The Stylist Takes Manhattan Read online

  Dedication

  For Rex

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Read On

  Also by Rosie Nixon

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  I nuzzled in and breathed deeply. I could sniff the vulnerable patch of bare skin just under his collarbone all day long. It was light outside now and I couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was spinning. I traced the edge of Rob’s tattoo lightly with my finger. An intricate feather design on his upper arm, it was quite a work of art and had taken me by surprise the first time I saw it in full, after our first date. He had teased me with glimpses of it poking out of T-shirt sleeves for a long while before that. It had taken three sittings to create, by the steady hand of a Muswell Hill tattoo artist. The feather, he said, was to symbolize the freedom of flight; to remind him that he, too, was free to fly, if he ever needed reminding. Deep and meaningful! I teased him at the time, but the sentiment had played on my mind a bit ever since. Tonight it was resonating strongly to me. Does he want to just take off and fly away from me? Leave me brokenhearted, like his last girlfriend?

  It all started yesterday evening.

  * * *

  Rob came to the door in tracksuit bottoms and a baggy hoodie. I loved him in his comfy house clothes. He was holding Pinky under one arm.

  Pinky: the cute pet micro-pig partly responsible for getting us together. Rob had adopted the little piggy and relocated him from Los Angeles after Pinky was abandoned by one of my former ditzy Hollywood clients. Yes, really! It all happened last year, during my temporary job as “stylist to the stars” Mona Armstrong’s assistant. Rob doted on the creature—literally worshipped the sawdust Pinky walked on. He was more than a pet; he was his child.

  Of late, I’d noticed that the novelty of having an alternative to a house cat was starting to wear off for Rob’s flatmate. Ben was, understandably, getting fed up with the lingering smell of pig pee in the hallway, trotter prints on the sofa, and the wet snout he regularly found snuffling in his clean laundry. But when you looked into Pinky’s dark little eyes you could forgive anything. Well, Rob could. In the same way that I became pretty pathetic whenever I looked into his.

  The little creature squealed in what I’m sure was piggy happiness when he saw me on the doorstep.

  “Ben’s here,” Rob warned, meaning no proper kissing until we reached his bedroom.

  I smiled, pulling on his tracksuit cord. “I can control myself.”

  Rob hovered by the door. He looked anxious.

  “Everything okay?”

  He paused for a bit too long. “Sort of. I’ll explain later.”

  I followed him into the living room. Ben was in his usual position, lying full length across one of the sofas, bare feet and lanky legs dangling off the end, a liter bottle of Coke by his side. He was sweaty, like he’d not long been home from the gym.

  Theirs was such a boy flat. It was sparse and functional, yet still managed to look untidy. The front room consisted of a large flat-screen TV, two sofas, a coffee table and an Ikea rug that should never have been bought in cream because it had rarely seen a vacuum cleaner in the two years they had lived here. Shelves crammed with DVDs and books in no particular order and curtains that didn’t quite stretch across the width of the whole window. No surprises, then, that they affectionately referred to their home as “the pigsty.”

  “So have you heard the big news?” Ben said when he finally took his eyes off the TV and registered my presence.

  “No.” I looked at Rob, confused.

  “Pinky’s gay,” Ben blurted out, shifting himself sideways to get a proper view of both of our faces.

  Rob smirked: “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to do with me—though if he fancies me, who can blame him? Pinky always goes for the guys. C’mon, bet you’ve noticed, too, haven’t you, Amber?” He winked at me.

  “Enlighten me, Ben,” I said cynically. I could tell he was desperate to get on with his story.

  “Nina’s bulldog, Freddie: male. Can’t stop sniffing around his rear every time he comes over. The cat from next door: it’s a Tom, and Pinky’s entire face lights up every time he jumps over the fence. His trotters could barely move fast enough when he tried to chase him the other morning, I saw it with my own eyes. And I’m not joking, he takes an unhealthy shine to your and my boxers in the laundry basket, Rob, mate. You might not have noticed, but I certainly have.”

  I chuckled and dug Rob in the ribs. “Got competition, have I?”

  “What is it they say?” Rob asked, stooping to gently place Pinky on the floor and ushering him toward Ben. “Takes one to know one?”

  “Oh, I’ve got nothing against gays, you know that, Rob. Two of my best mates are gay and I went to a gay wedding last year—granted most of the guests fancied me, but that’s another story. No, I’m wondering if there’s a marketing opportunity here—‘Meet Britain’s First Gay Miniature Pig’—I can see him being a hit in Soho. Don’t you think, Amber?”

  I tried not to laugh.

  Rob scowled in mock irritation. “Pinky and I are going to make dinner, and if you’re on our side you’re invited to join us, Amber. Get yourself a takeaway, Ben.”

  “Flouncing off in a strop—so camp!” Ben uttered, turning back around and taking the TV off pause.

  I followed Rob into the kitchen and watched him lovingly top up Pinky’s bowl of slop. The fact he was an animal lover was one of the things I adored about Rob. He couldn’t walk past a cat in the street without stopping to give it a stroke.

  “So, tell me more about your day,” I said, opening the fridge on the hunt for white wine. Rob failed to hear me; he seemed lost in thought.

  “You okay?”

  “Hey?” He almost jumped. “Sorry, just sorting Pinky out, then I’ll get dinner on. We’re having fish. Okay with you?”

  “Sounds great. Do you have any wine in here?”

  “There’s a bottle in my bag in the hallway, should still be slightly cold.” He seemed nervous and it wasn’t like him not to open a bottle straight after a stressful day at work.

  He was making me feel jittery, too. I found the wine and returned to find Rob scrolling through emails on his phone. He was lost in thought as I unscrewed the top and poured us each a glass.

  “Shall I get the oven on then?” I asked.

  * * *

  Finally, after dinner on our laps in front of some terrible sci-fi film Ben refused to turn off, Rob opened up. We were in his bedroom and I was reading an email from my boss, Joseph, who wanted a load of changes to the clothes I’d chosen for our latest window display at Se
lfridges.

  “How was I supposed to know he wanted muted candy colors rather than brights?” I moaned. “He could have mentioned the fact two weeks ago when I started pulling it all together. It’s so frustrating.” Rob was miles away. “And he’s asked me to come into work naked tomorrow.”

  “Eh?” He’d spent the last ten minutes fiddling with the iPod dock, but there was still no sound coming out.

  “He’s asked me to . . . nothing. Perhaps you can tell me what happened at work? You’re clearly not listening to me.”

  He turned and sat on the bed next to me. Then he looked at me earnestly. “Louise, the series producer, had a chat with me about a pitch the company’s just won for a shoot in New York,” he began.

  “New York, wow,” I uttered, though I felt my stomach knot as I sensed what was coming.

  “It’s to make a fly-on-the-wall series about Angel Wear.”

  “As in, Angel Wear, the underwear company?” I asked.

  “Right,” he said, avoiding eye contact. The knot in my stomach was pulled tighter. “She’s asked if I want to produce it—there’ll be directing involved, too.”

  “In New York?” I repeated, just to check I’d heard correctly. A mental image of the Angel Wear lingerie models popped into my head, all tanned, long-limbed perfection.

  “Yes, it would mean moving out there—for at least three months, maybe longer.”

  I took a moment to process this. “Do you want to do it?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked truly pained.

  “Well, when do you have to let her know?”

  “As soon as possible, they’re keen to get visas in place and a team out there in the next few weeks.”

  I knew I must look as if I was desperately trying not to cry, every muscle in my face straining to retain its composure. I ached for him to pull me into a big bear hug and kiss my forehead reassuringly. But he didn’t. I’m not even sure he noticed my strange facial expression because he just lay back on the bed and sighed.

  “Listen, Amber, I’m not sure about all the details yet, maybe I won’t take it, I thought I wanted to move away from this kind of telly. But it’s an opportunity to direct. I’m going to talk to Lou properly in the morning. I just wanted you to be in the loop.”

  I managed to utter the words, “Yes, great, just got something in my eye,” and escaped to the bathroom where I locked the door behind me. I sat on the side of the bath and held my head in my hands as I tried to imagine what this meant for us. Finally, I find someone I really like—someone I think I love; someone I can imagine building a life with—and now he’s going to move to New York. Maybe I’m destined to be single forever, after all.

  When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Rob was already in bed looking at his phone again. Self-consciously I undressed, pulling on one of his T-shirts and awkwardly undoing my bra and wriggling out of it without showing any flesh. Instead of finding my usual sleep position—legs entwined with his, face buried in his chest—I stayed on my side. My feet were freezing.

  And now, here I was, lying in bed awake at five in the morning, thinking too much, sniffing him and stalking his tattoo.

  * * *

  The events of last spring were still raw in my mind, nine months later. A fateful trip to Hawaii had changed the course of my life: I had finally realized Rob did have feelings for me; my then boss, Mona, completely lost the plot; and my best friend Vicky ended up shagging Trey Jones, the Trey Jones, the famous film director and man who we were meant to be watching get married. You couldn’t have made it up.

  Vicky moved in with Trey in LA almost immediately, but it had taken Rob and me a whole four months after that to finally get together, when he tracked me down at work in London. I’ve been starring in my own rom-com ever since—Vicky providing the “com,” even from the other side of the globe.

  Rob had said he needed to be out of the house extra early in the morning, which wasn’t unusual, but this morning I was happy to pretend to be still asleep while he tiptoed around the room, gathering his clothes before going off to shower. I stirred as he gently kissed my cheek goodbye but waited for the front door to slam before I got out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom.

  I’d gone to sleep trying to convince myself that things are never so bad in the cold light of day, but why did I still have the same feeling of impending doom? I tried to tell myself that three months was nothing—it would be over in a flash. But when you’ve only been dating for five months, it feels like forever. As a waterfall of hot water cascaded onto my head, I was lurched out of my despondency by the even more horrific realization that there was no shampoo or conditioner in this shower. And soon after that, I realized there was none anywhere in the bathroom, so I went to work with hair washed in Lynx Deep Space shower gel. The day could only get better.

  * * *

  I called Vicky as I walked to work from Oxford Circus tube. “He’s going to be filming underwear models.” Saying it aloud made it sting even more.

  “Man, that’s tough,” said Vicky, confirming what I already knew.

  “Underwear models!” I exclaimed again, thinking that making them sound faintly ridiculous might make them less threatening.

  “I heard you. The Icons all have legs up to their armpits, washboard stomachs, perfect racks, peachy—”

  “Yes, yes, okay, I think I know what an underwear model looks like, Vicky. I feel crap as it is, no need to rub it in.”

  She paused, before replying, measuredly, “What I was going to say was peachy bottoms—and air for brains. Amber, stop doing the paranoid girlfriend thing and rise above this. It’s you who Rob’s going out with, and that’s not going to change. Well, unless you start acting all insecure and paranoid about the underwear models and their peachy bottoms that he will be filming. Not dating or having sex with—just filming. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She didn’t have to spell it out quite so bluntly. Although she had hit the nail on the head.

  “Anyway, when are you coming out to see me?” She changed the subject. “Not being funny but it’s been nearly a year, and you still haven’t got on a plane. We’ve got tons of space. I’m even naming a suite after you—the Green Suite. Come on, Am, book it! Bring Rob, too, if you want. I’m going nuts out here in this huge mansion. And I need some English humor, desperately. I also need digestive biscuits dunked in Earl Gray tea. But most of all, I need us!”

  She was right. I needed “us,” too. I missed Vicky so much—her wry sense of humor and the hilarious escapades we’d got up to when we shared a home.

  “Anyway, how’s things with you?” I asked

  “Not great, to be honest. Why do you think I’m still awake at two in the morning and not at a party? I’ll tell you, because I’m lying in bed—alone—trying to work out what I’m doing with my life.”

  “Oh, honey, sorry to hear this, and I’ve been banging on about me. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing really. And that’s half the problem. I’m so bored here, Amber. Trey’s out at the crack of dawn each day and back late, if he comes back at all. He’s working on a big feature film and although it’s filming in LA, I hardly see him. I know more about our pool cleaner’s life than my own boyfriend’s right now. I even made lunch for the hedge trimmer yesterday, I was so bored of cooking for myself. He was pretty hot, as it goes, I was starting to find his strimmer sexy. Honestly, if Trey hadn’t come back that evening . . . Amber, I don’t know what I’m doing out here.”

  “You found his strimmer sexy? That’s desperate. Have you told Trey how you’re feeling?”

  “If I had a chance I probably would, but, like I said, he’s barely here and I don’t want to do the ‘whiny girlfriend on the phone thing.’ I never wanted to be that girlfriend, but I’m getting close to having no option. Be careful what you wish for, Amber, maybe there’s more spark living apart.”

  “But not living in separate continents. God, it’s never straightforward is it? What are we going to do?”

&nb
sp; “I wish we could go to the Chamberlayne and get drunk.”

  “Me, too. I could murder a girlie drinking session with you.”

  “I miss you so much, honey. I keep thinking of my room in the flat. At this rate, I could be back before you know it.”

  “Listen, let’s keep each other posted, okay, and if it all goes wrong, of course you can just move back. We’ve still got the flat, your room is exactly as you left it, and we’ll just carry on like before. Our lives weren’t so bad, were they? Sainsbury’s must be suffering from a loss in revenue from hummus and Popchips since you’ve been away, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms, too.”

  Finally, she laughed. “You’re right. It will be fine. This film is meant to end in a couple of weeks and then Trey’s mentioned a holiday in Mexico, so I’m sure we’ll be back on track. And Rob does love you, Amber, I know it. He might not take the job anyway.”

  “I s’pose. Let me know if you speak to Trey. Love you, bestie.”

  “Love you more. Night night from here.”

  * * *

  I had our Kensal Rise flat pretty much to myself these days. Trey, being loaded, was paying Vicky’s half of the rent so they had a London bolt-hole, but they were yet to use it; the one time they popped back for a premiere, he checked them into a suite at the Soho Hotel. Even so, she was definitely still there, haunting the place. Some of her belongings were still strewn around her room and many of her pictures still hung on the walls: the black-and-white framed print of Brigitte Bardot in the living room, cigarette casually hanging from her lips, wind-swept hair, black scarf tied loosely around her neck, to remind us how to be cool, like Brigitte; the collection of Instagram photos from various holidays, printed out and carefully framed, to remind us of our best moments, if ever we needed reminding—usually on the Saturday nights when we were in our PJs, having a living room picnic in front of Ant and Dec. It was all so carefree, silly—and single.

  And now here we were, coupled up in our late twenties. Much as I loved the days of being in a platonic relationship with Vicky, I was so happy about that fact I didn’t have to face the prospect of being a thirty-year-old spinster. While Vicky always had some guy on the go, whether it was “Sunday Simon” or “Sexy Jim from the art des,” I was a bona fide “car crash” when it came to relationships; another traffic-based pun on my full name, Amber Green. Yes, after ten years in the single wilderness, it felt so good to have someone who would go to the twenty-four-hour garage for a family bag of Maltesers or run me a bath after a shitty day at work; someone who embraced the role of human hot water bottle, taking pleasure in warming my block-of-ice feet when I got into bed. Life was great. But now the thought of Rob taking off for New York was following me around like a shadow.