The Stylist

Au contraire.

We walked the final few steps in another awkward silence, both ranting inwardly. I decided against asking her opinion of what I should pack or if she had a kit I could borrow. The atmosphere between us was eating me alive, so I fibbed.

‘I think I’ll get the bus today. I need air.’

‘Fair enough.’

She didn’t even look me in the eye.

‘I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then.’

‘Yeah, if Jas will have you back.’

And she was gone, skinny jeans and dip-dyed hair lost in a crowd of commuters, probably heading to a Shoreditch pub to break her NDA and slag me off with some East London hipsters. I hope the NDA police are sitting at the next table.

When I had safely turned off Oxford Street onto Manchester Square—when I could be sure that neither Kiki nor Mona nor any TV cameras were spying on me to see if I was displaying any embarrassing, high-spirited emotions—I did what every twenty-six-year-old in possession of her best job offer ever does: I phoned my mum.

‘Are you walking again?’ she asked, before I even said hello.

For some reason my mother has an aversion to me walking and talking. Probably because I always seem to phone her when I’m in transit.

‘I’ve just finished work.’ I stopped in the street and cupped the phone, to block out some of the traffic noise.

‘It’d be nice if you phoned, just for a chat, when you weren’t on a noisy street, on your way somewhere, that’s all …’

‘I know, Mum. Anyway, guess what?’

‘You’re coming to see us this weekend?’

‘No …’

‘We’re coming to see you this weekend?’

‘Afraid not. I’ve got a new job!’

‘That’s fantastic news, darling! A proper one?’

‘It’s in fashion!’ Quiet on the end of the line. An indication that my mother does not view this as news of a proper job. ‘I’m going to be a celebrity stylist. Well, I’m going to be an assistant to a celebrity stylist—and she’s the celebrity stylist—I’m going to be Mona Armstrong’s number two. Well, I think number two.’ Maybe I’m her number ten? ‘I don’t actually know what my job title is. It’s a two-week thing.’

‘I thought for a second you’d decided to do the teacher training course …’

Not again.

‘Darling, there’s not much security there. Jasmine’s happy to let you come back, is she?’

Why can’t she just be excited for me?

‘I’m flying to LA, tomorrow. For the Golden Globes!’

Another heavy pause.

‘Mum? Did you hear that? I’m going to the Golden Globes!’

‘Golden Globes, what’s that? Some kind of Californian fruit growing contest? Don’t tell me it’s a beauty contest, you know I …’

‘No, Mother. It’s one of the film industry’s biggest awards ceremonies, and I might be dressing some of the winners. I’m probably going to meet Jennifer Astley!’

Was I really saying those magic words?

‘Jennifer who?’

Being a lawyer, my mother doesn’t pander to the ins and outs of celebrity culture or the awards-season calendar, let alone share my enthusiasm for what dresses the stars might or might not wear during it. Instead, most conversations with her involve her checking I have the relevant paperwork for something.

‘Does this Rhona have insurance? You’ve got travel insurance, have you, sweetheart?’

‘Yes, I think I have insurance.’

‘Think, darling? You need to have it for sure.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘And you’ll definitely have a job when you get back, will you? Rent doesn’t pay itself, and you can’t leave poor Victoria in the lurch.’ You’d never have guessed this person had the eccentricity to name her child after a traffic light, would you? Once upon a time my mother must have had a sense of humour.

‘I know, I know, anyway, I need to get myself sorted out. Just wanted to let you know. I’ll call from the airport if I have time.’

‘Good luck, sweetheart, I’m proud of you. Just be safe, okay?’ Though my mother rarely gives me any praise for my achievements—and granted they have been limited so far—for some reason I continue to seek her approval, because somewhere deep down it really matters. I tried to ignore a slight pang in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t face telling her the real circumstances and risk her disappointment in me, too.

‘A fortnight you’re going for, did you say? That means you’ll miss Nora’s performance next week,’ she continued. ‘Well, take care, and beware the Hollywood prima donnas. Remember, this fame thing—it’s all smoke and mirrors. Keep your feet on the ground. And please check you’ve got insurance. Your father will sort it out if you haven’t. Promise me, Amber?’

‘Promise. Give Nora a squeeze from me. Love you. And Dad.’

Nora is my older sister’s overachieving five-year-old, who is already the best in her ballet class and seems to have a recital of some kind almost every week. If we were an American family, she would probably resemble one of those scary over-made-up, disco-dancing, grown-up-looking kids you often see on freaky cable documentaries, their hair pulled back into such a tight bun they can barely blink. Poor Nora. There are already far too many performance photos of her in existence.

‘I love you, too, sweetheart. Check your insurance.’

I hung up. Straight after I called Vicky, my flatmate and oldest, bestest friend since we bonded aged five at ballet class.

‘I’ve got a job!’

‘What? You’ve already got a job?’

‘A proper one! Well, a temporary one. Actually a two-week one. But a possible career one! You’re not going to believe the day I’ve had. It’s been mad.’

It was so great to tell Vic the story—I was like a pressure cooker of exploding excitement, at last able to let it all out. I couldn’t stop talking. When I finally paused, out of breath, her response was the one I’d been waiting to hear all day.

‘Are you serious? That’s bloody amazing, honey! You lucky cow! Oh my God, I’m so jealous I can’t bear it. I feel sick! What was she like? Was she not a bitch, then? What was she wearing? Is she pretty? How much better looking than SJP on a scale of one to ten?’

This is why we’re best friends.