The Stylist. Rosie Nixon
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hung over pale grey skinny jeans, finished with high, black, suede-fringed ankle boots. Seventies hippie meets Texan cowgirl, with a sprinkling of Barbie. She was not unlike a smaller, younger and—we all knew it—prettier version of Mona. A second bodyguard entered behind her, rooting himself immediately next to the door.
‘Mona, honey! So good to see you!’ shrieked Beau, dropping her Burberry Blaze bag on the floor and launching herself into Mona’s open arms to exchange air kisses. ‘What do you think of Pinky? Isn’t he the cutest? I wanted a Pomeranian, but I couldn’t get one because of my fur allergy, so Trey got me the next best thing. Do you love?’
‘Adorable!’ Mona wasn’t good at lying. What her face couldn’t express, her body language screamed as she nervously fixated on the pig’s wet snout. Pinky trotted straight towards Mona’s perfectly laid out highway of immaculate designer heels. She looked at the two beefy guards, jerking her head towards the pig, but neither seemed bothered about Pinky. Instinctively, I rushed over to the clothes rail and scooped the longest gowns off the floor, out of the slobbery snout’s reach.
‘Perhaps, um, my assistant, Amber, could take little Porky for a play on the terrace?’ Mona suggested, indicating for me to get the pig outside immediately. Beau turned her attention to me and looked me up and down, visibly unimpressed.
‘Just arrived today,’ I muttered, by way of an apology. ‘I love pigs.’
Another lie. I had absolutely no experience of pigs, other than a weakness for the M&S ones called Percy. Picking up Pinky’s lead from the floor, I cringed as I felt the camera follow the pig, my bottom and my pasty legs to the patio before panning back to Mona and Beau. Carefully lifting Pinky onto the clean patio seating next to me, I loosened his studded leather coat and looked into his small, dark, watery eyes.
‘Are you thirsty, little piggy?’ Admittedly, he was quite cute. And he smelled fresher than I did. ‘Want some food? It’s not as if anyone else is going to eat much.’
I poured some milk into a saucer and set it down on the floor. The pig began lapping it up enthusiastically. Then I took a couple of fig rolls, broke them in half and put them on another saucer. He chowed them down loudly. I ate one, too. Then another. Then I stabbed a few berries with a fork and quickly scoffed them, as well. I offered a handful of blueberries to Pinky and he ate hungrily, tickling my palm as he bolted them down.
‘Aw, Mommy not fed you lunch today?’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting Beau’s neglectful?’ a voice boomed above me. AJ was closing the terrace door behind him; a prime example of LA beefcake, completely devoid of a sense of humour.
‘Not at all—just making conversation.’
‘It’s a pig.’
‘You’re not an animal lover, AJ?’
‘Mona’s asked for you. I’ll take over from here.’
I handed him the lead and headed back inside, where an area had been lit with a bright, free-standing light and the camera was trained on Mona and Beau going through the rail.
‘You can afford to go more cocktail for the pre-events,’ Mona was advising, holding up a cute on-trend floral cocktail dress from Oscar de la Renta, ‘but you still want to make an impact.’
‘Hmmm, I know it’s very now, but florals are not the new me, Mona, I’m trying to get more serious roles. Do you have anything sexier or edgier, maybe?’
Beau had taken off her hat and fur now and you could see just how slight she was—the human version of her teacup pig.
‘The camera adds ten pounds, you know—everyone will be thin beyond belief,’ Mona had warned me earlier, when I remarked on how miniature all the clothes appeared. ‘No one in Hollywood is larger than a size two sample.’
‘There’s this sexy Dolce & Gabbana,’ Mona said, pulling out a glamorous leopard-print, stretch-silk dress. ‘I’ve got the perfect Dolce cuff and clutch to go with it. Trey will go wild!’
‘Sold! I love it!’ Beau exclaimed, holding it to her chest and turning on that million-dollar smile for the camera.
‘Why don’t you try it on, along with the Oscar de la Renta, just for comparison? Amber will help you.’
Mona directed her towards the bedroom door and beckoned me over to the accessories table, to load up with suitable ‘finishing touches’—a thick, studded gold cuff and matching clutch, plus some black Jimmy Choos with buckles around the ankle and a delicate pair of high gold sandals. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to try them on first, knowing full well that my size seven sausages wouldn’t have a hope in hell of squeezing into those delicate beauties. The film crew headed to the terrace for a break and I noticed Rob tickle Pinky under the chin en route, muttering, ‘All right, mate?’ The movement made the muscles flex in his upper arm. I quickly looked away, scuttling across the living area to the bedroom.
After tentatively knocking on the door, I was ushered in by a semi-naked Beau, the leopard dress at her svelte hips, revealing her ample bust encased in a turquoise lace bra. She had big boobs for a girl so slight; I wondered if they were fake. That was something Vicky would have been able to deduce instantly—one of her favourite hobbies was pointing out boob jobs. Beau wriggled as she pulled the dress up around her shoulders.
‘Give me a hand with the zip, would you?’
I struggled slightly to do it up, it was skintight even on her bony frame.
‘There we go. Oh wow …’
She surveyed her perfect physique in the wardrobe’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, flicking her luscious locks, and turning left to right and back again. I undid the buckles on the Choos, ready for her petite feet to slip into them like Cinderella. Then a loud twinkling sound emanated from her bag, lying on the hotel bed.
‘Chuck me my Burberry, would you, babe?’
I stretched across to retrieve it, thinking how surreal this all was. She delved into the bag to grab her iPhone and looked at it in silence for a moment; then she slumped down and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Shit.’ She fixated on the phone, reading the message again, then whispered: ‘You absolute shit.’ And then she buried her head in her hands and burst into tears. I looked away, feeling uncomfortable. Has she not got a part? Maybe the casting agents don’t think she’s cut out for ‘edgy’ after all? She began pumping air out of her mouth in short, sharp breaths, like a woman in labour. Perhaps it was helping her fight back the tears. Has someone died? Talk about #awkward. Then, phone still in her hand, she appeared to steady herself and stood up decisively, smoothing the dress over her washboard stomach and miniature hips, and resumed admiring herself in the mirror. Seconds later, her phone rang. She lifted it to see the caller’s identity, then threw the handset down, hard, on the duvet behind her.
‘Fucking asshole!’ She hurled herself onto the bed after it, crumpling the dress and letting out a shriek not unlike the sound Pinky might make if you accidentally stood on his trotter. Then she buried her head in the pillow and began to wail.
I looked up from the corner of the room, where I had been pretending to busy myself straightening a curtain. A noise like that meant I couldn’t ignore her any longer. Cautiously, I inched closer.
‘Um, is everything okay?’
She thumped the duvet. ‘No, it is not!’ she screeched, turning onto her side to face me, as I stood, hesitantly, by the side of the bed. Her eyes were red, make-up smudged, and the ivory pillowcase now sported two charcoal grey blotches and a dab of cherry lip gloss. Was this a prima donna hissy fit because she was last on the waiting list for the new Chanel bag? Such things did actually happen … A loud thud made us both look at the door.
‘Is everything all right in there, Beau?’
Her big blue eyes fixed on my own and, in them, I saw genuine fear. She waved her arm at the door, signalling she didn’t want AJ to intervene.