The Stylist (22 page)

‘I’d better get back to the hotel,’ I said. ‘Any chance I can leave this case in your van?’

Rob nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Er, and how exactly am I meant to get home? I’m not getting on the tube dressed like the Big Lebowski. I might see someone I know. Anyway, I’ve left my Oyster card at home,’ whined Vicky.

‘I’d drop you if I wasn’t running late myself,’ Rob said. ‘I’m doing the red carpet for the breakfast show and we should be setting up now.’

‘Here, take some of Mona’s cash for a taxi.’ I handed her two twenties.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘Don’t spend it all at once. I’ll be home in time to watch the awards on TV with you. Actually, here’s another thirty, grab a bottle of fizz and some crisps on your way. Oh, sorry, you’re not drinking …’

‘I think I’ll make an allowance, after today.’

Rob flagged her down a black cab and we waved as she whizzed off, hand raised, waving sedately like the Queen.

‘Jump in, Amber, I’ll drop you back up the road, it’s on my way,’ Rob offered.

‘Vicky seems fun,’ he said as we pulled into the traffic.

‘Yeah, she’s great. She saved my bacon today—it’s rarely dull with us two.’

‘I got that impression. So what’s up with Mona, then?’

‘Don’t ask. I’m over it, to be honest,’ I moaned. ‘She’s
just so unreliable, I don’t think I can handle the Oscars, too. I’m thinking of quitting.’

‘No! You can’t, Amber—you’re not a quitter. Anyway, you’re the one holding it all together for Mona—it’s clear to see in the footage we’ve shot. That’s if any of it actually sees the light of day,’ he said, solemnly.

‘What? Are they thinking of axing the pilot?’ Mona would go crazy.

‘Listen, I’m not meant to say anything.’

‘Come on, it’s only me—I won’t say anything to Mona.’

‘Fran just doesn’t think it’s working—and your boss’s lack of communication isn’t really helping.’

‘Tell me about it. Maybe it’s no bad thing. You know I’m not exactly loving the filming part.’ I fiddled with the tiger bracelet. ‘I discovered Mona’s totally broke, too,’ I grumbled, ‘so I’m not even sure I’ll get paid this week.’

‘Can’t you get your lover boy to help tide you over?’ he asked, throwing me a sideways glance as we turned onto Park Lane. His sudden reference to the Starbucks ‘incident’ took me by surprise.

‘Er, you mean Liam, I presume. I think it’s safe to say we are definitely
not
an item. Not that we ever really were.’

‘Really? Didn’t seem like that the other day.’

My cheeks prickled and I was cringing for England inside. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that. Let’s just say it was the beginning and the end.’

‘He wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest charmer.’ Rob smiled.

I remembered the BLT comment. ‘No. Anyway, can we change the subject, please?’

‘Well, then, you’ll be wanting to cheer yourself up by joining me at the Grosvenor Hotel for a few free drinks
at the BAFTAs dinner tonight, I’ll be there with
my
crazy boss, the perma-tanned one.’ He looked at me for a moment, completely unable to read the lust in my eyes. ‘Oh, come on, Amber, don’t lose your sense of humour! We’re doomed if we can’t have a laugh.’ Finally, he made my face crack into a small smile as he pulled over on the Dorchester driveway.

‘I think I’ll watch it from home, with Vicky,’ I said. There seemed little point in socialising with Rob—it was only going to cut me deeper. ‘Or we might go to the pub. Anyway, you’d better get to the red carpet.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘You’re right, I need to split.’

‘Thanks for the lift. And good luck with Tango Tim.’

‘Send Jen my love!’

J
ennifer looked stunning that night. The effect was of a city-slick goddess, and despite the rain and cold, the crowds erupted when she stepped from our plush Audi onto the flashbulb-lined carpet in front of the Royal Opera House. Some of the girls from
Downton Abbey
swanned past us. Damian Lewis arrived at the same time, and the public pen burst into chorus.

‘Damian! Damian! Jennifer! Jennifer!’ Flash. Flash. Flash.

There was very little I needed to do to assist Jennifer, I only stepped forwards once, to puff up the peplum as she faced the main bank of paparazzi, but other than that I stayed on the sidelines and admired the way the dress held its structure. I was pleased I’d cheese-grated the soles of her shoes—they weren’t going anywhere this evening, despite how slippery it looked. I wondered if Mona was watching the arrivals from home, her mouth open in shock, trying to work out where Jennifer’s dress could possibly have come from. It gave me a faint feeling of satisfaction.

Anne Hathaway arrived on the red carpet and greeted Jennifer like a long-lost friend.
Flash! Flash! Flash!
And then George Clooney! They embraced, and a blaze of lights erupted all around. Then George led Jennifer by the hand over to a group of fans on one side and they spent a few minutes signing autographs and posing for camera phones together, laughing and joking. The attendants with their big clear plastic umbrellas had a job keeping up with them. Thanks to Vicky’s quick thinking, Jennifer didn’t have to be concerned about the weather at all; her dress was robust and easy to move in, unlike another poor actress, whose ill-advised pale blue silk creation had unfortunate damp patches, which looked like sweat marks, all over it. She cursed her stylist as she dodged puddles as though her life depended upon it. Nicole was right—the Valentino would undoubtedly have been a risk.

As we reached the TV pen I spotted Tim, and just behind him, Rob, headset on, a loop of wires in his hand.

‘Hey, Amber!’ Tim called, waving. The London weather wasn’t doing anything for his fake tan. ‘Come and say hi!’ He beckoned me over. ‘Loving Jen’s frock—but can you get her to come and speak to us?’ There was desperation in his eyes. ‘I’m dying to get a chat with Astley and Clooney for the show. It would make my whole piece.’

I looked around for Nicole and found her gently guiding Jennifer by the elbow through a line of print journalists, Dictaphones outstretched as they shouted a barrage of questions about her outfit and her chance of winning this evening, each desperate to out-scoop the others by getting a millisecond longer of her time.

‘I’ll try—but it’s Nicole, her publicist, you really need,’ I said, gesturing over my shoulder. At last I was beginning to feel like I knew some of the players in this world. As I
turned back to say hi to Rob, I was startled by a hand on my shoulder. My heart leapt. It was Trey Jones.

‘We meet again, Annie!’ he exclaimed. I felt his eyes wander down to the ground, noting my grubby Uggs and jeans. ‘Does it feel good to be home?’ He looked really dashing this evening. I assessed the situation for a moment before replying: ‘Sure does, Trey. I’m not stopping tonight though, hence the warm clothes. Brrr! Just popped by to say hello to a few—’ Then we were interrupted by the appearance of a shocking vision in front of us. As far as I was concerned, the timing couldn’t have been better—it took Trey’s attention right off me.

The vision was Miss P. The pop star and one-time reality show winner, now relegated to the ranks of the Z-list, had made her entrance amongst the thesps, and the paparazzi were going wild. To call her outfit eye-popping would be an understatement. And where was her stylist? The Stick was nowhere to be seen, and I was certainly not getting involved in the disaster unravelling before my eyes. In a dress that left nothing to the imagination, she posed happily for the cameras.
Flash! Flash! Flash!
More than a bit of side boob—and side bum—was on show. The paparazzi couldn’t lap it up fast enough.
What kind of fairground mirror was she looking in before she left this evening?
Some of the actors around us turned to gawp; they clearly had no idea who she was or what she was doing here, infiltrating their industry bash and lowering the tone in her tawdry costume.

Thankfully, Jennifer was deep in conversation in front of a Sky News camera, next to which stood Tim,
Morning Glory
microphone poised ready for his ‘exclusive’. Jennifer was near enough to the entrance of the Opera House now, away from the harshest of the elements. I looked around
and saw Trey safely in conversation with someone else. It seemed like a good time to make my quiet exit.

Vicky and I watched the awards together from the sofa in our pyjamas, with a living room coffee-table picnic and glasses of Cava for me, orange juice for her. It was infinitely more comfortable than watching the Globes with Mona, and we both leapt with genuine joy as Jennifer scooped her second Best Supporting Actress gong of awards season. Thankfully, she made it onto the stage with no stumbling on the steps.
And relax.
At around ten-thirty, when Vicky was beginning to doze off and I was debating whether to grab an early night, too, my phone rang. Rob. My hand hovered over it.
What’s the point in meeting up?
He rang again, straight away. When it stopped I immediately sent a polite text, saying I was out with friends.
Maybe he’ll think I’m out with a bloke.
He texted back immediately:

Where r u? You left your suitcase in the van, was thinking I could drop it off, grab a quick drink?
I shook Vicky’s arm in a panic.

‘Rob wants to meet me!’ She jolted into life. ‘What shall I say?’

Two weak thumbs in the air.

‘Meet him—yes?’ I checked.

‘Why not,’ she said, dozily.

‘Really?’

‘As long as you don’t need me to come …’ She reshuffled into a foetal position, stretching the dressing gown over her toes.

‘I’ve told him I’m out, though,’ I said, feeling a bit stupid that I couldn’t work out what to do on my own.

‘So meet him out,’ she muttered. ‘You can borrow my heels. What are you waiting for?’

Another text from Rob:
Am about to leave the Grosvenor—let me know.

I responded fast, knowing I’d probably change my mind again if I didn’t:
See you at The Chamberlayne, Kensal Rise, in 20?

Great.

I leapt into action: splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, pilfered Vicky’s Steve Maddens, dry-shampooed my hair, put the jeans, black jumper and Kenneth Jay Lane bangle back on and set about re-applying my make-up. I didn’t want to look like I’d made too much of an effort, but I made the biggest effort I could in just under ten minutes. Just before I left the flat I swigged a large gulp of Cava from the bottle for Dutch courage, whispered ‘Love you’ at Vicky, who was gently snoring, and quietly closed the front door. Thankfully, I’d drunk enough to bolster my confidence, but not enough to feel drunk.

When I reached the pub, Rob was parking outside.

‘Sorry, didn’t meant to drag you away from anyone,’ he said, coming round the van and greeting me with a peck on the cheek.

‘Oh, it’s fine, Vicky wanted to go home, anyway,’ I lied. ‘And Mona will go nuts if anything happened to the case. Anyway, how was it for you?’

‘Same old,’ he replied, smiling. ‘The dinner was amazing, must have cost a fortune—there were themed tables for all the nominated films. I stole this for you.’ From behind
his back he produced a square place mat with a still of Jennifer from Trey’s film on the front.

‘Awesome! But am I going to get arrested for having this?’ I pretended to look concerned.

‘I’m sure it can be added on to your sentence for robbing a dressing gown from the Dorchester,’ he joked. ‘Don’t worry, everyone nicks them.’

‘I’m touched. Thanks.’

We made our way into the pub and sat on two empty stools at the bar. It was warm and cosy—not too busy, not too empty.

‘Your Jennifer’s lovely, isn’t she?’ he said.

‘She is, and I’m sure most of the male—and female—population of the world would agree with you.’

‘She gave Tim a full five-minute chat. He was over the moon. And she
loves
you—was full of praise for her stylist and how she was proud to be dressed top-to-toe by Brits.’

I smiled.
Thank you, Jennifer.

‘More than could be said for Miss P,’ he went on. ‘She clearly thinks she’s bigger than all the Hollywood stars put together—flew past the entire TV section and straight into the auditorium. Everyone was slagging her off. That outfit was horrific!’

I shrugged. ‘Well, I did try to save her.’

‘Bet you’re glad you had nothing to do with that, as it turned out …’

The camp-as-a-row-of-tents Italian bar manager interrupted us, greeting me warmly:
‘Ciao, bella
Amber! Always good to see you, looking
bellissima
as usual.’ He reached across the bar to cup my face in his hands and kissed me on both cheeks.

‘The usual for you,
bella?
And what can I get your handsome
friend?’ He winked. I wasn’t quite sure what my usual was going to be, having drunk pretty much every type of spirit behind this bar with Vicky at one time or another. But I appreciated his familiarity; it was making me look good.

‘Yes please, Nico—and for my friend?’ I emphasised the ‘friend’ as I turned to Rob.

‘Just a pint of lager shandy for me please, mate. Unfortunately I’m driving.’

Thankfully a large glass of pinot grigio was placed in front of me, rather than a Jäger bomb. I took a moment to steady my hand before raising it.
Damn, I feel so nervous around him.
Fancying Rob was becoming all-consuming. I enjoyed his company so much and then felt totally bereft every time I remembered he was taken. I tortured myself with an image of his soon-to-be-fiancée. It made me sad, so I tried desperately hard not to overthink it. Which of course made me think about it the entire time.

‘Great that Jennifer won again,’ Rob continued, fortunately oblivious to the thoughts inside my head. ‘I mean, for you as well as her.’

‘Did I tell you the story behind Vicky’s dressing gown?’

‘ … and so, we ended up hitch-hiking all the way home from Gibraltar,’ Rob said, lifting another tequila shot and cheersing with me and Nico. After which we all rammed yet another chunk of lemon into our mouths and stuck our tongues out with a roar.

‘Right, that one is
definitely
the last,’ I hiccupped, wiping my mouth. I noticed Rob’s eyes had glazed over.

‘Oh man, I love tequila,’ he slurred, tipping the shot glass so the last drops fell onto his tongue. After one tequila shot on the house, we had moved on to a whole string of them,
each telling a ‘truth’ about ourselves that had to outdo the one before.

‘I do believe you’re drunk, Mister—Oh my God, I don’t even know your surname!’ I declared, trying to sound less drunk than I was.

‘The name’s Walker,’ he slurred, ‘Rob Walker.’

‘Mr Walker. Funny, you don’t look like a Walker.’

‘And what does a Mr Walker look like, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘He wears tweed trousers tucked into thick socks and hiking boots.’ I laughed.

The hours had melted away and, thanks to my good friend alcohol convincing Rob to leave the van parked outside overnight, we’d been chatting and joking as easily as that night in LA. The bar crowd had thinned out to one rowdy group at a table in the corner and us. Nico’s special lock-in playlist, consisting of pop classics from Kylie, Prince and Daft Punk, was turned up loud, sparking a spontaneous disco party from the rowdies. But just as I was considering jumping off my stool, grabbing Rob’s hand and joining them in some moves, he sprang out of his seat to take a phone call outside. Nico and I stretched our arms over our heads and I chair-danced as we shouted the lyrics at each other, giggling loudly between each chorus.

The group seemed to be enjoying it; they were on their feet throwing shapes on the makeshift dance floor, which
only encouraged Nico and I to get louder with each verse. It was so good we had to play it twice. My heart was beating hard in my chest. The pub seemed to get very hot. Each time I paused to catch my breath, the walls seemed to keep moving. As the song came to an end for the third time, Rob returned, plonking himself back down on the stool.

‘Been told to get home by the fiancée?’ I asked, out of breath from all the excitement. ‘Does she hate me for keeping you out so late?’

‘Umm—not exactly.’ He smiled, awkwardly.

‘Uh-oh, sounds like someone’s been told off,’ I laboured on, pulling an exaggerated sad face. ‘Got you under the thumb before you’re even married?’ Talking was making everything spin.

‘She’s abroad right now,’ he replied, not looking at me. He seemed to have instantly sobered up. ‘So we only get to speak at odd times of the day.’

‘Abroad! Ooh la la!’ I immediately despised myself for the spiteful tone, but I couldn’t help it. It was the demon booze talking.

‘She’s in Bangkok,’ he said, recoiling slightly. Nico backed away to prepare a tray of shots for the table, clearly sensing that the atmosphere between us had changed.

‘Sorry. Must. Not. Shout,’ I stage-whispered, my finger across my lips. I leaned forwards, closer to his face. ‘Work or pleasure?’ I hissed, my tequila breath ruffling his hair.

‘Work. She’s in travel PR, visiting some hotel clients.’

‘Oooh, nice work if you can get it. Doesn’t
she
have a name?’

‘Yeah, she does. Listen, I should—’

‘So will you propose when she gets back?’ I cut in. ‘I mean—you must be planning the big moment?’

‘Maybe,’ he replied stiffly, clearly wanting to get the hell
away from the nasty, nosy woman who was talking way too close to his face. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Doesn’t sound very romantic to me. Where’s the romance in that?’ I stage-whispered, shuffling to the back of my stool.