The Stylist Page 20

‘What a great coincidence—fate has brought us together.’ He smiled. His black hair so naturally thick and unruly, it was a battle to keep it out of his face. My American Poldark. Wait until I tell Vicky about this! He tucked a curl behind his ear and leaned in closer. He had devastating brown eyes with eyelashes that reminded me of a baby camel. He was so exotic-looking, almost the exact opposite of Rob with his pretty-boy features—or Henry Higgins, for that matter. I felt like I was starring in my own rom-com, he being the hottest holiday romance ever. All we needed were some piña coladas and a palm tree. I wished the iPhone girls were still here to record this: me being wooed by a bona fide American hottie.

  ‘Anyway, what brings you to London?’

  ‘Flew in late last night,’ he said, stretching his arms across the table. His body language was all over me. ‘You know, few BAFTA parties, more auditions—I’m up for Gillian Anderson’s surgeon in a new miniseries. But anyway, that’s boring—’

  He reached for my hands. Before I knew it he was lacing his fingers with mine. I suddenly felt painfully self-aware. PDAs with a virtual, albeit fit, stranger in the middle of the morning in a crowded Starbucks was alien terrain for me. Yet it was thrilling. A girl on the next table seemed to have clocked Liam; his good looks certainly stood out in a crowd. Or perhaps she had actually seen some of the obscure TV dramas and low-budget films he was listed as having bit-roles in on IMDb. I let my fingers be wiggled by his, desperately trying to shed my self-consciousness. An inner voice urged me to live in the moment; throw caution to the wind—think more like Vicky than myself. What was it she said? ‘When one man wants you, others do, too.’

  I found myself staring at his full lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss them. And then he lunged forwards. We were like two tortoise heads popping out of their shells, stopping just shy of knocking noses. He hooked one hand firmly around the back of my head and pulled my stunned face really close, right across the middle of the table. He was staring at my parted lips. I could feel his breath on them. My God, he’s masterful. I felt like a wobbly marshmallow in his hands.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about kissing you from the moment we met,’ he said, brown eyes shining with lust as they fixed on my now quivering lips.

  And before I could decide how to react, or had a second to wish I’d sucked a mint, it was happening. We were kissing.

  His tongue was hard, urgent, investigative. There was a sound as our teeth clashed. I wanted to laugh but instead he held my head in place, working his tongue deeper, silencing me. Granted, it had been a while since I’d had a proper snog, but I didn’t remember it being quite as aggressive as this. The experience was beginning to feel more like a dental procedure than a kiss as his tongue explored my mouth.

  ‘You taste so good, Amber,’ he said, pausing momentarily to stare at my glistening lips once more.

  After another minute or so of tongue warfare, I slowly moved my head back, and gently pulled his hand down from its vice-like grip of my neck. He slumped back into his chair. When I dared to look up again, I was staring into the green eyes of Rob, who looked equally shocked.

  ‘God, so sorry, I, um, Mona said you were working in here and so we—’ Over his shoulder were Fran and Shaggy. Both seemed to be trying not to laugh.

  The TV crew saw me having the worst kiss I’ve ever had. So did most of Starbucks. Please, dear God, what have I done to deserve this?

  Liam noticed we had company.

  ‘All right, mate?’ Rob said awkwardly.

  Liam barely registered him, clearly unfazed that we’d been caught mid–bad kiss by some people I knew. Or maybe he doesn’t think the kiss was bad? I didn’t know which was worse. Instead, he was eyeballing the serving counter towards the front of Starbucks.

  ‘Don’t know about you, Eliza, but I’m ravenous. If I don’t get something inside me I might end up eating you again.’ He winked.

  Rob raised an eyebrow.

  I felt myself turn scarlet.

  ‘Um, yes. I mean no, not had lunch yet, I’ll grab us a baguette each, if you like?’ Being Mona’s assistant had turned me into acting like everyone’s assistant, but I really wanted to get away from Terminator Tongue.

  ‘I’ll go. What can I get you?’ he insisted.

  I thought for all of two seconds. ‘BLT, please.’ I suddenly felt starving. Perhaps some stodge would give me the energy to get through whatever the next part of the day would have in store. Nothing was predictable when it came to Mona and I needed to know why the camera crew was here.

  ‘A whole one?’ He looked shocked. ‘Gluttony is one of seven deadly sins, you know. I thought you’d be watching your weight. Whatever.’ And he headed off towards the counter.

  I gasped. Did he actually say that? I’m gluttonous for wanting a sandwich for lunch? Fury flashed before my eyes. Bloody LA and its starving hungry people. Rob heard, too, but he looked away, seemingly embarrassed at having seen me full-on pashing with a guy who had now pretty much told me I was fat.

  Fran pushed in front of Rob. ‘So, I take it Mona hasn’t mentioned the filming. Again?’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Um, no,’ I muttered, so utterly sick and tired of having the wrong answer. ‘She’s in Selfridges at the moment, if you want to find her there.’

  I was still digesting the gluttony comment and more than anything I just wanted them all to leave me alone.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Rob said, after a pause, sensing my mood. ‘Let’s do the background stuff outside Selfridges and try to hook up with Mona later or tomorrow.’ He had offered me a lifeline and I was grateful. Fran turned on her heel to leave, huffing as LA Liam knocked her arm on his return to the table. He chucked a BLT across it towards me.

  ‘What time will you finish work, babe?’ he asked.

  ‘Never,’ I replied, truthfully. ‘I’m working for Mona 24/7 at the moment. Until we get the BAFTAs out of the way, at least.’

  ‘Catch you mañana then, baby girl. I’ll text you,’ he said, before picking up his jacket and swaggering off. Baby girl? Just don’t expect a reply.

  And in a heartbeat I was alone again, reeling. Well, alone bar all the people around me gawping.

  I had managed to demolish the BLT—every lip-smacking mouthful of it—before Mona returned, on a fashion high after nabbing half of Selfridges’ best second-floor offerings. She didn’t seem bothered when I told her filming was off, instead—to my glee—she suggested we call it a day.

  I didn’t have any urge to call LA Liam, instead I erased him completely from my phone and rushed home to tell Vicky all the cringe-worthy details. Life’s too short for a second bad kiss.

  During the two days before the BAFTAs and our makeover of Miss P, I continued to assist Mona, meeting her in a variety of coffee establishments around town. As she ummed and aahed over which gown and accessories to put on the aspiring star, and we attended appointments at shops and PR offices for her other BAFTA clients, I incessantly checked her email inbox. She was fretting hugely about whether Jennifer Astley was going to call: the scarlet Valentino still needed to be seen on someone this awards season, and Beau Belle had decided not to make the trip from LA with Trey, so we were holding out for Jen, as was Valentino’s office, who was ringing for updates on a twice-daily basis. Mona’s mood swings were as erratic as ever. She would flit from ‘lovely boss’, offering to take me for a mani-pedi once we’d got this round of fittings over, to ‘bitch boss from hell’, tearing a strip off me in front of clients if I used my initiative, and then fail to turn up to some of our appointments, so I had to blindly take them alone. One afternoon she shrieked at me in public when I ordered her a Grande Starbucks instead of a Venti. This particular afternoon, she’d been an hour late to meet me outside Bond Street tube station. I hadn’t been wearing enough layers and my fingers had almost turned blue. There was no hint of an apology.

  ‘Would it be easier to do some meetings at your house?’ I asked, when my lips had thawed. She ignored the question completely.
>
  As we walked in silence towards Smith’s for our appointment with Jas, I wondered where Mona actually lived in London. So far, there had been no mention of where she was based over here. But more pressing was my fear about what kind of reception awaited me at Smith’s—especially from the Stick.

  As we turned onto South Molton Street, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Ladies!’ It was Rob. The sight of him in the middle of a London Street made me jump. He looked really handsome in a black polo neck and thick grey winter coat. ‘You’ve got a pace on you today.’ The tip of his nose was red.

  ‘Rob!’ I felt my cheeks match the colour of his nose.

  ‘I didn’t realise we were meant to be filming this afternoon?’ Mona scowled at me, pre-emptively angry. Had I somehow failed to pick up a message?

  ‘We’re not, don’t panic.’ Rob smiled. ‘Though I wanted to ask if we could do a few more scenes in Smith’s this week—Fran thought it would be good to get you talking about the BAFTAs and Oscars. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Fine with me, if Jas is okay with it,’ Mona replied.

  ‘We can ask her today,’ I suggested. ‘That’s where we’re going now.’

  ‘Great. Just let me know.’ He pulled up his collar, clapped his hands together and shifted his weight from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm; he looked like he wanted to say something else. I prayed he wouldn’t ask me about Liam in front of Mona. I wanted to forget the whole sorry thing. ‘What are you doing after the appointment, Amber?’ he asked finally. ‘Might you have five minutes for a quick drink, or a coffee? I need to ask you something.’

  Mona elbowed me really obviously. I turned to my boss, whose mood appeared to have warmed.

  ‘I suppose she’s allowed a break sometimes,’ she said. ‘We’ll be done at Smith’s in a couple of hours.’ It was pretty clear that Rob was one of the few people who could get what he wanted from Mona; his good looks definitely helped.

  ‘Great. I’ll meet you in Pret by the tube, five-ish?’

  ‘See you there.’ And he turned back up the street.

  ‘He’s into you,’ Mona stated. I was uncomfortably aware that Rob was definitely still within earshot.

  ‘He’s not. He’s just being friendly.’

  As we approached Smith’s, a sinking feeling began to develop in my stomach. Mona seemed distracted, too. She started dragging her heels, and we finally came to a standstill two shops down from the boutique, where she put a hand on my wrist.

  ‘Listen, Amber, there’s something I wanted to ask before we go in.’ She turned to face me. Sometimes I literally had no clue what was going to come out of her mouth, and this was one of those times.

  ‘Your job,’ she began; her tone was stern. She’s firing me! She paused for dramatic effect. ‘I know it was meant to be a fortnight, but I’d really love you to stay on and help me through the BAFTAs and Oscars. It’s only another couple of weeks.’ She looked at me with something like desperation in her eyes, and I breathed out, overwhelmed with relief. ‘What do you say?’ She gave me what was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘I was thinking we could let Jas know this morning.’

  ‘Wow, I’m really grateful for this,’ I began, unsure where my sentence was going to end. ‘I wasn’t sure if you thought I was doing a good job or not.’ I smiled awkwardly, and Mona squeezed my wrist. She won’t actually say it, but I guess this is her way of telling me I’m doing something right. ‘If I did take it, do you think Jas will mind?’

  ‘Jas will want you to be happy,’ she said, without a second thought.

  I did some quick analysis in my head.

  Plus sides: the past week has been a blast; I got to meet Jennifer Astley; I occasionally get to wear incredible dresses; there might not be much food, but there is free champagne.

  Minuses: my boss seems to be on the verge of a breakdown; I may completely burn my bridges at Smith’s; I’ve got rent due and no idea when I’m getting paid; I’m not sure I’m cut out for the world of size-zero people; I don’t want to run into LA Liam ever, ever again.

  ‘Do you mind if I think about it?’ I answered at last. ‘Just a few hours, I need to see what Jas says and I should probably call my mum.’ That reminded me. ‘What, er, would the terms be?’ Vicky would understandably kill me if I couldn’t cover my rent this month, and it would be the first question on my mother’s lips. ‘And the money for the flights?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I could let you keep the Burberry you looked so cute in the other night.’ She ignored my question and did a jazz-hands gesture before motioning towards the ‘S’ necklace. ‘A stylist has got to look the part.’ Hmm. That dress was the most beautiful thing I’d ever worn. Maybe I can eBay it. Or maybe she’s just awkward about discussing financial matters in the middle of the street?

  ‘Let’s see what kind of mood Jas is in, and I promise I’ll give you an answer by the end of the day, okay?’ I offered.

  ‘Deal.’ She lifted her collar and put on her sunglasses, ready to enter the store.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Once inside, the atmosphere in Smith’s wasn’t as frosty as I’d feared, although it felt odd to be on the ‘other side’ of the appointment. The Stick barely made eye contact with me—though I did spy her giving my outfit the once-over and she no doubt felt relieved I was still in my standard uniform of AllSaints parka, skinny Topshop jeans and black Zara jumper. Jas, however, was much warmer, greeting me with a chic kiss on each cheek, and Big Al was reassuringly oblivious to awkwardness.

  ‘So, have you met Al Pacino yet?’ he asked, following me down to the stockroom, where I had been invited for a sneaky peek at some of the new collections.

  ‘Afraid not, but I’ll get you his autograph if I do.’

  ‘You look thin. You haven’t gone all Hollywood anorexic on us, have you?’ He scanned me in a protective-dad way.

  ‘The people out there definitely don’t like wine and chips as much as I do,’ I replied. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve just been running around a lot. I’m not about to waste away.’

  ‘I should hope not.’ He smiled. ‘Any plans to go back out?’

  ‘Hmm, that’s the big question,’ I replied.

  ‘The madwoman’s trying to lure you into working for her permanently, then? Jas thinks you’re back here from Monday, you know, she was talking about the windows earlier—wants you to work your magic.’

  ‘Mona wants to extend things—not permanently, but just so I can help her out for the Oscars, too.’ I was glad to share the secret with someone. ‘But I don’t know—it’s a bit nuts working for her, to be honest.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You didn’t seriously think it wouldn’t be, did you? Sharp tool like you, Amber Green?’

  I chuckled. ‘I don’t know what I thought. But the question is, can I handle any more?’

  I sat on an unopened box in the stockroom, not feeling like rushing back upstairs yet.

  ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Ooh, yeah—builder’s, please.’

  ‘I might be able to stretch to a Hobnob, too, if you’re lucky.’ He smiled and moved skilfully between the boxes stacked in small piles around the floor. But before he disappeared behind the screen in front of the makeshift kitchenette, he stopped, resting an arm on top of the wobbly divider. From here, he looked around the windowless room, taking it all in: the half-opened boxes and rails of clothes still covered in protective polythene wrappers; the wall of shoeboxes stacked on top of each other like oversized bricks. The low ceiling and lack of windows made it feel oppressive. The hours I’d spent unpacking clothes and steaming them down here came flooding back. Alan let out a sigh.

  ‘I’m in this room hours at a time, six days a week,’ he said at last. ‘I know every crack on the walls, all the areas of peeling paint that need touching up. I’ve changed every frigging light bulb, several times over. I open boxes after deliveries—and then when they’re empty I flat-pack them and put them with all the other boxes I’ve flat-
packed, out the back. I do it over and over again, week after week.’ I kept quiet. ‘There’s got to be more adventure to be had from life than this. Don’t you think, kid?’

  I didn’t need to answer. Alan had given me everything I needed to make my decision.

  Back upstairs, I could tell by her slightly agitated tone that Mona was itching for her mid-afternoon caffè macchiato. Remembering what happened last time, I offered to run and fetch it. Just as I flung my coat and scarf back on, the Stick finally acknowledged my presence.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ she called, ‘I’ll come with you.’ She pulled a cashmere cape over her head and turned to Jas. ‘If you’re okay here for ten minutes?’

  ‘You can grab me a copy of Drapers while you’re out,’ Jas replied.

  Bewildered, I held open the door and we walked down South Molton Street side by side. I was blowed if I was going to break the ice after the way she’d seen me off when we last walked up this street together, so for a while we strolled in silence.

  ‘So, how’s it been?’ she asked finally, itching to pump me for information as we turned onto Brook Street. But her demeanour remained as ice-cold as the temperature.

  ‘Good, but pretty full-on,’ I replied, unsure how much to give away. The last thing we needed was for her to be blogging or Tweeting my gossip from ‘a source inside Mona’s camp’. ‘The Globes were a success, and Jennifer Astley is lovely.’

  ‘Everyone’s been talking about Mona’s breakdown at the party,’ she scoffed, clearly pleased to have the opportunity to pick a hole.

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounded,’ I shot back. Well, it was partially true. The puke missed the bag, didn’t it? ‘Mona’s asked me to stay on with her,’ I added. It just came out. The Stick silently digested what I’d said, while I convinced myself that I might as well be upfront about the fact I was unlikely to be back in Smith’s on Monday morning. Her expression suddenly changed, the chilled attitude replaced by curiosity.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll probably do it, but I want to talk it over with Jas first.’ We ordered the coffees in Caffè Nero and waited for them together, both lost in our own thoughts. I wondered what she was plotting. The Stick was always plotting. She picked at her matte black nails.