The Stylist (16 page)

An air hostess appeared behind Mona: ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but you need to return to your seat now please.’

‘Just a second.’ Mona flicked her away with a brusque hand gesture.

‘Ms Armstrong, the pilot has put on the seat-belt sign, so you must—’

‘There’s a studio booked on Sunday for a styling session ahead of the awards,’ Mona continued, ignoring the steward completely, ‘so we’ll need to do the ring rounds tomorrow. We’ll call some designers and pop to Selfridges to pick up some bits. No rest for the wicked!’

‘Ms Armstrong, I need you to return to your seat right now,’ said the air hostess with increasing sternness. ‘Please don’t make me ask you again.’

Sixty pairs of tired, bloodshot eyes stared at Mona, who briefly held the hostess’s stony glare before realising there was little point in resisting. I’d already learned that the one thing Mona hated more than a badly made caffè macchiato was authority, especially wielded by someone sporting green eyeliner and wearing top-to-toe uniform polyester. As she was frogmarched down the plane, the Swarovski crystals on the back of her tracksuit caught the early-morning sun above the clouds, sending shafts of light around the cabin. My foggy brain tried to process what she had just said.

I knew instantly who Clive was—a well-known music mogul and host of a highly successful TV music reality show—and Miss P was his winner and prodigy from last year. But … Miss P, a serious actress? It seemed unlikely. She had failed to set the music world alight so far and the BAFTAs was a serious event; not somewhere you’d expect to find a failed music reality show contestant. More pressing than that, though, all I could immediately think was:
Bang goes my roast dinner.

‘V
icky!

‘Vicky!’ I had been yelling through the letter box for the past five minutes.

‘Viiic-ky! Pleeease wake up, it’s bloody freezing out here!’ I’d almost forgotten how cold it was back home, and I was still dressed for LA. It was bright, though—the sky was almost cloudless—and the street had the crisp, metallic, unmistakable taste of London.
I love this city.
I hammered on the door again, harder. It was Wednesday, it was nearly 8:30 a.m.; she should be awake by now. She should be getting ready for work. Naturally, my phone had no power and I had buried my door keys somewhere within her giant suitcase, which I sure as hell wasn’t going to risk opening in the middle of the pavement at this time of the morning on a Kensal Rise backstreet. An opportunist would be peddling the lot on Portobello Market before you could say, ‘Call the fashion police.’

‘Vic? It’s not a nutter, it’s me. It’s Amber! Open up!’

After what seemed an age a groggy Vicky came to the door. Her hair was a mess, and she looked a bit like a cave-woman.

‘You look as rough as I feel.’

‘Hungover, okay. Why so early? Thought your plane got in at seven,’ she said, wiping her sleep-filled eyes with the back of a finger and blinking like a newborn bat that had accidentally rolled out of its nest and into the sun.

‘Yes, seven in the morning. I’ve come straight from the airport,’ I gave her dishevelled appearance the once-over again. ‘I probably smell as bad as you do.’

The pile of letters, unwanted leaflets and junk mail littering the communal hallway seemed even higher than when I’d left. I was suddenly seeing my life through new eyes. Vicky was barefoot, wearing her American Apparel tracksuit bottoms and a baggy white T-shirt. Halfway up our dusty stairs that hadn’t seen a Hoover in the whole two years we’d lived here—in fact, it was only just possible to tell the carpet had once been pink—she turned and looked at me as though she wanted to say something and then decided against it. She looked like she still had last night’s make-up on, but she still looked pretty—something only Vicky could get away with.

‘Bad hangover?’ I asked, despite the answer being plain as the day.

‘Bleurgh,’ she confirmed. ‘But so good to see your face, I’ve missed you so much. I can’t believe it’s only been just over a week—it feels like forever. Come here.’ She stopped on the mini-landing and turned around, arms open. I dragged the heavy suitcase up behind me and set it down as she reached around my shoulders and engulfed me in a big, warm, slightly smelly bear hug.

‘Love you, honey,’ I said.

‘Love you, too. Best friends forever.’ She paused. ‘Urn …’ Her hand rested on our shabby front door. I noticed it was being held ajar by an Adidas trainer. It had a serious hinge on it, that door; I’d lost count of the number of times one of us had been locked out when it slammed shut. She lowered her voice to a quiet whisper. ‘There, um, don’t kill me, because my head can’t take it, but there, er, there might be someone else in here.’ She pulled a cringe expression and studied my face.

‘Might?
Or definitely is?’ I said, clocking that the trainer in the doorway looked too big for Vicky’s size-five feet.

‘Er, pretty definitely.’

‘How come something tells me you’re not going to say you bought us a kitten?’

‘I wish that was it,’ she replied. ‘But I didn’t think you liked kittens. We could still get one if you like—you know I’d love one. But this thing, it’s, um,
he’s
, quite a lot bigger than a kitten.’ My jaw dropped open. ‘And before you say it—it’s not Simon.’

Something had already told me it wasn’t Simon. Vicky was never this unkempt around Simon.

‘Vicky! You minx! What the—’ She shhhed me down to a quiet whisper again. ‘And on a school night?’

‘I had a few drinks with work people in Soho, and then a few of us ended up in The Shadow Lounge. It was such a laugh. And Jim from the art desk was there … and some of the guys in the club thought he was gay and were pestering him, so, well, we kind of snogged to show he wasn’t.’ She gripped my hand and came closer. I could smell the alcohol, still. ‘And it felt so good, we kind of carried on snogging, and he ended up here …’

‘Not
the
sexy Jim? The one you’ve mentioned before?’

‘Yes, he’s
really
sexy, Am.’ She knocked the shoe out of the way and poked her head around the door, just in case a half-naked sexy Jim was lurking in earshot. ‘But I didn’t actually mean for him to end up here. We shared a cab and then I remembered I had a bottle of fizz in the fridge.’

‘Ahem—don’t you mean
I
had a bottle of fizz in the fridge?’

‘Oh God, yes, probably, sorry, babe, I’ll get you another one. But it went down so well—and he’s such a great kisser.’
If I’d had a pound for every time I’ve heard Vicky say those immortal words.

‘And now you’re wearing his T-shirt.’

‘It smells so nice—he’s the one who wears that aftershave I love!’ She held it out to me invitingly and I backed away.

‘No, thanks. So it’s the aftershave’s fault?’

‘Totally, the aftershave and the cocktails, along with everyone in Shadow Lounge,’

‘I think it was also a full moon?’ I added.

‘Yes! Did you see it from the plane?’ We both giggled and she smiled her big contagious smile. ‘That, plus the fact you basically have to be borderline alcoholic to be single.’ She wiped at the smudged mascara again.

‘But you’re not single—
are you
?’ I replied, confused. ‘What about Simon?’

She looked over her shoulder to check we weren’t being overheard.

‘It’s been the week from hell. He basically blew me out last Tuesday when I wanted to see him after the launch party—said I was too drunk—and then he wasn’t around on Wednesday, didn’t call me back all day, and on Thursday he was too busy to have the headspace to think about anything
other than a new film segment he’s trying to get on the radio. And then he didn’t seem to want to make plans for our normal Sunday session—and he cancelled the other night, hence … Oh, I don’t know, Am, he’s either met someone else or he’s gone off me. He’s made it pretty clear, wouldn’t you say? I guess I wanted to press the self-destruct button last night. I did try to call you about it …’ She finally stopped for air, worry etched across her pretty brow. I remembered the three missed calls on my phone just after I’d fainted at the premiere. That last sentence hurt.

‘Honey, I’m sorry, I was so caught up in everything over there—I thought you’d pocket-dialled me because it was so late. I was actually trying to pull myself together after having a minor fainting episode at Beau Belle’s premiere, and then I guess I forgot, I’m sorry.’

‘A “minor fainting episode”, at a premiere?’ She sniggered loudly. ‘Amber, I do love you—we’ve got sooo much to catch up on!’ We both laughed. ‘I could
really
do without having to go to work today. I just want to drink tea and eat toast with you.’

‘Give us another hug.’

There was something about my best friend that meant however stinky and messy she was, however annoyed I might be that she and a random bloke had drunk the bottle of Verve Clicquot I’d been saving for a special occasion; however heinous it was, I couldn’t be angry with her for long. And anyway, I’d never particularly liked Simon. To him, I was the shop girl who wasn’t worth a proper conversation because I didn’t know much about the works of Pedro Almodovar or the existential qualities of
American Beauty. Ha! If only he knew about my burgeoning friendship with Trey Jones, that would have him taking notice.
And though
she had never actually admitted it, I sensed this bloke, who was meant to be Vicky’s boyfriend, seemed to make her feel insecure, too. I’d previously put it down to the age-old tension between best friend and best friend’s boyfriend, but perhaps now was the time to finally tell Vicky what I thought of know-it-all Simon, the Barry Norman wannabe who took himself way too seriously and was nowhere near good enough for my best mate. Just then, a clattering noise came from inside the flat.

‘Must be the kitten knocking over a vase,’ I said, and we both creased up.

After some slightly awkward chit-chat with Jim from the art desk (who was definitely sexier than Simon, but not as good-looking as Liam, or Rob, come to think of it), plus a big mug of tea, I made it into my bedroom. I heaved the suitcase onto my still-unmade bed and emptied it. Within seconds, it looked as though a bomb had gone off in Harvey Nics. Having seen sexy Jim off with a snog and strict instructions to go to work perpetuating the story that she was suffering from food poisoning and wouldn’t be in today, Vicky joined me. Laying her eyes on the treasures before us, she was actually lost for words. Only momentarily, because she was soon screaming, ‘Let’s play dress-up!’, before coming up with the genius idea that we should go out for brunch wearing some of my haul. We both knew, of course, that it was actually a load of expensive clothes belonging to a series of PR companies, not mine (or, come to think of it, Mona’s) at all. However …

We headed out of the flat looking like a cross between Eddy and Patsy from
Ab Fab
and two actual fashion editors during London Fashion Week. I was wearing a black Stella McCartney jumpsuit, accessorised with some gigantic Cavalli
jewellery, including a panther bracelet and necklace set that I had taken more than a small shine to in real life, a Pucci scarf over my head and some sky-high Saint Laurent two-tone ankle boots. Vicky opted for a high-fashion hooker look: a Burberry oxblood-latex trench coat over a tiny body-con dress and some round Chanel sunglasses, even though there was hardly any sun, finished off with a killer pair of metallic gold Alexander McQueen stiletto boots. In other words, we looked ridiculous. We decided to go to the Electric Diner for brunch. Snuggled in the heart of Portobello Road, next to the Electric Cinema, this was probably the place that would be most accepting of our outfits.

Brunch somehow demanded to be washed down with a Bloody Mary, and somehow one turned into three Bloody Marys, just to get the level of hot spice right, and that was followed by a tipsy stroll around the antique markets where I bought a maraca and Vicky bought a vintage gold necklace, and then we ended up in the Portobello Gold having a bottle of red wine and two bowls of nuts for lunch. All in all, minus the crazy clothes, it was a pretty typical Portobello day for us. I told her all about Rob and how that last night in LA was one of my best nights ever.

‘Have you stalked Rob on Facebook yet?’ she enquired.

When I said no, Vicky looked aghast.

‘Well, I did look, but his profile is locked and I didn’t want to seem like an
actual
stalker,’ I admitted.

‘But you
must
stalk him—it’s a given. Send him a friend request!’ I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass. ‘I know your password, I’ll do it myself otherwise.’

‘You know my password? That’s a violation of my privacy!’

‘Privacy? But you are not permitted to have a life that is
private from me, Amber Green—especially in situations when you’re really not helping yourself.’

‘And how exactly am I not helping myself?’

‘Well, do you know if he has a girlfriend? That’s the first thing you’d find out on Facebook.’

‘I don’t care if he has a girlfriend!’ I exclaimed. ‘Anyway, he hasn’t mentioned anyone, I think it would have come up.’ It hadn’t really crossed my mind that Rob might have a girlfriend—he hadn’t given that impression.
Besides, it wasn’t any of my business, anyway.

We turned our attention to Sunday Simon and LA Liam. Throughout the day Liam continued to update me with a series of text messages, each one I read to Vicky.

‘He’s
so
into you,’ she enthused.

‘But why hasn’t he actually asked me out?’

She shrugged. ‘Why don’t
you
ask him on a date?’

‘But I can barely remember what he looks like.’

‘Maybe you can at least use him to get Rob’s attention. You blatantly fancy this Rob and once a guy thinks he could lose you, he soon ups his game.’

‘Vicky, I don’t fancy Rob!’

‘Whatever.’

She was having none of it. Regardless, we both decided that Vicky was much better off without stupid Simon, and though sexy Jim from the art desk probably wasn’t going to be suitable long-term, he was a fantastic distraction for now, helping to create some interest at work and fuzz the edges of the break-up. Then the conversation moved on to Mona.

‘She’s just so hard to work out, the way she blows hot and cold,’ I explained. ‘Like—she gave me this gold necklace to wear after the Globes, which was so lovely and thoughtful, but she’s so out of control at other times, getting sick
in the middle of a huge industry event and then turning her phone off on the day of the awards. I mean, you can’t do that, can you?’

‘Clearly you can if you’re Mona Armstrong.’

‘It’s like there’s something else going on. I found a stack of unopened bills in her office and there was a message from a loans company on her phone the other day. Add that to the puking and the not showing up, and it’s like she’s avoiding facing up to something.’

‘She sounds stressed out. Maybe she’s in debt? Or having a breakdown? People have breakdowns as often as getting their roots done over there. It’s la-la land, remember?’

‘But she’s got mansion houses in LA and London, she travels Club Class, she only wears designer clothes, her make-up bag alone is worth more than my entire belongings. She’s like a celebrity herself … It doesn’t make sense.’

I suddenly remembered the state of my own bank account and my looming rent. Mona had made no mention of when I’d actually see the funds in my account and I’d have to broach the subject with Vicky soon.

‘Have you tried to ask her about it?’

I rolled my eyes.

‘It would be scary,’ Vicky continued. ‘But maybe she’ll open up to you.’

‘I’m not so sure. I’m just the lowly—highly sackable—assistant. Likely soon to be joining the pile of former assistants.’

‘More like the assistant who has saved her butt numerous times in just over a week.’ She gave me a look. ‘Does she have any good girlfriends or a boyfriend you could speak to, in confidence?’