The Stylist. Rosie Nixon
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heavy pause.
‘Mum? Did you hear that? I’m going to the Golden Globes!’
‘Golden Globes, what’s that? Some kind of Californian fruit growing contest? Don’t tell me it’s a beauty contest, you know I …’
‘No, Mother. It’s one of the film industry’s biggest awards ceremonies, and I might be dressing some of the winners. I’m probably going to meet Jennifer Astley!’
Was I really saying those magic words?
‘Jennifer who?’
Being a lawyer, my mother doesn’t pander to the ins and outs of celebrity culture or the awards-season calendar, let alone share my enthusiasm for what dresses the stars might or might not wear during it. Instead, most conversations with her involve her checking I have the relevant paperwork for something.
‘Does this Rhona have insurance? You’ve got travel insurance, have you, sweetheart?’
‘Yes, I think I have insurance.’
‘Think, darling? You need to have it for sure.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘And you’ll definitely have a job when you get back, will you? Rent doesn’t pay itself, and you can’t leave poor Victoria in the lurch.’ You’d never have guessed this person had the eccentricity to name her child after a traffic light, would you? Once upon a time my mother must have had a sense of humour.
‘I know, I know, anyway, I need to get myself sorted out. Just wanted to let you know. I’ll call from the airport if I have time.’
‘Good luck, sweetheart, I’m proud of you. Just be safe, okay?’ Though my mother rarely gives me any praise for my achievements—and granted they have been limited so far—for some reason I continue to seek her approval, because somewhere deep down it really matters. I tried to ignore a slight pang in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t face telling her the real circumstances and risk her disappointment in me, too.
‘A fortnight you’re going for, did you say? That means you’ll miss Nora’s performance next week,’ she continued. ‘Well, take care, and beware the Hollywood prima donnas. Remember, this fame thing—it’s all smoke and mirrors. Keep your feet on the ground. And please check you’ve got insurance. Your father will sort it out if you haven’t. Promise me, Amber?’
‘Promise. Give Nora a squeeze from me. Love you. And Dad.’
Nora is my older sister’s overachieving five-year-old, who is already the best in her ballet class and seems to have a recital of some kind almost every week. If we were an American family, she would probably resemble one of those scary over-made-up, disco-dancing, grown-up-looking kids you often see on freaky cable documentaries, their hair pulled back into such a tight bun they can barely blink. Poor Nora. There are already far too many performance photos of her in existence.
‘I love you, too, sweetheart. Check your insurance.’
I hung up. Straight after I called Vicky, my flatmate and oldest, bestest friend since we bonded aged five at ballet class.
‘I’ve got a job!’
‘What? You’ve already got a job?’
‘A proper one! Well, a temporary one. Actually a two-week one. But a possible career one! You’re not going to believe the day I’ve had. It’s been mad.’
It was so great to tell Vic the story—I was like a pressure cooker of exploding excitement, at last able to let it all out. I couldn’t stop talking. When I finally paused, out of breath, her response was the one I’d been waiting to hear all day.
‘Are you serious? That’s bloody amazing, honey! You lucky cow! Oh my God, I’m so jealous I can’t bear it. I feel sick! What was she like? Was she not a bitch, then? What was she wearing? Is she pretty? How much better looking than SJP on a scale of one to ten?’
This is why we’re best friends.
‘She was actually really nice, well, kind of nice, in a stand-offish, scary way, and tiny, so much smaller in the flesh. But actually really pretty. She had on these tight leather leggings and a T-shirt, Chloé, and these amazing black shoe-boots, tons of bracelets. And this ring, it was huge and turquoise, new-season YSL.’ Vicky was gobsmacked, taking it all in. For once I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. Perhaps I can do this after all.
‘And guess where I’m going in the morning?’
‘Not Mona’s house—don’t tell me she’s got a miniature dog she wants you to walk?’
‘Nope. Well, yes, I am going to Mona’s house—but not the one in London, the one in Los Angeles, baby! I’m going to the US of A because I am Mona Armstrong’s assistant for the Golden bloody Globes!’
I had decided that Los Angeles sounded more grown-up and glamorous than LA. And I couldn’t help wanting Vicky to be wowed by my new high-flying fashion status. It was generally her going to cool events and fashion shoots in exotic locations, so for once it was nice to share some fabulous news of my own. Cue screaming.
‘Oh my God, it’s too much! I’m going to faint!’ I love Vic. ‘Come home immediately—we need to discuss this in great detail.’
‘Just getting on the tube. See you in half an hour.’
‘Oh, and did you pinch my Mulberry? Either you’ve got it or we’ve been burgled, I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’
‘Er, yeah, sorry about that … I needed to look good today. The Stick noticed it.’ Before she wanted to kill me. ‘I’ll bring it home safely now.’
As I hung up, my elation was tinged by the return of a deep nagging sensation. I couldn’t even admit to Vicky the exact circumstances in which I got my break.
Just before I walked down the escalator at Baker Street, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Mona’s PA? I hesitated for a moment and decided to let it ring to answerphone, thinking I’d call back at the other end, when I might be able to detect from her message whether the PA sounded like an uber-bitch or not. And then a much more exciting thought popped into my head. Maybe it’s Rob? He’s looked up my number from the NDA. He wants to do some additional filming with me—take me to Selfridges to choose a few outfits for LA … Too late. Missed Call.
I got to Kensal Rise quickly. A year of taking the tube twice a day had made me an expert commuter, adept at standing behind the yellow lines on the platform at exactly the right spot to match the doors when the tube arrives, and then standing on the correct side of the carriage to be the first off again. During the journey I mulled over the packing situation. It was a major worry. But Vic would be able to help. She didn’t get the fashion assistant position at Glamour under false pretences. I have always been in awe of how quickly Vicky can put together an outfit and look like the chicest person in the room. ‘Naturally stylish,’ Jas regularly comments, surveying her fondly, whenever Vicky comes to meet me from work, and it’s been that way since we were at school together; she even made train tracks and a tight perm look good. I don’t think anyone has ever said those words about me. I’ve come to accept that, for me, looking fashionable will be more of an effort. I hereby vow to make dressing myself part of my job.
When I reached our flat, circumnavigating the build-up of junk mail and spare rolls of recycling bags in the communal hallway, Vicky was standing in the living room, straining to see over her shoulder into the mirror to admire her near-perfect rear in a pair of eye-wateringly tight pale blue jeans.
‘Do they look ridiculous, hon? Can you see my love handles over the top? I fell in love with them in the fashion cupboard, but now I’m worried. I wonder what happens if circulation to your arse actually stops?’
‘You get a numb bum. They look amazing, honey, really. You’re probably the only person