The Stylist (24 page)

I
pulled my suitcase off the carousel.
Last on, first off—a result. It makes me so happy when this happens.
En route to Customs I trundled past a fully made-up Poppy Drew. She semi-smiled in recognition, and then looked me up and down in disapproval—I was still wearing my onesie from the flight.
Am I bovvered?
I wanted to sneer back, but instead I semi-smiled in return. There seemed little point changing clothes when I’d had absolutely no sleep on the plane and would now be getting straight into a taxi and then my bed in Mona’s house. It wasn’t as if the paps, always posted in the LAX arrivals hall, were interested in me. I switched on my phone, and almost immediately it sprang to life, trilling from inside my onesie pocket: Caroline.

Why is she calling me?
Mona should have told her I wasn’t working today. All the prep was done and tonight was Mona’s night with Jennifer; she’d rammed it down my throat enough times, and I was happy to let her get on with it. It would be mid-afternoon by the time I’d got back to Mona’s
house, so I planned to sneak in, heat up some of Ana’s turkey chilli and watch the awards from the sofa before confronting the post-Oscars returns madness in the morning.

My phone stopped ringing, only to start again seconds later.
It will be a mistake to answer it.
Seconds after that it rang again. This time it was Mona’s house number. It had to be Mona or Klara. But why would Mona call from the house instead of her mobile? My finger hovered over the answer button.
Maybe it’s Ana and she’s phoning to see if I want any food leaving out. Mmm … fresh guacamole.
Ill-advisedly, I picked up. It was Klara.

‘Thank God, Amber! I’ve been trying to get you for the last half an hour. It didn’t say the plane was delayed?’

‘No, I’ve just been getting through immigration—you know how long it can take. I’ve only just got my case. What’s up?’

‘It’s Caroline from Jennifer Astley’s team—she’s been calling the house non-stop. She can’t get hold of Mona and they’re with Jennifer prepping for the Oscars. She’s freaking out, and thought you might know where she is. Please can you call her? Honestly, she’s going nuts.’ A wave of nausea swept through my body.

‘It’s Mona,’ Caroline said, sending panic coursing through my veins. ‘I can’t believe we gave her another chance. We felt sorry for her—food poisoning was unlucky and then being struck down by the thingy-virus, well, that was unfortunate—but now she’s gone totally AWOL. On Oscars day! We’ve been ringing off the hook for hours.’

I was momentarily lost for words.
What the hell is going on?
‘But I spoke to her just before I boarded,’ I said. ‘She told me everything was under control. She sounded excited
about Jennifer wearing the Valentino. She mentioned something about lingerie, but that should have been sorted hours ago.’

‘Mona was meant to be picking up some chicken fillets and extra underwear for Jennifer, but it’s been four hours since we last heard from her. Nothing. We’re worried. We’re not just worried, we’re freaking out. Do you think she could have been in an accident?’ The panicky feeling was turning back into nausea. ‘Jen’s waiting at her hotel, she’s in a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont, and she needs one of you there,’ Caroline pleaded. ‘She’s got to leave for the Oscars in one hour. Please, Amber, I’m literally begging you. This is the biggest night of her entire career. Of her life. Of all of our lives, for Christ’s sakes!
Please
come and help us.’

‘Hold on,’ I said, my head reeling. Surely someone would have heard if anything really bad had happened? ‘I’ll keep trying her, too. There’s got to be a simple explanation, maybe, maybe she’s just run out of juice and she’ll turn up any second?’

‘Please, Amber, call me back straight away. I mean it.’

When I finally looked up I found myself staring into the cold, hard eyes of a customs officer, asking me for the second time where I had travelled from today. For a few long seconds I couldn’t actually remember. I half-hoped he’d drag me aside for further questioning, forcing me to escape the soap opera my life had become. With no response from Mona’s number when I tried it several times in a row, and nothing on email, instant messenger or any form of social media, I found myself getting into a taxi and burning up La Cienega to the Chateau Marmont, to help Jennifer into the Valentino gown. Wearing my onesie.

It felt like Groundhog Day as Nicole came to the door of the penthouse suite, her face a scary shade of stern.

‘Your boss …’ She shook her head. ‘I swear to you, she is never going to work in this town—or any other town, come to think of it—after today. It’s totally unprofessional. Has she no idea how important today is to Jennifer? To all of us? It would be a joke, if only it was the slightest bit funny.’ Then she noticed my outfit, and pulled a face like she’d eaten something rotten.

‘I agree with you, Nicole,’ I said, trying to keep my temper under control. I didn’t want to get into an argument, but I couldn’t let her walk all over me for something that was not at all my fault. I’d just about had it with Mona and her dramas, too. ‘With all due respect, I wasn’t meant to be working today, so I’m only here—straight off a flight, as you may have noticed—to help you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to get changed and then I don’t think we’ve got a lot of time.’ I stormed past her, dragging my suitcase and trying my damnedest to look both dignified and pissed off, wearing a slightly smelly onesie.

I set the suitcase down on the bathroom floor. Funny, the zips were in a different position to how I remembered them. As I peeled them open, a cold panicky sensation washed through me. I flipped open the top and the horrible truth hit me straight away.
This is not my suitcase. Shit shit shit!
I slammed the foam lid down and bit my lip so hard I almost drew blood. Then I tried to calm myself and opened it again.
Perhaps I’m hallucinating.
I peeked inside. It still wasn’t my case.
Could today get any worse?
My mind raced. There was no way I had time to get back to the airport in hope that my case was still there for a straight swap. Now
I had to add calling Lost Luggage to my ever-expanding ‘to do’ list.
Maybe there’s something in here I can borrow, anyway … just for a couple of hours …
I checked that the door was locked, and began peeling off the top layer of items—a blanket, a baby’s changing mat, more blankets.
Surely there are some clothes in here? What kind of person travels without clothes?
I finally reached some garments, but when I pulled them out they were all miniature—a host of onesies, vests and other outfits in a range of sizes suitable from newborn to age five. Everything was more than twenty years too small for me. I looked at the luggage tag: behind clear plastic was a business card: Sarah-Louise Moore, Head Buyer, Mothercare. I slumped back onto my heels and breathed out deeply. I looked down at myself, at my outfit that was, ironically, basically a giant Babygro.
Looks like you and me are together for the long haul.
I decided to hold my head high and make like it was all planned.

Thankfully the weather conditions outside were LA perfect and the strapless, scarlet Valentino gown looked breathtaking on Jennifer. She had been gifted some incredible sparkling Christian Louboutin heels, and any crisis over suitable lingerie seemed to have gone away. The PR from Chopard had sent over a pair of stunning white-gold, twelve-carat diamond-drop earrings and two vintage diamond bracelets, complete with their own bodyguard, to accessorise it. A security guard was positioned in the hallway outside Jennifer’s bedroom, looking like an Oscar nominee himself in an immaculate black suit. Jennifer’s hair was in a beautiful, soft updo, a diamond clip, also from the fabled jewellery house, glinting at the back. Everything about her look was a notch higher in the glamour stakes than it had been
for the BAFTAs and Golden Globes. She was Hollywood romance personified.

With still no news from Mona, we finally left the Chateau for the short drive to the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood. As we neared the foot of the red carpet, fashionably late (but not too late, so Jennifer was sure to arrive in the throng of the excitement along with the night’s other big names), we joined a long queue of limos with blacked-out windows. The roar of the crowds grew louder as we crept closer to the venue. I wondered who was in the cars in front and behind us. Brad and Angelina, perhaps? Catherine and Michael? The atmosphere in the car was tense. We were all lost in our own worlds, concentrating on the job we each had to do on Hollywood’s biggest night; plus I had the additional worry about my lost suitcase and how I was going to explain to Mona that thousands of pounds worth of borrowed shoes and accessories were currently missing without trace.
If Mona is still alive that is.

Sensing the unease among us, Caroline flicked on the TV in the back of the limo so we could watch the red-carpet arrivals whilst we queued. Ryan Seacrest, all tanned face and cheesy grin, enthusiastically addressed us: ‘Tonight, back by popular demand, E! has our 360-degree fashion camera here on the red carpet to give you a detailed view of all the grand fête fashions from the star-studded red carpet. E! is here to bring you every buzzworthy moment!’ His head kept twitching, eyes excitedly darting around the setting behind him, awash with instantly recognisable faces. ‘And I can see some of this evening’s nominees for the big categories arriving now—don’t go anywhere!’ he shrieked. I swallowed hard.
Talk about pressure.

When at last we reached the entrance; the car doors were suddenly flung open and men in black suits helped us out. The roar of the crowds reverberated around my head and my heart pounded harder. The scale of it all was so much bigger than I had imagined. It was like a giant film set, complete with lighting rigs, stadium-style stands for the public and the widest red carpet I’d ever seen, buzzing with the ultimate cast. We all hung back so that Jennifer could make her entrance. One long leg after the other unfurled from the limo, and she rose up like an Amazonian goddess. Her crystal-adorned sandals—complete with a personal message of good luck from the designer on the soles—sparkled in the early-evening sunshine. The air turned electric as she raised a hand and waved at her fans. Her name was chanted by the public, twenty people deep:

‘Jennifer! Jennifer! We love you!’

The security guard was next out of the car, followed by Nicole and Caroline. Finally I emerged, taking up the rear and hoping for anonymity in my baggy onesie. Unfortunately, against all the glamour around me, I hardly blended in. A rush of adrenalin propelled me to straighten her skirt where it met the ground, and then I dashed to the safety of the sidelines where I crouched down beneath the autograph hunters, my eyes trained on Jennifer. All around me the public shrieked for her attention.
The screams are so much louder over here.
Nicole was leading her gently towards the first set of paparazzi, the security guard never more than a few paces behind them. I watched in awe from the shadows as the dazzling dress put in an Oscar-worthy performance of its own. This was exactly what Valentino must have imagined as he designed it.

She made her way towards the TV crews, and I automatically strained to see Rob’s face among them. The line was infinitely more crowded, and twice as long as it had been in London. My eyes skimmed over the logos of CNN, Sky, Fox News, ABC, and E!, but I couldn’t see Rob or Tim in the jumble of wires, cameras and bodies. As Jennifer moved on to the main bank of paparazzi I stepped forwards again, briefly, to gently pull down the delicate layers of pure silk organza. The tiny, shimmering beads and sequins sewn into the gown glinted exquisitely. She looked like a fairy-tale princess. As I stepped back to admire my handiwork, I noticed Trey and Beau, arm in arm, approaching Jennifer. It had to be said that Beau looked smouldering in a shimmering low-cut silver Dolce & Gabbana gown with floral embellishments. I recognised it from the rails in our suite at the W Hotel—Mona must have given it to her before she went missing. Beau winked at me in recognition; as I backed off I prayed Trey hadn’t noticed me, too.
That batty British producer—in her Uggs at the BAFTAs and now in a grubby onesie at the Oscars.
But he seemed transfixed by Jennifer, a vision of ethereal beauty.

‘You look incredible,’ he whispered, squeezing her arm, as Beau cattily surveyed her outfit and latched on to him even more tightly. ‘Tonight’s the big one, good luck!’

‘Hey, Jennifer! Trey! We’ve come all the way from London—can we get ten seconds about the movie, for the BBC?’ A microphone was thrust between them.

‘Go on, then, as you have
such
a charming accent,’ Jennifer replied, threading her arm through Trey’s and gently peeling him away from his disgruntled fiancée.

Ducking out of sight, I moved back to the sidelines, and was shocked to see Beau follow.

‘Amber, babe!
So
good to see you! What’s with the onesie? I mean, I
love
the statement, but—aren’t you hot?’

‘Don’t ask.’ I shrugged. ‘Mona’s gone missing and I had to go straight from the airport to Jennifer.’

Beau motioned towards a larger than life gleaming gold Oscar statue, intimating that we should stand in its shadow, half hidden, lest I tarnish her image with my shoddy appearance.

‘Missing? Where is she?’ she stage-whispered.

‘Good question. Call me if you find out.’

‘
She
wore my Valentino, then.’ She looked over her shoulder and gazed at Jennifer, her nemesis. ‘It looks—okay.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, babe, I’m so glad I ran into you—I’ve been wanting to ask you something.’ She looked around to check no one was close enough to overhear. Not easy on the world’s stage like this. I felt my body go rigid as I remembered what happened last time Beau needed a favour.

‘I wanted to ask if you would style me for my wedding day?’ she asked, speaking behind her hand. ‘We brought the date forward and I
really
need to look amazing. I’ve chosen the dress, I just need you there to do me up, tweak the bridesmaids and check my garter doesn’t slip—the usual stuff. I can’t do it without you. Besides, it’ll be fun! Pinky can’t wait to see you! Dolce & Gabbana have made him a tiny white tuxedo—it’s
sooo
cute. Please say yes—
please
?’ There was desperation in her eyes.