Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (5 page)

“
Here's my number,” Ben says, breaking the spell, as he pulls his wallet out of his tennis bag and hands me a business card with
Ben Pearson, Partner
, written on it. I proudly hand over my new Estil card in return and he raises his eyebrows as he reads it.

“
Wow, Jess. Estil. Very cool. Spanish for style, right?”

Impressed
, I nod at him, all the while feeling Scott’s eyes on me.

“
Hey let's catch up soon,” Ben continues, oblivious to the sizzle of electricity between Scott and me. “It's so great to see you. You look really well. Really good.”

That’s a w
eird thing to say.

“
Thanks, Ben. I will. Umm, and you look well too,” I reply, slightly awkwardly, forcing a smile through my confusion.

Who
says, ‘”you look really well,” unless it’s to someone who’s recovering from a long illness? I might not be the most clued up chick on the block at times, but I think I’d have noticed if I’d been suffering from some debilitating disease.

Realising it’ll start to seem very weird if I continue to
simply stand on the court with them I say, “I'll leave you men to it.”

I pick up my bag and start to walk away, feeling
euphoric at the thought Scott might be attracted to me. They both say goodbye and as I walk back to the changing room I hear them talking and laughing and I wonder if Scott’s watching me.

I look back and catch them both l
ooking at me as they walk to opposite ends of the court to start the lesson - Ben probably because he’s relieved to discover I've recovered from some mysterious illness I know nothing about, and Scott because I'm starting to get the somewhat distinct impression perhaps he wants to be more than just my new tennis coach.

I'm still buzzing from my workout and thoughts of Love God Scott as I drive home following my hasty shower at the club. I have to pick up my laptop, the lookbooks and colour charts I got in London before heading to Morgan's place in town for our paella lunch meeting.

I decide to wear my
Fifties-inspired blue and white Reiss dress that gives me a lovely slim waist and makes me feel girlie. It’s kind of a Stepford Wife meets Rihanna look.

I park outside Morgan and
Dave’s flat in Mt Victoria, an old, established suburb on the fringe of the city full of beautiful period houses.

When
Morgs moved in with Darling Dave she transformed his flat from a drab, standard homage to all things geek (Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Anime – you know, all the things geeky guys are impressed with and self-respecting women most certainly are not), with its ubiquitous black leather sofas and musty smelling faded towels scattered on the floor.

I ring the doorbell and wait, admiring the
expertly sculpted topiary in a French Provençal claw-foot pot on the front porch.

Morgan arrives at the door wearing a floral apron with a ruffled trim and holding a wooden spoon covered in rice. She looks slightly harassed, which I can only assume
is because she’s not exactly what could be described as a natural-born chef.

“
Hey babe,” she grins, kissing my cheek. “Just finishing up and ready to serve in about ten. Come with me to the kitchen and show me what you've brought,” she says as she eyes my bulging bag.

“
Oh it's just those London lookbooks and colour charts I told you about.”

I plonk the contents of my bag
on the granite breakfast bar.

“
My lecturer at The Boulton School of Fashion thinks lookbooks are a great way to show clients how to put different styles together and there are some fabulous looks in there, all on ultra skinny teenage models of course.”

I roll my eyes. Those models set an unrealistic expectation of h
ow you’re supposed to look in the designer’s clothes, unless of course you're Victoria Beckham or some malnourished, teenage supermodel who subsists on cigarettes and sashimi. I suspect not too many of our Wellywood clients will fit that profile.

“
That’s great, Jess,” she replies absently, hardly glancing at the pile. “But did you know we’ve got some really amazing New Zealand designers now, as well as local Wellywood ones? Heard of Highnoontea, philippa&alice, Mardle, Wilson Trollope? All local designers making a name for themselves.”

I shake my head
. How could any of these designers compare with the big British or European labels?

“Well, you need to. Start at Rex Royale in Cuba Mall and get to know them. I’m totes obsessed with them right now. I've got to know quite of few of the designers over the last year or so, and some of them give us a discount for bringing our clients to them. I’ll get you the list.”

She’
s talking as she’s stirring the paella and I admit, despite my reservations about Morgan’s cooking prowess, it smells amazing and my mouth’s started watering in anticipation. But I can’t help but feel a little put out she’s not even slightly interested in my contribution.

“
Right, it’s ready. Just sit at the table and I'll bring it over,” she announces.

A
few mouthfuls of quite surprisingly delicious paella later and I’m brimming with pleasure and regarding Morgan in a new light. “Wow, Morgs, this is fantastic! When did you go all Nigella on me?” I ask as I plough on in, never one to hold back when good food is offered up.

“
Oh, umm, a friend taught me how to cook this recently,” she responds, looking slightly shifty. “I think it’s divine. Poor Dave is pretty over paella, I can tell you, although I think he's quite enjoying the Spanish wines we’ve been sampling.”

She clears
her throat. “We'd better eat up and then get going up to Wadestown, Jess. Wouldn't want to be late for this new client. Apparently she's extremely well connected and knows anyone who's anyone with money in this city these days.”

“
Hmmph,” I reply doubtfully as I swallow my last mouthful. “That doesn't say much, though, does it? Wellington's a tiny blip on the map and there aren’t exactly stacks of wealthy people and celebrities here, are there?”

“
Well, maybe not in comparison with London,” Morgan responds.  “But there are plenty of people out there in Welly who need our help and are willing to spend the money. So don't go getting all, like, negative on me.”

“
Relax. I’m just saying.”

I think I’ll keep my feelings about this place to myself arou
nd Morgan in future. She’s uncharacteristically touchy.

She ta
kes the plates to the kitchen and puts them in the sink. “I’ll just grab my bag and then let's go.”

“
Good plan. Thanks for lunch, it was totally yum. I never knew you could cook, Morgs. Does your talent know no ends?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood as I put on some more lippy, run a brush through my hair and collect my things to leave.

“
Let's call it a new passion,” she smiles at me as we walk outside, locking the front door behind us.

***

Fifteen minutes later Morgan parks her seven-year old convertible BMW outside a large white weatherboard house with orange roof tiles and a pristine garden in Wadestown, a highbrow suburb with views of Wellington’s striking harbour. It's the type of house you see featured in classy interiors magazines, described as traditional, sophisticated and distinguished.

I would love to say I
manage to climb out of the car with supreme elegance, but being a sports car it's pretty close to the ground. I climb out in a fairly unrefined manner as I try to protect my modesty in my Reiss dress. I end up looking not too dissimilar to a lumberjack clambering over a freshly felled tree. My mother would not be at all impressed.

Collecting myself and trying to look like a confident and experienced stylist, we walk through the front gate and up the path
lined with well kempt hedging to the glossy black front door where Morgan rings the doorbell. There’s instant high pitched barking, and I look at Morgan's skinny leather pants and floaty silk top - all in black of course - and hope for her sake the creature creating that piercing sound isn’t a high jumper. Canine scratch marks probably aren’t part of the outfit’s look, I imagine.

The door’
s answered by a petite and curvaceous woman in her forties and I can see instantly why her friend recommended she see a stylist. She's dressed in very Eighties-inspired clothing, but, sadly for her, not in the least bit in a trendy or ironic way. She’s wearing a bright red Chanel-style jacket with black and white piped edges and matching skirt ensemble with a white silk shirt, complete with a pussy bow at the neck.

With her
ginger hair the total effect is a frightening red vision of Margaret Thatcher on acid.

She's accompanied by a
small, noisy terrier of some description who continues to bark but, luckily for Morgan’s leather pants, backs away as she does it.

“
Quiet, Cici,” the woman growls at the small dog, who instantly stops barking, much to everyone's relief.

“
You must be the women who are about to transform me!” she says, smiling broadly at us.

I
like her instantly.

“
Absolutely,” replies Morgan as she reaches out to shake the woman's extended hand. “I'm Morgan Barker and this is my assistant, Jessica Banks. It's wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Daimon.”

I smile at her a
nd say hello.

“
Oh please, call me Stephanie. Come in, come in.”

She ushers
us into her beautifully appointed, plush living room. It’s all rich cream curtains, chairs and rugs. It would be hard to miss her in her alarming red outfit in this room, I think, as I regard a painting I recognise from a university art class on the wall above the fireplace.

“
Your house is just gorgeous, Stephanie,” I can’t help but comment as I gaze around the room.

“
Well, thank you. Jessica, is it? I only wish the same could be said of my wardrobe, but I don’t know where to start with it.” She indicates for us to sit at her dining table as she gives me a rueful smile. “Can I get anyone tea or coffee?”

“
That would be lovely, thanks. I'll have a cup of tea, just white, thanks,” Morgan replies, smiling at Stephanie. “Jessica will have a coffee, white with one.”

When did she become my mum
, assuming I want a coffee? Luckily I totally feel like one, but that’s beside the point. Surely even a lowly assistant can choose her own beverage?

As Stephanie heads to the kitchen, telling us to make ourselves at home, Morgan sits down at the table and starts to ge
t her things out of her bag. I follow suit.

“
Oh don't bother getting those out right now, Jess. Why don't you just watch me for the first few clients to see how to do it, hmmm?” Morgan says.

Although I feel slightly put out, I agree with her it's probably best if I just watch and learn for now. After all,
I remind myself, she's been doing this for a year and Stephanie is my very first client. I have a
lot
to learn.

After Stephanie returns with the drinks and some beautiful little pale pink and lemon cupcakes we settle down and start the session.

Morgan asks her about her wardrobe, her lifestyle, and what she wants to change. She then pulls out her colour charts and informs her the bright colours she favours aren't helping her look her best, and steers her towards a soft autumn palette of oranges, rusts and greens. She then pulls out a tape measure and measures the obvious things like her bust, hips and waist, and more obscure things, like her shoulders and wrists.

“
I need these measurements so I can determine your body type as well as whether you have a small, medium or large bone structure, Stephanie. That way we'll know what we're working with and the styles that'll suit you the best. We want to put you in clothes that'll make you sparkle - on the outside
and
on the inside,” Morgan comments, efficiency itself.

She’s
good, I think, as I watch Stephanie relax into her chair with a small smile on her face. She’s professional, she knows how to put people at their ease, and she knows how to get them excited about how good they could look in her hands. Thankfully she’s dropped the mildly annoying “totes” and “amaze” in her flurry of professionalism.

Measurements taken
, Morgan continues. “You have a small bone structure and a classic hourglass figure, Stephanie. You must be the envy of all your friends!”

Stephanie
beams at the compliment. “Oh I hardly think
that
,” she replies, but I can tell she’s already starting to feel good about herself.

“
Can we find a full-length mirror so you can see what I'm talking about? That way I can show you what you need to emphasize with your clothing and what you could do with minimizing.”

“
Sure, let's go to my wardrobe, there's a large mirror in there, although you'll need to excuse the mess,” Stephanie replies as we push our chairs out from the table to stand up.

Morgan pauses to check her phone and then jumps up out of her
chair, suddenly looking on edge.

“
What is it? Everything all right?” I whisper as we follow Stephanie down the hallway.

“
Oh, fine, Jess.” She nods at me briskly and then walks hurriedly ahead to catch up with Stephanie.

I pause momentarily
on the way to look at a few of the myriads of black and white photos adorning the hallway walls. There are several of Cici the crazy, barking terrier, as well as candid photos of Stephanie with a couple of children, who I assume must be hers. There are a couple of gaps with exposed hooks and slightly brighter wall paint where photos once were, and I can only assume these were photos of her ex-husband. Times she clearly wants to forget now but once cherished enough to have in pride of place on the wall.

I realis
e I've been perusing Stephanie's photos for a little too long so rush to join the others in the bedroom at the end of the hall, where I can hear Morgan’s voice ringing out loudly.

Stephanie's bedroom is just beautiful, with a massive bed covered in sumptuous cream cushions with gold piping and a large possum fur throw, set against a feature wall of pale beige
‘
fleur de lis’ wallpaper. My mother could certainly learn a thing or two about ‘less is more’ interior design from this woman. The attached walk-in wardrobe is about the size of my entire bedroom, complete with rows of hanging clothes and an ottoman in the middle of the room.

Oh to be rich.

The alleged mess she’d mentioned turns out to be a few pairs of shoes on the floor and an overflowing laundry basket in the corner. This woman is a neat freak, I think as I watch Morgan trawling through her clothes, pulling things off hangers to discard them as she determines what Stephanie can keep and what doesn't suit her so needs to be chucked.