The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

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       Chapter One

      We gathered on white stools around the cash desk as Jas, our boss, delivered the news.

      ‘It’s about Mona Armstrong.’

      Kiki’s eyes lit up. This sounded infinitely more interesting than a discussion about who was responsible for the smelly lettuce in the fridge. And her short attention span, after years of social media abuse, meant she really needed to concentrate.

      ‘I’ve had a call from an assistant director at 20Twenty, the production company,’ Jas explained.

      Her motley crew—the staff of Smith’s boutique, consisting of Alan the security guard and the store assistants, Kiki and I—listened intently.

      ‘They’re making a pilot episode for a reality show about Mona,’ she continued. Kiki flashed me a told-you-so look, but I pretended not to notice, willing her to topple off the stool.

      ‘The working title is Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Stars, but for now they’re calling it The Stylist.’

      Big Alan was the only one of us who blatantly wasn’t bothered about this news. But it didn’t come as a complete surprise to Kiki or me—style bloggers had been buzzing about the pilot for several weeks, and Kiki had been monitoring the situation closely. Her latest bulletin, gleaned from various fashion blogs and breathlessly delivered over her daily litre of Super Greens, had informed me the show was ‘rumoured to be airing on an American network in the coming months’.

      Mona was one of the few things Kiki and I bonded over. You see, Mona Armstrong was not just any old stylist, like the ones you saw on daytime TV turning Sharon from Wolverhampton into a sort of Sharon Stone. She was Britain’s most famous—make that infamous—celebrity stylist; a personality in her own right, thanks to her minuscule frame, achingly hip, self-coined ‘boho riche’ dress sense, and close friendships with most of the names in Tatler’s Little Black Book.

      Now, just a few hours later, it had suddenly become a reality. My reality. Little did I know today’s news was about to change my life, forever.

      ‘The TV guy—Rob, I think—asked if we can keep it to ourselves for now,’ Jas went on, the American twang to her English accent a reminder of her two decades working as a top New York model. ‘That means no Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, nothing—they need to keep it under wraps until the network has confirmed.’

      But that wasn’t the half of it. ‘Oh, and the 20Twenty crew want to come to the store tomorrow to do some filming, with Mona, as she prepares for awards season,’ Jas said, ‘so it’s highly likely we’ll appear in the pilot, too.’

      Kiki and I looked at each other. I stifled a giggle—laughing was my default when I didn’t know how to react. Kiki’s jaw had dropped so low it looked like it needed a stool of its own. Jas carried on, ignoring the mounting hysteria emanating from her staff.

      ‘We’ll each have to sign a release form, in case we’re in a shot the TV people want to use, and a non-disclosure agreement—an NDA.’

      Kiki surreptitiously pulled her iPhone from the back pocket of her tight grey Acne jeans and held it in her lap, her finger hovering over the blue bird icon.

      ‘Release forms and NDAs are legally binding,’ Jas added, pointedly.

      Sucking in her cheeks, Kiki turned the iPhone over. Updating her followers would just have to wait. But this was big news for both of us. In fashion circles, Mona Armstrong was a legend. AKA a #Ledge.

      ‘The Stylist crew will be here to set up at eleven tomorrow, and Mona will arrive soon after,’ Jas continued, already off her stool and itching to get to work. ‘So we need to get this place looking camera-ready. Amber, can you refresh the windows—let’s go monochrome. And Kiki, work with me in store.’

      We nodded as the enormity of the situation began to sink in. This visit to the boutique, on a Tuesday morning in late January, was to be Mona’s first this season, just before awards season kicked off in Los Angeles with the Golden Globes. Mona’s visits were always an ‘event’, even without TV cameras rolling, so this was set to be off the scale. Kiki, visibly about to burst at the seams of her skinny jeans, couldn’t hold it together any longer.

      ‘Oh. My. God. A camera crew! What the hell are we going to wear?’

      We both cracked up. Kiki and I were both obsessed with Mona, though for different reasons—Kiki from a bona fide fashion perspective (she would regularly study the minutiae of Mona’s outfits, to an extent bordering on OCD). For me, it was more of a morbid fascination. I wondered how she could function on a seemingly liquid diet of Starbucks, water and champagne. (There were no paparazzi photos in existence that showed her eating. Fact.) But what could not be denied was that Mona’s celebrity power was off the scale. Practically a celeb in her own right, the careers of the stars she counted as friends were built on column inches secured through the clothes she’d put on their skinny backs. For up-and-coming fashion designers, she was a ‘dress trafficker’, able to kick-start a label simply by placing their creations on the model of the moment. Yes, in our world, Mona was massive news, so it wasn’t surprising that today we were bordering on hysterical. What will we be like tomorrow?

      On the morning СКАЧАТЬ