The Stylist (10 page)

‘If you’re here in LA for a while, look me up. Maybe we can grab a cocktail together … if you’re not still on the run, that is,’ he added.
I’m actually being chatted up, at Soho House, by a real-life American!

‘Thanks—that would be lovely.’

Holding the card in the palm of my hand, I closed my fingers tightly around it, squishing it in half. Then I skirted around the edges of the throng back towards the exit, giving the area in the middle a wide berth as a fountain of flashbulbs exploded once more and I imagined Beau and Trey right in the centre, probably air-kissing Leonardo DiCaprio. When I reached the car park Mona was waiting, beating her thumbs on the wheel. She scowled as I opened the door.

‘Sorry, long queue in the Ladies’,’ I muttered, diving in a millisecond before she slammed her foot down and we
sped off. I don’t think she’d have worried unduly if I’d been dragged along the concrete. In the back of the car, once I’d regained my breath, I unfurled my fingers from around the crumpled card. I studied the writing on one side of it:

Liam Anderson
Actor
Los Angeles • New York • London

And on the reverse, two mobile phone numbers—one American, one British—and an email address. I slipped it into my clutch bag before Klara could get a look.
Liam Anderson. Should I know that name, or recognise the face?
I pulled out my phone, desperate to Google him. Another text message from Mum was stacked up behind four others asking if I’d arrived okay, if I was getting on with Mona okay, if I was eating okay, and finally, if I was still alive. I quickly typed a response: Sorry mum! It’s been mad busy. But everything’s fine, having a great time and will call you tomorrow, I promise. Love you A x. She responded straight away: Great, got a pension scheme I need to talk to you about. And Nora was brilliant in her play!

When we arrived back at Mona’s, I was glad of the bag of Reese’s Pieces I’d bought in the pharmacy, which became my late dinner.
I really don’t understand how Mona and Klara can call three canapés supper.
As I tucked myself into the giant bed just before midnight, I felt disappointed that my first celebrity party had been less roaring, more snoring twenties. Then I studied Liam Anderson’s business card again and placed it carefully on the bedside table.

B
y the next morning—the day before the Golden Globes—I’d got into the swing of things. My regime was simple: get up, put on my too-hot black uniform, suffer Mona’s disappointment as she scanned my outfit, endure the white-knuckle ride to the suite and assist my boss by drip-feeding her coffee and being on hand with my kit, as LA’s hottest women processed through our doors, tried things on and took them off again. The only difference was that today I found myself taking a little longer to apply my make-up. We were going to welcome serious Hollywood royalty in the form of America’s sweetheart, actress Jennifer Astley, to the suite today to make her final choice of gown for the awards. Almost as excitingly, I’d woken up to a text message from Liam Anderson:
Great to meet you, English girl. See you soon? x

Unfortunately for Mona, on this particular morning, just as the TV crew started filming, fire alarms began ringing loudly and the whole of the W Hotel was ordered to evacuate, which
the whole of the W Hotel obediently did—with the exception of our suite. With no regard for human life, Mona point-blank refused to let us any of us leave the precious merchandise.

‘You’ll have to break the door down! I’d rather we burned to death than lost all this!’ she screeched through the keyhole, as a hotel porter politely attempted to coax us out of the room with news that coffee was being served to the guests assembled outside. Then, when the hotel manager phoned and tried to reason with her, she simply shouted: ‘Then we’ll all burn down!’ and slammed the receiver. Five minutes later, the manager rapped on the door, now accompanied by two security guards.

‘Ma’am, if you do not vacate these premises in the next sixty seconds, then I will have no option but to call the Federal police. It’s a criminal offence to refuse to evacuate during an emergency procedure.’

Hearing the word ‘criminal’ thrown into the equation, Mona had a change of heart and conceded that Fran, Rob and Shaggy could leave the suite. But I was ordered to stay put. As the film crew shuffled out, my captor sneakily locked us both in the bedroom, with a suitcase of jewellery, three Chanel bags, a vintage Dior gown, a Fendi fur and all the shoes we could carry, making it crystal clear that should flames engulf the hotel, she would be quite happy to see me perish, alongside tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of fashion booty. I had occasionally wondered whether I would ever stare into the cold eyes of death, and this, it seemed, was my answer.

Up in ashes with a designer wardrobe. What a way to go. I wonder if my travel insurance covers this, Mum?

Luckily the alarm ultimately turned out to be a planned fire drill, but Mona’s disturbing behaviour gave us all a terrifying insight into her dedication to the cause. If she was
trying to achieve legendary status, this was certainly one way to go about it.

‘If you ask me, she’s uninsured,’ Rob observed, when I found him at the Nespresso machine as I prepared a triple-shot caffè macchiato for Mona, and one for me, to help steady our nerves. Rob’s words resonated with me long after the alarm had been silenced. I hadn’t failed to notice Mona’s haphazard filing system in the office at her home—it was basically a lot of unopened envelopes shoved into an old Harvey Nichols Christmas hamper under her desk. But now wasn’t the time to broach this with her.

‘Did you get all that?’ I heard Fran with the bob whisper to Shaggy when Mona was ‘taking some air’ on the terrace; she was clutching her second triple-shot caffè macchiato with a noticeably shaky hand, following another visit from the manager who had informed her that any further failure to comply with hotel regulations would mean eviction from the suite.

‘Best thing we’ve got yet,’ Shaggy replied.

‘Totally. I half hoped we’d have to tie gowns together to escape out of the window,’ Fran cackled. ‘Can you imagine if Jennifer Astley had had to shin it down the side of the building? Priceless!’

I wondered if I should tell Mona that the fire alarm segment was undoubtedly going to make the final edit. She didn’t seem to have clocked, but I was beginning to see that the agenda of the
20Twenty
people wasn’t the same as hers. Retrieving my phone, I was chuffed to see another text message from Liam. He seemed keen.

Morning, beautiful. How’s your day going?

I immediately responded:
Hey! All good, busy at work. You? A x

Straight away he replied:
Auditions. Pilot season in full flow—up for a flying doctor and a jolly British bobby this morning. Practising my English accent!!

Well, you know where to come if you need any tips!

I’ll take you up on that.

Where/when?
I shot back, surprised and exhilarated by my directness.

But there the texting session ended. No immediate response. And still no response thirty minutes later. It played on my mind.
Have I messed up my chances? Should I send another text making light of it? No, get a grip. If in doubt, do nothing.
Vicky had told me so countless times as we analysed messages from a succession of guys I had unsuccessfully dated on Tinder.

Fortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on it for long—we were back to business. Anticipation for the Golden Globes was gathering pace and a steady stream of expensive-looking women arrived for their final appointments with Mona, and I was under strict instructions to get them in and out fast so the suite could be cleared in time for Jennifer’s arrival. During fittings, my job was primarily to ensure everyone was kept refreshed and that we never ran out of thin slices of fruit and dried goji berries. I’d decided to ditch the fig rolls, because only me and the odd miniature dog seemed to be eating them and—much as I hated myself for becoming susceptible—I was swiftly developing body inadequacy issues, being around all these wafer-thin people all day long.

My other role was to act like a kind of post-office sorting
clerk, ensuring the endless bags of clothes, shoes and accessories were delivered by the couriers to the correct places at the right times and—now that awards season was beginning to get under way with ‘pre’ parties—there were returns to keep tabs on, as well. Dresses sometimes came back looking like casualties of war, sporting stains from spilt cocktails, occasional cigarette burns, heel-ravaged hemlines and stuck zips. All the promise and excitement they’d once held was gone the moment they’d done their duty and been sent back to us like a dog-eared invitation. But the design houses didn’t seem to bat an eyelid. I just had to ensure each gown went back to the correct PR. The part I enjoyed most was my stylist duties, assisting Mona by delving into my kit for anything she might require to make adjustments to outfits, and increasingly trusting me to cinch a dress together at the back or pin a hem myself while a client stood on a stool, so it hung just so. The only thing distracting me today was my phone burning a hole in my pocket. Two hours had passed—still no response from Liam. Even worse, my incessant checking had been noticed by Rob.

‘Waiting for a call?’ he asked as I pulled out my iPhone, looked at it and replaced it in my back pocket for probably the twentieth time in the last hour. ‘Is it Jennifer?’

‘No,’ I said casually.

‘Boyfriend, then?’

My cheeks flushed. ‘Sort of.’

‘Hope he calls,’ he quipped before turning away.

At 4:00 p.m. there was a buzz in the room as we watched Mona spin into a frenzy in anticipation of Jennifer Astley’s arrival. I assisted her straightening hangers, polishing jewels and checking the minibar a million times to ensure we had a huge selection of different types of water, plus a bottle
of Perrier-Jouët rosé on ice, to cater for Jennifer’s every whim. Bang on time—which I gathered from Mona is rare for most famous people, herself included—Jennifer arrived, exuding star quality. Not in the way Beau did, with her darting, coquettish eyes and false eyelashes so long you could land a private jet on one of them. No, Jennifer’s brand of fame was way more established: calm and confident, professional and finessed. Which made her
really
unnerving.

Her rise to superstardom had been steady and consistent, fuelled by a succession of huge box-office hits and an interesting love life involving several A-list relationships, not to mention a stack of industry award nominations. But none of this seemed to have made her self-important. She looked me straight in the eye when she walked in, and held out a soft, tanned, manicured hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Jen.’

Somehow I managed to get out the word, ‘Hi’ in response. I was spellbound by Jennifer—we all were. She was stunningly beautiful in the flesh, her hair healthy, long and sleek with the glossy swish of an expensive cut and a world-class colourist. It wasn’t hard to see why she had fronted marketing campaigns for international beauty giants for almost a decade. Dressed in her civvies—pale blue jeans, white top, flats, cream blazer—she was effortlessly cool, all Californian sophistication. A thoroughbred. She arrived practically alone; no entourage of publicist, manager, PA and bodyguard to speak for her and demand weird drinks, and no miniature pet snapping at her heels—she just came with a make-up artist, introduced as Caroline, who would transform her quickly from fresh-faced almost-normal Jen to the A-list Jennifer Astley we were all so
familiar with, ready to head straight off to a pre-Globes party held by a top producer.

‘Excuse the state of me, I was rushing to get here from the studio,’ she apologised. I became aware that I was actually open-mouthed—I was in the presence of Hollywood royalty, doing a bad impersonation of Nemo.

‘Can we get you something to drink, Jennifer?’ Mona asked, her hand moving like an electric whisk behind her back, which I took as my cue to stop gawping and look busy. ‘A glass of champagne perhaps?’ I sprang into action, poised by the door of the minibar.

‘Just a little water would be great—thanks so much.’

No mention of room temperature, or whether it has to be lemon-infused, isotonic or coconut. And a thank you!

Then it was time to go through the rails. Jennifer being our biggest celebrity client—and the one the scarlet Valentino gown had been earmarked for—Mona had had me calling around some of the most prestigious design houses before her appointment, and this afternoon we had taken delivery of five incredibly beautiful gowns: two by Armani Privé, one by Alberta Ferretti, an Oscar de la Renta and a stunning ivory silk gown by Dior. Each would complement Jennifer’s impeccably classic red-carpet personality. Jennifer barely batted an eye as Fran with the bob practically curtseyed at her feet and asked if they could start filming; she just carried on as if they weren’t there.
Even you, Fran, with your bob, are small fry compared to Jen’s usual directors.
I noticed Rob seemed as mesmerised by Jennifer as I was. It was impossible not to be.

Though the scarlet Valentino had previously been promised to her, Jennifer didn’t show any angst at hearing that it was no longer available, despite Mona blaming it squarely on
my shoulders, muttering under her breath that I was her ‘new, inexperienced assistant’. Instead she plumped for a cream feather-and-crystal-embellished gown by Oscar de la Renta that showed off her lightly tanned, toned shoulders and back. The dress looked incredible from behind, falling effortlessly into a cascade of wispy feathers. It oozed sophistication.

‘It’s just right,’ she declared, kissing Mona on both cheeks, before disappearing again to take it off. She was our fastest fitting of the week.

Caroline the make-up artist then set to work transforming Jennifer’s face into that of a glowing, iridescent goddess. I tried to busy myself neatening the shoe collection while observing every gentle sweep of the make-up artist’s brush, hoping I might learn something. In Jennifer’s case, less was more. In the blink of a smoky eye, a pearly sheen was dotted across her high cheekbones, a slick of gloss dabbed onto those famously full lips and there she was, dewy Hollywood personified. I was in a Jennifer Astley daze when Rob joined me.

‘Pretty cool to be this close to a proper movie star, isn’t it?’ he whispered.

‘Just slightly. And she’s so nice.’

‘She’s just a normal person underneath the sheen, you know. Anyway, you don’t strike me as someone who gets star-struck, I saw how you handled Beau Belle.’

‘Hmm, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether.’

‘We’re covering the red carpet for Beau’s premiere tonight. Should be interesting, with the pap photos doing the rounds at the moment. I’d guess her fiancé will be there, for the big show of “togetherness”.’

‘Expect so. I’m happy not to have to witness all that, to be honest.’

‘You won’t be styling her for the carpet? She’ll be wearing the Dolce & Gabbana dress …’

He’s up on his celebrity gossip and he’s remembered she’s wearing Dolce. Oh God. Maybe he’s gay?

‘Mona’s going. I don’t think she trusts me out in the field just yet.’

‘You’d walk it! You handled most of the styling for Beau, anyway. As for the red carpet, just imagine feeding time at a zoo and you won’t be far off.’ We both turned towards the door as Jennifer prepared to leave.

‘Thanks, and see you all again, I hope!’ she called, smiling her million-dollar smile and waving in our direction.
Jennifer Astley waved at me. Now this is a moment to bank. I wish I’d asked for a photo.

‘Bye, Jennifer!’ Rob called, nudging me.

‘Good luck tomorrow!’ I added.

‘Oh, Amber, she doesn’t need luck, silly—she’s wearing a lucky dress!’ Mona said loudly, keen to have the last word. Then she was gone. I half-expected to see a trail of twinkling fairy dust in her wake. I sighed.

‘Wow.’

‘She’s amazing,’ Rob agreed. ‘And seriously hot. Right, off to the premiere—catch you tomorrow, for the big day.’
Okay, perhaps he’s not gay.

I could hardly believe it was Golden Globes day.

‘We should grab a drink at some point in the evening, when it’s calmed down,’ he continued.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

‘If you’re not dashing straight back to London, that is?’