the pathway, saying nothing at first as we took in our surroundings. Pretty maple trees partially covered the path and the streetlamps on either side gave off a warm, orangey glow.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I saw Poppy,” I said, feeling the need to start things off and address what had happened earlier.

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked. “It’s bad enough that she didn’t let me know about Pinky, but you knowing, too, and saying nothing . . . When did you see her?”

  “That night I went out with Vicky, when we ended up in Le Bain with Amy and Kate. Poppy turned up and she asked me to do something. I’m not proud of it, hence it was easier to blank it all out and not tell you, rather than have you be ashamed of me, too.”

  “Ashamed of you? What on earth did you do?”

  “She asked me to pick up a fake designer handbag for her.”

  “She what?” The corners of Rob’s mouth had turned up. Something I said obviously tickled him.

  “There’s this thing called a ‘bag drop,’ and Poppy somehow talked me into meeting some dodgy woman in a blacked-out car, and handing over some cash for a fake designer bag. In a nutshell,” I explained.

  “You’re being serious?” he said, really trying not to laugh.

  “Afraid so. I guess it does sound pretty stupid now.”

  “You know, you never have to keep secrets from me,” he said, “I’ll never judge you. I mean, I already know you’re nuts.” His eyes lit up.

  “I don’t have to take that, you know,” I said, pretending to look away, offended.

  “It’s lucky I like nutters then,” he qualified himself, squeezing my arm in his.

  “But it’s not just about Poppy—what’s happened to us, Rob?” I asked, warily.

  “I know I’ve not exactly been fun to live with,” he said. “Work’s been stressful—much worse than I imagined, and then the Dan thing, and Vicky turning up—I guess I ended up taking it out on you. And I’m sorry for that. None of it was your fault really.”

  “I should have discussed Vicky moving in with you,” I said. “But I felt I had no option. She’s a very old friend and she just turned up out of the blue. I’m still furious she nearly set our place on fire, though.”

  “She didn’t do it on purpose, I suppose,” he conceded.

  We both eyed another amorous couple heading straight for us, kissing as they walked.

  “I’m glad you’re not here meeting up with some Angel Wear giraffe,” I said.

  “You what?” He stopped again and took both my hands. “You didn’t seriously think I was meeting up with another woman?”

  “Maybe slightly,” I conceded, though it seemed absurd. “You made a comment about me keeping an eye on you, if I went for the job.”

  He laughed. “It was meant to be a joke. I’m sorry if it wasn’t funny. I genuinely think the job would be great for us—we work well together. Remember?”

  And he turned my face toward his with his hand. His lovely hands.

  “I love you, you know,” he said. “There’s only ever been you on my mind.” And he kissed me. He kissed me like he used to—soft and gentle at first, building up in urgency, until he was lost in my lips, my mouth, and I was equally lost in him. And then he was lightly kissing my neck and gently holding both my hands. Every now and again he stopped and stared deeply into my eyes and smiled. He still had the ability to make my knees go wobbly. And he was back. My Rob is back.

  * * *

  Pretty soon after that we caught a taxi back downtown and were kissing for most of the way, my leg over his, his arms around me. We were so consumed with lust that it was all he could do to thrust a fistful of cash into the driver’s hand as we got out. On the pavement we instinctively pulled apart for a moment and looked up at our bedroom window, half expecting the fire brigade to be at it again. As we each caught the other doing the same, we cracked up.

  “Window’s still intact tonight then,” he said. “I think that fireman was starting to think you had a crush on him.”

  I laughed. “Can we forget all that and start again please?”

  He gently brushed my cheek with his thumb. “Oh, yes . . .” He beamed.

  Neither of us commented when we noticed Vicky’s suitcase had been removed from the landing outside our front door. Instead he led me inside and straight to our bed; tonight it didn’t matter that there were sheets on only one side.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Liv and Mickey arrived at Maurice’s apartment at eleven o’clock the following morning, we couldn’t have been better prepared. Maurice had enlisted the help of an Italian seamstress called Bella—the very best couturier from his atelier back in the day—and they had been working hard all weekend to create Liv’s Met Gala outfit. There were images of Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra and other references from Ancient Egyptian mythology pinned to the walls. A mannequin stood tall in the middle of the room, covered with a white sheet, ready for the big reveal.

  The five of us stood in a line, eyes trained on the sheet. When the moment came, Maurice theatrically lifted it up and I gasped. The red rubies caught the light in the most beautiful way, sending beams of red sunlight around the room like a disco ball; it was such a magnetic piece. Maurice had teamed the bra with a long, flowing white skirt made of fine silk. There were thick gold cuff bracelets on each arm of the dummy, and a dramatic falcon gold headpiece on top of a black wig.

  “A replica of the one worn by Elizabeth Taylor,” Maurice explained, looking pleased as punch with his design. “And, la touche finale,” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “I have arranged for Liv to arrive with a real live leopard on a lead, to walk her up the red carpet.” He noticed a look of horror on our faces. “Tame, of course,” he qualified, turning to retrieve a large hardbacked book from a nearby table, and leafing through the pages until he came to a color print of a painting. “It’s called Egyptian Queen of the Leopards,” he announced. “Liv, mon chérie, you are to be our beautiful, smoldering Egyptian Leopard Queen.” He replaced the book and smiled proudly. “What could garner more attention at the Met than that?”

  My jaw hit the floor. “Where will you get the leopard from?” I asked.

  “I have my sources . . .” He winked. “It’s about time my little black address book was dusted off.” While I found it hard to contain my excitement, Mickey and Liv stayed expressionless—well, it was rather a lot to take in. Undeterred, Maurice continued. “Your makeup is key to this ensemble, Mademoiselle Liv—kohl eyeliner and defined cheekbones. If you want to go the whole way, I suggest the black braided wig to really pull off the Elizabeth Taylor look.” He indicated another image of the legendary celluloid icon. “But you could leave your hair au naturel for an original take on it. Your red hair will look incroyable with the rubies.”

  We all turned to gauge Liv’s face for a reaction. Surely she’ll say something?

  “Oh,” she muttered at last.

  “C’est bon?” Maurice asked, hopefully, the suspense clearly torturing him.

  “Oh, no, I mean, non, it’s not what I was expecting,” she replied awkwardly, looking to Mickey for help.

  “You see,” Mickey began, “Liv’s a little unsure that it’s attention grabby enough. You know?”

  Maurice and I exchanged a look. What is more attention grabbing than a priceless red ruby bra and a leopard on a lead, for heaven’s sakes?

  “We’ve come up with an idea for Liv that is based on the original ancient civilization—you know, before all the other ones,” he continued shiftily, obviously hoping no one here was a history graduate. “Liv is going to be Eve, fresh from the Garden of Eden.” He smiled, looking more slimy than the snake from said garden.

  Silence from Maurice, Bella, and me, wh
ile we took this in and realized the same thing at the exact same time: that means no clothes.

  “D’accord,” Maurice said after a while, scratching his head and trying desperately not to look as crestfallen as he must have felt.

  “We brought her outfit,” Mickey replied, while Liv looked listlessly out of the window.

  And from his inside coat pocket, he presented the tiniest nude G-string with a few fig leaves made from material attached to the front. He pulled the elastic around the knickers wide and let it ping back into shape. He’s so sleazy. I winced.

  “Sexy, hey, Amber?” he asked, as if to antagonize me. I looked at Liv. Surely she isn’t happy about this.

  “If you say so,” I replied.

  Bella had sucked in her cheeks and was shaking her head. She muttered something in Italian under her breath and I’d bet it was to do with going to hell.

  I was trying to summon up enough confidence to tell them where to stick the fig leaves and convince Liv that she would be insane not to take up Maurice’s incredible offer, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Rob:

  “Hey sexy, can’t stop thinking about you xx

  I smiled, before quickly replying:

  What time will you be home? x

  Quickly as possible—5?

  Meet you there. I’ll pick up new bedding. xx

  Great, we’ll be celebrating x

  What—the new linen?! x

  You’ll see xx

  Shortly after that, my phone buzzed again, this time a text from a number I didn’t recognize:

  Amber, you’ve got the job. Can you come in tomorrow morning to discuss the details? Best regards, Ron Angel.

  I read the message ten times in a row. Then I muttered “Holy crap,” under my breath, before texting Rob:

  OMG! xxx

  “Everything okay?” Maurice asked, sensing correctly that I was distracted.