The Stylist (8 page)

‘It’s just Valentino,’ Mona muttered, po-faced, ‘no Mister.’ Then she seemed to do a volte-face. ‘And I’m sure the darling man will be delighted that you can pee easily in his gown. I’ll be sure to let him know, after you’re a huge triumph in it at the Golden Globes!’ She launched herself onto the beaming Beau, throwing her arms around her sparrow-like frame. For a few seconds she completely engulfed her, only pausing briefly to look over her shoulder and check the camera was trained on them as they hugged and kissed.

When it came to keeping celebrity clients happy, there was only one word that applied: a sugar-coated ‘Yes!’

At last I released the tension in my shoulders and allowed a sense of pride to wash over me. Mona would never give me the credit for it, but hadn’t I just styled my first celebrity? Fran seemed to have read my mind.

‘So how does it feel to have selected Beau Belle’s Golden Globes outfit?’ She stood to the side of the camera, its beating red light letting me know that I was being filmed. Mona
suddenly dropped Beau and barged into the shot, placing an arm around my shoulders.

‘Exquisite on her, isn’t it?’ she chimed, pushing a curl behind her ear and looking straight down the lens. ‘Valentino is the ultimate awards ceremony designer—the gown screams “screen siren”, and I knew straight away that it would be perfect on Beau. She’ll be the Belle of the ball! Get it?
Belle
of—’

‘Got it, thanks, Mona,’ Fran said, a fake smile across her face.

Beau was already out of the dress and heading for the door.
She’s not actually going to bother saying goodbye? Charming.
Mona dashed to intercept her.

‘Beau, darling, I’m so happy today was a success. You are going to absolutely rock that gown. I knew it would be perfect on you. And will we see you at the party tonight?’

‘The Weinstein one? Trey’s keen, so we might pop by briefly. But I’ve got the premiere tomorrow night and I need my beauty sleep. Got to do some wedding planning as well, we’ve got another meeting with the magazine this week …’

‘I was wondering how that was coming along. And what about the bachelorette—have you finalised the venue?’

‘Yes, ohmigod, Mona, it’s ah-mazing …’

As I strained to overhear their conversation, I became aware that Rob was approaching me.

‘Actually, Amber, we couldn’t quite pick up your words on that last take—do you mind if we just put this little microphone on you? We’ll hear you a lot better. Fran wants to get a quick retake.’ He was gesturing towards the open collar on my black dress, and holding up a tiny grey lump of plastic that looked like a bluebottle attached to a black wire.

Instinctively, I stepped backwards as he approached.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not a micro-pig, I don’t bite.’

‘I just haven’t been mic’d up before—if that’s what you call it.’
I sound like an idiot.

‘It takes two seconds and means we can hear you when you speak. Fran wants to get a bit more on why you picked that dress for Beau.’

‘Well, if Mona doesn’t …’ I glanced in her direction, but Mona was still deep in conversation with Beau. They’d moved on to the topic of wedding dresses. ‘I guess it’s okay.’

Rob came even nearer. As he clipped the tiny microphone onto the collar of my black shirt dress, I became aware that the top of my old grey bra was visible. I cringed. He was so close I could smell him: warm washing powder and a light aftershave. I was afraid to speak for fear that my breath smelled or I’d spit in his ear by accident. I had never felt so aware of my bodily functions.
Please don’t do anything weird, body. Please.

‘Perfect, if you just drop this cable through your dress, I’ll plug you in.’

I fumbled with the wire, passing it under my dress and out the other end. I was painfully self-conscious. He might as well have asked me to start twerking naked around the room. ‘So tell us, Amber, why did you pick the Valentino for Beau?’ Fran asked, as a burning sensation spread from my chest to my cheeks. My heart rate was still recovering from Rob’s hands being so close to my old bra. Nervously, I spoke to the side of Shaggy’s face, just behind the camera, as Rob had instructed.

‘I guess it’s the ultimate fairy-tale dress. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it—I think any girl would.’

‘Do you think red will be a trend on the red carpet this award season?’

This line of questioning is way out of my depth.

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I think it’s a strong, classic colour that will make Beau stand out from the crowd. The strapless neckline is beautifully elegant and the gown’s so well made, she’ll feel like a goddess in it.’

‘A goddess, I like that. Remind us of your surname, please?’

‘It’s Green, Amber Green, Mona’s assistant.’

Fran looked bemused.

‘Yes, like traffic lights,’ I qualified, somehow feeling the need to do the job of ridiculing myself for her.

‘Well, congrats on adding a punchy red to your name. Now you have the full set—Red Amber Green. That’s so funny!’

I smiled, awkwardly. It was the first time I’d seen Fran with the bob actually laugh. But her normally pinched, stern face looked as though it was having problems creasing in the right places. Her mouth was smiling, but somehow her eyes couldn’t quite pull it off. I wondered what Vicky’s analysis would be.
Heavy Botox, possible fillers, mini facelift?

‘Thanks, all, we’re done,’ she added, looking as pleased as she was able to look. She clapped her hands together, a signal for the team to begin de-rigging, fast.

‘Nice one, Amber, thanks.’ Rob smiled. I breathed a sigh of relief as he began helping the cameraman put the equipment back into flight cases.

Finally Mona shut the door behind Beau and summoned me again. But instead of the telling-off I feared, I was given a ten-dollar note and dispatched to the pharmacy for ‘drugs’.

A
s I left the hotel to pop to the chemist, Beau was still in the driveway, her perfectly formed butt halfway into a white convertible sports car as a valet held open the door for her. A lucky paparazzo happily chanced upon the scene. The camera flashes alerted everyone in the vicinity that there was a ‘famous person’ in their midst, and soon a small crowd had gathered to observe the celebrity getting into the car. She lapped up the attention. As she glanced over her shoulder, in full pout-mode for the pap, she spotted me trying to scuttle down the driveway unnoticed.

‘Hey, Annie!’ Beau screeched.
Drat.

I pretended not to hear as I felt the hungry eyes of a crowd of tourists instantly turn in my direction. Might they be about to luck out, witness a ‘famous person bumps into another famous person’ moment? Alas, she’s a ‘nobody’. They all seemed to realise it at once, heads turning back to Beau in unison.

‘No way,
Annie!’
she continued, louder, while the pap
fired off a few more rounds and the bunch of tourists held up their cell phones.
Why is she calling me Annie?

As I walked in the opposite direction, Beau left the car and lightly jogged towards me, her arms open, ready to welcome me into a big fake hug.

‘Oh my God! How cool to bump into you! What are you doing here?’

I looked from Beau to the car and back again.
Oh, bloody hell, she’s with Trey.

I had absolutely nowhere to hide.

‘Oh, hi, Beau. I, um, had a meeting here.’
I’m lying again. This is bad energy at its best.

Beau grabbed my arm and tugged me in the direction of the sports car. The pap snapped us both. I stared at her intently, but she failed to acknowledge the fear on my face.

‘You must come meet my Trey. He was just saying he spoke to you on the phone earlier. That’s so weird, isn’t it? And now you can meet in the flesh. How fun is that?’

About as fun as spending the night with an insomniac micro-pig.

‘What a coincidence!’ was all I could muster, as she took my hand and led me towards the car. My palm was sweating profusely.

Trey rose out of the driving seat. He was tall, and much better looking than in photos. I immediately realised that showing my face for any length of time was probably not the most sensible thing to do.

‘Good to put a face to the name, Miss … Annie,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘My surname, it’s Liechtenstein,’ I managed to say, smiling and shaking his hand at the same time. ‘But, as I said, call me Annie.’

Now it was Beau’s turn to squeeze my elbow for added reassurance.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, and we really appreciate the support from the studio, Annie,’ Trey continued. ‘These gossip sites will run anything. It’s good to know you and the studio are above all that.’

‘Yes, all the way, Mr Jones,’ I said, trying to stop my voice from quivering.

‘Well, if you do change your mind about the Weinstein party tonight, maybe we’ll see you there for a longer chat.’

‘Think I’ll give it a miss tonight—scripts to read, you know. Anyway, got to dash. Another meeting! Tally ho!’
I did tell you that acting isn’t my forte.

‘You’re not walking, are you?’ Trey asked, perplexed. Mona had already informed me that no one in LA walks further than the distance from the valet desk to their car door.

‘Um, it’s a London thing, I guess. Can’t help it.’

‘A true Londoner! Let us give you a lift, please.’

I looked at the car. It barely had room for two perfectly formed famous people and their queasy micro-pig.

‘No, it’s fine, I like the exercise.’

Thankfully, they let me get on my way.

Mona texted as I made my way to the pharmacy: Get me some Touche Éclat too.

The chemist was more like an aircraft hangar than a local shop; a huge warehouse filled with every kind of lotion, potion, upper and downer that a starlet with an addictive personality could possibly blow her trust fund on. There was also a large, desperately tempting aisle stacked with family packs of all kinds of confectionery and enough Red Vine candy sticks to circumnavigate the globe at least ten times.
I returned with three different types of headache tablet for Mona, some Touche Éclat (that I paid for myself, as the petty cash she’d given me barely covered the pills) and an emergency bag of Reese’s Pieces. Walking back up the hotel driveway, I was surprised to find Mona packed up for the day and waiting for me at the wheel of the Prius outside the hotel.

‘Change of plan, babe. We’ve been invited to the Weinstein party this evening. Literally
everyone
is going. How fabulous is that!’
Headache appears to have miraculously disappeared, then.

Before I could scream, ‘But one of the biggest directors in Hollywood will be there and he thinks I’m someone else and besides, I don’t have anything to wear!’ Mona threw me a golden ticket: ‘I’ll shout you a blow-out and you can borrow one of the Dolce dresses if you like.’

‘A blow-out?’

‘Oh, sweetie, you’re so cute. “Blow-out” is American slang for a blow-dry.’
Dolce dress and I don’t have to perform a sexual act for it. Major result!

When we got back to the house I logged on to the Mac in Mona’s study, which I’d been told was my makeshift office. I wanted to see if those photos of Beau and Jason had made it out into the ether. The web browser had been left open on Mona’s Wikipedia entry, where she had clearly been doing some editing. She was now described as ‘The world’s most famous stylist’, which was arguably the truth and listed as ‘Age 37’, which was definitely not. At least not for seven or so years, I estimated.

I opened a new tab. Sure enough, there on the
Starz
homepage was a large, slightly blurred photo of Beau and Jason,
their arms around each other and their lips locked, just inside the entrance to an underground car park. The headline read:

WORLD EXCLUSIVE
BREAKING NEWS!
BEAU’S BIG CLINCH WITH JASON
THE PHOTOS THAT PROVE THINGS
ARE HOTTING UP OFF-SET FOR THE
SUMMER’S NOT OVER
CO-STARS!

And then in smaller writing underneath:

WHAT WILL TREY SAY?

And in teeny-tiny font, so small you almost needed a magnifying glass to read it, was a line at the end of a piece that said:

*When asked about these exclusive photos, Beau Belle commented, ‘We were rehearsing and I have nothing further to say.’ Trey Jones was unavailable for comment.

I sat back in the chair. ‘Rehearsing’, in an underground car park?
Why hide away like that if you’re doing nothing wrong?

I suddenly became of aware of a shape at the doorway and clicked off the site, opening another tab. Klara had appeared from nowhere, draping herself languidly against the door frame. I had noticed that Klara had an exceptional ability to appear silently and sneakily from nowhere, like a ghost. It was unnerving every time.

‘How’s it going, Klara?’

‘Not bad … bored … What are you looking at?’ she asked.

‘Just catching up on celebrity news, nothing in particular,’ I lied.

‘Brad and Angelina are meant to be adopting another child, I heard,’ she offered.

‘Really.’

‘I thought you were looking at something to do with Beau Belle. She’s one of Mona’s clients.’ Klara was annoying me now, with her patronising tone. Or maybe I was just feeling tired and irritable.

‘Yes, I know. Micro-pig—remember?’

‘Why are you Googling her, then?’

‘There’s some story about her on the
Starz
site,’ I conceded, trying to make an effort.

I clicked the
Starz
page open again and Klara leaned over my shoulder for a closer look.

‘I know that guy she’s filming with. Jason’s a major flirt. She been banging him?’

‘So they’re suggesting,’ I said.

‘Hmm. He’s hot,’ she replied. She flicked her hair and slunked off again, vanishing into the shadows in the hallway. It struck me that, for a house painted predominantly white, there was not a lot of light in Mona’s home; just a lot of scented candles that Ana would light during the course of the evening. Despite the bright sun outside, it could be a rather dark and haunting place. Klara reappeared at the door.

‘Oh, what are you wearing to the Weinstein party this evening?’

‘Mona’s going to lend me a Dolce & Gabbana dress. Are you coming?’

‘Yeah, I’ll probably catch a ride with you both. It’s at Soho House.’

‘Awesome!’

For a moment my guard slipped. I was excited about making it into Soho House, one of the world’s most exclusive, covetable, private members’ clubs. Vicky and I had twice managed to sneak into the central London branch, but I had never actually been a bona fide invitee. But that was all in the past. Tonight I was to be a guest at Soho House, LA—
the
Soho House. I imagined it was a world where blow-outs, bling, Botox and Hollywood power players reigned supreme.
Thank Christ I’ll have swishy hair.
As I regained my composure, I was distracted by my phone ringing.

‘Vicky!’

‘Babe! Finally! Been thinking about you non-stop,’ she squealed down the line. ‘You’re the talk of my office. Even the Editor wants an update. So come on, spill!’

It was so good to hear her voice.

‘Oh, honey, I’ve missed you so much.’ I glanced at Klara, thinking she’d get the hint to slink off and leave me in peace. She didn’t. ‘It’s been unreal. I don’t know where to begin really, I can’t believe it’s only been two days and so much has happened.’ I crept past Klara, out of the office and upstairs to my bedroom to speak in private.

‘Well, you can start with sleeping with Beau Belle’s micro-pig! What the …?’

I heard the TV in the background, Vicky had a habit of turning it on as soon as she got home. I looked at my watch; it must be way after midnight in London.

Still haven’t properly got my head around the time difference.

‘Oh, Vic, it was the maddest day …’

As I regaled her with the story of Beau’s fittings, Pinky’s M&Ms dinner, Mona’s coffee addiction, the sacked PA, the
gigantic lie, the tiny people, the minders, the gowns, the jewels, the shoes, Klara, my room, the pool—which I still hadn’t even had a chance to dip my little toe in—the housekeeper and everything in between, I realised that this massively beat the Groundhog Day of getting up and going to Smith’s, five, sometimes six days a week. Vicky was a fantastic listener—she laughed, shrieked and made ‘Oh my God!’ exclamations in all the right places. She found the Pinky story particularly hilarious; at one point real tears were rolling down my cheeks, too. I dearly wished she was out here, as well. After twenty minutes of verbal diarrhoea, I came up for air, having told her everything I could think of, except for the fact that I missed home and our fridge full of hummus and nail varnish, and finally asked, ‘How are you, anyway?’

‘Oh, not bad.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you, Vic?’

‘I’m fine—just tired, I guess. It was a long day—the Editor was in a bad mood, nothing was right—so I had a wine session with Polly after work. I’m hungover already.’

‘Have you got plans for this week?’

‘Yes, a couple of things with the work crew, and a launch party for a new swimwear label tomorrow night—should be fun.’

‘No Simon plans?’

Simon had been Vicky’s boyfriend for the whole of the past year. He was a successful freelance film reviewer, perennially working on his first screenplay, five years older than her. At first I was impressed she had managed to bag such a clever, good-looking older man, but he and I had never bonded; I always felt like the annoying, wallflower friend whenever Vicky insisted we go out in a three.

‘Not yet … you know what Simon’s like. He’s got a couple of screenings this week—I might join him at one of those.
Or we might meet after the launch tomorrow. I’ll see him on Sunday, if not. What day are you back again?’

‘Next Wednesday, 7:00 a.m.’ Involuntarily I let out a huge yawn, suddenly aware that I could barely keep my eyes open. Jet lag had caught up with me again.

‘You’re practically asleep, babe, you go to bed.’

‘No time for sleep—I’m going to the Weinstein party with Mona and Klara.’

‘Weinstein as in Harvey Weinstein? Bloody hell, that’s cool! You’d better not let all this schmoozing go to your head, Miss Green. What are you going to wear?’

‘Mona’s lending me a dress and shouting me a blow-dry—which is called a blow-out over here, don’t you know.’

‘Sounds rude. Anyway, all this glamour and blowing is too much for me … I’ve got to get my head down, I can’t afford to be late for work tomorrow. Have fun. Love you.’

‘Love you more. Hope work’s better tomorrow.’

‘Oh, and whatever happens at the party, phone me afterwards. And post a selfie so I can see the blow-out.’

As I said goodbye I rested my head on the pillow and closed my eyes for a second, thinking of the mornings when Vicky and I would buy each other a Diet Coke to drink on the tube to ease our hangovers. It sounded as though she would need one this morning. It all felt so far away.

Next thing I knew, I was woken up by a loud banging at the door.

‘Amber? Amber! You all right in there,
chica?’

I’d been sleeping with my mouth open, and it had dried out so much, I couldn’t speak. I swallowed deeply.

‘Ana, I’m fine, sorry, I was asleep …’

As I hoisted myself up onto my elbows, Ana appeared
at the doorway, a patterned Dolce & Gabbana dress over her arm.

‘Thank God for that, we thought you had maybe collapsed or something. Mona’s ready to go. She wants to know if you’ve got the dress on yet …’

‘What time is it?’

‘Nine … The driver’s waiting.’

‘Oh no! Tell her I’ll be literally two minutes …’

I emerged from the car all flowing, flicky, glossy hair. Clouds parted across the sky in my wake. The sun shone a spotlight over my head. The clip-clop of my towering heels made a satisfying sound as I strode confidently towards the red carpet at the glittering entrance of Soho House. I felt like the most powerful, magnetic woman to stride this Earth. Well, that’s how I
wanted
to feel. In reality, I exited the Prius in an underground car park and walked between Mona and Klara towards a small, dimly-lit reception desk, feeling drowsy, hot and uncomfortable, squeezed into the beautiful Dolce & Gabbana dress—unfortunately a small sample size, for my non-sample-size body. My hair was pepped up with a generous spray of dry shampoo.
I hate myself for falling asleep.
Yet, as we gave our names to be ticked off an extensive list, there were still bubbles of excitement in my stomach. I was about to enter the legendary Soho House lifts and an actual top Hollywood event.