Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (30 page)

“
Of course, Jia. I appreciate you doing this for me.”

I know
, I’m not going to win any prizes for being genuine here, but she’s doing me a favour, even if her motive for doing so isn’t going to win her an award for Magnanimous Woman of the Year.

We enter the building and
, even though there’s a lift, I follow her as she walks up a very utilitarian communal staircase to the second floor. She pulls out a key and opens the door to her friend’s apartment.

On first inspection i
t’s dark and dingy, but she pulls open the blinds and light floods the open plan kitchen/ living room area and I’m immediately struck by how cosy it is. There’s one bedroom and a bathroom with no bath, but it’s all pretty freshly painted, clean, and furnished with reasonably nice, modern furniture. All it really needs is a touch of interior design pizazz, compliments of me, and it’d be a great place to live.

After showing me through the
apartment - which only takes about twenty-seven seconds as it’s not exactly palatial - Jia pulls out the sublet contract her friend had emailed her.

“
So as you can see it’s very reasonable rent, no deposit, and available straightaway. It should suit you just perfectly,” she says.

Her smile is so broad and forced she looks almost demonic
, and I fantasize I can detect the fledgling horns of the devil poking through her perfectly styled hair.

She hands me the contract.

“Thanks. I’ll have a look at it,” I say. I look around the flat, feeling warm at the possibilities it presents. “You know, I really like it. And it’s in just the perfect location.”

It might be small but it makes my West Hampstead flat look like a mansion, and I haven’t exactly got a load of stuff, having sold or given away most of my things when I left London to
return home.

“
Great!” she exclaims, a little too enthusiastically for the impartial girlfriend of a friend.

“
That’s settled then. You’ll have to have Ben and me over for a drink to celebrate once you’ve moved in.”

Rubbing it in
, Jia?

“
Sure,” I reply unenthusiastically. “I’ll have a look at the contract. Did you want me to send it to you to sort out or do I need to get in touch with your friend?”

“
Oh don’t worry about any of that. Leave it all to me.”

“
Thanks, Jia.”

“
Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for one of my boyfriend’s good friends.” She emphasizes the word ‘
friend’
while she smiles overly sweetly, marking her territory once again.

I may not have Ben but at least I can revel in his girlfriend’s
anxiety. It may be a pretty crappy consolation prize, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

The following week, amidst the Christmas shoppers, street buskers, streams of cruise ship tourists queuing up to get a glimpse of the city from our modest cable car, and corporate types keeping up the pretence they’re actually working and not skiving off early for a mid-afternoon Seasonal tipple, Morgan and I meet with the editor of Capital Woman, Caroline Yee.

I’
m as nervous as I was when I had to sing solo in a school singing competition because our really good singer had come down with the ‘flu, but Morgan’s easy air and confidence begins to rub off on me as we sit with Caroline, discussing her requirements for the next magazine’s fashion spread.

“
I’m really looking for something along the lines of what you did last time, Morgan - showcasing local designers in young, on-trend styles, perhaps with a theme this time? I’m open to ideas,” Caroline says.

I’m so plea
sed I’d spent the previous week looking through old issues of the magazine, visiting designers, and talking with Morgs about what sort of spread would hit the spot. As she suggested, I prepared a mood board to show Caroline what I had in mind, which I pull out of my bag and prop up against the room’s whiteboard for us all to see.

“
I’m glad you said that, Caroline,” I begin. “So you see what I’m thinking is a bit autumn in New York, with an emphasis on the sleeker silhouette and…”

Sh
e waves her hand at me. “Let me stop you right there. We simply don’t have the budget for anything like you’re suggesting. We can barely afford to photograph outside a studio, let alone in a spot that looks even vaguely like New York.”

Not feeling deterred I continue,
“What I thought we could do would be to have backdrops of skyscrapers, Central Park, that sort of thing. Not to look like we’re pretending the models are in New York, but more obviously as large photos the models are standing in front of. That way we’re getting the idea of our theme on a low budget, sending the message Wellington designers are as good as their NYC counterparts, and that the clothes are just as chic.”

Caroline thaws
somewhat but remains unconvinced. “Pretty good. But our magazine is extremely Wellington-centric,
by
Wellington women
for
Wellington women,” she adds, quoting the magazine strapline. She looks at Morgan. “You know this, Morgan. You’ve done spreads for us in the past.”

Morgan’s relaxed façade falls. We both got pretty carried away with the New York theme, so some quick thinking is required
. And fast.

A thought occurs to me.
“How about we stick with the theme but make it more ‘autumn in Wellington’? Not in an ironic way, but in a slick, urban way, using backdrops of the more interesting spots in Wellington. We could photograph them and then use them for the fashion shoot in the studio, just as we’d thought we’d do with images of NYC.”

“
Go on,” she replies, looking sceptical, and I dart a quick look at Morgan who’s furiously nodding at me in encouragement.

“
I’m thinking the Roxy Theatre, Old Bank Arcade, the cruise ship terminal with the funky floral mural. That sort of thing.” I stop and look at Caroline, who’s studying the board and seems to be deep in thought.

“
And you’ll use the same designers’ clothes you’ve suggested here?” she asks, inspecting the board.

“
Absolutely. Make it young and chic, like New York, but quintessentially Wellington.”

Another thought occurs to me.
“And what’s Wellington known for? Wind. We could use wind machines to create beautiful movement in the clothing in the shoot. Choose pieces that would really work.”

Morgan and I
hold our collective breath as we await Caroline’s verdict on my hastily formulated idea.

Finally she smiles at us both, stands up and says,
“I love it. Get me your revised ideas on paper by the end of the week and we’re in business.”

We both leap out of our chairs in exci
tement, grinning like the Cheshire Cat from ear to ear.

Outside on the street we high five one another like teenage boys.

“You
totes
pulled it out of the bag, Jess. Life saver!”

“
Thanks,” I reply, feeling excessively proud of myself. “No idea where it came from,” I add, shrugging self-deprecatingly.

“
Yeah you do. You love it here and you’re keen to show everyone else how awesome Wellywood is. Go on, admit it.” She pokes me playfully in the arm and I realise she’s right.

Although I’d hated being here with a passion when I arrived back all thos
e months ago, somehow things have changed. It hadn’t been dramatic, like I’d walked around a corner and been smacked between the eyes with how great this place is, it’d just kind of snuck up on me.

A
nd now I simply can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

***

Feeling pretty darn fabulous about my recent magazine deal, I move into my wonderful new apartment the following weekend, assisted by a gaggle of family and friends: Mum and Sydney, who can barely contain their oh-so lightly veiled glee at getting the house to themselves; Morgan and Pabla, who are still as loved up as ever; and Laura and Kyle, who take turns entertaining and feeding their rambunctious and adorable boys in what’s gradually becoming my living room.

“
I think you’re going to be very happy here, dear,” Mum says, helping me hang my clothes in the wardrobe. It’s rapidly proving to be too small for my vast collection of clothes and accessories.

Laura staggers into the bedroom, weighed down with a large box of my shoes
, and unceremoniously plonks them on the floor with a loud and somewhat unnecessary grunt.

“
Now I know where all your money goes,” she exclaims, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve.

I notice my mother stiffen as she observes
Laura, and I know she’s thinking it’s not very ladylike behaviour.

She’ll never change, my mum, but her heart’s in the right place, even if she has her funny ways.

Mum leaves the room for the next load as Laura pulls a pair of wedges I’ve had for years out of the box.

“
I can’t believe you still have these!” she shrieks. “Hey, Morgan? Get in here!” she yells into the other room.

I turn around from my wardrobe organising duty
as Morgan wanders in and notices Laura holding up a pair of red strappy shoes with a wood-effect wedge, looking pretty worn, thanks to many outings over the years.

“
Remember when we bought them? We all got a pair. You two, me, and Linds,” Laura says.

I feel a
small jolt at her casual reference to Lindsay, but then warmth floods through me at the memory of the time we bought the shoes.

“
Yes, the time we headed to the Mount for girls’ weekend. We thought it’d be so cool if we all had the same shoes. We probably looked so tragic,” I comment, smiling and rolling my eyes.

“
I thought we looked
hot
,” Morgan says, grabbing the shoes from Laura and slipping them onto her feet. “See?”

She saunters around the room,
wiggling her toned bum, a full foot taller than the rest of us, and does indeed look hot.

“
You’re a nut bar, Morgs. I’m so going to miss you,” I say to her.

Morgan and
Pabla have bought around the world tickets and are off to Europe via Thailand in a few days’ time. Once she’d found love with Pabla, come ‘out’, and - most importantly from my perspective - returned to Wellington, we’d managed to get our friendship back onto a level footing. I’m genuinely going to miss her when she leaves.

“
Me too, babe,” she replies, giving my arm a squeeze. Looking at the shoes on her feet she comments, “Linds lost hers on the beach, didn’t she?”

“
Yeah, I think she did. She was such a scatterbrain.” Laura shakes her head, chuckling good-humouredly to herself.

“
Yeah, she was,” Morgan laughs. “Certifiably crazy, but such awesome fun to be around.”

I agree
with them both. “She might’ve had her flaws, just like all of us, but she was a top rate friend.”

The
three of us stand in my cluttered bedroom, looking at one another for a long, quiet but happy moment, smiling and remembering our dear, sweet friend.

T
he one who will forever be missing from our tight quartet.

After the chaos of Christmas - a whirlwind of parties, present buying, and family time down in Nelson and here in Welly with the middle-aged lovebirds - life settles down into a more stable pattern for me. I’d been happily frantic before Christmas with styling women for various parties, but the work’s petered out now and been replaced with steady personal styling appointments with a variety of clients, mainly women, with a minor sprinkling of blokes thrown in for good measure.

The men’s appointment
s are usually made at the insistence of their recently styled wives or partners, which is an unexpected but nevertheless very welcome new revenue stream for Estil. Although it feels a million years ago, luckily they covered male styling at the Boulton School of Fashion course I did back in London and I’m finding the work really enjoyable.

Caroline
Yee at Capital Woman loved the final ideas I pitched for the autumn spread and I’ve sourced all the clothes from various Wellington designers to create what is, in my incredibly humble opinion, an amazing fashion spread.

She gave me six pages in the
autumn edition, which is awesome, and I absolutely love this part of the job. She’s hinted if I can pull this off each edition she’ll introduce me to the fashion editors of some of the large, national magazines, which is incredibly exciting.

To be fair if it
weren’t for this work I’d barely be scraping by on the income from Estil, so it’s just as well Morgan’s taken off on her romantic OE with Pabla, leaving all the profits to me.

On top of all this success
I absolutely love my new home. Even though it’s not exactly likely to be featured in any of those funky style mags any time soon, I’ve decorated it in a palate of modern, neutral tones. It’s very central and close to everything, right smack bang in the heart of the city and, most importantly, it’s mine and no one else’s.

I can come and go as I please and have
thankfully regained the sense of independence I so distressingly lost when I moved back in with Mum - not something I recommend any adult rapidly approaching thirty do. That’s all I can say.

And speaking of Mum, she and Sydney have set a date for their wedding
in late February. They insist it’s not going to be anything fancy, just family and close friends for a ceremony at our local Karori church followed by a modest buffet-style reception at a restaurant in the city. But then I caught Mum on the phone to a company that hires out doves and have my suspicions there may be a bit of a show tune theme lurking in the background, and I’ve realised perhaps things had moved on from their original remit.

I’m really happy for her
though, as they seem so loved up and good together, but I do admit I’ve started to harbour some serious concerns over my bridesmaid dress. I’ve spotted various pictures of lilac monstrosities lying around the living room.

I think I’m going to have to
perform some emergency styling, and fast, before things get really out of hand. Doves and show tunes are one thing, but I’m a single woman in her prime and simply can’t afford to look like a piece of lilac candyfloss, even if it is only at my mum’s wedding.

I’m sitting at home one glorious summer’s evening with my windows wide open, updating the
Estil website, when my phone rings.

I pick
up. “Hey, Dad.”

“
Hi Jessie. Just ringing for a catch up. How are things?”

Since my
‘get my head together’ holiday in Nelson, Dad’s been calling me about once a week to check in. We chew the fat about whatever’s been happening and he always asks me about my state of mind. This chat is no exception.

“
Dad, I’m doing fine. Hand on heart.”

“
I’m glad to hear it, Jessie. You’re such a wonderful person, with so much to offer.”

“
Thanks, Dad. You’re the head of my cheer committee,” I joke. “You’d better stop before I start believing you.”

“
Well, you need to believe in yourself. And, Jessie?” He hesitates.

“
What, Dad?”

“
I was wrong to question your new career. It seemed to me you were operating on a very superficial level, but I’ve realised in talking to you how much deeper it goes for you. I think it truly is your path.”

Dad and his hippie notions of spiritual paths.

Still, he has a point. I used to think I needed to create a glamorous life for myself as a buffer against
being back here in Wellington, but I’ve really found my calling in helping people feel good about themselves.

Sure, it’s only helping them look good in clothes, but
I’ve found it goes so much deeper than that. For me, as well as for them.

So often people come to me because they’ve been through a rough patch, or their self-confidence is blown, maybe they’ve put on some weight and feel really down on themselves
.

I’m not saying I’m some sort of my
stic healer or anything - although I suspect Dad and Morning would disagree - but when I see new-found self-assurance written across their faces as a result of their time with me, I feel like I’ve really achieved something with them.

“
How are things with your friends, Jessie?” Dad asks, breaking my train of thought.

“
Oh, good. Laura and Kyle are talking about having another baby, which I thought would be the last thing they’d do with the terrible twosome. Actually, that’s not fair. They’re little sweeties, those two, but major work.”

“
It is a lot of work having kids, but they’re the biggest gift.”

“
You talking about me again there, Pop?” I jest.

“
Of course I am. Now, how about Ben?”

Momentarily confused I reply,
“He doesn’t have any kids. Not to my knowledge, anyway.”

Dad laughs.
“No, I meant how is he? You don’t talk about him anymore.”

Although I haven’t seen Ben since th
e fateful night at The Hobbit premier, I’ve had a few texts - wishing me a happy Christmas, saying we must catch up, that sort of thing. Not that either of us have actually done anything about it. It got weird.

I’
ve heard through Laura he and Jia are still going strong. Apparently he even spent Christmas with her family in Auckland, which has to mean they’re getting serious.

I can’t help
but feel an innate sense of loss whenever I think about him and it manifests itself in a painful twist in my gut every time without fail.

It’s reliable like that.

But this time, I’ve actually forced myself to think about him and what happened, rather than pushing it down, deep into my subconscious, the way I did with Lindsay’s death.

I’m not the best at this self-analysis
malarkey, but one thing I’ve realised is I probably missed my opportunity to be with him because I got totally diverted by the sexy, more exciting Scott, when actually the man who was right for me all along was really Ben.

“
You know what, Dad? I followed my heart and told him how I felt, and he chose someone else. It sucks, but it’s done and I’m moving on. In fact,” I continue, forcing a light-hearted tone, “I’m going on a date next week with someone new.”

“
Jess, that’s great on so many levels. So, who is he?” Dad asks.

“
Well, his name is Hamish, he’s a bit older than me, he’s in computers, a salesman I think, and he’s cute and funny. I met him a few days ago, so it’s really just a first date.”

We’d actually met
when we’d both been waiting in line to buy a coffee on The Terrace a few days ago. The Terrace is the main business street in Wellington and not a place I frequent, not being the corporate type any more.

As is my usual type he’s tall and athletic, with broad shoulders and a very cute butt. I’d accidentally knocked
into him with my oversized bag - I still carry everything around I could possibly need for my appointments. I’m kind of like the girl scout of fashion.

H
e’d made a joke about, “bringing the kitchen sink into the city,” and we got chatting.

He was really witty and fun and I found m
yself actually enjoying talking with a guy - much preferable to the unrequited love nonsense I’d been involved in of late. We swapped numbers and had been having a mild text flirt for the last few days, culminating in him asking me for a drink on Friday night.

“
Wonderful. I hope you have lots of fun. And Jessie, even though you didn’t achieve the outcome you were searching for with Ben, the important thing is you had the bravery to do it. I’m proud of you.”

Having reached my schmaltz-quota
from him for the day I exclaim, “Enough!” Softening, I add, “But thanks, Dad.”

“
Anytime. Morning and Orion send their love. Orion’s still besotted with the waterslide you gave him for Christmas. He looks like a drowned rat most days now.”

“
The present that keeps on giving?”

“
Yeah,” he laughs. “Bye Jessie.”

“
Bye Dad.”