The Stylist Takes Manhattan

by Rosie Nixon

  “Right, well, we need to come up with a plan—fast,” I said, thinking out loud. “Someone clearly wants us to fail. And I have a few ideas who. But that’s not going to happen. We’ve worked so hard for this, Maurice, and we have an amazing concept with or without the ruby bra. At the end of the day, only Ron and the Icons have actually seen it—to the rest, its very existence is just a rumor—so we’re going to have to carry on with a stand-in item, as if everything is fine. We tell Ron and Krystal we don’t want to use the real bra in the rehearsal, for security reasons. And then, during the actual finale, we cause a distraction at the moment the bra is meant to appear, so Ron doesn’t see it’s missing.”

  Maurice sneered. “What, we wave, shout, ‘Over here, this way, Ronnie!’ just when the finale is taking place? As if he’d miss it, Amber—he’s entertaining a load of executives in a box. He’ll be expecting to blow their tiny minds when Krystal appears as Wonder Woman. He’s hardly going to miss the big reveal.”

  “I’m not suggesting that, Maurice, but what if a little accident happens and he can’t actually see the bra?”

  “We blind the boss?” He laughed manically. “You’ve really gone insane.”

  “No, no, listen, I’ve got an idea,” I said, thinking about the production crew I’d seen setting up just now. “There is someone we need to let in on this, though. I need Rob involved. We can’t do it without him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tell me you’re not serious?” Rob said gravely, when I’d finished telling him my idea. Okay, so it did sound a bit barmy when I said it out loud. But what option do we have?

  “Well, can you think of anything better?” I asked urgently.

  “Someone’s going to get fired for it,” he reasoned.

  “Yes—me, if we don’t do it,” I replied, taking his hands in mine. “Please, Rob, I’ll never ask you to do anything like this ever again, but I really need your help. I’m hours away from a full-scale disaster if you don’t.”

  Rob was shaking his head, but he didn’t say anything, giving me a sense that he might relent.

  “You can do it during the dress rehearsal,” I continued. “We’re not using any of the actual special effects in it, so you’ll be clear.”

  “Okay. But no one can ever know it was me, all right?”

  “Of course. I love you.” And I flung my arms around him.

  * * *

  “You’re quiet today,” Sonny commented, joining me at the catering table after the rehearsal, as I helped myself to another can of Coca-Cola and a raspberry cheesecake brownie. All this amazing food from Magnolia Bakery, and it’s not as if any of the models are going to touch it. What a waste. “Feeling nervous? Or just bulimic?”

  “Nerves,” I simpered. “Cheesecake brownie is helping though.” Maurice and I had used a stand-in red-rhinestone bra from last season’s collection during the rehearsal and eagle-eyed Ron hadn’t missed a trick, coming backstage to comment on it afterward.

  “Clever idea saving the actual ruby bra for the show, Amber,” he had said, nudging me in the ribs conspiratorially.

  Dimitri had been keeping a low profile backstage; I’d only seen him briefly during the rehearsal and now, just a few hours before curtain up, he was nowhere to be seen.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if he had had something to do with the ruby bra’s disappearance. If there was someone who wanted to see me fail, on the biggest night of my career so far, it seemed to be him. But would he really go as far as theft and ruining the show for everyone?

  Rob joined us at the table; he looked as tense as me. I picked up another brownie and took a bite before handing him the rest.

  “Mission accomplished,” he whispered, lifting it toward his lips.

  I didn’t even feel relieved. It didn’t feel real. None of this did anymore. It felt as though it was all happening to someone else.

  Amy came past to let Rob know that Ron was ready to do his piece to camera ahead of the show.

  “Good luck, Amber!” she said excitedly. “I’ve heard the finale is going to rock. Can’t wait to see it!”

  “Thanks,” I said faintly, and scuttled off to find Maurice and tell him the plan was in place.

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon the backstage area was awash with waxed, tanned flesh, big hair and shining sequins, and the smell of makeup and hairspray was heavy in the air.

  You could barely move for people and no one seemed to know who most of them were. The ten theatrical hair and makeup stations were lit up with bright lightbulbs around the mirrors, and Angel Wear models, each wearing the signature pink-silk dressing gown, with “Heavenly Body” embroidered on the back, sat in front of them having their makeup artfully applied by members of Caroline’s team; some were being tended to by a manicurist or pedicurist at the same time. It must be quite a skill to sit that still with all the hubbub going on around them.

  Journalists, TV film crews and photographers from all around the world buzzed about between the models, desperately trying to speak to one of the five Icons—the biggest draws—who each had their own dressing room, plus a personal bodyguard to whisk away overzealous reporters at the bat of a fake eyelash. At one point, Astrid and Krystal, the most well-known of the Icons, thanks to their love of the party scene, were surrounded by a crowd some five people deep, as they snapped selfies with fans and chatted into Dictaphones being held in front of them from all angles.

  * * *

  An hour before showtime, we watched on screens as a host of invited celebrities and the fashion press entered the theater, having walked the length of the pink carpet that stretched for half a block, stopping for a picture at the Angel Wear step-and-repeat boards in the theater’s entrance, before making their way inside, taking their seats on the front row. Girls wearing black shorts and satin bomber jackets with “Angel Girl” embroidered between their shoulders wandered around handing out G-strings neatly packaged in imitation cigarette boxes to the delight of guests. The VVIPs were led to named seats in the front row by Angel Wear ushers, all of whom looked like male models. I noticed Lola Jones, her crew cut now dyed peroxide blond, being led to a prime spot along with her permanent escort of two handsome young men. And then there was an eruption of flashbulbs to her right as Poppy Drew took her seat, linking arms with another actress, who I recognized immediately as Lila Hawkes—a hip young thing, rumored to be being lined up as the next Mrs. Tom Cruise. They basked in the flashbulbs, enviable long legs crossed, giggling behind their iPhones as they snapped selfies.

  A stream of recognizable music stars, actors and TV personalities filed to their seats, along with a host of people so beautiful that they had to be somebodies. And then the camera panned left and my eyes nearly popped out of my head as it zoomed in on Liv Ramone, making her entrance wearing a strange kimono ensemble, her skin alabaster white, lips red, hair in a tall ginger beehive and, under her open kimono, the skimpiest black bra and knickers. It was bizarre, but “attention grabby,” you couldn’t deny that. Even more disturbing was the fact that right in front of this kaleidoscopic array of guests was the catwalk, standing there proudly—expectantly—waiting for the Icons to turn it all shades of fabulous, dressed to kill in costumes crafted by Maurice and I, with the most important costume currently incomplete.

  * * *

  Just after six P.M., Stan, the production manager, announced over a Tannoy that the show would commence in thirty minutes’ time. I glanced at Maurice, his complexion ashen with fear.

  “So we’re fucked,” he moaned, clutching some Gothic-black rosary beads. And we just stood there looking at each other, willing the floor to open and the earth to swallow us up.

  The catwalk show got off to a glittering start in a shower of bubble-gum-pink, lemon and peach confetti, dropped from a huge transparent balloon as a stream of models wearing lingerie from the new Angel Wear collection were paraded on the runway. I had to concede that Dimitri had done a great job transporting the audience to a place that resembled
Barbie’s boudoir. But although the masses were entranced, I couldn’t enjoy any of it. I was too busy pacing around backstage.

  My phone buzzed a number of times in the pocket of my black GAP dress—everyone backstage was wearing black tonight—but I didn’t bother looking at it. I was sick of well-wishers sending me luck. It was probably Mum, anyway, saying she’d had a text from what’s-her-name at number forty-two, saying their niece had seen my name associated with the show currently streaming live on Angel Wear’s online video channel.

  It was only when I popped to the Ladies’ room and managed to catch my phone before it landed in the toilet bowl that I saw some twenty missed calls and a text message from Vicky.

  At first I felt slightly irked that she was bugging me on the biggest night of my career. But when I read the first line, I took it a little more seriously:

  Babe, hate to tell you this but your ruby bra isn’t a one-off. Good luck tonight. Love ya, V xxx

  I read it three times in a row, and then I called her from the cubical. No answer. Damn you, Vicky, answer! I sent an urgent text:

  Hey, just picked up your text—what do you mean the ruby bra isn’t a one-off? Have you seen it? Call me urgently.

  Then I stood staring at the ceiling for ten seconds before dialing again.

  But someone began knocking on the cubicle door so I was forced to leave and, as I hurried back down the corridor to find Maurice, another text from Vicky came through:

  Sorry babe, in a drag club, it’s noisy. You OK? x

  I texted back:

  That ruby bra you’ve seen? I think it’s the actual one. It’s been stolen. Long story. Please, call me!

  A minute later and a fuzzy picture message came through.

  It was taken from below, but it was the ruby bra all right, our ruby bra. I’d recognize the shape of the stones anywhere. But someone seemed to be wearing it. My hands were shaking as I replied:

  That’s it! It’s the bra! Who’s wearing it???

  Finally she called.

  “Hey, what do you mean stolen?”

  “Oh, Vicky, it’s the worst night of my life! I don’t have time to go into the details but the bra is gone and we’ve currently got no centerpiece to close the show. It’s a disaster. On a humongous scale. Where are you? And can you get the bra? Maurice and I will do whatever it takes, just get it back, please!”

  “Wow, I didn’t realize we were dealing with theft. Is the NYPD involved?” She sounded slightly thrilled.

  “Not yet—we’d rather avoid all that if we can.”

  “Leave it with me,” she replied, and rang off.

  Hurriedly, I filled Maurice in on my conversation with Vicky. For the first time all day I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. We threw ourselves into dressing the other Icons to ensure not a single sequin or piece of tit tape was out of place on the other four costumes.

  It was as though time was moving at double speed, as, when I came up for air, the halfway interval was nearly over. I’d heard nothing from Vicky since the initial phone conversation.

  I called her to let her know that we had maybe twenty minutes maximum before it would be time for Krystal to take to the stage—no reply. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest as the five Icons had their hair and makeup touched up and popped a bottle of champagne, passing it around and swigging from it for good luck. Then they huddled together and performed a sort of high fashion haka to psyche themselves up for their turns on the catwalk.

  A panicky feeling began to filter through me as the final chords of the interval music played out and the opening strains of our music began. First up was Astrid, taking to the stage in a pneumatic silver ensemble. A strobe light flashed brightly as David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” boomed out across the theater. The audience burst into applause and a chorus of wolf-whistles could be heard as she strode in time to the beat, hips swaying—our Ziggy Stardust in skimpy underwear.

  I should have been feeling elated now. I should have been swigging from the champagne bottle, too, as Maurice and I watched the fruits of our labor come to life, but all I could think was that it was now precisely fifteen minutes until Ron would be expecting to see Krystal emerge from a blast of indoor fireworks and glitter as Wonder Woman, ruby bra and all, to close the show. Krystal was getting nervous, too.

  “Hey, Amber, don’t you think it’s time to get my final costume in position?” she kept saying, grabbing my elbow and trying to drag me to the dressing room.

  “Just a minute. Just keep the secretary look on for now,” I kept replying, shaking her off and pretending to busy myself nicking a stray thread from another part of her costume, or stooping to give her shoes an extra polish. Calm, calm, calm. Vicky will come good. She has to. But every time I looked at my phone there was nothing from her.

  “Where is she?” Maurice whispered into my ear at least twenty times in two minutes as we desperately busied ourselves.

  “I don’t know!” I snapped back.

  Vicky, where the hell are you?

  Then, just as Leonie was about to step onto the catwalk in her “Rio Carnival” getup, complete with a vibrant three-foot-fruit-bowl-inspired headdress and accompanied by a live samba school especially flown in from Brazil, there was a loud commotion at the far end of the corridor. Amid a tangle of flesh and feathers from the carnival dancers limbering up ready to join her on the runway, a few more faces could be seen bobbing above the fray. I stood on my tiptoes and was desperately relieved to make out Vicky and Noah, and not far behind them two security guards, one of whom was Larry, and he was shouting loudly.

  “Hey, I know your faces! Unauthorized persons backstage! Stop them immediately!”

  Larry was under strict instructions not to let anyone who wasn’t on my list into the dressing area and, after the ticking off Maurice and I had given him this morning about the safe, he wasn’t taking any risks—especially after recognizing Vicky and Noah from our little late night trip to the studio just a week ago.

  As the commotion grew louder, people began turning to see what was going on.

  “Amber Green! The stylist! Where is Amber Green? I need to find her immediately!” Vicky was shouting at anyone who would listen.

  I dropped my kit and began heading down the corridor toward the hubbub, swerving sequined bodies.

  “Vicky! Over here! Thank God!” I screamed before waving at Larry. “It’s okay, Larry, I know them. Let them through!”

  And then a sight came into view that made even me stop in my tracks. The bewildered crowd of models, assistants and backstage hangers-on parted and there in front of us, holding tightly on to Vicky’s hand, behind Noah, who had been clearing the route for them, was the largest woman I had ever seen.

  When Vicky finally reached me she was panting she was so out of breath.

  “Did we make it in time?” she asked.

  I looked at her companion, speechless for a few seconds while I took it in.

  “Meet Wonder Winnie,” she continued, stepping back by way of introduction as the woman held out her hand.

  “Great to meet you,” she said.

  Krystal whirled around and did a double-take. A half-laugh, half-howl escaped from her mouth. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” she yelled.

  The whole of the backstage area fell silent for the first time all day as we collectively absorbed the sight of “Wonder Winnie”—a gorgeous transgender woman with jet-black hair cascading around her shoulders, and an ample cleavage, which was encased in—the real ruby bra. There was no mistaking it was the stolen original, Maurice and I would have recognized the intricate arrangement of those priceless stones anywhere. Sensing correctly that all eyes were on her cleavage, Winnie rearranged herself. She appeared to have no idea of the value of what she was wearing. Or, for that matter, what she was doing behind the scenes at the Angel Wear show.

  “It’s on the small side, so I had to add an extension to the back—and I can still barely breathe, but who doesn’t suffer for their a
rt?” She winced, as the entire corridor stared, open-mouthed, at her voluptuous chest crammed into the bra. “Now, can someone tell me what I’m doing here?”

  “There wasn’t time to argue,” Vicky hurriedly explained to me, “so we gave Winnie her biggest tip all year and bundled her in a cab. Well, we couldn’t exactly take the bra off her back!” She took in the horrified look on my face. “We found your bra, didn’t we? I thought you’d be happy.” I wanted the bra back—more than anything—but I hadn’t expected a towering drag queen to come with it.

  “Attention! Maintenant!” Maurice yelled from behind me. He pushed his way to the front of the rubberneckers and reached for Winnie’s hand. “You are a vision, ma chérie. But there’s no time for gawping.” He looked around us. “Wonder Woman is up next. Have you ever walked a catwalk?” he asked Winnie urgently.

  “Ever walked a catwalk?” she drawled. “Of course! I do it for a goddamn living every night in the club!”

  “Alléluia!” Maurice exclaimed. “Then you’re on next!”

  “She . . . is what?” came a shrill call from the bottom of the staircase that led to the start of the catwalk, but nobody really heard Krystal, because, at that moment, Leonie appeared at the top of the stairs, back from her turn on the runway—amped and grinning from ear to perfect ear.

  “That was amazing!” she shrieked. “The crowd is electric! Everyone’s hollering and whooping. I felt on fire out there!” She high-fived Roxy, who was standing next to her at the top, practicing some deep breathing and stretching her arms skyward as she prepared to step under the bright lights next, in her ivory, feathered “Swan Queen” look.

  Noticing her wings were slightly off-center, I sprinted up the stairs to make a quick adjustment and, as the opening strains of a special electronic arrangement of Swan Lake, performed by the live band, kicked in, a collective intake of breath could be heard, as Roxy—a classically trained ballerina—appeared en pointe, under a single white spotlight.