The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  By one in the morning my head was beginning to spin. I could have danced all night, but the effect of the cocktails was starting to wear off and I remembered, with shocking urgency, that I had a very big presentation to make in just a few hours’ time. I was in the cloakroom queue, rummaging around in my clutch for my ticket when—Oh, shit! I don’t believe it. Where are my door keys?

  Five more minutes of frantic groping of items in the small bag and then tipping the contents onto the floor to make absolutely certain the keys weren’t in there and I was running back into the main party to track down Vicky and Noah. I found them taking selfies in the smoking area.

  “I’m frigging locked out!” I stormed. “And Rob’s away.” Infuriatingly, I couldn’t even blame Vicky this time.

  “Are the keys in the apartment?” Vicky asked. “You know what that means: ‘Hello again, Mr. Fire Officer!’” She put her hand to her forehead before erupting into giggles.

  “Not helpful,” I wailed.

  She leaned over and whispered loudly into Noah’s ear. “Amber’s got a bit of a thing for the NYFD.”

  A panicky sensation suddenly made me feel a lot more sober than the pair of them. I badly wanted to call Rob, but he would be midair and anyway, he’d be furious.

  “When did you last have them?” Vicky asked, correctly surmising that I wasn’t amused.

  I paused to think. “Well, Rob let me in before he left today, and I had the door on the latch when you were over . . . so that must mean I last had them at work,” I recalled. “I was in a hurry to leave and get back to him. I must have taken them out of my bag at some point. Oh, God, yes, of course, I put the key to the studio safe on the same ring and I was using that today—that means they’ve got to be at work.”

  “Well then,” she grabbed my hand, stood up and straightened her skirt against her thighs like she meant business. “To the Angel Wear offices it is. I’ll come and make sure you get them okay. Where are they based?”

  “Seriously, it’s fine,” I replied, feeling a lot more together now I was pretty certain I knew where they were and luckily the building was manned twenty-four hours. “I’ll keep the Uber waiting while I run in.”

  Noah interjected: “No way, Amber, we’re not going to leave you. What will you do if they’re not there? I’m over this party anyway—and Tom’s gone.” He looked around the room, at exactly the same time that most of the partygoers lowered their phones and pretended to be doing anything but look like they were taking unsolicited photos of him—which they had been doing for most of the party. So this is what it’s like to be one of the most aesthetically blessed men in the world. “Let’s all go,” he said now. “I know where the office is, and it’s not far from our hotel anyway.”

  “Ooh, yeah, we could come in with you!” Vicky squealed. “I’d love to see where all the Angel Wear action happens! And you have a safe? Does this mean there are actual diamonds on the bras? This, I’ve got to see.”

  Before long we were all in my Uber, heading across town.

  * * *

  We were standing in the revolving doors at the Angel Wear offices for a few seconds before we realized they weren’t actually moving, which prompted a huge giggling fit from both Vicky and Noah. Although it was late at night, there were still lights in the high-rise building and the street outside was buzzing with people—there was only marginally less traffic on the roads than at any other time of day in Manhattan. Being in the center of the city at this time of night was buzzy. The same security guard who witnessed my unfortunate run-in with Mona last week was on duty, and I had since discovered he was called Larry. This, I felt, was bad. Hopefully, I smiled at him through the glass door and saw his face change from an expression of neutral boredom, to dutiful concern, as he recognized me. But, as he didn’t seem to be reaching for an alarm, I made my move.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Larry!” I shouted through the glass between us, trying to sound as sensible and sober as I could. “But I come in peace!” I held up my hands. I’m funny, right?

  He didn’t seem to think so. “Lady, it’s nearly two A.M.”

  “Is it really?” I said. “I’d barely noticed. I’m working late, you see.” I hoped he couldn’t see the party wear under our coats.

  “Any access late at night has to be approved in advance.” He scowled.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed. “It’s just I’m fairly new.”

  “I know.” He was unimpressed.

  “I’m really trying to impress Ron with my designs for the catwalk show. I wanted to put in some extra hours—show him how committed I am. But I need to pick up some prototypes from my studio to take home, so I can continue working there.” I looked up at him with my best “trust me, I’m a doctor” expression. Vicky and Noah lowered their heads to disguise yet another giggling episode behind me. He eyed them suspiciously.

  “How long will you be?” Larry eventually replied, sensing that we weren’t budging.

  “Not long—ten minutes max?”

  Vicky dug her index finger into my back. Ouch. “And us, too?” she whispered.

  I know I shouldn’t do this. I should just go in myself, get the keys and leave.

  Vicky could read my mind: “Come on, don’t be square. Where’s the old, fun Amber gone?” The old, fun Amber. The Amber who could be the life and soul of the party. The one who put her girlfriends before any man.

  “And, um, I need my two friends here to give me a hand with bringing some of the items down,” I continued.

  His eyes narrowed and he fiddled with the large bunch of keys on his belt. I could tell he was weighing up this unlikely trio of me, a shockingly good-looking male model and a pretty girl in a short dress, all beaming hopefully. We didn’t exactly look threatening.

  “Yeah, go on, Amber—you’re the lead stylist, surely it’s up to you anyway,” Vicky whispered, her breath hot on my ear.

  “I’m the lead stylist, you see, sir,” I continued.

  “Oh, I know who you are. I don’t forget a face.” He half smiled. He seemed to be softening.

  “Are you a whiskey man?” Noah piped up. He pulled his hip flask out of his coat pocket and dangled it over my shoulder in the direction of the security guard. Larry paused, he was tempted. “Have a drop of fire water,” Noah said.

  Suddenly, we all jumped as the revolving doors jolted into life.

  “Single malt?” Larry muttered, taking the flask from Noah and lifting it to his lips. We were finally inside the building. He swallowed back a hefty glug. “It’s good stuff.”

  “I won’t forget this, Larry, sir.” I said. “I’ll tell Ron how helpful you’ve been, when I have my meeting with him tomorrow.”

  “Make it quick,” he said. “I’ll give you this back on your way out.” He winked at Noah.

  “Do I need to turn off any alarms up there?” I asked, warily.

  “I’ll do it from here,” he replied. “Anyway, I’ll be here to let you out. Be quick.”

  “I will. And, thank you,” I said, looking serious.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Noah.

  “Yes, thank you very much!” said Vicky, smiling her sunshine smile. One by one we filed across the lobby toward the lifts.

  * * *

  When we were safely zooming our way up to the twentieth floor, Vicky let out an exhilarated shriek. “Wah! The actual Angel Wear offices!”

  “Shhh! Seriously, hon, you never know, Ron could be working late, too,” I hissed. “Jeez, I’m sure this is a sackable offense.”

  “Oh, Amber, honestly, of course it’s not, you’re just doing a bit of extra work and picking up your keys—chill the hell out.”

  “Now, now, you two,” Noah interjected. “We’ll be out again before you know it—after a quick tour of the studio. I didn’t give up my whiskey flask for nothing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next morning, a quick scan of the room revealed I was in my own bed and a wiggle of my fingers and toes suggested I was still in my o
wn body. My hands were shaking slightly as I lifted my head off the pillow and checked the time on my phone: 7 A.M. So I hadn’t overslept. Thank God for impending dehydration—nature’s way of stopping me oversleeping, despite a banging hangover.

  Suddenly a calendar reminder popped up: 10 A.M. PRESENTATION

  I shut it down. Why is my phone so spritely this morning? I wasn’t stupid enough not to remember that it was the day of the presentation. I replaced my head on the pillow and winced as some mortifying flashbacks from last night played out in my mind.

  A text-message alert made me jump. I didn’t recognize the sender’s number. Instead of a message, there was a video clip attached. I clicked on the link, immediately regretting it, assuming it was a virus about to eat up my phone. Stupid idiot! But instead, a slightly blurry image began playing out. At first I couldn’t make out what it was but, after a few moments, the camera lens focused and—Oh, God, no! Please, this can’t be happening. It was lucky I was still lying down, because my legs went to jelly.

  There in front of me was the Angel Wear Studio. The camera then revealed Noah, wearing nothing more than some tiny pale-pink rhinestone-encrusted briefs and a huge pink feather boa, and, behind him, hands around his waist in a conga formation, was Vicky, in a sheer-red negligée, complete with nipple tassels, which were spinning wildly as her hips swayed left and right and she kicked her legs out sideways. And last but not least, taking up the rear, hands around Vicky’s waist, clumsily following them around the main studio area, was me, wearing an eye-catching pair of over-the-knee leopard-print heeled boots, a matching pair of big briefs and a black-satin corset-style top, some giant fluffy white angel wings precariously attached to my back. We were all laughing our heads off, as we shrieked, “Work it girlfriend!” in OTT American accents. And to think I thought I was quite sober by the time we reached the office. Mortified doesn’t cover it.

  I couldn’t watch it to the end; there was a sick feeling in my stomach and a lump in my throat so big I could barely breathe properly, so I switched off, turned over my phone and buried it under my pillow. Perhaps putting it out of sight might make it all disappear. To make matters worse, there was an open bottle of champagne clearly visible in the studio foreground. Encouraged by Vicky, I had pilfered it from a fridge in Caroline’s makeup area and we had been merrily swigging from it while we held our own little fancy-dress party. In my workplace.

  I looked so drunk. Even worse, the video gave the impression that we were mocking the catwalk show and poking fun at the brand. It gave completely the wrong impression of me. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, sober.

  There was a muffled ping from my phone, indicating another text had arrived. I looked at the pillow for several seconds, praying this was just a bad dream and my phone and I could start the day again, just as soon as I woke up. But after blinking a few times, the pillow was still there and the ping hung in the air even though the sound had melted away. Tentatively, I pulled it out and my face collapsed as I saw another message from the same number. This time there were words. I closed one eye as I read them:

  Ron was very interested in this little film from last night. He’ll see you at 10am. Don’t be late

  I covered my face with my hands. When I plucked up the courage to part my fingers and look at the message again, it was still there, staring at me in a pale-gray bubble.

  Oh. My. God. I’m getting fired. I’ve had my dream job for twenty-four hours and now I’m getting the sack. I knew it was too good to be true.

  Seconds later, another ping. It seemed to echo in the air like a death knell. This time I closed one eye to look at my phone. Surely there can’t be worse?

  It was a message from Rob:

  Morning baby! Just about to have lunch with Mum, trying to stay awake. How’s it going, you ready for today? Sock it to them! Love you xx

  I threw my phone on the bed and got into the shower.

  The hot water washed over me, rinsing the actions of the night before off my skin and down the plug hole; and, in a bizarre turn of events, instead of a worsening sick feeling in my stomach, I emerged with a feeling of strength. I was pretty certain I knew who had leaked the building’s security tape—it had to be Dimitri and although shaking with anger, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him defeat me; not even over my own stupid mistake. As I stood on the bath mat, dripping with water, naked as the day I was born, I put my hands on my hips and struck the Wonder Woman pose in front of the mirror. If he wants a war—he’s got it.

  * * *

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell happened last night?” Ron asked sharply, as I stood nervously just inside his office, bang on ten o’clock. There were no pleasantries today but, thankfully, there was no camera crew, either—my only saving grace.

  Dimitri was flanking him on the right, wearing the same trench coat and polka-dot hanky ensemble as he’d had on the day before. His eyes were aggressive, yet there was a slight smirk across his face, like a perverse army drill sergeant about to order me to hit the deck and give him a hundred press-ups.

  I took a moment to compose myself, my heart thumping hard in my chest and my cheeks radiating heat.

  “Well? What have you got to say?” Ron snapped.

  “I was working late when I heard a clatter in the design studio. Fearing a breach of security, I—”

  “No, not you, Dimitri,” said Ron, cutting him off. “I know all that. Amber—explain yourself. How could you think it was a good idea?” His voice was raised and it seemed that he was struggling to keep his temper under control. Although I had so far avoided any eye contact with Dimitri, I could feel his gaze drilling into my flushed face.

  There was nothing I could do but tell Ron the true version of events—about how I’d returned to collect my forgotten keys and, in a moment of weak stupidity, given in to Vicky and Noah’s suggestion that they come with me, too. I embellished the part about how dazzled they were by the latest Angel Wear designs—thinking some flattery might claw me back a teeny bit of goodwill—“ . . . and somehow we found ourselves putting on a catwalk show—a rehearsal of sorts.” It sounded infantile, but there was no point in trying to pretend it hadn’t happened, when the security footage clearly told the story.

  When I had finished, I stared foolishly at them. This felt like being at school. In fact, I wished I was at school, because then there’d be a good chance I’d get suspended. It might only be ten in the morning but what I really fancied was a day off and maybe a cigarette and a can of Strongbow behind a bike shed.

  “So where do you suggest we go from here?” Ron asked.

  The pub?

  “We fire her, of course!” Dimitri snarled. “She abused her position, Ron, there’s no other option!”

  “I didn’t ask you,” he retorted, giving me a glimmer of hope that perhaps there was some room for maneuver.

  “Well . . .” I began, a little unsure of exactly how I was going to talk my way out of this one, but determined to give it a shot; there was nothing like fear to get the juices flowing. “It was wrong on every level, and for that I can only apologize.” I held up my hands, like I’d seen them do in American dramas when the accused is about to be carted off by the cops. “But, let me assure you, it was a stupid mistake and completely out of character for me. Please, Ron, if you’ll give me a second chance, I’d like my work to be judged here, not my behavior, and I’d like to use the rest of this meeting to present my ideas for the show’s finale to you, as we originally planned.”

  Then, as Ron took a seat behind his desk in his big, Dr. Evil–style rotating chair, and Dimitri paced around in front of the large windows behind him, I told them how I was keen to bring the controversial designer Maurice Chan on board to create some hype for the runway show. I told them about the ruby bra, even showing a photo of it on my iPhone. “It will make the perfect centerpiece to the finale,” I explained, “completing my theme for the show.” The two men looked at me expectantly. “Ron, I’d like to present to you the
theme for this year’s runway extravaganza—Wonder Woman. This ruby bra is going to be worn by the last Icon to walk the runway, bringing the show to a spectacular close.”

  As I pitched my idea, I could visualize it clearly—Krystal coming out of a cloud of dry ice, hips gyrating, tanned limbs strong and beautiful, big blue hot pants with white stars, paired with the ruby bra, spinning shafts of light around the room, thanks to a giant disco ball suspended way above. Her hair big and loose, save for a shiny gold headband, a red cape flowing behind her buoyed by some strong wind machines and red-and-white platform boots completing the look. She is framed by a background projection of gigantic shooting stars as she strikes the iconic, powerful, hands-on-hips Wonder Woman pose, in all its trail-blazing glory, to thunderous applause.

  “The fashion press will go mad for the kitsch coolness of resurrecting one of the greatest female icons of all time,” I enthused, on a roll. “Feminists, who might otherwise have protested about the objectification of women in their underwear, will applaud you for using powerful imagery. And young people? They’ll have a strong role model to aspire to.” As the words flowed, I realized just how much I cared about this project—it was not only about seeing Maurice finally get justice, but about doing something good; it was about making women not only look amazing, but feel empowered, too, silencing Angel Wear’s critics at the same time.

  Dimitri scoffed. “Wonder Woman? For God’s sake, it looks like a tacky 1980s comic book!”