The Stylist

‘She was actually really nice, well, kind of nice, in a stand-offish, scary way, and tiny, so much smaller in the flesh. But actually really pretty. She had on these tight leather leggings and a T-shirt, Chloé, and these amazing black shoe-boots, tons of bracelets. And this ring, it was huge and turquoise, new-season YSL.’ Vicky was gobsmacked, taking it all in. For once I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. Perhaps I can do this after all.

‘And guess where I’m going in the morning?’

‘Not Mona’s house—don’t tell me she’s got a miniature dog she wants you to walk?’

‘Nope. Well, yes, I am going to Mona’s house—but not the one in London, the one in Los Angeles, baby! I’m going to the US of A because I am Mona Armstrong’s assistant for the Golden bloody Globes!’

I had decided that Los Angeles sounded more grown-up and glamorous than LA. And I couldn’t help wanting Vicky to be wowed by my new high-flying fashion status. It was generally her going to cool events and fashion shoots in exotic locations, so for once it was nice to share some fabulous news of my own. Cue screaming.

‘Oh my God, it’s too much! I’m going to faint!’ I love Vic. ‘Come home immediately—we need to discuss this in great detail.’

‘Just getting on the tube. See you in half an hour.’

‘Oh, and did you pinch my Mulberry? Either you’ve got it or we’ve been burgled, I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’

‘Er, yeah, sorry about that … I needed to look good today. The Stick noticed it.’ Before she wanted to kill me. ‘I’ll bring it home safely now.’

As I hung up, my elation was tinged by the return of a deep nagging sensation. I couldn’t even admit to Vicky the exact circumstances in which I got my break.

Just before I walked down the escalator at Baker Street, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Mona’s PA? I hesitated for a moment and decided to let it ring to answerphone, thinking I’d call back at the other end, when I might be able to detect from her message whether the PA sounded like an uber-bitch or not. And then a much more exciting thought popped into my head. Maybe it’s Rob? He’s looked up my number from the NDA. He wants to do some additional filmingwith me—take me to Selfridges to choose a few outfits for LA … Too late. Missed Call.

I got to Kensal Rise quickly. A year of taking the tube twice a day had made me an expert commuter, adept at standing behind the yellow lines on the platform at exactly the right spot to match the doors when the tube arrives, and then standing on the correct side of the carriage to be the first off again. During the journey I mulled over the packing situation. It was a major worry. But Vic would be able to help. She didn’t get the fashion assistant position at Glamour under false pretences. I have always been in awe of how quickly Vicky can put together an outfit and look like the chicest person in the room. ‘Naturally stylish,’ Jas regularly comments, surveying her fondly, whenever Vicky comes to meet me from work, and it’s been that way since we were at school together; she even made train tracks and a tight perm look good. I don’t think anyone has ever said those words about me. I’ve come to accept that, for me, looking fashionable will be more of an effort. I hereby vow to make dressing myself part of my job.

When I reached our flat, circumnavigating the build-up of junk mail and spare rolls of recycling bags in the communal hallway, Vicky was standing in the living room, straining to see over her shoulder into the mirror to admire her near-perfect rear in a pair of eye-wateringly tight pale blue jeans.

‘Do they look ridiculous, hon? Can you see my love handles over the top? I fell in love with them in the fashion cupboard, but now I’m worried. I wonder what happens if circulation to your arse actually stops?’

‘You get a numb bum. They look amazing, honey, really. You’re probably the only person I know who could get away with jeans that tight. Honestly, you look sensational.’

‘You would say that.’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. By the way, someone called for you. A man.’

My heart did a little leap.

‘I didn’t get his name, but he said he was Mona’s PA and when he said that I was too dumbstruck and embarrassed to ask for his name again. He sounded really camp. He asked me to take down your flight reference number for the morning and to say you’re on the 9:45 from Heathrow Terminal Five. Mona will meet you through security. He’s texting you her number.’

She stuck a yellow Post-it onto my parka.

‘But anyway, I think you deserve a drink, don’t you?’

‘Too bloody right!’

‘And I need to hear more about Mona. Come on, I’m in these things now and I might never get them on again, so let’s pop to The Chamberlayne and have one to celebrate. Are you really going tomorrow?’

Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes (#ulink_1eb79ffb-7db7-5e04-8711-250ae9eecced)

Chapter Four (#ulink_aad180f0-2b43-5427-b03a-a4fb1720eaca)

Through scared, aching eyes, I observed my alarm clock the next morning. Six o’clock.

My mouth was dry, my head pounding. I was still wearing my make-up but cuddling a pack of cleansing wipes. For a moment I couldn’t remember what I was doing on this strange, unfamiliar planet. And then it all came flashing back: one quick drink at the pub had turned into several drinks and then a bottle of white wine back at ours. It had all culminated in our dizzily turning my bedroom upside down to find my passport and then emptying the entire contents of my wardrobe into a jumble sale heap on my bed. From this fabric mountain, Vic and I lumped all the black things into one pile, white into another, and anything with a vaguely designer-y label—we decided Stella McCartney for Adidas and an Anya Hindmarch protective cotton dust bag counted—into a third, before I passed out in a boob tube, in the middle of it all.

‘Is that my case?’ Vicky muttered, as I popped my head around her door and shouted goodbye half an hour later, having lumped it all into the first suitcase I could lay my hands on.

‘Sorry, hon. You’ll have it back in a fortnight … if I come back. Wish me luck?’

‘Luck? You’ll need it. Can’t wait to hear the stories. Take care. But not too much care. Neck some Nurofen on the way. Love you!’

And I was off—head hurting, stomach rumbling, badly put together, but excited as hell.

It wasn’t hard to spot Mona in the Harrods concession at Terminal Five. She was wrapped in a large, brightly coloured scarf, striking poses in front of a full-length mirror. Two boxes of Marlboro Lights stood to attention in a clear plastic bag by her feet; a Venti Starbucks cup with coral lipstick all over the lid perched on a shelf nearby. Smoke and mirrors indeed, Mum was right. Make that smoke, mirrors and caffeine. Mona saw me in the reflection.

‘Amber! Babe! I was beginning to get worried. What do you think? The canary yellow or bubble-gum pink? Don’t you just love them? They are so LA.’

‘Oh wow, divine.’ Did I just say ‘divine’? Thank God Vicky can’t hear me.

‘These little beauties are going to go down a storm for the daytime events. Get on to the Cavalli PR and have them sent over as soon as we land.’ Get on to the Cavalli PR. Have them sent over. I felt queasy again. I hadn’t actually had time to consider the work that was going to be involved with this job: the PRs whose numbers I didn’t have, the requests I didn’t know how to make, the sending over I didn’t know how to go about.

‘Right, I’ll get on to it straight away.’ My efficient tone belied my internal panic.

‘I’ve put you down for the lounge—they should let you in. I’ll meet you in there when I’ve finished shopping.’

‘Right, boss, I’ll see if they’ve got Wi-Fi so I can make a start.’ Has she noticed I’m wearing yesterday’s make-up? My shaky hands?

‘They will, babe. And if I don’t come up to the lounge, I’ll see you at the gate.’

I hoped she wouldn’t come up. What I really needed was some time to get my head together. One person who would definitely know the PR for Cavalli was the Stick, but I couldn’t go there, so I texted Vicky as I looked for the lounge: First panic of the day—you don’t happen to know the PR for Cavalli, do you? xx

A phone number was buzzed back a minute later, along with the words, Get hold of her Fashion Monitor, babe. It’s the Bible. How I wish Vicky was hiding in my suitcase.

And then another text: How’s your head? Mine’s killing! Love ya xxx

I then spent the next thirty minutes in Boots buying Nurofen and Berocca for my hangover, emergency deodorant for my armpits, plus a large ironically garish cosmetics bag which I filled with an assortment of goodies from every aisle—chicken fillets, pop socks, Party Feet, plasters, breath fresheners, bull dog clips, cotton buds, medical tape—as much as I could stuff in.

When I eventually entered the British Airways Club Lounge, it was like entering a seventh heaven. Smartly dressed travellers sat on swivel stools at high white benches, working on laptops and iPads, and there were dimly lit seating areas with comfy chairs and lamps on coffee tables. I gravitated towards the darkest, most deserted corner I could find. A lady dressed like a pristine air stewardess pointed out the hot and cold buffet and advised me of the full drinks service on offer. Best of all, everything was free! Had I known about this before, I’d have dragged my sorry self out of bed even earlier. I headed straight for the brunch buffet and filled up a plate with croissants, scrambled eggs and bacon, all the while looking over my shoulder. The last thing I needed was for Mona to witness me gorging on breakfast like a normal human being. If Vicky had been with me I’m sure we’d have washed it down with a Buck’s Fizz, but I decided to stick to a sensible skinny latte.

At last I felt some colour return to my cheeks. After eating, I managed to call a really nice, friendly lady called Jane in the Cavalli press office. She didn’t seem pretentious or too fashiony at all, but promised to call their LA office, ‘as soon as they wake up’, and have a selection of scarves biked over to Mona’s suite at the W Hotel in West Hollywood to arrive ahead of us that day. It actually hadn’t been as difficult as I thought.

If use of the lounge had gone to my head, I was swiftly parachuted back to reality when we reached the aircraft’s door. Of course I was directed to the right and Mona sashayed left, dumping her shopping and Louis Vuitton tote on an air steward, who offered a saccharine smile in response.

‘Lovely to see you on board again, Ms Armstrong.’

I’m sure she gave me a knowing look straight after.

Mona reappeared some time after the meal—a hangover-friendly cheesy pasta. She popped out from behind the coveted curtain, waved a black Juicy cashmere tracksuit–clad arm in my direction, put her palms into a prayer position and then motioned a sleep sign. I mouthed ‘Sleep well’ back; another sweaty pea-head among the Economy passengers, knowing we were unlikely to get much, if any, shut-eye during the remaining eleven hours to LAX. When she turned back towards the curtain, you couldn’t miss the words ‘The Stylist’ written across the back of her black velour hooded top in Swarovski crystals.