The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

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СКАЧАТЬ from time to time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t willed heavy, studded bags to fall on her head on more than one occasion. But now I started to feel sorry for her. The hours we’d spent preparing the shop for Mona’s arrival suddenly felt like a long time ago—a distant land where expectations were high and fashion-fever reigned; a place where the Stick and I were almost friends.

      Prada shades back on and a mirror check as she prepared to leave the store, Mona turned to me one last time: ‘Oh, and, Amber? Pack your coolest clothes. Blacks, whites, neutrals are best. I need you to blend into the background. Directional footwear optional.’ She smiled, sunglasses conveniently hiding her facial expression once more, though I would have put money on a wink. ‘Think Blake Lively over K. Middy. We’re talking Los Angeles, babe, it’s a whole different fashion landscape to London. And the weather rarely dips below twenty-five.’ The Stick grimaced.

      The idea of packing my ‘coolest clothes’ was already sending me into a panic, as was the weather. Just what my pasty half-Scottish skin needs. I doubted I had time to fit in a spray tan. ‘There’ll be a lot of running around, so bring flats as well as your killer heels.’ ‘Your killer heels’. Mona Armstrong thinks I’m a stylista who owns killer heels. I’ve really pulled the cashmere over her eyes.

      I pictured my wardrobe at home, wherein hung a cacophony of Zara, H&M and Topshop, plus some precious vintage finds gleaned from eBay (strictly under Vicky’s supervision) and, at the bottom, an overflowing shoe rack stuffed with footwear in all colours and styles, not to mention various states of disrepair. It was a collection that had suited my life perfectly well up until this moment, but I somehow doubted it was up to Mona’s standards. Plus the only understanding of ‘killer heels’ I had right now were the Kirkwoods currently killing my toes.

      ‘But most importantly,’ Mona continued, ‘don’t forget your kit.’ The Stick folded her arms tightly, revelling in the knowledge that not only did I not own a kit, I probably didn’t even know what one was.

      ‘No, babe, I’m not talking about your gym gear.’ Mona smirked, reading my mind. ‘You know—the bits and bobs we need to make it all work.’

      Hmm. I’d heard Tamara mention ‘the kit’ on previous visits to the shop, and had regularly noticed her delve into a well-used leopard-print vanity case, and come up bearing bulldog clips to cinch a dress together at the back. I also thought of Jas’s bottom drawer in the office: a veritable emporium of tit tape, gaffer tape, Sellotape—every kind of tape known to woman—plus plasters, chicken fillets, cotton buds, Party Feet, pop socks, a sewing kit and a host of other goodies that surely kept the Bond Street branch of Superdrug in business.

      ‘Of course,’ I replied, glancing at the Stick. And then Mona was off, big sunglasses, bouncy hair and thin, leather-clad legs springing straight into a taxi.

      Now there were just the three of us, plus Big Al, left in the store. Normally, following such a visit, Jas, the Stick and I would all sort of crumple onto the pouffes, kick off our heels, attack the truffles and champagne and erupt into a fevered discussion of what had just gone on. The Stick would dissect Mona’s outfit, generally loving everything about it, and I’d think I should love it, but that most of it was plain weird; Jas would debate why she picked some items and not others, and we would all shriek with laughter. Big Al would feign disinterest, but he’d eventually crack, and chip in with a comment like ‘What that woman needs is a roast dinner.’

      But today, Mona left nothing in her wake but an awkward silence. And it was all my fault.

      Throughout my final exchange with Mona, I had felt the Stick’s eyes drilling holes in the back of my head, correctly sensing she had missed something important while she was queuing for coffee like a work experience flunky. I knew full well it should be her going to LA in the morning. The Stick had the experience, the knowledge, the look—she was born to be Mona’s assistant. She idolised the woman. And then there was Jas—my kind boss, put on the spot like that. Left with no option but to step aside and let a member of her staff be poached before her eyes. I began to wonder if it was really worth it, if I was more cut out to be a traffic warden or a teacher after all. If I should do the honourable thing—step aside and offer the job to the Stick or simply tell Mona it was all a horrible mistake and stay at Smith’s. But something stopped me. Another voice in my head tried to rationalise: this was the Stick’s comeuppance for all the hours I’d spent sweating next to the steamer because she didn’t want to risk her make-up; for the way she looked at me when I thought that Erdem was the name of a Turkish pop star, rather than the hottest designer on the block. I thought of Jas and her look of confusion when she saw the mismatched shoes on the dummies. She must have known it was an accident, but was too polite to embarrass me while I had the camera eyeballing me. And then I threw it back in her face by moonlighting with Mona. I’m going to hell, for certain.

      I pulled myself together, stood taller and took a deep breath. What’s done is done. And besides, perhaps now it was my turn to prove that I could do it, actually; that styling was my calling and Mona the person to nurture my talent; that I could make it in fashion, on my own merit. Yes, I’d show the Stick you don’t need to slink around being too hip for Hoxton and live off pond water to get ahead. Either that, or I’m a fraud—and not only a fraud but a horrible, selfish person.

      If only I’d put opposite shoes on the mannequins on purpose.

      It was beginning to sink in that a) I might not have a job to return to, but b) my prospects for the next fortnight were looking up dramatically. I finally had an opportunity to be excited about—I couldn’t wait to update my Facebook status. It might even be worth joining LinkedIn! I just had to find myself a kit and pull together a suitcase of cool looks that would get me through a fortnight in the entertainment capital of the world, because I, Amber Green of Greater London, was going to Los Angeles in the morning.

      If this had been a film, with Jennifer Lawrence playing me, she would have punched the air when my feet, now comfortably clad in Uggs, hit the street outside the boutique that day. However, because this was not the movies, and because Jas had been uncharacteristically cold and the Stick had spent the rest of the day blanking me—bar the occasional tut—the mood was subdued. She broke the silence in the stockroom, as we layered-up for the cold, by taking the unusual step of suggesting we walk to the tube together. Perhaps she wanted to continue blanking me in the outside world, too. Having spent the entire afternoon fastidiously busying myself with my usual shop duties and doing all I could not to look halfway near as excited as I was beginning to feel, I had been planning to bolt bang on six. My phone was burning a hole in my pocket. I was desperate to call people, to scream, to see Vicky—to make it all real. The last thing I needed was an uncomfortable three-minute walk to Bond Street tube with a furious Stick.

      It soon transpired that far from starting a Dynasty-style bitch fight in the middle of South Molton Street, her tactic was indeed to continue ignoring me. Finally, as we turned the corner into Oxford Street, she spoke.

      ‘Bet you’ve had the best day ever?’

      ‘It’s been unusual, that’s for sure.’

      ‘So, she just told you you were going to LA, just like that?’

      ‘I think she was just desperate to get someone to replace Tamara.’

      ‘And my name didn’t even get mentioned?’

      ‘No. I mean, yes, it got mentioned, but you weren’t in the shop.’

      ‘So you went for it while I was out of sight?’

      ‘It wasn’t like that, Kiki.’

      ‘Didn’t СКАЧАТЬ