The Stylist
Authors: Rosie Nixon
When exclusive London boutique employee Amber Green is mistakenly offered a job as assistant to infamous ‘stylist to the stars’ Mona Armstrong, she hits the ground running, helping to dress some of Hollywood’s hottest (and craziest) starlets. Awards season turns Amber’s life upside down as dazzling designer gowns are paraded on red carpets in Los Angeles, London and back.
Suddenly Amber’s catching the attention of two very different suitors, TV producer Rob and Hollywood bad boy rising star Liam.
How will Amber keep her head? Which man will she chose? And what the hell will everyone wear?
The Stylist
is a fast-paced, fun-packed rummage through the ultimate dressing up box.
ROSIE NIXON
lives in London and is joint Editor of
HELLO!
magazine. She previously held senior positions at glossy women’s magazines including
Grazia, Glamour
and
Red.
Ever discreet and protective of the big stars she has worked with, Rosie’s experience has undoubtedly enabled her to write her debut novel,
The Stylist.
For Callum and Heath
I must thank a few people without whom Amber Green and Mona Armstrong would almost certainly not have been brought to life.
My brilliant sister in law and agent, Jenny Savill, thank you for your ideas, encouragement and guidance, your faith in me made it possible and I admire you in so many indescribable ways; to Jill/Ruby Dawson for sharing your expertise – it was fate that we met in Marrakech, you are a true inspiration.
Thunderous applause to the team at Mira, especially Anna Baggaley for believing in
The Stylist
from the beginning and Alison Lindsay and Sophie Ransom for your enthusiasm and marketing and PR wizardry. You have all been a dream to work with and I am so grateful.
To my amazing husband Callum for not complaining when I spent hours at my screen during any free time and for appearing interested in red carpet fashion; to my incredible mum, for your endless support and holding the baby – literally – so I could get this book finished; to my wonderful friends for all the adventures we have shared which have without doubt inspired some of the situations in this novel. Especially to Chrissie, Mel and Michael, without whom I would have no understanding of what it is like to be monstrously hungover the day after The Oscars. And finally to my beautiful son, Heath, for arriving two weeks late so I could finish writing
The Stylist
and for being such a good boy as I tweaked it during your first year. There was nothing like the deadline of your arrival to get things done.
Part One: London, Pre-Awards Season
Part Two: Los Angeles, The Golden Globes
Part Three: London, The BAFTAs
Part Four: Los Angeles, The Oscars
T
he car door swings open and bright white lights flash before my eyes, blinding me for a few long seconds.
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Like a firework has been let off at close range. I wait inside the car while she makes her big entrance. Getting out of a blacked-out limousine in an exquisite, glittering gown complete with vertiginous heels is no easy task, even for a seasoned pro.
Knees together, swivel hips, feet on the ground, smoothly push up, rise gracefully, and straighten gown and SMILE!
A thunderous cheer erupts around us as she emerges—
Ta da!
—a Hollywood goddess in the flesh. Then come the voices.
‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’
She is under siege. Paparazzi shoot off hundreds of high-resolution frames, their faces hidden behind the long, prying lenses of their black state-of-the-art DSLR cameras. When they get too close to this tall, willowy, shimmering beauty, the minders rush in to hold them at bay.
‘Hey, Jennifer!’
‘This way!’
‘Give us a smile!’
When the flashes subside, I tumble out of the car, dart hastily round it and slip through the entrance, flashing my invitation pass. I crouch down at the side of the red carpet, beside the cold metal crowd-control railings, and sink into the shadows, desperate to keep out of sight. But I’ve been rumbled. An autograph hunter taps me on the head and shoves a glossy photo in my face.
‘Hey! Can you get this signed by Jennifer?’
Another pleads in my ear: ‘Ma’am, ma’am, do you know her? Can you get her to come over?’
‘Yeah, you got out of her car, get her to come here! ‘Others join in, like a chorus of extras in a low-budget film. I pretend not to hear, taking my eyes off her for only a few seconds; time enough to readjust the zip and pull down the hood of my grey towelling sleep suit. I’m breaking into a sweat. I look down at myself, in my deeply inappropriate, stale outfit, and then back at Jennifer in her stunning gown, all clean and super gorgeous. I’m so tired and embarrassed I almost want to laugh. It’s rarely cold in Los Angeles, even on a February evening, and the Oscars—the biggest night in the entertainment calendar—is no place for a pasty British girl in a baggy onesie, flashing her saggy bottom at unsuspecting fans, never mind the world’s paparazzi, who might snap an unexpected exclusive. Inside, I’m seething.
Bloody Mona!
Jennifer makes her way along the carpet, spreading pneumatic glamour wherever she goes, thrilling the crowds of fans with high fives and making a point of waving to those at the back standing on their tiptoes, camera phones lifted skywards, straining to catch a glimpse of their idol. She stops
to pose for a few photos with admirers, all of them less aesthetically blessed than she is, and an explosion of air kisses ensues. They have to be air kisses, they can’t make actual contact with her skin—she can’t risk a germ and she certainly can’t mess up the immaculate, dewy make-up that took two hours for the steady hand of a leading make-up artist to apply. She signs a handful of autographs, using the black permanent marker pen I have learned to keep in my kit for such occasions.
Soon we are being ushered along the red gauntlet by her bossy publicist, brandishing a clipboard and a firm perma-smile, to reach the main bank of paparazzi. Time to make my move. Pouncing out of the shadows like a leopard stalking its prey, I’m suddenly visible under the bright lights. I dash to the corners of her skirt, pulling down layer upon delicate layer of pure silk scarlet organza, embellished with shimmering beads and tiny sequins that catch the lights, sending sparkles in every direction. It is breathtakingly elegant.
‘Jennifer! This way!’
‘Over here, Jennifer!’
The cries are more urgent now. This is the main photo opportunity.
The paps are penned at least five deep, some standing on stepladders to get the view from above. She takes her time, moving elegantly this way and that, adjusting and tweaking her pose ever so slightly with almost every click. It’s second nature now: right hip lifted, left foot crossed over right, enhancing the natural curve of her body; right shoulder pushed back, chest out, but not too far; left arm on her left hip bone, right arm hanging behind to create a slender profile. Head held high to elongate the neck, face turned slightly to the right to present her best side, chin raised just so for a youthful
jawline, belying her forty-something years (she stopped counting at thirty-nine). She is textbook perfect.
‘That’s it, love, nice big smile for the camera!’
‘This way, once more!’
‘Beautiful!’
I look up. Both hands are on her hips now, slender silhouette perfectly shaped by the structured internal corset. Not so tight that she can’t breathe properly, but plenty tight enough. A hint of crystal embellishment on satin sandals peeping out from beneath the gown at the front. Elaborate diamond-drop earrings, worth ten times the gown itself. It’s such a timeless, romantic, pure Hollywood look.
Just perfect.
I glance back to check the security guard is still with us. He winks back in acknowledgement, earpiece and discreet microphone on the lapel of his slick black suit, ready for action should we run into any trouble. The fine jewellery houses don’t take any risks with a loan this expensive. She moves on, floating down the carpet now, enjoying the attention, gliding gracefully, a beautiful swan. With her honey skin, wide smile and dewy eyes, she bewitches everyone in her path. She’s so mesmerising, it’s actually a little overpowering.
How incredible to put a spell on so many people, purely by turning up.
On to the bank of waiting press and TV crews. I shuffle back against the railings into the shadows cast by the hazy early-evening sun.
‘Mind out, you’re standing on my cables!’ a small angry American man shouts to my right.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ I inch out of the way. Then I lose my footing, stumbling backwards, and a Japanese woman elbows me in the ribs.
‘Hey! Watch it, miss. You almost lost my sound!’
Aargh, jet lag. I should be asleep by now.
More bright
lights. This time microphones are being thrust in her face, a barrage of questions thrown from all sides. The faces of the entertainment reporters are so familiar to me now.
‘Jennifer, you look stunning tonight! Who are you wearing?’
‘Is it couture?’
‘Did Mona Armstrong style you?’
‘Can you twirl so we can see the back?’
‘How much are the earrings worth?’
‘Can we get a close-up of your shoes?’
‘Were you influenced by the style of your character in the film?’
‘Do you feel confident about tonight?’
And repeat. Over and over again, for entertainment shows from Boston to Beijing and everywhere in between. Finally we reach the entrance to the Dolby Theatre—and my phone vibrates in my pocket. But it’s not the person I’m aching for it to be, and I’m disappointed. One text from him and this would all be exciting again—another crazy night in la-la land to chew over and laugh about later on. The onesie would give him plenty of ammunition. And though I’d protest, really, I’d love every minute. Instead, it’s from Mona: Are you with Jennifer?
Seriously? Bit late now.
But I’ve learned it’s best not to reply when I feel like I do right now.
As Jennifer is swept into the auditorium to deafening applause, thousands more flashbulbs and some ear-splitting whoops, I discreetly make my exit wondering how I ended up in this circus, in a slightly smelly onesie. Oh, if only this was just a bad dream …
W
e gathered on white stools around the cash desk as Jas, our boss, delivered the news.
‘It’s about Mona Armstrong.’
Kiki’s eyes lit up. This sounded infinitely more interesting than a discussion about who was responsible for the smelly lettuce in the fridge. And her short attention span, after years of social media abuse, meant she
really
needed to concentrate.
‘I’ve had a call from an assistant director at
20Twenty,
the production company,’ Jas explained.
Her motley crew—the staff of Smith’s boutique, consisting of Alan the security guard and the store assistants, Kiki and I—listened intently.
‘They’re making a pilot episode for a reality show about Mona,’ she continued. Kiki flashed me a told-you-so look, but I pretended not to notice, willing her to topple off the stool.
‘The working title is
Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Stars,
but for now they’re calling it
The Stylist
.’
Big Alan was the only one of us who blatantly wasn’t bothered about this news. But it didn’t come as a complete surprise to Kiki or me—style bloggers had been buzzing about the pilot for several weeks, and Kiki had been monitoring the situation closely. Her latest bulletin, gleaned from various fashion blogs and breathlessly delivered over her daily litre of Super Greens, had informed me the show was ‘rumoured to be airing on an American network in the coming months’.
Mona was one of the few things Kiki and I bonded over. You see, Mona Armstrong was not just any old stylist, like the ones you saw on daytime TV turning Sharon from Wolverhampton into a sort of Sharon Stone. She was Britain’s most famous—make that
infamous
—celebrity stylist; a personality in her own right, thanks to her minuscule frame, achingly hip, self-coined ‘boho riche’ dress sense, and close friendships with most of the names in
Tatler
’s Little Black Book.
Now, just a few hours later, it had suddenly become a reality.
My reality.
Little did I know today’s news was about to change my life, forever.
‘The TV guy—Rob, I think—asked if we can keep it to ourselves for now,’ Jas went on, the American twang to her English accent a reminder of her two decades working as a top New York model. ‘That means no Instagram, Twitter, Facebook,
nothing
—they need to keep it under wraps until the network has confirmed.’
But that wasn’t the half of it. ‘Oh, and the
20Twenty
crew want to come to the store tomorrow to do some filming,
with Mona,
as she prepares for awards season,’ Jas said, ‘so it’s highly likely we’ll appear in the pilot, too.’
Kiki and I looked at each other. I stifled a giggle—laughing was my default when I didn’t know how to react. Kiki’s jaw had dropped so low it looked like it needed a stool of its own. Jas carried on, ignoring the mounting hysteria emanating from her staff.
‘We’ll each have to sign a release form, in case we’re in a shot the TV people want to use, and a non-disclosure agreement—an NDA.’
Kiki surreptitiously pulled her iPhone from the back pocket of her tight grey Acne jeans and held it in her lap, her finger hovering over the blue bird icon.
‘Release forms and NDAs are legally binding,’ Jas added, pointedly.
Sucking in her cheeks, Kiki turned the iPhone over. Updating her followers would just have to wait. But this was big news for both of us. In fashion circles, Mona Armstrong was a legend. AKA a #Ledge.
‘
The Stylist
crew will be here to set up at eleven tomorrow, and Mona will arrive soon after,’ Jas continued, already off her stool and itching to get to work. ‘So we need to get this place looking camera-ready. Amber, can you refresh the windows—let’s go monochrome. And Kiki, work with me in store.’
We nodded as the enormity of the situation began to sink in. This visit to the boutique, on a Tuesday morning in late January, was to be Mona’s first this season, just before awards season kicked off in Los Angeles with the Golden Globes. Mona’s visits were always an ‘event’, even without TV cameras rolling, so this was set to be off the scale.
Kiki, visibly about to burst at the seams of her skinny jeans, couldn’t hold it together any longer.
‘Oh. My. God. A camera crew! What the hell are we going to
wear
?’
We both cracked up. Kiki and I were both obsessed with Mona, though for different reasons—Kiki from a bona fide fashion perspective (she would regularly study the minutiae of Mona’s outfits, to an extent bordering on OCD). For me, it was more of a morbid fascination. I wondered how she could function on a seemingly liquid diet of Starbucks, water and champagne. (There were no paparazzi photos in existence that showed her eating. Fact.) But what could not be denied was that Mona’s celebrity power was off the scale. Practically a celeb in her own right, the careers of the stars she counted as friends were built on column inches secured through the clothes
she’d
put on their skinny backs. For up-and-coming fashion designers, she was a ‘dress trafficker’, able to kick-start a label simply by placing their creations on the model of the moment. Yes, in our world, Mona was massive news, so it wasn’t surprising that today we were bordering on hysterical.
What
will
we be like tomorrow?
On the morning of Mona’s visit, Smith’s was a flurry of activity as we vacuumed, steamed, straightened, dusted and generally tarted the place up. In the centre of the shop was a loosely set noughts-and-crosses board of square leather pouffes and two small glass-topped tables holding Diptyque candles and mineral water—though a glass of champagne was offered to those who looked like they had money to burn. This was one world where you mostly
could
judge a book by its cover. You could spot our customers a mile off: latest It bag hanging off her arm, rarely wearing a warm
coat (who needed one when you cab-hopped around town?), sunglasses whatever the weather, breezing around in a delicious cloud of expensive perfume. Some of our best clients, many of whom were old friends of Jas’s from her catwalk days, frequently stayed in the shop for hours at a time, chatting, gossiping and, of course, buying clothes, especially once the champagne flowed. One regular recently bought the entire Chloé collection on a whim following four glasses of Perrier-Jouët rosé.
‘Her head will be aching tomorrow,’ Jas commented, as the woman left the store with eight immaculate shiny white Smith’s bags tied with bows. ‘But she won’t bring anything back. She’d rather die.’
Smith’s did that to women who were usually highly self-controlled. The thought of spending nearly two thousand pounds on a few items of clothing, in one shopping trip? It made my eyes water. I still couldn’t comprehend what it must be like to inhabit a world where a cheap bag cost three hundred pounds. That was almost half my rent for a month! But working at Smith’s, it had begun to feel like we were ringing Monopoly money through the tills.
Of course, most of the store’s reputation was down to its owner, Jasmine Smith—an elegant, fifty-something ex-model with cheekbones that make Kate Moss’s look fleshy. Jas’s talent for spotting a bestseller on the crowded runways of New York, London, Milan and Paris was second to none. But it was her skill in mixing up cutting-edge items from the designer collections with carefully chosen pieces from the debut lines of the fashion stars of tomorrow—often fresh from their Central Saint Martins graduation show—that had made Smith’s the most successful, long-running, independent luxury fashion outlet in central London and a destination
for stylists and shoppers alike. ‘God is in the detail,’ is Jas’s mantra, and neither Kiki nor I would dare argue.
I was often mesmerised by my chic manager and her stylish customers. It was only now, after working here for the past twelve months, that I felt just about cool enough for this store. The truth was, I got the position by default. It was originally offered to my fashionista best friend and flatmate, Vicky, who then got her dream job as assistant to the fashion editor at
Glamour
magazine. I was temping at the time, which everyone knew was a fast track to nowhere, so she passed this job to me, and Jas said yes.
Until this position, I was more your average Debenhams devotee and Gok Wan fan. Topshop was my fashion frontline and Armani simply the fragrance my parents gave each other for Christmas. Yep, beneath this shiny new surface, I am one hundred per cent fashion fraud. I often see the real me, in the form of typical Westfield shoppers, peering into the window of Smith’s and looking confused.
‘Recession’s hit hard, this place is halfway to closing down,’ they remark, passing on by. At first glance, the shop’s white walls and oh-so-sparse rails might look as though we’re missing half our stock or have fallen victim to a Bond Street raid. But, as I have swiftly come to learn, true fashionistas know differently. The hardcore style set have Smith’s in their Smythson address books because this boutique is a fashion landmark.
Once you step through the glass doors and enter the inner sanctum, you are in an Aladdin’s cave, featuring a small, fully alarmed section of haute couture, rails of hot-off-the-catwalk pieces and Jas’s ‘ones to watch’. Either side of the cash desk stand two tall, highly polished, glass jewellery
cabinets, filled with rings set with rare gems, shoulder-grazing earrings, waspish friendship bracelets and sparkling necklaces in pretty, contemporary designs, boasting price tags to make even the most fearsome fashion director pause. Then there are It bags, killer heels, painted pumps and chain-mail belts dotted around on white plinths and shelves, each presented as a unique work of art. Everything is to be admired, stroked, Instagrammed, Pinned, oohed and aahed over by every passing customer in turn. Smith’s has it all. But only in small doses.
‘Nothing makes an item more covetable than if you have to sit on a waiting list for six months before you get it,’ Jas informed me early on. The minimalist interior is down to our strict instruction to put only one of every design onto the rails. Of course, mostly, it’s just an illusion—we have all the sizes, colours and crops in the stockroom, downstairs in the basement, which is the size of the shop floor again but packed with polythene-wrapped clothing. It’s a clever ploy; thinking your size isn’t available only makes you desire something more. And then when we pop out of the stockroom, excitedly exclaiming, ‘You won’t believe it, Mrs Jones! We do have a 14 after all!’—well, they’re already punching in their PIN.
Of course, the hefty price tags at Smith’s
are
very real. That’s why, like most of the high-end store managers, Jas employs a full-time security guard to watch over the stock—in our case, a burly silver fox affectionately known as ‘Big Al’. He works here full-time, patrolling the boutique and keeping a trained ex-army eye on the very expensive items, which have actual alarms fitted. Though his six-foot-four frame doesn’t suggest it at first, he’s a teddy bear at heart and, like me, is now able to offer an informed second opinion
on an outfit if a customer requires it. In fact, despite the fact he’s happily married with two grown-up children, Big Al
loves
the opportunity for a gentle flirt with a ‘lady who lunches’, especially when she’s in a quandary over whether to plump for the DVF wrap or the Hervé Léger body-con dress. He must be nearing retirement age, but when he removes his stiff guard’s cap to reveal a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and you notice his bright blue eyes, it’s easy to imagine Big Al was a heartbreaker in his day. You’d be surprised how many phone numbers he’s had surreptitiously thrust into his big, capable palms.
Uniforms really do work.
As for me, I know that, in Jas’s mind, what I initially lacked in fashion credentials, I gained with my ‘artistic eye’. My art foundation course wasn’t going to turn me into the next Tracey Emin, but it had given me the confidence to believe I knew what looked good when it came to dressing the shop, and the windows had become my specialist area. Our visual merchandising isn’t on the scale of the world-class windows at London department stores—Selfridges, Liberty or Harrods. But, for a bijoux boutique just off Bond Street, right in the heart of London’s designer shopping enclave, our little shop and its two bay windows gets a
lot
of attention.
On the morning of Mona’s visit, we had all come in early to ensure the store looked more dazzling than ever. I’d even brushed the shag-pile rug—a first, even in our bonkers little world. The candles sent an intoxicating aroma of gardenia into the air, and the room-temperature Evian and best cut-crystal tumblers were set out. Mona didn’t do Buxton or ice cubes, I discovered to my cost the first time I was dispatched for water without having received this important memo. And Kiki had spent the past ten minutes painstakingly
assembling a pyramid of dark chocolate truffles on a white porcelain saucer next to the till (not that anyone was likely to eat one). Big Al was watching her with a mixture of awe and amusement.
‘Dare you to take one from the bottom, Amber,’ he whispered as I passed.
When I started at Smith’s, Kiki had given me a crash course in preparation for a visit like this. Kiki was two years older than me, and boy did she let me know it. She’d been working at the boutique for nearly three years, and she was Jas’s senior assistant. For me, the job was a full-time stopgap while I searched for a ‘proper’ career, ideally in visual merchandising, but Kiki adored everything about it. Waif-like, effortlessly hip and permanently looking as though she’d stepped off the pages of
i-D
magazine after a huge night at The Box, she had bags of attitude and I was intimidated by her from day one—a situation she seemed to relish. At first sight of me, Kiki had taken it upon herself to educate me in the intricacies of the fashion scene, because I so evidently needed it.
‘There’s a major hierarchy in the industry,’ she explained, as I sat on a box of Diane von Furstenbergs once during stocktaking. Though she claimed to hail from the East End, Kiki still had a clipped, public school voice.