The Stylist (3 page)

The light from the camera was hot as well as bright; it was making my cheeks fizz and my eyes water. I thought of Kiki, obediently trekking back across town in the freezing cold, trying not to spill a drop of Mona’s precious coffee.
Perhaps it should be me in that queue; maybe she should be here. I’m out of my depth. No—you can do this, Amber. Just do it!

‘Green. Amber Green.’

Mona looked upwards for a moment, as if she was consulting a higher being. For the first time her face broke into a smile that also engaged her eyes. They were hazel. She was attractive, even under the camera’s harsh light. She fiddled with the golf ball ring.

‘Amber Green. Love it, babe. Not a bad name … if traffic lights are your thing.’

A hushed snigger went round the TV crew.
Thirteen years of being called Traffic Light at school has made me tougher than this. Thanks once again, parents, it’s been character-building.

‘You’ve clearly had the nous to give yourself a fashion pseudonym,’ Mona said, silencing the sniggerers. ‘Ralph Lauren wouldn’t have got very far if he’d kept the surname Lifshitz, would he, darling?’

I smiled, weakly.

‘You’re perfect, Amber Green, Traffic Light. I’ll pay you the work experience rate of fifty quid a week, plus food and expenses. You can stay in my house in LA for the fortnight,
though we’ll be in a suite at the W for most of the time and out at appointments and events. I’ll get your flights. You have a valid passport, don’t you?’

Fifty quid, is she taking the P? But I like the sound of the W. I’m pretty sure she means the trendy hotel and not the loo.
I nodded and mentally pictured the messy state of my bedroom. I hadn’t physically seen my passport for a long time—I hadn’t left the country for over two years. But it had to be there somewhere.
Absolutely has to be.

‘Good. We’re flying from Heathrow Terminal Five tomorrow morning. My PA will give you the details. Write your number on here.’ She thrust a Smith’s business card from a pile next to the candles into my sweaty palm.

‘You’d better ask Jas if you can go home and pack.’

‘Oh wow—really? Thank you, Mona—thanks
so
much. I won’t let you down! I absolutely promise.’ She almost looked like she wanted to give me a hug.

Should I smile into the camera now? Surely
this
is TV gold!
I suddenly realised what I was doing and stopped. ‘Excitement is deeply unsexy,’ Mona had recently stated in an interview with
vogue.com
—an interview Kiki had printed out and pinned to the office wall. The office Jas was coming out of right now. I’d almost forgotten I already had a job and a boss—a very nice boss, at that. I averted my eyes, entrusting Mona to handle the situation.

‘Well, babe, seems like good old Amber Green has come to my rescue.’

‘Amber?’ Jas turned to me, confusion creasing her face.
Don’t blow it now, please, Jas.
The camera was still rolling. I suddenly felt guilty for putting her on the spot like this—not only with Mona, but in front of a TV crew, with a potential audience of tens of thousands.

‘Amber here,’ Mona said, ‘our traffic warden turned window dresser extraordinaire, Amber has offered to come to LA to help me survive the Globes. She only needs a two-week sabbatical. That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Jas, babe? There’ll be credits aplenty for Smith’s with your star pupil out there!’

Jas paused for a moment. I wanted the camera to stop and the rug to swallow me up.

‘Of course it is. Amber’s a lovely girl and very creative. Mona, you’ve landed on your feet.’ Jas turned to look at me and for the first time ever I sensed a slight look of annoyance spread across her pretty features. ‘Just don’t have too much fun, okay?’

‘Okay.’
Does that mean I’ll have a job to come back to?
I daren’t ask. Certainly not with this bloody camera in my face.

And that was it. In less than five minutes I’d gone from shop girl to ‘window dresser extraordinaire’ to temporary employee of Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Staaars! The deal was sealed with an air kiss from Mona and then the cameras stopped for the day.

‘Nice one,’ Rob said, as he gathered their kit together. ‘Congrats on the new gig.’

‘Thanks … I think,’ I blushed, busying myself neatening up the rails as I tried to take it all in.

‘We’ll see you in LA, then.’

I was holding open the door for the TV crew when a cold, stressed Stick approached balancing a cardboard tray of coffees.

‘Hope I didn’t miss much,’ she said.

There isn’t an emoticon to cover it.

A
s she sipped her coffee, Mona didn’t have to tell us that it was barely warm—we already knew. She sent an equally chilly look in the Stick’s direction. I felt sorry for Kiki as she picked at her black painted nails; even her Pucci dress seemed to have lost its playful, voluminous look, and her face had the pained expression of someone whose actual soul had been crushed. Yes, hands up, I’d had nasty thoughts about the Stick from time to time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t willed heavy, studded bags to fall on her head on more than one occasion. But now I started to feel sorry for her. The hours we’d spent preparing the shop for Mona’s arrival suddenly felt like a long time ago—a distant land where expectations were high and fashion-fever reigned; a place where the Stick and I were almost friends.

Prada shades back on and a mirror check as she prepared to leave the store, Mona turned to me one last time: ‘Oh, and, Amber? Pack your coolest clothes. Blacks, whites, neutrals are best. I need you to blend into the background.
Directional footwear optional.’ She smiled, sunglasses conveniently hiding her facial expression once more, though I would have put money on a wink. ‘Think Blake Lively over K. Middy. We’re talking Los Angeles, babe, it’s a whole different fashion landscape to London. And the weather rarely dips below twenty-five.’ The Stick grimaced.

The idea of packing my ‘coolest clothes’ was already sending me into a panic, as was the weather.
Just what my pasty half-Scottish skin needs.
I doubted I had time to fit in a spray tan. ‘There’ll be a lot of running around, so bring flats as well as your killer heels.’
‘Your killer heels’. Mona Armstrong thinks I’m a stylista who owns killer heels. I’ve really pulled the cashmere over her eyes.

I pictured my wardrobe at home, wherein hung a cacophony of Zara, H&M and Topshop, plus some precious vintage finds gleaned from eBay (strictly under Vicky’s supervision) and, at the bottom, an overflowing shoe rack stuffed with footwear in all colours and styles, not to mention various states of disrepair. It was a collection that had suited my life perfectly well up until this moment, but I somehow doubted it was up to Mona’s standards. Plus the only understanding of ‘killer heels’ I had right now were the Kirkwoods currently killing my toes.

‘But most importantly,’ Mona continued, ‘don’t forget your kit.’ The Stick folded her arms tightly, revelling in the knowledge that not only did I not own a kit, I probably didn’t even know what one was.

‘No, babe, I’m not talking about your gym gear.’ Mona smirked, reading my mind. ‘You know—the bits and bobs we need to make it all work.’

Hmm. I’d heard Tamara mention ‘the kit’ on previous visits to the shop, and had regularly noticed her delve into
a well-used leopard-print vanity case, and come up bearing bulldog clips to cinch a dress together at the back. I also thought of Jas’s bottom drawer in the office: a veritable emporium of tit tape, gaffer tape, Sellotape—every kind of tape known to woman—plus plasters, chicken fillets, cotton buds, Party Feet, pop socks, a sewing kit and a host of other goodies that surely kept the Bond Street branch of Superdrug in business.

‘Of course,’ I replied, glancing at the Stick. And then Mona was off, big sunglasses, bouncy hair and thin, leather-clad legs springing straight into a taxi.

Now there were just the three of us, plus Big Al, left in the store. Normally, following such a visit, Jas, the Stick and I would all sort of crumple onto the pouffes, kick off our heels, attack the truffles and champagne and erupt into a fevered discussion of what had just gone on. The Stick would dissect Mona’s outfit, generally loving everything about it, and I’d think I
should
love it, but that most of it was plain weird; Jas would debate why she picked some items and not others, and we would all shriek with laughter. Big Al would feign disinterest, but he’d eventually crack, and chip in with a comment like ‘What that woman needs is a roast dinner.’

But today, Mona left nothing in her wake but an awkward silence.
And it was all my fault.

Throughout my final exchange with Mona, I had felt the Stick’s eyes drilling holes in the back of my head, correctly sensing she had missed something important while she was queuing for coffee like a work experience flunky. I knew full well it should be her going to LA in the morning. The Stick had the experience, the knowledge, the look—she was born to be Mona’s assistant. She idolised the woman. And
then there was Jas—my kind boss, put on the spot like that. Left with no option but to step aside and let a member of her staff be poached before her eyes. I began to wonder if it was really worth it, if I was more cut out to be a traffic warden or a teacher after all. If I should do the honourable thing—step aside and offer the job to the Stick or simply tell Mona it was all a horrible mistake and stay at Smith’s. But something stopped me. Another voice in my head tried to rationalise: this was the Stick’s comeuppance for all the hours I’d spent sweating next to the steamer because
she
didn’t want to risk her make-up; for the way she looked at me when I thought that Erdem was the name of a Turkish pop star, rather than the hottest designer on the block. I thought of Jas and her look of confusion when she saw the mismatched shoes on the dummies. She must have known it was an accident, but was too polite to embarrass me while I had the camera eyeballing me. And then I threw it back in her face by moonlighting with Mona.
I’m going to hell, for certain.

I pulled myself together, stood taller and took a deep breath.
What’s done is done.
And besides, perhaps now it was my turn to prove that I could do it, actually; that styling was my calling and Mona the person to nurture my talent; that I could make it in fashion, on my own merit. Yes, I’d show the Stick you don’t need to slink around being too hip for Hoxton and live off pond water to get ahead.
Either that, or I’m a fraud—and not only a fraud but a horrible, selfish person.

If only I’d put opposite shoes on the mannequins on purpose.

It was beginning to sink in that a) I might not have a job to return to, but b) my prospects for the next fortnight were
looking up dramatically. I finally had an opportunity to be excited about—I couldn’t wait to update my Facebook status. It might even be worth joining LinkedIn! I just had to find myself a kit and pull together a suitcase of cool looks that would get me through a fortnight in the entertainment capital of the world, because
I,
Amber Green of Greater London, was going to Los Angeles in the morning.

If this had been a film, with Jennifer Lawrence playing me, she would have punched the air when my feet, now comfortably clad in Uggs, hit the street outside the boutique that day. However, because this was not the movies, and because Jas had been uncharacteristically cold and the Stick had spent the rest of the day blanking me—bar the occasional tut—the mood was subdued. She broke the silence in the stockroom, as we layered-up for the cold, by taking the unusual step of suggesting we walk to the tube together. Perhaps she wanted to continue blanking me in the outside world, too. Having spent the entire afternoon fastidiously busying myself with my usual shop duties and doing all I could not to look halfway near as excited as I was beginning to feel, I had been planning to bolt bang on six. My phone was burning a hole in my pocket. I was
desperate
to call people, to scream, to see Vicky—to make it all real. The last thing I needed was an uncomfortable three-minute walk to Bond Street tube with a furious Stick.

It soon transpired that far from starting a
Dynasty
-style bitch fight in the middle of South Molton Street, her tactic was indeed to continue ignoring me. Finally, as we turned the corner into Oxford Street, she spoke.

‘Bet you’ve had the best day ever?’

‘It’s been unusual, that’s for sure.’

‘So, she just told you you were going to LA, just like that?’

‘I think she was just desperate to get someone to replace Tamara.’

‘And my name didn’t even get mentioned?’

‘No. I mean, yes, it got mentioned, but you weren’t in the shop.’

‘So you went for it while I was out of sight?’

‘It wasn’t like that, Kiki.’

‘Didn’t you think you should tell her the shoes were an accident?’

Pass.

‘God, this is such a joke!’ She spat the words out.

‘Listen, Kiki, I don’t think it mattered to Mona if it was you or me. She just wanted someone—anyone—to help.’

‘Didn’t Jas tell her about me? How much more experience I’ve got? Didn’t she put up a fight?’

‘Would
you
fight Mona Armstrong?’

‘If it was worth fighting for, I would.’

Ouch.
I stopped walking. ‘Kiki, I hate this. Shall we grab a coffee and talk about it properly?’

Kiki marched on, turning only briefly to shout over her shoulder: ‘Coffee? Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘Sorry, I forgot. Honestly, Kiki, Jas didn’t have a say in it. We both know I’ll probably get the sack after a day …’

But Kiki was more than a bit narked. She was angry.

‘It’s fucking ridiculous, that’s what it is. What does she think I am, a bloody skivvy?
You
should have gone for the coffee.’

‘Why—because
I
am a skivvy? A pointless skivvy who should have listened to your orders and kept her mouth shut the whole time Mona was in the store?’ Now my blood was
starting to boil, too. ‘Perhaps, Kiki, just perhaps, Mona sent you for her coffee because she, like me, thinks you’re not a very nice person. A person who’s been so busy putting me down and bossing me around, she’s never actually spared a thought for how I might feel—about anything—until I suddenly got something you want. Until now. Well, you know what? Fuck you, Kiki. You’re a pathetic, skinny Stick Insect and I’m very happy I won’t have to see your thin face, or have to look at your pond water, or clear your stinking lettuce out of the fridge, or steam another piece of fabric because you can’t be bothered, because I’ll be in LA with Mona Armstrong, styling the stars.’
Hah!
‘Oh, and don’t forget, you signed an NDA so none of this can be repeated to anyone. Otherwise you’ll be sued.
Hasta la vista,
Stick, I’m off home to pack my killer heels.’

Of course I didn’t actually say that. But it was very real in my head. I’ve never been good at confrontation, so, in real life, I tried to bury the feelings of guilt currently making my stomach churn, and tried a change of tack.

‘That guy Rob seemed nice?’

‘I preferred the shaggy one.’

Au contraire.

We walked the final few steps in another awkward silence, both ranting inwardly. I decided against asking her opinion of what I should pack or if she had a kit I could borrow. The atmosphere between us was eating me alive, so I fibbed.

‘I think I’ll get the bus today. I need air.’

‘Fair enough.’

She didn’t even look me in the eye.

‘I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then.’

‘Yeah, if Jas will have you back.’

And she was gone, skinny jeans and dip-dyed hair lost in a crowd of commuters, probably heading to a Shoreditch pub to break her NDA and slag me off with some East London hipsters.
I hope the NDA police are sitting at the next table.

When I had safely turned off Oxford Street onto Manchester Square—when I could be sure that neither Kiki nor Mona nor any TV cameras were spying on me to see if I was displaying any embarrassing, high-spirited emotions—I did what every twenty-six-year-old in possession of her best job offer ever does: I phoned my mum.

‘Are you walking again?’ she asked, before I even said hello.

For some reason my mother has an aversion to me walking and talking. Probably because I always seem to phone her when I’m in transit.

‘I’ve just finished work.’ I stopped in the street and cupped the phone, to block out some of the traffic noise.

‘It’d be nice if you phoned, just for a chat, when you weren’t on a noisy street, on your way somewhere, that’s all …’

‘I know, Mum. Anyway, guess what?’

‘You’re coming to see us this weekend?’

‘No …’

‘We’re coming to see you this weekend?’

‘Afraid not. I’ve got a new job!’

‘That’s fantastic news, darling! A proper one?’

‘It’s in fashion!’ Quiet on the end of the line.
An indication that my mother does not view this as news of a proper job.
‘I’m going to be a celebrity stylist. Well, I’m going to be an assistant to a celebrity stylist—and she’s
the
celebrity stylist—I’m going to be Mona Armstrong’s number
two. Well, I think number two.’
Maybe I’m her number ten?
‘I don’t actually know what my job title is. It’s a two-week thing.’

‘I thought for a second you’d decided to do the teacher training course …’

Not again.

‘Darling, there’s not much security there. Jasmine’s happy to let you come back, is she?’

Why can’t she just be excited for me?

‘I’m flying to LA, tomorrow. For the Golden Globes!’

Another heavy pause.

‘Mum? Did you hear that? I’m going to the Golden Globes!’

‘Golden Globes, what’s that? Some kind of Californian fruit growing contest? Don’t tell me it’s a beauty contest, you know I …’

‘
No
, Mother. It’s one of the film industry’s biggest awards ceremonies, and I might be dressing some of the winners. I’m probably going to meet Jennifer Astley!’

Was I really saying those magic words?

‘Jennifer who?’

Being a lawyer, my mother doesn’t pander to the ins and outs of celebrity culture or the awards-season calendar, let alone share my enthusiasm for what dresses the stars might or might not wear during it. Instead, most conversations with her involve her checking I have the relevant paperwork for something.

‘Does this Rhona have insurance? You’ve got travel insurance, have you, sweetheart?’

‘Yes, I think I have insurance.’

‘Think,
darling? You need to have it
for sure
.’