The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

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      ‘Listen, Kiki, I don’t think it mattered to Mona if it was you or me. She just wanted someone—anyone—to help.’

      ‘Didn’t Jas tell her about me? How much more experience I’ve got? Didn’t she put up a fight?’

      ‘Would you fight Mona Armstrong?’

      ‘If it was worth fighting for, I would.’

      Ouch. I stopped walking. ‘Kiki, I hate this. Shall we grab a coffee and talk about it properly?’

      Kiki marched on, turning only briefly to shout over her shoulder: ‘Coffee? Is that supposed to be funny?’

      ‘Sorry, I forgot. Honestly, Kiki, Jas didn’t have a say in it. We both know I’ll probably get the sack after a day …’

      But Kiki was more than a bit narked. She was angry.

      ‘It’s fucking ridiculous, that’s what it is. What does she think I am, a bloody skivvy? You should have gone for the coffee.’

      ‘Why—because I am a skivvy? A pointless skivvy who should have listened to your orders and kept her mouth shut the whole time Mona was in the store?’ Now my blood was starting to boil, too. ‘Perhaps, Kiki, just perhaps, Mona sent you for her coffee because she, like me, thinks you’re not a very nice person. A person who’s been so busy putting me down and bossing me around, she’s never actually spared a thought for how I might feel—about anything—until I suddenly got something you want. Until now. Well, you know what? Fuck you, Kiki. You’re a pathetic, skinny Stick Insect and I’m very happy I won’t have to see your thin face, or have to look at your pond water, or clear your stinking lettuce out of the fridge, or steam another piece of fabric because you can’t be bothered, because I’ll be in LA with Mona Armstrong, styling the stars.’ Hah! ‘Oh, and don’t forget, you signed an NDA so none of this can be repeated to anyone. Otherwise you’ll be sued. Hasta la vista, Stick, I’m off home to pack my killer heels.’

      Of course I didn’t actually say that. But it was very real in my head. I’ve never been good at confrontation, so, in real life, I tried to bury the feelings of guilt currently making my stomach churn, and tried a change of tack.

      ‘That guy Rob seemed nice?’

      ‘I preferred the shaggy one.’

       Au contraire.

      We walked the final few steps in another awkward silence, both ranting inwardly. I decided against asking her opinion of what I should pack or if she had a kit I could borrow. The atmosphere between us was eating me alive, so I fibbed.

      ‘I think I’ll get the bus today. I need air.’

      ‘Fair enough.’

      She didn’t even look me in the eye.

      ‘I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then.’

      ‘Yeah, if Jas will have you back.’

      And she was gone, skinny jeans and dip-dyed hair lost in a crowd of commuters, probably heading to a Shoreditch pub to break her NDA and slag me off with some East London hipsters. I hope the NDA police are sitting at the next table.

      When I had safely turned off Oxford Street onto Manchester Square—when I could be sure that neither Kiki nor Mona nor any TV cameras were spying on me to see if I was displaying any embarrassing, high-spirited emotions—I did what every twenty-six-year-old in possession of her best job offer ever does: I phoned my mum.

      ‘Are you walking again?’ she asked, before I even said hello.

      For some reason my mother has an aversion to me walking and talking. Probably because I always seem to phone her when I’m in transit.

      ‘I’ve just finished work.’ I stopped in the street and cupped the phone, to block out some of the traffic noise.

      ‘It’d be nice if you phoned, just for a chat, when you weren’t on a noisy street, on your way somewhere, that’s all …’

      ‘I know, Mum. Anyway, guess what?’

      ‘You’re coming to see us this weekend?’

      ‘No …’

      ‘We’re coming to see you this weekend?’

      ‘Afraid not. I’ve got a new job!’

      ‘That’s fantastic news, darling! A proper one?’

      ‘It’s in fashion!’ Quiet on the end of the line. An indication that my mother does not view this as news of a proper job. ‘I’m going to be a celebrity stylist. Well, I’m going to be an assistant to a celebrity stylist—and she’s the celebrity stylist—I’m going to be Mona Armstrong’s number two. Well, I think number two.’ Maybe I’m her number ten? ‘I don’t actually know what my job title is. It’s a two-week thing.’

      ‘I thought for a second you’d decided to do the teacher training course …’

       Not again.

      ‘Darling, there’s not much security there. Jasmine’s happy to let you come back, is she?’

       Why can’t she just be excited for me?

      ‘I’m flying to LA, tomorrow. For the Golden Globes!’

      Another heavy pause.

      ‘Mum? Did you hear that? I’m going to the Golden Globes!’

      ‘Golden Globes, what’s that? Some kind of Californian fruit growing contest? Don’t tell me it’s a beauty contest, you know I …’

      ‘No, Mother. It’s one of the film industry’s biggest awards ceremonies, and I might be dressing some of the winners. I’m probably going to meet Jennifer Astley!’

       Was I really saying those magic words?

      ‘Jennifer who?’

      Being a lawyer, my mother doesn’t pander to the ins and outs of celebrity culture or the awards-season calendar, let alone share my enthusiasm for what dresses the stars might or might not wear during it. Instead, most conversations with her involve her checking I have the relevant paperwork for something.

      ‘Does this Rhona have insurance? You’ve got travel insurance, have you, sweetheart?’

      ‘Yes, I think I have insurance.’

      ‘Think, darling? You need to have it for sure.’

      ‘Yes, Mum.’

      ‘And you’ll definitely have a job when you get back, will you? Rent doesn’t pay itself, and you can’t leave poor Victoria in the lurch.’ You’d never have guessed this person had the eccentricity to name her child after a traffic light, would you? Once upon a time my mother must have had a sense of humour.

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ