The Stylist (15 page)

‘Funny?’ I was infuriated.
This is my work! My livelihood.

He apologised again. ‘But just think, Amber—if Beau and Trey don’t make it down the aisle, you’re probably first in line to get the pig.’ He burst out laughing again, almost sending a mouthful of cappuccino over his chicken bones. ‘I’m sorry, but it is … just a tiny bit funny.’ He gestured a tiny measure with his thumb and forefinger and looked up at me mock-apprehensively. ‘Just a weeny bit, Amber. Annie?’

He was right—this week had become more than a bit ridiculous, and he was the only person out here who could make me see it. I decided to tell him everything. All about working at Smith’s, how I accidentally got offered this job, my cobbled-together kit, rushing out here without really having a clue, Mona’s erratic behaviour, the message from the loans company on her phone, the hamper of unopened bills in her office and the constant feeling that I was within a whisker of getting the sack the whole time. When I put
it all together, it did sound pretty entertaining. In a black-comedy way.

‘So the boyfriend’s pining for you back home in London, then?’ Rob asked, just as a waitress landed the most delicious-smelling hot brownie with vanilla ice cream between us. My cheeks coloured as I wondered whether to come clean and explain there was no boyfriend.

‘Actually I live with Vicky—my best friend stroke house mate.’ I stared into my mug. ‘But, we’re not, um—’ I went red instantly.
Meep.

‘Special friends?’ Rob smiled.

‘Yeah, I mean, no.’

‘I didn’t think you were a lesbian, Amber,’ he said, smirking, ‘Not that I have any problem with lesbians. Did the mystery caller ever get in touch the other day, by the way?’ I was surprised he remembered.

I shrugged, thinking about the text from Liam again. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘You’ve got the guys queuing up,’ he teased. ‘But I saw the way you were looking at Trey Jones this evening.’

‘Trey? He’s a good-looking guy, but no, he’s engaged. Although like you said, whether they’ll make it up the aisle is another thing,’

‘You really think he’ll break it off?’

‘If he’s got any sense. She’s so clearly playing him. Oh, and did I tell you why Pinky was less than perky in the suite the other day?’ I was really loosening up now. ‘He ate an empty M&Ms packet on my watch. I could have
killed
him!’ Now I was laughing, too, proper from-the-belly laughter that made my eyes water.

He spluttered. ‘This is too much! You’re lucky animal welfare aren’t after you …’

‘Anyway, enough about me—what about you? Trey or Jennifer?’

‘You think I’m gay?’ He giggled again. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but Jennifer all the way.’

The waitress broke the conversation by asking if we wanted to pay. Instead, we ordered more coffee. I felt so comfortable in his company, and it was great to speak to someone on my wavelength—someone who didn’t take this town and what we were doing in it too seriously. Later, as we became aware of tables being wiped and chairs stacked around us, Rob announced: ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m not ready for bed yet.’ I was comforted by his dependable London accent. ‘Why don’t we pop back into the party for a quick drink, seeing as we’re so near? It’s bound to be still going and if we bump into Pinky and Perky—’ as he had now nicknamed Beau and Trey ‘—I’ll play along, I promise. I’m an ac-tor, remember?’ We both cracked up again. He insisted on paying for the food, and I pulled out my phone to check the time: 1:10 a.m. I knew there would be a ton of clothes returns to get through tomorrow, and negotiating Mona’s mood was a headache at the best of times. There were calls to make, cases to pack, errands to run ahead of the flight back to London. All the gloss of the past few days was rubbing off rapidly, but my drunkenness had been replaced by a caffeine buzz and as there was definitely going to be a crash sooner or later, one more cocktail wouldn’t hurt.

‘Are you trying to get me into trouble tonight?’

‘All the celebs will have gone by now, anyway,’ he reasoned. ‘Come on, I don’t want to go home yet, so you’re not going, either.’

I gathered up my handbag and we strolled back down the
street. Once inside the party again, we headed straight for the now almost deserted smoking terrace and sat on a bench looking out over the half-asleep city below. The crowds had vastly thinned out, suggesting, as Rob had predicted, that all the celebrities had left the building. A row of tall, thin palm trees stood proudly in the foreground, silhouetted in front of the impressive vista. As the lights of Los Angeles glimmered beneath us, I didn’t want our evening to end. When the breeze cooled, Rob rested his jacket around my shoulders.

‘You’ve got very twinkly eyes this evening, Miss Green,’ he said, during a natural pause in conversation. Our arms were lightly touching, and I could feel the heat from his body on my bare skin.

‘Perhaps they’re just glazing over—I’m so tired.’ I suddenly felt self-conscious and pulled my arm away from his. ‘I can’t actually believe how much has happened this week.’

I became aware that my heart was beating fast.

‘You’re right,’ he said after a pause, looking away. ‘I’m shattered, too. We’d better make a move. Taxi for twinkly eyes.’ He stood up. ‘I guess this means I’ll see you back in London.’

Along with the other remaining guests, who were now admitting defeat and going to bed, we were ushered from the venue by a waitress who probably had an after-after-party to get to. When we reached the street Rob gave me a friendly kiss on both cheeks, and closed the door on my cab back to Mona’s.

‘Safe travels—and don’t let that madwoman get you down!’ he said through the open window as I was driven off. As the taxi sped along a dual carriageway heading for the Hills, I was still chuckling to myself about how crazy
the past few days had been. I was already looking forward to seeing Rob back in London; he had made the whole thing fun again. And at least I wasn’t sharing my bed with a micro-pig.

As I slipped off my heels at the front door, ready to sneak in without being heard, my phone lit up. Message from Rob:

Sleep well, twinkles x

I read it over and over.

A
ll the lights in the house were off, so I crept straight upstairs, assuming Mona was asleep and Klara still partying. Perhaps she was sitting on Orlando Bloom’s lap by now. I took my make-up off, still thinking about the text from Rob, brushed my teeth thinking of it some more and then reread the message several hundred times when I got into bed, just to check I hadn’t misread it in any way. I then spent an inordinate amount of time concocting a response. I deliberated several responses, ranging from: ‘You too, A x’ (too blunt); ‘Hey green eyes, I had a great evening x’ (too much); to ‘You made them twinkle x’ (too soppy).

I finally settled on: Sweet dreams, see you soon x (friendly and alluding to meeting up again). Sent. Then I immediately panicked that the ‘Sweet dreams’ part was too girly and the ‘See you soon’ too presumptuous. Perhaps I should have not replied at all?
Christ, why isn’t there a twenty-four-hour helpline for text etiquette?
I looked at the radio alarm. Just gone 2:00 a.m. in LA meant soon after 10:00 a.m. in London. Vicky would be up.

‘A-ha, it’s the talk of the town. Had almost forgotten the sound of your voice,’ she answered.

‘Hey, Vixter, can you speak?’

‘Sure, if you don’t mind me sounding out of breath. And no, not for any dirty reason—I wish! I’m late for work and got the hangover from hell, hence making a bad attempt at jogging to the tube. If I stop talking it’s because I’ve passed out. How were the awards? Isn’t it the middle of the night over there?’

‘Yes, I drank too much coffee. It was crazy. Literally no one has a clue what anyone is going to wear until they are standing there on the red carpet being interviewed about it.’

‘Jennifer Astley looked amazing … she’s going to be on our Best Dressed list.’

‘Fantastic! Thanks, hon, I’ll tell Mona. We were so happy she wore that gown, but it was a close call.’

‘So Mona’s still alive after the other night? There’ve been all kinds of things written about her …’

‘I know, I saw some of it and then couldn’t look any more. I can’t work her out, Vicky, she’s so lovely sometimes, and then she’s so out of control at others. Maybe it
was
food poisoning that made her collapse.’

‘Why, what else could it be?’

‘I don’t know … drink problem, addiction to painkillers, depression, she’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Anyway, why are you so hungover?’

‘Oh, you know, I met up with Chloe and one drink led to another …’

‘No Simon Sunday?’

‘No, hoping to see him later. Anyway, why are you still up so late? Don’t tell me you’ve been partying with Jen and you’re calling to tell me I’m dumped because she’s your NBF?’

‘Ha, no way! I drank too much coffee …’

‘Coffee?
I thought it was Dom Pérignon all the way for you out there?’

‘Well, it was, but then Rob and I went to get some food and had a stupid amount of caffeine, so now I can’t sleep.’

‘Rob? And why don’t I know about him?’

‘He’s assistant director for the TV pilot they’re making. He’s a sweetheart …’

‘
And …
have you kissed his sweet face off?’ It sounded as though she’d stopped attempting to jog.

‘No! It’s not like that.’

‘Well, next time I want a snog, so make sure you keep me posted. Listen, hate to cut you off but I’ve got to go, I’m at the tube now and I’m already late.’

‘Love you, honey.’

‘When do you get back?’

‘I land Wednesday at seven. Can’t wait to see you.’

‘Until then,
amigo.
Love ya more. And kiss Rob!’

I hung up. There hadn’t been enough time to tell her about the texts from Liam. He’d sent one text late in the evening, asking if I was having a good time, but it had gone unanswered—I’d been busy. He was my most likely chance of a snog out here but it was beginning to bug me that he hadn’t actually asked me out. I could barely remember what he looked like or the sound of his voice. In fact, the more I tried to conjure his features, the more blurred he became. I read Rob’s text a few more times until I eventually fell asleep, phone next to me just in case Liam decided to actually ring.
Pathetic, I know.

Next morning, my phone showed one new message from Liam, asking how my ‘pretty self’ was feeling.
If only he
could see how un-pretty I look right now.
But no matter how bad the hangover, it was never a chore to wake up in this beautiful bedroom—and this was my second-to-last morning of doing so. It was nearly time to leave LA, and I had no idea if I would ever be back. I had a few days left working for Mona in London, as she prepped for the BAFTAs, before I was going back to Smith’s.

I was dreading the shop already. It felt like the start of a new term at school, as though I could barely remember the person I was when I left, and I didn’t even have a new pencil case to show for it. My eyes had been opened to a new world over here, and I didn’t want to slip straight back into my old one—besides, I didn’t even know if I had a job to return to. I was nervous about seeing Jas again, but the thought of seeing the Stick made me physically shudder. Without a doubt she would have spent a lot of time plotting how bad she was going to make my life.

As I opened my bedroom door to head downstairs, I accidentally trod on a small box lying on the floor. A piece of folded-up paper lay next to it. At first I thought some jewellery from the suite must have fallen out of a bag somewhere along the way and Ana had put it there for me, but when I opened the paper it said, in swirly handwriting: ‘You’re a stylist now. M x’. I undid the box, and inside was a sweet little gold necklace with the letter ‘S’ on it.
S for Stylist.
I warmed the metal between my fingers, a huge smile on my face. It was classic Mona—she pushed me to the edge of despair, but gave enough to make me come running back. Unclasping the delicate gold catch, I put it on immediately, and admired myself in the bathroom mirror. It really was adorable. I read the note again, and then noticed something
scribbled on the other side: ‘Does have to be returned when the PR asks for it, but yours to borrow until then’.
Ah well. It’s the thought that counts.

‘Thank you, darling, you’re so
organised
,’ Mona said as I ended the call to British Airways, having confirmed our return flights to London. Compared with Mona, I suppose I
was
organised to a degree—you only had to look at the state of her filing and the whole array of hotel desk pads and Post-it notes she used as diaries to realise the concept was entirely foreign to her. And, this morning, she couldn’t find her wallet.

‘I’m sure I left it in the suite—it’s bound to be there, it was such a rush to leave for the premiere party and I’ve barely left the house since. Unless someone swiped it when I was, um, incapacitated.’ She tipped out the python bag to check for the umpteenth time that it wasn’t in there. Meanwhile, I had to pay for our flights, which weren’t cheap considering the last minute–ness of it all and the fact Mona refused to fly in any class inferior to Club.

‘And if it’s not in the suite tomorrow, I’ll call the bank,’ she continued, still rifling through travel-sized beauty products, hair clips, bangles, cigarette packets and other bits and bobs from the bag. ‘At the same time, I’ll add the flights onto your wages for the two weeks.’

‘No problem,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I was about wiping out my entire overdraft. My rent was due at home at the end of next week, and I certainly didn’t have enough to cover both. It had been a hectic morning, coordinating couriers to criss-cross through Beverly Hills, collecting gowns from clients and returning them to PRs or the W Hotel, where we’d finish the returns process before
packing up and flying home to London. I wondered if it was time to broach the loans company message on Mona’s answerphone, but another text from Liam put paid to that. He’d been texting me audition updates all morning.

‘Jesus, it’s like Kim and Kanye over there,’ Mona said, mistakenly assuming I was reading a message from Rob. Having slept off her twenty-four-hour ‘food poisoning’ attack, she was, thankfully, now back to her punchy self. She seemed pleased I’d had a night out, and even more impressed that I’d spent it partying with someone as ‘cute’ as Rob. Her outlook was further improved when Caroline called to explain what had happened with Jennifer’s gown yesterday. Mona put her on speakerphone in the office.

‘Honestly, Mona, it was beyond stressful,’ Caroline said. ‘The driver had arrived and we were all set. She looked incredible in the Valentino, and I mean absolutely stunning. We were all ready to go and then Tamara popped a bottle of champagne so we could all toast Jen’s big night, but she was standing too close and the fucking fizz went right down Jennifer’s front.’

I whipped my hand to my mouth and pressed down hard, afraid that loud, hysterical laughter might burst out. Mona gritted her teeth, seemingly also trying to stifle a snort.

‘All over her front, it flew. Totally ruined the gown, and you know as well as I do there is
no way
you take a hairdryer to a fabric that delicate. Thank God Amber had left us with the Oscar de la Renta, because I don’t know what we would have done otherwise.’

‘Oh, babe, that is awful! Tamara
never
should have done such a thing.’ Mona was enjoying the chance to lay in to her ex-assistant. ‘It’s in every rule book—don’t pop a cork
close to a star, let alone a star in a Valentino gown. Jesus Christ, what was she
thinking?’

‘I know—and believe me, she won’t be coming close to Jen in a gown again. Or Jen in anything, for that matter,’ Caroline continued. ‘She was livid, and you know Jen—she’s
so nice.
But we’re so grateful to Amber—she handled the situation with such grace yesterday, and we’re so thankful she had the foresight to leave the de la Renta, just in case. She’s a clever chick. Organised, too.’ I smiled with pride. Mona turned and gave me a wink, clocking that I was wearing the necklace. I stroked the smooth letter.
My lucky talisman?

Next morning, I arrived at LAX feeling all kinds of fabulous, pulling a large suitcase of dazzling fashion around the Tom Bradley International Terminal. Although no one who saw me would suspect it, the case was pulsating with a smorgasbord of silk, lace, satin and sequin-adorned gowns, crystal-encrusted shoes, exotic handbags and some seriously heavy-duty jewellery. Mona had sashayed off to check herself in at the Club desk, leaving me alone to negotiate the trauma of whether my huge cargo was over the twenty-three kilo allowance for World Traveller passengers.

Approaching the bag drop area, I suddenly felt irrationally nervous—my palms became sweaty and my eyes darted around the check-in desks like an illegal immigrant making a bid for a better life as I tried to identify who looked like the friendliest steward. The warning signs on each desk left no doubt that there would be excess charges if luggage was over the allowance, and I had no idea what mine weighed. If I had to pay for the excess my card would almost certainly be declined, and, of course, Mona was nowhere
to be seen.
There’s nothing I can take out of this case. It all has to come with me.
In my panicked state, I decided that if I
was
over the limit, I’d have no choice but to take some stuff out and wear it. The embellished Dolce & Gabbana and Chanel bags, a textured-leather Burberry jacket and the Cavalli jewellery were probably the heaviest items. Yes, I was fully prepared to resemble Elizabeth Taylor risen from the dead on board this flight, if necessity demanded. It was ironic really, considering the weight would be exactly the same on board the plane, but this was no time for clever remarks about airport baggage policies. I held my breath as the case was weighed and let it out slowly in relief as the nice woman on the desk slapped on a big, eye-catching orange ‘HEAVY’ sticker and pushed it through. As it disappeared into darkness on the conveyor belt, I prayed we would be safely reunited on the other side.
Is Mona insured?
I decided not to dwell on the thought as the case vanished into the ether.
Thank God my mother isn’t here.

Despite my increasingly stiff neck, a puncture in my scratchy neck pillow and the man next to me constantly flopping his head onto my shoulder, the flight passed reasonably quickly. Three mini-bottles of white wine and one of Mona’s horse-tranquilliser tablets helped me to achieve a few hours of broken sleep. When I woke, we were flying over the Thames—it snaked through the toy town beneath us like a long grey worm. The
EastEnders
theme tune played in my head and a warm feeling rippled through me.
Home, sweet home.
I’d be reunited with Vicky in a matter of hours and there was so much to discuss. I planned to see Mum and Dad tomorrow, and, if I asked really nicely and gave them some duty-free gin, they might cook a roast in
the evening and I would savour every single mouthful, in between filling them in on my glamorous working holiday that might one day turn into a lucrative career. Mona certainly seemed to enjoy a high-flying lifestyle. Anyway, let’s face it, it was the
only
career development I’d had in a long while. Just as the seat-belt sign went on Mona appeared, her timing impeccable.

‘Get any sleep, babe?’ she asked. A black satin eye mask rested on top of her head, her lipstick was freshly applied—presumably because you never knew
who
you might bump into, wandering through Club en route to the cheap seats—and there was the usual strong waft of her pheromone-reactive scent.

‘A little. You?’

‘Eight hours—don’t you just love it when that happens?’ I grunted, as did most of the cattle-class passengers around me. ‘Just wanted to give you a heads-up that tomorrow’s going to be busy,’ she continued. ‘I caught up on a few emails and Wonderland Artists Agency have been in touch. Clive needs some help with an artist—an image change.’ She looked around the cabin, giving my fellow passengers a blatant once-over to deduce whether any of them were cool enough to care about what she was about to say. I leaned in closer as Mona whispered loudly, ‘It’s Miss P. She’s not cutting it in the charts since she won the show, and a new look is all part of the overhaul to turn her into a credible actress. She needs to go to the BAFTAs and make a splash.’