The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  We grinned nervously at each other.

  “Mais, non, mon amie, the fun is just about to begin,” Maurice said.

  * * *

  Late in the evening, I quietly unlocked the door to our apartment, crept past Dan asleep on the sofa and into bed with Rob, snuggling up against his warm naked body, spooning him woozily until I fell asleep. I woke up several times in the night, feverish with new thoughts to do with the detailing on a costume, or in a panic that I’d forgotten to let the lighting guy know about a new idea we’d had. And then I would drift back off, ready to rise before the guys and leave for the studio ahead of most commuters.

  “I love you,” Rob whispered groggily as I dressed as quietly as I could.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered back.

  We were so used to saying those three little words now. The next time I saw Rob was when the filming crew popped by for an update during the day. Seeing him come through our studio door was always the highlight of my day—less so, the actual filming part—but he was always so encouraging telling me I was “a natural on camera.”

  * * *

  The day before the show, Ron came to the studio to survey the final looks.

  Maurice and I had barely slept the night before. My hair was full of white streaks of dry shampoo and I was paranoid I was beginning to stink. Maurice was clearly feeling the same, because he kept edging backward whenever Ron got a bit too close. And Ron liked to get close. He put a big hand in the center of my back, over my bra strap, making me bristle.

  “I couldn’t quite envisage it when I first heard your idea,” he said. He had been walking around the mannequins in unnerving silence for ten minutes. “You’re the biggest gamble I ever made.” I toyed with a safety pin in my hand. Heck, where is this going? What will we do if he sacks us? Ron continued, pausing for dramatic effect. “But . . .” He was laying a hand on Maurice’s back, too, like a puppeteer with his two new toys. “The girls are going to look sexy as hell in these costumes. I love it! Move over Dolce and Gabbana, you’re the greatest double act fashion has seen in a long time.”

  Feeling happily relieved, I headed to the canteen to get yet another coffee for Maurice and I. Despite Ron’s positive appraisal, there was no time for celebrating—it was straight back to work; we still had final tweaks to make today before we could relax in the knowledge that the costumes were going to be finished on time.

  As I exited the lift on my return journey, my head was so full of work, I didn’t notice Dimitri heading straight toward me. As we passed, he purposefully jolted my arm sending hot coffee spilling onto my sleeve.

  “Oh, just sod off!” I muttered, feeling the liquid burn through my top.

  “Just—what?” he said. He was looking for a fight.

  “You heard,” I said, turning to face him, my heart racing inside my chest. I didn’t have time for faking niceties today. “Why do you have such a problem with me? What have I done?”

  “You’re a joke,” he replied with a snarl, fiddling with his polka-dot handkerchief. “This is fashion, dear little English girl, and you’re not cut out for it.” He looked me up and down. “Anyone can see that.”

  “Shame Ron doesn’t agree with you then,” I quipped.

  “What does he know?” he said, half laughing. “He’s just the pervy head of a lingerie company; he loves the girls more than the garments. Are you blind, too?”

  I drained the remaining mouthful of coffee in my paper cup, wishing I was less tired and could think of a brilliant comeback. “Well, let’s see what happens tomorrow night, shall we?”

  “I can’t wait,” he said, looking creepier than an ivy-covered wall.

  And he turned on his Cuban heel and flounced through the double doors.

  When I got back to the studio, I didn’t manage to complain about Dimitri to Maurice because all five of the Icons had arrived for their final fitting before we all transferred to the venue, the famous Broadway theater, the Winter Garden, ready for show night. As I crawled around with my coffee-stained sleeve rolled up and a pin cushion between my teeth, I was too busy tweaking angel wings, shortening hems on negligées, and adding or removing strategically placed sequins and feathers over certain body parts, to think about Dimitri again. Maurice stood back, scrutinizing each look, to ensure everything hung together as a collection. It wasn’t just about Angel Wear now—it was about his return to the fashion world as well. It was thrilling to see all the costumes together—they were opulent, sexy and cool—and there was a collective “Wow!” when Krystal emerged from behind our changing-room curtain in the full Wonder Woman regalia, larger than life in custom-made platform boots, her killer body shown off in bright-blue hot pants, a dramatic cape hanging off a golden choker necklace, and her ample breasts encased in the ruby bra, which had been meticulously cleaned up by Maurice and sparkled brightly. Her abs were so perfectly formed, you could practically play the Wonder Woman theme tune on them!

  “Man, I love this costume. It’s the best I’ve ever worn—no question!” Krystal beamed. “I honestly feel I could take on the world!”

  “In that outfit—you could.” I smiled back.

  “Anything’s possible when you’re Wonder Woman, ain’t that right, Krystal?” said Astrid, popping her head around the door right on time. She was followed by Jessica, Leonie and Roxy.

  “Come in, girls,” Krystal called out.

  The four other girls all struck the pose. They were a formidable sight—a cast of heroines—with their hands firmly on their hips and gutsy expressions, before they all fell about laughing.

  Maurice and I stayed late to carefully pack up the clothes and fill cases with all the shoes and accessories ready for the production crew to transfer the whole lot to our backstage area at the Winter Garden. The last item to leave the Angel Wear building was the ruby bra, which Maurice insisted on transporting himself and locking away in the theater safe—to which he had now added a pin-coded padlock, as my reputation with misplacing keys had been playing on his mind.

  “Chérie, I love you to the end of the world, but if you accidentally lost the safe key, I don’t think I could ever forgive you,” he had teased, dangling the new lock under my nose earlier. “I’ll take care of the code.”

  * * *

  Although deliriously tired, I barely slept a wink the night before the show; nerves crackled through my veins. Trying to take the edge off it, I took to social media to watch the action unfold at the Met Gala, across the city at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Photos flooded Instagram, and Snapchat heaved with clips of the great and the good of the fashion world sporting a fantasia of fabulously outlandish creations. Anna Wintour held court as dresses the size of small houses paraded up the wide, red-carpeted staircase at the entrance to the museum. One famous pop star arrived in an elaborate gown with a corset so tight she fainted halfway up the steps and had to be speedily stretchered into the venue by her bodyguards. Her stylist was later forced to give a statement to the media, stating that the star had been corset-trained for the past fortnight in preparation but, unfortunately, had sipped from a can of Coca-Cola on the way to the event, which must have made her gassy and so the corset was way too tight. You can bet she won’t be working for a while.

  Noah and Vicky made a handsome couple in their Egyptian Pharaoh and Queen outfits and even made it onto People magazine’s photo gallery of the Met Best Dressed, with Vicky referred to as Noah’s “unidentified plus-one.” I couldn’t help but smirk at gossip blogger Perez Hilton’s quip that Noah should have been the one dressed as the queen.

  Finally, arriving fashionably late and peeling herself out of a limo slowly enough to ensure the entire bank of paparazzi got an exclusive photo, was Liv. Her hair was teased into a cascade of Flashdance curls, but that couldn’t detract from the fact that she was wearing just the tiniest silk fig leaf covering her waxed nether region, the rest of her assets clearly on display under a fine nude body stocking. Anna Wintour was visibly unimpressed, so m
uch so that she snubbed Liv at the entrance. I cringed as I spotted Mickey in the background, looking as sleazy as ever, while images of Liv’s bare body were sent around the world. Her ten seconds of fame ended abruptly when Lady Gaga arrived atop a golden chariot pulled by male models who she was gleefully whipping. As the spectacle she created was bathed in the glow of the evening’s largest frenzy of flashes, Liv was forced to creep up the steps and into the venue almost unnoticed by the line of fans along the red carpet.

  When I peeled myself away from the frocky horror show at the Met—feeling mighty glad that I’d had nothing to do with Liv’s lack of clothing—a series of stress-related dreams kept me awake. At one point, I woke with real tears running down my cheeks after dreaming Rob had been electrocuted by a rogue live wire during the show. I decided against telling him about this premonition, but I had an overbearing sense that something was going to go wrong.

  * * *

  It was only six o’clock but Rob was already up, presumably feeling as hyped as I was about the day ahead. Before I could call out to check whether he was still in our apartment, he was coming through the door, bearing a plate of toast and a mug of tea.

  “Today’s the big day!” he said. Thanks for the reminder. Not a trace of nerves from him then.

  “I wish it wasn’t,” I murmured, sinking back under the covers, pulling the duvet up around my shoulders, so only my nose and eyes poked out over the top. “I don’t feel ready.”

  “Well, it’s happening,” he said. “Anyway, you couldn’t be more prepared. It’s going to be amazing. Come on, rise and shine, breakfast will help.”

  As I sat up, a wave of nausea ran through me. I sipped the hot tea and began scrolling through social media. Bad idea. While the Met Gala was still trending, fashion-industry insiders had moved on and were busy building hype for the Angel Wear show:

  “It’s the sexiest day of the year!” said one well-known fashion blogger with a cool three million followers.

  “The Icons are ready to rock Manhattan!” said Fashion News Daily.

  “Angel Wear Forever!”; “So excited about today!” said hundreds and thousands more as #AngelWear gathered momentum on Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat.

  Even swallowing a mouthful of toast was making me feel sick. I had zero appetite for anything other than more sleep.

  A stream of text messages came through—wishes of luck from family and friends. I switched my phone to silent. They were just making my nerves even more frayed.

  When I had hastily showered and dressed and was just about to leave, I turned to Rob. “Double-check your cabling, will you?”

  “You what?”

  “Nothing. I love you, babe.”

  “I love you, too—and I’m so proud of you already. See you behind the camera. I’ll be there at eight-ish.”

  * * *

  I was just about to descend the steps into the subway at Bedford Street, while mentally berating myself for forgetting to wear my lucky tights—the proper full-scale suck-it-all-in ones I was wearing on my first date with Rob—when my phone rang. It was Maurice. I almost didn’t pick up, wondering if it would be better to just get to the venue quickly and see him there—he was bound to be on his fifth coffee and umpteenth cigarette of the day and getting jumpy; I’m already nervous enough.

  “Amber, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?” He spoke with a panicked tone.

  “About to get on the subway. What’s up? You sound as jittery as I feel.”

  “Darling, if I was nervous, I’m petrified now. Our worst nightmare has happened.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “Don’t tell me someone has been electrocuted?”

  He replied sharply. “What? No, but it’s almost as bad.” I sighed. If no one is dead, what could be worse? He breathed deeply into the phone. “The ruby bra is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean? You took it to the Winter Garden last night.”

  “I know, I locked it away myself but, when I arrived this morning, the safe was open and the bra was not inside. I’ve made a few discreet calls—not wanting to raise the alarm, or risk Ron getting wind of it—and no one has seen it.”

  “But wasn’t Larry meant to be there, guarding the valuables all night?” My heart was racing.

  “Larry and his hip flask?” he said mockingly. “The empty one I found by his chair this morning when I woke him up?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “We need a miracle all right,” he said.

  “But the code?”

  “No one knew the code except me, and there doesn’t seem to have been any forced entry. I’m baffled, Amber. Just get here as fast as you can.”

  Now it was my turn to panic.

  “Oh shit, Maurice, what are we going to do? The bra is the focal point for the finale.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Okay, don’t get snappy with me. It’s not my fault. Who could have done this?”

  “I fear it’s a professional job.” Maurice sighed. He was probably right—news of the bra and its value had been spreading between the models these past days; it seemed to be the worst-kept secret in the entire show. “The sale of those rubies could set someone up for life. We’ve got to be dealing with an organized gem thief.”

  “Well, then, we need to get the police involved!” I exclaimed, adrenaline rushing through me. I was attracting a few strange looks from people passing me on the staircase now. I was glued to the spot, hands shaking as I spoke into the phone. If they guessed I looked like a woman who had just been floored by some horrific news, then they were right.

  “Non, no police!” Maurice wailed.

  “Why?”

  “It will ruin everything. Can you imagine, Amber, darling? This will be the talk of New York! Never mind the show, it will be all about the robbery. There will be police crawling around the building—the show may even have to be canceled. Ron will go insane.”

  “Are we insured?” I asked.

  “Zut alors, Amber! Do you really want to get Ron involved, on the day of the show? We’re going to have to come up with a Plan B. Just get here will you? Rapide!”

  * * *

  When I reached the theater it was already busy. The entire Angel Wear workforce was involved with the show in some capacity and many had already arrived. There was a flurry of activity around the entrance to the theater, which was being turned the signature “Angel Wear pink” by members of the production crew, easily identifiable in their all-black clothing; a pink carpet, still rolled up in its cellophane wrapping, stood to attention by the door, guarded by other members of the crew. It was only seven in the morning and there were already a couple of fans standing behind a metal railing by the entrance; there was even a lone paparazzo loitering, hoping, presumably, to catch a glimpse of one of the Icons arriving for her rehearsal. My stomach did a flip.

  Inside the theater, the dress circle was in the middle of its transformation. A team of workers had clearly been busy through the night, taking out the theater’s main seating area and erecting the U-shaped catwalk. An intricate web of scaffolding was still partially visible underneath as at least ten people worked on stapling reams of pink fabric drape to cover the drop. Two giant glitter cannons were being hoisted into position on either side of the domed roof. Every now and again music blasted into the auditorium as sound technicians tested the level of the speakers, nodding at each other when it reached a level I would have described as “deafeningly loud.” The scale of the whole production hit me all at once. I only just managed to stop myself being sick by shoving a chewing gum into my mouth.

  I used a side entrance to go backstage and down a small dark corridor into the belly of the theater and our dressing area. Here, the atmosphere was completely different—it was eerily silent. The dressing tables with their chairs, mirrors and lights laid out in neat rows were all empty, waiting in anticipation for pert bottoms to fill them. Caroline and Sonny would be here soon with their team of twenty ha
ir and makeup artists ready to lay out every shape and size of brush needed to transform the thirty models taking part in the show.

  Maurice appeared from behind our screened-off area, where the rails of clothes were hung in readiness, clearly labeled for each of the Icons. I took in his woeful face. His right eye was twitching, a sure sign of nerves. I’d witnessed his twitch a few times during the course of our friendship, but today the tremble was worse than ever. There was a film of sweat over his forehead, with little beads breaking on its deep ridges. Nothing about him looked good, which only made my nausea stronger.

  In silence, he took my hand and led me into a tiny side room, where the safe door was wide open and the small space inside spookily dark and empty. I had hoped this might be some kind of sick, late April Fool’s joke and the bra would be there, glinting away as usual, safely within its pouch.

  “I was here at six and it was gone then,” Maurice said in a hushed voice, as he ushered me closer. “But there is no sign the door was forced. It’s bizarre.”

  I looked at him in awful silence. “You did put the lock on, didn’t you?” I had to ask, I needed to know.

  “Amber, of course I fucking did! I’m not that stupide!” he fumed.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered, dropping my eyes back to the safe. I put my hand inside and fumbled around in the darkness, just to be absolutely certain it hadn’t somehow attached itself to the lining of the safe. Of course it hadn’t.

  “But it gets worse,” he continued. I want him to say something positive; I can’t handle any more bad news.

  “What now? Don’t tell me Krystal’s decided to pull a sickie?” I’m really not in the mood for more nasty surprises this morning.

  “Ron wants a full dress rehearsal at midday. Stan, the production manager, came around this morning to let us know. So how are we going to explain the absence of his centerpiece? Mon Dieu, this is the worst day of my life.”

  He staggered backward and sat down on a chair, looking as though his legs might have crumbled had it not happened to be there to support him.