The Stylist Takes Manhattan Read online

  My eyes darted around—still no sign of Amanda, but this was her car, surely she wouldn’t be happy to find a random Selfridges employee in it, when she did eventually return, laden with shopping bags.

  “What about Amanda?” I asked.

  “She’ll be cool,” Poppy said. “She might seem like a diva on TV, but she’s actually the sweetest.” She leaned forward and the window smoothly rose up. Through the glass, I could just about make out that she was leaning forward, talking to someone. Seconds later, a man I hadn’t even noticed sitting in the front passenger seat jumped out and opened the door next to Poppy. He was wearing a headset and looked really stern, like some of the personal bodyguards I had come into contact with last year.

  “Quick! Get in,” Poppy instructed.

  And then I was sitting on the back seat of Amanda Sykes’s giant car. It was a thrilling place to be. The car had a sleek matte-black interior and an enticing smell of brand new leather upholstery.

  “How do you know her?” I asked Poppy, once my breathing had steadied.

  “We share an agent in LA,” she revealed. “There’s talk of me appearing on her show, it’s going to be rad.”

  Suddenly an almighty cheer ripped through the crowd. A video camera had appeared and a second opportunistic paparazzo had joined the first, waiting by the car ready to capture Amanda getting into it, ideally displaying a glimpse of her crotch. The guy from the front seat received something through his headset and hurtled out of the vehicle, clearing a route toward the shop as he went.

  “Must be on her way,” Poppy remarked, craning her neck to look out.

  “I think I’ll split,” I said, seizing the moment to exit the car while everyone’s attention was turned. “I don’t think Amanda will especially want me here.”

  “Give me your number,” Poppy said, “I’m going to be in London for a while working. I’d love to keep in touch, I might need some styling.” She pulled out her phone and, as I hurriedly told her my digits, she punched them in.

  “Thanks for the offer of the lift!” I yelled, a bit gutted that I didn’t have time to tell her about my move to New York. I quickly stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

  And then a tunnel opened up in front of me and Amanda came into view at the end of it, flanked by security guards laden with Selfridges bags. Samantha was right, she was wider than I imagined, her ample curves flaunted in a figure-hugging black dress. Her famous feet were encased in heeled black sandals with at least ten buckles going halfway up her calf. More flashes erupted and yells of “Mandy! Mandy!” rang out from every direction.

  If I wasn’t mistaken we locked eyes for a second or two—maybe she saw me jump out of her car and wondered who on earth I was—but her lips seemed to turn up and she flashed me a smile.

  I darted across Oxford Street, heading in the direction of Bond Street tube, thankfully narrowly missing being run over by a double decker—even the bus driver was distracted by the fuss. Once across the road, I turned back briefly but Amanda had disappeared behind the blacked-out glass of the car. I continued dodging people and shopping bags as I became lost in the hordes of shoppers who constantly packed Oxford Street’s pavements and didn’t stop rushing until I was through the barriers and safely on a tube train.

  Chapter Four

  I slowed my pace as I turned the corner to my street in Kensal Rise. The terraced houses on either side of the road were not unattractive, they were “characterful,” an estate agent might say, when they meant “tired.” Now that New York was in my sights, everything seemed to look more shabby. But it wasn’t so much my street that made me slow down, it was the fact that I could see my sister, Rory and Nora sitting in their car. Lucy had a face like thunder.

  “Ever heard of ringing if you’re going to be late?” she stormed, opening the door and pushing her hair out of her face. “Five-year-olds don’t enjoy being cooped up in a car, especially when it’s approaching the witching hour.”

  I peered into the car, Nora was wriggling around on the back seat with a variety of dolls laughing hysterically, her hair ruffled and cheeks flushed. She looked perfectly happy to me, not remotely like a witch. Then I pulled out my phone, it was nearly six and there were four missed calls from Lucy on the screen.

  “I was on the tube, it didn’t ring. I’m sorry,” I muttered, once again feeling like the naughty little sister who can’t do anything right. “The store had to be closed for a bit and I got caught up in it.”

  “Another drama in fashion land.” Lucy tutted. “Anyway, this one’s now high on sugar and needs her dinner. And I need a glass of wine—shall we go in?”

  Judging by the amount of luggage they had, it looked like Nora was moving in. There was a giant holdall, a duvet, plus another big bag apparently full of the toys, books and three night lights required to recreate Nora’s home environment for one night. As Rory dragged the endless bags up the communal stairs and into my flat, I placated Lucy with a glass of sauvignon blanc and then spun a yarn about how I planned to take Nora to the local fish and chip shop instead of cooking, as a special treat. Lucy’s face dropped, but thankfully, before she could veto dinner, the little girl’s eyes lit up and she grabbed my hand tightly.

  “Chips! Can we go now pleeeease?” she squealed.

  “Oh, it’s only a one-off, Luce, it’s an auntie’s prerogative. Now, you two had better get off—go on, shoo,” I commanded, “and don’t worry about coming back early in the morning. Nora and I are going to be just fine, aren’t we?” I looked at Nora nervously.

  “Fine, Auntie Nana,” she replied. The fact she had referred to me as “Nana” from the age of one did nothing for my image as a fun young auntie. “Can we get the chips now?”

  * * *

  After two greasy dinners and a bag of pick-and-mix, we arrived home to find Rob had just turned up with Pinky. The little pig was excitedly scurrying around the living room, pausing now and again to hoover up stray crumbs from under the coffee table.

  “Hey, Nora! Look who I’ve brought to see you. Rob’s little piggy, Pinky. He wants to be your friend, too. Would you like to come and play with him?”

  Pinky’s wiry tail lifted when he caught sight of a new potential playmate.

  “Me no like Pinky!” she uttered, as Pinky darted between my legs to reach her. She clung onto my trousers as though her life depended upon it.

  “So, this is going well,” Rob muttered, after umpteen attempts to get Nora and Pinky to interact, always ending in Nora running off to hide, whilst shrieking, “I want to go home!” at the top of her voice.

  We then spent an hour constantly retrieving Pinky from behind the TV table, where he was particularly interested in gnawing through cables, before I decided it was time for bed. All four of us were becoming overtired and angsty.

  “Oh, by the way, nearly forgot to tell you,” Rob said. “I spoke to Dan earlier, the wedding is on hold.”

  “Oh no,” I said, sighing, “poor thing. Did he say what happened?”

  “Nope, he’s not good with opening up and doesn’t seem to want to say more—despite mum pestering him endlessly.”

  The doorbell buzzed loudly just as we were coaxing Nora into her bedroom with a trail of popcorn. Pinky was darting around our feet, trying to scoff the popcorn before Nora and thinking it was all a huge game as she became increasingly wound up.

  “I want Mummy! Is Mummy at the door?” Nora whined.

  “Ignore it, I can’t handle seeing anyone right now,” I commanded Rob over the racket. “Mummy will be here to pick you up first thing tomorrow morning, I promise,” I told Nora. “Now, let’s go find your toys and I’ll read your favorite story.”

  The doorbell buzzed again just as I closed her door.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later—four readings of The Gruffalo, one protracted pretend tea party, the full-length version of “Let It Go,” sung badly, and two failed attempts at putting to bed—and Nora was showing no signs of tiredness, so I decided to admi
t defeat and brought her back into the living room. As I crossed the hallway, at first I thought Rob was on the phone, but then I heard a familiar female American voice talking back to him. I peered through a gap in the door: Poppy Drew. Looking very at home on my sofa—with Pinky curled up in her lap, like some bald, chubby kitten—while she chatted away to Rob like an old friend. Her discarded Chanel flats lay on the floor.

  She leapt up when she saw me, causing Pinky to jump off the sofa.

  “Hey, Amber, babe, hope you don’t mind me popping over, but it was so great to reconnect with you today. I want to hear more about what you’re up to. Rob picked up your phone when I called. He says you guys are moving to Manhattan together. I’m so excited for you. New York is the coolest city. Probably my favorite in the world, after London, and Tokyo, oh, and probably Miami.”

  “Not at all.” I grinned falsely, slowly turning my expression into a grimace as I slyly sideways-glanced at Rob wondering why he had given her my address.

  Then she spotted Nora. “Hey, there, little princess, aren’t you the cutest? If I’m not mistaken, that is a Frozen nightie you’re wearing, isn’t it?” Nora nodded, and came out from behind me to get a better look at the glamorous woman who looked as though she’d stepped out of a Disney film herself. With her poker-straight honey-blond hair, pale blue skintight jeans and cream jumper, she would certainly have turned heads on her way to Kensal Rise. “Do you know that I’m friends with Elsa in real life?” she continued, as Nora’s eyes widened. “I can tell you all about her, if you like, while you show me your dolls and we talk about Frozen.”

  She gave me a wink and, miraculously, Nora was only too happy to take Poppy’s hand and be led straight back to her bedroom.

  “She’s got the magic touch,” Rob commented, as the two quietly disappeared back across the landing, making me feel like a failure.

  “Good luck to her,” I replied, which unfortunately came out sounding slightly sarcastic. “So I don’t think Nora’s going to be begging her parents to adopt Pinky any time soon,” I added.

  “Agreed, I think we can safely say she hates micro-pigs.” Rob laughed, pouring me a glass from the bottle of red he and Poppy had already drunk half of.

  “But, every cloud,” he said, grinning, “because Poppy might just be our savior. She’s taken a real shine to Pinky and the feeling seems to be mutual.”

  Just then, Poppy bounded back into the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

  “Sound asleep,” she declared, proudly. “Still haven’t lost my nannying touch.”

  “You used to be a nanny?” I asked.

  “Yes, for four years, while I was at drama school. I looked after two girls for a wealthy family in Chelsea. I know every bedtime trick there is.”

  “I wish I’d known that earlier,” I said, smiling, warming to our unexpected guest now we had some peace. “I would have invited you for the whole evening.”

  “I guess you haven’t seen the Evening Standard yet today, then?” She pulled a rolled-up copy of the newspaper out of the dreamy cream Chloé bag I’d clocked by the side of the sofa. “Tada!” She thrust it into my hands. “We made the paper, girlfriend!”

  I straightened out the newspaper and took in the full horror of a page-five splash which featured a large photo of Amanda coming out of Selfridges and a smaller photo of Poppy and me sitting in the car—her looking gorgeous, smiling broadly, and my startled face, one leg in the car, getting in, in an ungainly fashion, unaware I was being photographed. Both Amanda and Poppy looked like models with their perfectly coiffed hair and made-up faces, whereas I looked like a flustered frump. The headline accompanying it read: AMANDA SYKES SHOPPING SPREE CAUSES CHAOS AT SELFRIDGES. I wondered what the big bosses would make of this; whether they would spot who the person was inelegantly getting into Amanda’s car. Perhaps my sabbatical will be recalled now. Perhaps they won’t want me back.

  Rob came and leaned over my shoulder. “Classic! You didn’t tell me about this, Am. Look at your face! Come on, you’ve got to admit, it’s a little bit hilarious?”

  “I look like a homeless person.” I sulked.

  “Anyway, Amanda is thrilled,” Poppy revealed. “She only went to the store at the busiest time of day to try to score a photo in a paper. You can’t buy PR like this.”

  “Won’t she wonder who the random person in her car is, though?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, she’s cool,” Poppy assured me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my iPhone, muted but blinking on the coffee table. I picked it up and began scrolling through the messages and missed calls, there was even a thread on Facebook, thanks to Shauna posting the image of me. Vicky had seen it, and texted:

  I hear you’re BFFs with Amanda Sykes. WTF happened babe?!? xxx

  Mum had texted with her lawyer hat on:

  So you’re famous? If you’re being hounded, say No Comment and walk off. First rule to remember, darling. Hope Nora’s been cheering you up. Mx

  One of the texts was from Lucy:

  Saw the Standard—so that’s why you were late. Hope Nora is asleep? Don’t forget you can give her milk if she wakes and if she can’t sleep, try reading the Frozen book, she might want to sleep with it next to her. She’ll probably wake up at 6ish, if you’re lucky. xx

  I only replied to Luce:

  All quiet, hope you’re enjoying your evening. Switch off! x

  The others would have to wait. I noted that Joseph hadn’t said anything which either meant he hadn’t seen it, or was waiting to grill me tomorrow morning.

  Pinky was snuffling around Poppy’s toes, angling to be picked up.

  “Hey, little fella,” she purred, scooping him into her arms. “Did we forget about you? Tut tut. Come and give your adopted mummy a kissy.”

  “Adopted mummy, hey?” Rob’s ears pricked up. At last, attention was being taken away from the newspaper I’d placed facedown on the table.

  “I’ve been thinking . . . if you need to re-home him and it’s only going to be for three months, I’d love to be your new pig-sitter.” Poppy smiled. “I talked to Nora about it earlier, and she agrees. I could use a new flatmate and Pinky won’t nick all my toiletries. Do you think I’m up to the job?”

  Both she and Pinky looked at us, her big blue eyes and his little dark peepers shining.

  “I think Pinky’s already made the decision,” Rob said, looking lovingly at them both. For a moment, he looked bereft, as though he was giving away his own child.

  “Well, that’s perfect,” I seconded. “Let’s toast Pinky’s new home!” and I refilled us from the second bottle.

  “I’m so excited!” Poppy gushed. “I’ll clear out some space this week and get him next weekend—if that suits you, Rob? Oh, and Amber, don’t let me forget: I want to hook you up with Dana LeRoy. She runs a stylists’ agency in New York. And she’ll love you, I know it. I’ll hook you up over email—she’ll get you some jobs in no time.”

  She’ll love me. The words played on my mind. They insinuated that I, Amber Green, from suburban London, could wow people, just by being me. I was going to need to do a lot of wowing in New York, if I didn’t want to be stuck in our apartment all day out there. But what if people don’t love me? What if I’m not cool enough?

  As the wine flowed, so did the conversation, and I began warming to Poppy, big time. Despite the unfortunate photo opportunity, she genuinely seemed to want to be friends and help me out with some contacts in New York.

  * * *

  It was nearly two in the morning when Poppy finally left; Rob and I were now in the bathroom together, brushing our teeth and talking in whispers, fearful of waking Nora before we’d even got into bed.

  “So, it’s all falling into place then,” he enthused. “What a sweet girl Poppy is, too.”

  “Yes, amazing how first impressions can be so off,” I admitted. “Thanks to Mona, I had her all wrong.”

  “Well, there weren’t exactly many people Mona managed to kee
p on side, let’s face it,” Rob remarked. “Maybe Poppy can help you build up some clients while we’re in New York—Dana sounds worth looking up, for starters.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sighing, “if she thinks I’m worth getting back to.”

  “You what?” said Rob, taking my electric toothbrush from me and placing it on the side, before pulling both of my hands into his. “I won’t hear any of this ‘if I’m worth it’ stuff. You may not have any idea how talented and beautiful you are, but I certainly do. And the Danas of New York should be bloody glad to meet you, not the other way around. Okay?”

  I smiled, trying to look seductive, though I wasn’t convinced I’d got all the red-wine stains from the rim of my lips. “Okay.” I made a silent promise to take a leaf of self-confidence out of Poppy’s book and take Manhattan by storm.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “we need to get into bed before a hyper five-year-old or a hungry pig wakes us up in, precisely, urgh, four hours, you said . . . ?”

  * * *

  Nora must have been exhausted by Pinky’s taunting because by some miracle, I woke up before her, at seven the next morning, my mouth dryer than the Sahara and head gently aching. Rob muttered something about too many tannins in that red wine and rolled over. I noticed Pinky had made himself at home in a pile of laundry in the corner of my room and was snoring gently. The image of them both made me smile. Our little family. I was going to miss Pinky while we were away.

  I forced myself to drink a pint of water and, by the time Nora woke up twenty minutes later, my lounge floor was strewn with items resembling the sad, unwanted items on a Portobello Market stall at the end of a Saturday afternoon. Packing up the flat was going to be hard work and more emotionally draining than I imagined. There was a lifetime’s worth of belongings to sort through and, no matter how ruthless I tried to be, there were some items that it was hard to bring myself to part with. The furniture would be easy to shift via adverts in Gumtree, but it was the items currently gathered in the middle of the room that would feel like throwing away a bit of my soul if they were to go. Take the wooden footstool in the shape of an owl bought with Vicky from Camden Market when we first moved in; or the poster-size framed astrological chart which had remained propped up against a wall for the past four years as I never got around to having it hung; and then there were the two pretty, albeit battered, crochet cushions brought back from a holiday in the south of France when I was a student. The flat was full of things I had once loved, important purchases for one reason or another—but, I told myself, it was time to strike out the old to make space for the new.