Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (10 page)

As I drive off towards my appointment I reflect on my conversation with Laura. I should have known it’d be Laura who would bring up Lindsay. She always wants to talk about emotional things, trying to get in touch with her deepest feelings. She really should go and hang out with my Dad and Morning. Perhaps they could all meditate on the beach together or something?

Yes it was tragic Lindsay had died so young, but
it was over four years ago, so it’s about time everyone just got over it and moved on.

Of course I’m not so insensitive to think it could be easy for Cindy and Todd.  I will go and visit them, just as soon as I get
Estil on track, but right now, my more immediate concern is finding this address Morgan gave me.

She’s
sitting in her car outside the house and waves at me to come and join her.

As I open the door and hop in she says cheerily,
“Hi gorgeous. Look I’m so sorry about yesterday. Something came up and I had to go. Forgive me?”

She looks at me hopefully, a little like a doe-eyed
seal. Too hard to resist.

“
Of course, Morgs. We’re mates,” I reply, feeling relieved she’s apologised but still frustrated she hasn’t told me what had caused her untimely exit from Stephanie’s house.

“
Today’s client is another one going to the black tie gala event at the Wearable Arts, although this one is only seventeen,” she begins before I have time to quiz her on it.

“
Her mother and I had a chat at my stall at the Lifestyle Expo. She thinks her daughter has no sense of style and wants her to look the part. Her husband’s big in property here, I think. They’re hosting a bunch of customers on the night and she wants her daughter to make the right impression, as she put it.”

“
Sounds a little overbearing,” I reply. “And familiar.” I roll my eyes. “Poor kid. What’re their names?”

“
Mother’s Portia Moss and the daughter’s Alexandria. I know, very British,” she says as I raise my eyebrows at her.

“
They’re both going to be here today. Oh,” she says, looking at her watch, “we’d better get in there. Here.”

She hands me her
compact mirror, which I take to mean I need to clean myself up.

Mor
gan gets out of the car as I run a comb through my hair and put on some lipstick. My reflection much improved I climb as elegantly as I can out of her Beamer and follow her to the front door.

She
rings the doorbell on a very large, modern, architecturally designed house and within a minute a striking middle-aged woman with bobbed greying hair, alabaster skin, and bright red lipstick answers it. She’s wearing a Sixties style tunic over a pair of white pants and a large necklace of the most stunning turquoise. She looks colourful, flamboyant and glamorous.

“
Morgan, how lovely to see you again,” she says in a clipped, upper class British accent straight off Park Lane as she gives her a double air kiss so comically far from her cheek I almost laugh out loud.

“
Lovely to see you as well, Mrs. Moss. This is my assistant, Jessica Banks.”

She doesn’t invite us to call her Portia, I note, as she smiles
and nods at me by way of greeting.

“
Please come in,” she says, inviting us to follow her into her tastefully decorated, minimalist and spacious living room where we’re met by a sullen looking teenage girl.

She gets up from the sofa and I’m struck by how
utterly beautiful she is. She’s fine featured, willowy, with slightly mousy long hair hanging around her face. She’s wearing such a short miniskirt her legs, folded underneath her a moment ago, seem to unravel for twice the length of us mere mortals’ legs, and her loose knit jumper hangs off one bare shoulder, revealing sharp, angular bones under extremely pale skin. She could be a model in French Vogue.

“
This is my daughter, Alexandria.” She nods in her direction. “Alexandria, say hello to Morgan and her assistant.”

“
Hey,” she offers in our general direction in response to her mother’s instruction, and then promptly sits down on the sofa again, looking sullen and bored.

Mrs.
Moss rolls her eyes and returns her attention to Morgan, smiling as if to say, “look at what I have to put up with? Am I not a saint?”

“
It’s just like we discussed. A lot of my husband’s clients will be at the dinner so she needs to look appropriate. You know, more Kate than Pippa? I hardly want Sebastian’s clients discussing my daughter’s backside, after all.”

Mrs.
Moss scoffs, looking at her daughter meaningfully, who smiles sarcastically back.

She continues.
“I don’t want her in black, of course. Too mature. She’s only seventeen.”

Hmm, that might be a struggle for the pere
nnially-clad-in-black-head-to-toe-because-I-refuse-to-acknowledge-any-other–colours-could-exist-in-my-wardrobe Morgan.

“
And I’d like her in one of the more recognisable New Zealand designers as we’re at a quintessentially New Zealand event, aren’t we? It only seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

She doesn’t
bother to wait for a response, her question quite clearly rhetorical.

Obviously loving the sound of her
own voice, she continues with her monologue. “I don’t know where to begin with those designers. I’ve stuck with the best of British, of course. You know, Burberry, Jaeger, Pringle, with some of the better Italians for big events.”

I dart
an ‘is-this-woman-a-little-too-self-important-or-what?’ look at Morgan, who seems to be concentrating on ignoring me, instead continuing to smile placidly at Mrs. Moss.

“
Now, I simply must be going, I have a million calls to return, but I’m certain I’m leaving my daughter in expert hands.”

She
winks at Morgan and then turns to her daughter.

“
Alexandria darling,
do
try to be helpful.” Her tone suggests she has little expectation this will indeed occur.

Lucky us.

As her mother leaves the room, clomping heavily in her Christian Louboutin’s on the polished wooden floors -
they’re
not British, I feel like pointing out - Alexandria lets out an audible sigh of relief as she slumps further into the soft leather sofa. Morgan indicates I should follow her and we both go and sit down on the adjacent chairs.

“
It’s really great to meet you, Alexandria,” she begins. “I love your outfit. You look amazing.”

“
Thanks,” Alexandria replies in a bored tone without looking at either of us. She picks up her iPhone and begins to text.

Morgan decides to continue with the compliments, ignoring the texting.

“
You have
such
an amazing figure. You’re so slim and tall. We could put you in just about anything and you’d look totally fantastic.”

“
Then why do I need you two?” she cuttingly replies.

I’m thankful when Morgan picks up the gauntlet.

“Because,” she continues, ignoring the jibe, “we can ensure you look the very best you can for this event, in a suitable way. I know what you’re thinking, you have your style and you’re happy with it. But humour us for say fifteen minutes? I promise you’ll love what we do. And if you don’t then you can tell your Mum you don’t want to work with us and we’ll leave.”

Despite the sweet talking Alexandria still looks
entirely disinterested. I decide to pitch in with my approach.

“
And you know, Alexandria,
all
the celebrities have stylists,” I say to her.

This seems to pique her interest and she
shifts her sullen look from Morgan to me and then back again, apparently weighing up her options.

It occurs to me that she might also be
deciding how much she wants to piss her mother off right now. I suspect it’s a whole lot, but say a silent prayer she’ll decide against using
us
to do it.

After what feels like an eternity she
puts down her iPhone and gives a small nod. Both Morgan and I sigh with relief, feeling a positive shift in the atmosphere in the room.

“
Cool,” exclaims Morgan, clapping her hands together. “We’re gonna have some fun.”

“
Harrumph,” she responds, clearly unconvinced.

After a
while she starts to loosen up a little and Morgan even manages to get a small but nevertheless genuine smile out of her at one point. She follows the same routine we did with Stephanie, but this time she only goes through the black tie clothes in Alexandria’s wardrobe.

For a seventeen
year old she has quite a few evening dresses, some of which are by American, Italian and British designers. I raise my eyebrows at Morgan as I pull out one in particular with an Armani label. Why does her mother want her to wear some crummy Kiwi designer when she’s got the pinnacle of fashion already, right here in her wardrobe?

Alexandria tries
on some of the dresses and I have to admit she looks pretty spectacular in all of them. Morgan was right, she does look amazing in almost anything, which makes our job that much easier.

O
r harder, depending on which way you look at it.

Over the session it’s clear
she’s warmed to us and she’s even laughing at my jokes by the time we finish up. Which of course means I’m starting to really like this girl.

“
Right, Alexandria,” Morgan says as we put our colour samples, measuring tapes and various other bits of stylist paraphernalia away. “There are a few designers I think you’d look spectacular in for the dinner. I’m thinking Karen Walker, Trelise Cooper. One of the big, internationally known Kiwi designers, I think. Why don’t we get some dresses in and you can try them on, see what you think?”

“
Sure. Thanks, guys,” she replies, almost breaking into a smile. “Hey but can you do one thing for me?”

We both look at her.
“Call me Lex? If you call me Alexandria one more time, I swear I’ll scream.”

Morgan and I dart one another a look.
We’re in.

***

Outside the wind and rain have thankfully abated, replaced by an eerie, dank calm. The harbour looks like a giant grey mirror and there’s mist hanging around Mt Victoria and the Eastern Suburbs.

Morg
an and I stand next to her car.

“
You handled her so well, Morgs. It was pretty touch and go there for a while I thought, but you won her over in the end.”

Just like with Stephanie,
Morgan didn’t need me to get involved in the styling session today, but I’m hoping next time she lets me do more of the actual styling, rather than just assisting. There’s only so much fun you can have handing over measuring tapes, colour charts and holding up clothes like a human mannequin, after all. But then she did bring all of these clients in, so I suppose it’s only right she handles them. And besides, she’s the expert and I’m just her assistant right now.

“
Thanks, comes with the territory. I learned that pretty early on. Now, we need to get those dresses in, so I’ll email the contacts for you to do it. You need to get to know the designers yourself. We’ll make an appointment to meet Lex here once they’ve arrived. Next session we’ll need to accessorise the look of course, but Mrs. Moss wants her to wear some of her jewellery so it’s really just advice on hair, makeup and shoes.”

“
Sure,” I reply.

She’s
right, I need to lift my game. No more morning Cardio Tennis sessions for me. Instead I need to focus on learning as much as I can about the designers and getting the website finished.

As if by some cosmic coincidence my phone beeps at me and I pull it out of my bag
to see a text from Scott.

Cant
stp thnkng bout u drink?

For a split second it seems
he can’t stop thinking about me drinking - wow, he really does think I’m a lush - but then I realise he’s actually asking me out for a drink. Ruing the lack of punctuation in text communication these days, I hastily drop my phone back into my bag and return my attention to Morgan, noticing she’s frowning at me.

“
Who was that?” she asks as she puts her bags in the passenger seat of her car.

“
Oh only a really spunky guy asking me on a date,” I smile broadly at her, feeling thoroughly elated at the thought of actually going out with Adonis Scott.

But all Morgan says is
, “Cool,” and then continues talking about Estil. “You were pulling our website together. How’s it coming along?”

She
clearly only wants to talk business right now, which is right I suppose. But why isn’t she interested in hearing about Scott? We always share details of our love lives - the good, the bad and the darn right laughable.