The Stylist (7 page)

I woke up a few hours later to a loud crash as Pinky overturned the water bowl I’d left for him on the floor. As it rolled around on the glossy white floorboards and finally came to a halt, I flicked on the bedside light to see him snuffling around the pile of discarded black clothes at the foot of my bed. I didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night.
It turns out pigs are pretty much nocturnal.
My head was spinning with Beau’s request and I kept being woken up by Pinky either headbutting the door or scratching at the floorboards as he searched for an escape route. I felt sorry for the little thing. We were both a bit lost in this big, pristine room in a show home high in the Hollywood Hills.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me that made everything seem a little better.
There’s a half-eaten family bag of peanut M&Ms in my bag!
Maybe a midnight feast of chocolate would help us both.

I managed to lift Pinky onto my oversized bed and he gobbled the M&Ms right out of my hand. As he slobbered and tickled my palm, I wondered whether Nathan and Tamara had the right idea in quitting. I pictured my own bed in my messy room back in London, where the tapping of water pipes and creaking of radiators regularly kept me awake. At one point in the early hours I actually scooped Pinky’s warm body up for a quick snuggle, but he kicked me in the chin. He had powerful trotters for such a dinky animal.
Turns out micro-pigs don’t like cuddling, either.

At last it was 7:00 a.m. Warm, buttery fingers of sunlight had appeared around the blinds, bathing the room in a golden glow. I thought how pretty it looked as I groggily got out of bed and went to the ample en suite, noticing
Pinky was fast asleep, curled up between two pillows on the floor, the makeshift ‘pig bed’ I had made for him some time in the early hours. There was something about this bathroom that made me feel as if I was getting a big hug, just by standing in it. Maybe it was the underfloor heating. I stood under the power-shower revelling in the moment. It felt so good, finally, to get properly clean. So good until I remembered what lay in store with Beau today.
Maybe she’s had a change of heart overnight?
The thought of seeing her again made me feel sick.

When I made it downstairs to the kitchen, Mona was reading a printed itinerary of our arrangements for the day over a glass of hot water and lemon. The list had presumably been written by Tamara or Nathan before they quit. We would be spending the morning on ‘appointments’ exactly like the ones Mona had attended at Smith’s, so at least I had a rough idea of what to expect.

After leaving the house, we darted around Beverly Hills in the Prius, popping in and out of a stream of glossy boutiques—greeted with air kisses and enthusiastic smiles, browsing, admiring and borrowing, placing orders and loading up the car with yet more clobber for the suite. During car journeys, Mona handed me her iPhone to make calls. To my relief it contained the contact details of all the fashion PRs I could possibly ever need to call, so there was no danger of me having to keep Vicky up all night as I hunted for numbers.

Pinky came everywhere with me as I assumed the role of Mona’s mouthpiece, note-taker and sunglasses holder, as well as Beau’s pig-sitter.

‘He’s Beau Belle’s, honey, we’re on piglet duty as a favour. Isn’t he fun?’ Mona explained to anyone who would listen, enjoying the opportunity to name-drop and using
the term ‘we’ loosely—she blatantly hadn’t come within a trotter’s length of little Pinky the whole time.

Back at the W, the afternoon saw a parade of wealthy-looking girls with smooth Brazilian blow-dries and fresh manicures, clutching python bags and groomed to golden perfection, troop in and flutter out of our suite, buoyed by their appointments with Mona. It was like watching a masterclass in laid-back luxe. Frankly, none of the visitors, with their delicate features, long limbs and good clothes, looked in desperate need of fashion help. Some looked vaguely familiar from bit parts in movies, or photos in magazines of Mona with her crowd. Others just had an air of importance. Perhaps they were up-and-comers, hoping, with Mona’s help, to make their mark as a fresh fashion force this awards season. Whoever they were, all were greeted with hugs and yet more air kisses.

Outfits were tried on, accessories were cooed over and selfies were snapped. Superlatives flew around the room, ricocheting off the walls; everything was ‘fabulous, amazing, sexy, gorgeous, delightful, darling, pretty, major, stunning, beautiful, to-die-for …’ on and on, over and over. There was no need for any other vocabulary, because when you’ve got perfect genes, let’s face it,
everything
looks great. I was the only person looking less than glamorous, having spent the morning rushing around after Mona and Pinky, answering the door, running items to the changing room, keeping everyone hydrated with Fiji water or on the phone to room service requesting an increasingly bizarre assortment of refreshments, ranging from peppermint teas and espressos through to steaming hot mugs of lemon juice with cayenne pepper and maple syrup. Every couple of hours, Mona
would mouth her request for a ‘little pick-me-up’; my first priority was to keep her caffeine levels at the max. She must have had at least four macchiatos before 3:00 p.m. and we’d only got here at twelve. As well as acting as a waitress, I was also tasked with keeping Mona’s database of who was borrowing what, when, and where it needed to be delivered. Mona seemed delighted when I suggested setting up an Excel spreadsheet to keep track of this, instead of the endless Post-it notes she had previously stuck onto her iPad.
What kind of PA was Nathan, anyway?

Every now and again I had to phone a PR to request a particular dress or accessory in a certain size, and I also had Mona’s preferred seamstress—an amenable Mexican woman called Maria—on redial, if a gown needed a hem lifting or a bustier tightening. Couriers came and went, and my black ballet pump–clad feet soon ached from running around opening doors and darting wherever I was needed, which was generally everywhere at once. Every time the doorbell rang, my heart leapt as I wondered if it was Rob returning for more filming, or Beau, back to demand I fulfil my promise. She’d been on my mind all morning, her arrival drawing ever nearer, and I
still
hadn’t worked out what to do about it. I was so busy, it was impossible to think straight.

In the bedroom-cum-changing room, I’d never seen so many practically naked, supermodel-like women. Dresses were pulled over heads with impressive dexterity, flashes of athletic, fake-tanned frames with perky, pointy breasts. This was how I imagined the set of a Juergen Teller photoshoot to look, or the scene backstage during London Fashion Week. I suddenly felt self-conscious about what lay beneath my black Zara T-shirt dress.

Mid-afternoon, we were alerted, via a call from the hotel manager, to the news that a high-profile actress had entered the building via an underground passageway so as not to be seen. She’d booked an emergency appointment with Mona to expunge horrific memories of a gown that drew column inches for all the
wrong
reasons last year.

‘Someone really should have told her that see-through is the ultimate no-no on Oscars night,’ Mona told me as we straightened things up, having cleared the suite of bodies for this VVIP. ‘She hit the jackpot on all the Worst Dressed lists. Should have come to see me then.’

I watched in awe as Mona worked with our ‘anonymous’ star to select a gown for the Globes and another for the Oscars. In the end they went for a subtle black column gown by Armani Privé and a refined petal-pink creation, to reflect her more gamine personal style, rather than her va-va-voom on-screen roles. The whole experience ensured she left a smiling, more self-assured celebrity. It was fascinating to witness how powerful fashion can be. Mona was saving careers. There was no doubt she had the magic touch. I paid close attention to the way she listened to a problem, turned it on its head, sifted through the clothes on offer, did some temple-rubbing and—bingo!—a sparkling solution. It was undoubtedly a skill and the clients loved it. Mona later explained how she would mentally draw a ‘ring of shame’ around a celebrity’s problem parts, and tackle those first.

‘You’ve got to be ruthless,’ she explained. ‘Simply erase what you don’t want to see by drawing the eye to the best bits.’

I wondered what she’d do to exterminate my own ample bottom. I had become more aware of my shape in the past
few hours than I’d ever been before. I’m not big, but I’m not toned, which is hardly surprising considering I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever set foot in a gym. I’ve always felt lucky to have a size 10 frame, bordering 12 on a fat day. Today, I felt like the Incredible Hulk, and I’d barely eaten anything but berries and M&Ms for forty-eight hours. Mona didn’t seem to eat, either—there had been no suggestion of our stopping for lunch. The image I had of Americans chowing down super-sized burgers, dripping with blue cheese and Thousand Island dressing, was very different to the reality I was facing now, where everyone seemed to be a size zero and the word ‘food’ was an expletive.
Frigging hell, I’m hungry. No wonder I can’t formulate a decent plan regarding Beau.

Eventually, just before five o’clock, I opened the door to the
20Twenty
crew, and seconds after that AJ arrived with Beau. Rob looked rather distracted and got on with setting up without any small talk. Fran barely acknowledged me as she made a beeline for Mona, describing what they needed from the scene with Beau. Mona, in response, told her how it
would
be. I got the impression they were finding Mona difficult to work with.

Beau almost barged me out of the way to reach Pinky, who was scuttling around happily on the terrace.

‘Darling baby! Mommy missed you! Were you good for Mona and Amber? Oh yes, of course you were!’

She popped her head through the glass door. ‘Hey, Amber! Come give me a hand.’

A feeling of doom washed over me as I joined Beau in the sunshine.

‘Everything okay?’ she asked. Ridiculously large sunglasses almost covered her entire face.

‘Think so.’ I smiled through gritted teeth in response, squinting into the sun and feeling like the bullied girl in the playground.

‘I’ve got it all worked out,’ she continued breathlessly, putting an arm around me and glancing over her shoulder to check we were alone. Then she delved into her bag and produced some folded-up paper.

‘I’ve written you a script. You basically call Trey, say you’re a producer on
Summer’s Not Over
and that Jason and me were just rehearsing our scenes when some pap took the photos. But it’s all aboveboard and innocent. Just keep it short and to the point.’

She took a brief moment to study my face. If she sensed I was feeling deeply uneasy about the whole scenario, she ignored it.

‘Thanks, honey. One quick call, that’s all it’ll take.’

She then fixed me with that beguiling gaze and whispered, ‘If you do this, I’ll never forget it, Amber. I’ll make you a success here.’

Bribery. Lovely.

I
held out the script in front of me. The phone rang and rang. Beau fixed me with the eyes of a puppy watching forgotten sausages burn on a barbecue.

He’s not going to pick up. Result!

‘Trey speaking.’
Damn.

‘Hello, is that Trey Jones?’

‘Yes, who is this?’ He was well spoken—I had almost forgotten he was British. That just made me more nervous.

‘Mr Jones, my name is Annie, I’m a producer on
Summer’s Not Over,
and I’ve been working with your delightful fiancée. What a charming, talented and devoted young woman she is …’ I sideways-glanced at Beau.
This is the biggest load of drivel I have ever read.

‘Ri-ight …’ said the unsurprisingly baffled voice on the other end.

‘I’m just calling because I wanted to make you aware of a situation my office has heard about today. It, erm, I …’

‘Annie, what did you say your surname was?’ He sounded worryingly sane.

‘My surname?’ I repeated, staring pointedly at Beau.

She hurriedly wrote on a piece of paper, ‘Liechtenstein’.
Jesus, she could have let me rehearse that in advance.

‘Just call me Annie.’ I glowered at her.

‘So—how can I help you today? It’s just … I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Jones, you must be very busy.’ I scrambled back to the script, my eyes darting over the words to relocate my place. Had this been an acting audition, I would have failed it miserably by now. Only this was much worse than any casting. This was actually happening. In real life. ‘It’s about a call we had to the office earlier today. It seems that some low-life reporter from that shitty gossip website
Starz
has some photos of your fiancée in what they are referring to as a “compromising position” with her co-star, Jason Slater.’

Beau might as well have been reading the script herself, it was so clearly her voice.

‘Hold on, hold it there—is this a prank call?’ barked Trey. ‘Is Ashton Kutcher or some other joker behind this?’ His change of tone startled me. Desperately, I looked at Beau for help.

‘What’s he saying?’ she mouthed, tossing her big glossy mane to one side and shoving an ear close to the phone so that we were both huddled around it.

I put my hand over the receiver. ‘He thinks I’m Ashton Kutcher.’

‘Duh, that show ended over a million years ago!’ She shook her head, totally missing the point. I pulled myself together.

‘I’m afraid it’s not a prank, Mr Jones, far from it. As I was saying, the website
Starz
has some photos of your fiancée in what they are referring to as a “compromising position” with Jason Slater, but I’m phoning to let you …’

‘I’m sorry, I’m
really
not following this.’ He cut me off again, his tone authoritative, and verging on angry. ‘Would you mind explaining to me, in plain English, what you are trying to suggest here, Miss—Annie?’

I officially want to kill Beau for making me do this.

‘Basically, your fiancée has done nothing wrong. She was merely carrying out a rehearsal with Jason when a low-life paparazzo took some photos, and I wanted to offer you my sincere assurance that Beau—and you—have the full support of the studio. Because whatever
Starz
decides to run with, the truth is they were diligently rehearsing their scenes and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Diligently rehearsing’, my soft, white derrière.

‘I’d be interested in seeing these photos—do you have copies of them?’ he asked solemnly. ‘I’d like to put them into the hands of my lawyer as soon as possible.’

‘Your l-lawyer?’ As I slowly repeated the words, my voice faltered, and Beau’s eyes grew large with alarm.

‘No, no, no!’ She shook her head wildly and whispered urgently, ‘No attorney, Amber!’ Frantically, she indicated the slitting of a throat—clearly meant to be mine—with her index finger.

‘Your lawyer? That won’t be necessary, Mr Jones, we think the situation will blow over quickly enough,’ I said, as calmly as possible, channelling my best reassuring producer’s voice. ‘This is more a courtesy call, just to put you in the picture and to say, you know, go easy on Beau tonight, it’s been a tough day. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about
it later, but she’s done absolutely nothing wrong. I just want to make that crystal clear.’

I decided to miss out the last bit of the script, where I was supposed to go on protesting Beau’s innocence and flattering her for another minute or so, hammering the point home with all the subtlety of a nuclear rocket.

Mercifully, he seemed to be buying it. ‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on the
Starz
site and we’ll take it from there. I know what these scumbags can be like. I appreciate the call, Annie.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Jones.’

Thank God for that.
I was ready to hang up.

‘Where are you from in the UK, by the way? There aren’t many British producers I haven’t come across yet.’
No! I wasn’t prepared for small talk.

‘London,’ I replied, fidgeting to get off the phone.

‘Like the rest of us Brits in LA. North or south?’

‘North, born and bred.’

‘The best side. I’m a Portobello boy.’

‘No way—I’m in Kensal Rise!’

For a moment I almost forgot who I was supposed to be—it was so nice to hear mention of home.

‘Small world. Will I see you at the Weinstein bash this evening?’

Beau was indicating I should end the call, with another decapitation action.

‘Oh, afraid not,’ I muttered. ‘Early night for me, busy week.’

‘Know the feeling,’ he said. ‘Well, I hope I’ll get to meet you some time, Annie. Thanks for the call. Goodbye.’

‘Bye, Mr Jones.’

As I hung up—breathing a huge sigh of relief—Beau
launched herself onto me, flinging her arms around my rigid body and hugging me uncomfortably tight.

‘You were amazing! You actually sounded like Annie Liechtenstein, too! Well, if she was a Brit, she’d sound just like you.’

‘She’s not even from the UK?’

I sank down onto the patio sofa, throwing the script down and releasing the phone. My palms were sweaty from grasping it so tightly, and I suddenly really wanted a glass of wine.

‘Did he sound okay? He’s not going to call anyone, is he?’

‘No, he was cool,’ I said, trying not to show how exasperated I felt.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mona approaching. She didn’t look happy.

My heart was still racing from the call. Trey had sounded like such a nice, decent man—I felt horrible for having lied to him.
It must have been one of the most bizarre phone calls he’s ever received.
Mona pushed the glass door ajar.

‘Hate to break up the party, but we’ve got some styling to do,’ she said brusquely, just as Beau’s iPhone rang.

‘It’s Trey. Just let me take this, Mona, and I’ll be inside in two minutes, promise.’

Mona gave us a mildly irritated look. I went in and closed the terrace door, not wanting to hear whatever Beau was going to say to him. Anyway, showbiz wedding deal protected. For now.

Back in the suite, Rob caught my eye and came over.

‘What was that all about?’

‘She’s a drama queen, that one,’ I said. Half of me hoped he wouldn’t ask anything else, although the other half desperately hoped he would.

‘Sounds juicy. Anyway, Fran’s getting tetchy about filming because we’ve got some schmoozing to do after this—the Weinstein party—can you get her in so we can crack on with it?’

I looked back towards the terrace, Beau was still there, phone clasped between her cheek and shoulder, giggling and covering it every now and again so no one could possibly hear what she was whispering to her husband-to-be.

Probably pure filth.

Mona, meanwhile, had disappeared from sight.

‘Bathroom,’ said Fran with the bob, reading my mind. ‘Give her a shout, would you. Jesus, it’s like herding cats around here.’

I knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Everything all right, Mona? They’re ready when you are.’

She poked her head around the door and I noticed she’d kicked off her skyscraper Manolo Blahniks.

‘Amber, my head’s killing me, I need some headache relief. Have you got any paracetamol?’

‘Only back at the house,’ I replied, cursing myself for not having any in my kit. ‘Want me to get you some?’

‘I’ll get through the filming and then yes, please, there’s a CVS pharmacy on the next block. Make a start on the rails with Beau—there’s a couple of Roksanda gowns that would be perfect for her. If she wants to make a splash, this will get the fashion press taking note.’

Back in the room I covertly peeked at labels on gowns until I found the two by Roksanda. I didn’t want the camera crew to notice that I didn’t instantly know my Roksanda from my Roland Mouret. The feeling of being a fraud in this label-obsessed world kept creeping up, but all I could
do was ignore it for now. Luckily Beau was oblivious. We both knew she had bigger fish to fry.

‘Pleased to see Pinky today?’ I asked as she approached, pulling Pinky by his lead, a big smile that screamed ‘crisis averted!’ spread across her elfin face. Her cheeks were flushed. I imagined some phone sex might have occurred.

‘Oh yes! Only he’s a bit … I noticed he’s got a bit of a gross tummy today, poor thing.’

Sensing Fran and Rob were anxious to start filming, I did what I had seen Mona do countless times by now and led Beau to the rails, pointing out the hot pink Roksanda Ilincic number with big, puffy sleeves. ‘Mona was thinking you could start off by trying this,’ I offered, noticing that the camera had started rolling and cursing myself for not even touching up my make-up.
Why do I always look like the hired homeless person?

‘Eww—yuck! And not very me.’

‘Right, um, so you don’t like it?’

‘I really want something old Hollywood for the Globes.’

I began riffling through the rail, as I had seen Mona do countless times, my hand soon settling on the beautiful scarlet Valentino gown.

‘You can’t get more old Hollywood than this,’ I said, gently teasing it out and laying it across my arm, presenting it to Beau. Her eyes lit up.
Result!

‘Oh wow—she’s amazing! I want to try her!’

It might have seemed slightly odd to refer to a dress as though it were a long-lost girlfriend, but she wasn’t the first person I’d heard doing it in LA. Even Mona did it sometimes. Beau reached for the stunning scarlet silk Valentino that had immediately caught my eye while we were setting up.

‘It …
She’s
beautiful,’ I sighed. ‘A dream dress. This would look amazing on you. You must try it on.’

I grabbed a pair of diamanté Jimmy Choo sandals and a pretty matching box clutch and led her towards the bedroom-cum-changing room. This time I would wait for her outside; I wasn’t stupid enough to risk another confessional. Mona came out of the en suite as we approached the door, still clutching her head.

‘Oh. The Valentino. Was the Roksanda not working for you, then?’

She was shooting me daggers; I wasn’t sure why.

‘Beau thought she’d prefer this.’ I smiled awkwardly, painfully aware the camera was still trained on the three of us.

‘Yes—I know I’m going to love it, Mona. It’s the perfect Golden Globes gown. Out in a sec!’

The camera zoomed in on the items, and then Beau disappeared behind the door. Through gritted teeth, so Rob and Fran couldn’t hear, Mona breathed into my neck.

‘The Valentino, Amber, if you had bothered to ask, is for Jennifer Astley. It’s not on offer for Beau. So you’d better make sure we get it back!’

Shit.

I darted back towards the rails and pulled out another gown, a Marchesa number in a slightly deeper red, still figure-hugging and with a shape that would leave enough cleavage on show to achieve column inches the next morning.

‘This one okay?’ I asked Mona, who stood with her arms folded, like a teenager in a huff.

‘Just get her out of the Valentino. Fast.’

As I headed towards the bedroom, my head was spinning
with reasons I might possibly give for why Beau couldn’t be loaned the gown.

It has a big stain down the back.

Valentino himself has requested it be returned because it’s faulty.

Michelle Obama wants to auction it for a children’s charity.

It’s needed to preside over peace talks for the UN.

And then a moment of sanity washed over me.

The truth, Amber. Just tell her the truth. The gown has been promised to Jennifer Astley. Surely she’ll understand?
My hand was lifted, primed to knock on the bedroom door when it flew open and Beau appeared, looking—it had to be said—every inch the knockout Hollywood starlet in the Valentino. It hugged her curves in all the right places and the slight train at the back made her look sophisticated and chic. In short, it made a brassy bombshell like Beau look like a goddess. The camera crew knew it, too, and as they stepped forward to picture the end result as Beau twirled around, a star in our midst. Even Rob and Fran with the bob were smiling in genuine admiration of the transformation that had occurred. I could envisage her on the red carpet—some dazzling diamond earrings, her hair loosely tousled, scarlet lips—the dress practically styled itself.

‘I love her so much, I’ve never felt so in love with a dress before. She’s perfect!’

Her eyes were misted over. She really was in love with it.
Probably more than she loves Trey.
‘And she’s even easy to pee in—look, I can just hoist her up and squat!’

She began gathering up the dress. The spell was abruptly broken.

‘We get it! No need to demonstrate!’ Mona rushed in to
save her dignity. Fran looked pleased; filming was finally livening up.
You can put the girl in a Valentino, but you can’t put the Valentino into the girl.

‘Will you thank Mr Valentino personally for me, please, Mona?’

I looked at Mona, wondering what would happen next. I certainly had no idea how to tell Beau that actually, no, she couldn’t wear the gown of her dreams after all. Mona didn’t strike me as someone to shirk an awkward conversation, but even she looked dumbfounded. She just pushed her hands deeply into the pockets of her silk shirt dress and looked at me. I shifted my weight, uncomfortably. The odd-shoe feeling I’d had in Smith’s returned with a vengeance.
Is this a sackable offence?