The Stylist (5 page)

‘Amazing view, hey, babe?’

I breathed it all in.
Beats the sight of Scrubs Lane from my window at home.

‘It’s incredible.’

Inside Mona’s house we were greeted by a zebra skin rug. I hesitated.

‘Don’t panic, babe, no need to Tweet the WWF, it’s fake.’

A wisp of a girl wandered into view. She had long, thin brown hair and was wearing a pale yellow bikini under an oversized white T-shirt with the words ‘Relax Don’t Do It’ emblazoned across the front in shouting black capitals.

‘Amber, this is Klara. She’s staying here while she takes over the modelling world. Isn’t that right, Klara, babe?’

The girl smiled. She was a natural beauty, her face completely bare of make-up. She was younger than me, maybe twenty maximum. And she was thin, so thin. Her pale legs seemed to go on forever. She was like a kind of miniature giraffe.

‘Thanks, Mona,’ she replied softly, in an English accent, before slinking off again through some large glass doors at the end of the open lounge area onto a patio, and was that a swimming pool behind?
It is!
My insides did the Macarena.

‘The great thing about having models as tenants is they hardly eat anything,’ Mona revealed, the girl out of earshot as we made our way into the heart of the house, which opened up into a large living area.

‘All I do is stock up on peanut butter and rice cakes, leave some fresh coffee and grapes in the fridge and they’re happy. They don’t even need milk for coffee. Klara’s been over from London staying the last six months, on and off, and I’ve not seen her eat anything but rice cakes and grapes the whole time.’

The girl had slipped some denim shorts over her bony thighs and sauntered back into view. Exotically beautiful, she looked a bit sleepy, dazed, not quite ‘with it’. Maybe she had just woken up—I wasn’t exactly feeling dynamic myself. Mona beckoned her over.

‘Come here, Klara, babe, let Amber see you properly. You’re looking gorgeous. Tell us, when are we going to see the new Burberry campaign?’

The girl moved across to the vast open plan kitchen–diner area to the right of the high-ceilinged lounge, and we followed, leaving our suitcases in the hallway. Klara sat on one of the breakfast stools, pulling her long legs up and hugging them into her chest. My eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. It was filled with more shiny white kitchen cabinets than I would ever know how to fill. A thick black marble worktop with inlaid sparkly bits went around in a horseshoe, above which hung three modern white-and-chrome statement light fittings that shed circular shafts of light onto the wide breakfast bar.

Mona followed my line of vision.

‘It’s filled with Swarovski crystals, babe. One of a kind.’

Klara plucked a grape from a large bowl on the top and began carefully peeling off its skin.

‘It’s stunning,’ I uttered, running my hand across the welcome, cool surface. I wanted to put my flushed cheeks on it, too. Everything was so sparse and clean, I felt like I was messing up the feng shui just by being here.

‘Anyway, tell us some gossip, Klara?’

‘It’s been awesome, Mona,’ she replied, barely transferring her attention from the half-bald grape.
She’s about to tell us something exciting, but is showing absolutely zero signs of enthusiasm for it—Mona has trained her well.

‘I was shooting with David de la Valle last week—it went on into the night and then we all went to Soho House and had espresso martinis while we watched the sun come up. Leonardo DiCaprio was there.’

‘Lovely Leo, I met him once when he was dating that supermodel,’ said Mona. ‘Did he chat you up?’

‘Yeah, we chatted, but he isn’t my type. I prefer Harry Styles.’

Leonardo DiCaprio, not your type? Vicky will go nuts!
Though I could only assume Klara was more engaging when she was actually
being
chatted up by a Hollywood heartthrob.
Maybe I’ll end up bumping into Leo while I’m here.

Mona cackled with laughter. ‘Oh, darling, you’ll meet Harry soon enough, I’m sure. Won’t she, Amber?’ She elbowed me in the ribs.

I smiled awkwardly. I had absolutely no idea how to add to this conversation, my closest previous celebrity encounter having been when Jas offered Orlando Bloom shelter from the paparazzi by letting him into the stockroom. Or there was that time I walked past Helen Mirren on Mount Street. Mona looked at her chunky gold Rolex.

‘Maybe you should go unpack and freshen up?’
Oh great, so I do actually smell.

As I made my way back to my case, I was intercepted by the arrival of another woman, who had let herself into the house. At barely five foot, stocky and Hispanic, she was Klara’s diametric opposite.

‘Ah, hel-lo, Ana!’ Mona shouted, though the woman was barely a few feet away.
Maybe she has a hearing problem.

‘Mona,’ came the reply, in a clear American accent. ‘How was your flight?’

‘Oh, you know, high, long, tedious. This is my new assistant, Amber Green. Like the traffic light.’ Klara sniggered.
At least I don’t spend my time peeling grapes.

‘No Tamara, then?’ Ana asked.

‘No.’

‘I liked Miss Tamara.’

I liked Ana straight away. She already appeared to be one of the few people who wasn’t afraid of Mona.

‘Will you show Amber to her room, please?’

‘You work for Mona, then?’ I asked, as we made our way up some white stairs leading off the central hallway, Ana insisted on lugging my suitcase despite the fact that she looked older than my mum.

‘Yes, I’m her housekeeper,’ she replied, a little out of puff.

‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘Wow, that’s a long time.’

‘A very, very long time,’ she replied wearily. ‘When Miss Armstrong was married.’

‘Right, of course.’

I suppose she expected me to know this intriguing piece of information already. In fact, I felt a little ashamed that I knew almost nothing about my landlord and boss. I was desperate to hear more, but Ana didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and we had reached our destination at the end of a white corridor lined on either side with black-and-white photos of Mona, in various states of gushing ecstasy, with numerous celebrities.

Blake Lively, Jennifer Lawrence, Kristen Stewart, is that Nicole Scherzinger? In another—Jennifer Astley!
I made a mental note to come back and study them in detail later on.

My room—one of five barely used guest rooms, it transpired—was nicer than any hotel I’d ever stayed in. The animal-print theme continued with a faux leopard-skin rug on the floor, and there was a big, soft, cream throw and at least half a dozen cream and caramel scatter cushions on the king-sized bed. There was a large, tasteful black-and-white line drawing of a sitting woman’s naked back on one of the walls and a black-and-white photograph of Grace Kelly on another. It was understated, but girly and cool. I loved it instantly. There were two windows in the room, one of which looked out over the driveway and the other the side of the garden, but if I opened it and stuck my neck out, I could just about see twinkling water.

There’s a pool! I texted Vicky. But then I deleted it. I didn’t want her to think I was showing off.
But wow, this is
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
come to life!

Peering out, I could see Klara, sitting cross-legged on one of the loungers around the swimming pool, tapping at her iPhone. The pool was circular and very inviting. It definitely wasn’t the kind for swimming lengths. There were six loungers around it, with black-and-white-striped cushioning over them—one of them with a long, thin wet patch in the middle, presumably where Klara had been basking after a dip. The sun was beating down strongly. I was aching to strip off and get into the water.

‘Miss Armstrong will meet you downstairs in twenty minutes,’ Ana instructed.

I opened my case and began sorting through the mass of crumpled black clothing within it. I had indeed forgotten the white pile.
You idiot, Amber.
It seemed ironic that I was going to be living for two weeks with one of the world’s top stylists and I had absolutely nothing to wear. Maybe
I’d be able to go shopping. I wondered if Mona would ever loan clothing to her staff, like Jas did sometimes, but something made me doubt it. Then I noticed another door leading off the room. I pushed it open and discovered a gleaming, cream en suite bathroom complete with a roll-top bath, a wet shower area and one of those big sinks with a large mirror above it and plenty of space to pleasurably lay out all of your cosmetics, as if you were a professional make-up artist. I started unpacking my case, refolding and hanging up clothes, putting everything into the spacious walk-in closet with far more care than I had taken when packing, and wishing I had a wardrobe on this scale at home. It was practically the size of my entire bedroom. My black capsule collection looked even more pathetic, filling only a tiny area.
Mental note to self: reorganise wardrobe as soon as I get back.

The quiet was suddenly interrupted by a loud phone conversation going on downstairs on the driveway. It was Mona, and she wasn’t happy. I inched closer to the open window.

‘Notice period? I’m sorry, darling, but there is no notice period. You never signed a contract. Remember? … Well, expect to hear from my solicitor, too, if you want to take it further … Bring it on … I’ve got Amber now, she’ll do it … You’re swiftly losing any chance of a decent reference, Nathan … You’ve lost the reference … I already have the itinerary.’

And then the conversation came to an abrupt end.

‘Fucking prick.’

The front door slammed shut and I heard Mona’s heels on the polished white floor indoors. I slid down the wall, coming to rest on my bare heels. I
really
wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a conversation like that. But before I had time to dwell on it, I was summoned.

‘Amber, babe, all unpacked up there? We need to get going!’

I guessed that asking for another ten minutes so I could at least have a ‘whore’s bath’—what Vicky called a quick, cold top and tail from the sink—wasn’t an option.

‘I’ll be down in two!’ I yelled back.

Feeling weak and out of body from the flight, there was nothing I could do but whip off my stale jeans and jumper, put on the one black denim skirt I had managed to pack, a black vest top, black ballet pumps, a heavy application of Mitchum under my arms and fly downstairs.

‘S
o here’s the thing,’ Mona said as we sat in the Prius en route to the W Hotel, she in yet another outfit, copper waves tamed in a loose ponytail and a headscarf while she drove. ‘You’re going to be doing some PA duties for me, too. I had to get rid of Nathan.’ She paused. ‘He had bad energy.’ She put her foot down, accelerating hard, clearly unwilling to divulge any more details about the second member of staff she’d parted company with this week.
Bad energy.
As the breeze lashed my hair against my face, turning it into a tangled mess, I wondered what this actually meant.
Will she think I’ve got ‘bad energy’ too?

‘No problem, I’ve done plenty of PA stuff for Jas,’ I offered diligently, with as much good energy as I could muster. It was only a white lie. I had turned into Mona’s big-eyed, eager-to-please puppy. Yet I had an overwhelming feeling that I would always be just one accidental widdle on the carpet away from getting the sack myself.
Well, how hard can PA duties actually be?

‘Great. First, I need you to call the TV people. I told you they’re coming to the suite to do a bit of follow-up filming for the pilot today.’
Er, no, you didn’t. Do you think I’m Derren Brown?

‘They took the plane out this morning, too—the Virgin one, all a bit lastminute.com. But it’s a good sign—they must think the network is interested in commissioning the series. Isn’t that fabulous?’

I gulped.

‘The AD, Bob, was it? The cute one. His number’s in my phone, under “TV”. I said you’d call when we were on our way.’

She handed her unlocked iPhone to me without taking her eyes off the road, which was lucky because it meant she couldn’t see my award-winning impression of Gwyneth Paltrow’s face after discovering she’s eaten a non-macrobiotic canapé. I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the fact that the TV crew was already here, in LA, or that Mona thought Rob was cute. ‘What are you waiting for, babe? Give him a call.’

Hastily, I located the number, and it rang, the long, foreign ringtone leaving me in no doubt that he was indeed this side of the Atlantic. My heart started pulsing hard, taking me by surprise.

‘Hello, Rob speaking.’

‘Oh, hi, Rob—it’s, um, Amber here, calling for Mona Armstrong.’

‘Hi, Amber, great to speak to you—we were just wondering when Mona would call. Wonder if you’re feeling as out of it as I am!’

He instantly put me at ease. I pictured him smiling into the phone.

‘Yes, I am pretty tired.’ I sideways-glanced at Mona, who flew across an amber light, laughing. ‘Amber Green!’

As we sped along a wide six-lane carriageway, glass-fronted shops and parked cars whizzed past. I saw very few actual people on the pavement; it was so different to the packed streets of central London.

‘All right, babe, stop flirting,’ Mona barked. ‘Just let the guy know they should make sure they’re with us by at least five, because Beau Belle’s due soon after. She’ll be perfect for the show.’

I replaced my ear to the phone. ‘Mona says, if …’

‘It’s okay, Amber, I heard. Beau Belle, in the flesh, hey? We’ll be with you by five. Get some coffee down you. It’s always a killer on the first day, but you’ll be fine.’

‘See you later, then.’

I handed Mona’s iPhone back to her, leaned back into my seat and began mentally listing the things that were wrong with my current situation:

My face looks like Lindsay Lohan’s after a bender.

I smell.

I have indeterminate ‘energy’.

I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing at the W Hotel.

And on top of that, my first day at work was about to be recorded on camera by a guy I almost definitely fancied.

Just concentrate on your professional ability, Amber Green. You have a career now, and you can do this. Show her you were worth the gamble. You want this. Focus.
But giving myself an internal pep talk was another clear sign I fancied him.

We pulled up in front of the impressive glass facade of the W Hotel in West Hollywood, the gleaming mirrored walls
glinting in the bright sunshine. Mona handed the keys to a waiting valet attendant. Then the boot bounced open, and the bags and hanging clothes cases Ana and I had carefully packed into it were lifted out by a bellboy and loaded onto a trolley. Mona handed him a dollar bill.

‘Wow Suite, fast as you can.’

‘Certainly, Ms Armstrong. I’ll let the front desk know you’ve arrived.’

‘And tell them to send up any parcels—there should be several.’

Like her obedient pet puppy, I followed. We entered the achingly cool foyer. Trendy people stood busily chatting in groups or waiting for others in round seating areas. An organically curved central staircase with a red carpet down its centre swept through the space with impressive elegance. I wanted to stop here for a minute, to take it all in, but we went straight into the lifts. Mona seemed impatient and far too alert—unlike me, she’d obviously had a decent amount of sleep on the plane.

‘Your Cavallis should be here by now,’ she commented, squeezing out half a smile as we zoomed upwards.
Please, dear Lord, let them be here.
I glanced at my phone—16:35—that meant I had twenty-five minutes, maximum, to make myself look a bit better and to wake up.

‘Nathan should have pre-ordered refreshments for the suite, so you can set them out prettily and get the coffee on first of all,’ Mona instructed. I wondered if Nathan had ordered her a side dish of cyanide while he was at it. Judging by the phone conversation I’d eavesdropped on, I wouldn’t have put it past him.

Our suite was the size of my entire flat. In the sprawling living room, a stylish dove-grey corner sofa and lounge
chairs filled one area, above which hung a light installation ‘containing 20,000 LEDs’ according to the in-room brochure. There were also three free-standing full-length mirrors and a large glass-topped dining table, upon which Mona began methodically setting out an impressive haul of glittering accessories from one of the holdalls, as if she’d robbed the Crown Jewels. There was a large flat-screen TV and an iPod station on one wall; she turned it on and soon Jessie Ware’s soothing tones filled the space, a comforting reminder of the music we played in Smith’s. All of a sudden it dawned on me that I was a long way from home. There was also a breathtaking outdoor private terrace with an open fireplace and cream patio seating, ‘for cigarette breaks and refreshments’. And a compact double bedroom dressed in shades of beige led off from the lounge.

‘This will be the changing area,’ Mona informed me.

I quickly realised that we were basically turning the space into an elaborate shop fitting room, but with plusher sofas and added Jo Malone candles, which Mona had brought along in her Louis Vuitton.

Having laid out a table of cups, glasses, bottles of still and sparkling water, two large platters of fruit, a bowl of mixed berries and a plate of fig rolls—a menu she and Nathan had clearly decided was ample sustenance for our clientele, but which I could currently have tipped down my throat in one go—I figured out how to work the Nespresso machine and got busy making my first ever caffè macchiato. My initial attempt was flat, so I kept it for myself and made a second, impressively fluffy, super-strong cup for Mona. It soon transpired that the ability to make good coffee was indeed an integral part of my job. Through the course of the
afternoon I learned that Mona was a caffeine addict, and I swiftly became her dealer.

As I re-emerged from the terrace, I saw that Mona had transformed the living area into a haven of shimmering designer wear. The dining table was a magpie’s paradise, with sparkling jewellery laid across it in neat columns of necklaces, bracelets and shoulder-grazing earrings—most of them chunky, eye-catching pieces in gold or silver inlaid with twinkling diamonds and elegant semi-precious gems. The opposite end was a treasure trove of clutch bags, from small, hard boxes covered in black and silver crystals, bringing a touch of
Great Gatsby
glamour to evening ensembles, to softer hand-finished half-moons in all colours from navy to ultra-feminine pale peach. Down the middle of the table was a row of evenly spaced sunglasses—or ‘pap shields’, as Mona referred to them—an essential accessory for our most-photographed visitors. There were big, round Jackie O ones, gold-rimmed aviators and fifties styles that playfully turned up at the corners, all bearing designer names. On a side table, laid out around a large cream lamp, was a symphony of scarves. I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed the bright Cavalli ones from the airport nestled in the display.
Thank you, Jane from Cavalli. I at least have one fashion PR pal I can count on.
Along the entire length of the room was a row of shoes, all towering heels; some with the instantly recognisable Christian Louboutin red sole, and most in black, nude, silver or gold, so perilously high and delicate they looked like art installations rather than footwear. I was glad I’d brought plasters and Party Feet. Then ‘the pièce de résistance’ as Mona referred to it: a long clothes rail filled with the most exquisite evening wear I had ever seen. Some gowns were so long they trailed onto the floor;
others screamed for attention with their eye-popping hues or sophisticated detailing. I thought the rails at Smith’s were something special, but this was a whole new level of glamour. Each piece struggled to steal the spotlight from the next. I couldn’t take them all in fast enough—it was like lifting the lid on a fairy-tale fancy dress box. One dress was so full of elaborate creamy ostrich feathers its plumage rose up above the others, like a sensual showgirl high-kicking onto centre stage. Next to it, a hanger groaned under the weight of a heavy, one-shouldered gown covered in twinkling black sequins: a dress fit for a diva. A stunning emerald beauty threw glitter-ball spots of light onto the ceiling, from the glinting silver jewels hand-sewn onto its neckline. The craftsmanship and love put into each gown was instantly visible.

Amid this cornucopia, there was one that instantly appealed to me; a beautifully romantic, scarlet satin Valentino number, figure-hugging, oozing class. It might as well have had an Oscar pinned to it as an accessory. I ran my hand over the material, cool and silky-smooth to the touch.
I wonder what it feels like to wear a dress like that.

‘Red-carpet evening wear on the left, low-key daywear on the right,’ Mona informed me, though I failed to see anything ‘low-key’ about the entire collection. ‘It’ll be obvious straight away who’s looking for what.’

I really hoped it would. A fug I assumed was jet lag was starting to surround me. I stopped myself thinking that, eight hours ahead of us in the UK, I’d probably be in my cosy bed after an evening on the sofa with Vic, eating pitta and hummus and watching Graham Norton. At five to five, the front desk alerted us that the TV crew were making their way up, so I locked myself in the posh cream marble bathroom
and rummaged through the stash of free miniature products, attempting a quick freshen up. I splashed water on my face, rubbed silky moisturiser into my arms, neck and chest—so at least I was vaguely fragrant—and re-scraped my hair back into a ponytail. It would have to do.

Today’s TV crew was similar to the one we’d entertained in Smith’s not much more than twenty-four hours ago, only this time, another shaggy-haired cameraman was joining Fran with the bob and Rob. This one was American and called Lyle, but I christened him Shaggy, too. Fran with the bob shook my hand and Rob planted a peck on my cheek.

‘Amber, good to see you again.’

It was great to see a friendly face. In a crisp white T-shirt, jeans and Pumas, Rob looked fresh, like he’d actually managed to shower since disembarking the plane. The place where he’d planted the kiss was burning up. He had Mona and I sign more release forms. Then, no sooner had the camera been set up and we’d necked another coffee, there was a ring at the door.
Our suite has its own doorbell!
I opened it to reveal a man mountain, dressed like a nightclub bouncer in a black suit, white shirt and skinny black tie, his hair crew cut, a small earpiece tucked inside his right ear.

‘Hey, Mona, good to see you again. I’m here with Miss Belle—should we come in now?’ He looked straight through me. I fizzed with excitement, jet lag suddenly forgotten. I was about to meet Beau Belle, star of so many chick flicks.
Vicky would die.

‘Not looking after Miley any more, AJ?’

‘No, Trey Jones, but his fiancée, Beau here, has got me run off my feet,’ said the Hulk, bending his thick neck to speak into a discreet radio microphone pinned to his collar.
‘Just finding out how long filming will take. Keep her close at heel until I say.’
How odd, they’re talking about her as if she’s a chihuahua.

‘The filming won’t take long,’ said Mona. ‘We’ll pick a few pieces together, a few twirls for the camera and we’ll wrap. Right, kids?’ Rob nodded and Fran with the bob smiled through gritted teeth. It seemed that Mona couldn’t help patronising everyone she met.

‘Do you have any food? She and Pinky haven’t had time to break all day,’ said AJ.

‘Pinky?’ Rob mouthed at Fran, who shrugged in response.

‘My assistant, Amber here, has it covered. Water, coffee, fruit, snacks, whatever she—
they
—want.’ Mona was in full-on charm mode, although she clearly had no idea about Pinky, either.

AJ spoke into his mic again. ‘We’re ready. Bring them in.’

The camera was trained on the door, and I stepped back, hopefully out of shot. As Fran with the bob signalled, ‘Action!’ a small grunt made all of us look at the floor. A petite, pink micro-pig, dressed in a black leather biker jacket, made its entrance, inquisitively rushing into the room and stopping in the centre of it to check us all out. Its short curly tail lifted eagerly. Mona was trying not to frown, which wasn’t all that difficult. I was by now aware that her forehead barely moved.

Vicky would be wetting herself.

‘Pinky, baby, wait for Mommy!’ a shrill, recognisable voice called out.

And in tottered Beau Belle, an image so familiar from the
Daily Mail Online,
yet strangely different in the flesh—in
fact, she looked like a cartoon character. A torrent of molten gold curls hung loose around her shoulders, a floppy black hat perched on top of her head and an oversized black faux-fur waistcoat hung over pale grey skinny jeans, finished with high, black, suede-fringed ankle boots. Seventies hippie meets Texan cowgirl, with a sprinkling of Barbie. She was not unlike a smaller, younger and—we all knew it—prettier version of Mona. A second bodyguard entered behind her, rooting himself immediately next to the door.