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

Needless to say we were history from that day on. I’m guessing the facts probably wouldn’t fit w
ith Mum’s notion of Luke being, “such a nice young man”, however.

“
Now, before I forget, your father asked me to get you to call him. He and his wife have just come back from some retreat or something. You know your father.” She rolls her eyes.

“
Will do, Mum.” I smile quietly to myself as I hang my winter coat in the closet. That certainly sounds like Dad. He's always off meditating or attempting some injury-provoking yoga pose on top of a mountain somewhere.

She glances at her watch and
jumps a clear five centimetres off the ground.

“
Heavens! I need to get back to the surgery. I’ve already taken nearly two hours for my lunch break today, thanks to the traffic to the airport and your late flight. What will Dr Whitelock say?”

Mum works as a recepti
onist for a group of GPs about five minutes from home. She takes it very seriously and working for doctors makes her feel like she’s doing something important for humankind. It doesn’t pay much, but clearly enough to keep her in overdone décor.

“
Sure. Thanks for coming to get me. I’ll just have a shower and unpack.”

“
Nice to have you home, dear. See you tonight about six. Remember we’ve got Siena’s school musical tonight, so try to get a bit of sleep in this afternoon.”

And then
she’s out the door and on her merry way, oddly humming as she goes. I’m left standing in my old bedroom, feeling dazed and desperately missing the carefree life I’ve just left behind on the other side of the world.

I’ve been back a grand total of twenty-four miserable hours but am feeling more than a little eager about meeting Morgan and getting our business underway today.

D
espite the internal battle currently raging inside me between panic and depression - I think panic has the leading edge this morning, but it’s a close run race - having this personal styling business gives me a really positive focus and helps me to forget about what I’ve left behind.

Last night at the school musical has taught me I need to just push panicky thoughts about being home way, way down into the deep, murky recesses of my subconscious and get on with doing what I intend to do back here.

So today is officially day one of my New Glamorous Wellywood Life - NGWL for short. I always feel things sound more impressive with an acronym - like SOS, MI5, or WAG. Maybe not the last one so much, but you get my point.

And w
hy Wellywood? Well, quite a lot of Wellingtonians like to refer affectionately to their city as Wellywood, so coined because of a certain film director by the name of Peter Jackson, who made a few movies here about little people doing brave things that rather a lot of other people (of varying sizes) seem to like.

It’s kind of like New Zealand’s answer to Hollywood
, just without the plethora of glamorous movie stars, palm tree lined streets and people who look like they’ve walked off the set of Baywatch.

I
n the spirit of creating a new life out of the ruins of my old one I’ve decided to embrace the name, so Wellywood it is.

Of course a
bsolutely instrumental in my NGWL is Morgan Barker. Morgs and I have planned to meet at a Mojo café downtown and, having been awake since four in the morning thanks to the utterly underrated joys of jet lag, I’m already sipping my second flat white of the morning and munching on a pain au chocolat in an attempt to feel human again, when she comes waltzing into the café.

Morgan is one of those
women other women envy and men quite simply can’t keep their eyes off. It’s not that she’s necessarily the best-looking woman around, but she’s really, really sexy. She exudes it the way kids with colds exude snot. Not a nice image but you get the picture.

I’m a straight woman, totally into men, and even I can see how sexy she is. It helps that s
he’s tall and slim with long, thick, sandy blonde hair, big brown eyes, and cleavage many a woman would pay thousands for.

O
f course being a bona fide Wellingtonian, she’s dressed head to toe in unimaginative black, the locals’ favoured hue, but she manages to pull it off effortlessly without even a whiff of bag lady about her. If I met her today I think I’d hate her, but as it stands I’ve known her since we were thirteen years old when she was a shy, pimply girl with limbs too long for her body, and blackheads dotting her nose. Plus we’ve been through a lot together and she totally rocks.

“
Morgs!” I shriek in excitement from my table, slightly muffled by the chocolate pastry yumminess I’m in the process of devouring. “Hello! I’ve ordered you a flat white. Come and sit down!”

As she walks over, predictably
half the patrons’ heads turn, and I leap up and give her a massive hug, breathing in her Stella perfume.

“
It’s so fantastic to see you! Wow, you look so great,” I say.

Releasing her from my embrace
, she kisses me on the cheek.

“
Thanks, babe. Local Wellington designer Mardle, you know,” she replies, proudly modelling her gorgeous ensemble.

“
O.M.G. It’s just
so
great to have you back!” She sits down at our table in a flurry of bouncy hair and smiles. “Tell me, how was the flight?”

“
Oh you know, twenty-four hours of hell, squashed up against a super-sized American called Hank or Chad or something whose tummy rolls attractively spilled over onto my seat. I had to climb over his mountainous belly every time I needed to go to the loo. One time I think I made his day when I accidentally got him in the face with my breasts,” I laugh, shuddering at the memory.

“
You
boobed
him?” she laughs. “Well with that level of intimacy you know you’re going to have to marry him now, babe,” she comments, grinning and raising an eyebrow at me.

“
Sadly he was already married, but otherwise I’m sure we’d be waltzing up the aisle next week,” I reply, playing along with the joke.

Being single when all your friends are happily ensconced in coupledom
seems to result in them always trying to find you a new love interest. At least they care, I suppose.

There really i
sn’t anyone I’d even remotely consider having a relationship with right now, which is kind of depressing. As I’d broken up with Cheating Scumbag Luke - one of my affectionate names for him. I have several more, all equally complimentary - about six months ago it really is about time I got back on that proverbial horse.

I just need to wait for the right horse to saunter by
, I guess, but I have serious doubts Wellywood can provide such a stud.

A
nd yes I know, I took the metaphor a little too far for good taste.

T
he young waiter places a cup of coffee in front of Morgan, almost spilling it over the table as he fails to disguise his longing gaze, tongue virtually hanging out of his mouth.

“
Thanks so much,” she says, darting him a brilliant smile.

He turns to leave and walks smack bang into a chair, almost falling back onto the counter, but nevertheless with a huge grin plastered on his face. You see the thing is that Morgan is not only totally hot but also incredibly nice to boot.

A rare combination in this world, sadly.

“
It’s so weird living back at home,” I say as I take another bite of my pain au chocolat.

“
Ahhh yes, how is the lovely Cynthia?”

“
Mum? Same old, same old,” I reply, shaking my head. “She made it pretty clear that she’d prefer me to be visiting for a few days with my lovely husband and adorable children than being forced to move back in with her in my penniless state. But she’ll just have to get over that.”

A
s she’s fond of reminding me, she was married with a child by the time she was my age. What exactly I’d been doing with my time was simply a mystery to her, it would seem.

“
Shame the fat American was married then.”

“
I know.
Such
a shame. Speaking of married, how’s Darling Dave?”

Dave
is Morgan’s live-in boyfriend of some years. We call him
Darling Dave
because there really is no other word to describe him, and he’s head over heels in love with Morgs. She met him at the bank she used to work for and then one day some years back she decided he was the man for her and gave up her string of suitors for him and him alone.

We didn’t quite understand it at the time because
Dave was not her type at all. She went for wealthy, successful go-getters with expensive hobbies (because she could), and Dave was your archetypal accountant - reliable, prudent, sweet, but altogether a bit geeky and dull.

Don’t get me wrong, geeky guys can have their appeal, but sadly
for Dave he certainly didn’t fall into the ‘geeky but hot’ camp. He must have thought every day was Christmas Day when Morgan decided to go out with him, and they moved in together within about a month.

“
Oh he’s great!” she responds a little too enthusiastically, making me wonder momentarily just how great he really is.

“
He says to say ‘hi’. He’s got into a new hobby actually, which is really pretty embarrassing,” Morgan laughs as she sugars her coffee. “He’s really into Dungeons and Dragons. He gets dressed up in weird costumes and goes away for weekends to play it. Apparently it’s retro-geek cool these days. Or something like that. Anyway, I don’t get it, but he loves it.” She smiles, shaking her head.

Dungeons and Dragons
? Could this guy be any more of a bad match for my gorgeous, intelligent and vivacious friend? But of course he’s her choice so I can’t say what I think.

“
Dungeons and Dragons?” I reply. “Wow, that
is
embarrassing. I guess you’re right though, as long as he’s happy.”

“
Right, let’s get down to it,” she exclaims.

I think we’
re both relieved we've moved off shaky ground and onto something we’re both happy to discuss. Sadly there are no rules stating ‘thou shalt approve of one’s friend’s partner’, but it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier when you do.

“
I’m so psyched about setting this thing up with you! We’re going to have such a great time!”

“
I know! I have so many ideas!” I say excitedly.

I’
d collected designers’ lookbooks and colour charts in London, and of course had my exposure to the fabulousness of London style – infinitely better than any Wellington designer can muster, I’m quite certain.

Suddenly all those make
over programmes on TV have taken on major significance for me.

“
And of course I’ve done my evening classes and graduated with my diploma,” I add, proudly.

“
Of course, I forgot you’d done that,” she replies. “What was it, the Michael Bolton School of Tragic Fashion or something? Where you learned to style to sad Nineties ballads and tease your frizzy perm?” She laughs hard at her joke.

“
Oh ha ha,” I reply, slightly wounded. “No, it was really great and I learnt lots. And it was the
Boulton
School of Fashion, nothing to do with ballads and perms, thank you very much.”

“
Well, you’re going to have to put that diploma of yours to good use as we’ve got a meeting with a new client tomorrow. She’s a referral from a woman I styled in Seatoun a few months back, and apparently she’s in major need of a revamp. She’s about forty or so. Got dumped for a younger woman a while ago. Apparently she wants to get out there and meet someone new but totally lacks the confidence.” She has a big grin on her face.  “I know, bread and butter, right?”

It seems quite a lot of her clients find
themselves in this predicament. Still if it’s good for business who am I to question it?

I nod, lis
tening intently.

“
She’s going to the gala dinner at the Wearable Arts at the end of the month and told me on the phone if she’s happy with what we come up with she wants us to style her for it. It’s black tie, so should be totes fun.”

I admire Morgan's
self-assurance. I’m listening to her as she talks, thinking, wow, this is really happening. Do I know enough? Am I good enough? Will this Stephanie woman like me? Thank god I've got experienced, together Morgan with me.

“
That sounds really good, Morgs. Thanks again for giving me this opportunity to work with you. I’m going to work really hard and I promise I won’t let you down,” I reply as I look at her earnestly.

I almost feel like I should have my hand on my heart, pledging my allegiance to her
, so keen am I that we make a success of Estil.

“
O.M.G., Jess, relax! You're not being interviewed for your first job as an office girl. I know you'll be amazing at this. You’ve got really awesome personal style and you're good at working out what looks good on people. You just need to have confidence in yourself.”

See, I
told you - nice.

Changing the subject she asks,
“How’s the website coming along?”

We agreed with my computer skills, gleaned from years workin
g as a project manager, I would be in charge of the technology aspect of the business. I’m feeling really quite proud of myself as I’ve already made inroads on it and think it’s looking pretty darn fabulous so far.

“
Oh it’s starting to look really great. I think you’re going to love it.”

I had spent several hours on the flight working on it, but there was still a lot to do.
“I’ll have it finished by the end of the week, no excuses.”

“
That’s fantastic, Jess,” she beams at me. “I’m absolutely positive we’re going to make an awesome team.”

We’d better.
It’s my only positive in a veritable sea of panic and misery right now.

We
make a plan to meet for lunch to prepare for the new client tomorrow, and walk out of the café together, happily chatting about mutual friends.

“
When are you catching up with Laura?” Morgan asks. “She's knee deep in nappies and baby spew, but if you can overlook that I know she'd totally love to see you.”

If you were to try to describe Laura in one word
it would be
sensible
. That’s not to say she didn’t join in the fun, but she was virtually middle aged by the time she was sixteen.