Читать книгу The Stylist - Rosie Nixon, Rosie Nixon - Страница 11

Since Mona entered the store, Jas had been doing most of the talking. They’d begun with the customary detailed appraisal of each other’s outfits—the way peers traditionally greet each other in fashion land.

‘Mad about the ring …’

‘Those shoe-boots …’

‘You lucky cow, you’ve got the Balenciaga leather pants! Isn’t the stretch amazing …’

‘I must get your colourist’s number.’

‘Loving the matte nails. Is it gel?’

And so on. Then they finally got down to the juicy stuff.

‘No Tamara today, Mona?’ Jas asked.

Mona responded by handing her Pradas to Rob, who took them politely. Massaging her temples, she completely ignored the question. The Stick and I tried, unsuccessfully, not to gawp. We felt like we needed to drink up everything about her: her clothes, her shoes, her hair, her skin, which had the kind of pearly sheen that only really expensive make-up could achieve, her whiter-than-white teeth, her bag, her jewellery, the way she moved, her voice. If we weren’t so fearful of her, we’d have gone up and given her a good sniff all over, too. There was an intoxicating musky aroma around her, beginning to settle in the air. Everything about Mona was absurdly fascinating.

‘Well, just let me and the girls know what we can do,’ Jas offered, leading her over to the clothes rails. The Stick gave me a gentle prod in the back, a signal that I should get into position, ready to hold clothes.

As Mona began to rifle through the latest Stella McCartneys, Fran with the bob shouted, ‘Action!’ Shaggy sprang to life and so did Mona, chatting animatedly to Jasmine. She really knew how to turn it on for the cameras.

‘It’s only Tuesday and this week’s already a fucking nightmare, Tamara’s gone and left me right up shit creek. The silly bitch handed in her notice this morning.’

From her language, I made the assumption that this was to be a post-watershed pilot. Fran with the bob raised an eyebrow and Rob bit his lip.

‘This morning. Can you fucking believe it? I go for the bloody Globes tomorrow. That girl’s out of her mind if she thinks she’ll last two minutes doing awards season solo. Oh wow, look at the Stella jumpsuits, aren’t they divine? I’ll definitely take a couple of these.’

Mona had no problem with multitasking. Between slagging off Tamara and gushing over the clothes, every so often she pulled out an item from the rail and handed it to me, standing with arms outstretched like a forklift truck, by her side. I wasn’t sure if I was actually in shot, though a little part of me hoped I was; just a bit of my dress or, ideally, the beautiful shoes. Loads to tell Vicky about tonight.

‘But honestly, Jas, what the hell am I supposed to do? I’ve got at least twenty global superstars wanting me to dress them over the next week, and only a few days to sort the whole frigging lot out—I’ve got photo-calls, cocktail parties at Soho House, premieres—not to mention the awards themselves. She could not have done this at a worse time.’

Jasmine, too cool to play up to the camera or be drawn into slagging anyone off, was trying to offer some comfort, shaking her head and nodding empathically in all the right places, whilst calmly directing Mona back to the clothes and the job in hand.

‘You poor love—how will you get through it? Have you seen the new Lanvin?’

‘Oh, I’ll do it, all right.’ Mona looked directly into the camera lens for effect. ‘Nothing comes between me and my superstars. But at this precise moment, it’s so unfunny, I actually feel like screaming.’

I glanced over towards the Stick. Brow furrowed, she was totally immersed in Mona’s plight, feeling her pain. Does she know she’s folded and refolded that mohair jumper three times? The 20Twenty crew huddled around Mona, filming her intently. Fran with the bob was chewing the end of her biro while Rob held a boom mic just above Mona’s head.

I wondered if they’d shot the fateful scene with Tamara handing in her notice earlier in the day. I wouldn’t have liked to be in her shoes when she told Mona the news. Jas began motioning Mona over to her ‘Ones to Watch’, concern etched across her delicate features.

‘What a total nightmare. But surely you have some girls you use in LA, Mona—is there anyone I can have Kiki call for you? Kiki, honey!’

The Stick immediately dropped the jumper and rushed on-set, almost skidding to a halt on the shag-pile in front of Mona. Damn—it would have been entertaining to see her take a dive. Her box-fresh Kirkwoods were clearly as uncomfortable as mine. The camera and boom turned to her. Idly, I wondered if the Stick was Rob’s type.

‘No, darling—there’s no one I can call.’ Mona turned away, barely registering Kiki. ‘Loving this though—what’s the label?’

‘Star-Crossed, she’s a recent graduate, will show at London Fashion Week,’ Jas informed her, pulling a couple of cocktail dresses from the rail.

‘Hmm.’ She moved on.

Mona then turned her gaze to the front of the store. Kiki retreated, crestfallen, her small-screen debut over before it began.

‘That reminds me,’ Mona continued, ‘the windows. I’m loving the monochrome, but what you’ve done with the shoes is inspired.’

Jas and Kiki both looked at me, puzzled. We all joined Mona at the side of the bay windows. My cheeks began to heat up as I racked my brains. What could have happened to the shoes? The shaggy cameraman headed towards the front of the store, too, Rob lifting cables behind him. Kiki and Fran followed. Surreptitiously, we all strained to see the feet of the two mannequins standing exactly as I’d left them, with their backs to us behind the glass facade. The burning sensation in my cheeks turned into a wave of panic as it hit me like a cold, hard slap in the face—I’d been standing outside, looking at the mannequins from the street, when the Stick had screamed for me to come in and finish steaming the jumpsuits. I’d meant to come back to them, but got distracted by Mona’s arrival … Oh God … I’d left one white and one black shoe on each mannequin’s plastic feet.

I feel sick.

‘Which of you is responsible for the mismatched shoes?’ Mona asked.

I shuffled uncomfortably, knowing I had nowhere to hide. I wanted to open the door and run far away from here; just keep on running until I found a bush to hide under in Regent’s Park, or a cardboard box in an underpass. I wanted to be at my parents’ house—better still, my grandma’s flat. Somewhere no one would find me. Jas and the Stick both looked in my direction, frowning, willing me to speak, lest Mona should think either of them had messed up the display.

‘Come on, don’t be shy,’ Mona urged, searching our faces.

The camera’s big, nosy lens pointed towards us. I hated Shaggy for putting me on the spot like this with his horrible, ugly camera. And I hated Rob and Fran even more, for not stopping him. Eventually I plucked up the courage to speak.

‘It was me, Mona, I …’

‘The monochrome vibe, it’s so fresh, so relevant,’ she said. ‘But what you’ve done with the shoes—j’adore! You’re a genius, girl.’

Is she having a laugh?

Before I could say it was a hideous mistake that I had meant to fix, she was gesturing to the TV crew. ‘Have you got this, cameraman?’ She ushered Shaggy closer to get a good view of my stunned, blotchy face.

‘Babe, it’s a brave statement,’ she continued, ‘but you totally nailed it. The odd shoes grabbed my attention straight away.’

‘They did?’

Luckily for me, Mona doesn’t listen to other people’s doubts.

‘And that’s what this business is all about. You don’t gain column inches by blending in with the crowd. You’ve got to wear a look with conviction, you’ve got to stand out, kick it up a notch. Mixed up monochrome has a buzz to it—it’s the perfect way to inject some attitude into a cocktail look or get noticed on the street. It’s cheeky and playful—seriously, it’s reinvention at its best. Loving your Kirkwoods, by the way.’

The camera zoomed in on my (matching) pair of too-tight suede and metal heels. They were amazing, all right. Amazing at cutting off the circulation to my toes. I winced.

‘Jas, you’re a lucky woman to have this talent on your team.’

I still didn’t know whether she was being sarcastic or not, when she said: ‘I’ll take odd pairs of Sandersons, black and white, in all the sizes you’ve got.’

When I dared to glance in her direction, the Stick looked as though someone had handed her an envelope marked ‘Anthrax’ and told her to snort it. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the mixed up shoes on the mannequins and I cringed inside. Then Mona grabbed me by the arm and shoved me into the shot, as well.

‘And here is the girl responsible! Kiki, isn’t it?’

I smiled awkwardly.

‘It’s … Amber …’ I stuttered.

‘Well, what a morning it’s been already. It must be time for a coffee break. A big, strong caffè macchiato, that’s what I need. You?’ She looked at me.

‘Sure, I’ll go,’ I answered, desperate to scurry out of sight and compose myself.

‘No, I mean you’ll have one, too, right, Amber?’

‘You—’ Mona looked at the Stick, who skipped forward expectantly.

‘You be a darling and run to the Monmouth coffee shop for me and Miss Windows, would you, babe? They do the best caffè macchiato in London and I’ve been craving one all morning.’

And before Kiki could say, ‘But this is a dreadful mistake!’, and before Jas could ask her to kindly not wear her borrowed Pucci dress and box-fresh Nicholas Kirkwoods out of the store, she’d been dispatched to a coffee establishment on the other side of Zone One. As she wrapped herself up in a fake fur swiped from a rail by the door, the camera followed her out, witnessing her almost getting tangled up in the French blinds. Meanwhile I remained anchored to Mona’s side, her cold fingers still holding my arm in a vice. I battled the urge to ask the Stick to pick me up a croissant while she was at it. None of us had eaten all morning and I was starting to feel faint.

Mona’s sweep of the shop complete, we moved over to the rail I had filled with her chosen pieces. ‘Pieces’ are what the fash-pack call items of clothing, shoes and accessories, a bit like they’re artefacts in a museum.

‘Hold it there, babe—you can’t shoot the pieces!’ Mona turned to Rob, who was helping Shaggy get some close-ups of the designer haul on display.

‘Jennifer Astley’s Golden Globe–winning gown could be on this rail! We can’t let the dress out of the bag. That’s enough, let’s wrap.’

With the caffeine jump leads not yet connected, she’d lost interest in filming. The crew busied themselves winding up cables, opening flight cases and checking their phones, probably counting down the minutes before they could escape to the pub for a much-needed pint. It was exhausting being in Mona’s company. Jas disappeared into her office to prepare a dossier detailing her edit of the store, so we could arrange for items to be couriered to her in the States or packaged up for her to take. For the first time, I was left alone in the court of Mona Armstrong.

‘Coffee’s taking its time,’ she huffed.

I’d almost forgotten about the Stick. I imagined the long queue outside the Monmouth Coffee Company at all times of day. Even if she’d placed the order and had the exact change, with a black cab waiting on double yellows, the macchiato was bound to be stone cold by the time she got back. It was a no-win situation. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to break the rules and start a conversation with Mona.

‘Sounds like you’re having a bad day.’ Did I really say that?

‘You can say that twice.’ I battled the urge to take her at her word.

Then she sighed. ‘You don’t happen to know any styling assistants who could start tomorrow, do you?’

A vivid apparition flashed before my eyes: Me, adjusting the train on Jennifer Astley’s diaphanous designer gown as she gets out of a limousine at the foot of the Golden Globes red carpet. The bank of paparazzi awaiting her and the frenzy of flashes when she strikes a perfectly honed pose in front of them, with just enough leg on display to ensure maximum column inches the next day. And the Golden Globe for Best Dressed Actress goes to … Of course I had no actual experience of what this looked like, but I’d seen enough coverage of similar events in the pages of the glossies to have a vague understanding. Then something completely unplanned happened.

‘I’m free.’

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.