The Stylist (26 page)

It’s an LA rite of passage. You’ll be thanking me afterwards.

I’m pretty sure I won’t. Sounds hideous. Plus I don’t have any running gear.

Borrow some.

Do you seriously think Mona runs?

Excuses. I’ll pick you up at 8 a.m.

8 a.m.?

No reply. I supposed the run thing was happening. And I supposed I still needed Rob in my life for professional reasons, so I resolved to start afresh, try desperately hard to push all filthy thoughts to one side and see him as a mate.

E
arly the next morning, happy to be hangover-free, unlike the rest of Hollywood, I decided to enlist Klara in the hunt for some sportswear that would:

1. Enable me to look vaguely attractive in front of Rob.

2. Give the impression I was reasonably fit.

3. Cope with the tricky terrain of a canyon.

My situation was greatly helped by the fact that Klara, the dirty stop-out, had not returned all night. Rummaging through her wardrobe, I found a pair of leather-look leggings, some cream Isabel Marant wedge sneakers, and her big ‘Relax Don’t Do It’ T-shirt. The irony wasn’t lost on me. They would have to do.

Rob arrived early. ‘You’re running in those?’ he looked at the shoes.

‘They’re trainers, and more to the point they’re all I’ve got,’ I replied, admiring them. And then we were off, puffing
next to each other as we climbed higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills until we reached a dirt track signifying the start of ‘Runyon Canyon’.

‘You spot actors every time you’re up here, normally,’ Rob explained, barely breaking a sweat and, thankfully, without showing a whiff of ill feeling towards me.
Maybe he was drunker than I thought that night.
‘Unlikely today, though, being the morning after the Oscars.’

‘Sensible people are probably having a lie-in,’ I panted, desperately trying to regulate my breathing. It was already getting hot.

‘Only mad dogs and English ladies in silly shoes would go out for a run.’ He nudged me playfully as we started a slight ascent. I noticed the wedges were already covered in a layer of brown dust. Meanwhile, Rob had clocked the pained expression on my face.

‘Think of the good it’s doing,’ he encouraged, ‘getting the toxins out and oxygen flowing. Do you ever run at home?’

I was having to concentrate very hard on the rocky gravel path. As it turned out, wedge trainers are almost impossible to run in. I side-glanced at him, ‘What do
you
think?’ He chuckled in response. ‘It was these or flip-flops. Anyway, I wanted to apologise to you.’ A film of sweat was developing across my face and I was starting to lag behind.

He glanced back. ‘Why?’

‘I was a total idiot to you in London, after the BAFTAs. I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You weren’t an idiot at all.’ He considerately slowed the pace to a brisk walk—a huge relief, as I was developing a stitch.

‘I was. I got too drunk and I don’t really remember everything I was saying, but I woke up feeling horrible. I
know it was bad,’ I panted, catching him up and trying not to sprain my ankle. He had stopped by the side of the path to survey the scenery beneath us. I dropped my hands to my knees. My inappropriate push-up bra was digging into my ribs, and my knickers were in my bum.

‘Look at this view. It’s worth the climb, right?’

I looked out over the flat, sprawling city: row after row of low-rise grey buildings and long straight roads in a grid pattern, dotted with tall skyscrapers on the horizon. Above it all, a light, hazy smog was being slowly burned away by the morning sun. It looked calm down there, as though the whole of LA was just coming round, nursing a collective hangover after the excitement of the night before. We stood there, next to each other, for a few moments of quiet as we admired the view.
Why do I always find myself in perfect snogging settings with Rob?
I physically ached to be held in his arms; for him to tell me he was falling in love, too.

‘It’s a concrete jungle, but it’s beautiful.’ He sighed, finally. ‘I love this time of the morning.’

‘Could you live here?’ I asked, allowing myself to contemplate what it might be like if this was our daily run, together, in another life, where I was wearing suitable shoes and displaying a washboard stomach. Oh, and Rob wasn’t engaged to someone else.

‘Maybe,’ he sighed, wistfully. ‘But it won’t happen now.’

‘Why not? You’ve got loads of work out here.’ I paused. ‘And a soon-to-be fiancée who likes travelling. The world’s your oyster, surely?’

He hesitated, as if mulling over whether to tell me something. He paused for the longest time. At last he spoke: ‘It’s not a very baby-friendly city.’ He stretched his arms back behind him and clasped his hands to distract attention from
the bomb he’d just dropped. I caught my breath. Slowly, I turned to face him. ‘You have—
a baby?’
I raised an eyebrow.
How many secrets can one guy have? How can I be so dumb as to not have known this?

‘There’s one on the way.’ He kicked a small rock over the edge. We both watched it go, and heard it bounce once, twice, three times before it stopped.

‘You’re not kidding, are you?’

‘Nope.’ He dropped his hands and dug his heel into the soft rubble at our feet.

‘That’s big news. When is it due?’

‘I’m not sure. Listen, I wasn’t going to tell you, but the truth is I can’t think of anything else and I feel I can trust you, Amber. Can I?’

He had no idea how hard this was to hear. ‘Of course,’ I put a hand on his shoulder and swallowed hard. ‘We’re mates.’

‘Let’s walk and talk,’ he said. I too was glad of the distraction. As Rob talked, I tried to take it all in, pretending he wasn’t cutting me deeper and deeper with every word. Everything began to make sense as he described how his girlfriend of only six months, Emily, had told him the news that her period was late—
two whole weeks late
—during her work trip. Rob, being the gentleman he was, had decided to do the right thing—get a ring and propose to her on her return, when they’d done the pregnancy test together. The whole thing made me feel sick to the core. Getting engaged was one thing, but a baby? There was no going back from that.

‘You don’t sound too overjoyed about it,’ I said, when he finished. He’d barely looked up from the path the whole time.

He shrugged. ‘We’ve not been together that long. I suppose
I hadn’t imagined becoming a dad just yet—we hadn’t had
that
conversation, you know? But I’ve always thought I would have children, at some point. Maybe now is that point. Got to man up, I guess.’ He half smiled although his body language told a whole different story. We walked in silence for a while, leaving the canyon path for the safety of tarmac roads. My calves could finally relax, but my mind was now in overdrive.

‘Once it sinks in, I bet you’ll be really excited,’ I said at last. ‘You’ll make a great dad. You’ve already “manned up”—whatever that’s supposed to mean.’

‘Jog the last bit?’ He picked up the pace, running backwards facing me and forcing a weak smile. The sun back-lit his movie-star physique.
God, he looks handsome, even more so when he’s sweaty and mixed up.
Compared to this news, the thought of him buying the engagement ring seemed so small. I could feel tears rushing to my eyes. I breathed deeply and forced a weak smile back.

‘If you insist, Mr Motivator.’

When we reached the house again, he hugged me close on the doorstep. He felt hot and comforting. He smelled of warm washing powder and fresh sweat. I could have stood there, holding him, inhaling him, for ages.

‘Sorry if that got a bit heavy,’ he said, pulling away. ‘Thanks for being a great mate.’
Mate. I hate that word so much.

‘Any time.’ I raised a forced smile of my own.

‘I’ll be back later, to say goodbye before you fly,’ he continued. ‘Fran’s keen to see Mona about the pilot.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Great—see you then.’ Then he was off, jogging down the street and straight to his car without looking back. I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching as
he drove off. I didn’t want to move, because in the warm, still air that enveloped me I could still just about smell him. I stood there for a minute or so, my arms folded over my chest, aching for another cuddle like that. I realised it was the first hug I’d had from a man in months—maybe a year. LA Liam hadn’t even tried to cuddle me when we had the bad kiss.
How tragic.
I replayed the safe, happy feeling the hug gave me over in my mind, fearing it would never happen again. Then my brain caught up, remembering that there was really nothing safe or happy about it at all, because he was going to marry someone else. Someone who was having his baby.
His baby! Could I have picked a worse person to fall in love with?
As his car vanished around the corner at the foot of the hill, I visualised it coming back, reversing up the street at high speed so that he could carry me off like a caveman and tell me it was all a twisted joke, just his warped sense of humour; that there was no fiancée, no baby. I’d forgive him in a second before kissing his gorgeous face off.

As I entered the house, Mona was marching downstairs, wearing a white silk blouse tucked into a tight black leather pencil skirt, and heels, her hair in a neat bun on top of her head, chunky gold chain around her neck, red nails. Pristine and ready for business. But, as it turned out, not for a meeting with an accountant.

‘Fran from
20Twenty
called this morning,’ she declared, bright and breezy. ‘They’re coming over to show us an edit of the pilot. Isn’t that fabulous?’ She clapped her hands together, as if the memory of yesterday and her time at the cop shop had been completely wiped. ‘Ana’s setting up the living room and she’s going to make popcorn.’ She stopped in front
of the big hallway mirror to admire her reflection. She’d trowelled on make-up this morning and it certainly didn’t look as though she’d lost much sleep last night. Eventually she took in my appearance, fixating on the dusty Marants.

‘Jesus.’ She looked me up and down. ‘What the hell have
you
been doing?’

‘Exercising,’ I replied, smugly.

‘In
those
shoes?’

When she had finished briefing me on the returns to be processed and ticked me off for nearly mislaying a suitcase full of borrowed accessories, which a courier was now on its way to pick up from Lost and Found at LAX, thank goodness, I found myself alone in the office, surveying the aftermath of yesterday’s antics.

While the internet was awash with Oscars gossip, and Jennifer’s gown made all the Best Dressed lists, fashion blogs were also buzzing with the story of Mona’s arrest, and increased speculation about the downward spiral of the ‘wayward stylist’. The least flattering of all paparazzi photos of Mona were plastered across gossip sites to illustrate the point. They even knew about the stolen chicken fillets, which, coupled with the rest of her recent behaviour, created a seriously bleak picture. On the
Starz
website, a ‘source’ was quoted, revealing the lack of remorse she’d shown as she escaped with a ticking off and a fine. It had to have been leaked by our cabbie. My phone was full of text messages; Nicole and Caroline had called and people at home had seen the stories, too. In fact, it seemed as though only Mona was living in a bubble, fingers in her ears, going ‘la, la, la’. On the surface, at least.

Are you okay? We’re worried about you, darling,
Mum texted.

Don’t be. I’ll be home tomorrow x,
I replied.

Tried to call her about the accountant, but no response,
she texted back. It didn’t surprise me at all.

Text from Vicky:
Mona—shoplifting!?! And will you be back for Tuesday? xx

Jas:
Is Mona okay? Are you? x

I shut my phone down. Maybe, if I ignored the outside world, too, the Mona problem would simply go away. I only had twenty-four hours to get through, sorting out the returns, and then I was free.

Fran and Rob arrived and set about linking their laptop to the big TV. Mona had asked Klara and Ana to join us—she’d even mentioned it to the pool cleaner—anything to maximise the audience for her star turn. Klara had rocked up from her twenty-four-hour Oscars bender not long before; she clattered through the front door, slightly dishevelled, with a mischievous smile on her face. She looked as though she’d just rolled out of someone’s bed.

‘Okay?’ I mouthed. She winked in response, confirming my suspicion, not even clocking that I was wearing her clothes. As Ana passed round bowls of warm popcorn, Klara appeared to drift off, her eyes glazing over as her mind wandered, presumably back to an X-rated scene from the night before. The only thing pulling her out of it was some text tennis, presumably with last night’s conquest, as there was a soppy grin on her face with every beep from her phone.

As the TV screen came to life, the volume grew loud and we all giggled as Miss P’s new single pumped out during the opening credits—a hint of the flashing incident that was surely to come. Then the camera panned across rails of glamorous gowns and rows of shoes, peered inside
a treasure chest of gleaming jewels and came to rest on an image of Mona, dressed in her trademark leather leggings and tank top. Stacks of bangles on her arm, iPad on her lap and phone to her ear, she looked every inch the workaholic international super-stylist. Mona dragged her chair closer, eyes glued to the screen—captivated by her own image. The opening scenes showed her at the first appointment in Smith’s, rifling through the racks with Jas. I squirmed when the camera caught my flushed cheeks. Mona described Tamara leaving her ‘right up shit creek. The silly bitch handed in her notice this morning. I go for the bloody Globes tomorrow! Oh, I’ll do it, all right.’ She peered menacingly into the camera lens.
‘Nothing
comes between me and my superstars.’
How incongruous her words seemed now.
And there I was, a rabbit in the headlights, barely able to walk in my borrowed shoes as I was plucked from obscurity to become Mona’s assistant. You couldn’t help but notice the scowl across Kiki’s face.

‘Look at you! So cute!’ Mona turned and squeezed my knee. I realised I was clutching the sides of my face tightly, my eyes half-closed in a giant cringe as the camera zoomed in on my blotchy red face while the mix-up over the monochrome shoes in the shop window played out. Then we were magically transported to LA. ‘The land of palm trees, limos, A-list stars and the start of awards season,’ intoned the narrator, who sounded suspiciously like Fran and not Joanna Lumley, who had been promised at one point. The W suite looked like a dazzling boudoir, awash with the finest fashions in Tinseltown. In came Pinky, and in tottered Beau Belle, looking even more like a mad, pneumatic Barbie than she did in the flesh. Pinky’s miniature leather jacket looked ridiculous—it was as though someone had pressed
the ‘exaggerate’ button, but it was all painfully true. There was a comedy moment when Pinky took a shine to a pair of glittery Jimmy Choos, nuzzling them gently with his snout until Mona kicked him off with more than a little force. The moment she saw the camera on her, she smiled broadly and bent down to pat the pig, ‘Dear Porky, there’s a good boy!’