The Stylist Page 12

  Unfortunately for Mona, on this particular morning, just as the TV crew started filming, fire alarms began ringing loudly and the whole of the W Hotel was ordered to evacuate, which the whole of the W Hotel obediently did—with the exception of our suite. With no regard for human life, Mona point-blank refused to let us any of us leave the precious merchandise.

  ‘You’ll have to break the door down! I’d rather we burned to death than lost all this!’ she screeched through the keyhole, as a hotel porter politely attempted to coax us out of the room with news that coffee was being served to the guests assembled outside. Then, when the hotel manager phoned and tried to reason with her, she simply shouted: ‘Then we’ll all burn down!’ and slammed the receiver. Five minutes later, the manager rapped on the door, now accompanied by two security guards.

  ‘Ma’am, if you do not vacate these premises in the next sixty seconds, then I will have no option but to call the Federal police. It’s a criminal offence to refuse to evacuate during an emergency procedure.’

  Hearing the word ‘criminal’ thrown into the equation, Mona had a change of heart and conceded that Fran, Rob and Shaggy could leave the suite. But I was ordered to stay put. As the film crew shuffled out, my captor sneakily locked us both in the bedroom, with a suitcase of jewellery, three Chanel bags, a vintage Dior gown, a Fendi fur and all the shoes we could carry, making it crystal clear that should flames engulf the hotel, she would be quite happy to see me perish, alongside tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of fashion booty. I had occasionally wondered whether I would ever stare into the cold eyes of death, and this, it seemed, was my answer.

  Up in ashes with a designer wardrobe. What a way to go. I wonder if my travel insurance covers this, Mum?

  Luckily the alarm ultimately turned out to be a planned fire drill, but Mona’s disturbing behaviour gave us all a terrifying insight into her dedication to the cause. If she was trying to achieve legendary status, this was certainly one way to go about it.

  ‘If you ask me, she’s uninsured,’ Rob observed, when I found him at the Nespresso machine as I prepared a triple-shot caffè macchiato for Mona, and one for me, to help steady our nerves. Rob’s words resonated with me long after the alarm had been silenced. I hadn’t failed to notice Mona’s haphazard filing system in the office at her home—it was basically a lot of unopened envelopes shoved into an old Harvey Nichols Christmas hamper under her desk. But now wasn’t the time to broach this with her.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ I heard Fran with the bob whisper to Shaggy when Mona was ‘taking some air’ on the terrace; she was clutching her second triple-shot caffè macchiato with a noticeably shaky hand, following another visit from the manager who had informed her that any further failure to comply with hotel regulations would mean eviction from the suite.

  ‘Best thing we’ve got yet,’ Shaggy replied.

  ‘Totally. I half hoped we’d have to tie gowns together to escape out of the window,’ Fran cackled. ‘Can you imagine if Jennifer Astley had had to shin it down the side of the building? Priceless!’

  I wondered if I should tell Mona that the fire alarm segment was undoubtedly going to make the final edit. She didn’t seem to have clocked, but I was beginning to see that the agenda of the 20Twenty people wasn’t the same as hers. Retrieving my phone, I was chuffed to see another text message from Liam. He seemed keen.

  Morning, beautiful. How’s your day going?

  I immediately responded: Hey! All good, busy at work. You? A x

  Straight away he replied: Auditions. Pilot season in full flow—up for a flying doctor and a jolly British bobby this morning. Practising my English accent!!

  Well, you know where to come if you need any tips!

  I’ll take you up on that.

  Where/when? I shot back, surprised and exhilarated by my directness.

  But there the texting session ended. No immediate response. And still no response thirty minutes later. It played on my mind. Have I messed up my chances? Should I send another text making light of it? No, get a grip. If in doubt, do nothing. Vicky had told me so countless times as we analysed messages from a succession of guys I had unsuccessfully dated on Tinder.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on it for long—we were back to business. Anticipation for the Golden Globes was gathering pace and a steady stream of expensive-looking women arrived for their final appointments with Mona, and I was under strict instructions to get them in and out fast so the suite could be cleared in time for Jennifer’s arrival. During fittings, my job was primarily to ensure everyone was kept refreshed and that we never ran out of thin slices of fruit and dried goji berries. I’d decided to ditch the fig rolls, because only me and the odd miniature dog seemed to be eating them and—much as I hated myself for becoming susceptible—I was swiftly developing body inadequacy issues, being around all these wafer-thin people all day long.

  My other role was to act like a kind of post-office sorting clerk, ensuring the endless bags of clothes, shoes and accessories were delivered by the couriers to the correct places at the right times and—now that awards season was beginning to get under way with ‘pre’ parties—there were returns to keep tabs on, as well. Dresses sometimes came back looking like casualties of war, sporting stains from spilt cocktails, occasional cigarette burns, heel-ravaged hemlines and stuck zips. All the promise and excitement they’d once held was gone the moment they’d done their duty and been sent back to us like a dog-eared invitation. But the design houses didn’t seem to bat an eyelid. I just had to ensure each gown went back to the correct PR. The part I enjoyed most was my stylist duties, assisting Mona by delving into my kit for anything she might require to make adjustments to outfits, and increasingly trusting me to cinch a dress together at the back or pin a hem myself while a client stood on a stool, so it hung just so. The only thing distracting me today was my phone burning a hole in my pocket. Two hours had passed—still no response from Liam. Even worse, my incessant checking had been noticed by Rob.

  ‘Waiting for a call?’ he asked as I pulled out my iPhone, looked at it and replaced it in my back pocket for probably the twentieth time in the last hour. ‘Is it Jennifer?’

  ‘No,’ I said casually.

  ‘Boyfriend, then?’

  My cheeks flushed. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Hope he calls,’ he quipped before turning away.

  At 4:00 p.m. there was a buzz in the room as we watched Mona spin into a frenzy in anticipation of Jennifer Astley’s arrival. I assisted her straightening hangers, polishing jewels and checking the minibar a million times to ensure we had a huge selection of different types of water, plus a bottle of Perrier-Jouët rosé on ice, to cater for Jennifer’s every whim. Bang on time—which I gathered from Mona is rare for most famous people, herself included—Jennifer arrived, exuding star quality. Not in the way Beau did, with her darting, coquettish eyes and false eyelashes so long you could land a private jet on one of them. No, Jennifer’s brand of fame was way more established: calm and confident, professional and finessed. Which made her really unnerving.

  Her rise to superstardom had been steady and consistent, fuelled by a succession of huge box-office hits and an interesting love life involving several A-list relationships, not to mention a stack of industry award nominations. But none of this seemed to have made her self-important. She looked me straight in the eye when she walked in, and held out a soft, tanned, manicured hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Jen.’

  Somehow I managed to get out the word, ‘Hi’ in response. I was spellbound by Jennifer—we all were. She was stunningly beautiful in the flesh, her hair healthy, long and sleek with the glossy swish of an expensive cut and a world-class colourist. It wasn’t hard to see why she had fronted marketing campaigns for international beauty giants for almost a decade. Dressed in her civvies—pale blue jeans, white top, flats, cream blazer—she was effortlessly cool, all Californian sophistication. A thoroughbred. She arrived practically alone; no entour
age of publicist, manager, PA and bodyguard to speak for her and demand weird drinks, and no miniature pet snapping at her heels—she just came with a make-up artist, introduced as Caroline, who would transform her quickly from fresh-faced almost-normal Jen to the A-list Jennifer Astley we were all so familiar with, ready to head straight off to a pre-Globes party held by a top producer.

  ‘Excuse the state of me, I was rushing to get here from the studio,’ she apologised. I became aware that I was actually open-mouthed—I was in the presence of Hollywood royalty, doing a bad impersonation of Nemo.

  ‘Can we get you something to drink, Jennifer?’ Mona asked, her hand moving like an electric whisk behind her back, which I took as my cue to stop gawping and look busy. ‘A glass of champagne perhaps?’ I sprang into action, poised by the door of the minibar.

  ‘Just a little water would be great—thanks so much.’

  No mention of room temperature, or whether it has to be lemon-infused, isotonic or coconut. And a thank you!

  Then it was time to go through the rails. Jennifer being our biggest celebrity client—and the one the scarlet Valentino gown had been earmarked for—Mona had had me calling around some of the most prestigious design houses before her appointment, and this afternoon we had taken delivery of five incredibly beautiful gowns: two by Armani Privé, one by Alberta Ferretti, an Oscar de la Renta and a stunning ivory silk gown by Dior. Each would complement Jennifer’s impeccably classic red-carpet personality. Jennifer barely batted an eye as Fran with the bob practically curtseyed at her feet and asked if they could start filming; she just carried on as if they weren’t there. Even you, Fran, with your bob, are small fry compared to Jen’s usual directors. I noticed Rob seemed as mesmerised by Jennifer as I was. It was impossible not to be.

  Though the scarlet Valentino had previously been promised to her, Jennifer didn’t show any angst at hearing that it was no longer available, despite Mona blaming it squarely on my shoulders, muttering under her breath that I was her ‘new, inexperienced assistant’. Instead she plumped for a cream feather-and-crystal-embellished gown by Oscar de la Renta that showed off her lightly tanned, toned shoulders and back. The dress looked incredible from behind, falling effortlessly into a cascade of wispy feathers. It oozed sophistication.

  ‘It’s just right,’ she declared, kissing Mona on both cheeks, before disappearing again to take it off. She was our fastest fitting of the week.

  Caroline the make-up artist then set to work transforming Jennifer’s face into that of a glowing, iridescent goddess. I tried to busy myself neatening the shoe collection while observing every gentle sweep of the make-up artist’s brush, hoping I might learn something. In Jennifer’s case, less was more. In the blink of a smoky eye, a pearly sheen was dotted across her high cheekbones, a slick of gloss dabbed onto those famously full lips and there she was, dewy Hollywood personified. I was in a Jennifer Astley daze when Rob joined me.

  ‘Pretty cool to be this close to a proper movie star, isn’t it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Just slightly. And she’s so nice.’

  ‘She’s just a normal person underneath the sheen, you know. Anyway, you don’t strike me as someone who gets star-struck, I saw how you handled Beau Belle.’

  ‘Hmm, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether.’

  ‘We’re covering the red carpet for Beau’s premiere tonight. Should be interesting, with the pap photos doing the rounds at the moment. I’d guess her fiancé will be there, for the big show of “togetherness”.’

  ‘Expect so. I’m happy not to have to witness all that, to be honest.’

  ‘You won’t be styling her for the carpet? She’ll be wearing the Dolce & Gabbana dress …’

  He’s up on his celebrity gossip and he’s remembered she’s wearing Dolce. Oh God. Maybe he’s gay?

  ‘Mona’s going. I don’t think she trusts me out in the field just yet.’

  ‘You’d walk it! You handled most of the styling for Beau, anyway. As for the red carpet, just imagine feeding time at a zoo and you won’t be far off.’ We both turned towards the door as Jennifer prepared to leave.

  ‘Thanks, and see you all again, I hope!’ she called, smiling her million-dollar smile and waving in our direction. Jennifer Astley waved at me. Now this is a moment to bank. I wish I’d asked for a photo.

  ‘Bye, Jennifer!’ Rob called, nudging me.

  ‘Good luck tomorrow!’ I added.

  ‘Oh, Amber, she doesn’t need luck, silly—she’s wearing a lucky dress!’ Mona said loudly, keen to have the last word. Then she was gone. I half-expected to see a trail of twinkling fairy dust in her wake. I sighed.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘She’s amazing,’ Rob agreed. ‘And seriously hot. Right, off to the premiere—catch you tomorrow, for the big day.’ Okay, perhaps he’s not gay.

  I could hardly believe it was Golden Globes day.

  ‘We should grab a drink at some point in the evening, when it’s calmed down,’ he continued.

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  ‘If you’re not dashing straight back to London, that is?’

  For a moment I was tongue-tied.

  ‘No, I’m here another couple of days before we go back for the BAFTAs. And, yes, a drink—I’d love to!’ I’d sounded way too grateful. I busied myself tidying up. Liam still hadn’t responded to my text. Maybe Rob feels sorry for me.

  That evening, when we got back to the house, I was looking forward to a quiet night in: bubble bath, the chance to raid the fridge with Mona out, and overdue phone calls to Vicky and my mum. But all that changed in a heartbeat when Mona informed me she had some last-minute dress drop-offs to do, plus a crisis involving an actress and a crystal clutch, and asked me to accompany Beau to the Summer’s Not Over premiere instead.

  ‘I’ve got to prioritise the awards,’ she said, looking tense. ‘Besides, there’s no better way to learn than on the job.’ She waved me towards the back of a white limousine that was supposed to have been picking her up from the house; AJ was already seated inside. All I’d been able to do was grab my kit and head out of the door—I didn’t get a chance to change out of my black leggings and T-shirt combo, and I had absolutely no idea what was expected of me. This was not the way I’d envisaged attending my first Hollywood premiere. Holding open the car door, Mona barked my only instructions, like a demented drill sergeant:

  ‘Just keep your kit on you, check the dress is falling correctly and nothing’s popping out that shouldn’t be popping out. It’s simple. Oh, and whatever Beau wants you to do—do it.’ AJ rolled his eyes, giving me the impression he’d been here before.

  ‘Hold tight—we can’t be late to pick up Her Royal Highness,’ he said as I ducked into the limo. Another woman was in there, too. She leaned forward with an outstretched hand, taking care not to let her iPhone, two BlackBerrys and iPad Mini slide off her lap onto the white, carpeted floor.

  ‘Hi, I’m Leslie, Beau’s publicist.’

  Oh, so you’re the person who should have been stopping the pap shots see the light of day, instead of letting me do Beau’s dirty work?

  ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Amber, Mona’s assistant.’

  ‘So just one major point for tonight,’ Leslie said, displaying innate bossiness. ‘Don’t let her hem rise. The last thing we need is to fan the flames after certain images started doing the rounds—we’re filing against Starz, by the way. Beau needs to look demure, elegant and, most importantly, engaged to be married. Got that, Anna?’

  ‘Got it,’ I replied, less concerned that she had already forgotten my name than about the fact that Beau had chosen a very undemure, skintight, hot-as-you-like, leopard-print dress for this evening, and that I was suddenly somehow responsible for helping her look like a Stepford Wife: something I had a pretty keen suspicion she was not going to pull off. My eyes wandered around the interior of the vehicle. It was like a room on wheels—there was even a faux walnut coffee table between us. Maybe it wasn’t faux. I wondered what all th
e buttons on the door of the limo actually did. Might there be a button for ejecting bossy publicists?

  The limo climbed higher into the Hollywood Hills; it couldn’t have been easy for the driver to manoeuvre a vehicle this length around the narrow, windy roads. It seemed ridiculous that we needed a car this big for four passengers. I checked myself: this is Hollywood and we’re going to a premiere. Of course we do.

  We stopped outside the tall metal gates of a property not far from Mona’s, but with even better views of the city below. AJ made a call and the gates slowly glided open. Once through security, it became apparent that we had entered a very private, exclusive ‘other’ world. The building was huge, modern, with smooth white concrete walls and a panel of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Perfectly manicured shrubbery and two tall palm trees on the right-hand side of the driveway gave way to the requisite luxury vehicles parked outside—the white convertible sports car from the other day and a large four-by-four with blacked-out windows. We came to a halt behind them. Leslie had clearly been here many times before; she paid no attention to our surroundings, instead punching vigorously at her BlackBerry. I was dying to see beyond the sleek, modernist exterior, where I guessed a land of muted rooms existed, big couches, expensive rugs, crystal chandeliers and pieces of modern art.

  ‘Wait here while I get her,’ AJ commanded.

  Left alone in the limo with Leslie, who was incessantly typing between huffs and tuts, I pulled out my phone, too. No word back from Liam. I suffered finger spasm and sent him a text. Well, at least I had something interesting to say: At a premiere tonight. What you up to? x