The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

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       Crap. Where did that come from?

      My heart rate lifted, and I swallowed hard. Mona turned to look at me; I mean really look at me, not just my shoes—and she actually seemed to soften. She subtly motioned to Rob and suddenly a light was shining on my face, the boom overhead and the camera lens too close for comfort.

      ‘Do you know how to make a good, strong caffè macchiato?’

      ‘Yes.’ I didn’t, but what was this? Not an interview for head Starbucks barista.

      ‘Can you steam?’

      ‘Yes.’

      I didn’t think she was talking about milk. Steaming, I did know all about, having lost a colossal number of my life’s hours to this hot and stuffy basement, carefully teasing the creases from the latest Cavalli, Chloé and McQueen creations before they made it to the shop floor.

      ‘Can you work the next fortnight straight—that means long days, little sleep and no time off until everything’s been returned?’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Why did I say ‘yes, ma’am’? Idiot.

      I didn’t know if I actually was available, but I would make myself, because I suddenly wanted this … whatever it was … so badly. She lifted a foot and sank her spiky heel into the shag-pile rug we’d found ourselves marooned on, like castaways upon a fluffy island.

      ‘What star sign are you?’

      ‘Gemini.’

      ‘Too good to be true! I love what you did with the shoes back there. It was edgy, it was sharp. I can see you’re a risk-taker. You’ve got flair. Yes, I like you, Amber.’ She tucked a stray boho wave behind her ear and looked me straight in the eye once more. ‘Surname, poppet?’

      The light from the camera was hot as well as bright; it was making my cheeks fizz and my eyes water. I thought of Kiki, obediently trekking back across town in the freezing cold, trying not to spill a drop of Mona’s precious coffee. Perhaps it should be me in that queue; maybe she should be here. I’m out of my depth. No—you can do this, Amber. Just do it!

      ‘Green. Amber Green.’

      Mona looked upwards for a moment, as if she was consulting a higher being. For the first time her face broke into a smile that also engaged her eyes. They were hazel. She was attractive, even under the camera’s harsh light. She fiddled with the golf ball ring.

      ‘Amber Green. Love it, babe. Not a bad name … if traffic lights are your thing.’

      A hushed snigger went round the TV crew. Thirteen years of being called Traffic Light at school has made me tougher than this. Thanks once again, parents, it’s been character-building.

      ‘You’ve clearly had the nous to give yourself a fashion pseudonym,’ Mona said, silencing the sniggerers. ‘Ralph Lauren wouldn’t have got very far if he’d kept the surname Lifshitz, would he, darling?’

      I smiled, weakly.

      ‘You’re perfect, Amber Green, Traffic Light. I’ll pay you the work experience rate of fifty quid a week, plus food and expenses. You can stay in my house in LA for the fortnight, though we’ll be in a suite at the W for most of the time and out at appointments and events. I’ll get your flights. You have a valid passport, don’t you?’

      Fifty quid, is she taking the P? But I like the sound of the W. I’m pretty sure she means the trendy hotel and not the loo. I nodded and mentally pictured the messy state of my bedroom. I hadn’t physically seen my passport for a long time—I hadn’t left the country for over two years. But it had to be there somewhere. Absolutely has to be.

      ‘Good. We’re flying from Heathrow Terminal Five tomorrow morning. My PA will give you the details. Write your number on here.’ She thrust a Smith’s business card from a pile next to the candles into my sweaty palm.

      ‘You’d better ask Jas if you can go home and pack.’

      ‘Oh wow—really? Thank you, Mona—thanks so much. I won’t let you down! I absolutely promise.’ She almost looked like she wanted to give me a hug.

      Should I smile into the camera now? Surely this is TV gold! I suddenly realised what I was doing and stopped. ‘Excitement is deeply unsexy,’ Mona had recently stated in an interview with vogue.com—an interview Kiki had printed out and pinned to the office wall. The office Jas was coming out of right now. I’d almost forgotten I already had a job and a boss—a very nice boss, at that. I averted my eyes, entrusting Mona to handle the situation.

      ‘Well, babe, seems like good old Amber Green has come to my rescue.’

      ‘Amber?’ Jas turned to me, confusion creasing her face. Don’t blow it now, please, Jas. The camera was still rolling. I suddenly felt guilty for putting her on the spot like this—not only with Mona, but in front of a TV crew, with a potential audience of tens of thousands.

      ‘Amber here,’ Mona said, ‘our traffic warden turned window dresser extraordinaire, Amber has offered to come to LA to help me survive the Globes. She only needs a two-week sabbatical. That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Jas, babe? There’ll be credits aplenty for Smith’s with your star pupil out there!’

      Jas paused for a moment. I wanted the camera to stop and the rug to swallow me up.

      ‘Of course it is. Amber’s a lovely girl and very creative. Mona, you’ve landed on your feet.’ Jas turned to look at me and for the first time ever I sensed a slight look of annoyance spread across her pretty features. ‘Just don’t have too much fun, okay?’

      ‘Okay.’ Does that mean I’ll have a job to come back to? I daren’t ask. Certainly not with this bloody camera in my face.

      And that was it. In less than five minutes I’d gone from shop girl to ‘window dresser extraordinaire’ to temporary employee of Mona Armstrong: Stylist to the Staaars! The deal was sealed with an air kiss from Mona and then the cameras stopped for the day.

      ‘Nice one,’ Rob said, as he gathered their kit together. ‘Congrats on the new gig.’

      ‘Thanks … I think,’ I blushed, busying myself neatening up the rails as I tried to take it all in.

      ‘We’ll see you in LA, then.’

      I was holding open the door for the TV crew when a cold, stressed Stick approached balancing a cardboard tray of coffees.

      ‘Hope I didn’t miss much,’ she said.

       There isn’t an emoticon to cover it.

       Chapter Three

      As she sipped her coffee, Mona didn’t have to tell us that it was barely warm—we already knew. She sent an equally chilly look in the Stick’s direction. I felt sorry for Kiki as she picked at her black painted nails; even her Pucci dress СКАЧАТЬ