The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ public school voice.

      ‘At the top are the designers—the holy grail of Valentino, Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, Stella McCartney, Dolce & Gabbana and so on. Beneath these are the A-list stars who wear the designers’ creations on red carpets everywhere from Hollywood to Cannes, at the Golden Globes, BAFTAs, Oscars, collecting gongs at all the glitziest bashes. And beneath these are the stylists, who do all the real work, getting them red-carpet ready and securing their appearances on “best dressed” lists around the world. Sod the little gold trophy—it’s making those lists that really counts. A stylist like Mona Armstrong can make or break a celebrity with a sheer gown or a statement accessory. Remember when Angelina’s leg pose at the Oscars went viral?’ I nodded, sagely. ‘But can you remember who won any of the awards that year?’ I shrugged. My lecturer smiled appreciatively. ‘Of course you can’t. It was a moment that went down in red-carpet history.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘But what works for one could be a horrendous fail on the poor cow who can’t pull it off. It’s a cut-throat world out there and styling underpins it all. Make no mistake, Amber, a celebrity without a stylist is like Kylie Jenner without her pout. We shut the entire shop when Mona comes in to choose pieces for her clients—it’s beyond fabulous. But don’t get carried away, it gets really, really stressful in the run-up to awards season. I ate a cheese baguette once.’

      It must have been stressful, because it wasn’t hard to guess why Vicky and I had nicknamed Kiki the Stick Insect, or lately just the Stick. I often saw her downing pints of pond-water-looking liquid from recycled water bottles—her famous Super Greens—and the work fridge was always stocked with bags of lettuce and bean sprouts that she snacked on during the day or, more often than not, went off, causing a hideous stench that I would regularly have to clean up. Only once did I see her pick at something vaguely calorific—a lavender macaroon—and that was only because it had been sent in by the fashion editor at Bazaar and she wanted to #Instafood it.

      Kiki was hardly coming up for air during this particular lesson.

      ‘Seriously, Amber, it’s ah-mazing when Mona comes in—she’s been dressing the big names like Jennifer Astley and Beau Belle for years. And if they wear an outfit Mona’s borrowed from Smith’s, when the fash mags come out and we’re credited Jas is on cloud nine. It’s sooo good for business. But it’s not only the red-carpet stuff. I mean, it was Mona who introduced the whole gypsy trend we’re seeing now.’ She fluffed up her billowing sleeves to illustrate the point. ‘The second Beau went shopping on Rodeo Drive wearing a peasant skirt and crochet top—literally all the high-street stores were knocking out rip-offs within weeks. Mona is that powerful.’

      I quickly learned that the Stick had a major fashion crush on Mona, and by this particular January day I was well versed in the life of the super-stylist.

      As usual, I had spent most of the morning being bossed around by Kiki, before being directed by Jas to finish off the windows. I loved the narrow wooden ‘stage’ between the bay windows and the store—a small space that might have felt claustrophobic, but was a beautiful blank canvas to me; somewhere I could create an image of the woman all our customers wanted to be. Dressing the mannequins, I’d follow Jas’s chosen ‘Look’ from the stack of look books the fashion houses provided with each new collection—usually a ring-bound folder containing photos of a series of models posing in a white studio wearing the label’s latest designs. Really it was window dressing by numbers, but because we held only edited versions of the collections at Smith’s, to my delight, Jas would often let me add personal touches—an edgy accessory or eye-catching shoe—to bring the ensemble to life. We changed the windows on a Monday, once a fortnight, to stop them feeling stale. This week we had refreshed them specifically with Mona in mind—they had to be ‘wow’. Jas had instructed me to put a strictly black and white outfit on each of the two mannequins, a look we then made ‘pop’ with one statement accessory; a bright green leather cuff on one and a stand-out red clutch under the arm of the other.

      ‘Our girls look stunning today!’ she declared, before suggesting the footwear I should add to each model’s perfectly smooth size seven plastic feet—one was to wear black and the other ivory heels, completing the monochrome vision. As I admired my handiwork from the street outside, I mulled over which pair of shoes should go on which mannequin. Not bad for a morning’s work.

      ‘Am-ber!’ Kiki trilled from the doorway, breaking the spell. ‘You forgot to steam the Stella!’ Jesus Christ, does she ever let up? Three perfectly pressed Stella McCartney jumpsuits later, Jas conducted a final walk-through to ensure everything was just so. And then, decked out ourselves in on-trend outfits (borrowed from the store for the duration of Mona’s visit; our slim wages could never afford the real thing), we were ready to welcome fashion royalty.

      Bang on time the assistant director, Rob, arrived. He skidded on the shag-pile and almost slipped over, making me want to giggle.

      ‘Great entrance there, well done, Rob,’ he said, quickly composing himself and catching my eye as he laughed it off. My internal laughter then gave way to a fear that the highly polished floor/fluffy rug combo might actually be a potential death trap. What if Mona breaks her leg? Rob pushed a strand of floppy brown hair behind his ear. When he came round to shake my hand, I became aware that my palms were sweaty.

      ‘Are you responsible for these gleaming floors?’ he quipped.

      My cheeks flushed. Despite wearing new season Jonathan Saunders, I still resemble the resident skivvy. How? ‘Sorry about that.’

      ‘You’d better hope Mona’s put the cheese-grater over her soles,’ he replied. ‘Unlike me.’

      I laughed nervously. There was a familiarity about him.

      Kiki gave me a withering look. ‘That’s what people on TV do,’ she informed me, loud enough for Rob to hear, ‘to stop them slipping on the studio floor.’

      ‘I know,’ I lied.

      If she was trying to show me up, I didn’t really care. I was more interested in Rob taking off his jacket. He pushed up the sleeves of his grey jumper revealing what looked like the beginning of a tattoo on his upper arm.

      Rob was the first to arrive of the team of three. The next, sporting a directional dyed red bob and wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, was introduced as Fran, the director. There was also a long-haired, lanky bloke carrying the camera, who went by the name of Dave. I inwardly christened him Shaggy. I wondered if, like us, Fran and Rob had put on their most fashion-conscious clothes for Mona’s benefit, or whether they always looked so media cool. As word went round that ‘She’ was about to arrive, Rob hurriedly took down our contact details and had us each sign a release form and NDA. I barely read the words; I was too busy concentrating on trying not to do anything embarrassing.

      Today, as ever, you could spot Mona’s sunglasses before you saw the rest of her. Huge, round Prada shades, covering at least half of her small, elfin face, came bobbing down the street, swooping towards the store like a large fly. Light chestnut boho waves with streaks of caramel blonde cascaded around her shoulders; now a flash of matte coral lipstick came into view. She was only average height, even in towering heels—in fact she was more shades and curls than actual person—but in the fashion world, she was God. She paused to take in the windows; I felt a prickle of excitement, hoping she liked what she saw. She looked the mannequins up and down, but her sunglasses hid any kind of facial expression. At last, Mona entered our pristine temple of style. As she made her entrance for the camera, Jas, Kiki and I simultaneously clocked a turquoise cocktail ring the size of a golf ball on her petite index finger. Behind me, Kiki let out a gasp.

      ‘YSL, new season,’ she whispered, as if we were observing a rare exotic СКАЧАТЬ