Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (3 page)

We
all met at the start of Term One in our first year at high school and were inseparable from then on, despite puberty, boyfriends, parents’ divorces, zits and other adolescent catastrophes. Laura had married her high school boyfriend, Kyle, about two years ago, the last time I'd been back in New Zealand. They’d gone on to have twin boys, Liam and Noah, the aforementioned nappy-wearing, lunch-spewing eight-month old babies.

Although I'd been a bri
desmaid at their wedding Laura had been a little distant towards me at the time. It didn't seem appropriate to ask her why when she was busy with all the wedding arrangements and besides, who needs that drama? So I’d let it lie, assuming whatever it was she was upset about would pass in due course.

But although we’
d stayed in touch on email and Facebook while I was away, I hadn’t seen her since the wedding and I was putting off doing it now because I wasn't sure what sort of reception I’d get from her.

“
Think I'll drop around to see her over the next few days,” I reply.

I can't put it off forever, especially since
our fair country’s capital city really is just a big village and I’m bound to bump into her accidentally at some stage anyway.

“
I need to meet those boys of hers. Mind you, I’ve seen so many photos of them on Facebook I already feel I know them intimately,” I continue, making light of it all. “How's she doing, anyway?”

Adjusting the shoulder strap of her
black Tod's handbag Morgan replies, “Oh just great. You know, still the same old Laura, other than sleep deprived and unwashed. Remind me to get
seriously
rich before I have children so I can have one nanny per child, á la Brad and Angie. Hey gotta dash, gorgeous. See you at my place tomorrow at one. Oh it's
so
good to have you back, girl!”

Morgan hugs me, kisses my cheek and sashays
away down the street, somewhat predictably turning all the men’s heads as she goes.

The following morning Mum and I sit at the breakfast table eating toast and drinking English Breakfast Tea. She’s fully dressed in a delightful ensemble of cerise ruffles and pearls, and I’m in comfy track pants and a sweatshirt. How are we related again?

I’d managed to sleep u
ntil five thirty this morning, so I’m feeling a lot livelier than I did yesterday.

“
What are you up to today, Jessica dear?” asks Mum, buttering her wholemeal toast.

“
Well, I’m going to Morgan’s for lunch to prep for our meeting with this new client of hers... I mean, of
ours
.”

I’m still getting used to the idea we’re in business together, although I do feel a bit like an impost
or. She’s built her business up to make quite a decent living from it, but she’s so sweet she insisted on re-launching our own unique ‘brand’ when I joined. She’d come up with the name ‘Estil’, even having new business cards printed, which I’ve proudly placed into my wallet to hand out to prospective clients.

“
You’ll need to get used to saying ‘our business’, dear. Where does that slightly odd name come from, anyway?
Esteeel
?” Mum pulls a strained looking face, trying to pronounce it correctly, clearly not enjoying the foreign word in her mouth.

“
It’s Catalan for style, Mum, and I think it sounds really cool. Morgan thought it up last month. She seems to be into Spanish things at the moment for some reason. Fine by me, though, I love paella, and Morgan’s cooking some up for us for lunch today at her place”.

Not that Morgan’s
exactly known for her cooking prowess, but I’m a willing guinea pig nonetheless.

Just then, the phones rings.
  Mum answers and I hear her voice suddenly turn formal. “It’s for you, dear. It’s your father,” she says, handing me the cordless phone.

Not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable I take it
from her and wander back to my room to talk with him.

“
My beautiful Jess! It’s so wonderful to hear your voice,” Dad says warmly.

I feel all smiley and warm inside knowing how happy he is to
talk me. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a Daddy’s Girl.

It’s hard to believe, looking at him and his lifestyle now, but he used to be your Joe Average dad, living in the ‘burbs, working a nine-to-five, attending dinner parties and taking me to winter netball games, freezing his buns of
f as he cheered on my D-grade team. I think Mum was always a bit jealous of us as we had our own little in-jokes and what he called our ‘Jessie-Dad dates’ where we’d do things like go to the zoo together, take in a movie at The Embassy or down huge amounts of carbs at a fast food joint.

Mum and Dad broke up when I was a teenager, an
d they're such different people, if you met them today you'd wonder why they were ever married in the first place. Mum is all about traditional values and, “doing the right thing”, whereas Dad really couldn't care less about all that sort of stuff.

He had a heart attack when he was in his
mid-forties, which kind of acted like a watershed for him. He quit his job as an ops manager at a large logistics company and radically changed his life, part of which was leaving his marriage and heading to Nelson to, “get in touch with his creativity and spirituality,” as he put it.

For Dad that meant becoming a potter and eventually shacking up with a woman called Morning (I know, I know
- a hippy throwback if ever there was) on a small lifestyle block just out of Nelson. They have a boy together, Orion (yep, named after the constellation. And again, I know). He's four and a little sweetie, despite his parents’ ‘child-directed’
parenting style, which basically gives him license to do whatever he pleases, as far as I can see.

Dad of course worries that
Mum isn't, “in touch with her inner reality,” as he puts it, and keeps persisting in his doomed efforts to help her, “see the light”.

Or something
like that.

To her credit Mum seems to tolerate him, staying in touch with him
, “for the sake of the family,” as she puts it. Whatever that means.

Anyway,
my dad is a pretty cool guy and we’ve always been really close.  

Dad’s heart attack
happened when I was sixteen, and being faced with the possibility of not having him around was the worst thing I’d ever gone through. It had the effect of bringing us even closer together and I refused to leave the hospital the whole time he was there, even once the doctors told us he was going to be all right.

When
he was home recovering I would skip out of school at lunchtime to catch the bus up to Karori to see him. When Mum found out from the school I’d been wagging she was utterly ropable, more so once she discovered Dad had clearly known about it and not seen it necessary to share the information with her.

Looking back on it now I think she felt excluded by us, which wasn’t my intention at all. It was just Dad and I clicked in our own
special way, unique to us.

It was at this time Dad started to change. I guess a near-death experience can do that to a person. He
took up meditating, going to yoga classes, and talking about being given a second chance at life. He and Mum started arguing lots, even though they pretended to me everything was still fine and dandy.

Eventually Dad took me out for ice cream one Saturday afternoon in my final year at high school and told me he and Mum were splitting up.
Although I was really upset, the weird thing is that even though I was still just a kid really, I actually understood why they’d decided to do it. Dad wasn’t the sensible, conservative career man he once was.

He wanted different things from his life, but sadly for Mum she wanted things to
remain the same.

So Dad moved out and lived in a rental up the coast for a few months before deciding to relocate to Nelson and take up pottery. I’d visit him every few weeks, and got to spend summers with him, which wa
s great because Wellington isn’t exactly known for it’s glorious summer sunshine and Nelson most certainly is.

Then, when I was twenty, Dad met Morning at a potters’ workshop and they moved in together shortly afterwards. I think Mum took it pretty hard at the time, but after
she got used to the idea I think she was secretly happy for him.

“
Hey Dad! It’s great to hear from you. How are you doing?” I ask, enthusiastically.

“
Things are just great, Jessie, just great. And it’s so wonderful to have you home. You have to come and visit soon. We’d all really so love to see you.”

“
Yeah, I will, thanks Dad. Right now I need to settle back in, and get my business up and running. You know how I’m going to be a personal stylist? Well Morgs and I have our first certified client today! I’m going to bring glamour to this city, Dad, London-style.”

“
So your job is going to be to make people look glamorous?” he asks, sounding more than a little sceptical.

“
Yes! And they so need it here. It’s all ‘black is the new black’ in Wellywood. Time to change it up a notch.”

“
I’m sure you’ll do an amazing job, Jessie. But are you certain this is your path - making people look more stylish?” he asks, sounding sceptical.

Feeling slightly indignant I reply,
“Well, yes. I think so. When people look good they feel good, Dad.”

He doesn’t seem to understand how badly the people of this city need our se
rvices. If my time in London taught me anything it’s that looking like a dowdy bag lady is completely avoidable with the right set of style rules.

We can all reach our style potential, just some of us need a bit more of a push than others
, and that’s where Morgs and I come in. Personal stylists to the rescue.

“
Well, I just know you’re going to be successful at whatever you do. You have such an inner-strength. Much more so than you realise, Jessie.”

“
Thanks, Dad” I reply, feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

Love my dad as I do
I’m not into that New Age, hippy-speak in the slightest.

“
Look I’ve got to go. Give Orion and Morning big hugs and kisses from me and I promise to come and visit you soon.”

“
Sounds good, my girl. I love you.”

“
I love you too, Dad. Bye”

I’m sure Dad’s idea
of, “my path” needs to involve some deep, spiritual meaning for me. That’s all well and good for him with his pottery and yoga and all, but I want to do something different. Personal styling is integral to my NGWL, and, let’s face it, without it life back in Wellington would be really quite unbearable.

***

I return to the kitchen and plonk myself down at the table, noticing with surprise Mum’s humming to herself again.

“
Now, dear if you’re going to eat such fattening food as Spanish fare you’ll need to do some exercise,” Mum states, smoothing her skirt over her own somewhat plump midriff.

The irony i
s not lost on me.

Looking at her it strikes
me I definitely got my Dad’s looks. We’re both tall, reasonably solidly built - thankfully in more of a ‘hockey player’ than ‘roller derby tough chick’ kind of way - with broad shoulders and pretty good legs. Well, mine are, anyway, I couldn’t possibly comment on my dad’s because he’s my dad and there have to be
some
boundaries.

Mum used to be very slim and petite, but
since the dreaded menopause she’s put on a bit of a spare tyre around her middle, thanks in no small part to her preference for rich food, high tea and the odd tipple.

“
You were always a good tennis player,” she continues. “Why don’t you join the Capital Tennis Club in town? They have oodles of courts, and Lizzie was telling me just last week they have some good coaches there these days too. Might be a nice way for you to meet some new people, don’t you think?”

By which of course she means it might be a
good way for me to meet a new
man
, which I have to admit is not an altogether bad idea.

S
o Wellywood isn’t my first choice of places to live right now but I guess I have to make the most of it, and I really could do with getting out of the house this morning, relaxing lavender scent or not. I used to be a pretty handy player when I was in my early-twenties, but not having picked up a racquet since I left to go to London, I think I’m going to be pretty rusty.

“
Thanks, Mum. Good idea. I’ll give the club a call.”

Fifteen minutes later I’ve
learned from a nice receptionist called Taylor at the Capital Club I can pay my dues on a monthly basis, which is a very good thing, considering the dire state of my finances.  They have a spot at the Cardio Tennis session Mum mentioned at ten o’clock.

So after digging out my
old but nevertheless cute little red and white Nike tennis top and skirt from the deep recesses of my old chest of drawers and throwing it in a bag with my racquet and shoes, I borrow Mum’s car and head into the city.

***

I leave with plenty of time, figuring the traffic might be quite heavy at nine fifteen, totally forgetting I wasn’t in London anymore. Consequently I arrive at the club in ten minutes flat.

T
his probably sounds like I’m moaning, but driving through Wellington there are so few cars and actual people around it almost feels
deserted
.  I know it’s a small city (yes, the “coolest little capital”, as the Lonely Planet labelled it and Wellingtonians couldn’t help but remind themselves every five minutes), but seriously,
where are all the people
?

This is the capital city of the co
untry, for goodness sake!

I admit
London is pretty overcrowded, but it has a major buzz to it, it’s so vibrant, and there’s always so much going on. Whatever you’re into you can do it with bells on there. And without your mother hearing about it.

Here it feels like tea and stale biscuits with my Nana on a rainy Sunda
y afternoon.

I park Mum’s car at the club and hop out, grabbing my bag and racquet f
rom the passenger seat. There are a couple of teenage boys playing on one of the courts, both with amazingly powerful forehands. They’re joking with one another and making light of their unforced errors, but I can tell it’s just loosely veiled war and they’re out for one another’s blood.

I go in through the front doors of the club and find my way to the women’s changing rooms on the left. After slipping into my tennis out
fit I survey myself in the full-length mirror. Not quite Maria Sharapova, but not too shabby. The red and white outfit complements my green eyes and fair skin, still with a touch of the tan I'd got from my week on the beach in Greece a month or so ago.