The Stylist (13 page)

Caroline, the make-up artist, answered the door.

‘Oh—Amber. We weren’t expecting you,’ she said, in a markedly different tone from that of the friendly make-up artist we had welcomed into
our
hotel suite barely twenty-four hours ago.

‘I thought Mona had explained,’ I said, rummaging in my bag for my phone and totally failing to find it. ‘She’s unwell, unfortunately, so she asked me to pop over to check everything’s fine with …’ I stopped dead as Tamara’s head appeared from around the corner.

‘You must be Amber,’ she said, walking towards the doorway. I had forgotten how pretty she was, with her long, straight Abba blonde hair and legs that went on and on. I had never felt more short and frumpy—and unwanted—in my life.

‘Caroline called me in a panic because Jennifer had second thoughts about the Oscar de la Renta,’ she explained, a smug smile on her face. Judging by the body language of both of them, there was no way I was going to be let over the threshold. ‘She tried Mona, but no response.’ She
looked at Caroline and rolled her eyes.
‘Quelle surprise,
after last night.’

The hotel corridor suddenly felt very cold and unfriendly.

‘Of course, I wanted to do anything I could to help dear Jennifer,’ Tamara continued. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of her panicking over her gown. She’s a nominee, for goodness’ sake!’

An unpleasant sensation of nausea worked its way up from my chest to my neck and stopped, like a golf ball stuck in my throat. I suddenly felt thankful for the fact I hadn’t had breakfast.

‘Mona’s much better now,’ I said, weakly. ‘Mild case of food poisoning.’ I smiled awkwardly at Caroline, who was strenuously avoiding eye contact. And then Jennifer appeared from around the corner. She swept towards me, wearing—no—wait a minute, it can’t be … Is it?
Oh Christ. It is.

She was a vision in red, wearing the same exquisite scarlet Valentino gown that Beau had selected to wear to the Globes.
How could that have happened? I thought it was a one-off?
Her hair was loosely swept over one shoulder. Before I could process what I was seeing, a man built like a bouncer came into view behind her. The suite beyond must have been huge, or else it was a Tardis.

‘Bodyguard. Chopard,’ Tamara explained, seeing me recoil, wondering if I was about to be arrested for being an unwanted dumpy person at a celebrity’s hotel door. I registered the glittering pear-shaped cascade of diamonds hanging from Jennifer’s ears and the diamond cuff around her slender wrist.

‘You look … incredible,’ I whispered, awestruck. And she did. She was Hollywood glamour personified. The problem was, it was exactly the same brand of Hollywood glamour
that Beau would be trying to pull off, albeit not quite as well, in approximately—I finally found my phone—five hours’ time. The red carpet for the Golden Globes was probably being seen to by its very own grooming team right about now. And I had read enough reports about awards season fashion during my adult life to know that what you must avoid at all costs is a clash of identical gowns. It is fashion suicide. It could even be the death knell of a once glittering career—stealing headlines for
all
the wrong reasons.

‘An A-list star must look unique on the red carpet—their credibility depends on it,’ Mona had said on our first day in the suite, ‘and at no time are the stakes higher than during awards season.’

I started to panic. I was the only person who knew of the potential fashion clash that lay ahead. I had no time to be standing here, watching Jennifer mince up and down the corridor when I knew full well that Beau was probably doing exactly the same dress rehearsal right now, in front of Trey, up in the Hills. I had to act fast.

‘Can I have a quick word, please, Tamara?’

Briskly, I told the woman who might well be my nemesis the news that Beau Belle was in possession of the very same red Valentino showstopper, and that she had every intention of wearing it this evening. The golf ball remained lodged in my throat as I finished explaining the situation. How would she react? A tantrum? A screaming fit? A Naomi Campbell–style phone-throw, perhaps? We both knew that in the celebrity hierarchy Jennifer was above Beau, but what about who tried it on first—surely that counted for something?

‘Shit!’ She sucked in her cheeks and thought for a moment. ‘I knew the atelier had sent out two, but I thought both were intended for Jennifer. They sent one to me, thinking I
was still working with Mona, and it’s always good to have a spare. How did it end up on Beau?’ I shuffled guiltily, but remained quiet. ‘I think we’ve no choice but to make Valentino’s people aware of the situation and get him to withdraw the dress from Beau. You’ll have to tell her,’ she continued, her hazel eyes icy cold.

Getting the great man involved seemed a little extreme. I felt certain Mona wouldn’t want me penetrating into the realm of the actual designer—that was way beyond my job description.

‘Just let me call Beau first,’ I pleaded.

I slipped back down the corridor towards the lift, out of Tamara’s earshot, to make the call. Thank God, she picked up straight way. I cut to the chase:

‘Beau, you know you said if I pretended to be Annie Whatsashitz and spoke to Trey for you, that you’d never forget it and you’d help me?’

‘Yeah, babe, what is it?’ She seemed to register the panic in my voice. ‘Do you want some free tickets to see my movie? I can easily have—’

‘No, well, maybe, but it’s more urgent, it’s about tonight, the Globes and, er …’ I hesitated, not even having had time to consider how I was actually going to verbalise the situation. ‘It’s about the Valentino gown.’

‘Oh, Amber, I’ve been trying to call Mona about it all day. I guess she got my message, then?’

‘Your message?’ I paused, catching my breath.

Has she heard about last night? Is she sacking us both?

‘I’m so sorry about the gown,’ she continued. ‘I really did genuinely love it and my plan all along was to wear it this evening, but Stefano and Domenico, they’ve been so kind to me following the premiere last night … I felt I couldn’t
say no to the gown they’ve sent me for this evening. Mona will understand—she’ll explain to Valentino, won’t she?’

I was just about following.

‘So, you’re not planning to wear the Valentino after all?’

‘No, babe—don’t hate me.’

If my body was capable of doing a backflip, I’d be doing one.

‘The Dolce & Gabbana is so me, it’s black, with lace detailing, and figure-hugging. I was thinking I could wear it with one of those fur wraps you had the other day. Trey thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. We’ve been playing dress-up all morning.’

‘You must wear it!’ I said. ‘It sounds perfect!’

‘Oh, thanks, babe, knew you’d understand. You’ll let Mona know for me right?’

‘Of course I will.’ I wanted to kiss the phone.

‘Anyway, what was the thing you wanted help with?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter any more, forget it. I’ll drop a couple of fur stoles over to you this afternoon.’

‘Love ya, babe.’

‘Bye, Beau.’

I ended the call and then, at last, the golf ball felt as though it had dislodged from my throat. And she hadn’t even brought up Mona’s ‘incident’. Fortunately, Beau was so completely wrapped up in herself, she was oblivious to the antics of anyone else. And, come to think it, I couldn’t recall seeing her at the premiere party much after the drinks with the crew. Right now, I actually loved her.

I practically skipped back to tell Tamara the good news.

‘Sorted,’ I said, the second she flung open the door. ‘Beau’s not going to wear the Valentino.’

‘I want to hug you!’ she screamed, resisting the urge to
actually
hug me. Caroline popped up behind her, sensing correctly that we were all in a much better place.

‘I suppose you don’t need me any more, then,’ I said, after a lustful look at a room service porter laying out some dainty finger sandwiches that Jennifer was unlikely to touch, on a table beyond them.

‘Bye!’ they both said in unison, the colour back in their cheeks.

‘Catch you at one of the parties, maybe,’ Tamara suggested, and the French-style wooden door was gently slammed in my face. I called Klara on my way back to the lift.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Right now? Spying on Mona trying to make herself a macchiato. She’s stubbed her toe about five times already just navigating the kitchen and she’s been swearing at the coffee machine for the last ten minutes. It’s funny. She’s got no idea. Mind you, do you know how to work that thing?’

‘Where’s Ana?’

‘Out. Mona sent her to the pharmacy for pills.’

‘More pills? I only just picked her up some painkillers, two days ago.’

‘Well, she must need some more.’
What’s going on with you, Mona?

‘Where are you?’

‘At the Chateau Marmont.’

‘Bit posh?’

‘I’m outside Jennifer Astley’s room.’

‘Please tell me you’ve Instagrammed a photo of the door?’

‘I’m working. Listen, I’ve got to be quick, I need your help.’

Pause on the other end.

‘Please, Klara. Will you help me?’

‘Depends what it is.’

‘It’s really important, Mona’s not working today and there’s a ton she’s asked me to do.’

Another pause.

‘Well, I suppose the sun’s gone in.’ I guessed she was on a lounger. She shifted herself. ‘What’s up?’

‘You drive, don’t you?

‘Ye-es …’

‘I need you to ask Mona if we can borrow her car. And get the keys to the W suite from her. I need your help with some last-minute errands for the awards.’ Adrenalin was beginning to flow through my veins.
Don’t let me down, Klara, please.

‘With any more celebs?’

‘Well, I need to stop by Beau’s,’

‘Sounds cool. Have you got tickets to the after-party?’

‘Not yet, but I know a man who can get me some. If you help me, I’ll sort tickets.’

I had already assumed that Rob and Tim would be going. Hopefully, we could be their plus ones.

‘Deal. I’ll ask her.’

‘Oh, and, Klara?’

‘What?’

‘Ask Mona for her phone, too. She’s already missed some important calls from clients today. Someone’s got to save her reputation.’

‘Roger that. I’ll come and get you at the Chateau in ten.’

I hung up.
Thank you, Klara. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

K
lara and I spent the next two hours zipping between the hotel suite and the grand houses of many of Mona’s well-to-do clients, the opening of the Golden Globes red carpet drawing ever closer. Our usual couriers had all been booked up for the day so we had no choice but to do most of the drop-offs ourselves. I soon knew LA based not only on a web of Mona’s preferred coffee houses, but by some of the city’s most salubrious mansions and fashionable hotel suites, where stars, their publicists, hair and make-up artists, PAs, nutritionists, and other hangers-on, were holed up getting ready for the awards.

Klara was a surprisingly good driver and we operated well together—it was even fun to have her loud rap music blaring as we swerved in and out of driveways and up and down highways across West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. As we returned to the W after dropping a selection of vintage fur stoles at Beau’s house, and picking up some lastminute alterations from the tailors, I finally had a moment
to look at Mona’s iPhone. Sixteen missed calls and fourteen new answerphone messages. I grabbed a pen and the hotel desk-pad and braced myself.

Shit.
I rolled my wrist. My arm ached from all the scribbling down of numbers.
Commenting on your breakdown, official statement, story in next week’s edition.
No wonder Mona had decided to leave her phone turned off and crawl back under the duvet today. But this was way out of my league. There was one particular message that worried me the most: ‘You are in serious arrears with your repayments’. I banked that at the back of my mind to think about later; it was already gone 2:00 p.m. That meant the
Us Weekly
story would be going to press in about half an hour. Klara was in the bedroom, trying on some of the unclaimed dresses; she already had her eye on a slinky yellow Louis Vuitton number, complete with vintage diamond-drop earrings and matching necklace set. She might not be a nominee, or even an actress, but she could certainly look like one.

‘Hey, Klara!’ I called. ‘Need your opinion on something.’

‘You still wondering about the Phillip Lim?’ she shouted back. ‘Just go for it!’

‘No, something else. Have you got a second?’

There was a momentary silence, presumably as she unravelled herself from the Louis. She padded back into the suite.

‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I wish I had. A ton of press have been calling Mona asking for a comment on what happened last night,’ I revealed. ‘They seem to think she’s having a breakdown. I’m wondering if I should call any of them back. Some of them go to print—’ I looked at my phone to check the time again ‘—like, now.’

She scratched her pretty head. ‘Hmmm. Did they sound nice?’

‘Not really.’

‘What was it Mona said this morning?’ Klara stopped for a moment. ‘That old Hollywood mantra?’

‘There’s only one thing worse than being talked about …’ I replied.

‘And that is
not
being talked about,’ she finished the sentence for me.

‘So maybe we don’t do anything? I suppose it’s not as if we know what’s going on with her, anyway,’ I said.

‘Alternatively, you could let them know that regurgitated hot dog pink is this season’s hottest colour before telling them where to stick it?’

We laughed together.

‘But seriously.’ I pulled my legs onto the chair and crossed them underneath me. ‘You’ve known her for longer than me, Klara. What do you think’s going on with Mona?’

‘I make it my business not to know.’ She admired the necklace she was still wearing in the mirror. ‘Maybe it
was
food poisoning? God, I love this necklace, it totally looks real.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Or maybe she’s depressed. Remember, everyone’s on something out here. Is there anything else we need to do today? It’s just that I’ve been invited to an awards viewing party.’

I decided not to mention the message from the loans company.

‘Call me later.’

‘Yeah, let me know about the after-party.’

With Klara off to a party—all dressed up in a borrowed white Roland Mouret number, after changing her mind at the last minute—and Mona’s phone eventually calming its incessant bleeping, I got a cab back to the house to watch the main event from the sofa. I hoped Mona might be in a more communicative state now, seeing as it was almost awards time and she had been asleep for most of the day. Returning to the house to watch the awards on TV while I waited for Rob to text about the party felt like something of an anticlimax after the build-up during the week. I wasn’t sure what I was going to see on the red carpet, having come to the realisation that basically no one has a clue what anyone is actually going to wear on awards night until the star is physically there, bathed in the glow of a thousand flashes. I wondered if I should go and change out of my dress, just to join in.

As quietly as possible, I turned the key in the lock and crept in, slipping my flats off at the door. The house was eerily silent. I put my head into the kitchen and then the lounge; both rooms were immaculate and empty, just as Ana would have left them, giving me the impression that Mona had not ventured downstairs in a while. I put my head
around the doors to the laundry room, cinema room and downstairs bathroom. No sign of Mona anywhere. I tiptoed upstairs towards the master bedroom—fortunately, the door was slightly ajar. Heart pounding, lest she slept with one eye open—
I’m not joking, it’s possible
—I slowly nudged open the door to Mona’s bedroom and peered round it. The white duvet on her huge emperor-size bed was awash with the flotsam and jetsam of a stylist on the edge—last night’s flesh-coloured tights which now resembled the wizened legs of a melted-down model; the python bag with most of its former contents emptied around it; a pile of tissues; a large, half-empty bottle of water; an open box of painkillers; a packet of cigarettes; an iPad with a cracked screen. On one side of the bed was the shape of a small body under the duvet and a mop of curls on the pillow. I placed her iPhone back amongst the wreckage and crept out, sadness in my stomach, resigned to watching the red carpet alone. There seemed little point in a change of clothes, unless Rob got in touch about the after-party or Liam texted again and wanted to meet.

The build-up on E! was as good as any new feature film—Ryan Seacrest in position on the red carpet at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, Kelly Osbourne primed to discuss the glittering gowns. I suddenly realised I was beginning to feel excited. My heart was actually pounding as the first few C-listers made their way onto the carpet and appeared on-screen, all white teeth, golden tans and blow-out perfection, ready to have their outfits dissected and give their opinion on who would be walking away with a statuette. Then my trance was broken by movement in the doorway: Mona had appeared. Dressed in a grey T-shirt and combat trousers,
she was a notch up from the gaping kaftan of this morning, but seriously scruffy for her. She slumped onto the other end of the sofa making a loud, dramatic sigh as she did so.

Ordinarily, I would ask if she needed a coffee.
But not this time.
Instead I sat perfectly still and continued watching. Mona clearly found the lack of attention infuriating. She loudly readjusted her position on the sofa several times.

‘Has anyone interesting turned up yet?’ she asked, finally, forcing the words out, like a little rich kid in a huff because she didn’t get the new Barbie Luxury Yacht for her birthday.

‘Kelly Osbourne looks nice.’ I didn’t move my eyes from the screen. Mona acknowledged Kelly’s pretty mint-green Zac Posen gown with an approving grunt.

‘So Jennifer didn’t need you for the red carpet, I take it?’ she asked, after another awkward silence.

‘Caroline’s with her,’ I replied.
Two can play the disgruntled child game.

‘Did Beau get off in the Valentino okay?’

‘No, she changed her mind and went for something else.’

‘She what?’ Mona sat upright now.

‘She’s wearing Dolce & Gabbana. Stefano gifted it to her.’
Which you would know if you’d been capable of listening to any of your voicemails.

‘But that’s not possible—Valentino was aware she would be wearing it.’

‘Until Jennifer Astley decided to wear it.’

‘Jennifer? But she’s in the Oscar de la Renta!’

‘Not any more. It’s all changed. Tamara dressed her.’

‘She
—what?’

A vein in my neck that I never knew I had suddenly started pulsing.

‘Tamara—she dressed Jennifer in the end.’ I stayed very
still, waiting for her to throw a fit. Mona had the ability to scare me on a deep, primal level, like spiders.

‘That can’t have happened,’ she said after a long pause, shooting dagger-eyes at me.

‘Caroline had been trying to reach you all morning,’ I said, voice quivering.

‘I can’t watch this.’ She rose unsteadily from the sofa and stood up, presumably to go upstairs for a showdown with her iPhone, which she clearly hadn’t bothered looking at since she’d woken up.

‘I had to get Klara to bring me your phone so I could work out what was going on.’

She stared blankly into space. I wondered what was going through her mind.

‘But we narrowly avoided both Beau
and
Jennifer wearing the same Valentino this evening,’ I said. ‘How bad would that be?’

‘More importantly, Amber, how bad is this going to look with the designers? When the house of Oscar de la Renta finds out I didn’t actually put their gown on Jennifer, and Valentino discovers the mishap with the scarlet gown, they may never lend to me again. I can’t have the designers thinking I only actually dressed D-listers for the Golden Globes this year. This is a disaster! How could you have messed it up so catastrophically today?’

Don’t bother thanking me, then.

‘Well, it’s better than a clash, isn’t it? The one thing you told me we couldn’t have was a clash.’ The vein was throbbing so hard now, I thought it might burst. But Mona didn’t want to listen any more. Before we had even glimpsed Beau, Jennifer—or any of the D-list stars we
had
managed to successfully dress for this evening—she swept out of the room,
loudly slamming the door as she went. Ryan Seacrest’s voice continued in the background. ‘And the excitement is mounting here on the red carpet as we await some of the big stars of the night. It won’t be long now before the nomin—Nicole Richie! I see Nicole and she’s coming our way! Oh wow … Hey, Nicole! Nicole! Do you look va-va-voom this evening! Tell us about your gown …’

And so it began. The floodgates were suddenly flattened by a celebrity stampede, and I was captivated by the steady parade of stars sweeping down the carpet, one after another, in ascending order of box office pull. It was exhilarating to watch and I felt a ripple of excitement flow through me as Beau Belle arrived on-screen, rocking her fur stole and Dolce & Gabbana gown. She looked a true Hollywood siren, and Trey seemed genuinely proud to be at her side. They made a magnetic couple, laughing and posing as Ryan went through Beau’s look and Kelly awarded it a ten out of ten for ‘star quality’.

‘Hey, Mona!’ I shouted, calling into the hallway for her to witness this, just as Beau was lifting up her skirt to show off the glittering Jimmy Choo sandals I had taken to her from the suite. ‘Beau looks amazing—she’s wearing our accessories!’ There was no movement upstairs, but I thought I could hear the muffled sound of another TV playing E! simultaneously—Mona must be watching in her room. I felt a bit forlorn that we couldn’t enjoy the frenzy together. And then amongst the final flurry of A-list stars to arrive, Jennifer Astley came into view. I almost didn’t recognise her at first because—could it really?
No, wait a minute … Is that definitely her? It is! Oh. My. God. It is!