The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  I chose to ignore him. “This theme will perfectly communicate the fact that Angel Wear is a heritage brand, finding inspiration in the past, while creating cutting-edge fashion for today’s woman. The Wonder Woman pose is a feminist phenomenon and, by giving it a platform on the Angel Wear stage, we can show that using your body is a powerful tool. You don’t have to be provocative to gain power—do the pose at home in your Angel Wear underwear before you go out, or in the loos before a big interview. Do it in the shower.” I pictured myself this morning. “It doesn’t matter, what does matter is how it makes you feel.” I paused to give them a moment to take this in. “You’re worldly men—surely you can see how it will perfectly complement the lingerie collection and win you fans from all walks of life?”

  While I was talking, Ron was listening—he nodded his head a few times; he even made some notes on his desk jotter, which encouraged me. If he was going to fire me, why would he be making notes?

  “I love the Wonder Woman idea . . . but Maurice Chan?” he said at last. “He bothers me. Wasn’t he the guy who put Hitler moustaches on the catwalk?”

  “He certainly was,” sneered Dimitri. “He was forced into hiding, and for good reason. Quite frankly, to be honest with you, Ron, I don’t think you should be the guy to put him back into the limelight. It’s far too dangerous for you and the brand.”

  “Amber, what’s your thinking behind Chan?” Ron asked, cracking his knuckles.

  “There’s a different side to every story,” I replied, finally confident enough to raise my voice. “As it happens, Maurice was wrongly vilified. He was set up and ended up taking the fall. He’s paid the price—a whole decade away from the profession he loves. Fashion design is in his blood and, Ron, I believe a talent like that shouldn’t be allowed to go to waste. Maurice is ready to relaunch himself into the design world. He’s not after huge accolades—Wonder Woman will take all the praise—he just wants to do what he loves best again, and that is design clothing—however skimpy that clothing might be,” I qualified.

  Ron was rubbing his chin. With the show only seven days away, he really didn’t have much time to sit around deliberating it for long.

  “I think you’re onto something, Amber,” he said.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and almost immediately my whole body felt more comfortable.

  “I can’t listen to this crap anymore,” Dimitri said, pulling up the collars on his trench coat and getting ready to storm out of the room. “This is a guy who used Hitler for fashion inspiration—who held his show in a former Nazi bunker under the Paris Metro. The guy’s been living in some dead great-aunt’s flat for the past few years. He’s a lunatic. He’s washed up. For God’s sake, Ron, how can we have this association?”

  I looked at Dimitri. I really looked at him, suddenly able to see through his moody persona. Caroline was right, he wasn’t just unfriendly, he was malicious—and he seemed to know a lot more about Maurice Chan than your average lingerie designer would know.

  “So,” I concluded, deciding to blank Dimitri for now, “I just think everyone deserves a second chance. Maurice paid the ultimate price for mistakes that were not even his own. And he is one of the greatest fashion designers of our time. I think we could make this a huge success—in fact, I know we could. He can make lingerie cool again and the unholy trinity of Maurice, Wonder Woman and the ruby bra will have everyone talking.” Ron’s face seemed to soften as he took this in. “Look,” I said passionately, ready to give it my final shot, “you gave me this incredible opportunity and I’m not going to let you down. I’m afraid the show is not an option for me without Maurice.”

  And then I stopped and just stood there in front of him, hands on my hips, strong, defiant, a Wonder Woman of sorts, with my stinking hangover and big ideas, unsure whether I could pull this off, but with a fire in my belly and the determination to give it a bloody good shot.

  “The two clowns who were with you last night will be barred from the premises,” Ron declared.

  I nodded earnestly. “Goes without saying.”

  “And last night’s little ‘dress rehearsal’ will be kept between us.”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  “So bring Maurice to me,” Ron said.

  Seconds later, without a word, Dimitri stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard we both turned to check the glass hadn’t shattered.

  * * *

  I’m sure Ron had already decided he was going to put his faith in me and get Maurice on board, even before I introduced them later that same afternoon. Dimitri stayed ensconced in his studio, refusing to come out like a petulant child, which didn’t surprise me considering his behavior so far.

  As Maurice recounted to Ron the very same story that had won me over in the coffee shop just a few weeks ago, Ron was rubbing his hands together knowing, as we all knew, that having such a big name on board was going to attract a huge amount of media attention.

  As the meeting drew to a close, he asked his head of PR and marketing to join us—a friendly, busy woman called Melissa, and instructed her to draw up a press release to go out to the media immediately, telling of his controversial appointment and building hype for next week’s show.

  In an effort to retain relations with Dimitri, Ron carefully carved up our roles, leaving Dimitri in charge of the introductory runway show, and making Maurice and me responsible for producing five show-stopping costumes for the Icons to wear for the finale, which would culminate with the appearance of Wonder Woman. At Melissa’s instruction, we finished the meeting by sending a selfie of Ron, Maurice and I, standing with the huge image of the Icons behind us, to all of Angel Wear’s social media channels.

  Minutes later, news of Maurice’s return to the fashion world was ricocheting around the virtual landscape. It became the top news item on all major fashion sites—including vogue.com—

  FABLED DESIGNER MAURICE CHAN MAKES HIS COMEBACK WITH ANGEL WEAR one excited headline, among many, ran.

  My phone was alight with messages and social media alerts, as my thousands of followers reposted the news, complete with my re-grammed photo. Caption: “Meet my new design partner, Maurice Chan #AngelWear #runwayshow #comingsoon #NYC #watchthisspace”

  It was impossible not to feel exhilarated by it all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With Rob away, Maurice and I spent the next three days and late into the nights behind closed doors at the Angel Wear offices, burning the midnight oil discussing seams, fabrics and shapes as we created costumes alongside his seamstress Maria. We stopped only to take delivery of pizza dinners, to fetch coffees from the canteen, and for Maurice’s cigarette breaks—which became increasingly frequent. By a stroke of good luck, Maria turned out to be as skilled at making tiramisu as she was at turning up hems, so we happily worked into the small hours in a haze of coffee, cream and couture. We were in our element tearing up plans when a concept wasn’t working, and adding adornments until the costumes sparkled to perfection, always with Maurice’s motto “You can never have too many sequins” clearly in mind. We vowed not to stop until each one of the five finale costumes was as headline-grabbing as its wearer. Alongside fittings with the models themselves, there were also endless meetings with lighting directors, sound engineers, pyrotechnics experts, choreographers, not to mention lengthy discussions with Caroline and Sonny about the hair and makeup for each look.

  * * *

  I was in our little kitchen, about to make myself a studenty dinner from a tin of tuna, some cheese and a potato that was past its best, when Rob came through the door.

  “You’re early!” I exclaimed, furious with myself for not having embarked on my planned beauty regime earlier.

  “Yes, surprise!” he said, taking in the look of horror across my face. “Don’t look too happy.”

  “Sorry, baby. Of course I’m happy you’re back,” I said, walking toward him, my arms open, ready to be enveloped by his. I need a cuddle so badly.

  He set his suit
case down and planted a long kiss on my lips, and then I noticed another person standing behind him.

  “Look who I brought back with me.” He ushered the person forward.

  “Dan!” I threw my arms around him, probably with too much enthusiasm, but I wanted him to know in one big bear hug that I was sorry for what had happened with Florence, without having to actually say it. Not right away, anyway.

  “It’s great to see you, Amber. Thanks for the welcome. I got a bigger hug than you did, Bro!” He winked at Rob.

  I blushed. I had forgotten how classically good-looking Dan was. Whereas Rob had the more pretty-boy features of the two brothers, Dan was definitely the more chiseled. A couple of inches taller than Rob, with his neat, dark-brown hair to Rob’s slightly messy mousy, his piercing blue eyes to Rob’s green, he was the thoroughbred of the two. I was dying to find out what the latest with Florence was.

  “How are you getting on?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know,” he said with a small smile.

  “I bet,” I replied, skirting around the issue.

  “So how are the costumes coming together?” Rob changed the subject.

  After I rustled up a pretty revolting tuna hash for us all for dinner, Rob and Dan decided to watch reruns of Game of Thrones on the sofa, so I retired to the bedroom to look over the photos I’d taken of the costumes so far, and make plans for the following day. I hadn’t had much of a chance to look on Instagram during the last few days, and was quickly distracted by the amount of activity there had been surrounding the announcement that Maurice Chan was now part of the Angel Wear team. There was even a hashtag for my name with over a thousand posts. I guess this means I’m becoming a sort of celebrity. The thought was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. But although my To Do list was endless, I felt energized by the adrenaline of the buildup to the greatest styling gig of my life.

  My scrolling was brought to a halt by my phone ringing. Vicky. I hadn’t had a chance to fill her in on the details about how I was nearly fired. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going to let her anywhere near Angel Wear, ever again.

  “Hey, babe, before you say, ‘No’ . . .” she began. This is never a good start to a conversation with Vicky.

  “Hi, Vicky,” I replied. “Why do I sense that I want to say, ‘No’?”

  “I’ve got a massive favor to ask,” she continued, breathlessly. “Noah’s been invited to the Met Gala on Tuesday and he wants to take me as his plus-one.”

  “That’s amazing, hon, I’m happy for you,” I said, knowing there was more to come. I’d been so busy with the costumes, I’d completely forgotten it was fashion’s other big night out in two days’ time.

  Ron had specifically planned for the Angel Wear show to piggyback the Met Gala the following night, because all the biggest stars and designers would already be in town and on the party circuit, so the runway was guaranteed to attract an A-list front row. I had learned that you always find big fashion and celebrity events clustered together, because the fash pack like partying in convoy.

  Vicky barely drew breath: “I was hoping that you might be able to source me something to wear, or if I could borrow something from Maurice? I was thinking the Egyptian Queen idea you were going to do with Liv—if she’s still going naked, that is. It’s just that Noah’s really up for being a Pharaoh. His agent’s already got Tom Ford knocking him something up. But me? Well, I don’t think a ten-dollar-ninety-nine Egyptian Queen outfit from the local costume store is really going to cut it for the Met—do you?”

  My mind turned to Liv. She was no doubt on a treadmill at some overpriced gym at this very moment, honing her body ready for her “Eve” moment. I shuddered at the thought.

  “Fortunately, I’ve still got the white dress,” I replied. “I’ve not had time to dry-clean it since the auction but, if you can express-clean it tomorrow, it’s yours for the borrowing. I’m sure Maurice will lend you the falcon headdress, too, if you pick it up from his apartment.”

  “Amazing! I knew I could count on you!” she hooted. “I’ll jump in a cab now—see you in thirty.”

  And there wasn’t any time to complain that I hadn’t seen my boyfriend for the past few nights and was planning an early night. Vicky.

  * * *

  “So great to meet you, Dan. I’ve heard so much about you,” Vicky said, admiringly, no sooner had I introduced them. Her eyes were sparkling and she couldn’t stop smiling. They shook hands, and at the exact same moment there was a crackle above our heads and all the lights went out.

  As was our natural reaction when something went unexpectedly wrong, Vicky and I burst into giggles.

  “Um, I know I’m electric, but seriously,” she guffawed.

  “Must be a power cut,” Rob said, jumping up and fumbling around, looking for a box of matches or a lighter on our untidy bookshelves.

  “I have this effect on women,” Dan whispered in my ear. He smelled nice, too, even for someone straight off a flight. I mustn’t fancy my boyfriend’s brother. I mustn’t fancy my boyfriend’s brother.

  Rob lit the large candle on our wooden coffee table. In the soft glow of candlelight, I found myself looking into Dan’s steely blue eyes and blushing.

  “Nice candle,” Vicky commented.

  The Jo Malone candle had been a present to myself in Duty Free on the way out here. It was to remind me of home, and the freebie Jo Malone candles that regularly decorated our flat when Vicky worked at Glamour magazine.

  A few hours later, with no sign of the lights coming back on, Rob was so jet-lagged he’d begun to stare into space, and I was feeling exhausted from the long hours I’d been pulling. Rob gently touched my hand.

  “Excuse us,” he said to the other two, “but I need to take this one to bed. We’re glazing over and we’ve both got a few big days ahead.”

  Dan and Vicky stood up, politely.

  “Sit down, will you,” I commanded. They looked a bit too cozy there, together on the sofa. In fact, with their good looks, they made a cute couple. But, ick! No, that’s practically incest.

  “There’s a sleeping bag in that cupboard,” Rob said to Dan, pointing to the side of the room.

  “I’ll show him,” Vicky cooed, flashing a look at Rob, which successfully reminded us both of the fact that we had evicted her from that very sleeping bag not so long ago.

  Something told me Vicky was in no hurry for the evening to end.

  * * *

  The following morning, as I crept out of the apartment, I was relieved to find Dan asleep alone on the sofa. The sleeping bag had half slipped down, revealing the top of a pair of paisley boxer shorts. Bad taste in underwear. Crush averted. Phew!

  Shuttling over the Hudson and across Manhattan on the subway had become second nature to me now and I spent most of the journey head down, scribbling a list of things to discuss with Maurice as soon as I reached the office.

  As I walked from Forty-second Street to the Angel Wear building, I called Vicky.

  “Well? What happened with Dan then?”

  “Dan?” She sounded surprised. “Nothing. Why?”

  “I saw the way you were looking at him,” I teased her. “He’s fit. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

  “The way you were looking at him, more like,” she retaliated. “Anyway, he’s not my type—too much of a city boy.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you before,” I said. “Remember that time I found a patent slip-on shoe in the hallway?”

  She laughed. “They were Gucci—a classic design. How else is a rich banker meant to spend his bonuses?”

  “Anyway—Dan?”

  “He’s damaged goods, way too heartbroken. He was in tears on me at one point. I kept trying to leave and he kept talking. I had to cancel three Ubers—my bill’s going to be huge.”

  I sighed. “Poor Dan.”

  “Poor Dan?” she scoffed. “He’s his own worst enemy.”

  “So you’re sure nothing happened?”

  “You’ve got
to be joking. For some reason, he still loves his frisky fiancée—he seems to be seriously thinking about forgiving her. He’s got no spine, if you ask me.”

  “He’s still getting back with Florence?” I was annoyed with myself for not having grilled Rob for the gossip.

  “Seems so, from what I could gather; he was bawling so much. Yep, sorry, Am, but you can call off the double wedding, he’s not enough of a bastard for me.” There was a hint of sarcasm to her tone. “Anyway, I’ve got to dash. Noah wants me to go to his Pharaoh fitting.”

  “Of course.” Thank God she didn’t kiss Dan.

  * * *

  At work, slowly but surely, the close of the catwalk show was coming together. With each outfit nearing completion, Maurice and I held a fitting with the supermodels. We chose Krystal for our Wonder Woman on account of her long, raven hair and had created a preppy secretary outfit for her “before” appearance, then she was to spin onstage, disappearing momentarily in a blaze of indoor fireworks and into a trap door in the stage floor. Under the stage, Maurice and I would work fast to pull away the secretary outfit, revealing her Wonder Woman costume underneath, and then she would be elevated back through the floor to finish spinning and emerge as the superhero, in a burst of glitter from two cannons on the ceiling and yet more pyrotechnics. Seeing Krystal stand there for the first time in the Wonder Woman pose, all strong, long and tanned in the hot pants and sparkling ruby bra, we both got goosebumps; she was so convincing as the embodiment of Woman Power.

  “You know, Amber, I never would have believed I’d see this moment,” Maurice said after her fitting, as we dug into yet another portion of tiramisu. “Seriously, chérie, I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity. You really are my guardian angels—you and Wonder Woman here.” He looked across at the dummy, on which stood our pièce de résistance. “You make me feel invincible.”

  “I’d never have believed I’d be in this position either, Maurice,” I said, putting down my dessert bowl as I spied a frayed edge that needed snipping from Wonder Woman’s cape. “I’m still pinching myself and, in all honestly, it has been a privilege and an absolute pleasure working with you. But it’s not over yet.”