The Stylist (18 page)

‘Catch you
mañana
then, baby girl. I’ll text you,’ he said, before picking up his jacket and swaggering off.
Baby girl? Just don’t expect a reply.

And in a heartbeat I was alone again, reeling. Well, alone bar all the people around me gawping.

I had managed to demolish the BLT—every lip-smacking mouthful of it—before Mona returned, on a fashion high after nabbing half of Selfridges’ best second-floor offerings. She didn’t seem bothered when I told her filming was off, instead—to my glee—she suggested we call it a day.

I didn’t have any urge to call LA Liam, instead I erased him completely from my phone and rushed home to tell Vicky all the cringe-worthy details.
Life’s too short for a second bad kiss.

During the two days before the BAFTAs and our makeover of Miss P, I continued to assist Mona, meeting her in a variety
of coffee establishments around town. As she ummed and aahed over which gown and accessories to put on the aspiring star, and we attended appointments at shops and PR offices for her other BAFTA clients, I incessantly checked her email inbox. She was fretting hugely about whether Jennifer Astley was going to call: the scarlet Valentino still needed to be seen on someone this awards season, and Beau Belle had decided not to make the trip from LA with Trey, so we were holding out for Jen, as was Valentino’s office, who was ringing for updates on a twice-daily basis. Mona’s mood swings were as erratic as ever. She would flit from ‘lovely boss’, offering to take me for a mani-pedi once we’d got this round of fittings over, to ‘bitch boss from hell’, tearing a strip off me in front of clients if I used my initiative, and then fail to turn up to some of our appointments, so I had to blindly take them alone. One afternoon she shrieked at me in public when I ordered her a Grande Starbucks instead of a Venti. This particular afternoon, she’d been an hour late to meet me outside Bond Street tube station. I hadn’t been wearing enough layers and my fingers had almost turned blue. There was no hint of an apology.

‘Would it be easier to do some meetings at your house?’ I asked, when my lips had thawed. She ignored the question completely.

As we walked in silence towards Smith’s for our appointment with Jas, I wondered where Mona actually lived in London. So far, there had been no mention of where she was based over here. But more pressing was my fear about what kind of reception awaited me at Smith’s—especially from the Stick.

As we turned onto South Molton Street, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

‘Ladies!’ It was Rob. The sight of him in the middle of a London Street made me jump. He looked really handsome in a black polo neck and thick grey winter coat. ‘You’ve got a pace on you today.’ The tip of his nose was red.

‘Rob!’ I felt my cheeks match the colour of his nose.

‘I didn’t realise we were meant to be filming this afternoon?’ Mona scowled at me, pre-emptively angry. Had I somehow failed to pick up a message?

‘We’re not, don’t panic.’ Rob smiled. ‘Though I wanted to ask if we could do a few more scenes in Smith’s this week—Fran thought it would be good to get you talking about the BAFTAs and Oscars. What do you reckon?’

‘Fine with me, if Jas is okay with it,’ Mona replied.

‘We can ask her today,’ I suggested. ‘That’s where we’re going now.’

‘Great. Just let me know.’ He pulled up his collar, clapped his hands together and shifted his weight from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm; he looked like he wanted to say something else. I prayed he wouldn’t ask me about Liam in front of Mona. I wanted to forget the whole sorry thing. ‘What are you doing after the appointment, Amber?’ he asked finally. ‘Might you have five minutes for a quick drink, or a coffee? I need to ask you something.’

Mona elbowed me really obviously. I turned to my boss, whose mood appeared to have warmed.

‘I suppose she’s allowed a break sometimes,’ she said. ‘We’ll be done at Smith’s in a couple of hours.’ It was pretty clear that Rob was one of the few people who could get what he wanted from Mona; his good looks definitely helped.

‘Great. I’ll meet you in Pret by the tube, five-ish?’

‘See you there.’ And he turned back up the street.

‘He’s into you,’ Mona stated. I was uncomfortably aware that Rob was definitely still within earshot.

‘He’s not. He’s just being friendly.’

As we approached Smith’s, a sinking feeling began to develop in my stomach. Mona seemed distracted, too. She started dragging her heels, and we finally came to a standstill two shops down from the boutique, where she put a hand on my wrist.

‘Listen, Amber, there’s something I wanted to ask before we go in.’ She turned to face me. Sometimes I literally had no clue what was going to come out of her mouth, and this was one of those times.

‘Your job,’ she began; her tone was stern.
She’s firing me!
She paused for dramatic effect. ‘I know it was meant to be a fortnight, but I’d really love you to stay on and help me through the BAFTAs and Oscars. It’s only another couple of weeks.’ She looked at me with something like desperation in her eyes, and I breathed out, overwhelmed with relief. ‘What do you say?’ She gave me what was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘I was thinking we could let Jas know this morning.’

‘Wow, I’m really grateful for this,’ I began, unsure where my sentence was going to end. ‘I wasn’t sure if you thought I was doing a good job or not.’ I smiled awkwardly, and Mona squeezed my wrist.
She won’t actually say it, but I guess this is her way of telling me I’m doing something right.
‘If I did take it, do you think Jas will mind?’

‘Jas will want you to be happy,’ she said, without a second thought.

I did some quick analysis in my head.

Plus sides: the past week has been a blast; I got to meet Jennifer Astley; I occasionally get to wear incredible
dresses; there might not be much food, but there is free champagne.

Minuses: my boss seems to be on the verge of a breakdown; I may completely burn my bridges at Smith’s; I’ve got rent due and no idea when I’m getting paid; I’m not sure I’m cut out for the world of size-zero people; I don’t want to run into LA Liam ever, ever again.

‘Do you mind if I think about it?’ I answered at last. ‘Just a few hours, I need to see what Jas says and I should probably call my mum.’ That reminded me. ‘What, er, would the terms be?’ Vicky would understandably kill me if I couldn’t cover my rent this month, and it would be the first question on my mother’s lips. ‘And the money for the flights?’

‘Well, I’m sure I could let you keep the Burberry you looked so cute in the other night.’ She ignored my question and did a jazz-hands gesture before motioning towards the ‘S’ necklace. ‘A stylist has got to look the part.’ Hmm. That dress was the most beautiful thing I’d ever worn.
Maybe I can eBay it. Or maybe she’s just awkward about discussing financial matters in the middle of the street?

‘Let’s see what kind of mood Jas is in, and I promise I’ll give you an answer by the end of the day, okay?’ I offered.

‘Deal.’ She lifted her collar and put on her sunglasses, ready to enter the store.

O
nce inside, the atmosphere in Smith’s wasn’t as frosty as I’d feared, although it felt odd to be on the ‘other side’ of the appointment. The Stick barely made eye contact with me—though I did spy her giving my outfit the once-over and she no doubt felt relieved I was still in my standard uniform of AllSaints parka, skinny Topshop jeans and black Zara jumper. Jas, however, was much warmer, greeting me with a chic kiss on each cheek, and Big Al was reassuringly oblivious to awkwardness.

‘So, have you met Al Pacino yet?’ he asked, following me down to the stockroom, where I had been invited for a sneaky peek at some of the new collections.

‘Afraid not, but I’ll get you his autograph if I do.’

‘You look thin. You haven’t gone all Hollywood anorexic on us, have you?’ He scanned me in a protective-dad way.

‘The people out there definitely don’t like wine and chips as much as I do,’ I replied. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve just been running around a lot. I’m not about to waste away.’

‘I should hope not.’ He smiled. ‘Any plans to go back out?’

‘Hmm, that’s the big question,’ I replied.

‘The madwoman’s trying to lure you into working for her permanently, then? Jas thinks you’re back here from Monday, you know, she was talking about the windows earlier—wants you to work your magic.’

‘Mona wants to extend things—not permanently, but just so I can help her out for the Oscars, too.’ I was glad to share the secret with someone. ‘But I don’t know—it’s a bit nuts working for her, to be honest.’

‘You don’t say.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You didn’t seriously think it wouldn’t be, did you? Sharp tool like you, Amber Green?’

I chuckled. ‘I don’t know what I thought. But the question is, can I handle any more?’

I sat on an unopened box in the stockroom, not feeling like rushing back upstairs yet.

‘Cuppa?’

‘Ooh, yeah—builder’s, please.’

‘I might be able to stretch to a Hobnob, too, if you’re lucky.’ He smiled and moved skilfully between the boxes stacked in small piles around the floor. But before he disappeared behind the screen in front of the makeshift kitchenette, he stopped, resting an arm on top of the wobbly divider. From here, he looked around the windowless room, taking it all in: the half-opened boxes and rails of clothes still covered in protective polythene wrappers; the wall of shoeboxes stacked on top of each other like oversized bricks. The low ceiling and lack of windows made it feel oppressive. The hours I’d spent unpacking clothes and steaming them down here came flooding back. Alan let out a sigh.

‘I’m in this room hours at a time, six days a week,’ he
said at last. ‘I know every crack on the walls, all the areas of peeling paint that need touching up. I’ve changed every frigging light bulb, several times over. I open boxes after deliveries—and then when they’re empty I flat-pack them and put them with all the other boxes I’ve flat-packed, out the back. I do it over and over again, week after week.’ I kept quiet. ‘There’s got to be more adventure to be had from life than this. Don’t you think, kid?’

I didn’t need to answer. Alan had given me everything I needed to make my decision.

Back upstairs, I could tell by her slightly agitated tone that Mona was itching for her mid-afternoon caffè macchiato. Remembering what happened last time, I offered to run and fetch it. Just as I flung my coat and scarf back on, the Stick finally acknowledged my presence.

‘Wait a sec,’ she called, ‘I’ll come with you.’ She pulled a cashmere cape over her head and turned to Jas. ‘If you’re okay here for ten minutes?’

‘You can grab me a copy of
Drapers
while you’re out,’ Jas replied.

Bewildered, I held open the door and we walked down South Molton Street side by side. I was blowed if I was going to break the ice after the way she’d seen me off when we last walked up this street together, so for a while we strolled in silence.

‘So, how’s it been?’ she asked finally, itching to pump me for information as we turned onto Brook Street. But her demeanour remained as ice-cold as the temperature.

‘Good, but pretty full-on,’ I replied, unsure how much to give away. The last thing we needed was for her to be blogging or Tweeting my gossip from ‘a source inside Mona’s
camp’. ‘The Globes were a success, and Jennifer Astley is lovely.’

‘Everyone’s been talking about Mona’s breakdown at the party,’ she scoffed, clearly pleased to have the opportunity to pick a hole.

‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounded,’ I shot back. Well, it was partially true.
The puke missed the bag, didn’t it?
‘Mona’s asked me to stay on with her,’ I added. It just came out. The Stick silently digested what I’d said, while I convinced myself that I might as well be upfront about the fact I was unlikely to be back in Smith’s on Monday morning. Her expression suddenly changed, the chilled attitude replaced by curiosity.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll probably do it, but I want to talk it over with Jas first.’ We ordered the coffees in Caffè Nero and waited for them together, both lost in our own thoughts. I wondered what she was plotting. The Stick was always plotting. She picked at her matte black nails.

‘What do
you
think I should do?’ I asked a few minutes later, as we left the cafe and headed back towards the shop, the Stick staring intently into the white, plastic lid on top of her coffee.

‘Do whatever you feel is right.’ Then she stopped and turned to me. ‘I just have to say, what you did to me wasn’t fair, Amber. The shoes in the window were blatantly a mistake. And you don’t care about fashion like I do. You don’t even own a McQueen skull scarf, for God’s sake. You should have stepped aside and offered me the job. I taught you everything you know about fashion.’

For a few seconds, nagging guilt washed through me.
Maybe I should just step aside now?
But something made
me resist. Besides, Vicky had got me into fashion way before I even met the Stick.

‘The shoes weren’t a mistake, actually,’ I said. My skin prickled, but didn’t give anything away. ‘Listen, if Mona needs an extra pair of hands while we’re in London, I’ll put your name forward,’ I offered. ‘That’s the best I can do.’

‘How generous,’ she huffed, before pulling up her hood, signalling she didn’t want to discuss it any more.

Thankfully we had picked the closest coffee place to the shop, so we didn’t have to endure any more time in each other’s company and I didn’t have to tell any more lies. Kiki stopped by the newsagent to pick up Jas’s magazine.

‘I’ll see you back, can’t give Mona tepid coffee.’

As I entered Smith’s, Mona and Jas came up from conversation. I noticed the full rail between them; there were some very sheer gowns I assumed had been selected for Miss P.

‘Loving this, Amber,’ Mona said, holding up a daring, barely there black creation that had more cutaway panels than actual fabric—only a couple of swirls covered the essential areas.

‘Mona’s just been telling me how brilliant you were with Jennifer Astley last weekend,’ Jas said, ever the thoughtful boss.

‘It was luck, really.’ I smiled, secretly wishing the Stick was hearing this.

‘Anyway, haven’t you got a date to be getting to, babe?’ Mona said, winking at Jas. ‘Love bloomed in LA for this one, you know.’

I squirmed. Jas laughed in disbelief. ‘For Amber? Well, I never. I thought you looked glowing!’

‘Oh, she’s glowing all right,’ Mona added, elbowing me.

This was like being humiliated by two extremely well-dressed, crazy aunts.

‘You go meet lover boy,’ Mona ordered, now holding the door open for me.

‘He’s not my—well, as I haven’t taken my coat off yet …’ I smiled. I was itching to get going.

‘Meet me in Soho House later on, I’ll text when I’m there,’ she continued. ‘Bye now. Go!’

Just as I looped my scarf around my neck again, the Stick came back through the open door.

‘I’ll call you, Jas,’ I promised, and left them to it, my heart racing at the prospect of meeting Rob and clearing things up over Liam. Discussing Mona’s offer with Jas would just have to wait.

There he was, in the window of Pret A Manger. I took a few paces back, snatching a look at my reflection in a shop window and hurriedly running my fingers through my hair to swish it up. It was really good to see him again, just the two of us. I’d known Rob for less than a fortnight, but being in LA together made it feel that we’d shared so much. Spotting me, he seemed a little agitated, jumping off a stool and dusting some bits of croissant off the one next to him, before motioning for me to sit down. I felt fresh embarrassment for the bad kiss he’d witnessed.

‘I ordered us both a hot chocolate, hope that’s okay.’ He nudged a paper cup towards me. This wasn’t exactly the most thrilling location for our reunion, but it would do. ‘And thanks for this,’ he said, as though I was doing him a big favour just by turning up. His tone puzzled me slightly.

‘It’s fine, it’s great to see you. Thanks for the drink.’ I thought of the twinkles text again. I wondered if he remembered
that evening as vividly as I did. It seemed funny that out there we were drinking Bellinis at amazing parties and here we were, back in the real world, sipping hot chocolate in Pret.

‘It won’t take long,’ he continued, his voice faltering. ‘It’s just that I wanted to get your opinion, your being a stylist and everything.’ He delved into his pocket for something. Why was he acting so nervy? He was making me feel on edge, too.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been hitting the Primark sales,’ I teased. ‘Have you bought some really bad-taste jumpers you want me to tell you have to go back?’

‘Ha—not quite.’

‘A bargain’s not a bargain if you don’t actually like it in the first place,’ I said.

I caught sight of a slightly crumpled pale turquoise bag peeking out of his deep coat pocket. Typical boy—not wanting to be seen carrying around anything so dainty and pretty. Some shop bags are almost as precious as their contents, and this was one of them. Yes, this bag was easily recognisable by its colour alone. It was a Tiffany bag, the holy grail of special-occasion jewellery. I watched in confusion as he hurriedly untied the pretty matching ribbon and pulled out a small box from inside.
Why is he showing me a beautiful little Tiffany box? He’s not proposing to me in Pret, is he? He saw me snogging another guy and now he wants to put a ring on my finger? Surely not.
I felt breathless, slightly panicked, yet strangely elated at the same time.

He looked around to check we weren’t being overlooked, and then he slowly, carefully, teased open the box. There, between us, twinkling brightly as the shop lights caught its perfectly cut edges, was the most beautiful sparkling diamond
engagement ring I had ever seen in my life—well, ever since my sister showed me hers seven years ago and it reduced me to tears. The brilliant stone was cradled in a tapered platinum band. It was exquisite in its simplicity. A huge lump rose to my throat. I felt sick.

‘Wow,’ was all I could muster. Then I looked up at him, and in a heartbeat I realised that he was definitely not proposing to me.

‘So you like it?’ he asked, his expression intensely earnest. My stomach flipped as he searched my face for a response.

‘You mean, will
she
like it?’ I said, trying as hard as I could to stop my voice from trembling.

‘Well, yes, that’s the idea.’ His shoulders dropped. ‘I’m not proposing to a man, Amber. I thought we’d cleared that up.’

I made a pathetic attempt at a grin.

‘She’ll love it,’ I finally managed to gasp, in as normal a voice as I could muster, trying to pretend that I didn’t really want to get off this chair and run away.
How could I have not known he has a girlfriend—a serious girlfriend that he’s planning to propose to? How could I have been so stupid? So
bloody
stupid?

‘It’s not too simple?’ he asked. ‘Or too obvious? I felt like such a cliché in there.’

‘Not at all. It’s beautiful—a classic.’ I looked at it again. The sick feeling had returned with a vengeance. My physical response startled me. This was the kind of ring I would choose for myself, if I was ever able to. Half of me wanted to swipe it out of its stupid, perfect little box and throw it across Pret. Perhaps a homeless person would find it—someone
who
really
needed it. Tears began to build up behind my eyes. I excused myself for the loo.

As I washed my hands I took a moment to stare at my pathetic, crestfallen face in the mirror—it was one of those fake mirrors that made your head appear contorted. Holding my hands to my cheeks, I looked a bit like Edvard Munch’s
The Scream,
and screaming was exactly what I felt like doing. I wondered why they put these unhelpful fake mirrors in public toilets. To stop suicide attempts?

It hit me all at once: I felt strongly for this guy, this bloke I’d only known for a short space of time but with whom I’d shared so much. Vicky could see it, even someone as self-obsessed as Mona could see it. So why couldn’t I? I guess a little part of me had hoped that he might make a move on me; tell me that I was the person he’d been searching for and create a Hollywood-style happy ending for us. Of course I would have reciprocated if he’d tried to kiss me on that terrace on Golden Globes night. But no, the Tinseltown fairy tale was well and truly shattered into a billion little pieces now.

Things started falling into place;
Rob was just being friendly when he invited me out on Globes night. He’d never really answered the ‘girlfriend’ question, so I couldn’t complain he’d led me on. The ‘twinkles’ text was just his way of being matey. And when he saw me with Liam in Starbucks? It didn’t bother him in that way at all. He probably found it as funny as Fran and Shaggy clearly did. In fact he probably thinks that’s how I normally kiss!
I felt such a gargantuan fool for letting a little part of myself dare to imagine I might mean anything more to Rob. It felt as though I’d taken a bullet to the heart.

I shook my head and the ugly reflection did the same.
Why are you so rubbish with boys, Amber Green?
A ‘car crash’ when it comes to relationships, as Vicky had once helpfully pointed out, congratulating herself on yet another name-based pun at my expense. But the label had stuck in my mind. It was no coincidence my mother bought me a double electric blanket for Christmas, considerately pointing out that it was ‘perfect for you, Amber, because it has an energy-saving facility—you can turn one side off’.
Thanks, Mum. I’m destined to sleep in a single bed forever.