The Stylist (23 page)

Rob muttered something about eating someone’s face off in Starbucks not being very romantic, either, and then the conversation went dead. Neither of us said anything for the longest time. Rob stared into the dregs of his pint and I drained my glass of wine and shouted above ‘All Night Long’ for another.

‘All okay?’
Nico mouthed, as he set it down.

‘Fine,’
I replied, taking a large glug without really knowing if anything, including my sanity, was anywhere near fine. All I knew for certain was that my head was spinning out of control and that if I had so much as another sniff of wine I would probably be sick. I needed to get off this waltzer. I reached down to pull my phone out of my bag and tried to focus on the time. When I finally managed to punch in the pin and my vision straightened for long enough, I thought it said 01:35. Though it could have been 03:51.
Bleurgh.

‘I guess I’d better get a cab ordered,’ Rob said, turning to Nico.

‘
Si, signor,
if the night really must end—where to?’
How does Nico always manage to stay so sober? How come Rob doesn’t seem drunk any more? How come I …
I became aware that I had fallen off my stool onto the floor. After that I can’t remember much more than feeling very relieved to be in my bed.

I
woke face down with a horrible dryness in my mouth, stomach cramps and sweaty hair. It couldn’t be that early, because I’d forgotten to close the curtains and it was light outside. I moved my neck left to right, and wiggled my fingers and toes, just to check everything was working. This was something. As I hauled myself onto my back, my head felt like it was having trouble keeping upright. I didn’t want to think too much about last night right now, but, from what I dared to recall, even though I had acted like a total cow, Rob had delivered me to my front door—
Shit, the suitcase!
I flew out of bed, narrowly missing Vicky’s shoes, and ran downstairs, the door slamming shut behind me. My whole body ached. The suitcase was there, at the bottom of the stairs by the main front door, alongside my open handbag.
Thank God.
I must have been too drunk to carry them up.
Jesus, you stupid idiot, Amber Green.
Luckily the tenants of the downstairs flat were decent people; people who had correctly assumed that one of the drunk girls upstairs was
too lazy to carry up her bags last night. A quick inspection revealed my purse, credit cards, the placemat Rob had given me and all the crap I carried around was all still in the bag.

‘What time is it?’ I asked, huskily, as Vicky opened the door, Dorchester dressing gown on, damp hair in a topknot, and a piece of toast and Marmite in her hand. She looked disgustingly fresh.

‘Seen this?’ she said, ignoring my question and holding up the
Sun
in the other hand. ‘Miss P made the papers, all right.’

I set the suitcase down. The exertion of making my feeble body haul it upstairs had made a bead of sweat trickle down the side of my face. I took the paper in my clammy hand, and there was Miss P, front-page news—a full-body shot down the paper’s entire length.

‘Oh Lord …’ I stared at it for a good ten seconds, taking in the full horror, suddenly properly awake. ‘Oh my God. She’s flashing more than a bit of side boob,’ I finally uttered. She was indeed—she was flashing two whole full-frontal nipples and more. It was too much even for the
Sun,
whose design department had compassionately covered her modesty in three places with BAFTA statuettes. ‘How the hell did the Stick let that happen? How could she have sent her out like that and not seen the dress move and go totally see-through under the flashbulbs?

‘Mona’s going to go mental. So is Clive … And Miss P, she’ll be devastated. This is humiliating for her.’

‘And for the Stick … You’ve got to admit though, it serves her right.’ Vicky led the way into the kitchen. ‘She was a complete bitch to you yesterday and you were only trying to help. She brought it on herself. Tea?’

I stared, bewildered, at the photo again. There was absolutely
no good way of looking at it—it was a total fashion disaster. But a bit of me couldn’t help feeling for Kiki. It had been Mona’s decision to put a barely there dress on a star who didn’t have the lengthy limbs to pull it off. It would be a tall order for Miranda Kerr to work a gown like that.
And she looks drop-dead amazing in everything.

‘Meanwhile, over on vogue.com this morning,’ Vicky continued, shovelling another bite of toast into her mouth and turning her iPad to face me, ‘have a gander at this.’ I peered at the screen and read the words aloud:

‘“Hollywood siren Jennifer Astley wows at the BAFTAs, wearing hip new British label Star-Crossed. Her structured LBD is from the up-and-coming designer’s first collection and, teamed with an eye-catching Burberry cuff, it proved an instant classic on the red carpet, showing that cocktail can be every inch as chic as couture. Jennifer continued to fly the flag for British fashion by teaming the look with sexy Nicholas Kirkwood heels and an Anya Hindmarch clutch, as she scooped her second gong of awards season for Best Supporting Actress.”’ I paused to catch my breath. Vicky looked as delighted as I was.

‘Oh wow! This is amazing, Vic, and she’s wearing
your
dress, can you believe it?’

‘Alice from Star-Crossed has already been on this morning—she’s over the moon.’ Vicky beamed. ‘She’s already said Jen can keep the dress and offered us pieces from her collection as a thank you. But there’s more, hon—look at the photos again.’

I focused back on the screen. It had to be said that Jen totally rocked the outfit. There was a stunning sequence of shots of her hugging Anne Hathaway and posing with George Clooney, with whom she made a
very
gorgeous
pairing. There were also a few shots of her with Trey; they looked good together, too—I could see Beau being furious about that. And then I noticed a little white circle over one of the images, highlighting a figure crouched just behind Jennifer, part hidden in shadows. There was a caption next to it with the headline: ‘Who’s that girl?’

‘Ohmigod, it’s me!’ I looked up at Vicky, grinning like the Cheshire cat. ‘That’s me, behind Jennifer, I just wanted to check she wasn’t finding it too slippery in the shoes.’

Vicky read out the rest of the caption: ‘“Jennifer’s long-time stylist, Mona Armstrong, 47, has not been seen with her leading lady so far this awards season; yet while one star fades, fashion always makes space for the new. This is
Vogue
’s second sighting of the petite brunette stylist who now appears to be working her magic on Jennifer. Watch this space—we hope to hunt her down and bring you more soon.”
Vogue
wants to “hunt you down”, honey! Can you fucking believe it?’

I was gobsmacked. ‘And they called me “petite”!’

‘And Mona’s forty-seven—she’s not going to like that.’

There was only one thing for it. ‘Can we just scream, please? Aaaaargh!’ We lunged for each other and jumped up and down, hugging like loonies.

‘I’m leaving for LA earlier than I thought,’ Mona said later that morning, phoning from the lounge at Heathrow. ‘I’m sorting the clothes for Beau’s bachelorette party and I thought I’d get ahead with Oscars prep. Seeing as you’re the talk of fucking London and Clive’s blanking me, I need to get out of town for a bit. Why don’t you take a couple of days off and just come over on the night of the Oscars to help me with the returns? You should have enough money in
the kitty to pay for your flight. Economy flight, of course.’ She sounded really prickly, and this was her first reference to my BAFTAs triumph with Jennifer. She hadn’t been in touch at all the previous evening (I’d been trying to block out the fact that Miss P was anything to do with either of us).

‘Sure,’ I replied, as casually as possible. ‘Will you style Jennifer, then? She still has the Valentino—I guess she’ll bring it back with her.’

‘Too right I will,’ she sneered.

‘Fine, I’ll see you in LA on Sunday, then.’

She grunted in response and hung up.

‘You know, I’m tempted to just not turn up at all,’ I said to Vicky, stuffing a fork-full of French fries into my mouth. Vicky had taken the day off work and I’d taken her to the Electric Brasserie for a celebratory lunch to say thank-you; the kitty was paying because we felt as though we’d earned it. ‘After all, she’s done it enough times to me. Why am I always the person picking up the pieces?’

‘Listen,
we
know who’s doing all the work and, thanks to a super-sleuth at
Vogue,
the rest of the world soon will, too,’ Vicky said. ‘This could be the start of a new career. You’d be mad not to do the Oscars. I mean, it’s the
Oscars,
honey! If you don’t go, I will—I’d quit my job tomorrow for an opportunity like that.’ She had a point. ‘Anyway, you’ve completely forgotten to update me about the most important thing. How was it with Rob last night?’

Over two more skinny lattes and an extra side of fries I told her the sorry story. Rob hadn’t been in touch this morning, so I knew I’d totally messed up, and I could kiss goodbye to any flimsy hope of him not proposing to his girlfriend.
He’s probably practising on one knee right now.

‘I don’t know what came over me.’ I cringed. ‘I guess it
had been building up in my head and then booze made it all spill out. I was such a stupid cow.’

‘Sounds like he was just as drunk,’ Vicky sympathised, ‘and at the end of the day, he’s a bloke and blokes don’t think about things as much as we do. He probably can’t remember, anyway.’

‘Hmm, I wish,’ I muttered, stirring my latte for the hundredth time. ‘From now on, please tell me to shut up if I talk about him ever again. It’s pointless.’

Mona’s sudden departure did at least give me time to see my parents. When I arrived at the front door, Mum flung her arms around me like I’d just been handed over by terrorists.

‘Darling! I can’t tell you how great it is to see your face!’
Has she been on the sherry?
‘I was in the hairdresser’s, reading one of those gossip mags and there was a story about that mad Rhona. “High fashion?” the hairdresser said. “That woman is just high!” What’s going on? She sounds horrific!’

‘It’s Mona, Mum. And it’s been an
interesting
experience, yes,’ I conceded, flinging my coat over the banisters. ‘But, as you can see, I’m fine and Mona will be fine, too. It’s just a crazy time of year for her.’ I was glad I’d worn a dress—things always appeared better to my mother if I was in a dress.
Jeez, it’s almost as cold as outside in here.

‘You’ve not got the heating on, then?’

‘You’re not in LA any more, darling. You’re thin!’ She took a step back, to survey me properly.

‘It’s only been two weeks, Mum.’

‘A lot can happen in a fortnight, evidently.’

‘Anyway, what’s baking?’ I changed the subject, inhaling the familiar sweet smell of home. I peered into the living room to check whether, just perhaps, the coffee table
was laden with freshly baked afternoon tea goods made especially for my arrival. Instead, the answer came flying around the corner in the form of Nora, running towards me, sticky fingers outstretched and a partially licked spatula in one hand.

‘Nana!’ she squealed, jumping into my arms and smearing cake mixture in my freshly washed hair. She was high on beaten-together butter, sugar and eggs. Nora’s inability to say ‘Amber’ when she was first able to talk meant she’d called me ‘Nana’, and it stuck—which has done wonders for my image as the young, cool auntie.

‘Grannie’s got you working in the kitchen again, I see?’ I said, rolling my eyes at Mum in mock revulsion at the child labour. I’d only been in the house for two minutes and Mum was already talking me through the recital I had missed. Sometimes I wondered if she was more interested in Nora’s life than mine. Her voice sort of buzzed away in the background as Nora lost interest in baking and pestered me to read her a story.

‘I’m sorry,
again,
that I couldn’t make it,’ I moaned, noticing there was a new picture up. An original artwork by Nora.
I hate myself for feeling jealous of a five-year-old.

‘Was your mobile not working properly while you were away?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Just a quick call, now and again, so we know you’re okay.’

‘I’m sorry.’
I know I’ve been rubbish.
‘It was just so busy, I hardly had any time to myself.’

‘Even a text.’

Okay, I get the picture.
I could feel my mood changing, but I knew better than to start an argument, so I sulked instead,
like a twenty-something teenager. But before the full effect of the sulk could be felt, my phone rang. Mona. I debated not answering.
This is meant to be my day off.
After some rushed pleasantries, she cut to the chase, putting on a disturbingly friendly voice.

‘The kitty, babe—I left you with most of the money, didn’t I.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Well,’ I replied slowly, mentally doing the sums, and concluding that this wasn’t quite true.

‘Just need you to transfer me a few hundred dollars so I can pick up some last-minute bits for Jennifer for the Oscars. Can you do that today, please?’

I thought about it for all of one second. ‘I’m sorry, Mona, but I can’t. I need the money to get me out to LA. There’s barely enough.’ It wasn’t a total lie; we had left yet another flight booking to the last minute, so it wouldn’t be cheap, and I needed to ensure there was enough for taxis and to pay my paltry wage. I’d only managed to cover this month’s rent by the skin of my teeth, and the bills would need paying when I got back.

‘You’re no better than the rest of them,’ she spat, hanging up. A sourness hung in the air after she’d gone.

‘Everything okay?’ Mum asked suspiciously.

‘It’s fine.’ I hated the fact that even though she was thousands of miles away in another country, Mona had managed to spoil my mood, highlighting to Mum that everything really was not fine. I sat down and accepted another cup of tea and an undercooked fairy cake, and then, over three further cups and I lost count of how many cakes, I confided in Mum about Mona, her erratic behaviour and the small issue of her bankruptcy.

‘Sounds like she needs an accountant as soon as possible,’
Mum advised gravely. ‘Problems like this don’t go away, and I wouldn’t bet she’s paid all her taxes, either.’

‘What she needs is a chat with someone like you.’ I stared into my tea. Mum had a way of putting everything into order so that you felt it could all be worked out. But it was a lot to ask. She sucked in her cheeks and thought for a moment, tapping her fingernails on the table. ‘I’m stacked up as it is,’ she said at last, breathing out heavily. ‘And bankruptcy isn’t my area. But—and only because you’re my daughter and I care about you getting paid—I’d be willing to have an off-the-record chat with her, to offer some advice, if you think it would help. I know a few good accountants, including one in Los Angeles, who specialises in this kind of thing. I suppose I could recommend someone to get her moving in the right direction.’

‘Mum, I love you.’ I jumped up and flung my arms around her.