The Stylist (6 page)

‘Mona, honey! So good to see you!’ shrieked Beau, dropping her Burberry Blaze bag on the floor and launching herself into Mona’s open arms to exchange air kisses. ‘What do you think of Pinky? Isn’t he the cutest? I wanted a Pomeranian, but I couldn’t get one because of my fur allergy, so Trey got me the next best thing. Do you love?’

‘Adorable!’ Mona wasn’t good at lying. What her face couldn’t express, her body language screamed as she nervously fixated on the pig’s wet snout. Pinky trotted straight towards Mona’s perfectly laid out highway of immaculate designer heels. She looked at the two beefy guards, jerking her head towards the pig, but neither seemed bothered about Pinky. Instinctively, I rushed over to the clothes rail and scooped the longest gowns off the floor, out of the slobbery snout’s reach.

‘Perhaps, um, my assistant, Amber, could take little Porky for a play on the terrace?’ Mona suggested, indicating for me to get the pig outside immediately. Beau turned her attention to me and looked me up and down, visibly unimpressed.

‘Just arrived today,’ I muttered, by way of an apology. ‘I love pigs.’

Another lie. I had absolutely no experience of pigs, other than a weakness for the M&S ones called Percy. Picking up
Pinky’s lead from the floor, I cringed as I felt the camera follow the pig, my bottom and my pasty legs to the patio before panning back to Mona and Beau. Carefully lifting Pinky onto the clean patio seating next to me, I loosened his studded leather coat and looked into his small, dark, watery eyes.

‘Are you thirsty, little piggy?’ Admittedly, he was quite cute. And he smelled fresher than I did. ‘Want some food? It’s not as if anyone else is going to eat much.’

I poured some milk into a saucer and set it down on the floor. The pig began lapping it up enthusiastically. Then I took a couple of fig rolls, broke them in half and put them on another saucer. He chowed them down loudly. I ate one, too. Then another. Then I stabbed a few berries with a fork and quickly scoffed them, as well. I offered a handful of blueberries to Pinky and he ate hungrily, tickling my palm as he bolted them down.

‘Aw, Mommy not fed you lunch today?’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting Beau’s neglectful?’ a voice boomed above me. AJ was closing the terrace door behind him; a prime example of LA beefcake, completely devoid of a sense of humour.

‘Not at all—just making conversation.’

‘It’s a pig.’

‘You’re not an animal lover, AJ?’

‘Mona’s asked for you. I’ll take over from here.’

I handed him the lead and headed back inside, where an area had been lit with a bright, free-standing light and the camera was trained on Mona and Beau going through the rail.

‘You can afford to go more cocktail for the pre-events,’ Mona was advising, holding up a cute on-trend floral cocktail dress from Oscar de la Renta, ‘but you still want to make an impact.’

‘Hmmm, I know it’s very now, but florals are not the new me, Mona, I’m trying to get more serious roles. Do you have anything sexier or edgier, maybe?’

Beau had taken off her hat and fur now and you could see just how slight she was—the human version of her teacup pig.

‘The camera adds ten pounds, you know—everyone will be thin beyond belief,’ Mona had warned me earlier, when I remarked on how miniature all the clothes appeared. ‘No one in Hollywood is larger than a size two sample.’

‘There’s this sexy Dolce & Gabbana,’ Mona said, pulling out a glamorous leopard-print, stretch-silk dress. ‘I’ve got the perfect Dolce cuff and clutch to go with it. Trey will go wild!’

‘Sold! I love it!’ Beau exclaimed, holding it to her chest and turning on that million-dollar smile for the camera.

‘Why don’t you try it on, along with the Oscar de la Renta, just for comparison? Amber will help you.’

Mona directed her towards the bedroom door and beckoned me over to the accessories table, to load up with suitable ‘finishing touches’—a thick, studded gold cuff and matching clutch, plus some black Jimmy Choos with buckles around the ankle and a delicate pair of high gold sandals. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to try them on first, knowing full well that my size seven sausages wouldn’t have a hope in hell of squeezing into those delicate beauties. The film crew headed to the terrace for a break and I noticed Rob tickle Pinky under the chin en route, muttering, ‘All right, mate?’ The movement made the muscles flex in his upper arm. I quickly looked away, scuttling across the living area to the bedroom.

After tentatively knocking on the door, I was ushered in by a semi-naked Beau, the leopard dress at her svelte hips, revealing her ample bust encased in a turquoise lace bra. She had big boobs for a girl so slight; I wondered if they were fake. That was something Vicky would have been able to deduce instantly—one of her favourite hobbies was pointing out boob jobs. Beau wriggled as she pulled the dress up around her shoulders.

‘Give me a hand with the zip, would you?’

I struggled slightly to do it up, it was skintight even on her bony frame.

‘There we go. Oh wow …’

She surveyed her perfect physique in the wardrobe’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, flicking her luscious locks, and turning left to right and back again. I undid the buckles on the Choos, ready for her petite feet to slip into them like Cinderella. Then a loud twinkling sound emanated from her bag, lying on the hotel bed.

‘Chuck me my Burberry, would you, babe?’

I stretched across to retrieve it, thinking how surreal this all was. She delved into the bag to grab her iPhone and looked at it in silence for a moment; then she slumped down and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Shit.’ She fixated on the phone, reading the message again, then whispered: ‘You absolute shit.’ And then she buried her head in her hands and burst into tears. I looked away, feeling uncomfortable.
Has she not got a part? Maybe the casting agents don’t think she’s cut out for ‘edgy’ after all?
She began pumping air out of her mouth in short, sharp breaths, like a woman in labour. Perhaps it was helping her fight back the tears.
Has someone died? Talk about #awkward.
Then, phone still in her hand, she appeared to steady
herself and stood up decisively, smoothing the dress over her washboard stomach and miniature hips, and resumed admiring herself in the mirror. Seconds later, her phone rang. She lifted it to see the caller’s identity, then threw the handset down, hard, on the duvet behind her.

‘Fucking asshole!’ She hurled herself onto the bed after it, crumpling the dress and letting out a shriek not unlike the sound Pinky might make if you accidentally stood on his trotter. Then she buried her head in the pillow and began to wail.

I looked up from the corner of the room, where I had been pretending to busy myself straightening a curtain. A noise like that meant I couldn’t ignore her any longer. Cautiously, I inched closer.

‘Um, is everything okay?’

She thumped the duvet. ‘No, it is not!’ she screeched, turning onto her side to face me, as I stood, hesitantly, by the side of the bed. Her eyes were red, make-up smudged, and the ivory pillowcase now sported two charcoal grey blotches and a dab of cherry lip gloss. Was this a prima donna hissy fit because she was last on the waiting list for the new Chanel bag? Such things did actually happen … A loud thud made us both look at the door.

‘Is everything all right in there, Beau?’

Her big blue eyes fixed on my own and, in them, I saw genuine fear. She waved her arm at the door, signalling she didn’t want AJ to intervene.

‘Yes, we’re fine, thanks, AJ!’ I shouted back. ‘Just a stiff zip!’

‘All good!’ she seconded.
At least he’d know I hadn’t murdered her or anything.

‘Okay, well, we’ll see you out here.’ I heard him move away.

‘Thanks, honey, you’re a babe.’ Her pretty eyes were wet with tears.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so.’ She sniffed.

‘Well, if you want to talk about it …’ I perched on the edge of the bed. She seemed to want me there.

‘Really?’ she snivelled, as though no one had ever offered her support before.

‘Really. Er—a problem shared …’

I put an uncertain hand onto her thin, childlike shoulder, wondering if there was a law against making physical contact with a vulnerable, crying, miniature celebrity. It wouldn’t have surprised me if AJ had her wired.

W
e were suddenly interrupted by another knock on the door and Mona’s head appeared around it.

‘Just me, darlings!’ she announced, as she clocked the scene—me looking worried, and Beau dishevelled. ‘Jesus, has someone died? Do you hate the dresses, Beau? Seriously, honey, if you don’t like the Dolce, there’s plenty more on the rails.’

Beau played along brilliantly. ‘To be honest, Mona, I’m having a fat day,’ she wiped smudged mascara from under her eyes. ‘Amber’s been trying to talk me into the Dolce & Gabbana, but nothing feels right, you know?’ She squeezed a non-existent love handle for added effect. Mona nodded sympathetically.

‘Do we
have
to do the filming today?’ Beau continued. ‘I’m just thinking—if I skip dinner, get a colonic and wear Spanx, it’ll look much better in the morning.’

‘Little sparrow, there’s nothing of you as it is!’ Mona said truthfully. ‘But I’m not going to make you do anything you
don’t feel comfortable with. The important thing is that we look after you! The TV people will have to understand.’

I stood up and crept towards the door, guessing that I’d be in the unenviable position of having to tell the
20Twenty
crew they’d made a wasted trip.

‘But can Amber stay with me, please?’ Beau asked, intercepting me. I was shocked that she had remembered my name. ‘I’m feeling a bit sick, too. I just need to sit quietly in here for a little while. With Amber.’

Looking perturbed that Beau had chosen me as her confidante, Mona pursed her lips and forced a smile. ‘Sure.’

Left alone in the room once more, Beau was suddenly much more forthcoming.

‘The truth is, Amber, I’m being stalked.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Someone, a man, is stalking me.’ She gripped my hand. ‘And I’m scared.’

She welled up again, her breathing becoming short and irregular. This was either really good acting, or the red blotches and the tears were real—I suddenly felt like we were at a high school pyjama party gone wrong. I dashed to the bathroom to grab her a handful of tissues and took a moment to gather my thoughts.
What am I supposed to do now?
I remembered hearing a story about a stalker being caught hiding on a shelf in Simon Cowell’s walk-in wardrobe, and hoped the windows in this suite were locked.

‘Maybe we should get AJ after all?’ I asked, returning to the room and handing over a stack of tissues. Beau was sitting up on the bed now, her back against the wall, knees tucked into her chest as she clasped a tissue in each hand.

‘No need for AJ, I can handle it,’ she insisted.

‘Might the, um—stalker—be near us now?’ I asked. Beau subsided into sniffles.

‘It started on Twitter, about a week ago,’ she began. ‘He was so nice to me at first, this guy, I thought he was a fan, telling me he liked my movies and he thought I was a good actor and pretty and stuff. It was just innocent banter. But then he kept on asking me about Jason—you know, Jason Slater, my co-star in the movie I’ve just wrapped?’

I nodded. Everyone knew Jason Slater. He was a big-name actor, chiselled, single, with legions of female fans—he’d broken onto the Hollywood scene with a slew of popular rom-coms, and Beau and Jason had co-starred in the soon-to-premiere chick flick
Summer’s Not Over.
(The pile of magazines stored under the counter at Smith’s, and the Stick’s constant drip feed of Hollywood news from various online sources, meant I was well up to speed with my celebrity news.)

‘Well, this guy kept asking whether me and Jason were more than work buddies. He just wouldn’t let it go,’ she explained, blowing her delicate nose.

‘Perhaps he’s just a troll?’ I suggested.

‘I thought so, too, but it’s got worse than that now,’ she said. ‘I blocked him, but somehow he got hold of my personal cell number, and he’s been texting and phoning me non-stop ever since.’

I sat there, racking my brain. ‘Are you sure it’s the same person?’

‘Positive, because he asks the same thing—always about Jason. The way he keeps going on—it’s not right, you know? It’s so obvious he’s trying to trip me up, trying to get me to say something that isn’t true. He’s trying to intimidate me, Amber, and I don’t know what he’ll do next. He’s sent me
about ten texts already today and I’ve had as many missed calls.’ Her eyes started to well up with emotion again. ‘That was him, earlier. He’s stalking me and I don’t know what to do.’

I thought about the most level-headed person I knew.
What would Jas do in this situation?

‘Do you need me to call anyone?’

‘No. There’s no one.’

‘Your fiancé?’

Beau’s intended was the good-looking and highly rated British film director Trey Jones. The couple were regulars on the Hollywood scene and their forthcoming wedding was already creating a buzz in the celebrity world, with rumours that the photography rights had been sold to a glossy magazine in a million-dollar deal.

‘Trey? God, no!’ She was emphatic, which only made me more perplexed.

‘Your publicist?’

I knew about publicists from Smith’s. We would occasionally be asked to close the store for a couple of hours if a big American actress wanted to shop in solitude, away from the hoi polloi, and they always came with a publicist in tow. American versions of British PRs, publicists are straight-talking, brash and infinitely scarier than their UK counterparts. Publicists generally get what they want, when they want it, and never return a favour. But today Beau was shunning publicist assistance.

‘Honey, I’m just glad my publicist is
not
here.’ She picked up her phone again, and reread the stalker’s earlier message before turning it off.

‘Well—maybe you should go to the police?’

‘Never! Oh God, this is a total nightmare!’

I was nonplussed. Who would be stalking Beau and accusing her of being more than friends with Jason Slater?

‘Actually, honey, maybe there
is
something you can do for me,’ she said finally, looking at me, coyly, with big, pup-pyish, Princess Diana eyes.
Surely Mona would want me to do anything I can to help …?

‘Just say the word,’ I said.

‘Can I trust you, Amber? I mean,
really
trust you?’ She leaned in close enough for me to smell her delicate, fragrant breath.

‘Of course you can.’

She lowered her voice and checked her phone was definitely off.

‘I should have been honest with you straight away,’ she explained. ‘My stalker is actually from the national press. He’s a journalist from that shitty gossip website
Starz.
He’s been calling me for the past three days non-stop, intimidating me. He’s a bully. And now he says they’re about to go to press with some photos of me apparently in a “compromising position” with Jason.’ She indicated the inverted commas with her fingers.

‘He’s trying to suggest there’s something going on between us, when of course there isn’t—we were only filming.’

‘If you were filming, can’t you just tell him so?’ I asked.

‘Well, the cameras weren’t actually rolling, but we were rehearsing our scenes. You know?’

I wasn’t sure I did. ‘Does Trey know anything about this?’

‘I really love Trey!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s my fiancé, Amber. We’re getting married soon. But this stalking reporter is trying to ruin everything. And it sounds like they’re going to print the lies, anyway …’

Tears began to stream down her cheeks, carrying blobs of mascara from her clogged lashes.

‘Beau, it’s okay, please don’t cry. It’s going to be okay, you know …’ I said. ‘Can’t you just tell this reporter he’s got it wrong? Tell him exactly what you just told me?’

She shook her head in response.

‘At least no one is actually trying to kill you,’ I continued, trying for cheery. ‘I thought for a moment you were going to say there was a crazy man about to jump through the window with a handgun. It’s not
that
bad.’

Lightening the mood didn’t seem to be working. Now the streams of black tears were joining up into one big river that ran down her neck and drip, drip, dripped its way onto the brand new Dolce & Gabbana dress.
Mona’s going to go bananas …
I needed her out of the dress.

I grabbed some more tissues from the en suite and gently tried to dab at the dress. Beau barely noticed—she wasn’t interested in clothes any more. Her mind was ticking over, formulating a plan that was inevitably going to involve me.

‘So what really needs to happen,’ she said after a few minutes, ‘is for Trey to know these stupid photos are just me rehearsing with Jason, and nothing more, before they get Tweeted all over the world and picked up by every gossip site under the sun in two days’ time. No, I’ve got to get to him first.’

‘Right. I’m sure Trey will completely understand when you explain things to him,’ I offered hopefully, and in the face of all the signs. ‘No one believes what they read on
Starz,
anyway.’

I didn’t think she’d appreciate knowing most of my friends back home were signed up to the
Starz
email alerts, and accepted every single word as gospel.

‘Well, what I was thinking was, that that’s where you could help, Amber, like you said you would.’ She widened her blue eyes; the big, sultry eyes that had led so many co-stars into ‘compromising situations’. ‘I was thinking that you could just call up Trey, pretend you were one of my producers on
Summer’s Not Over,
and tell him that some photos have unfortunately got into the hands of a down-market gossip site, but that you can confirm Jason and I were only rehearsing, so there is nothing to worry about. End of. Right, Amber?’

I remained silent for a moment, while I digested this.

‘But, um, but I’m not a producer … I’m Mona’s assistant. I’m not sure I’d be very good at pretending I’m someone else—I’m not an actress, like you.’

‘But you said you wanted to help?’ She had desperation in her eyes.

I felt panicked.
What would Jas do now?

‘Really, Beau,’ I pleaded. ‘I was always rubbish at drama at school. I never got picked for the school plays. I was always the back end of the donkey in the Nativity. I want to help you, I really do, but I don’t think I can do this. What if Trey started asking questions? He might not believe me.’

Right then, we were interrupted by another knock at the door. Mona again—this time shouting through it.

‘Are you feeling better, Beau, darling? You’ve been a very long time. I was beginning to wonder if Amber had fallen asleep on you. She’s probably not coping with the jet lag. The TV people have gone now, okay?’

‘I’m feeling a little better now, thank you, Mona. We’re coming out, literally right now,’ Beau clambered off the bed. ‘So that’s sorted, then, Amber?’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll
come back to finish the fitting tomorrow, give you Trey’s number and you’ll call him. I’ll tell you exactly what to say.’

She looked like a different person—certainly not the one who was drowning in tears not more than five minutes ago. She wiped the last traces of mascara stains from her cheeks, added a slick of lip gloss and surveyed herself in the mirror as if nothing had happened. Then she slipped on the Jimmy Choos and swung open the door.

‘Ta-da! You know what, I do love the Dolce, Mona. I’ll bring my Spanx tomorrow and it’ll all be fine.’

I was flabbergasted.

When Beau had changed back into her civvies, Mona promised to call Stefano Gabbana himself to see if she could keep the dress after wearing it for her premiere. Then Beau announced she had to leave, but she’d be back the next day to be filmed as they finished her fitting for the actual Golden Globes. As she made for the door, we all noticed she was missing something—something she had most definitely arrived with—a small grunting pink thing in a leather jacket.

‘Ah, Pinky!’ she exclaimed, her eyes finding AJ, who was still holding Pinky’s lead. ‘Amber, babe, you love pigs—how do you fancy Pinky-sitting tonight?’ She didn’t give me a chance to respond. ‘Thanks, babe! I just need a bit of quality time with my fiancé this evening … you know.’

I knew, all right. Beau needed to be on the ball, vetting her phone for calls from the ‘stalker’. It had now been thirty hours since my last proper sleep, and London felt a very, very long way away. As AJ put Pinky’s lead in my hand, I lacked the energy to do anything about it. Instead, I surrendered myself to whatever a night with a micro-pig might have in store. The look of disdain on Mona’s face told me the pig would be staying in my room and nowhere else in
her clean, white mansion—I didn’t even get a chance to ask what the creature should eat. And I was already dreading the morning and the phone call. This really wasn’t the initiation into the Hollywood scene I had been hoping for. I wondered if I should just refuse to be drawn in.
Maybe I should tell Mona about it?

‘You and Beau seemed to hit it off,’ Mona commented frostily as we sped back to her house, Pinky travelling, probably illegally, on my lap. I was gripping him so tightly my knuckles had turned white. One late brake at the traffic lights and we’d have gammon for dinner.

‘S’pose so,’ I responded, abruptly deciding against telling Mona. I didn’t want to appear foolish or out of my depth—for all I knew, this was normal for Hollywood. Besides, Beau had asked me to keep it a secret, and I wasn’t sure if I could trust Mona yet. I didn’t want to turn it into any more of a drama.

When we got back, Klara was in the kitchen, heating what appeared to be a watery soup of over-cooked vegetables. She barely twitched when she saw Pinky enter the kitchen behind me.
It’s a pig in a leather jacket, for God’s sake!
I felt exhausted now, off-balance and hardly able to keep my eyes open; I went through the rest of the evening in a daze, picking at the turkey chilli Ana had made for us. I didn’t want Mona to think I was a lightweight, but it had been the longest day ever and now I
really
needed my bed. I led Pinky upstairs and used my last shred of energy to text Vicky: Am sharing my bed with Beau Belle’s micro-pig. Will call tomorrow. Miss you. A x. Then I turned off my phone and passed out.